by Ayre, Mark
The village already looked like the place he had always imagined. Beautiful houses, gleaming cars, freshly cut lawns. There weren’t many people around, but those you saw didn’t make you cower. They would smile as they passed and James would feel a little warmer for it. He could smile back without fear of losing his wallet or his life.
No, the job of the paintbrush was not to change his surroundings, merely to paint him into them. Not as he was now - a visitor - but as someone who belonged. Someone who lived here and would never have to leave. It was becoming easier to do so every day, which was nice, but offered possibilities for disappointment later on.
He came upon the trees that hugged the village and walked beside them, circling the edge of the village and heading for familiar ground.
Why don’t you pop round to ours? I know Megan would be pleased to see you
Permission from the boyfriend to be alone with the girlfriend. Why? Because Mark was unaware of how Megan occupied James' thoughts, or because he was not perceived as a threat? The former was more likely, with a dash of the latter thrown in, depressing him in a dumb way.
He reached Claire’s road. Saw the space where the horny car had been, the door which was now closed, the ever-hungry mouth of the alley, a sofa -
The last caught him by surprise, like he had fallen into a Douglas Adams novel. He was ready to write it off as a new dimension of the encroaching madness, so often hinted at by the voices and running water from his past, before he spotted Sharon, standing beside the sofa, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a phone to her ear.
“ - I appreciate you have lots to do, and maybe you were running behind, but I paid for a service, and I believe -”
She had her back to James, so didn’t see him approach. The sofa was bright blue, comfortable looking but not a piece he would have in his living room. For one thing, it wouldn’t suit the wallpaper, for another -
Stop. The house was not his, nor would it ever be unless the current owner had a knock on the head and dropped the price by half.
Sharon was pacing, her voice aiming for polite but getting more shrill by the second.
“Well what am I suppose to do?” she said. “I live alone. If I could get the sofa in myself I would, but I can’t, that’s why I paid to have you put it inside, not dump it on my lawn.“
A long pause as she listened to the response. James stood on the pavement now, a few feet away though she had yet to turn. He began to feel guilty. Like he was eavesdropping, although he only wanted to help. Well, help and talk, he guessed - hadn’t Claire called Sharon the biggest gossip in the village?
“Fine,” she shrilled. “If that’s how it is then fine. But I must say that if this is how you treat your customers, I will not shop with you again, and I’ll tell you what else… hello? Hello? Unbelievable.”
Hanging up, she swivelled and gave a little shriek as she saw James standing awkwardly behind her. A dramatic hand went to her chest, and she held another up to stop James speaking before she’d had time to compose herself. When her heart rate returned to normal, the hand lowered, and she waited for him to being speaking only to talk over him.
“Sorry, James, that was quite the shock.”
A pause, with play pressed when he tried once more to speak.
“I’m having a nightmare morning. Paid the sofa people to drop this off and put it in my living room but have they bothered? Have they hell. I tell you, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m at my wit's end. They said they were running behind so they left, but they were supposed to take my old sofa away too. What am I supposed to do now? Have to call the council I suppose, and that will be a nightmare. They’ve promised me a refund - the sofa people, not the council - but I’ll probably have to chase that up and oh my gosh there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Anyway, how can I help you?”
James let a stupid silence pass before his words like an advanced guard. Time he needed to process her babble. He gestured to the sofa.
“I thought I could help.”
“Oh, James.” Both hands rushed to cover a face so overcome with emotion he thought those might be tears in her eyes. “Christina mentioned what a wonderful young man you were and here is the proof. You see a woman in need, stranded with a sofa on her lawn and rather than walk by, as most would, you offer help. You must have been raised by saints.”
James smiled but didn’t respond. No point ruining the illusion by letting her know how far from saints his parents had been.
He moved to the sofa, already somewhat regretting his decision. He wasn’t sure how the professionals planned to get the lump through the door, let alone how he and Sharon might go about it. Quick maths showed no obvious solution. It was no wonder they’d dumped it on the lawn and left. He began to enlighten Sharon to the hopelessness of their situation, only to find her swooping upon him like a bird. Before he could say anything, she had grabbed him by each cheek and kissed the top of his head.
“Thank you ever so much,” she said. “I’ll get out of your way while you work, make us a cup of tea. I don’t know if you want to take the old sofa out first then bring the new one in or the other way around. Please, do it however you see fit and thank you again for being a wonderful human.”
Before he could process this turn of events, she had swept inside the house, leaving him to his impossible task.
James stepped into the living room where a horrible red sofa and a hernia awaited him. The offensive object would never have been pleasant to look at, but today it made him want to cry.
“Earl Grey or Breakfast?” Sharon called through from the kitchen. James put a hand to his head and sighed. He didn’t like tea, but couldn’t mention that now.
“Earl Grey, please.”
Whatever that was. He assessed the mechanics of the job in hand. If he could turn the sofa on its side, he could probably shift it through the door. It would take a long time and might even give him a heart attack, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.
By the time Sharon walked through the door with tea and a plate of biscuits, James had achieved very little. The sofa was away from the wall and turned towards the door. James was on his knees, ready to lift the thing onto its side but was sure this would be no better. It did not seem the thing was going to get through the door. People may hate it, but there was a lot to be said for flat packing.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
Although he hadn’t intended to say the words out loud - they had appeared alongside a sad sigh he knew he could not repress - he did not regret them. How often did he near enough kill himself doing something stupid because he wanted to be helpful? It was a problem. One his father had loved, and his mother had tried to drum out of him - except when it benefited her.
Feeling guilty, James placed his head against the seat and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at Sharon, feeling he had let the poor woman down. From across the room, he heard her approach, then there was a hand on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. He looked into forgiving and kind eyes, her smile showing no hatred at him for promising something he could not deliver.
“Stand up,” she said, and he did. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not a one-person job. Come on, can you slide this one back? I’ll think of something else.”
It was hard work, but he managed to shove the sofa back to where it had been. Gesturing to it, she took a seat, and he sat next to her, picking up a biscuit not because he was hungry, but because it gave him a reason to put off drinking the tea. The biscuit was stale.
“Sorry for being useless,” he said, feeling deflated, but she waved the apology away.
“I’ll cover the sofa with a sheet tonight. Get them to come back to do their job tomorrow if I can. It was idiocy to try anything else but never mind. Come, drink up, get your strength back. You look knackered.”
Smiling a fake smile he picked up the tea, hesitating before sipping it. As the liquid went down, burning his throat - which at least dulled the tast
e - he examined the fireplace opposite, or more accurately the army of photographs adorning it.
The number of frames meant the photos overlapped each other, blocking the full contents of all except those in the front row. What was clear from where he sat was they were all children, ranging in ages from the newly born to those on the cusp of puberty. Something about the collection drew him in, and he placed his mug on the coaster, stood, and approached. Leaning in close to more clearly see who stood in each photo.
“These can’t all be your family,” he said, then felt stupid, remembering the moniker with which she had been introduced to him: “These are all kids you babysat.”
She rose to stand beside him, smiling at the photos as many lonely people will smile at their cats.
“I was not blessed with a large family. An only child, never married. No children of my own, though I always wanted to be a mother. It just never happened.”
She picked up a photo of three smiling girls, the emotion taking her. James wanted to land a comforting hand on her arm but didn’t.
“I’ve lived in this house my whole life, and since I was 16 or 17, I’ve been babysitting. That’s almost fifty years of children. Many of whom you see before you.”
James’ eyes had been searching for familiar faces and found two photos containing smiles he had seen before, side by side. The first held a little boy, standing alone before the red sofa, not so long ago, possessing the same smile as in the pictures in Claire’s living room. Next to this was a picture of three more kids. He picked up the latter frame.
“How they’ve grown,” Sharon said, looking over his shoulder. “Yet you can see the people they will become even in these pictures, can’t you?”
James nodded. Sitting on the same sofa that would be occupied fifteen years later by James were three kids. The two boys looked to be around thirteen and eleven and were similar. Though James could tell which was Mark and which was Luke. The girl in the middle could only have been four or five but somehow already looked like the adult she would become, more so than either of her brothers. He noted none of them were smiling.
“What were they like?” he asked.
“Good as gold,” Sharon said, without hesitation. “Mark and Emma were quiet. Mark would sit on his own. Read or play on his games machine. He wasn’t interested in interacting and only really spoke when he was arguing with his brother.
“Emma wasn’t fussed about talking to Mark or me, but she idolised Luke. Loved him to bits. She tried to hide it, I think, but it was obvious the way she felt. Tragic how it went in the end. She loved him so much and what he did to repay her -“
Sharon broke off, sensing she had said too much. She reached forward and took the frame from James, staring at the faces with nostalgia.
“You won’t believe this,” she said, and James looked at her.
“What?”
“Luke was my favourite.”
She took in his look, smiled.
“Told you, but he was. So clever. So bright. Honest, too, and with a real sense of justice. We used to sit in my kitchen and play chess. Even when he was old enough to no longer need a babysitter. He would come and see me. Such a sweet boy in his youth but I suppose that goes to show, people change, and not always for the better. Still, a more dramatic change than Luke I doubt you’ll see. Though the anger was always there. At the time I didn’t want to see it but thinking it back, yes, it was certainly there.”
That mention of anger again. The famous Luke Barnes temper and what had James’ father always said to him?
That rage will get you into trouble, kiddo. Be careful.
And he was always so careful. Nothing like Luke. He was sure.
Wasn’t he sure?
He looked at the picture again - three unsmiling faces - and decided to push Sharon a little.
“Mark told me about Luke’s involvement in his girlfriend’s death,”
It was bold-faced and straight enough that she could have clammed up. She certainly leant him appraising eyes, but she did speak and after little hesitation.
“So easy it is for nice boys and girls to get into nasty habits. So easy for them to get into and so easy for the parents to miss.
“Luke wasn’t the only one.” She gestured to a photo of smiling siblings, maybe twins. Boy and girl but they looked shockingly similar at their age - eight or nine. Ten at the outside.
“Shaun and Georgia. Another sweet pair that found drugs where most will find a hobby or a career. They still live around here, hanging around with troublemakers George will be familiar with, and it breaks my heart whenever I see them. Red eyes filled with danger. So far from the little boy and girl I once knew.
“Of course, in their case, the parents didn’t help. Didn’t show enough interest. That wasn’t it for Luke. Christina protected her children so fiercely. I remember when she found out Mark was entangled with Katy. She was furious. Demanded Mark break up with her immediately. She knew about the drugs, you see? But Mark said they were careful, and refused.
“I saw Christina right after Katy passed away. So pale, and hurt. See, she’d told Mark Katy would end up dead and when that happened she, Christina, would be glad. Imagine how guilty she felt when that happened?”
James could imagine. Plenty of the villages’ inhabitants seemed to be inflicted with guilt for things that were not their fault, but James could understand them all. He felt pangs for Christina, Mark and Mac. Wishing they could see the truth. See they were blameless. The one to blame was the one who had graduated from dealer and abuser of young girls to kidnapper.
“Luke’s broken that family,” he whispered.
“Yes. That little boy I thought I knew disappeared. How hard it must have been for his parents. For Christina -“ Sharon leaned forward and picked up one of the photos from the table. James saw two kids - one around eleven one around seven. The photo had been taken a long time ago, and the little girl did not look much like the woman she would become, but James could see who it was. Could tell it was Christina.
“Like Emma, Christina worshipped her big brother,” Sharon said. “But Terry married Priya, a girl the family didn’t approve of, and was disowned. Christina never got over that, and I’m sure it must have hurt her greatly not just to lose her son, but to see her daughter lose a beloved brother.”
James reached out and took the picture. Looked at the smiling girl and felt admiration soar through him for her keeping together a family that had had so much thrown at it. He decided then and there that whether they wanted him or not, he would stay around, he would try and help and be whatever they needed him to be.
He figured they deserved that.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
With the minute hand crawling towards one o clock, James wrapped up the conversation and left. Soon enough Mark would be home for lunch, and James wanted to see Megan alone before that. Not with the intention of saying anything silly - I’m falling in love with you - just to be with her.
Through the alley once more, thinking not about Mohsin, but Luke, who had broken his mother's heart, jeopardised his father's job and destroyed the relationships of his siblings.
Did that make him evil? Nasty actions don't make nasty people, his father had once said, but that had been to comfort his son, more than anything. James had often thought himself evil, but it was weakness rather than malice. Perhaps the same was true of Luke, but James had never kidnapped a boy to hurt his family
Knocking on Megan's door, he decided Luke had to be evil. Such labels were easier than thinking about illness and weakness. Lazy, but when a boy was missing there was no time for psychoanalysis. Only doing everything possible to save Charlie, and the Barnes’ before Luke destroyed everything.
From within, Megan informed him the door was open, and James entered.
"In here."
James stepped through the living room where the Barnes' had held palaver about a missing boy the night before last - or possibly a lifetime ago - and moved into a small but modern
kitchen. Cool grey tiles on the floor, black white goods and a proper American style fridge freezer which took up far more space than was sensible in a room this size.
"Hey," James said.
Megan sat at a tall table flanked by two stools. Before her was a bottle of beer, dripping condensation. She wore a floating white top and tight blue jean shorts. The sun from the back door and the large windows streamed into the room, bathing her in an angelic glow, enhancing her beauty. She returned his greeting. Pointed to the freezer.
"Grab a couple of beers, will you?”
The freezer turned out to be empty but for a pizza and three beers. A situation he decided not to comment on as he took two bottles back to where Megan sat. Sliding into the uncomfortable stool next to her, he observed her frustrated expression.
"You alright?"
Slipping his bag from his shoulder, he decided to hold off retrieving the chocolates he had stuffed inside. At least until he knew the source of the frown.
"Fine."
She took the bottle opener and cracked both beer caps with uncanny speed. Casting the opener aside she saw off her first drink and went straight into the second without pause.
"Fine, not fine," she confessed. "But I get I'm being selfish. I mean, Mark said we could go swimming today, and I was excited. Then he retracted the offer, and I'm bored. But hey, that's me being a bitch, right? Because he's off doing his job and he’s worried about Charlie.
“Not that I’m not worried. I am. Worried sick but… what's your longest relationship?"
The change of tact caught him off guard, and he had to drink for several seconds to give himself time to think. She watched him, oblivious to the fact her stare made him uncomfortable. He considered lying, but what would be the point?