by Sam Anthony
A fat tear made its way down Serena’s cheek. “I don’t know. I’ve tried everything. He doesn’t seem to fancy me anymore.”
“That can’t be true. You’re drop-dead gorgeous. The prettiest woman in the village by far.”
“I wish.”
“Name one person prettier than you.”
“No problem. I can name two, easily.”
“Who?”
“Haven’t you looked at your daughter lately?”
“Jemima?”
“Yes. She’s stunningly beautiful. She’s going to break a lot of hearts in the next few years. I can’t compete with that sweet, fresh face and that lustrous red hair. Back me up, Fiona.”
“It’s true, Mia. She’s gorgeous. But who’s the second person?”
“Busty big tits over there behind the bar.”
Fiona and Mia said nothing.
Serena wiped the tears from her chin. “It’s my turn to choose the conversation topic next time, and we’re jolly well talking about sex.”
Chapter 9
Thursday 17 July, 2003
Agnes Dewberry’s house, 9:05 a.m.
Agnes Dewberry (87) set off for her morning walk at just after nine o’clock, clutching the letter she had written to her great-granddaughter, who was studying Engineering at Bath University. She passed the pub, she turned left at the O’Connor residence, and she was only two hundred yards from the post office when it happened.
A man – she was pretty sure it was a man – stepped out of the bushes wearing baggy black jeans, a shapeless black hoodie and a black balaclava.
“Give me your handbag a minute,” he said, as casually as if he was asking for the time.
Agnes was confused. She thought she must have misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said give me your handbag.”
There was no doubt about it that time. “But why?”
“Because I want it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
She couldn’t see his face because of the balaclava, only his eyes, but she sensed he was smiling.
“I’m mugging you, lady. For the third and final time: give me your handbag.”
“But I don’t want to. There’s money in it, and my mobile phone, and my letter to Milly.”
“You’re missing the whole point of this mugging. I want your stuff.”
She clutched the bag to her chest. “What if I refuse to give it to you?”
“Then I’ll punch you in the face, but I really don’t want to do that. I’m not a violent person. This will be a more pleasant experience for both of us if you just hand it over.”
What could she do? She didn’t want to just give him the money; it was her pension. She didn’t want to relinquish the mobile phone; she had only recently learned how to send text messages. And she certainly didn’t want to let this man have her letter to Milly. She’d written personal things. Private things. It was none of his business. But, on the other hand, she didn’t want a punch in the face. What if he damaged her glasses or her dentures? What if he broke her nose?
Agnes glanced around her. Where was everyone? Should she drop to the floor and roll up into a ball to protect her handbag and her face? Should she scream for help?
“Don’t even think about it, lady. There’s nobody about.”
“Are you sure about this?” she said in a tremulous voice. “It seems so wrong.”
“Just hand it over, sweetheart. You’re beginning to try my patience.”
Reluctantly, she held out the handbag.
He took it. “Thank you. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
Agnes didn’t reply.
The man turned around and calmly walked away down the lane, climbed over a gate, and disappeared from view, leaving his victim bewildered and shaking.
◆◆◆
Agnes Dewberry was later to give a description of her assailant to the police: average height, average weight, a slight paunch, brownish eyes, dressed all in black, and wearing a balaclava.
“Can you give us anything else? Hold old was he? You referred to him as a young man.”
“It’s hard to say, dear. Everyone seems young to me these days.”
“Have a guess.”
“I don’t know. Somewhere between fifteen and fifty.”
“Was it definitely a man, at least?”
“I think so, but I can’t be sure. As I told you earlier, because of the baggy clothes, the hood and the balaclava, all I could see were his eyes. They were definitely brown. Or hazel. Maybe dark hazel? Or light brown with hints of green? Or am I thinking of the postman?”
“Tell us about his voice. Was it deep like mine?”
“I wouldn’t say so, Sergeant, but it wasn’t high either. Somewhere in the middle. Please, may I go home now, I’m tired.”
“Soon. Did he have an accent at all, Mrs Dewberry?”
“It’s ‘Miss’. No, he just sounded … ordinary. Like everyone around here. Well, not you obviously, PC Patel.”
“Obviously.”
“My son bought me that phone. He’s going to be so cross when I tell him it was stolen.”
“These things are replaceable, Miss Dewberry. What’s important is there was no real harm done. You weren’t injured. You didn’t lose much cash. And you can always buy another handbag and write another letter, can’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“Okay, I’m going to get PC Patel to drive you back home. We’ll look into the matter and see what we can do. It wouldn’t surprise me if your handbag and the letter turn up in a hedge somewhere. In the meantime, you look after yourself. Go home, make a nice cup of tea, put your feet up and find something nice to watch on the telly. If you think of anything else that might help us, just give us a ring, all right?”
Agnes Dewberry nodded.
“Do you have any final questions before you go?”
“Just one. Can you drive me home instead?”
Chapter 10
Sunday 20 July, 2003
McDougal front door, 10:30 a.m.
Jemima pushed the button a second time, and from deep within the house they heard the bell tinkle again.
Ava raised her eyebrows at her friend. “Perhaps they’re out.”
But before long they heard distant barking, getting louder, and then claws pawing at the other side of the wooden door.
“Coming,” called Serena.
The door swung open, a knee-high blur charged into the garden, barking happily at his friend, and the girls were greeted by the lady of the house wearing only the tiniest lycra two-piece imaginable and dazzling white trainers.
“Hello, girls. Sorry it took me so long to get to the door, I was in the gym. You’ll have to excuse the state of me. I’m sweating buckets. How can I help you?”
They didn’t know it, but Jemima and Ava were thinking the same thing: Wow! I hope I look that good when I’m her age.
“Hi, Serena,” said Jemima. “We’re taking Lord for a walk up the hill, and we just wondered if you’d like us to take Stumpy too?”
“Oh, that’s so thoughtful. I hope you’re not bored already, though. It’s only the second day of your summer holidays, isn’t it?”
Ava spoke up. “No, we’re not bored at all. Just trying to maximise our time.” She looked down at the excited dog. “Do you think he’d like to come?”
“I’m not sure. We’d better ask him. Stumpy?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Do you want to go for a walk with Jemima and Ava?” Serena said in a sing-song voice.
“Does a dingo wipe his arse on a tree trunk?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, boy. Wag your tail if you want to go.”
“Are you taking the bloody piss, lady? What breed of dog am I again? A Stumpy what?”
Ava laughed. “He’s wagging his whole body. I think that means ‘yes’.”
Lord strolled around to the back end of his best fr
iend and had a quick sniff. “Good morning.”
“All right, mate?”
“Lovely to see you, my good fellow. How are you on this fine day?”
“Not bad, thanks.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Like a puppy. This is unusual. The girls don’t usually take us for a walk.”
“It’s fine by me. As long as we get another one later with Ollie and Serena.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Those two hardly ever miss their evening stroll.”
“Woof!” said Lord.
“I’ll just fetch his lead.” Serena disappeared back into the house, pursued by her toned, age-defying buttocks.
◆◆◆
As they made their way down the drive, Jemima said, “That was weird.”
“What was?”
“Didn’t you see Eric in the upstairs window?”
“No.” Ava turned and looked back at the house. “He’s not there now. I wonder why he didn’t come down and say hello. He’s usually so friendly.”
“I got the impression he was trying to hide behind the curtains.”
“That is weird.”
◆◆◆
Once they were up on the hill, and the dogs were happily sniffing all the rabbit holes, Ava said, “How’s it going with Hugh Carmichael? Has he asked you out yet?”
Jemima’s face reddened. “Oh, I’m well over him. Didn’t you hear? He’s gay. A teacher caught him sucking off Martin Wickham in the boys’ toilet.”
“You’re kidding!”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Martin Wickham is gay too? Didn’t he used to date Ingrid Svensson?”
“I guess that was just for show.”
“Unbelievable. That must have been so embarrassing for them. I hope they’re okay.”
“Listen, you mustn’t tell anyone. I heard my mum talking about it, but it’s not common knowledge amongst the kids.”
“I understand.”
“You have to promise on your parents’ lives that you won’t say anything.”
“I promise.”
“On your parents’ lives?”
Ava sighed. “Yes, on my parents’ lives.”
“Good. I’m so glad I’ve got a best friend to confide in. Best friends share everything, don’t they?”
“Yes, I suppose they do.”
Jemima smiled. “So … Who do you like?”
“Huh?”
“Which boys do you fancy?”
Now it was Ava’s turn to blush. “Oh, I’m not really into boys.”
“You mean you’re a lesbian?”
“Heck, no. I like boys, I’m just too busy to have a love-life yet.”
“Come on, there must be someone.”
Ava just shook her head, determined to keep her feelings private, but the disappointed look on Jemima’s face as she turned and began to stride away caused Ava to change her mind.
“Actually, there is this one guy in my chemistry class. Although, I don’t think he even knows I exist.”
Jemima turned and walked back to her friend, perking up instantly. “What’s his name? Tell me everything.”
“This has to be our secret. You mustn’t let anyone know about it. I’d simply die if he ever found out.”
“Of course. Now, what’s his name?”
“Drew Daniels, and he’s got the most …”
“Coming through,” barked Stumpy as he charged down the footpath in pursuit of a disappearing rabbit, causing the girls to leap out of his way.
“Slow down, old chap,” barked Lord, following at a sedate pace more appropriate for a dog of his breeding.
The girls continued to chat, and the dogs continued to explore until well after lunchtime.
Chapter 11
Saturday 26 July, 2003
The pub, 9:35 p.m.
“The English language.”
“Huh?”
“I’d like us to talk about the English language this evening,” said Eric.
Steve furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“Because it’s fascinating. Did you know, for example, that there’s a hill in the U.K. called Hill Hill Hill?”
“Nonsense,” said Ollie. “I’d have heard of it.”
“I’m sure you have. It’s in Worcestershire. Less than fifty miles from where we’re sitting right now.”
“Is this ringing any bells with you, Steve?”
Steve shook his head. “No. He’s talking bollocks.”
Eric sat back triumphantly. “Bredon Hill.”
“I don’t get it. You said Hill Hill Hill.”
“Bredon Hill means Hill Hill Hill in three different languages. ‘Bre’ is a Celtic word for hill, ‘don’ is old English and, obviously, ‘hill’ is modern English. Hill Hill Hill. I like to imagine a couple of guys having a chat fifteen hundred years ago, and one saying to the other, ‘That bit of land over there is higher than the land all around it. I bet you get lovely panoramic views from the top. There ought to be a word for land like that.’ And the other guy saying, ‘There is, mate, it’s called a ‘bre’.’ And then, five hundred years later, two more guys having a chinwag – maybe descendants of the first two – and one says to the other, ‘What’s the name of that bit of land over yonder that sticks up in the air?’ The second guy replies, ‘That’s ‘bre’. And the first guy says, ‘Well, it’s clearly a ‘don’ (meaning ‘hill’ in his language), so henceforth it shall be known as ‘Bre Don’. And then, five hundred years after that, two more guys are shooting the breeze – maybe descendants of the previous four – and the first guy says, ‘Someone ought to build a tower up there.’ ‘Up where, mate?’ ‘On top of that prominence. What’s it called?’ ‘It’s called ‘Bre don’.’ And the second man says, ‘Well, it’s clearly a hill, so henceforth it shall be called ‘Bredon Hill’. Ta-da!”
“Fascinating,” said Steve unenthusiastically.
Eric continued. “It wouldn’t surprise me if, five hundred years from now when aliens have conquered the planet, one of them will say, ‘Hey, puny earthling, what’s the name of that rise over there where we landed our spaceship?’ The human – maybe a descendant of the previous six humans – will say, ‘That’s ‘Bredon Hill’. And the alien – no relation – will say, ‘Well, it’s clearly a ‘chaxma’ (meaning ‘hill’ in its language), so henceforth you and all the other human slaves shall call it ‘Bredonhill Chaxma’. And on and on.”
“Okay, that is quite interesting, I guess,” said Steve.
“And it’s not the only English hill that’s so named. Pendle Hill in Lancashire also means Hill Hill Hill, with a bit of the Cumbric language thrown into the mix. The English language fascinates me because it’s an amalgamation of many other languages. That’s the secret behind your cryptic crosswords, Ollie. They only work because so many words have double or triple meanings. Or more. The words ‘set’ and ‘run’, for example, both have over four hundred meanings.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. Have you got a favourite crossword clue?” Eric asked Ollie.
“I have, actually. It features my beloved football team. ‘Man United playing away later rued foul’.* Can either of you figure it out? Steve?”
“Don’t ask me. I can barely manage the easy one in The Daily Mail. The cryptic ones mean nothing to me.”
“Eric?”
“How many letters?”
“Nine.”
“In cryptic crosswords, ‘Foul’ often means it’s an anagram, so I’m guessing we need to rearrange the letters of ‘later’ and ‘rued’. That’s nine letters, isn’t it?”
“You’re on the right track, but it’s also got to mean ‘Man United playing away’.”
“Just put us out of our misery,” said Steve.
“No, but I’ll give you a clue. What would you call a man united? In other words, a man who is united.”
“Married?” Eric suggested.
“Good. And if he was ‘playing away’ from home?”
&n
bsp; “He’d be committing adultery.”
“Anagram of ‘later rued’?”
“Adulterer! God, it’s obvious.”
“That’s the best thing about cryptic crosswords. Once you find the answer, it’s obviously correct.”
“What’s your spelling like?” Eric reached into the back pocket of his shorts and drew out three folded pieces of paper. He handed the first one to Steve.
Steve unfolded it and read the top line out loud.
How many words on this page are mispelled?
supercede
conceed
procede
idiosyncracy
concensus
accomodate
impressario
rhythym
opthalmologist
diptheria
anamoly
afficianado
caesarion
grafitti
After studying the list for forty-five seconds, Steve handed the paper over to Ollie. “What do you think, mate?”
Ollie spent two minutes pondering before Steve took the list off him and had another look.
Finally, Steve nodded. “Three, I reckon.”
Ollie shook his head. “Higher. I’m going to say five.”
Eric couldn’t help looking smug. “Are they your final answers?”
“Okay, six.”
Steve looked up. “Let’s ask Mandy.”
“Who’s Mandy?”
“The new barmaid with the impressive rack.”
“You could have just said ‘the new barmaid’. There’s only one.”
“Well, she has got an impressive rack.”
Steve raised his hand and his voice. “Mandy, could we borrow you a minute?”