‘What do you want?’ he asked, not looking up at me.
This situation had caught me off guard. ‘I didn’t know you made models,’ I said, forgetting what I had come to say.
The anger I had felt leaving my house, the desire for confrontation and my embarrassment on entry had dissolved and I was truly surprised to find Sally’s brother Greg hunched over, enthusiastically pursuing a child’s pastime before me. I looked around the room; along the bench four other models had already been completed, their bodies transformed with paint in camouflage patterns and transfer stickers displaying ensigns and numbering. I had to admit they looked impressive, more in keeping with the illustration on the box fronts than his current work in progress. I didn’t recognise the other aircraft, but by their markings and propellers, I judged them to be from the same era as the Lancaster.
‘Are those the wheels?’ I said, looking at his hands.
‘Landing gear,’ he sighed.
Still he did not look at me. Instead he set down the landing gear, glanced at the instructions in front of him and reached for a grey frame which held as yet unassembled pieces.
‘I said, what do you want?’ Greg Dixon repeated.
‘What did you mean the other night?’
‘What other night?’
‘At the golf club, you asked if I knew where Sally was. What did you mean by that?’ I spluttered.
‘What night are you talking about?’ he said, finally looking at me.
‘The Lombarders’ ladies’ night.’
He stared at me blankly.
‘At the golf club,’ I added.
He nodded slowly and turned back to his model-making. ‘Didn’t see you there,’ he responded.
I stood, my eyes burning into the side of his head. ‘You asked me if I knew where Sally was that night,’ I repeated, not content with his answer.
‘Did I?’ Like I say, don’t remember you being there.’
‘She was planning to leave and you knew about it,’ I stated simply.
‘Did I?’ he repeated.
The anger came to me; made me move toward him seated at his bench, it took control of my thought process, forcing words out of me.
‘Put that thing down and show me some respect!’ I yelled into his face.
Greg calmly put down the model pieces he was handling and swung around to face me.
‘You arrive at my home uninvited, have the audacity to burst into my private workshop, almost taking the door off its hinges, yell into my face and demand I give you respect? I suggest you get rid of that anger, either get laid or join a gym. Get off my property, you excuse of a man,’ he said calmly.
I stood my ground. ‘You knew she was seeing someone else!’ I yelled. ‘And yet you didn’t tell me.’
‘I still don’t know what you are talking about. But if I did, why would I tell you?’ He leered up at me.
‘Because it would be the right thing to do!’
Greg Dixon stood up. ‘You know what, I am glad if, as you say, she has found someone else, I always knew she could do better than you. God knows she had many chances, too.’
‘What does that mean?’ I said, suddenly feeling very hot in the room.
Greg chuckled to himself and walked toward a bank of windows at a right angle to the door.
‘You really have no idea, do you?’ he said, stopping and looking at me before opening a fanlight window to allow some of the trapped, humid air to escape the room.
I said nothing.
‘I don’t know how to put this,’ he began, ‘but I know of, let me see, at least five affairs she has had down the years,’ he added with relish in his voice and a smile on his lips. He looked at me as I tried to remain still, my fingernails digging into my palms with force. ‘Oh, I thought you wanted to know!’ he said, his hand covering his mouth in mock surprise.
He suddenly adopted a quizzical look and rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, come to think of it, it must be six. There was definitely an accountant, a painter and decorator, and two firemen. Can’t remember the others, but they were years ago now.’
I stood still. ‘You are lying,’ I spat.
‘Oh, and of course there was Trafford, the supermarket buyer, most recently. Lot younger than her, but had good prospects, solid corporate man – not sure what happened there, but then I haven’t seen her in ages.’
‘I know you are lying – she was here on Saturday, talking about those solar panels of yours,’ I said, feeling crushed on hearing the name of the buyer again. I recalled Trafford to be the same name Sally had once mentioned casually as being a lunch date, before insisting she had told me about him. I had felt uneasy at the time but dismissed it. Only now, in this stifling hothouse, did I wish I had reacted differently.
‘Nope, she wasn’t here. Haven’t discussed those panels for months, didn’t even get off the ground,’ he said.
‘What about the hives? She checks the hives,’ I added, clutching at straws.
‘So she tells you! Not inspected in weeks. Surprised those things haven’t swarmed.’
I looked at the ground.
‘Oh, I remember one of the other guys now. You know him, that rich, pompous idiot Gus Eastley. He moved here to be near her, she said he was the—’
I don’t know where it came from, but in an instant my fist connected with the right side of his jaw and stopped his speech. He stumbled backward, clutching his chin, while his tongue protruded, red with blood. He dabbed at his tongue with his fingers and looked at the blood, before rubbing his reddened jaw.
‘Get out of here before I have you arrested,’ he hissed in my direction.
I took the few steps to the door, opened it, ventured outside and closed it behind me. Under dark, murky skies, I processed what Greg had revealed to me. He had to be lying. Sally had always been with me, always by my side. But she wasn’t when I worked as the Party King or Clive the Clown, was she? I argued. But no, I dismissed this – I would know, I knew her.
But the revelation about Gus; how could I explain that away? That first time I met him in Malacy’s and they were cosied up at the bar on my arrival; the way he had never revealed why he had moved to the area; his background was so far removed from here, but I always put his silence down to him just being him. Then there was the fact that he had gone away this week, the same time Sally had left – was this coincidence? Had they met up? Were they in Italy together right now? My mind refused to picture any more and instead recalled the punch I had just unleashed, and guiltily took pleasure in how satisfying it had been.
Initially I couldn’t place the sound that came from my right; I wasn’t able to put it in context. The desperate scream from the workshop moments later was the trigger. I spun around to witness a rapidly moving trail heading into the building via the fanlight window Greg had opened moments before.
Looking in through the front windows I could no longer see Greg. Instead a human-shaped mass of insects had replaced him, covered him and continued to grow in size with the stream of new arrivals. He wiped them from his face with bee-covered hands and screamed again, only for his features to disappear as quickly as he had revealed them, and to be replaced by yet more bees that muffled and then silenced his screams with their continuous buzzing. I twisted the door handle to get him out of the building, but the catch was again stuck. I tried again and again and again, but still the door would not open. I resorted to kicking the door and then the frame, but to no avail, and all the while, the sound of the bees became louder and louder.
I looked in again through the window and found the bee-covered form of Greg Dixon now lying on the floor, motionless.. His arms, legs, torso and head were no longer outlined, but instead were hidden under a crawling, violently vibrating mass. I reached for my phone, to call for help, but was presented with no signal available on the scree
n in this remote place and kicked the door again, this time in desperation. All I could do was watch in horror through the window as the attack continued unabated. I needed to summons help quickly.
. prophecy -apass
I ran through the gap in the hawthorns, through the vegetable and flower gardens and back to the house. The side door was open and I ventured in to get to the phone in the hallway.
On my call being answered, my request sounded bizarre to me; I couldn’t imagine what the emergency services operator was thinking as she repeated back, ‘Your brother-in-law has been attacked by swarming bees, but you cannot get into the building to help. You think he is dead. Is that correct, Mr Dungiven?’ she stated.
I merely said, ‘Yes’ in reply.
‘Okay, the police and paramedics are on their way, and an apiarist,’ she said before hanging up.
As I put down the phone, I couldn’t help but notice the piles of glossy brochures on the hallway table and the mock-up solar panel model all embossed with a distinctive Eco-Lites logo. It didn’t look to me as if the business had not got off the ground, as Greg Dixon had claimed.
The police arrived first, two officers. One jogged down to the end of the garden on my instruction and disappeared from view behind the trees, en route to the outhouse, while the other spoke to me outside the garage. His questioning, though in a friendly manner, was probing as to who I was, what my address was, my relationship to Greg Dixon and why I was there, and throughout this I was extremely conscious of him glancing at my reddening right knuckle as we spoke. I tried to remain calm, to remain level-headed, to not reveal I had struck Greg.
His colleague returned, slowly walking, as the paramedics arrived. He shook his head as he neared us.
‘He’s unconscious, slight pulse,’ he stated matter-of-factly.
‘What about the bees?’ his colleague asked.
‘Just a few around him, dead – had to smash a window to open the door from the inside, it was stuck shut.’
‘But no swarm?’ the other officer asked, looking at me.
‘No, like I said, just a few around him – his face is swollen and red, though, where he has been stung.’
‘All over his face?’
‘No, just on one side.’
I looked on, observing the conversation, trying not to blink, trying to not touch my face, trying to not move at all, to not show any sign of nerves.
‘Which side?’ the officer asked quickly.
‘The left part of his face.’
‘Not the right, definitely the left?’
‘Yes, the left. Probably didn’t know he was anaphylactic,’ the policeman who had gone to investigate suggested.
‘Possibly,’ the other officer replied, again looking at me. ‘Let the paramedic boys work on him,’ he added, as the ambulance crew locked the stretcher into position and wheeled with purpose down to the end of the garden, accompanied by the first policeman.
We both watched in silence as the party moved beyond the trees.
‘Can you please make sure you remain available, Mr Dungiven? We may need to interview you at a later date at the station,’ the policeman informed me.
‘Certainly,’ I replied, wary of revealing too much, but I knew I had to say something to him. ‘Can I ask a question?’ I added, dreading where it would lead me.
The officer looked at me.
‘Who informs his family of this? Do you want me to do it?’
‘That would be normal procedure.’
I nodded.
‘Is there a reason you cannot do this?’
He had me, and it was so easy. My blank expression and innocent questions must have spoken volumes to him.
‘I am separated from his sister,’ I revealed, dying inside as I made the words form in the open for the first time.
‘I see, that’s different then,’ he said. ‘But I will still need you to be available, though,’ he added.
I held his stare, nodded and headed to the van.
‘Incidentally, Mr Dungiven, when did you separate from Mr Dixon’s sister?’ he asked calmly.
I stood with the keys to the van in the door lock.
‘Recently,’ I admitted, not turning around.
‘How recently?’
‘Saturday,’ I replied.
He remained silent and I opened van door.
‘I would like you to come down to the station with us now, Mr Dungiven,’ he requested, as I placed my foot on the step of the vehicle.
It was turning into a day of firsts. I had never been in a police car or been interviewed in a police station before, I certainly hadn’t been witness to a person covered in vibrating bees, close to death and I had never been hugged by Jennifer Rees before.
After a drive in silence to the police station, I was ushered into an interview room and in that enclosed environment, I believed I had some understanding of how Jennifer felt when she was brought in and forced to watch the footage of her rescue dogs being torn apart by Elliot Wallace’s ‘boy’.
The waiting was the worst element. I sat in the small room with a uniformed police constable standing by the only door, who refused, despite several attempts on my part, to engage with me. I asked for water a number of times and he ignored me on each occasion. At least my reddened fist had reverted back to its normal condition.
Several hours passed in this manner, until the door opened and two officers walked in and sat down noisily. Without looking at me, one of them quickly introduced himself and his colleague; so quickly that I forgot their names the moment he stopped speaking. They both looked up and asked why I was at Greg Dixon’s place earlier.
I had had hours to think about this, sitting in this room, and had decided that a half-truth would be the safest course to take. I reasoned they probably knew about Sally leaving, the officer at the scene having briefed them, I assumed. With this in mind, I explained I had gone to Greg’s on the off chance he knew why Sally had left; I needed someone to talk to about it, I lied. But when I arrived, finding the house empty, I wandered down to the outhouse where I found him covered in bees inside, but was unable to open the sticking door to get him out. That was when I called the emergency services.
They asked why I didn’t break the door down to get him out. To which I replied what that I had told the operator that I had tried, but couldn’t. down . They rapidly countered by questioning how hard did I really try to get in. I admitted I maybe could have been more forceful, but was worried the noise and commotion of breaking down the door would agitate the bees further. They.asked what was different about breaking the door down and just going in – the bees would be agitated either way. I again repeated that the bees would respond more to sudden noise than to someone moving in quietly. This drew in response a question of how I knew so much about the behaviour of bees, and I advised them that I had picked up the knowledge from Sally – they were, after all, her bees, from her hive.
The officers looked at each other and then at me. They advised me that the apiarist had informed them that all the hives were full and content. I looked blankly at them, to which they retorted, with a level of sarcasm, that if I did know anything about bees, as I said, I would know that a swarm would not return to a vacated hive. They could therefore only conclude that I had exaggerated the number of bees I had seen, as Greg Dixon, now in a coma, had indeed fallen into anaphylactic shock, caused by the stings of the small amount of insects seen lying dead on the floor by his face. I wanted to argue my case, that I knew what I had seen, but before I spoke, I was advised there would be no further questions and I was free to go. It felt like such an anticlimax, but I knew I shouldn’t argue; I should simply leave.
I stood up and paused, weighing up whether I should ask a question, if I should disclose the detail that I had held for over a week in my mind.
The two men in front noticed my hesitance to leave.
‘Yes? Was there something else?’ the main interviewer asked me.
‘I have some information,’ I offered.
‘Information? What about?’
‘It’s about Elliot Wallace,’ I added, standing my ground.
The police officers looked at each other, then up at me.
‘Elliot Wallace?’
I nodded slowly, wondering if I was going to regret my statement.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Dungiven,’ the second interviewer said. PC Osborne could you get us some drinks?’ he added to the uniformed office by the door.
‘Is tea okay for you, Mr Dungiven?’ he said, looking at me.
Chapter 18
Home Truths in a True Home
Mary looked lost. I knew she was riding that journey of emotion that grief forces you to endure. The infrequent moments when a small well of euphoria teases you that everything will be fine, that everything will be all right, only to be repeatedly replaced by the crashing enormity of loss that draws your breath away.
It was the morning of Clifford’s funeral and the first time I had seen Mary in over a week. A fine surrogate son I was, I thought to myself. I had called her after my time in the police station to see how she was coping, to check the time of the funeral and to volunteer for whatever still needed to be arranged. But she had performed all the tasks herself, said it had helped her to keep busy. She mentioned the funeral director was a friend of Clifford’s – everyone was a friend of Clifford’s – and he had made it as easy as it could possibly be for her. She did ask me to perform one task, one that I was pleased to do. Mary wanted me to arrange the pallbearers for the coffin.
‘It is what Clifford would have wanted,’ she said. But she looked lost.
Last night, I had paid my respects to Clifford in the chapel of rest. He didn’t look like Clifford lying there; he didn’t look like he was asleep, he looked like a waxwork caricature. He looked hollow-cheeked, with slightly protruding front teeth; he had clean, clipped, sparkling and polished fingernails, no longer ingrained with grime and dirt from tinkering with his farm machinery. He was gone. As I gazed at the corpse in the open coffin, unsure of what to feel, the image of him happily jumping and laughing with my dear Rebecca on an inflatable came bouncing into my mind, and with it, drew a smile tight across my face. Ignatius McKenzie, in his consulting room overlooking the mature garden, had planted an image in me that I now realised would be replayed over and over, and a comfort to me at times I required it.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 26