Victims

by Richardson,Robert

  ‘I told you, he’s going back to town tomorrow evening. And I want it to be in my bed this time. There’s no problem, you can …’ Her eyes flickered past him. ‘Bless you; that looks magic.’

  Fay was behind Jowett, holding two plastic glasses of iced mineral water.

  ‘You remember Randall, don’t you?’ Joyce said.

  ‘Of course.’ Fay handed Joyce her glass. ‘Has living in Finch driven you mad yet?’

  ‘No. I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘And how’s the book? You did say you were writing one, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes … It’s OK.’

  ‘Is this a research trip?’ Fay gestured at people passing them.

  ‘Are we all going to end up as characters? If we are, I demand to be the heroine.’

  ‘It’s not that sort of book … Where can I get one of those?’

  ‘Beer tent. If you’re quick, you’ll beat the crush.’

  There was no logic in Joyce’s sudden desire to let Fay know about Jowett as he left them, but a need to share it with her, to invite envy. Her voice dropped and she stepped closer.

  ‘For God’s sake don’t scream in disbelief, but there’s something I want to tell you.’

  ‘You’re screwing him?’ Fay blandly sipped her drink.

  Denied her drama, Joyce was dismayed. ‘Christ, is it that obvious?’

  ‘No, or I’d have seen it sooner. But you’d better learn to control yourself in public, darling. When I came back you were looking as if you wanted to eat him. How long?’

  ‘Obviously not very.’ Joyce sounded rueful. ‘It’s happened indecently quickly.’

  ‘Well, you had to work quickly. He won’t be here for long.’

  ‘You’re not shocked?’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, no. I’ve been waiting for something like this for a long time. You’ll have a summer to remember when you’re old. If I were married to Ralph, I’d have done it years ago. Which of you started it?’

  Joyce sighed. ‘Me … and I’ve never been here before. Now I can’t bloody think straight.’

  Fay kissed her cheek. ‘I like your taste. I said he was dishy, and you deserve it, so enjoy. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Very little. He hardly talks about himself. He works in a bank, his parents are both dead, he’s got a flat in the Barbican, went to Cambridge, speaks good French. That’s about it.’

  ‘Girlfriends?’

  ‘There must have been, but that’s never mentioned.’

  Fay shrugged. ‘Then gather ye rosebuds … How long before he leaves?’

  ‘Another two weeks … but I don’t want him to.’

  Fay frowned. ‘You do realize it’s going to run its course, don’t you? I mean, he’s definitely tall, dark and have some, but don’t start dreaming. How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’ Joyce looked uncomfortable. ‘It terrifies me that I could just about be his mother.’

  ‘Only if you’d started awfully young.’ Fay squeezed her hand. ‘Just keep your head … He’s coming back.’

  Joyce hid her face in her glass, telling herself to keep control, as four small knights appeared to escort her.

  ‘I’m on parade,’ she told Jowett, then turned to Fay. ‘Look, Randall doesn’t know anyone. Can you stay with him for a while?’

  ‘Of course. Oliver’s around somewhere. We’ll take care of him.’

  Jowett took Joyce’s glass as she left them, back in character, smiling, bowing graciously, accepting a posy from a child as she walked among the crowds.

  ‘What’s this chase thing?’ Jowett asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’ Fay glanced at her watch. ‘It’s in about half an hour. Let’s find my husband.’

  The meadow was now filled with noise: the wheezing music of a steam organ; the cues of children; the clanging bell of a town crier calling attractions. Jowett felt isolated, unrecognized evil dressed like any other man … and with a woman in the meadow who desired him. Coming back to Finch had brought more confusion and new guilt forged out of betrayal and lies. He found Oliver’s attentions difficult, his courteous questions like an oblique interrogation in which he might fatally reveal something. Fay he couldn’t understand; her smiles were too warm for a stranger. She seemed determined to make him part of a place in which he did not belong …

  ‘Trevor! Janet! How lovely to see you.’ She embraced the woman and held her hand out to the man in simultaneous greeting.

  Jowett felt an inexplicable tension streak through him, as though he should recognize these people.

  ‘This is Randall, who’s staying at Joyce’s cottage, and we’re looking after him in case he gets lost.’ Fay turned to Jowett. ‘Trevor and Janet Godwin … and Tim and Matt.’ She grimaced as the boys joined them. ‘Will you two ever stop growing?’

  The name brought back the face, last seen years ago on television, much younger than his father’s, but formed from the same mould. All four were looking at him enquiringly as Trevor held out his hand.

  ‘Hello. Nice to meet you.’

  Unable to speak, Jowett touched the flesh of flesh he had watched die, unaware, greeting him.

  ‘And this is … I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘Oh, this is Chris.’ Janet Godwin was apologetic. ‘Chris Sheaffer. She’s just moved into Captain Woodville’s old house on The Street.’

  ‘I thought Tradewinds was falling down,’ Fay said. ‘Or do I mean sinking?’

  ‘That’s why I got it cheap,’ Sheaffer replied. ‘I’m spending my holidays fixing it up.’

  ‘You should apply for a grant or something. I don’t know if —’ Fay broke off and Jowett flinched as the strident blast of a hunting horn ripped through the air. ‘It’s the chase! Come on.’

  Mind in torment, Jowett was taken with them all to join the circle of spectators gathered round the rim of the meadow’s bowl. At its deepest point stood what looked like a crude square tent, its sides painted to resemble blackened wattle and daub, a dark, menacing place in the cup of bright green. A ragged arc of children had formed in front of it, with the town crier leading them. He rang his bell and soprano voices rose in chorus.

  ‘Who lives in this house?’

  They all took one step of fearful excitement forwards, and the chant was repeated, louder.

  ‘Who lives in this house?’

  A second pace and again the shouted question, now shot through with gleeful terror.

  ‘Who lives in this house?’

  Long familiar with the ritual, the chattering crowd had gone quiet and the third shout was followed by expectant silence. Then one side of the tent burst open and a huge figure appeared, swine-headed and swathed in flapping folds, arms raised as it bellowed the reply.

  ‘THE PEGMAN!’

  With shrieks and squeals the children scattered as the Pegman began his lumbering, frantic pursuit, stumbling as he nearly caught a victim, then turning with a roar to pursue another, snarling at cardboard knights who challenged like darting hornets. The crowd booed as he knocked one down, then cheered as another thrust a toy sword into him. Everyone had become part of the chase that would end in white magic.

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere, haven’t I?’

  Jowett stared at Tim Godwin’s question, a voice from reality. ‘No. I’ve never been here before.’

  ‘I’ve still seen you.’ The repetition was impatient, as though irritated at being contradicted. ‘And it was round here … Hang on! Have you got an MGF? Bright red one.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s it. You were driving through the village. Christ, you lucky bastard. What does it do? You know, how fast?’

  ‘Top speed’s a hundred and thirty. I’ve never done it though.’

  ‘Shit, I would have.’ He took hold of Jowett’s arm. ‘We can do it now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s a couple of straight stretches of road near here. Come on. Anything’s better than this.’

  Around them the cr
owd erupted in cheers as the Lady Marion appeared and began to cast her spell. The Pegman danced and protested in fear, then fell and lay on his back with his arms and legs in the air. Jowett found he was unable to resist Tim pulling him away.

  ‘Nobody’ll miss us.’ It was more command than assurance.

  Outside the field Finch felt deserted, empty and detached from the meadow and its activity. The noise faded as they walked back to the church and turned towards the cottage.

  ‘It’s a family thing going to this Pegman bollocks. My grandfather organized it for years and we’re still expected to be there.’

  Jowett didn’t look at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You would if you came from Finch. Everyone knows us … Haven’t you ever heard about the murders?’

  ‘No … not really. But there was a plaque in the church and … someone told me … I’m sorry.’

  ‘You can’t do anything about it … Hey, look at that.’ He walked ahead as they reached the cottage. The car’s hood was down and he reached inside to feel the six-spoked steering wheel. ‘This is seriously cool. How much was it? Twenty grand?’

  ‘Just under eighteen.’

  ‘Jesus, I’ve got to have one of these … Can I drive it?’

  ‘It’s only insured for me.’

  ‘Balls … OK, I wouldn’t risk it if it was mine. Come on.’ He climbed in the passenger side. ‘Turn right out of here then left at the T-junction. There’s more than a mile of straight after that.’

  The engine snarled awake, then hummed as Jowett reversed out of the cottage entrance. He was conscious of Godwin’s bulk filling the seat behind him, legs too long for the foot well, fingers covetously stroking the paintwork of the door. There was a sense that what was happening belonged in a fantasy as dark and unbelievable as the Pegman’s story. But this was what he’d wanted; to face those he had hurt and to find out if it would help him. He turned at the junction, into where the road ran arrow-straight ahead.

  ‘Go for it,’ Godwin urged, and was thrown back into his seat as Jowett dropped a gear and accelerated. ‘Yeah! This is incredible!’

  The needle arced past one hundred as Jowett moved up to fifth and throttled again, sun-heated air like a blast from a furnace. Above the engine’s scream, Godwin was shouting the speed.

  ‘Hundred and ten … fifteen … twenty … twenty-six … go on! Why the hell are you … Shit.’ The needle dropped back as the road ahead curved and Jowett braked. ‘Turn round and really push it this time.’

  They topped one hundred and thirty on the second run, but Godwin insisted on doing it twice more before they began to return.

  ‘Jesus, that was incredible.’ He turned to Jowett, connected by a shared experience. ‘What are you doing in a shithole like Finch?’

  ‘No reason … It was just somewhere quiet. Away from London.’

  ‘Too bloody quiet … Hey, what are you doing tonight?’

  ‘There’s the pig roast.’

  ‘Christ, I’d forgotten that. I’ll have to put in an appearance … but we could leave early. There’s a great pub in Ash Sounder. Real ale and you should see the tits on the barmaid. With a car like this we could pull anything we wanted … and we could take them back to your cottage. How about it? Yeah?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Godwin looked uncomprehending. ‘You’re not bent, are you? You’re wasting your time with me if you are.’

  ‘No, I just don’t … I’ve got things to do afterwards … work.’

  ‘On a Saturday night? You’re very sad. You can’t mean it.’

  ‘It’s important … The office sent me some papers.’

  ‘Guys like you are dead by the time they’re thirty. OK, that’s your problem. Any chance of another run out sometime? Or have you got a schedule?’ The question was flecked with sarcasm.

  ‘No, I’ve just got to get this thing cleared for the morning.’

  ‘Good. Tell you what, do me a favour. Come up to the farm next week. Tuesday afternoon, OK? I want my old man to see this. I’m trying to talk him into buying me one. We live at a place called Tannerslade. Just follow the road, opposite the church, signposted to Dencom Water. You can’t miss it. On your right. Yeah?’

  ‘OK.’ As he turned into the cottage drive Jowett knew he would need time to understand for himself why he had immediately agreed. ‘Look, I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls. I’ll follow you in a few minutes.’

  Godwin grinned. ‘You’re a workaholic … but it’s a great car. See you.’

  *

  Faintly, Jowett could hear the laughter and noise that filled Pegman meadow, the multitude of voices a muffled, chattering sea unseen beyond a headland. Less than half a mile away it inhabited another, somehow brighter, place, and the lonely silence in which he stood was alien to it. He was the outsider at the feast; heads turned sharply as he arrived, enquiring and guarded. We’re all friends here … but who are you? Are you one we should welcome or fear?

  He did not want to go back, but if he didn’t she would wonder what had happened to him. And now he’d met them there, the son and the grandsons, made contact with one of them. That was why he’d come to Finch, to touch and discover what touching brought. Hiding had never been the answer.

  Like virtually all of Finch that afternoon, the sunlit road up the hill from the cottage was empty as Jowett walked like a dark pilgrim towards the celebration place where the children had been saved.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I don’t know! One minute he was standing next to me, then he vanished.’ Fay took hold of Joyce’s hand as her eyes scanned the crowds in agitation. ‘Calm down. He hasn’t run off with anyone.’

  ‘But where would he go? What’s happened?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Fay told her sternly. ‘Keep this up and you may as well ask Jerry to put out an announcement over the loudspeaker to let everyone know you’ve got a thing going with him. He’ll be back.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Fay’s grip tightened. ‘He’s taken a couple of girls back to the cottage — does that make you feel better? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I …’ Joyce’s teeth pressed against her lower lip. ‘All right. Let’s go and … Oh, hello.’

  A couple with a little girl had walked up to them, the child sucking her thumb for reassurance, gazing wide-eyed at the fairy-tale figure from the safety of her father’s arms.

  ‘Here you are,’ the mother said. ‘This is Lady Marion. You wanted to meet her.’ The child buried her face in her father’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Joyce coaxed and smiled at the shaking averted head. ‘I’ve seen you at church, haven’t I? Did you boo the Pegman? When you’re bigger, you can be in the chase. It’s great fun.’

  Small eyes peeped hesitantly, responding to her kindness but still unsure.

  ‘Would you like to try my hat on?’ Joyce’s hair sprang loose as she lifted it off. ‘Look, it’s the same colour as your dress.’

  ‘Go on, Melanie,’ her father urged. Tiny fingers reached cautiously as the mother raised a camera …

  He was back, standing only yards away. It was all right, he’d not … Joyce was unable to comprehend her reaction. The child was still waiting, but Joyce momentarily froze, nothing else existing except the fact that she could see Jowett. He was talking to a woman she didn’t recognize. A young woman, gleaming waterfall of blond hair, tapered jeans, shirt knotted above her waist … sickeningly beautiful.

  ‘T’ank you.’ The offered gift withheld, the child seemed to feel the good word was needed to deserve it.

  Joyce stared, as though aware of her for the first time, then recovered. ‘That’s right. Here, I’ll put it on for you.’ Why did her voice seem to be coming from somewhere else? ‘There … You can keep it.’

  ‘Oh, Melanie, aren’t you lucky?’ The mother stopped Joyce as she turned to go. ‘Please let me take a photograph.’

  ‘Of course
.’ Joyce stood by the child, holding the hat in place. ‘Take care of it. It’s magic.’

  The camera clicked, and Fay’s lips pursed as she saw how quickly Joyce left them and joined Jowett.

  ‘Hello. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Out in the car. That chap … Mr Godwin’s son … asked if I’d take him for a run.’

  ‘Tim? You shouldn’t have gone along with it. He gets every damned thing he wants as it is … I’m sorry. Who’s your friend?’ The ice maiden with bright blue eyes and a mouth like —

  ‘Oh … er … Chris. She’s just moved into Finch.’

  ‘We’ll probably meet sometime, then. Would you excuse us a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sheaffer registered the hand that grasped Jowett’s, leading him off like a child, then walked away.

  ‘And when did you run into Miss Scandinavia?’ Snapped out the moment there was no one near enough to hear, there was accusation and fear in Joyce’s question.

  ‘What? While you were doing the chase. I met her with Fay. Why?’

  ‘Did she come with you and Tim in the car?’

  ‘No. I met her again when I got back. We were just talking. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I thought … Christ, I don’t know what I thought.’ Joyce felt exposed, unable to understand her anger towards him. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t very often. But I’d like one now.’

  ‘I didn’t bring any with me.’

  ‘Terrific … all right, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine … forget it. I’m just pissed off with all this nonsense and this dress is bloody uncomfortable.’

  ‘Why don’t you take it off?’

  ‘Here?’ It was an opening to restore something that her behaviour was damaging. ‘Darling, we don’t want to frighten the horses.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  She had to force herself not to touch him. ‘I know you didn’t. Anyway, it’s nearly over. I can go home and … I didn’t mean to get mad at you, it was just … You are coming to the pig roast, aren’t you? Fay and Oliver will be here again, so you’ll have someone to talk to apart from me.’