Crime in the Community

by Cecilia Peartree

  Chapter 18 Yet more toast under the bridge

  Fundraising. They should remove the word 'fun' from it, thought Christopher gloomily as he stood by the tombola stall. So far he had sold three tickets to people who had grumbled regardless of whether they won a prize or not; he had already developed a hatred of people in general, and particularly people en masse such as you got when you organised a fund-raising table sale in aid of the Village Hall Restoration Fund (no snazzy acronyms this time). Of course, the amount of money they were likely to raise from this event was nothing, a drop in the ocean. They just had to do it to prove they were serious so that the Council and other donors would provide them with the real money that would be necessary for the project.

  Christopher was surprised at how quickly PLIF had managed to organise even this tinpot event, held in the Scout Hut - a venue which didn't even live up to the level of comfort implied by its name. In his previous experience of committees, their main purpose was to debate endlessly what they were for, how they could get money from the national and local authorities to carry on with what they were doing, and who they could rope in as treasurer. But now that Amaryllis had been accepted as a bona fide member of the PLIF steering group, she seemed to have inspired them. And then there were Maisie Sue and her quilting ‘girls’. Perhaps all the original PLIF stalwarts had been waiting for was a project to work on. Or perhaps they had needed Amaryllis or another outsider as a catalyst.

  One thing he had never expected to see was Jock McLean dressed up as Santa Claus. Christopher had tried hard to dissuade him from this course of action.

  ‘It’s nowhere near Christmas! And I thought you didn’t want to have any more to do with children.’

  ‘I’m not entirely without Christmas spirit,’ Jock had said, his words flying in the face of all available evidence. ‘And people expect to see Santa Claus at this kind of thing.’

  ‘But not in the middle of July!’

  Sweltering in his fleecy suit and false beard, Jock was now dishing out presents to children in an improvised grotto constructed from a tent he had borrowed from the Scouts and decorated with cotton-wool balls.

  Meanwhile Mrs Stevenson had produced a cornucopia of home-baking and presided, woolly-hatted, over her own stall. Apparently Big Dave had been up till all hours the night before icing the fairy cakes. In the corner Amaryllis ran a game involving yellow plastic ducks, an old tin bath and a couple of fishing rods.

  Two PLIF steering group members were missing for reasons beyond anybody’s control.

  Darren had come along faithfully to all the meetings and had thrown himself into organising this event. It was just a pity that he had been arrested the day before, caught in the act of stealing three tins of Quality Street to give as raffle prizes. Christopher recalled that they had all been pleased when Darren had offered to get hold of prizes, and had taken it as a sign that his involvement in the steering group had been really beneficial.

  Young Dave had sent word a couple of weeks before that he was leaving the group on the pretext of being overworked and not having time for it any more. One school of thought believed it was because he had been miffed about missing out on the excitement of the car chase and Christopher's rescue. Mrs Stevenson said she had heard at the paper shop that Dave was helping police with their enquiries into something to do with his mother-in-law’s pension. Christopher and Amaryllis kept their inside knowledge to themselves.

  Maisie Sue’s quilting group, on the other hand, had taken over three tables, now swathed in various printed fabrics which made Christopher dizzy with their patterns – small sprigs of blossom, tiny checks, spots and stripes vied with fluffy kittens for predominance. They always had plenty of customers so Maisie Sue hadn’t had time to come and bother him, fortunately. He didn’t have the energy to speak to her today.

  But just as the thought entered his head, she called after him, ‘Christopher, come and meet Pearson!’

  A tall man unfolded himself from a chair behind one of the quilt tables and came round to loom over Christopher, who said, ‘I think we’ve met.’

  Maisie Sue frowned. ‘How can that be? I don’t remember introducing you.’

  ‘I didn’t know who he was then,’ said Christopher. He met the tall American’s impassive expression with a similar one of his own. Two could play at poker. It wasn’t up to him to spread doom, gloom and distrust around, especially at a Christmas Fair. It wouldn’t be in the right spirit at all to break the news to Maisie Sue that not only had Pearson done something without asking her permission first, but that he had been acting as an agent of the U.S. government at the time and had since been reprimanded by the British authorities for attempting to frame Christopher as a terrorist and had been lucky not to be deported from the country. Only the fact that on another occasion he had saved Christopher’s life had mitigated this. According to Amaryllis, Pearson’s beige raincoat was on a very shoogly peg at the CIA.

  ‘We met over a fish supper,’ said Christopher innocently.

  ‘That’s very naughty, Pearson!’ Maisie Sue scolded him. ‘You know you’re supposed to be keeping your cholesterol under control.’

  If only she knew, thought Christopher, watching as Pearson pretended to look shame-faced. Cholesterol is the least of his worries. But it wasn’t up to Christopher to enlighten her about the many lives of Pearson McPherson. He gave Pearson a manly curt nod and moved on.

  Others in the town who were renowned for their involvement in various committees, community councils and church-based clubs, had rallied round and helped with the table sale; it looked as if after a shaky start the Village Hall Restoration Project did indeed have support from many sectors of Pitkirtly life. Although Christopher had been doubtful about its viability, he had to admit to having a nice warm glow at the thought of the valuable contribution he had made to such a worthy and - it now seemed - popular local cause.

  'Ho ho ho!' went Jock McLean, apparently enjoying himself to the full.

  '... from my granny's own recipe.... yes, butter not margarine,' said Mrs Stevenson, handing over another batch of luridly decorated small cakes.

  'No - hold it this way!' said Amaryllis to a small child. 'Then you come at the duck like this - look - well done!'

  Christopher smiled around at everyone.

  'Wow! - a book on napkin folding - just what I've always wanted!' said the next person to win a tombola prize.

  It was all coming together. The local councillor had been round, talked about ‘evidence of community involvement’, refused to buy a tombola ticket, declined politely to sample a fairy cake, wouldn't take part in the duck game, and glared at Santa Claus. It was all going according to plan. Christopher was sorry he had ever had doubts about any of it.

  The warm glow lasted until they counted the profits at the end of the morning. All that work, and they had made exactly £63.26 (and an outdated halfpenny piece someone had put in the 'donations to the restoration fund' box).

  'That isn't going to put many slates on the roof,' said Jock McLean gloomily, sitting at the end of the table in the Scout Hut kitchen, still wearing his Santa hat and red robes, but having now reverted to his normal lugubrious expression. 'It's not going to impress funding organisations either, is it?'

  ''It's better than nothing,' said Christopher, who felt bound to see things in a positive light to encourage the rest of the steering group and to support Amaryllis now that he knew this was her pet project. 'At least we've made a start on it.'

  'But how many years will it take to raise the money at this rate?' said Jock, determined to be miserable: being Santa Claus had probably used up his entire jollity supply for at least a year.

  'About two hundred,' guffawed Big Dave. 'And by that time the cost'll have gone up anyway!... Don't be such a misery, man! We're just doing this to show the council we're serious - isn't that right, Amaryllis?'

  'That's the idea,' said Amaryllis.

  'I wish we could go back to the way things were,' grumbled Jock. 'Goi
ng to the Queen of Scots for meetings... working through the agenda... none of this project stuff.'

  ‘Hi there, guys!’ cried Steve Paxman, bounding exuberantly into the kitchen like a semi-trained golden retriever. ‘How’s it going?’

  His eyes gleamed, his bald head shone – Christopher was quite disappointed not to see a wet nose and wagging tail as well.

  ‘You’re OK,’ he said.

  ‘Never been better,’ said Steve. ‘You know what? Being away from things for a while – having time to think – it was the best thing that could have happened.’

  Christopher marveled at the man’s insouciance. He had been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake. He had been kept locked up against his will, admittedly only in a government-sponsored safe house, but surely he must have suffered some sort of trauma or at least panic or, at the very least, resentment.

  ‘I can’t remember who it was who once said everyone should be imprisoned at least once in their life,’ Steve continued. ‘But he certainly got that spot-on.’

  Christopher wasn’t at all sure Steve had the right end of the stick about that, but he kept quiet.

  ‘So you’re fine?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve got something to tell you all. I think you’re going to be as excited as I am.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ said Jock McLean. He looked gloomier than ever.

  ‘I had time to re-consider the community centre plan at length,’ said Steve, ignoring Jock’s input as usual.

  Amaryllis looked up; Christopher saw a frown developing on her face.

  ‘And it struck me,’ said Steve, ‘that community centres are a bit – well, last century. Last millennium. What we in the council want to encourage at this moment is learning. Learning for all ages. Learning and culture. Have you read our document Re-focussing the Cultural Commitment?’ He glanced at the expressions on faces round the table as if searching for a sign that any of them had heard of it.

  ‘Sounds like a good read,’ said Big Dave politely.

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Do you want us to re-build the village hall as an opera house? Is that it? Or – ‘

  ‘We’d like to build on to the existing Pitkirtly library building and turn it into a cultural centre instead,’ said Steve Paxman very quickly, before she could finish. He was brave as well as insouciant, Christopher reflected. He might have been well advised to leave the room immediately after speaking. Instead he stood his ground and faced Amaryllis as she got to her feet, fists clenched.

  ‘So you’re going back on your promise to help with the village hall?’ she said.

  ‘Not going back on it as such,’ said Steve. ‘Your village hall project has been a valuable stepping-stone to this much bigger, higher profile proposal, which I think you’ll find is a much better fit to what this town needs.’

  ‘You are going back on it. Do you think you can just divert everything to your own plans? What are you going to do with the hall? Let it fall down? Demolish it and sell the land for building?’

  It seemed to Christopher that Amaryllis was about to leap across the table at Steve Paxman and attack him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back down to sit next to him. She resisted for a moment – he could feel hard muscle under his hand – and then sat. He kept his hand on her arm just in case. It was up to him. He said quietly to Steve,

  ‘I don’t think the Council can do any of these things. In case you were forgetting, the hall and the land belong to the people of the town. It will be up to them to decide.’

  Steve shrugged his shoulders. ‘The lawyers can see to that.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to fall back on lawyers….,’ said Jock.

  ‘You’ll have a fight on your hands,’ said Amaryllis. Christopher waited anxiously, but she restrained herself. Steve Paxman waited for a moment, then added in the same airy tone,

  ‘Oh – and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve talked the police into letting young Darren out of their cells.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ growled Jock.

  ‘Yes,’ Steve continued, ‘I gave him a hand with his bail. I’m sure we can sort out this misunderstanding. Darren’s got a great future ahead of him and I’m going to make sure nothing gets in the way of it.’

  ‘So you’re keeping an eye on him?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Of course, of course, part of the bail conditions.’

  ‘So where is he then?’ said Jock with an evil smirk.

  Steve’s smug expression wavered for a moment. He glanced round. ‘He’s about somewhere… Look, over there!’

  They swivelled in their chairs to follow the direction of Steve’s gaze. Darren stood in the doorway of the Scout hut. Christopher thought he appeared furtive, but immediately told himself off for being prejudiced.

  ‘Come on in, Darren!’ called Steve. Darren still hesitated on the threshold. ‘I’d better go and get him home. He’s still very embarrassed about the Quality Street. But I know you guys will give him another chance.’

  ‘No chance,’ Jock muttered as Steve hurried away.

  Amaryllis sniffed the air.

  ‘Does anyone else smell petrol?’ she asked.

  ‘It’ll be from Paxman’s motorbike,’ said Jock. ‘The stench follows him everywhere. He pollutes the air wherever he goes.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Amaryllis. ‘He takes people’s ideas and twists them out of shape and calls them his own.’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

  ‘Never mind, dear,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘We’ll be fine as long as we stick together.’

  Christopher was ashamed that the idea of the Cultural Centre actually appealed to him. There might even be a job for him there, although of course he shouldn’t even be thinking like that. Certainly it would have more to offer him than a community centre. Maybe they could compromise – it might be possible to relocate the library and extend the village hall to provide something similar…

  He noticed Marina and Faisal at the other end of the table, yawning. They had been very good up to now, helping here and there as the mood took them, sometimes with the duck game, sometimes with the Christmas grotto, where they had been particularly assiduous at retrieving baubles knocked off the tree by Jock's sudden hat and beard movements. He felt sorry for them, having to accompany him almost everywhere like a kind of ceremonial escort. Caroline was still in hospital, although there was talk from time to time of discharging her. He looked forward to her return and dreaded it; smaller and more vulnerable in the hospital bed, she wasn't such a scary figure as she had been in the house, and he felt sorry for her as he would have for a trapped animal, but he was only too aware that she might well revert to her old self, or worse, at any moment once she was back in familiar surroundings. He had refused an offer of counselling for himself. He didn't have time to wallow in that kind of self-pity. He would just have to get on with whatever life threw at him. Being abducted and threatened with death had made a difference to his attitude in that respect.

  'OK, kids, time to go home for tea,' he said.

  'Don't mind if I do!' said Mrs Stevenson brightly.

  Big Dave laughed and said to her, 'You're not a kid, Jemima!'

  Christopher realised that he felt an unwilling affection for all of them, even Jock McLean.

  'You can all come to tea any time you like,' he said expansively, instantly regretting it. Fortunately none of them took him up on the offer apart from Amaryllis, who had planned to come with them anyway.

  'We'll just leave you and Amaryllis to it,' said Big Dave.

  The four of them walked along the road. The Scout Hut was in the higher part of the town, on a level with Christopher's house but in a less salubrious neighbourhood, with council and ex-council flats, and a handful of old workmen's cottages left over from the railway-building era. The sort of neighbourhood from which the clientele for youth clubs might come. Jock McLean had already pointed out that if the hall was going to be turned over to youth clubs then there
was little point in renovating it, since the youths involved would almost certainly demolish it again within weeks, if not days. The others had made a silent pact to ignore him and to try and remain positive regardless of his doom-mongering. Sometimes it was difficult though.

  When they heard the first fire-engine siren in the distance, Christopher automatically thought it must be heading for this part of town. He imagined either someone coming in drunk, starting a pan of chips and then falling asleep, or kids playing around by the recycling bins near the football pitch and setting fire to them just for the hell of it.

  'Any news from Iran?' he said absent-mindedly to Amaryllis.

  'Oh, yes, I forgot to mention it,' she said. 'They've caught your brother-in-law and locked him up. No need for any of us to re-locate after all.'

  'You forgot to mention it?' said Christopher. 'You knew I was worried sick about having to move! And about not moving in time and getting kidnapped again by more goons. Why didn't you tell me?'

  'I was joking about forgetting to mention it,' she said. 'I only heard this afternoon on my mobile. While Faisal and Marina were looking after the ducks.'

  He remembered seeing her leave the Scout Hut for a few minutes; she must have disguised her feelings well, for he didn't think she had looked any different when she got back. But then, he wasn't good at interpreting the subtleties of people's expressions.

  They saw the first fire-engine a few hundred yards away, turning down towards the harbour; a second followed it soon afterwards.

  'Where are they going?' said Faisal, who had been kicking a large rusty can he had found in the gutter. Christopher worried that he would get rust on his trainers, but Amaryllis homed in on the can and grabbed it from under the boy’s feet.

  'The Elgin Arms?' suggested Christopher. 'Don't worry, at least they're going away from our house.'

  ‘It wasn't Paxman’s bike,’ Amaryllis muttered before taking to her heels and running on ahead. Alarmed, Marina and Faisal stared after her.

  'Where's she going?' said Marina. 'Isn't she coming home for tea after all?'

  'Her flat's down that way,' Christopher remembered suddenly. 'She's probably gone to see if it's all right.'

  'We'd better go with her,' said Marina, and started to run.

  'Wait for me!' called Faisal.

  'No!' shouted Christopher. 'We'll only get in the way!'

  He followed them, at the more sedate pace dictated by his years and level of fitness.

  As they turned the corner to go down towards the river front, there was a smell of smoke and an ominous flickering light somewhere further down the road. As they approached the corner of Merchantman Wynd, they saw the blue lights of the fire engines and, beyond them, yellow and red flames within a grey plume of smoke.

  Amaryllis stood by the fire engine, gazing into the flames. A fireman tried to move her back but she didn't budge.

  'Stay here,' Christopher warned the children. He advanced towards Amaryllis.

  'Not so fast, sir,' said a policeman who loomed out of the smoke as it swirled round the place where the village hall had been. 'You can't go any closer than this. We'd prefer it if you moved along and let us get on with things here.'

  'I just wanted to try and get this lady out of the way,' said Christopher. 'She's a friend of mine.'

  Amaryllis turned and waved the petrol can at the policeman.

  ‘Arson! That’s what it is. You need to take this away and have it fingerprinted.’

  He turned away, obviously reluctant to tangle with somebody in Amaryllis’s mental state.

  ‘You’ll find the prints on file!’ she shouted after him. ‘There shouldn’t be any problem matching them.’

  ‘Just get her out of the way,’ a fireman said to Christopher. ‘We can’t let her stand this close. She’s putting herself and others in danger.’

  Amaryllis wasn't listening to anything or anyone, but eventually Christopher put his arm round her shoulders and she at last consented to being led away to safety. By this time the police had got organised and were keeping all the onlookers out of Merchantman Wynd itself. The few residents who had not come out of their flats to see what was going on had been forcibly evacuated, and were milling around at the end of the road, a few of them grumbling away and others apparently enjoying the interruption to normal life.

  'They should have knocked it down years ago,' was one overheard comment but on the other hand,

  'They should have done something with it,' was another.

  Christopher wondered who these people thought 'they' were. Amaryllis still clutched the petrol can, since nobody had agreed to take it from her as evidence.

  ‘It was Darren,’ she said. ‘Never mind Paxman’s bike – the smell of petrol wasn’t there until Darren appeared.’

  Christopher stopped in his tracks. A random memory had bobbed up to the surface of his mind and was treading water there while waving to attract his attention.

  ‘Darren and Young Dave!’ he said. ‘I saw Young Dave handing over a package to Darren the other day – how much do you bet it was an advance on his wages for torching this place?... Young Dave’s always said he thought the site should be redeveloped. He’s maybe got a finger in that pie too.’

  ‘He’s got a lot of pies on his plate,’ said Amaryllis, and suddenly shivered.

  Christopher took this as a sign to lead her away up the road, followed by a subdued Marina and Faisal. Amaryllis wasn't crying, but he sensed that this might be as near as she ever came to it.

  At home Amaryllis got the benefit of the routine they had developed for Christopher himself: the cosy blanket, the toast, the absorption of someone into the family circle while allowing them time to come to terms with the trauma. Christopher hoped he wasn't becoming blasé about this kind of thing. On the other hand, this time it was somebody else's trauma and not his. That made all the difference.

  More time, more toast. He sat up with Amaryllis until she dropped off to sleep. Marina and Faisal had gone upstairs and put themselves to bed long before then. There was no mention of the fire on the radio news - just another little local issue, buried under the massive messy heaps of national and international news.

  In the morning, she had gone. For a few minutes Christopher panicked. What if she had 'done something stupid' in the light of this latest incident? But that was just a momentary thought; reason told him that her reaction would be more likely to be something to do with revenge than self-harm. And none of this nonsense about revenge being a dish best served cold, either. Amaryllis's revenge would be swift, sudden, accurate, and as near the heat of the moment as she could manage.

  He made his way to the place where he knew she would go.

  The fire was out, and everything was cold. She stood by an old tree; the branches nearest the site of the building were scorched, but the tree itself didn't seem to have suffered irreversible damage.

  'My father's legacy,' she said, and sniffed. He still didn't think she was crying though.

  'Nothing lasts forever,' he said, not really even trying to console her but just feeling that he had to say something.

  'That doesn't help,' she said.

  After a while she turned away from the blackened ruins and started to walk away.

  'What are we going to do now?' she said.

  'That was my question!' he countered, starting to smile. He saw the faint ghost of a reflection of his smile in her eyes.

  They turned the corner and walked on up the road together.

  ###

  Cecilia Peartree is a pen name. The author lives in Edinburgh, where she works in an art gallery by day and helps with community theatre by night, which doesn’t always leave much time to work on her mystery, historical and sci-fi novels.

  Read her blog and see some of her elephants at https://ceciliapeartree.wordpress.com.

 
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