by Liz Evans
‘So he bunked off National Service?’
‘Hid out whenever they came looking for him. Used to be exciting when I was a kid. A bit of a game, like. Dad hiding and everyone swearing blind we’d not seen him.’
Given the limited number of possible hiding places and the fact Atch must presumably have had to work outside on the farm, I found it hard to believe the local coppers hadn’t managed just a glimpse over the years.
‘Of course they did,’ Harry laughed. ‘The local sergeant was in the same darts team as my grandad. But it was a game; everyone understood the rules. If they weren’t looking officially, they didn’t see him. And when they got an official request to investigate—’
‘They tipped you off beforehand and Daddy made himself scarce?’
‘That’s the idea.’ Levering back his chair, he opened the window, and repeated the earlier whistled signal. ‘Dad! You out there?’
He tilted his head as he listened. I found myself doing the same. We both heard the soft click of a door opening at the back of the house and the shuffle of footsteps somewhere.
Satisfied, Harry returned to the table. ‘They gave up looking years back. I reckon Dad’s records just got lost somewhere. Problem is, these last few years he forgets things that happened this morning, but fifty years ago is like yesterday. He thinks they’re out to catch him. Anyone in a uniform sets him off.’
‘Must be fun for the postman. Have they issued him with a bullet-proof vest?’
‘I told you, this was a one-off. He just hides normally. Hello, Dad. Come and have your toast. I got you some of your special mints.’ A red bag with the logo of a motorway service outlet slid along the table and came to a halt millimetres from the edge.
Atch came in slowly. I half expected an apology, or further rage. Instead I appeared to have cracked the secret of invisibility.
‘Don’t report this, please,’ Harry said abruptly. ‘It wouldn’t do any good, would it?’
‘It’ll protect the next idiot who wanders up here in uniform.’
‘He won’t get the gun again, I promise. And what do you think would happen if he’s arrested? They’ll put him in a psychiatric ward for a few weeks until he can be assessed, then tell me what I already know - that he’s incurable. Then they’ll send him back here while they look for a place to put him.’
I’d hissed my own comments under my breath because Atch was in earshot. Harry, however, simply continued to use his normal tone, ignoring his father, who was now dosing the cat with sugared tea. Looking up, I caught the old man flicking a puzzled sideways glance at me and realised he hadn’t a clue who I was, or how we’d last met.
Harry was waiting for me to promise I wouldn’t shop his dad. Barbra’s camera lens had been kind to him. Seen in the flesh, he looked older and more care-worn. He’d been lucky: the genetic code for Atch’s buck teeth and nondescript pale blue eyes had been overridden by quite an attractive mouth and hazel irises. I wondered if they’d come from the dead mother. I also felt pretty pleased that I’d won my private bet with myself that that haircut did hide a receding widow’s peak.
‘Look,’ I said, not ready to go soft on him yet, ‘I’ve just been threatened with a shotgun, spent several hours trussed up, and if you hadn’t come back, I’d probably have died out there of dehydration. What happens if the next victim isn’t young .. . ish, fit and healthy? Supposing the visitor is older than—’ I jerked a thumb in Atch’s direction, and discovered he’d disappeared. Judging by Harry’s expression, he hadn’t noticed his dad slipping away either. ‘Have you got any more guns?’ I asked sharply.
‘They’re secure. Don’t get yourself in a frazzle.’
‘Being frazzled I can cope with. Being a corpse takes more talent than I’m currently prepared to invest in my future. Let’s get back to your plans for Atch. Is that really his name?’
‘Nickname. It’s H really. H for Harry. He’s Harry Rouse too.’
And I’d turned up in my camouflage gear and told the old boy I was looking for Harry Rouse. No wonder he’d gone into psychosis-overdrive. But he was still a menace and needed looking out for.
Harry Junior agreed. ‘I know I can’t manage like this. I’ve been looking for help, someone to live in. Even offered free board and lodging, but no one’s interested once they see the place. And having full-time carers come in costs.’
What about Social Services?’
‘He needs watching all the time, even nights. He wanders, you see. I’ve tried locking all the doors, but he has tantrums; screams the place down. They say he’d be better off in a residency place. But I might as well put those barrels to his head. He’s never lived nowhere but this.’ He looked at the old, stained room. It wasn’t everyone’s idea of desirable living, but I guess if it was all you’d ever known ... ‘I just need a bit of time,’ Harry continued, ‘to get something sorted. Will you keep this between us?’
‘I don’t—’ My ‘know’ was interrupted by the shrill of the telephone. Harry excused himself and my innards finally signalled they’d unfrozen enough to make it a good idea if I did the same. The loo was at the top of the stairs, and surprisingly clean for a bachelors’ pad. Despite the partially open window that was letting in a gentle breeze, the odours of pine cleaning fluids and bleach were catching at the back of my throat as evidence that one of the Rouses was a conscientious cleaner.
It overlooked the outhouses. The doors of the larger one were standing open now, revealing the muddy back of an old truck. Down below I could see Atch pottering up and down as if he was looking for something. Hopefully it was this morning’s memories that were proving elusive, and not the DIY sub-machine-gun kit.
Flushing and hand-washing like a well-trained house guest, I stepped out on to the landing and couldn’t resist a quick peek in the nearest door. It was much as the downstairs had suggested: old-fashioned furniture and fading rugs.
The top of the dresser was covered in old photos. I found Atch and Madge’s wedding picture easily enough. I’d been right about young Harry looking like his mum. There were a lot of pictures of him growing from toddler to adult, but none of his wedding or the ex-Mrs Harry Rouse (OK, I was snooping, but every girl should have a hobby).
I tried another door. It was a near-identical room, except in this one the bed was stripped back to the bare mattress and once again there was that slightly pungent, unpleasant smell I’d detected outside. Following my nose, I found it partly emanated from a plastic sack full of dirty bedclothes. It looked like it wasn’t just Atch’s mind that was slipping out of control.
There were two other bedrooms in the same stripped-back state. One containing a double bed and a single, the other with two ancient singles of the lethal-and-rusting-bedsprings variety.
It was a family house this, built back in a time when loads of kids were the norm. It must feel desperately lonely with just the two of them rattling around in here, particularly in the winter, when the fields froze over and darkness fell by mid-afternoon.
The last door opened on to a long, narrow cupboard. The shelves were stacked with cardboard cartons from a cash-and- carry warehouse in south-east London. I delved inside one and found non-brand-name tinned peas. A second held two dozen cans of carrots. All the cartons contained variations of the same: groceries whose packaging screamed frugality. It looked like the Rouses did their shopping in bulk once a year from the cheapest source they could find. My fantasy of ye jolly farmer harvesting fresh produce from his lovingly nurtured vegetable patch withered a little further, but my find tended to confirm Harry’s assertion that he couldn’t afford home help for his dad.
I got back to the hall just as Harry reappeared from the back of the house. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Using the facilities.’ I mimed a chain flush.
‘You could have asked.’
Well, pardon my manners, I thought rebelliously. ‘I’ve had to keep my legs crossed all afternoon, remember?’
He looked like he’d have argued it,
but I didn’t give him the chance. It wasn’t just the cleaning fluids that were getting up my nose around here. Swinging round with what I hoped was an icy dismissal, I marched out of the front door and grabbed the bike.
‘Wait!’ Harry seized the handlebars as I kicked the pedals into position. ‘You haven’t said what you’re going to do about Dad.’
‘That’s because I haven’t decided yet. Now let go!’
I heaved, he pulled. We were just getting into the spirit of a real tug-of-war when Atch shuffled round the corner.
‘I can’t find it. It ought to be there. Where is it?’
Harry’s attention was distracted sufficiently for him to relax the grip on my handlebars. I twisted them free and backed off a few paces.
‘You can’t find what, Dad?’
‘The thing. What’s it called?’ An expression of panic started to flow over the old boy’s face. I could see him straining to remember and felt his misery. ‘Water comes out of it.’ One hand swished back and forth as if he was holding a baton.
‘The hose, Dad. Is that what you’re looking for?’
‘Hose. Yes. That’s it.’ A smile of relief lit up his eyes. ‘I’m going to wash the truck. Just have time before I go pick up your ma from the shops.’
‘Ma died, Dad. A long time ago. Don’t you remember?’
‘She did?’ Atch peered around in a bewildered fashion and appeared to notice me for the third time that afternoon. ‘Who’s she?’
‘This is Grace, Dad. She’s—’
‘Just off.’ Kicking the pedal down, I stood on the bike and shot away before either of the Rouses could get between me and the farm track.
It wasn’t until I’d put ten minutes’ pedalling between me and Tyttenhall Farm that the oddest thing about the afternoon occurred to me.
During the entire time, Harry Rouse hadn’t once asked me why I was there.
7
I’d intended to get Barbra’s contract typed up first thing next day and take it out to Wakens Keep. But as soon as I woke up, I hit a major drawback to this plan, which was best summed up by Annie asking why I was doing John Wayne impressions.
‘The hell I am,’ I drawled, walking with wide-legged caution to the foot of the office steps and clutching the package I’d just got from the chemist tightly to my chest.
‘Sweet thing! How are you getting on with Grannie’s pedal power?’
‘I left it at the flat. I presume you aren’t in a hurry to have it back?’ I gritted my teeth and smiled at the smirking gnome who’d whipped the front door open before we could reach it.
‘No hurry at all. Keep it as long as you like. Dear me ... life continues to offer new experiences, doesn’t it?’
The subject of this cryptic remark was stomping towards us with a scowl on her face and a slice of turf on her head.
‘It’s your fault,’ Jan said, homing in on me. ‘You told me to dye it.’
‘So? What is that shade, incidentally? Swamp-a-gogo?’
‘It’s called Zanzibar Twilight.’ A squashed and water-stained carton was waved under my nose. ‘It’s supposed to be black.’ Annie removed the box from Jan’s fingers and scanned the small print. ‘It says here, don’t use on bleached hair.’
‘Does it?’
‘Didn’t you read it first?’
Jan shrugged. ‘It’s only flaming hair dye. Who needs instructions?’
‘Apparently you do, dear thing,’ Vetch put in. ‘Are you planning to do any work today?’
‘I’m traumatised. I ought to get the day off.’
‘I shall arrange counselling for you.’
‘Honest?’
‘No. I was lying. Now, if you could make some attempt to pretend you’re earning the wage I pay you ...’ He unlocked the post cage and handed her a bundle of letters.
Jan slung the envelopes on to the reception desk and her coat on to a handy chair. It gave us a chance to appreciate the rest of her bizarre appearance. She’d abandoned black and leather in favour of a bright orange blouse, leggings in a psychedelic swirl of tangerine, lime green and banana, and emerald stilettos with a five-inch heel.
‘Bloody hell.’ Annie more or less summed up the general opinion.
‘What? Oh yeah, this. I thought I’d make it look like a proper style ’stead of another screw-up. They got a sale on up the charity shop. You can buy them off me later if you like, Smithie. They’re the sort of naff gear you like.’
‘Cheers, Jan. Can you pick up my calls for the next half-hour? I’ve got something important to handle.’
I followed Annie up the staircase to the top landing. A familiar Welsh-tinged drone drifted up the central well, apparently apologising for having to use the internal cellar door again.
‘Have you met the Grim Reaper yet?’ I asked, as Annie jiggled with her office door keys.
‘Yesterday. Not exactly a bundle of laughs, is he?’
‘Not even a solitary chuckle.’ She hesitated and looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Look, come in a second ... have a coffee . ..’
A small knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. This wasn’t like Annie. She didn’t break things gently to me, and she was offering free coffee rather than making me beg for it.
I got chocolate biscuits too. Served up with the news. Annie’s pet securities company in London were suggesting she might like to move in with them permanently.
‘I could have my own space in their block, work freelance if I liked, but they’d have first call on my time. I’d be establishing a reputation .. . making the right contacts ...’
‘Sounds great.’ I forced a smile. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I haven’t said I’ll take it yet.’
‘Go for it, girl. After all, you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Neither of us are,’ Annie came back with an attempt at sisterly bitchiness.
Normally I’d have batted the insult back with interest, but today I wasn’t in the mood. I helped myself to a handful of the biscuits (without any protest from the lawful owner), slung the Delaney file into my own office and bolted myself in the bathroom.
Lying back in the old-fashioned cast-iron tub (another leftover from the reign of Grannie Vetch), I watched the verdigris tendrils under the overflow outlet being distorted by the trickle of hot water, licked the chocolate that was being melted by the steam off my biscuit - and brooded.
I don’t have many friends and Annie was the closest of that select club. OK, London wasn’t exactly in the Arctic Circle, but we both knew it wouldn’t be the same once we had to ‘make plans’ rather than wander round for a drink, a pizza, or a bitch, whenever the mood took us.
On top of that, there was the problem of what might happen to Vetch’s with our most productive operative gone. And to cap a perfect morning, my mother had rung to say she’d prefer it if I didn’t come home for my birthday. Not that she put it in those words. It had all been dressed up in tangled explanations about babysitting my sister’s kids, hospital appointments at the pain clinic for my dad, and suggestions that an all-girl night out in town in a few weeks would be more fun, wouldn’t it?
I got the message. My father didn’t want to see me and he’d make life hell for Mum, before and after, if I put in an appearance. Some days she can take it, some days she can’t. This was obviously one of the latter. I assured her I had millions of plans for my birthday and was far too busy to come up, and heard the relief in her voice as she swallowed the lie.
I wallowed in self-pity and Vetch’s free hot water for another twenty minutes, then got my head back together and told my subconscious to stop being such a pathetic little bundle of neuroses and get on with life.
Heaving myself out of the tub, I patted off the water with a towel in some areas - and with extreme caution in others. Unwrapping my chemist’s parcel, I applied a large dollop of gel guaranteed to soothe away nappy rash to the inner patches of my thighs.
Retrieving my clothes from the floor, I discovered
they’d been soaked by a tidal overflow from the bath. The bra and black T- shirt weren’t too bad - they’d probably dry off with a bit of body heat behind them - but the trainer bottoms were sopping. I left them dripping over a pipe, and padded back to my office to sort out Barbra’s contract.
There was a typewriter back at my flat, or I could drop it into the Bermuda Triangle that passed for Janice’s in-tray and wait for whatever incomprehensible horror emerged. Since there was no way I was up to pedalling twenty miles to Wakens Keep at present, I figured Janice might as well do her worst. I did ring Barbra, however, to suggest a deposit.
‘I put a cheque in the post to Vetch yesterday afternoon,’ she replied. ‘How you getting on?’
‘Oh, you know. Early days. I’ve got a definite lead on one and pretty good clues for the others. Should be back to you in a few days with news.’
(I felt the above statement contained just about the right amount of optimism. The idea being to keep the client hooked for as long as you think they’ll pay without actually lying or conning them.)
‘You haven’t forgotten I want this kept quiet?’ she said sharply.
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘So what are you telling them?’
‘At present, I’m a mature student wanting to publish their pics in my thesis.’
‘Not bad,’ she admitted. ‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t yer? Come out here for lunch.’
‘Great. Say one day next week?’
‘Sunday.’
‘I’m not sure Sunday’s good for me—’
‘It is for me. I’m paying for your time, aren’t I? I’ll see you at one o’clock.’
She hung up. Bobbing a curtsy, I muttered: ‘Yes, ma’am, Missy Barbra. Ah sure will do as you says, ma’am, just as soon as I finished toting dem cotton bales.’
I picked up the scrawled draft contract. It might be less hassle to type it myself if I could cadge half an hour on Annie’s computer. I bounced in without knocking, and stopped dead when I realised she wasn’t alone. Her youngest brother was sprawled on the small couch, sipping at a mug of black coffee.