Mr. Flood's Last Resort

by Jess Kidd

  Sam glances at me.

  “Renata is unable to use a computer,” I mutter. “Except in dire emergencies.”

  “The electromagnetic fields play havoc with my third eye,” Renata says defensively.

  “The tarot is her main investigative tool, heavy on the Suit of Swords at the moment, I believe.”

  Renata throws me a black look. “Signifying responsibility and intellect, violence and struggle.” She smiles radiantly at Sam. “So, you see, Maud can’t ditch her job, certainly not with this new development.”

  I glance at her. “Excuse me: ‘Maud can’t ditch her job’?”

  Renata seems to choose her words carefully. “Sam came here to persuade you to stop working at Bridlemere.”

  I turn to Sam. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Sam shrugs and leans back in the chair.

  St. Valentine (love, the plague) wanders into the room uninvited. He’s an old, sly class of saint with a roving wall eye. He fixes Sam with one eye and trains the other on me. His robes have a secondhand look about them. The braiding is frayed around the hem and the cuffs. His halo, the size and shape of a tea tray, is worn to the back of the head like a casual sombrero. It burns with a smoky orange flame. St. Valentine settles on the pouf with a smirk, showing that he has three teeth in his head and a tendency towards spittle.

  “Sam is here to tell you”—Renata glances across at Sam—“that the house and the old man are best left well alone.”

  “You think I should leave?”

  Sam looks a little sheepish. “I do. But then that’s your decision, Maud.”

  Renata angles the newspaper cutting towards the light and starts to read aloud. “ ‘Police are continuing their search for Maggie Dunne, aged fifteen, who has been missing from the village of Langton Cheney since last Tuesday.’ ”

  St. Valentine lets out a whistle.

  “ ‘Maggie is five feet, six inches tall,’ ” Renata reads. “ ‘Slim build, blue eyes, blond hair.’ ” She puts the newspaper cutting down. “Dated Monday, 26 August 1985.”

  “With all due respect”—Sam leans forwards with his palms open in a conciliatory gesture—“what has this got to do with Maud working up at the house?”

  Renata taps the newspaper. “We know the Floods visited this place five years before.”

  “A coincidence,” suggests Sam.

  “I think not. There’s a connection here, between that old man and this case.” Renata frowns. “We ought to show this to the police.”

  Sam sits up. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  St. Valentine looks at Sam with interest.

  “Given Cathal Flood’s track record as a troublemaker I doubt if the police would take this seriously,” says Sam evenly. “Let’s face it, he may even have set this whole thing up.”

  Renata looks doubtful. “I don’t know, Sam—”

  “Really, Renata, I’ve been in that house. There are no ghosts, or ghouls, or missing schoolgirls. Just an old man and his hoard of rubbish.”

  “Then why these clues, one after the other?”

  Sam hesitates. “Who says they are clues? I think you are letting your imagination run riot.”

  Renata fixes Sam with a steely stare.

  “There’ll be wigs on the green,” murmurs St. Valentine, almost audibly.

  “We already know the old man has a violent temper—”

  “But this is probably no more than a prank, Renata,” says Sam. “You know that he booby-trapped the house for the council workers?”

  “Well, if it’s a prank then we catch him at his own game,” Renata concedes. “Either way, we must find out who is behind these communications.”

  “Cathal Flood may be old, but he’s unpredictable. What about Maud in all of this?” Sam studies me. “What are you, five foot three? A slight woman pitched against a six-foot-nine man with a history of assault.”

  Renata’s eyes widen. “Is he that tall?”

  I nod. “He’s an Irish giant.”

  “Like the skeleton in the museum? The one John Hunter boiled?” Renata seems impressed.

  “Identical,” I mutter. “Only this one’s animated: it roars and it swears.”

  Renata turns to Sam. “What’s Maud’s height got to do with it?” she says coolly. “And what’s her being a woman got to do with it?”

  Sam appears to be at a loss, as well he should be. “I’m just saying Mr. Flood is no ordinary pensioner; don’t underestimate him.”

  Renata narrows her eyes. “To that I would say: Maud is no ordinary slight woman. Don’t underestimate her. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, Maud can. Unshakable tenacity in the face of stacked odds is one of her key traits.”

  I glance at her. “Thanks, Renata.”

  She nods. “She’s a beaver, you know, totem-wise. I meditated and her spirit animal came forwards. It’s a wonder, really, how Maud’s complex and resolute nature can be summed up by one small hairy emblem.”

  Sam looks at us in dismay. Then he runs his hands through his dark golden hair. I wonder if his memories are coming back to him: the labyrinthine clutter, the marauding cats, and the rabid pensioner coming towards him with a fighting grip on a hurley . . .

  But maybe Sam isn’t traumatized; maybe he’s ashamed, as I would be if I let an ancient scarecrow of a man run me out of town.

  Sam turns to me, his face kind, serious. “You’re really going to risk stirring up that old man, and the consequences that might bring, by playing detective in a fictional crime case?”

  Put this way it doesn’t sound like such a good idea.

  Renata glowers. “This isn’t fictional and we’re not playing.”

  Sam looks suitably impressed.

  St. Valentine sniggers.

  “We are going to get to the bottom of this, Sam Hebden,” she says. “All we need is a plan.”

  * * *

  WE FOCUS on the flipchart Renata has set up in the living room. In the middle of a blank page she has written MARY FLOOD in red capital letters and drawn a black cloud around it.

  She has also drawn two zigzag arrows coming out of the cloud like lightning bolts, only in green. One lightning bolt points to the word ACCIDENT and the other to the word MURDER.

  Beneath all of this Renata has written the words MISSING SCHOOLGIRL MAGGIE DUNNE in luminous pink with no cloud but with a wavy line under it.

  Renata scratches under her wig with a marker pen. “My firm belief is that Mary Flood knew something about this case.” She taps MAGGIE DUNNE with her knuckle. “This girl was never found, dead or alive.”

  “How can you know that?” I ask.

  “Lillian looked it up. She used the computer in Petersham library.”

  “Of course, you told Lillian.” I glance over at Sam. “Renata’s sister loves a murder mystery.”

  Sam frowns. Renata looks shifty.

  “Just come out with it, Renata,” I say.

  “We think that Mary found out about her husband’s part in Maggie’s disappearance and down the stairs she went.”

  St. Valentine leans forwards. “This just gets better.”

  Renata’s pirate eyes are lit.

  “What else, Renata?”

  “It’s a mansion, Maud, set in extensive grounds. A labyrinth—you’ve said so yourself. There would be plenty of places to hide a missing girl”—she pauses—“living or dead. Just think about it: cellar, basement, attic, rooms galore, and a whole range of outhouses. Take your pick.”

  “There is no schoolgirl hidden up in that house,” says Sam with surprising firmness.

  Renata turns to him. “And you’ve been through every inch of that house, Sam?”

  Sam swirls his drink dubiously; from its acetone bouquet I can tell it’s Józef’s finest. “Of course not, but this is some conclusion to jump to.”

  “I haven’t jumped to a conclusion.” Renata looks aggrieved. “Mary Flood is giving us clear evidence. A girl went missing; the Floods had previously visited her villag
e. There’s a connection between these two events.”

  St. Valentine throws up his hands. “This one will have the whole thing solved!”

  Renata bites her lip. “Of course, we might be too late.”

  St. Valentine nods enthusiastically. “You will be of course.”

  “The best we can hope for is that Flood hasn’t killed her; he may have just kept her imprisoned all these years.” Renata adjusts her wig, pulling down the edges against an imaginary spell of blustery weather. Something contentious is coming. “As a sex slave, you know, that kind of thing.”

  St. Valentine grins.

  Sam lets out a groan of despair.

  “It happens all the time,” says Renata defensively.

  “Even in nice parts of West London?”

  “Maud, this is serious.” Renata’s face is grave, her voice low and urgent. “If there’s even a slight chance Maggie Dunne is still alive we have to find her.”

  St. Valentine starts to clap. “Bravo! That’s the spirit. Good man yourself!”

  I glare at him.

  He shrugs.

  Renata looks at me with sudden horror. “What if anything happened to the old man? Maggie could starve, or die of thirst.”

  Sam gets up and pours himself another krupnik. He waves the bottle at me. I shake my head; alcohol poisoning won’t make this any easier.

  Renata turns over a page to a fresh sheet of paper and writes WHO IS CATHAL FLOOD???

  Then she paces up and down the floor like a real detective.

  “We now have three tasks.” She pauses in front of the flipchart. “One: we find the missing girl. Two: we discover if Mrs. Flood’s death really was an accident. Three: we hand Mr. Flood over to the police.”

  “Or four: we leave this well alone.” Sam downs his drink in one and wipes the tears from his eyes.

  St. Valentine looks at Sam admiringly. He sidles nearer and pokes an old, dry, spatulate finger through the glass in Sam’s hand. Then St. Valentine retracts his finger and licks it. He pulls a face.

  I daren’t ask. But I do. “So what next?”

  “We search the house,” says Renata firmly.

  Sam glances over at me. There’s real concern in his lovely eyes. “You mean Maud searches the house.”

  “Of course,” Renata replies. “And we find a medium. You know, a really good one. Get a direct line to Mary Flood, find out what she’s trying to tell us.”

  Sam bites his lip.

  Renata writes: TALK TO MARY.

  “There are no such thing as ghosts,” I point out.

  St. Valentine raises his eyebrows.

  Renata snaps the lid on her marker pen. “Of course there are; mediums see them all the time.”

  “When you pay them.”

  “That’s not true, Maud. They grow up seeing them. They see them everywhere. Even at the supermarket.”

  Why wouldn’t the dead be found roaming in supermarkets? Death, like life, is probably quite routine. Not unpleasant, just a bit dreary, the best any of us can hope for.

  * * *

  I SEE Sam to the door. Keeping my voice low, I ask him the two questions I’ve waited all evening to hear him answer, memory loss or no memory loss.

  Question 1: “Did anything odd happen to you up at the house?”

  He pushes his feet into his trainers and straightens himself up. “Not at all.”

  I think about this. No bobbing bottles and flickering lights, strange noises and sentient rubbish? Then I remember that denial is the cornerstone to mental health.

  Question 2: “Why did Mr. Flood go for you with a hurley?”

  “He just turned; I’ve no idea what set him off.”

  “You didn’t provoke him in some way?”

  Sam laughs. “Of course not.” He studies me closely, his face suddenly serious. “Look, I love Renata, I think she’s fantastic, but she’s a great one to spin a tale, create a drama.”

  I feel suddenly defensive. “She’s got a point though: that place is odd and he’s odd—”

  “Humor your friend, if you want; let her solve an imaginary case, but don’t take this any further, Maud.”

  I look at him.

  “Leave the old man alone. Don’t go prying into his business.” He kisses me on the cheek. With his breath in my hair and his mouth against my ear he murmurs, “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  I feel his low notes heating the base of my spine. I smell soap, citrus and expensive, tinged only slightly with cigarette smoke.

  He pulls back and squeezes my arm.

  I watch him walk down the path. He shuts the gate, raises his hand, and then he’s gone into the night, turning up his collar, lighting a cigarette.

  * * *

  AS I go to close the door I see St. Valentine sitting on Renata’s dustbin, illuminated by the light from the hallway and his own unearthly glow.

  He looks at me with one eye; he has the other trained on the garden gate. “Your man’s very vigorous,” he says, his voice high and giddy with delight. “Is he a hopper and a leaper? Is he an honest cowboy? Would he be any use in the sack? Would you say he’s a definite ride?”

  St. Valentine will ask four questions to one when he’s overexcited. If he were close enough and not incorporeal he would fleck my face with saliva. Small mercies. St. Valentine waits, wet lipped, grinning.

  I frown at him in disgust. “Now, that’s crossing the line.”

  He holds his hands up and chuckles. “All I’m saying is I’d watch meself if I were you; compatibility-wise this is a difficult match.”

  “Who said anything about a match?”

  St. Valentine snorts. “He’s a stallion, a hot-wired, fierce-blooded, honest-to-goodness stallion. You should know, you’ve had the full of your eye on him.”

  “Whereas I’m?”

  “A fervent donkey at best.”

  I narrow my eyes. “And I asked for your opinion?”

  “You didn’t, but where love is involved—”

  “Then with all due respect, we’ve no further business.”

  St. Valentine roars laughing. “Oh, there’ll be further business all right, Twinkle, just you wait.”

  I quickly close the door.

  CHAPTER 13

  A storm is coming in over the Atlantic. Above me the sky is sheet metal. With the thunder the rain falls in quick needling bursts, hardly enough to wet the dunes and hardly enough to make me put my hood up. But still, I zipper my anorak and shove my book up the front to keep it dry. This gives me a big square tummy.

  And that’s when I see them breathe, the dunes.

  I watch in horror as their sandy skirts begin to buzz and waft. They start to move, floating towards me like hovercraft, churning up the beach in their path, ripping out the marram grass.

  I never took my eyes from them, I never nosed around them, I never ran over them—they have no right to attack!

  To my left: sinking sand; to my right: horseflies; before me: the sea; behind me—

  * * *

  MORNING HAS happened. Weak light shines through my curtains. St. Dymphna is sitting on the end of my bed. She cradles a lamp in her lap. It is slipper shaped, pinched and smoothed from clay, a thing of loveliness that perfectly fits her little white hand. She blows on it and it sparks with a sudden flame. Her face is illuminated, her eyes glittering, a half smile on her lips.

  She glances up at me. “It’s all fiction you know, what you think you remember about that day.”

  “I know what I remember.”

  “You know better than to trust your memory, Maud. What have I told you?”

  I don’t answer.

  She sets the lamp on the bedside table. The flame lengthens and flickers. “What were you? Six, ten?”

  “Seven.”

  She leans forwards, her voice a whisper. “She left with him, in the car that day. They caught the ferry and moved to Rhyl. She was having a baby for him. That was the plan.”

  “What about the guards? Why co
uldn’t they find her?”

  “There were no guards. She never went missing.”

  I frown. “There were the ones that sat in the kitchen, the ones that talked with Mammy.”

  St. Dymphna smiles bitterly. “Mammy never had guards in the kitchen. Didn’t she help Deirdre pack and give them a tin of sandwiches for the journey?” She tucks her brown plait back under her veil. “Didn’t Mammy give them her blessing?”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  St. Dymphna stretches her legs out on the bed, smoothing her robe around her lovely dim ankles. “Do you remember Tommy McLaughlin?”

  “No.”

  “Early fifties, bald, butcher’s assistant?”

  “No.”

  “A dirty feely old fella?” She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, there was enough of them.”

  “No.”

  “He came out from the back of the shop and showed you his little flabby flute, wiggled it, when Granny was up at the counter buying liver?”

  I think back, to the smell of fresh sawdust and old blood, the green plastic parsley between smeared trays of red, the joints hanging in the window: bone, sinew, tissue, flesh. And Tommy McLaughlin with his white coat open just a little. His trousers undone just a little, pale slug, graying mound. He stared down at me, lips parted, breathing through his nose.

  “I remember.”

  “Well, that didn’t happen either,” St. Dymphna says, with a cold kind of delight in her eyes. “Memories are fickle creatures, you ought to know that, skittish and in no ways trustworthy.”

  “I know what I remember.”

  St. Dymphna holds up her hands. “You do of course! After all, weren’t you there with your big round child’s eyes?” She mimes a vacant expression. “Looking around yourself, spying at things that didn’t concern you, taking it all in.”

  “I was scared, there in the dunes. I was only small.”

  “You’d do well to tighten the screws,” she murmurs, right in my ear. “Or the nightmares will start again.”

  When I look up she’s gone.

  MR. FLOOD has been tucked away in his workshop all morning. I’ve not heard step nor roar from him. The National Geographics present a solid wall today. I could have dreamt the land beyond, where stuffed stoats play cards, four-headed taxidermy angels keep watch, and paperweights move of their own volition.