‘Bledburn’s Lost Heroes’ was the next panel. It was a depiction of the famous Harville Pit disaster of 1869, when twenty-seven men were killed after a seam collapsed in on them. The bodies were brought up from the shaft, one by one, while weeping women and children were provided for and comforted by their fellows and neighbours. Meanwhile, in the distance, Harville Hall stood remote, no representative of the family to be seen amongst the mourners.
Fascinated, Jenna drew closer, shining her torch on every poignant detail. The people were tiny and cartoon-like and yet each possessed a three-dimensional humanity that shone from their expressions and stances. Who had done this work? Was it old? It didn’t look in the least faded or timeworn. And the anti-Harville sentiment was an odd thing to find in Harville Hall itself.
‘This is crazy,’ she murmured to herself, shining her phone on the next panel, which showed the general strike of 1926. It was unfinished, and in front of it stood a legion of paint tins and a bucket of white spirit with brushes in it.
Her throat tightened with sudden fright and she wheeled around, shining the torch behind her.
‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered.
An indeterminate bundle under the opposite eave proved to be a sleeping bag and lying in the sleeping bag was a person.
Chapter Two
She could see it was a man, and she could see that his eyes were shut, scrunched up against the torchlight, but they didn’t open. She moved the beam swiftly aside and went closer, to investigate. An open backpack lay next to his head, which was covered in a dishevelled mop of dark hair. He looked as if he’d never seen the sun, his blue-tinged pallor making his dark stubble stand out all the more. He had full, sensual lips that made him look sulky in sleep. Long eyelashes fluttered and shadowed his high cheekbones.
He could be very attractive with a bit of a makeover, Jenna thought. But what the hell was he doing here? And what would he do if he knew she’d found him?
She stepped back again, intent on finding her phone, but a peripheral glimpse of one of the paintings stopped her in her tracks. If this was her artist – and it surely must be, judging by the paint streaks on his fingers – then she wanted to know more about him.
She wanted to wake him, but she sensed that to shock him into consciousness might well be dangerous. She would go down, get her phone, and if he gave her any trouble at all she’d call 999. But with luck he would take it well and tell her about his painting. Already, a nebulous vision of sponsoring his first gallery show was developing in her brain. She was a professional talent-spotter, after all. OK, her field of expertise was music, but why not diversify into art? And such art! A hazy feeling of being in the presence of greatness had quickened her spirits and awakened that intangible sense of excitement she got when something special came to her notice. She’d had it with Warp and Weft, with Crew Two, with Sophie Cator. This could be her next big thing.
She went downstairs, got her phone and, in a flash of inspiration, picked up the cat, who was standing on a windowsill, howling at the birds in the garden. He could be deployed to wake up her mystery artist.
The cat seemed quite happy to be picked up and cradled in her arms, purring away as she ascended the stairs. At the door to the attic rooms, she popped him on to the floor and let him run up the stairs ahead of her. Whilst she made her way up, he padded over to the artist, as she had hoped he would, and sat down by his head to commence a volley of miaows.
She watched the artist’s face move from one expression to another, then he spluttered as the cat waved his tail beneath his nose.
‘Bo,’ he muttered, still not quite awake. ‘Fuck off, I’ll feed you in a minute.’ The stranger had a strong local accent so that ‘Fuck off’ sounded more like ‘Fook off’. The richness of his accent made the swearing sound almost affectionate rather than hostile, the vowel luxuriously elongated.
The cat put its front paws on his shoulder and started to climb all over the sleeping bag. The man groaned, shifted position then reluctantly opened his eyes.
‘What?’ The light coming in from the open attic door was evidently a shock to him. He sat bolt upright and stared at Jenna, who stood by the open square, ready to make a speedy getaway if needed.
‘Don’t panic,’ she said, quickly. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Fuck!’ he said forcefully, fighting his way out of the sleeping bag. He reached for the backpack, repeating the expletive. For someone who was clearly sleeping rough, his clothes were relatively clean and Jenna could see that there was plenty of power in the body beneath his cheap tracksuit.
‘Fucking hell, Bowyer, leave it!’ he scolded the cat, who was trying to leap inside the bag as he rummaged through it.
‘Your cat’s called Bowyer?’ said Jenna, grasping at anything that might calm him down and make him think.
Stan Bowyer had been the leader of the local chapter of the mineworkers’ union during the strike. Still a hero to many, he had thrown himself in front of a bus taking hired labour over the picket line and been killed.
The man looked up, his hand still in the bag.
‘What about it?’ he said, then he went back to rummaging.
He pulled out a penknife and a packet of chicken tikka pieces with a past-the-sell-by-date sticker on. He peeled the chicken packet open, flung it on the floor for the cat, then stood up, brandishing the penknife in front of him.
‘I’m warning you,’ he said. ‘Don’t come near. Don’t get your phone out.’
‘My dad worked with Stan Bowyer,’ said Jenna. ‘He used to come round our house when I was little.’
The man just stared, then said, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Well, I might as well ask, who the fuck are you? And what the fuck are you doing in my house?’
For a moment, Jenna’s native accent made a surprise reappearance.
‘Your house?’ The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you a Harville?’
‘No. Far from it. But this is my house. I bought it, fair and square. Nobody told me about the sitting tenant, though.’
‘You’ve … He sold it? Shit!’
The man looked so utterly crestfallen that Jenna really couldn’t be afraid of him. His eyes were enormous and a deep, velvet brown, like an orphan child in a sentimental Victorian painting.
‘Yes. Harville Hall is mine, as of yesterday.’
‘I never thought he’d sell up. The bastard. You’re from round here then? Funny, I don’t recognise you.’
‘You’ve never watched Talent Team then?’
He laughed, not in mirth but in head-scratching bemusement.
‘Talent Team? I’ve only been camping out up here a few weeks, not years. I’ve heard of that show all right. Everyone has. Christ, are you the girl that left town and became one of them judges on it? You’re not—?’
‘Jenna Myatt Diamond. At your service. Though I’m losing the Diamond.’
‘Fucking hell, now I come to look at you – but you’ve always got ten tons of slap, and some blinging dress on, in that. Fuck me. Is this a dream, or what?’
‘I’ve pinched myself more than a few times this morning, let me tell you. I buy an empty house, and what do I find in it but a resident artist? Did you paint all this?’
He nodded.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Jenna. ‘Look, would you mind putting down the knife? I’m no threat to you, I promise. But I’m very interested in your work.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
He sounded fierce, but he put the knife down, all the same.
‘No, seriously. This is incredible. You’ve been to art college, I take it?’
‘Have I fuck!’
‘You were never taught?’
‘I did GCSE art, but I never handed in my coursework folder, so I failed.’
‘So how did you learn this technique?’
‘Technique? I used to decorate the youth club walls. That’s about it. Kept me out of trouble. For all of about five minutes.’
‘Look. Do you want
to come down? I haven’t got anything in the way of food but I could take you out for brunch if you like. I’ve got toothpaste, and—’
‘So have I. I’m not some kind of wild man. But I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I leave this house, I’m as good as dead.’
Jenna, who had been growing in confidence in her dealings with this unexpected guest, was reduced once more to heart-fluttering anxiety.
‘What? Why?’
‘People out to get me. Bad people, you dig?’
‘People …are trying to kill you?’
‘Yeah, if it comes to it. I’m in hiding.’
‘But … well … surely, the police? Or someone ought to be dealing with these people?’
He laughed bitterly. ‘You’ve been out of Bledburn a long time, haven’t you? It isn’t the police in charge of things round here. No jobs, no futures – everyone’s a dopehead or a dope dealer and most are both. If I go to the police, I’m deader than dead and, besides, they’ll have an easy arrest in me. They won’t go looking for the real bad boys. They’re scared to.’
‘Surely not. It’s their job.’
‘I told you, love. This is Bledburn.’
‘You make it sound like the wild frontier. And don’t call me “love”.’
‘Look, it’s rough around here. I know. And I haven’t exactly been an angel myself, but I’ve tried to keep my head down and steer clear of the really bad stuff. Sometimes the really bad stuff comes and finds you, though. And that’s what’s happened to me.’
‘I see.’
‘You’re going to call the Feds, aren’t you?’
He bent again, as if about to retrieve his knife.
‘No,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No, I’m not. Unless you persist in calling them “Feds”, because it really irritates me. This is England, you know. Call them what they are. And I’d like to call you by your name. What is it?’
’I’m not telling you my name. But everyone calls me Leonardo.’
‘How fitting.’
‘Yeah, well, most people ask me if it’s after the Ninja Turtle. Or DiCaprio. But it’s after the artist.’
‘I thought it might be. You have such a talent. You could make a name for yourself. Your own name, not someone else’s.’
‘In another life,’ he said bleakly.
‘Oh, there must be a way.’
‘Trust me. There isn’t.’
‘How have you been living here? What have you been living on?’ She looked around her. There were no signs of cooking apparatus, or supplies.
‘I go out late at night to the supermarket, down the road, and bin-dive.’
‘Bin-dive?’
‘Yeah, you know. Look in the hoppers, for food that’s been chucked. There’s stacks of it. All still good. It’s fucking criminal, really. People are going to food banks because they can’t afford to eat.’
‘Aren’t you afraid you’ll be seen?’
‘I’m careful. Supermarket’s got CCTV, but I know the blind spots. Anyway, I don’t care for myself but Bowyer’s got to eat. He’s a good mouser, mind. This place was infested before we came on the scene.’
‘He sounds like a handy housemate to have around.’
‘He is. You should let him stay.’
‘I should.’
There was a silence. Leonardo sat back down on his sleeping bag and buried his face in his drawn-up knees. He looked lost and hopeless and tired.
Jenna wanted to give him a hug.
He looked up.
‘I could be out tonight,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind waiting till dark. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll have to think of something. Just please don’t call the F … the cops.’
Before she could think, Jenna had said, ‘Or you could stay here.’
He looked wary, as if he suspected a trap. ‘Why would you offer that?’
‘Because I want you to finish this.’ She indicated the wall paintings. ‘Because, whatever’s happened in your life, you don’t seem so bad to me. Because you’ve done nothing to harm me. Because this house is big, and it’s years since I was in Bledburn, and I could do with the company. All sorts of reasons.’
He looked her over, quietly but intently.
‘Give you one thing,’ he said, ‘you’ve got balls.’
‘I’m not afraid of you.’
‘I think I might be, a bit, of you,’ he said, and the sudden smile was a glorious reward, lifting Jenna’s heart.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to town to get breakfast for us. You stay put – I’m expecting a heating engineer in an hour or so. Get another hour’s sleep – you look done in.’
‘It’s the high life does it,’ he said deadpan.
When she came back an hour later, with coffee and pastries for him, green tea and miso soup for her, he was back in his sleeping bag, curled up like his cat, who lay with his head on Leonardo’s chest.
Jenna had given the situation a lot of thought while she was out, and the blank, grey faces of Bledburn had seemed to endorse her decision. She couldn’t throw this talented young man back out into the featureless, hopeless sprawl. It would consume him, devour him, and the world would never benefit from his undoubted talent.
She’d done the same for Deano.
Why couldn’t this man be just as big, in his way?
Of course, whatever hot water he was in would have to be sorted out first, but with her legal team on his side, she was sure it could be arranged.
She was in an optimistic frame of mind as she set the paper bag down by his feet and patted his shoulder.
He kicked out and his hand went automatically for his knife.
She sprang back, rattled.
‘It’s me,’ she cried. ‘It’s OK. Just me.’
He sat up, blinking into life, his expression haunted.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Don’t do that. I could’ve killed you.’
‘You’re really scared, aren’t you? Of being found?’
‘So would you be,’ he muttered, picking up the paper bag and peering in. ‘What’s this?’
‘Coffee and a pain au chocolat.’
‘A panner-what?’
‘Try it. It’s delicious.’
He looked suspicious but bit into the pastry, dropping flakes all over the sleeping bag.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Been a while since I had anything fresh-baked, like.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, and he grimaced as he chewed, as if he expected only bad news could come from thought.
‘Don’t look like that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘No, what it is, is that I’ve got this house, in serious need of repair, and you’re knocking around here like a spare part, so …’
He swallowed. ‘You’re after a handyman?’
‘A bit more than that. This is as much a creative project as it is a practical one.’ She had a feeling she’d need to appeal to his artistic sensibility to get any honest work from him.
‘A whatsit then? Interior designer?’
‘Yes, that’s it. A designer. I mean, I have ideas, but I’d really value your input.’
‘You sound like the youth workers at the club,’ he said. ‘They were always valuing my contribution, trying to get me on community projects. Unpaid work, more like.’
‘It wouldn’t be unpaid,’ said Jenna. ‘I’ll feed you and give you free lodging. And I’ll put some capital behind your artistic career, if you’ll commit to this.’
‘You’ll what?’
‘I’m very excited by your work. I want to represent you.’
‘Well,’ he said dubiously, ‘I could do with some new brushes, like. And that paint’s almost done for. I can hardly pop down to Hobbycraft for more.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘’Bout six weeks,’ he said, popping the lid off the coffee and taking a draught.
‘Six weeks, shut up in here? I’d go mad.’
‘Perhaps I have,’ he said, with a disconcerting little smile. ‘I’m your madman in the attic.’
‘Do you know Jane Eyre?’ asked Jenna, charmed by the reference.
‘No. Friend of yours?’
She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, and something made her think he was teasing her, making her feel hot, and a bit cross.
‘Six weeks ago was when I bought this place,’ she remarked. ‘Did you know it was up for sale?’
‘No. Thought it was going to be left to rot. I was hoping I could stay here and become the town ghost. Somebody would find my skeleton years later when they came to knock the place down, and perhaps a Harville might get done for my murder. That’d give my ghost a good laugh.’
‘They wouldn’t do that, would they? Knock it down, I mean. It’s listed.’
‘Who in their right mind would want to take on Harville Hall? You’re from round here. You must know what they are.’
‘I’m not interested in the Harvilles,’ she said after a moment’s pause, during which she thought how like Deano he sounded when he talked about them. A guilty memory of her fantasy about Lawrence Harville made her skin prickle. ‘This house is my house now. I can do what I like with it. And you can help me turn it into something different. You can help me kick the Harvilles out, lock, stock and barrel.’
This had been the right tack to take, she saw. Leonardo brightened straight away, liking the idea.
‘They must be sick as pigs about having to sell up,’ he said, cheerfully, sitting up and running his hands through his overlong, unkempt hair.
Jenna shrugged. ‘How did you manage to avoid the surveyor?’ she asked.
‘I know this place inside out. Kept a step ahead of him while he was poking about. Went into the garden for a bit. Came back in when he left.’
‘You must have known somebody was interested in buying, then?’
‘Didn’t think it’d go through. There must be a hundred things wrong with this place. Like I said, who in their right mind?’
‘Perhaps I’m not in my right mind,’ said Jenna.
Leonardo drank his coffee, his brown eyes fixed upon her.
‘You look all right to me,’ he said, once he’d swallowed, and she felt that heat and prickle again.
Diamond Page 3