by Jude Knight
The Jesse Tree had been part of their Christmas last year, too, as part of keeping things normal for Abbie while Claudia worried about what her former lover might do, now the police had been convinced he was not responsible for what happened to Abbie. He was not stupid enough to attack either of them while he was under investigation, but now he was free to carry out his threats.
But as the year drew to an end, Abbie finished the intensive courses of physio, occupational, speech and psychotherapy prescribed by the hospital. Claudia was free to go anywhere she wished. So, the day after Christmas, she loaded everything they owned into the back of her old station wagon, and they drove south, meandering through the country, stopping when they felt like it, until they reached Fairburn.
It had been a refuge when she’d flown into New Zealand, pregnant with Abbie, fleeing an angry boyfriend and a controlling father. It became a refuge again. They were welcomed back into the community, and not just by those who remembered them from the three years they lived here with Grandma.
Carly had found them this little studio, on the back of the property belonging to her parents, who were warmly welcoming. It was very private, hidden behind hedges and overlooked only by the main house—currently unoccupied, since Carly’s parents were on an extended overseas holiday.
Claudia wished they were home. Since the note three days ago, she had been acutely conscious of how isolated the building was. There had been nothing more, though. It must have been someone’s idea of a joke.
She shook off her sense of impending disaster, repeating one of the sayings taught to her by the counsellor she’d seen while Abbie was recovering. “Some positive saying.”
“Abbie,” she called. “I have the tree up. Are you ready for your story?”
Tonight, the story was just about the tree and its name. Abbie listened intently to the explanation. A tree would grow from the root of Jesse. “Jessie,” Abbie commented. “Jessie is at my riding. Differen’ Jessie. Not Jesus’s granddad.” She began laying out the decorations from the shoebox that held them. “Which one comes next, Mummy?”
Claudia was picking through looking for the star that would top the tree and symbolize creation when a flicker of light caught her eye, and she leapt up to rush to the window.
“Edward!” The rabbit hutch stood in the corner of the paved patio, in its own little caged enclosure.
Abbie pressed her nose up against the glass. “It’s burning,” she observed. Flames licked all the way along the bottom and shot from the interior.
Claudia unlocked the sliding door and hauled it open. “Stay here,” she commanded. Should she phone the fire brigade? But it would be quarter of an hour, at least, before the volunteers made their way to the station and got the fire engine moving. Meanwhile, she needed to stop the fire from catching the hedge alight. And poor Edward! It was an inferno in there. Could he possibly have survived?
She was unrolling the hose as she thought, and turning on the tap to spray water on the hedge.
“Abbie,” she called out, “I need you to phone emergency. Speak your best words. Tell them we have a fire outside, and we need the fire service. Tell them our address. Do you remember our address?”
“Dwelve… Twelve B Sbendworth… K… resen… T.”
“That’s it, sweetie. Twelve B Spendworth Crescent, Fairburn. The number is one-one-one. Can you manage?” Claudia whipped a quick look to see Abbie’s nod, then turned her attention back to the hedge, catching a smouldering twig in a full stream of water.
Abbie must have managed, because in a few moments the siren that summoned the fire brigade volunteers to the fire station sounded in the distance. She held her own against the fire, but couldn’t take her attention off the hedge long enough to chase it back to its origin in the hutch, so the shrill warble of a fire engine came with great relief, and soon large men in yellow gear filled her patio.
With their arrival, she retreated to the doorway where Abbie stood watching, hugging Edward in both arms. Claudia fought back tears of relief, and rubbed the rabbit’s ears. “Edward. You’re alright,” she said.
Abbie buried her nose in the rabbit’s fur, her eyes defensive.
“Abbie, did you smuggle Edward into your bed again?” Claudia asked, too relieved to try to sound stern.
Abbie nodded, and what was Claudia to say now? For if the child had followed the rules, she’d be mourning the death of her pet. Claudia compromised on a frown and a hug, and together they watched the fire fighters swiftly and efficiently bring the blaze under control. The fire chief asked quite a few questions, few of which Claudia could answer. She had not seen the fire start; had no idea what had caused it.
“It makes no sense,” he said. “Look, Ms Westerson. How about you get the little lady off to bed. I’ll just take another look outside while you do that.”
Abbie was drooping, slipping almost to sleep then jerking awake so as not to miss anything. She made only a token objection to the exciting evening coming to an end. Soon, she’d been to the bathroom and tucked into bed, her rabbit in a large cardboard box in the corner. Claudia figured she’d be asleep before Claudia closed the door.
The fire chief was waiting, standing by the door, his eyes roaming around the pictures of Abbie that decorated the walls.
“What did you want to say that you didn’t want Abbie to hear?” Claudia asked, but she already had an inkling. What else could it be? A fire that made no sense, starting on a concrete patio well away from any source of flame?
“Ms Westerson, I’m going to have to report this to the police,” the fire chief said. “I think the fire was deliberately set.”
The police officer who called the next morning meant to be reassuring. “Some kid thought it would be funny, Ms Westerson, until the fire got away on him.”
“Call me Claudia,” she begged, and he invited her to use his first name, Marcus.
“We’re neighbours, after all,” he pointed out.
She fought the temptation to accept to be quiet and good, to allow Marcus to brush her off, and told him about the note. He was very quiet as he handled it carefully, putting on disposable gloves before taking it off her, and asking her for a plastic bag to put it into when he was finished.
“This puts a different complexion on it,” he acknowledged. “Do you know of anyone who means you harm?”
Claudia’s fears choked her, but she fought them back and gave him as coherent an account as she could. If Marcus thought she was lying or hysterical, he had the courtesy not to indicate that belief in any way, remaining courteous and kind.
“It was that photo,” she said once she was finished. “The one at the A&P show. One of them has seen that photo and come after us.”
“Talking of photos, do you have pictures of any of these men?”
Claudia thought about it. “Not of Jack. They were all digital, and I lost my files when my hard drive crashed. I have some prints of Ethan and my father.” She found them in the keepsakes box with her medals and awards—a tightly stuffed album with photos, newspaper clippings, and certificates.
Marcus leafed through the album. “You were quite the gymnast,” he commented. “My little girl Pearl is in your class, but I didn’t realize her teacher was a champion.”
“Pearl is a sweetie,” Claudia told the proud father, and they talked for a few minutes about gymnastics while he continued to look through the pictures. In the end, he took several of her father smiling while Claudia accepted a winner’s ribbon and a couple of Ethan, including her favourite. He was also on a winner’s podium, looking straight at the camera with a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It had broken back into the broad grin he’d worn since the last ten minutes of the race, when he’d decided his lead made him invincible. His coach’s loudly expressed view that his swollen head could have lost him the race had dimmed the smile, but the medal brought it back. He was National Junior Cycling Champion, and on top of the world.
“That was nearly ten years ago,” Cl
audia warned Marcus. It all came apart shortly after that. She had a few more photos of Ethan, and none of that dreadful time between discovering she was pregnant with Abbie and reaching out desperately to the New Zealand grandmother she’d never met. The next photos in the album showed her, Grandma, and new-born Abbie.
“No more men,” she’d told Grandma.
“You’re young yet,” Grandma had said. “You might change your mind. But not till you are comfortable in your own skin, Claudia. That father of yours taught you to be good and obedient, and that’s a bad attitude to take into a relationship. Until you feel you have a right to be yourself, don’t take the risk. It isn’t worth it.”
But then Grandma died, Claudia was alone, and Jack seemed kind. What a fool she had been.
She walked Marcus out to his car, and was accepting his assurances that the police would be keeping an eye out to make sure she was safe when she saw his eyes change, hardening and narrowing as he looked at something over his shoulder.
“Your tires are flat, Claudia,” he told her.
They were, too. All four of them. “Not slashed,” Marcus reported. “I think they’ve just let the air out. What a nuisance! Do you need me to call the garage for you?”
Claudia shook her head. “I’ll do it in my lunch hour. I’m due at the school in ten minutes, and it looks like I’ll be walking.”
4
Jack Quinton nursed his bike the short distance to the garage. He shouldn’t have taken it out so early in the restoration process, but the engine had been running sweetly, he thought, and the rest of the work was cosmetic; he’d not been able to resist. He shook his head, irritated with himself. A man should stick to his plan.
When he’d phoned, he’d insisted on talking to the mechanic, and been pleasantly surprised. He’d not expected to find a Triumph expert in such a small town, but this fellow Stone seemed to know what he was talking about.
The man’s name and the American accent had sent Jack’s temper on a slow burn, but it must be a coincidence. This fellow couldn’t be Claudia’s first lover, the one who had fathered Abbie and then driven Claudia away.
He’d soon be able to check. The dark curls would be a giveaway, and Ethan Stone wasn’t that common a name.
When he arrived, though, Stone wasn’t available. “I’ll pass on a message,” the old fellow in the office said, “or you can wait, if you like. He’s just gone to do a pickup. Won’t be long.”
Jack wheeled the bike into the indicated place in the workshop and had a look around while he waited. The man liked everything in order, apparently. Tools neatly racked, work bench clear except for the piece currently being repaired, parts in labelled boxes, everything as clean as a vehicle mechanic’s workshop ever gets.
“Hi,” said a voice from the doorway. A man pushed another motorcycle, setting it in the bay next to Jack’s.
“Stone?” Jack asked, but he didn’t think so. The newcomer was dressed all wrong for a mechanic—an open-necked shirt, neat chinos, and leather sandals.
“He’s out, they tell me.” The newcomer held out a hand. “Rhys Phillips. I’ve just brought my bike over for a tune.”
“Jake.” He nodded towards his own bike. “Misfires at 3000 revs. Stone suggested several things it could be. Is he any good?”
Phillips shrugged. “Ben thinks so, but Stone’s new here. I’ve never met him. What about you? New to Fairburn or just passing through?”
This was what Jack didn’t like about small towns. Everyone knew everyone else, and nobody’s business was private. He smiled, putting as much warmth into it as he could. “I’m on holiday,” he explained. “I was passing through but this thing with the bike…” He spread his hands and shrugged.
“Here’s hoping Stone can fix you up, though there are worse places to be stuck than Fairburn. I grew up here, so I’m prejudiced, but we have some beautiful bush walks, two excellent boutique museums, and some great cafes and shops. Worth staying around for a few days even when you get the Triumph back on the road.”
Jack nodded, cheerfully. “I’ve nowhere in particular I have to be. I might just do that.”
A tow-truck with a trailer pulled into the forecourt just outside the workshop’s open doorway, and Phillips frowned. “That looks like Claudia’s car. Wonder what’s wrong? That poor girl doesn’t need more trouble.”
He was talking to himself, but Jack answered him. “Someone you know? Wonder what’s wrong with it.” Most of his attention was on the driver, who was backing the trailer up to the entrance. Black curls.
“A teacher aide at my school,” Phillips explained. “Nice woman. She had a fire at her place last night, and now this, whatever this is.”
The truck driver had the trailer where he wanted it and had stopped to pat a large fluffy cat—a nondescript black—that had emerged from under the workbench and hurried to greet him. Phillips went outside to talk to the man and, after a moment, Jack followed.
“I’m Rhys Phillips from the school,” the teacher was explaining. “Ms Westerson works for me, and I’m sorry to see she’s having car trouble.”
Stone gave Phillips a nod. “Ethan Stone. Someone let the air out of all four tires. I went over to fill them up again, but they’re all punctured. Bad luck, especially after the fire last night.” He caressed the cat’s ears and told it, “Back to sleep, Boss. I’ve got work to do.”
If Stone and Claudia were back together, her employer didn’t know it. “Poor lady,” Jack commented.
“This is your next customer,” Phillips said, helpfully. “Name of Jake. Has a Triumph needs a bit of work.”
Stone looked up from whatever he was doing with the ramps, and inclined his head. “Must be the day for them. Yours, Mr Phillips’, and I’ve got mine in today, as well.”
“Was anybody hurt?” Jack asked. “In the fire?” He was looking at Stone, but both men started to answer, Phillips waving to indicate Stone should go first.
“No idea. Ben told me about it when he sent me over to get the car. I haven’t met the lady—she was out.”
“She’s at work,” Phillips explained. “The fire was outside, and she and her little girl are fine.” He chuckled. “The rabbit would have been in trouble, since it was his hutch that took most of the damage, but Abbie had smuggled him into bed with her.”
“That’s good, then.” Jack shared a smile with the other men. So, Stone didn’t know Claudia, eh? And Phillips showed too much interest in her for Jack’s comfort. Were they dating? Jack would need to ask around. In a small town, someone would know if the head teacher was humping one of his teacher aides.
He nodded towards the car. “What can I do to help?”
“I think we’ve got this. I’m just going to put Ms Westerson’s Corona into the workshop so Ben can have the truck, then we can take a look at what you need. Shouldn’t take long.”
Jack stood back, grateful for the time to compose himself. It was him alright. Ethan Stone. The man Claudia never forgot. Here in Fairburn. Did Claudia know? Is this why she had moved back to Fairburn; to be with Stone. And what was Jack going to do about it?
It took more than a minute to winch the car down, unhitch the trailer, and park the truck across the forecourt. “You don’t mind if I go first, do you?” Phillips asked as Stone picked a rag from a box of clean ones by the workbench and wiped his hands. “Lunch hour is nearly over, and I need to get back to school. Won’t take a moment.”
Jack managed a friendly wave. “Go for it,” he said.
He had a more immediate concern than Stone’s intentions. Could the man be trusted with the Triumph? He’d been a cyclist when Claudia met him, an Olympic hopeful. Washed up and in a downward spiral by the time she fled. Jack knew the man had followed Claudia to New Zealand, and he knew about the fight that had landed one man in a wheelchair and another in prison. When had Stone had time to become a motor mechanic—and a bike specialist at that?
Stone said goodbye to Phillips and crossed immediately to Jack’s bike, sq
uatting down to take a close look. “You’re restoring her yourself?” he asked.
Jack put a defensive hand on the bike’s seat, conscious of all the work still to do. “A bit of a project,” he offered.
With a caressing finger, Stone lovingly traced the handlebars, inspecting the set-up, each instrument and every wire meticulously placed. “Nice work. Yours?”
It shouldn’t matter what this scum thought, but Jack couldn’t resist the rush of pride. “It was. Took three tries to get it right.”
Stone raised his eyebrows and gave an impressed nod. “Most people don’t take the trouble. I don’t know if I could have done a better job myself, and I’ve been at it for five years now, including my apprenticeship. Cars as well, but the bikes are what I get up for in the morning. Are you a mechanic?”
Jack shook his head. “IT. Hardware, but it’s a different scale. You said you had a Triumph yourself?”
Stone nodded to a tarpaulin in the corner. “Over there. I’m working on it a bit at a time in the evenings. A later model than yours, but still a nice slice of history. Do you want to see?”
He stood back proudly when he revealed the machine: a sleek gleaming beast with all the glamour Jack envisaged for his own.
“She’s beautiful.” Jack couldn’t keep the envy from his voice, but Stone didn’t remark on it.
“Yes, she is. Yours will be as good. Maybe better, since she’s a ’62. Let’s start her up and have a listen.” He drew the tarpaulin back over his bike, and turned his attention back to Jack’s.
Jack found himself explaining his decision to drive the bike on his holiday, but Stone was soothing. “It could be timing, plug gap, a faulty solder, a couple of other things. You couldn’t have foreseen problems when you set out. I’ll take a look, and it should be easy to fix, if I’m right about the cause.”