by GJ Minett
And he likes this. Likes it very much. The idea of acting as Abi’s protector is an appealing one that’s been carrying him through his weights sessions of late. Now he knows all that hard work hasn’t been for nothing. Abi will feel safer with him around. That’s the word she used. Safer.
She stresses again that all she wants him to do is be there. He mustn’t get involved.
‘Even if Adam loses his temper and starts to say things you think are hurtful, I want you to stay out of it. You have to promise, Owen.’
‘OK.’
‘Seriously. I mean it. I’ve got to know I can trust you on this. If I can’t, tell me now.’
So he promises again. He’s not going to do anything if that’s what she wants. He’ll just stand there and watch. Be there for her. He can do that.
She turns into Hawthorn Road, ignoring the twenty-miles-per-hour signs and following the directions coming from her mobile. When they reach the Wheatsheaf, it tells her to turn left into Sandringham Way, a narrow road with terraced houses down one side and the allotments on the left, protected by wire mesh fencing about six-foot high. In front of the houses there’s a parking bay in which cars are jutting out at an angle to make more room. Abi picks a gap and swings into it, leaving just enough space for Owen to get the door open and squeeze through.
They cross the road to a padlocked gate. There’s a plastic-covered notice, one corner unattached and flopping forward, which says: Please be reminded that the gate must remain locked at all times by order of the town clerk. Even so, as Abi nudges it with her foot it swings open.
There’s a network of green pathways ahead of them, threading their way through the separate plots of land. Some areas are neatly maintained, covered in black plastic ground sheeting to protect the soil. Others look as if they haven’t been tended for quite some time, with bits of wood left lying around among the weeds. They walk past a white plastic chair lying on its side and a wheelbarrow that’s been left upright and is now rusted through from all the rain that’s gathered in it over the years. Such a waste. Some of the panes have been smashed in the greenhouse that’s nearest to the road – an easy target for local kids with nothing better to do with their evenings.
There are half a dozen or so people dotted around as far as Owen can see. No surprise the areas they’re all working on look cared for. One person looks a lot younger than the others. He’s sitting on a stool, putting the finishing touches to the shed he’s been staining a dark green colour. Seems like an odd time of year to be doing that but he’s not making a bad job of it. Owen thinks he might have found a kindred spirit for a moment until he realises that this is where Abi is heading as she picks her way carefully through the damp grass.
Kitchener looks up, sees who’s approaching and goes back to his work. Abi waits until they’re about ten yards away, then turns and whispers to Owen to wait here. She’ll call if she needs him. He knows it can’t be because she wants to talk in private because, unless they’re going to whisper or go inside the shed, he’s close enough anyway to hear whatever they have to say to each other. He assumes she still doesn’t quite trust him enough to keep his word – is worried he might get angry and lash out suddenly. He reminds himself that he’s promised her – she can trust him. Whatever happens, he’ll stay out of it or next time she’ll ring someone else.
Kitchener doesn’t make any attempt to acknowledge their presence. Just carries on staining the wood. Owen wishes he’d had a chance to see him before now because it would have saved him a lot of unnecessary worry. There’s no way he would have seen him as serious competition if he’d had a chance to size him up. He’s no more than medium height – taller than Abi, for sure, but nowhere near six foot. Five eight, five nine at most. Owen would tower over him if they stood back to back. Could probably carry him under one arm.
And he’s not even good-looking. He’s got a long, thin nose which gives him a ferrety look and he’s trying for some sort of designer stubble which just comes across as wispy and scruffy, as though he couldn’t be bothered to shave for the past few days. Much as he used to hate Callum, Owen has to admit there was something about him. He was good-looking enough to have all the girls in school chasing after him and confident enough to have most of the boys wanting to be his friend. This weed though? Different kettle of fish altogether. He must have got it wrong all this time. There’s no way Abi would ever have chosen him as her partner.
A weed in the allotments, he thinks to himself. And he’s quite pleased with that.
Abi’s standing right next to Kitchener now so that he can’t ignore her.
‘I’ve brought your keys,’ she says, putting her hand in her coat pocket and offering them to him. He looks at them for a moment, then holds out his hand so that she can drop them into it. She misses and they fall to the ground, almost landing in the paint pot. He shakes his head, retrieves them and puts them in his pocket. Then he gets to his feet. Definitely, thinks Owen. Five-nine at most. And now that he can see more of him he realises that there’s almost nothing to him. Obviously doesn’t look after himself. Looks as if he’s never done a day’s manual labour in his life. Works in a bookshop? Big surprise.
Kitchener still hasn’t said anything. Walks over to several piles of empty flower pots that are stacked inside each other. Chooses a pile, takes out the first two pots, reaches inside the third one and retrieves something which, from where Owen’s standing, looks like another key. Then he goes to the shed door and unlocks it. Owen’s not sure why they’re standing around waiting but he can’t catch Abi’s attention without speaking and he’s promised he’ll stay out of it. He can wait. Five minutes from now they’ll be back in the car and it will all be over.
Kitchener comes back out of the shed, holding a plastic bag with ‘Monsoon’ printed on it. He locks up and returns the key to the same place – third pot in the stack. Then he hands the bag to Abi who looks surprised to receive it.
‘It’s a jumper,’ he says, sitting back down on the stool and picking up the brush again. ‘Bought it in Leeds. Thought it’d look good on you.’
Abi doesn’t even open the bag to look inside.
‘Adam . . . I can’t take this.’
‘Early Christmas present,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Keep it. It’s not like there’s anyone else I can give it to. And it’s a helluva long way to go for a refund.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. And Owen thinks, poor Abi. People always queuing up to give her presents which she can’t keep. At least she knows now she can wear his necklace any time she likes. He doesn’t think somehow that she’ll be doing the same with some cheap jumper two months from now. No comparison.
‘Sorry about the bag,’ he says. ‘Was going to wrap it but then I thought why bother? Not as if I give a shit.’
Abi takes half a step back as if she’s been physically manhandled but says nothing. Kitchener meanwhile seems to take an interest in Owen for the first time.
‘Who’s he?’ he asks, nodding his head in his direction.
‘A friend of mine.’
‘Oh. A friend.’ There’s a sarcastic chuckle along with this but Owen knows his job is to ignore it. ‘Where’d you find him? Rent-a-Shrek?’
Abi says nothing, just stares at him for a moment before throwing the bag at him. He instinctively puts an arm up to block it, realising too late that it’s the one holding the brush, which slides down the outside of the bag, leaving a green smear on it. He swears and snatches up the bag to check that the jumper inside is undamaged. Abi meanwhile turns on her heel and walks away.
But Kitchener hasn’t quite finished yet.
‘Hey, big boy,’ he calls out as they head back towards the gate. ‘You want a piece of advice?’
Owen stops and half-turns but Abi puts her hand on his arm to encourage him to keep walking.
‘Where you are now, mate? Been there.’ Kitchener’s voice rings out, causing one or two other gardeners to look up from what they’re doing. ‘Been there and g
ot the T-shirt. Not the first either. Well-worn path you’re treading, I tell you.’
‘Ignore him,’ Abi whispers, taking his arm and steering him away from there. ‘Don’t listen.’
‘Don’t know what she’s told you, pal, but if you think she’s latched onto you because of your looks, get yourself a bathroom mirror. She’s after something. Bet your arse, she’s using you somehow.’
And Owen can still hear his mocking laughter long after they’ve got back into Abi’s car and driven off.
Later that evening, he’s feeling pleased with himself. He’s had an idea. It’s a good one, which means Willie doesn’t like it. In fact, it’s a very good idea, which is why Willie is alternating between whining and sneering, with lots of references to necklaces, baseball bats, wasted breath and deaf ears. But he can whinge as much as he likes, he’s not fooling anyone. They both know it’s the right thing to do. The only thing wrong with it is that Willie’s not the one who thought of it. He’s got used to seeing himself as the ideas man. Thinks if it doesn’t come from him it can’t be any use.
Well, now they both know that’s not true.
Funny how today’s turned out. Last thing he’d expected this morning was that he’d be spending his evening scribbling ideas onto a sheet of paper and making sure everything fits. But the plan’s more or less there. He knows what he has to do next. It’s just the final piece that won’t slot into place, the bit where the police know where to look. He’s had a few thoughts but none that will guarantee he’s in the clear. Not one hundred per cent. And this can’t come back to bite him, whatever happens. He won’t go through with it unless he’s quite sure. It’s just that everything he’s come up with so far has had a flaw in it somewhere and Willie’s been quick to pounce on it. Says it’s what happens if you go off half-cocked at things. Haven’t thought it through, have you?
But that’s just what he is doing and he’ll get there eventually. Just because there are still a few details to iron out doesn’t mean he can’t at least set it all up. The most important thing right now is moving the bat from the Aldertons’ shed. It’s got to come out sometime soon anyway in case they decide to come back for a few days over the Christmas period, so why not move it to where it can cause the most damage? Where it belongs. The rest will take care of itself one way or another.
Willie’s still bleating on about the risks involved which just goes to show how things are changing around here at last. Not that long ago it was Willie urging him to pick the bat up off the ground and get rid of Callum once and for all. If it’s risks he wants to talk about, they could always start there. He didn’t seem to have any problem with putting everything on the line then, did he? But now, because he can see he’s not the one taking the lead all the time, it’s all Wait. Think. Don’t rush into anything. Like he’s the only one capable of taking the big decisions.
And he’s rabbiting on now about using the probability test to make sure and Owen thinks maybe that’s not such a bad idea. If nothing else it’ll shut him up for a while because he has no doubt whatsoever the die will fall in his favour. Everything else has done. The necklace. The bat with the special numbers. When the right number comes up on the die, not even Willie will be able to argue against it. Then maybe he’ll get some peace and quiet at last.
So he goes to the chest of drawers in the lounge, opens the middle one and fetches out the Trivial Pursuit which his mother used to play with him. He takes a die from the box, then sits on the floor in the kitchen where the lino will guarantee a free, unimpeded roll – he doesn’t want there to be any ambiguity about the outcome here. He holds the die up to his mouth, whispering words of encouragement, even though he’s sure there’s no need, shakes his hand and opens it, letting the die scud across the floor where it cannons into the base of the sink unit and rebounds out into the open. He shuffles along on his backside and picks it up.
It’s a one.
One? What does that mean? It’s a nothing number. Neither fish nor fowl, as his mother used to say. If it was a three or a six, that would be as clear a green light as you can get. Two or five, he’d know to back away. But a one . . . that doesn’t tell him anything. So he throws again . . . and of course, that’s not good enough for Willie who seems to want to make up new rules as he goes along, because he’s insisting this means the plan is no good. If it had anything going for it, a three or a six would have come up. Throwing again is bucking a system they’ve always relied on in the past. But he doesn’t get to decide. Owen does.
He throws again.
It’s another one.
This time he doesn’t even hesitate which means there’s no time for any objections. He grabs the die and throws again. He’ll keep going till he gets a clear message.
This time it’s a four, and another argument is looming. Willie says he’s had three attempts. Three is the lucky number and yet the die still hasn’t managed to come up with a three or a six. That ought to be a clear enough warning for anyone. But Owen’s not listening. He’s marshalling his own troops instead.
For one thing: one plus one plus four makes . . . six. Multiple of three. And if you take the numbers as a whole instead of separately, that gives you 114 and, as any fool knows, that’s a multiple of three as well. You can’t get a clearer green light than that. But Willie’s not having it. He’s howling with derision, accusing Owen of cheating, of bending the results to fit the overall pattern he wants to see instead of letting the die decide as they’ve always done in the past.
But his outrage is just so much hot air.
It’s good enough for Owen.
And he knows what to do next.
*
It’s nearly midnight when he steps out into the cold night air. Frost is already starting to form on the windscreen, a stiff breeze singing in his ears. He’s usually in bed by nine so this is very late for him. Adrenaline keeping him awake. Heart pumping.
The bat’s lying on the passenger seat next to him. He reaches down from time to time to check it’s still there. He collected it earlier this afternoon from the Aldertons’ shed. Nothing suspicious about that – neighbours are used to him being there at different times of the day. He was anxious driving back home as he is now, sticking religiously to the speed limit, taking care not to do anything to draw attention to himself. If the worst comes to the worst and he’s stopped by the police, he has a cover story ready. He found the bat in his shed, knows the police have been looking for it. He assumes someone is trying to incriminate him and he is on his way to hand it in to the authorities.
Except he isn’t, of course.
Just as he did earlier, he’s keeping a close eye on any cars behind him in case he’s being followed. It’s much easier at this time of night. There’s very little traffic on the road and he’s seen no suspicious lights in the rear-view mirror. He takes a far from direct route, using a handful of narrow back streets, doubling back on himself, stopping occasionally . . . just to make sure.
When he’s quite certain it’s safe to do so, he turns into Sandringham Way and pulls into a space just a short distance from where Abi and he were parked earlier. He turns off the engine and the lights. Sits in darkness for a few seconds, looking around and making quite sure he’s on his own. No lights come on in any of the houses, no curtains twitch, no one chooses that moment to open the front door and leave empty milk bottles on the front step or call for the cat to come in. He gets out of the pickup and closes the door as quietly as he can, checking further along the road. Even this late at night, people might still be about and he needs to make sure no one sees him for the next few minutes. He waits a few seconds longer, then opens the passenger door and picks up the bat, stroking it gently with his gloved hands. He’ll miss it, that’s for sure. He’s wondered about looking online for an exact replacement, something he can order and then keep as a souvenir. But that means leaving a trace and he knows he can’t afford to do that. It will have to go. But at least it’s going to be put to the best possibl
e use.
Checking carefully one last time, he crosses the road and nudges the gate to the allotments with his foot. It’s locked this time but that’s no problem for someone of his height. He throws the bat over the fence, then grabs the top of the gate with both hands and pulls himself up, swinging a long leg out, using it as a lever to haul himself over before dropping as soundlessly as possible on the other side.
It’s pitch black. There are no street lights to help him and he can barely see more than a few yards in front of his face. He picks his way carefully along the pathways, remembering the route he and Abi took earlier. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, too far away to represent any threat. There’s the occasional sound of a car driving down Hawthorn Road, otherwise the silence is as deep as the all-enveloping darkness. Just the crunch, crunch, crunch of his feet as he trudges forward. Nothing else.
His eyes are gradually starting to adjust and he can now make out dark shapes looming up around him. He remembers the white plastic chair that’s still there, lying on its side. And here’s the wheelbarrow – he can’t see the hole in it from here but this is definitely the right path. If he just branches off left sometime soon, he ought to find . . .
And here it is. There are a number of sheds dotted around here but he made a note at the time. The one he wants is the fourth along. He stops in front of it and wonders whether to take off a glove and prod it to see if it’s still sticky from earlier but stops himself in time. No prints. He can hardly claim he left them earlier – he never came within yards of the shed. Play safe. Keep thinking.
He steps to the side of the shed where the rows of empty flower pots were. He hasn’t brought a torch with him because he doesn’t want to run the risk of someone spotting the beam of light and calling the police but he decides it won’t do any harm to use the light from his mobile just for a few seconds – there are so many pots lying around and he wants to make sure he’s got the right stack.