by P. R. Black
That said, she could still enjoy some of the space, at least before the sun went down.
So, after a quick walk into the forest, long enough to get cold and regret the decision, Vonny dug out her tartan blanket and lounged by the empty swimming pool. She pursed her lips at the irony, and even took a selfie.
Although there was no water in the rectangle cut in the earth, the cyan tiles were a fine illusion, and the overhanging branches and huge potted conifers viewed obliquely added to the sense that she was on holiday. Holidays were where it was at. She had to imagine the sea, while she indulged in the rare luxury of being able to disappear into her book. In the cold air, but snug under the blanket, she was alone in her own woollen oasis. The only thing that gave her any pause was the imposing shade of the house. Vonny couldn’t help but glance up at the bank of windows every now and again, fearful that a figure might appear there.
A sudden flutter in the grey above startled her; looking up, she noticed the bird of prey.
Vonny was curious about the creatures who lived on her land, although she didn’t have any particular mania to know the exact taxonomy and Latin nomenclature attached to each species. However, this one caught her eye, and she became curious.
It wheeled high overhead, not hovering, surely too large to be a kestrel. Although it was difficult to tell beneath the low grey clouds, it appeared smudged, off-white the way a polar bear’s fur looked against bleached white ice, wings spread as it wheeled high above the forest. Not a golden eagle, surely. They lived in the highlands, or the steppe, even more accessible places where the rabbits and voles had to look lively. Vonny followed its path as it made its stoop towards a treeline, then halted the dive and returned to the higher air. Just for a day… To be able to see what it saw, she thought; to be aware of even the slightest movement in the twitching trees below. For things to be that sharp, that clear.
She sat up on the sunlounger and, on impulse, switched her tablet to camera mode. She took a moment or two to train the lens on the dark stripe swooping above, then zoomed in.
It was an owl of some kind. Vonny wouldn’t have put her life on the species, thanks to the blurring effect of its flight – as she’d said earlier, she didn’t quite have her ‘eye in’ when it came to the creatures of the woods – but something in the stark hue of the raptor’s plumage suggested the phrase ‘barn owl’ to her. She could see one in her mind’s eye, an image from a picture book she’d had as a child, the huge dark eyes, the ruffled neck, the luckless field mouse dangling from its beak. But they were nocturnal, weren’t they?
She took several shots, keeping the camera on the bird as it plunged low past the branches. It came past a huge alder tree, surely the biggest in view over the north wall of the house, and then she saw him.
‘Oh,’ was all Vonny said for a second or two. She dropped the tablet, as if embarrassed on the other person’s behalf. Then a mixture of shock and fear took her by the scruff of the neck. She lifted the tablet slowly – not wishing to make any sudden moves, the better not to attract a predator’s attention – and zoomed in again.
It took her upwards of twenty seconds to pinpoint him again. Someone in green khaki trousers, perched on a branch. With an actual pair of binoculars. Pointing right at her.
‘Bastard,’ she said, under her breath. She took several photos of him – a young man with black or dark brown hair, with a pair of hillwalking trainers dangling off the branch, maybe ten or fifteen feet off the ground – and then she got to her feet, hideously self-conscious as she whipped off the blanket, despite being fully clothed down to her shoes. She padded across the chill paving stones towards the patio, got her heavy boots on and was out the front door in two minutes flat.
Having some idea of the topography of the woods and one or two of its byways, Vonny knew enough to be clever about how she approached him. She took the dogleg path to the right, where she’d bumped into Prill, taking care not to glance in the direction of the alder tree. The woods closed in as she made her way along the wall, but occasionally she could see the top of the alder tree – the lumpen, outsized kid in class they made stand at the back of the class photo.
It was stupid, of course, and she tried hard to take deep breaths as her hands worried themselves. Vonny had no clear plan when she caught up with the man in the alder tree, if she actually did catch up with him.
What should I do? Fire a bloody warning shot?
It had been a long time since she’d played hide-and-seek. She tried to move as quickly and quietly towards him as she could, always keeping the upper branches of the alder tree in view. She was sweating by this time despite the chill – pure anxiety, not through any exertion – and kept her phone in her hand.
I’m all alone out here. With him.
She tried to focus on her indignation. Soon she stepped into a clear space, heading close to the alder tree. Then she saw, as she’d feared, that the tree was empty.
I’m sure I saw this in a film once.
As soon as this occurred to her, a branch snapped, over her left shoulder.
Vonny spun around, and there he was.
18
He froze, comically, as if preparing his hands to play an invisible piano. ‘Deer caught in headlights’ was the cliché that came naturally and fit best. He was a boy, Vonny saw, fifteen at the most, of average height but very skinny. He might go on to develop a good jawline and broad shoulders, but for the moment his features hung on him like a bad suit. He had large grey eyes that blinked rapidly, and longish dark hair that draped on either side of his face, parted in the middle. This didn’t look like so much of a fashion statement as simple neglect, though the hair was clean enough. Binoculars and a very expensive-looking long-lens camera hung round his neck. His khaki trousers and a dark T-shirt completed the outfit.
Vonny sensed his fear and relaxed accordingly. She held up her hands, as if intimating that she was not armed. ‘Hey… It’s all right,’ she said, softly, as if to an animal. ‘You’re fine. Please don’t run from me.’
‘I was just going,’ he mumbled, and took a couple of steps. He was tense, ready to run.
‘Please, don’t run. You’re not in any trouble. It’s fine. I’m Vonny.’
The boy blushed, and actually looked away from her. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and Vonny now felt utterly alarmed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been tracking the owl. I was trying to see where it nests.’
‘Yes – I saw it. A barn owl, was it?’
He nodded. ‘That’s it. It hunts around these woods, and the farm across the road. The farmer won’t let me come onto his land. I’ve been tracking it, look.’
He started forward. Vonny swallowed, and her heart began to beat out of control.
‘Look,’ he said, turning the control screen on the back of the camera towards her. ‘It quarters over the farmland in daylight. It’s rare but some do it. This one’s bold.’
Vonny peered forward, making sure she was out of arm’s reach. There, indeed, was the owl, in incredible definition. In full flight with its wingspan stretched to the limit, it was far more formidable than the heart-shaped face would have led you to believe. And there was a terrible fixity about the huge, jet-black eyes, lubricious. How many creatures saw their own final struggles reflected in those eyes?
‘It is an awesome bird. I saw it from my garden.’
‘Sometimes farmers don’t like them around, but they’re great for getting rid of rats and rabbits, those kinds of things.’ He was very polite, with a deep voice long since broken.
The boy flicked through the camera, detailing shot after shot. On one or two of these shots, the house was visible in the background, but never in close-up. Other shots appeared – clearly taken from ground level – showing the greeny-blue sheen of a magpie, a far grander bird in close-up than it seemed from a distance. After that, a dainty little thing in red, brown and black.
‘What’s that one?’ she asked.
‘A chaffinch. Lovely little bird. That’s
from the summer. Seen a few of them around here.’ The boy scratched his head, a nervous twitch like a dog flicking its ears.
‘You’re a… what is it they call it? A twitcher?’
He blushed again. ‘I call myself a birder. It’s… a weird hobby, I know that. I should get into football or something. That’s what I tell my dad, anyway.’
‘I think it’s awesome – something I always wanted to get into. You live around here?’
‘Uh, yeah – few miles up and over the hill.’
‘I live here.’
He showed shock. ‘What – here? On this land?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re building the house?’
‘It’s built.’
‘You’re related to Dan Grainger?’
‘I am happy to tell you that I’m no relation to Dan Grainger whatsoever.’
‘That’s… kind of a relief.’
‘Not a nice man, I’m hearing.’
‘No. He chased me off here a couple of times. His eldest son set a dog on me. I started coming back a few weeks ago. I stayed away from the building.’ He made eye contact at last. ‘I’m really sorry if I’ve trespassed. My dad told me not to come near the place, but it’s such a great site… So many species in these woods and in the farm behind… It’s a gold mine for me, it really is.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Vonny said. ‘You’ve got my permission to come in and take as many pictures of the birds as you like. It’s absolutely fine. The only thing I’d ask is that you stay away from the house. We’re still having a bit of work done, and we’re going to be pulling down an old shed and one or two other things. I’ll warn the crews that you’ll be around. But I’ve no problem with you coming in here and taking shots of the birds… What’s your name again?’
‘Crispin.’
‘Crispin. As I said – I’m Vonny. We’re going to be neighbours. It’s nice to meet you.’
He looked utterly relieved, though still about ready to kick-start his chicken legs and sprint off into the undergrowth. ‘That means an awful lot – I got some incredible shots of a red kite in the summer. You’re really lucky to have all this on your doorstep. Dan Grainger and his sons absolutely hated people coming onto his land. They used to fire guns all the time – even if I’d been brave enough to come into the woods, they might have killed me by accident.’
‘The more I’m hearing about Dan Grainger, the less I like, to be honest.’
Crispin checked over his shoulder. ‘He was a gangster, they say.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ The boy lowered his voice. ‘You know it was a murder-suicide, right? I mean… I guess it’s creepy and all, but the old house isn’t there. Apparently he shot his son, then himself. Then his other son hanged himself. But I heard different.’
‘Is that a fact?’ She feigned surprise.
‘Yeah. My mate Tommy’s dad is in the police. You know what he says?’
She shook her head.
‘Apparently, he got killed by another gang, who wanted in on his turf. They killed Dan and both sons, then made it look like murder-suicide. Like they’d all lost their minds.’
‘Any idea who this gang was?’
‘People from out of town. Big players. Local cops know to leave well alone, they say.’
‘Well. They’re out of the picture now. It was nice to meet you, Crispin. You carry on with your shots. Maybe you can get a print of one of them for me?’
‘Sure! Bye now!’ Then, bless him, he did actually run off into the forest, binoculars and camera rattling against his chest.
19
Most of Seth’s life had been an accident, or hit just as hard as one. The bass was only an exception in that it set the tone for every other accident to follow.
He had a Fender bass – a proper one with all the trimmings – but it mostly stayed on its stand, bolted to the wall like a medieval prisoner. He insisted on using the cheapo Fender copy he’d bought for £55 off his mate’s uncle when he was fifteen.
The year before that, Seth had entertained dreams of being a singer and guitarist in an indie band. But his progress on guitar had been slow, and, as he’d found to his cost during a practice session attended by girls who had not passed out in a frenzy of lust, but had in fact laughed at him, he could not hold a note to save himself. He’d been asked to take a turn on bass after their original player backed out, and once he’d gotten over himself and practised properly… something had happened.
It had underpinned everything. The singer who’d replaced him in that band – even its name embarrassed Seth, and he never mentioned it in any interviews – had been decent, the guitar player even better, if smug (this was not uncommon, Seth came to discover). And the drummer had been competent, but a year younger than Seth and his friends, meaning he was roundly patronised. So far as Seth knew, the drummer had not gone on to become the George Harrison of the band.
Seth got used to playing bass, enjoying the relative anonymity – or as anonymous as a six-foot-plus teenager could get. Then he had asked Mr Joffrey, the music teacher, what certain buttons on the mixing desk did. Seth had wanted his bass to sound warm, not dirgey. He had found out how to do it. It was alchemy, or pure magic, though Mr Joffrey had called it the production process. From there, Seth had indulged a long-mocked interest in synthesisers and sequencers. Soon, he had resigned from the band – and who knew, this might have been their moment of bad luck. The other four members didn’t amount to anything in music, though he always had time for them on social media.
Seth had followed a different path. He produced and co-wrote a track that had been a classic club hit, which had then been sampled by a rapper. Seth was an accidental producer; as a sideline, then as his main bread and butter. Then he was a success, producing singles and then full albums, in several different genres. He had been extremely close to being taken on by a band he hadn’t mentioned to anyone but Vonny for fear of not being taken seriously, even after his song had been on top of the charts. This shining glory, and just about all of his savings, had been as a result of Ninjakata’s number-one single. It had been composed on that one same old bass with the wobbly tone dial. Royalties were still a beautiful surprise, for work carried out years before, sat on the edge of his and Vonny’s bed in their cramped flat in Balham, his studio a laptop computer, headphones drowning out the sound of traffic and sirens outside.
Seth had some experience in LA about six or seven years previously, but the experience had been alienating. He hadn’t realised he was a homebody until he had that sterile experience of airports, check-ins, hotels and worse, nightclubs. Since then he was largely confined to work in the UK, but he’d had that experience in Scandinavia, a different way of working… And the studio had been somewhere rural, late summer, golden light, longer shadows, still gorgeous. A bright green explosion went off in his mind. Then came the Great Big Stroke Of Luck.
The music business had been an obvious gateway to bad habits for some, but for Seth it had led to a work ethic, professionalism and ultimately escape. As a young man it had been the first time in his life he’d found something to do, something to work at. A college course had helped; while he was a competent player, he’d never quite mastered the bass the way he would have liked, and his sense of rhythm was to this day something of a joke on the dance floor of weddings and family parties, Seth had mastered computers, the recording of sound, where and at what volume to place certain instruments.
This adherence to a flat 4x4 professional beat had been a fluke. Because Seth’s path might have been different. Nowadays, he had no contact with Script, Ross Langley, Hibbo, the Jock, or any of the other guys in his block he’d run around with as a boy, and that was for the best. He’d had a knife in his hands, but never used it. He had, however, used a baseball bat, an heirloom from a hard cousin who had sold it to him way before the other uncle sold him the bass. Specifically, he’d used it on a car, then a face, both in the same incident. It made his n
ame. He knew the disgust of this early.
Seth had always been tall and broad for his age, but he’d never thought of himself as a fighter. Indeed, he’d been beaten up several times in primary school skirmishes; on one less than memorable occasion, his pal Hibbo had challenged kids from another school to a fight on the top deck of a bus, before running and leaving Seth to it when more kids than expected had piled in. Seth had been thrown down the stairs, a seemingly out-of-body experience with his actual body being folded in half; even now he regarded it as a miracle in that he hadn’t ended up in a wheelchair. However, ‘like drinking or shagging’, as Hibbo had remarked, with authority far beyond his age and experience, the more Seth did it, the better he got at violence.
He grew to enjoy the fear he engendered, which only rose the more he hit back. He’d known from before he went to big school how fighting really went – not the morality of TV kung fu, never mind the Marquess of Queensberry, but simply how many friends you had around you at the time, and also being the aggressor, rather than the defender. He’d only badly hurt one or two people – he could remember one kid, hands pressed to his face, bent double, eyes wide in utter shock as the blood ran through his fingers and stained his trainers.
Usually at this point in the story a girl would appear, showing him the error of his ways, but it didn’t quite happen like that. There had been two major relationships in his life, both of which had ended badly. He hadn’t met anyone who complemented him in the same way Vonny did; someone equally creative, but utterly uncompetitive. The constant had been music, his escape pod, stemming from indie productions and word of mouth and a good teacher and then an indulgent lecturer with a contacts book and a willingness to open it up.
Basslines were the beginning for Seth, the creative impulse from which his songs emerged, and there had been a weird, ugly bassline running through his life, one his fingers couldn’t help but pluck. Dirgey, as on the school morning this sound had first irritated him, not warm.