He left more abruptly than he’d intended, unable to resist heading in the direction the youth had taken. He knew he’d already lost track of him and told himself his story-heightened senses had overplayed the resemblance anyway. Normality began to settle around him. After scanning the streets for a few moments, he shrugged it off as uncanny but impossible and went in search of a newsagent’s to buy some pipe tobacco. A snatch of overheard conversation in the shop confirmed that storms were on the way, borne out by the gathering clouds, so his next move would be to find somewhere to spend the night before the rain arrived.
Marilyn sat down on the bench the busker had vacated and went through her bag again, trying to be systematic about it while not attracting attention. She checked every pocket – jacket, jeans – even though she knew her purse was not in any of them. The Keep calm and… range of mugs and teatowels in the window of a nearby gift shop attracted her attention. Keep calm and kill buskers. She’d been glad she’d stopped to listen, but the magic was soon supplanted by the nagging suggestion that perhaps the guy had an accomplice and did this routinely. At least being unable to find her purse meant she hadn’t thrown him any change; that would have added insult to injury. The clouds that had been gathering all day finally conspired to hide the sun as a fleeting image came to her mind of the teenager standing nearby in the small audience. She clearly remembered his sharp features softened by a dark floppy fringe, with a stud earring just visible. Her annoyance transferred to herself. Why suspect him just because he was a youth? It wasn’t so long since she’d been that age. Or was it the hint of a foreign accent in his ‘Excuse me’, as a boisterous child had jostled him against her? He’d been friendly enough to apologise, and returned her accepting smile with one of his own. It was obvious he’d been as entranced as she was by the performance, not some thief alert for a mark. No, just because she felt a residual resentment at having to spend the morning in the spare workshop at Matt’s craft centre, with no inkling of when her own place would be ready, didn’t mean she had to go pointing the finger indiscriminately.
It wasn’t as if she had anything too important in the purse – just enough cash, a few receipts and only one card, which she’d phone and cancel as soon as she was certain. What really riled her was the inconvenience and blush-inducing embarrassment of it – Mike the greengrocer’s patronising show of understanding as he offered to keep the bag of goods behind the stall until she, the scatty woman, sorted herself out. And the fact that if she did want to claim them she’d either have to go back and borrow from Matt, or waste the good part of an hour, and half a gallon of petrol, going home and back. The first was unbearable and the second impossible – she had an appointment at four with a new outlet for her pottery, and reporting the theft was a priority for the little time she had left.
She was fortunate to catch an officer in at the police station, and while she was describing the purse, its contents and where she’d last seen it, her annoyance and frustration grew as it occurred to her that her fuel tank was low and she now had no money or card to fill it. She gave a brief description of the youth – purely as a possible witness, she told her conscience – and left as quickly as she could, as if by setting off sooner she could reach her destination before the petrol tank ran dry. It didn’t work. The gauge was too low for common sense and she ended up phoning to rearrange the appointment for Monday and going straight home to raid the freezer.
Why had he run? He hadn’t run, Vinko’s pride told him, he’d walked away. Had no choice, after being so reckless. Reckless? The woman had her patchwork bag hanging open, purse on full view – an opportunity, and he’d have been a fool to let it go. Better a sparrow in your hand than a pigeon on the branch. The kind of wisdom peddled by the storyteller – he hadn’t understood every word, but the stories held him all the same. And the music…the tunes had got to him, kind of familiar. What had been reckless was allowing himself to be held there, lingering when he should have been long gone. But since he had lingered, after the woman with the patchwork bag had safely moved on and the busker was packing up to go, he should have stopped to talk to him. Something had held him back like a physical barrier. Perhaps it might have been different if he hadn’t overheard the conversation at the market stall which suggested the man would be back.
The square was still busy though the sky was duller, the air muggy and threatening. Eager to salvage something more than a day out in much pleasanter surroundings than the city he was living in for now – he refused to think of that as anything other than temporary – he spent a few moments watching the steadily dwindling crowds. People on days out, perhaps less wary of their possessions than they normally would be. He wasn’t particularly proud of the way he got his pocket money, but it didn’t bother him too much. These people would happily put coins in tins rattled for the orphans of war, so wasn’t he simply cutting out the middleman, saving them the trouble of nagging their consciences to part with a few pennies? Enabling them to help a little without having to worry about the blanket nationality of Illegal to colour their judgement? He hated the drudgery of his job at the factory and knew they paid him half what they should, but he also knew he was in no position to complain or do anything about it. It barely covered the rent of his room in a run-down shared house and only just bought him enough to live, so he felt entitled to make a little extra until he could find a way of getting citizenship. Get himself a proper job, train to do something worthwhile. If he ever did. His mother had been forced to stay on in Germany when the refugees drifted home, had never registered his birth, and ever since he’d been old enough to wonder about these things he’d never known where it left him. As far as he knew he wasn’t legally entitled to be anywhere. He supposed you could buy anything if you had the means, including the right to exist.
He hung around for a few more minutes, vigilant; this wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. People may be less wary, but he was unsure of his ground, had to keep an additional part of his awareness alert for others whose territory he might be invading. Eventually he decided to content himself with the sparrow he’d already caught. Locked in a cubicle in the public toilets, away from prying eyes, he removed the cash. He had no use for cards, and in any case he never intended to take that much. On his way back to the square he dropped the emptied purse onto a low wall as deftly as he’d taken it. As he walked towards the bus stop he saw the woman heading for the car park. He hoped she’d see the purse.
The bus finally carried him away and a calm began to settle over him. He’d be back, just as the busker had said he’d be back. It briefly occurred to him that it was something they had in common: elusiveness, the ability to disappear at any time if they chose. He wondered when the time would come to make that choice, and move on. His mother had always said he should come here to find his grandparents, his family. He had the address, but had always held back from following it up. The only other family he’d had contact with had let him down. Dumped him here, then disappeared. Why should they be any different? But something in him knew that he would not move on until he’d at least tried.
Dusk was drawing down, brought on early by the heavy clouds, as the bus pulled in to Keighley where he had to get off and change. Or simply get off, he thought, if he was going to pay that call. He wandered along the soulless concourse, a chill wind blowing fast-food wrappers to the cacophonous accompaniment of rolling drink cans and the distant rumble of traffic. He looked at the numbers and names on the buses he passed, thinking that most were still as unfamiliar to him as the places of the faraway home he’d never known but had heard so much about. And there it was again, that nagging reminder. It had to be done; the longer he delayed, the worse it would be. But it was getting late, not the kind of time to make an unexpected social call. There was always the morning; he lingered long enough to let the next Bradford bus leave, telling himself he merely fancied a change of scene for the night and could see how he felt in the morning.
The premature twilight had turned dark, the weird
light accentuated by the jaded orange glow of the streetlights. The heavens opened as an extraordinary flash illuminated the early Saturday-night revellers dashing for cover. Neither the rain nor the explosive rumble that followed interrupted the studied cool of Vinko’s stride as he looked in his own time for shelter. He found a shop doorway at the top of a sloping street which offered a reasonable view of what promised to be a fine show. He briefly wondered if he’d be enjoying this as much if he’d experienced the same things his father had – but he’d never know so it didn’t matter. He took his phone from the pocket of his charity-shop leather jacket and quickly texted Ravi to say he wouldn’t be out with them that night, giving no reason and hoping his housemate would think he’d picked up a girl. The next lightning flash coincided perfectly with the moment he pressed Send. He grinned to himself as he leaned against the side of the plate-glass entranceway to watch the bonus entertainment, a prelude to his planned take-away followed by a few drinks and a good night’s clubbing.
Chapter 2
Lightning slashed deep cuts across the bruised sky. The intervals between the flashing and the growling response grew smaller as Marilyn sat by the window. The angry colours were incredible – sometimes dark purple blue, sometimes pink, sometimes even green – like the end of the world. Like nothing she’d ever seen. She was trying to capture the mood with her camera, experimenting with different exposures to distract her attention from the innate fear she was unable to suppress. She’d had enough now and longed for it to end so she could move away from the window. Silly, she knew, but while she stayed in one place and kept her eye on it, she felt safe. Who knew what it would do while her back was turned?
As she watched, she felt as if the anvil-head stormclouds were as enchanted by this moorland Yorkshire paradise as she was. They lingered for an age, before hurling a particularly fierce shaft that shook the land round about. She tensed, wondering what damage it had done, to her house or her neighbours’. Had anyone been hurt? The storm finally decided enough was enough and skulked off down the valley, still grumbling angrily, defiant flashes like cheeky tongues darting as it faded. Drumming rain was left in its wake, new rivulets decorating the yard and surfaces of the outbuildings in ways she hadn’t seen before, each drop conjuring a dancing fairy to celebrate the clearing of the air.
Her tension finally lifting, she stood but lingered at the window. The unnatural storm-twilight had given way to a translucent dusk, the heavy rainclouds tinged at the horizon with a friendlier pink where the sunset tried to reach through with its customary nightly farewell. Ashamed at her irrational fear during the past hour, she was glad no one had been there to see her. It wasn’t as if she’d been in any real danger, here in a thick-walled stone house that had stood for centuries. She knew she had a tendency to over-react, but prided herself in getting on with things matter-of-factly as soon as she caught herself doing it. An expedition across the clutter of the darkened living room to the light switch yielded nothing but a futile click. She sighed; the storm had left her a little something to remember it by after all. Guided by the warm glow from the fireplace, she lit a candle from the mantelpiece and decided on an early night. Despite her best intentions, lingering fear shifted her focus away from the candlelight’s warm heart to the shadows it attracted around its edges – hovering threats, undefined beasties watching.
Further down the dale, a small tent crouched like a wary animal in the corner of a field. Its occupant stirred and poked his head through the door. The rain now pattered on the canvas to a lighter, more natural rhythm and the refreshed air was a relief. As Jay sat and watched the black clouds disappearing up the valley, the hints of rosy sunset emerging from beneath echoed the lifting of his spirits. The apocalyptic storm had awoken his familiar terror, and he was only just beginning to feel the oppressive darkness drain away. This one had been exceptionally bad – the hollow-rumbling thunder getting beneath his skin and stirring his deepest fears, the lightning threatening to rip the canvas walls and tear him apart. He realised he was still shaking, but at least there was no sign of the boy. Glancing around as if it still wasn’t too late for him to appear, Jay almost broke into a grin. He checked himself, keen to keep control.
You can’t run forever.
The words flashed back into his mind and he concentrated on convincing himself he hadn’t heard anyone else saying them. The insistent notion that had come to him amid the bedlam of the storm had been his own and no one else’s. He glanced around more nervously this time, relief at the sight of the empty field turning to uneasy anger. Hadn’t he earned the right to be left alone by now? And yes, he’d had a change of heart during the last hour and would enjoy keeping to it. He couldn’t run forever; it was time to start thinking of a life that didn’t involve a succession of journeys monotonous in their empty promises. Time to settle down, maybe; make his way south over the next few days, take possession of his house, find some meaningful work. Or stay round here? Why not? It seemed a nice place.
He shrugged. Early days. Perhaps making definite plans was too big a change too soon. The idea was enough; with the intention in place, he was satisfied he’d know the right thing when he found it. Performing on the streets to indifferent audiences, convincing suspicious householders of his skills and integrity as a handyman, would soon be things of the past. And he’d say goodbye to Dan. That raised a hollow fear, but he insisted. He breathed deeply, distracted himself by taking out his pipe and filling it from the tobacco pouch. His hands were shaky. Only the storm. The aftermath of holding himself tense for over an hour. He inhaled the first lungful of welcome smoke. Yes, Dan would have to go. But perhaps not yet. You can’t. The tobacco comfort began to pervade. Run forever. No, but one step at a time, hey?
The rain slowed and uneasy patches of clear sky began to appear. The promise of sunset was already fading to dusk, and the clouds crowding back in, as he got out his stove and took his plastic container in search of water. It wasn’t an ideal pitch, but his search had been cut short by the need to erect the tent before the storm hit. He felt a sense of purpose far beyond the immediate act of preparing supper. You didn’t need a plan to have a sense of purpose, after all.
Marilyn fell asleep to a waterfall of heavy rain, and was awoken in the night by a persistent rumble. The storm must have returned, insistent on having the last word. In the hush that followed she lay, willing herself not to need to go downstairs through the ghostly living room to the ground-floor bathroom. For once willpower worked; dawn was seeking entrance through the curtains when she opened bleary eyes. She got up and looked out. Everything was still; no wind, no rain, friendly white clouds in a blue sky.
She glanced to her left and saw that the world had changed.
Opening the window and leaning out, she stared, wishing the scene before her wasn’t there. The barn seemed to be groaning beneath the weight of the hillside which had slid down and tried to sit on it. The woodpile and the makings of her new kiln behind it were buried, as was her carefully-tended vegetable garden; the straggly trees up the hillside were a tangle of limbs reaching through the heap of soil and stones, like drowning sailors pleading for rescue. A larger tree was split, limbs scorched, one half leaning on the barn at a crazy angle. Like a dream, she recalled the rumble she’d heard in the night.
She dressed quickly and went downstairs, pausing to curse as the light switch on the landing refused to obey. Putting the big old-fashioned kettle on the hotplate, she felt more than her usual self-sufficient satisfaction. A spring-fed water supply and solid fuel Rayburn meant she still had at least a few home comforts.
Putting her coat on, she stepped out. It was a beautiful, clear morning, the weather seeking to offer her an apology for the previous day’s antics. Not an apology she felt she could accept right then. Genghis materialised from behind her and meowed loudly for breakfast.
‘You’ll have to wait.’
Leaving the cat for a moment, she walked warily over to the barn as if the landslide were about to come
alive and bite her. It almost had. Another twenty metres this way and it could have been the house. At least her room was at the front, but she wondered how much good that would have done her. She told herself she had enough on her plate worrying about the scene before her, without wasting energy on what-ifs.
Having finally made the decision to stay and live out here, she’d been beginning to allow herself to feel some satisfaction in what she’d achieved. And now the vegetable garden she’d carefully prepared and planted out with a few winter crops would need digging out rather than digging over. She’d cleared out the barn, burned the rubbish and made a careful pile of salvageable materials behind the growing woodpile. Woodpile, useful rubbish, vegetables, garden shed and, most importantly, the outbuilding where her kiln was going to be housed – all were now little more than an interesting challenge for archaeologists of the future to scratch their heads over. Not to mention the car. After clearing the barn she’d given the ageing jeep shelter from the elements in the hope it would thank her with improved reliability.
She scrambled over the heap of earth and stones spilling down in front of the building and, unable to shift the doors, peered through a gap in the venerable timbers. The interior was dimly lit by dappled light from a hole in the roof, where the fallen tree had sent a scorched branch through the slates and the rafters, as if trying to grab her car. She couldn’t see whether or not it was dented, but told herself, trying to stay calm, that it would still be driveable. Once she’d shifted a tree. Once she’d dug out a pile of rubble larger than herself to free the doors.
She went back in before the kettle boiled dry, shutting the door firmly on the nightmare. Sitting with hands wrapped round a mug of strong coffee and staring into space, she wondered if this was all a sign, trying to tell her this decision had not been a good one and she should go down into Holdwick to live sensibly. She reminded herself forcefully that she wasn’t superstitious. Everything was in place, the builders were about to start on the work of converting the barn to a workshop, and this time she wasn’t going to give up on her dream. Or accept favours from Matt a moment longer than she had to.
Someone Else's Conflict Page 2