Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “How long to get all this restored?” Serena spread her arms wide.

  “You won’t be running anything here inside six months, maybe more. And that’s if everything runs smoothly. Who’s your architect?”

  “Dunno. We kind of hoped –”

  “Forget it. You need an architect to supervise everything. There’s a lot to co-ordinate in a job like this. It’s harder than new building, believe me.”

  Serena clenched her fists and pursed her lips. “Got any bright ideas, Marnie?”

  “Let’s carry on with the grand tour.”

  They made their way up to the first floor, Marnie noting that the stairs were concrete and relatively unscathed. The upper areas were smaller than downstairs because the hall extended to the full height of the building. Apart from some holes in the floors, the main problem on the higher level was smoke damage. From a landing Marnie looked down into the hall.

  “This was a school at one time?”

  “Yes, for infants. It closed some years ago. The numbers went down. They moved the kids to another school half a mile away.”

  Marnie walked silently down the stairs and turned to face Serena at the bottom.

  “That might be a way out, or at least a start. It’s worth a try.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Serena.

  “You bought this building from the council?”

  “It’s leased from the education authority. Ninety-nine years at a peppercorn rent. I’ve no idea what that means.”

  “They’ll have plans in their files. That’ll save time and money. Also, they’ll know the private architects who handle school projects.”

  “Right. We should’ve thought of that.” Serena shrugged. “Too many things on our minds.”

  “Think it over,” said Marnie.

  “I just did.”

  “What kept you?” She smiled.

  “I was working out who’s the best person to talk to the education people about plans and architects and that kind of thing, someone who talks their language.”

  “You’ve got someone in mind already?”

  Serena looked Marnie straight in the eyes without blinking.

  *

  Anne received a call from Marnie at twelve. She would be staying in Northampton for the afternoon and wanted to check how things were going at base. They discussed the morning’s phone messages and then hung up. Anne went out into the yard and called up to Estelle’s study window to see if she wanted to be included in a sandwich lunch. The farmyard intercom, simple but effective. Opening the window, Estelle thanked her but declined; she rarely stopped in the middle of the day, at least not for food. She laughed and closed the window.

  Anne always stopped for food in the middle of the day. Dolly sidled up alongside her, and they walked together through the trees to Sally Ann, where Anne succumbed to the cat’s unspoken request and they both had a snack lunch. Anne took a sandwich of tuna and mayonnaise with salad onto the stern deck. The rest of the tuna was gradually disappearing from a saucer near the fridge in the galley.

  It was warmer than Anne expected, and she put up the parasol. While she ate, Dolly came out on deck and curled up on the hatch at the edge of the shade. Anne kicked off her shoes and felt the deck warming her feet, unable to imagine anything better than her life in the whole world. And yet there was one false note and, try as she might to position herself to look the other way, Anne could not ignore the presence of the dark boat on the opposite bank. It seemed to hum an ominous tune from over the water.

  When she had finished eating, she sat with a glass of sparkling water contemplating the strange boat. Had she really seen a swastika inside it? Or was it put there by her imagination? She had told herself it looked like a U-boat, so she imagined the rest. It was maddening to think that it was moored just a short way away with the answers to her questions hidden on board. As she looked at it, a simple plan came into her mind. Why not have another look? The bike was missing, so the owner was out. It would be easy to take a stroll on the towpath and peep in when no-one was around.

  Before she could change her mind, Anne was over the bridge and sauntering along the path towards the dark grey shape. For a U-boat, she found its lines rather pleasing. Close up, she made a sideways inspection of the portholes and was disappointed to see that the one she had used the previous day was now almost completely closed off by its curtain. Looking both ways up and down the towpath like a child being taught kerb drill, Anne slunk up to the boat and examined the porthole. She pressed her face against the glass and squinted. It took a few seconds for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness of the interior, and she was just starting to focus when a sudden sound made her jump. It was her worst fear.

  Coming along the towpath on his bike, dressed entirely in black, in contrast with his blonde hair, was the owner of the boat. Damn! There was no way he could mistake what she was doing there. For an instant Anne tried to look as if she was preparing to tie her shoe lace – she was wearing slip-ons – or was using the glass as a mirror to adjust her hair. There was nothing for it but to own up and face the consequences. Given that she was convinced she was spying on a neo-Nazi, she had misgivings about what form those consequences might take. Images of fire-bombs and rioting skinheads raced through her mind.

  The stranger reached the stern of his boat, stopped the bike and scowled at her. An odd expression, but she was definitely not welcome.

  “I –” she began.

  The far-right-neo-Nazi-fascist-thug heaved his bike onto the counter without another glance in Anne’s direction, undid the padlock on the stern door and went down into the cabin, leaving Anne standing beside the boat, her mouth ajar. Without hesitation she turned and walked quickly back towards the bridge, breathing heavily with relief.

  *

  “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere before, Marnie. Is that possible?”

  They were sitting in a coffee-house in the town centre where they had gone for a sandwich.

  “In the tourist information office,” said Marnie. “You’d just gone in to deliver the leaflets about your summer play scheme. They were well produced, very attractive for children.”

  “You took one? You’ve got kids?”

  “I took several. I don’t have children myself, but I thought they might be of interest to the school in our village.”

  “Were they interested?”

  “Yes. I think you might have some customers, provided they can organise transport.”

  “And provided we can organise a building. Nice of you to help us, Marnie. We’re going to need all the help we can get this summer.”

  “Why this summer in particular? Are there special circumstances?”

  “You bet!”

  Serena lowered her voice, her eyes sweeping the interior of the coffee-house. Most of the clientele were middle-aged women in summer dresses and cardigans, out for a day’s shopping in the county town. Not an obvious hotbed of intrigue. Unless they were clones of Miss Marple.

  “You’ve seen the community centre, Marnie. You saw the explosion from miles away. You’ve stood in the ruins of what was left after the fire.”

  Serena had a graphic way of speaking that seemed out of place in downtown Northampton. Marnie felt like a bit player in a film noir.

  “You think there’s going to be more trouble, that it might affect the summer play scheme?”

  The two ideas seemed incongruous. Fire bombs and a play scheme. Serena remained serious.

  “I’m not kidding, Marnie. And I’m not exaggerating, either.” Her voice was still low. “We hear things on the grapevine.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “You know there was a race riot in Leicester the other day?”

  “I was there.”

  For once Serena’s unshakeable composure and confidence were shaken. Her eyes widened.

  “You were there at the riot?” Her voice was suddenly louder.

  Several heads craned in their direction before politely turning
away. Marnie knew that every set of ears in the establishment would now be tuned to full volume and maximum range.

  “I was on my way to a meeting,” she said quietly. “I saw the thugs heading into the centre of the city.”

  “Did you see the news coverage on TV?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know what we’re up against.”

  “But I can’t imagine those people would want to attack children.”

  “That’s not the point.” Serena leaned forward. “Marnie, you may be a trendy designer, but you have a lot to learn about life on the streets.”

  *

  Anne found concentration difficult. She was longing for Marnie to return so she could talk about her close encounter. It kept playing back in her thoughts like a videotape on a loop. The sudden arrival, her confusion and sense of guilt, the fair hair against the black clothes, the look on his face. Why was it strange, his expression? she asked herself. He had every right to be hostile. But was he hostile?

  The more she thought about it, the more she felt the need to clarify exactly what she had seen. Now she was wanting Marnie not to come back for a while, not until she was sure of the facts. She replayed the mental videotape. There he was coming towards her. He was frowning. Definitely. But when she looked closely she recalled that his eyes did not seem to be focused on her or even on the surface of the towpath. It was as if he was looking nowhere. And his appearance. The light-coloured hair and the fair skin. No wonder Marnie thought he looked like her. And yet … She zoomed in on his face. What was it about him?

  His frown turned into a scowl. Or was it a grimace? Anne tried to interpret the scene in another way. What if it was a grimace? Why should it be? She had no illusions about her looks, but she knew she was not unpleasant. There was no reason to pull a face.

  Another possibility crossed her mind. She froze the image and concentrated on his face, or more particularly on his skin. Pale, like her own. She knew pale, saw it whenever she looked in a mirror, but this was of a different order. She looked closely. This could have been sickly pale. That would make sense. The eyes as he approached were not on her, or on where he was going, but looking into some inner, hurting place, perhaps. The grimace could have come from pain. The unwillingness to talk or even acknowledge her presence. The hasty disappearance on board without securing his bike. And the reason he was there at all. Wherever he went during the day – to work or college – he had returned early. Perhaps he was unwell. Yes!

  Now Anne wanted Marnie back. She wanted her advice on what to do. Looking up at the clock, she realised she had been sitting for half an hour mulling things over. She knew she ought to be dealing with the invoices that had to go out that afternoon. She also knew she could definitely not settle now.

  Fingering the mobile, outside looking up the field track, there was no sign of the Discovery. Anne hesitated to ring Marnie when she was in a meeting or distract her attention when she might be driving. She took a decision on the spot and hurried through the spinney, over the bridge and back along the towpath, telling herself all the way not to slow down or question her course of action. Her breathing was rapid by the time she reached the boat.

  It was exactly as it looked when she had left it. The bike was resting against the tiller, the stern door open, curtains drawn. Anne took a breath and put one foot on the counter, canting her head in at the doorway.

  “Hallo,” she called softly. No reply, no sound of movement. “Hallo.” Nothing.

  She picked up the bike and was surprised how light it was. The handlebars were straight, the tyres knobbly. The frame was yellow decorated with black pawprints, and the name Muddy Fox, also in black. A mountain bike. She lifted it onto the roof and set it down carefully.

  “Hallo.” This time a little louder. Still no response.

  Anne knew she should leave at that point, but curiosity gave her a nudge in the back. Frowning, she began to step down into the cabin, wriggling through the narrow inner door and down the steps. For a few seconds she stood still without breathing and listened. She was standing beside the bathroom. Its sliding door was half open, and a faint musky smell seeped out, a masculine aroma, not unpleasant.

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she pulled open the next door and found herself in the sleeping cabin. It was in semi-darkness, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She gasped when she realised there was a shape on the bed. Anne with an ‘e’ – what the devil are you doing here?! The young man was lying on his front, sprawled diagonally, fully dressed and asleep. Now was the time to turn and leave. Anne had no doubts about that, but was surprised at herself, remaining motionless where she stood. She listened to him breathing, a slow panting like a wounded animal.

  Anne had suffered occasional migraines and knew the signs. He was lucky he could sleep, but she knew what he would be going through, the troubled dreams, the waking pain, the searing thirst and the misery of loneliness with no-one to help. Perhaps like some, he might even be temporarily blind.

  Beyond the sleeping cabin, through the partly open door, somewhere in the darkened boat, there would be a galley. Using all her reserves of courage, Anne stepped forward into the next space. Here, it was as dim as the cabin she was leaving, with the curtains closed, and only porthole-sized windows. She strained to see clearly ahead. This was the galley that led on to the other open-plan areas. Searching in cupboards, she took out a glass, eased open the door of the fridge and found a bottle of mineral water. She filled the glass and returned the bottle to its place.

  It was as she turned back to the sleeping compartment that memory collided with curiosity. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, and she looked from the galley towards the front of the cabin. Ahead was a dining area with built-in seating and table, and beyond that seemed to be a workspace with desk and storage. She scanned the walls for the cupboard beside the porthole where she thought she had seen the swastika and found it there, almost beside where she was standing.

  It was a shelving unit, black-lacquered side panels on steel supports. Two shelves held crockery in neat rows. On the third, the top shelf, three cameras were carefully displayed all at the same angle, equidistant from each other, like exhibits in a gallery. Anne moved forward for a closer look. They were compact, black bodies with steel protrusions and switches. On the lens covers she read the maker’s name: Leica. She knew it as a famous company from Germany. They were shining and free of dust as if lovingly tended. Her eyes travelled to the side of the unit nearest to the porthole. There were three photographs attached to the end panel, one above the other, invisibly mounted. They were colour photographs but with a monochrome tint, three racing cars, all very old, all silver, each standing on black tarmac, as if posing for their portraits. It was the middle photo that attracted her attention. There, on the driver’s headrest, defined in a red circle, was the infamous shape. She had not been deceived. It was a swastika.

  Anne wondered if one of the cameras on the top shelf had taken the photographs of the racing cars. They were probably of much the same age, from the 1930s. The cabin now had a quite definite look about it. Yes, it was as purposeful to her eyes as the interior of a submarine. Black, grey, metallic. A U-boat. Everything very orderly. Time to go.

  She tip-toed into the sleeping cabin, put the glass of water on the shelf over the bed, its occupant still unconscious, and left without making a sound.

  *

  “We’ve run play schemes for the past few years, each one getting more ambitious, more activities, more outings. But this year, it’s gonna be different, a whole new ball game.”

  “You’re going in for more sports?” said Marnie.

  Serena spluttered and started laughing. “Not literally ball games!”

  “Of course not.” Marnie felt foolish. “I know that doesn’t actually mean games with balls, I simply –”

  Serena snorted and had to put a hand over her mouth to control the spasm of laughter that threatened to overwhelm her. It was a while befo
re she could speak again.

  “You’re making it worse, Marnie.”

  “Me? You’re the one talking balls.”

  This time they both erupted and decided they had to leave the coffee house and get out on the street. They walked along to their cars, shoulders touching, both grinning, feeling like schoolgirls. Another new friend perhaps, Marnie was thinking. When they reached the Discovery, Serena suddenly became more serious. She leaned against the front wing.

  “That’s the first time I’ve laughed in over a week.”

  “You’ve not had a lot to laugh about,” said Marnie. “Tell me more about your play scheme.”

  “For a start, it’s not a play scheme as such any more. When we began, the idea was just to run a sort of crèche for a few days during the summer holidays to give the little ones a chance to meet other kids and play together and help mums who were working or just needed a break.”

  “You have children?”

  “Two. Charlie and Joseph. Charlie’s the girl, she’s five-and-a-half. Joey’s four. I began the group with some other young mums, mostly Afro-Caribs, but not all. Now we have all races, though the West Indian group is still the biggest. We’ve got white kids, Chinese, Vietnamese, a few Turks, even Indians and Pakistanis. Now that says a lot about how well it’s been going. We have high standards, and people recognise that.”

  “And the age range?”

  “All ages, mainly primary school kids, some younger secondary. Say, seven to eleven or twelve. This year there’ll be more than ever, and I reckon we’ll have them up to thirteen or maybe fourteen.”

  Marnie shook her head. “I had no idea it was like that. I imagined organised games and a few outings.”

  “You saw the leaflet.”

  “Sure, but it didn’t mention the scale of the operation. And how do you staff all this?”

  “Now that’s one of the worries. If it grows again like it has before, we’ll be needing a bigger team. The council’s offered to help with some youth workers, but if we haven’t got proper premises …”