by Syd Moore
Sam got him a glass at once.
I bent down and whispered, ‘Are you all right, Dad?’ It was a stupid question but I hadn’t seen him like this before and was shocked and worried and clueless.
‘Pills. One. Top pocket.’ He began to point to it but found the effort too much and gave up, sinking against the chair back. His face was so pale now he was starting to look vampiric.
I reached in and found a blister pack of tablets and popped one into his hand, which was shaking. He knocked it back with a swig of water.
Sam stood behind him helpless.
After another minute, Dad’s breathing began to ease though his forehead remained dotted with tiny beads of sweat. After a few minutes more his skin colour returned to something approaching normal.
‘What were those pills?’ I asked.
‘Rennies,’ he lied. In other circumstances, I wouldn’t have let that go so easily.
I just said, ‘Oh, I see. On prescription?’
‘That’s right,’ he said.
I scowled. Dad’s pills plainly weren’t for dyspepsia.
A couple of months back I’d seen a client/suspect with similar packaging displayed all around him. He had angina, which was worrying but not fatal, though potentially an acceptable condition to lodge a claim.
‘Well,’ Dad wheezed and knelt forwards, knuckles on knees. ‘I best be off.’
It was Sam who answered before I could. ‘Perhaps I could drive you, Mr Strange?’
‘That’s quite all right, son,’ he said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting home by myself.’
‘You can forget that,’ I said, and began to look for my phone. ‘I’m calling Mum.’
‘Gawd help us,’ Dad muttered. When he saw I was serious and made a surrendering gesture. ‘Let the games commence.’
It was late when Sam and I finally sat on the sofa to tackle the fish stew. I hadn’t wanted any but Sam insisted I needed to keep my strength up.
As Dad had predicted Mum arrived and got hysterical, threatening to drive them both straight to A & E. But my father prevailed and the situation was quietened when he promised to go to the doctor first thing. Then I discreetly asked Mum how long he’d been taking the tablets but she didn’t know anything about them. This in turn prompted indiscreet hysterics and then several arguments which were only defused when Sam pointed out that all this drama wasn’t helping anyone especially not ‘Mr Strange’ who, at this point, was looking very tired and almost green.
Eventually, Mum conceded, but declared they needed to go home at once.
As they took their leave, she held back and whispered, ‘He just worries about you, love, that’s all.’ Which I told her wasn’t relevant. There followed much slamming of front doors, car doors and shouting about early nights and doctors, and then they were off.
But Mum’s words echoed in my ears all the way back to my living room. What did Dad’s attack have to do with me? Nothing, I suspected. It was most likely one of those random things parents say when they can’t think of anything else. But still, it had snagged on something in my brain.
I was still thinking it over when Sam produced two steaming bowls of stew.
‘It was when he saw you,’ I said, and took a bowl off him. ‘That it all happened. Wasn’t it?’
He was sitting next to me on the sofa fanning his mouth with his hand. Dad’s Scotch bonnets were taking no hostages.
‘Whah whah whah,’ he mouthed turning a complementary chilli-red.
‘Actually, no. It was when you said that you were from the museum,’ I went on and sipped the stew. It wasn’t that spicy. Sam must be a hot-food wuss. ‘Why would that give him such a turn? I mean, he knows that I’ve been down there to Adder’s Fork. He thinks I’m going to sell it. Of course, I haven’t filled him in on all the developments, as I haven’t had time. Plus, I thought that Auntie Babs might have told Mum that I was seeing Ray Boundersby today. With you.’ I chewed a caper. ‘Maybe Mum didn’t tell him.’
Sam had his back pressed right into the sofa and one hand on his knee as if he were bracing himself. He undid the top button on his shirt and breathed out. I saw a couple of dark chest hairs peep over the top.
‘It was,’ he said blowing out for a long time, ‘at the mention’ – pause to breathe in and fan mouth – ‘of Septimus.’ There was a noisy swallow and a grimace. ‘Unless,’ he put the spoon down on his tray and took a glass of water, ‘that was a timely coincidence.’
‘But why would he be so upset? I mean, I know he fell out with him when I was eight but that was over twenty-five years ago. He doesn’t like the museum. Doesn’t believe in any of that stuff. Doesn’t want me to hang on to it. All of this, I know. But I didn’t think he was that passionate about it. He’s not a passionate man.’ I tried to stifle a yawn.
Sam shaped his lips into a perfect circle and steadily breathed in and out. He was sweating. A lot. ‘I doubt he approves.’
‘Well, you’re right there. But why so strong? Do you know?’
He gave up on the stew and placed the bowl on a nest of white side tables. Some of the liquid splashed on to the top. I tutted. He took another long draught of water. ‘I suspect it goes back to your grandmother,’ he said, and sat back.
I couldn’t stomach any more either so gestured for him to put my bowl next to his. I’d clear them up in the morning. ‘Ethel-Rose? Why would it go back to her?’
Stretching out on the sofa, I nestled my head against a cushion. The day’s stresses were finally receding, leaving me more than a little heavy-lidded and drowsy.
‘Because, in many ways, it’s a monument to her,’ Sam’s voice had become soft. Lulling even. ‘And Celeste too. That’s your father’s mother and sister. Both gone. The memories are bound to be troubling.’
I pictured a family snap that I’d seen at the Witch Museum – Septimus, Ethel-Rose, Dad and baby Celeste. They were at some party, maybe someone else’s wedding reception. Their clothes were splendid – neat, boxy and formal. Ethel-Rose was especially sumptuous in a full-skirted dress, complete with stiffened petticoat. She had scarlet lipstick on and looked particularly vivacious.
‘Gone?’ I said, trying to hang on to Sam’s words. In all the photos Ethel-Rose seemed so … present. ‘Where did they go?’
In my head, I roamed over the baby form of Celeste in Septimus’s proud arms – all lacy bonnet and mittens. She was sound asleep. Just like I would be soon. But possibly not so happily.
‘We don’t know,’ said Sam, sounding very far away. ‘Not your grandmother, it’s true. That’s another Witch Museum mystery.’
Yet I too was retreating from the world, travelling into a cosy blackness that I could no longer fight. Though later on, these words would have me reeling.
CHAPTER SIX
Prostrate on the sofa, a couple of tasselled throws twisted across my body and half over my face. I pushed them back and felt an annoying crick in my neck where my head had lain awkwardly on the sofa arm.
For a moment confusion netted me: why wasn’t I in my comfortable bed with its soft Egyptian cotton sheets? Then I remembered Sam had been here last night. My god – had he literally bored me to sleep? Surely not. He was too good-looking for that. Maybe I had bored myself to sleep?
No, I reflected, it had been late. I must simply have been tired. And worried, I thought, as I remembered Dad’s funny turn.
There was no sunshine in the room. Over in the west the sky was becoming navy. If I had a view to the east I thought the sun might be about to rise over Essex. That put the time between 5.30 and 6 a.m.
I threw off the blankets and stretched, then I peeked into the spare room. The duvet was bumpy with a mess of brown hair sticking out one end. I shut the door and, wrapping one of the throws around me, went into my room and tried to get back to sleep.
It wasn’t going to happen.
My brain was awake even if my body fancied forty more winks. I gave up, showered, made some strong coffee, did my face, then just after sev
en o’clock I got on to my laptop. I had intended to google La Fleur but got distracted by an offer for Russian volume eyelashes in Walthamstow.
Someone behind me grunted.
Sam was leaning against the countertop in one of my dressing gowns. I must have left it in the spare room. Or maybe my friend Cerise had. It was a silk kimono that had been a gift from Auntie Babs and it lent Sam an air of extreme decadence. Especially as his hair was all mussed up, eyes a bit on the dewy side. He actually looked rather wild. And more than a little sexy. The V-neck gaped to reveal a cluster of dark hairs. I swallowed and turned back to the screen.
‘Help for male pattern baldness?’ he said. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’
‘What?’ I was trying to watch his reflection on the screen. I couldn’t. It was too bright. ‘Oh, that’s just an ad. There was a beauty offer.’
Sam yawned and scratched his chest. ‘Is there any coffee?’
I pointed to the counter and watched him pick up the ends of the kimono and sashay over. He was enjoying the feel of satiny fabric against his skin, you could tell.
‘I’ll buy you one for Christmas,’ I smirked.
‘A coffee? How generous.’
‘No – a kimono, you plank. Suits you.’ I laughed and waited for his comeback.
‘I always did have a thing about Bruce Lee,’ he said, adding milk to his mug and taking a sip.
‘Who’d have thought?’
He sent me a wink.
Well, that was interesting. Sam was being very playful indeed this morning. I wondered why briefly, came up with nothing so left off thinking and asked him to refill my mug.
‘No need to ask if you slept well last night,’ he said, once he’d handed over my drink and settled on the chair beside me. ‘The snoring was a bit of a giveaway.’
I looked at him uncertainly. No one else had mentioned snoring before. Well, apart from one dick called Jacob who I had foolishly got involved with after a work’s night out. But Jacob lied about everything.
Sam pursed his lips and pulled the kimono tight across his chest.
My god, he looked dead camp like that.
‘How much is that offer anyway?’ He leant close in. The silk fell open just enough for me to glimpse a pink nipple in amongst the hair.
‘Oh goodness!’ He stood up abruptly and pointed at the screen. ‘Is that right?’
‘What?’
‘The time.’
I squinted hard at the bottom right of the laptop. ‘7.45.’
Then I realised the implication. ‘Ray Boundersby! We’ve got to be at Mary’s flat. Oh god, and I’ve got to phone in sick. Can you be ready in five?’
But he was gone in a flap of silk and a slam of the bathroom door.
I crept into my bedroom and phoned my boss, Derek.
‘Morning?’ he said, suspiciously. Derek had a nasal twang that made him sound dull and boring. But he was actually quite sharp. Well, I shouldn’t over-egg that – he was of average intelligence. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
I did a lot of coughing down the phone. ‘I can’t come in. I’ve got, er, sickness.’
‘What sort of sickness?’ Derek asked. To be fair, he didn’t sound sceptical. It was more like surprised. I was rarely off work.
I made my voice noticeably husky. ‘Illness. In the head. Throat. Stomach. Groin.’ I heard him breathe out loudly. ‘Women’s problems. All over, really.’
There was a long moment of silence which I resisted breaking. It was a trap to make me say too much, fill up the space with honesty or transparent lies. It made me sweat but I managed to keep my mouth shut.
Derek gave up waiting, sighed and then asked in a bored, resigned tone. ‘How long will you be off, then?’
I hadn’t thought about that. ‘Don’t know.’ I pretended to sneeze.
More silence. Then, ‘Well, as long as you’re in for Thursday.’
‘What’s Thursday? I asked, forgetting to make my voice croak. ‘Oooh, it hurts,’ I added for effect and rubbed my throat.
‘Team meeting. Important. I need to talk through the case allocations. Might have to get some outside help on the Bassett case.’
‘Er, yes, that should be fine.’ Cough, cough. ‘As long as I can get out of bed.’ Wheeze, splutter, gasp, hawk.
‘Are you all right?’ Sam had stuck his head round the door. I jumped up and mouthed Shush, putting a finger on my lips and then jabbed furiously at the phone.
Derek drew breath in. ‘Is there someone else there, Rosie?’
‘No.’ I shook my head and looked at Sam. ‘No one else is here, boss. It’s the radio.’
‘And coming up it’s Thought for the Day,’ said Sam loudly and retreated into the hallway.
‘Sorry, Derek,’ I wheezed. ‘Feel sick. Period pain. Heavy flood. Gotta go.’
‘Okay.’ His voice had got fainter like he was holding the phone away from him. ‘Thursday then and I’ll expect to see some self-certification—’ he said as I hung up.
Men, honestly. Absolutely no subtlety.
We reached the address Ray Boundersby had given us at nine o’clock on the dot, thanks to some very London driving. By me, of course. I wasn’t going to let Sam get his key in my ignition again. And that wasn’t a euphemism.
Mary Boundersby lived near Old Street, at the top of block of apartments that had once been commercial buildings. A section of the ground floor remained a bank, which was just opening up its doors, welcoming no one in. We followed the perimeter round to a flash Scandi-type wooden door where we declared ourselves through the intercom and got buzzed in.
There was no one in the hallway and the only way was up so we climbed the stairs. Sam moaned about the lack of lift, which I thought was fairly rich coming from someone who lived in Dark Ages Britain.
The communal landing at the top had two doors. We caught our breath and waited for one of them to open. Promptly the left unlocked and out came a skinny man with startling light blue eyes and curly black hair that was on its way to transforming into dreadlocks. He wiped his hand on a grubby khaki T-shirt introduced himself as Tom Limbert, ‘Mary’s boyfriend’, then led us into a narrow hallway, shuftying secret glances as we passed.
The flat smelt of synthetically enhanced domesticity – shop-bought ‘fresh linen’ room fragrance. It had just been sprayed. Probably to cover something up. Stagnant air, smoke, sweat? Maybe all three. I imagined this was probably quite a stressful time for the residents.
To the left there was a bathroom and bedroom, to the right a long open-plan kitchen-diner and lounge that led on to a short square balcony. I could see the unmistakable stocky outline of Ray Boundersby silhouetted there, a solid slab of flesh. Auntie Babs had sent me a photo of him and helpfully added that he’d killed someone during his criminal career. Truth to be told, though my aunt wasn’t a stranger to hyperbole, I could tell, even from this distance, that this was a man you did not want to mess around.
As we turned into the living area I clocked a woman perched on the sofa. She was all wrapped in a pastel-pink blanket. This had to be Mary Boundersby for the poor gal had inherited her father’s bulky frame. There was a similar genetic roundedness to Mary’s build which fell short of stout. Though she wasn’t pudgy either. In fact her feminine curves lent her a nuzzly kind of softness that my mum would have called ‘homely’. Her face, however, was very pleasant and softened by two huge luminous hazel eyes, definitely not Daddy’s, probably Mum’s. But they were currently watery and red and magnified by large tortoiseshell geek-style glasses. Her hair also matched her frames, or maybe it was the other way round. Anyway, it was a nice do, a salon job. You couldn’t get a home kit that brought out all those amber, caramel and bronze hues. But it was limp and long with a centre parting that gave her a hippie kind of look. She was very pale, possibly anaemic and didn’t look up when we entered into the room.
‘Rose Strange?’ Ray Boundersby walked straight to me, hand held out like a huge paddle.
I
took it and let him crush it, while with the other massive bat/hand he patted me heftily on the back disrupting my outward flow of breath so that I ended up telling him it was ‘Nice to finally meet you-oo-oo-oo.’
Ray Boundersby’s handshake was robust and firm and borderline frightening. Pretty much like himself. He could only have been a couple of inches taller than me so scratching five foot eight and a bit, but despite the lack of height – he certainly made an impression. Bulldog fit and visibly very strong, waves of knotty unease were fidgeting off him. His jaw was clenched all the way up, beyond his ear. It didn’t slacken when he smiled.
When he stopped yanking my hand about he swung over to Sam. His legs were sturdy and thick but short and that lent him a bit of a waddle. I watched him compress Sam’s hand. He did his best not to wince as Ray’s shoulders went up and down: two round sinewy boulders covered by a slick navy suit.
‘Get them a drink,’ Ray barked to Tom, who scurried off into the dark of the kitchen. There was no natural light in there but I think he might have been glad for the shelter of the shadows.
With a nod of his head Mr Boundersby indicated we should sit on the L-shaped sofa. His daughter was occupying the nexus so Sam and I took an end each and looked at her.
She didn’t acknowledge us, just kept glaring at the floor with a puzzled expression, saying nothing though her lips were moving silently.
Ray pulled a chair over from the dining table, spun it round and sat on it, Christine Keeler style. There was another large boulder at the top of his legs, visible between the rungs of the chair back. I tried hard not to look at it. His posture was shouting out that he was all man. I doubted there would was anyone who’d disagree.
‘She’s taken it bad, you can see.’ He’d reduced his volume now to what I imagined he thought was relatively low. In reality it was just beneath ‘shouty man’. This was what my friend Cerise termed the level at which the hard of hearing, the mental, members of debating societies and those perpetually used to going unchallenged often spoke at. Ray was the latter. He sniffed, rested his chin on the top of the chair back and stared at Mary. There was a lot of love in that sad gaze.