Cousin Conor it was, kneeling astraddle me with his big hands ready to squeeze again. He didn’t take my word for it, that there wasn’t the need; he looked aside, presumably for someone else’s nod. And presumably got it, because he gave me a grin and thrust himself upward, out of my line of sight. I sighed, breathed as deeply as I could manage, coughed and spat and dropped my head down again, onto the pillow of my folded arms.
With my head turned sideways I could see Jamie, prone beside me, his clothes oozing water and his face strikingly pale, his eyes just pits of shadow. Open pits, though: somehow he managed a smile. No words, but none were needed. We made it, his smile was saying, we’re home free.
Not true, I thought, certainly not the whole truth, but it was enough for now. I sighed one more time and let my eyes do what they most wanted, let them fall shut while I concentrated on breathing and listening to the pound and surge of my blood, of my heart, a counterpoint to the defeated sea.
o0o
They let us lie for a while, not for long enough. I heard a voice say, “Jamie? Your dad wants to go now, if you’re ready,” and figured that for my own summons too.
So. hands flat to the road, and pushing cautiously upward; I made it onto all fours and thence awkwardly, wobblingly to my feet. Jamie was no better, beside me. Chill and exhaustion after panic and frantic effort had drained us both. We couldn’t even cling to each other, had nothing left to share.
Conor was there, though, sturdy and reliable and willing. Impressed, it seemed; proud of us both. That was rare—no, that was something totally new for me. I wondered how hard he was finding it, or how strange, given my reputation in the family.
Someone else, another cousin was looking after Jamie. It was too much trouble to squint through the darkness, to look past the classic Macallan features for whatever touch of individuality would tell me who. I just leaned on Conor’s shoulder and let him steer my shaky legs along what was left of the causeway to the cars.
Jamie was following; I was more aware of him than anything else, tuned in to his faltering footsteps, the sound of his strained breathing, both only echoes of my own.
It was his voice called me back into an effortful focus on the world, on the night. I hadn’t found my own yet, beyond that first croaked whisper; certainly hadn’t thought to ask a question. If anything I’d been glad of the chance not to question, just to let things happen to me for a bit.
But Jamie said, “Where’s Laura?”—and abruptly I was back, my weakness only a hindrance now as I stared around the car park. He was right. No Laura, and no Janice. Nor Serena, Christa, none of the girls we’d gone to rescue, who’d really rescued us.
“The women have gone ahead.” A cold, blunt, gravelly voice from a static figure standing in the shadow beyond the cars: Jamie’s dad, my Uncle James. My least favourite person, probably, in the whole wide world, and the man who was making the decisions here. He’d likely done that deliberately, separating the girls from us. Not using them as hostages, exactly, only as security, a guarantee that this time we’d do as he wanted.
It worked. Jamie perhaps gave him a stare, across the car roofs. I didn’t even do so much, I just slumped through the door that Conor opened and sat wetly shivering, waiting to be taken wherever Uncle James had decreed. I did my seatbelt up, only because Macallans as a class did not; my head dropped forward, I wrapped my arms around my chest and closed my eyes again, vaguely hoping that seawater would stain the fabric of the seat. Not that this was Uncle James’ car, I didn’t rate that highly. Not in my current state.
We didn’t even get to travel in the same car, Jamie and I. His dad was taking no chances, it seemed, after our last rebellion. Needless precaution, belt and braces on shrink-fit jeans; I was going where Janice had gone and nowhere else, and Jamie I knew would be frantic to catch up with Laura, picturing her frantic at being taken away from him.
It was a brief drive, maybe ten minutes. When Conor killed the engine I lifted my head, wiped the condensation off the window—whoops, that was all my moisture, sorry, Conor—and saw that we’d come to a minor cousin’s house on the waterside, just where the river met the sea. Convenient, I guessed. Equipped with warm towels, I was sure, and a gas fire, and a change of clothes that might come somewhere near fitting me. Equipped also with Janice, of course, who would sit behind me on the hearth and rub my hair dry, and comb it through with her fingers as the warmth seeped into my bones and hard-edged exhaustion mellowed towards a sleepy drift...
o0o
Cousin Diarmuid’s house had been a working building once, a shipping warehouse on the ground floor—still with its heavy wooden gallows-beam jutting out over the water, which we used to dare each other to walk as teenagers, leaving and collecting trophies on the pulley at the end to be sure that no one cheated—and the pilots’ offices above. There was a little wooden tower on the flat roof, where they used to watch for ships coming in; Diarmuid watched the stars from there on clear nights. He might have been watching tonight, I thought, it might even have been him who spotted Jamie’s nightfire beacon and alerted the family.
Maybe I’d ask him later, if I remembered. If I didn’t fall asleep on his floor, in front of his fire, soothed by gentle fingers. That was the new plan: get dry, get warm, get comfy, get to sleep. The last plan had worked out pretty well, no reason why this one shouldn’t also.
Except that when Conor ushered me into the house, into the big living room, there were no women there. Not Janice, not Laura, none of the freed hostages. Uncle James was there, of course, and other men of the family, but no one else.
Diarmuid came in behind me, tutting when he saw me drip onto his polished oak floor.
“Upstairs with you, lad,” he said, a firm hand on my shoulder setting my skin to jumping even as it turned me back towards the door. “Jamie’s there already, drying off and raiding my wardrobes. You’re much of a size, I’m sure we can find something to fit you too...”
I was also sure of that, though Diarmuid was shorter and considerably fatter than either of us. But I twisted free of his hold, just for a moment, to glance back and ask, “Uncle James, where are the girls?”
“I sent them back to my house,” he said dismissively. “Lucy will look after them. We don’t need them here.”
He was wrong. I needed them, or one of them; so would Jamie. But that was a need Uncle James would only see as weakness, and he’d allowed us no chance to argue. I trudged wearily up the stairs in Diarmuid’s wake, wondering how soon he’d decide he didn’t need us either, how quickly we could follow. If we were lucky, we could persuade Conor or another cousin to drive us; I didn’t want to wait for a lift from my uncle.
As we walked across the landing, it occurred to me to wonder just why Uncle James thought he needed us at all.
Debriefing, I thought, more perhaps in hope than expectation, that’s all, he just wants a report on what happened, and then he’ll let us go...
Diarmuid opened the door of his dressing-room and we caught Jamie debriefing early, standing amid a pile of discarded clothing and just wriggling out of his wet underpants. He threw me a thin-lipped look when really he ought to have been winking, we should have been sharing a grin at his giving Diarmuid such a visual treat. I gathered that he too had already inquired after the girls.
He hooked a towel up off the floor, and knotted it around his waist; Diarmuid fussed around his feet, picking up all his saturated gear.
“You could have left these in the bathroom, Jamie, and spared my carpets.”
“Sorry. I didn’t fancy the dash, butt-naked.” Not much trace of apology in his voice; Jamie, I thought, was steaming angry. Me, I didn’t have the energy to steam.
“There are bathrobes, you know. That’s what they’re for. Benedict, come with me...”
o0o
I undressed dutifully in the plush bathroom, dumped my clothes where Diarmuid told me to with a pang of regret for my sodden, spoiled jacket, and took the chance of a quick hot shower while I was there
. Towelled off quickly, wrapped myself in a floor-length hooded robe that I’d have stolen without a qualm if there’d only been a way to smuggle it out of the house unseen, decided against any of the startling array of slippers lined up against one wall and went barefoot back to the dressing-room.
Where I found Jamie little further on in his dressing, wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein short johns, with the towel around his neck now. As I came in he gave his hair a desultory rub with one corner and I thought Janice with a pang I thought he was sharing, only with a different name attached.
It was a surprise to find him still there; I’d have expected his father to send for him sharpish if he lingered. Maybe Uncle James wanted us both together, and was allowing him the leeway to let me catch up...
“You all right?” I asked him.
“Yeah. Knackered, mostly. Still shaking, look,” and he held up a hand to show me.
I laid my palm against his to match him, tremble for tremble. Adrenalin, I guessed; kicks in fast, takes a while to get absorbed through the system. “Well, we made it,” I said, for what comfort that supplied. “You were brilliant. And the girls are okay.”
“Not here, though.”
“No.” Again we matched, grimace for resentful grimace. Nothing more to be said, except, “We’ll chase them, right? Soon as he lets us.”
“Right.” Then Jamie did grin, at last, though it looked a little forced; he indicated the room with a jerk of his head and said, “Been in here before?”
“No, never.” We’d had the run of the house on our occasional visits as kids, but a dressing-room had held no attractions, once we’d established that the name did explain its entire function. A dressing-up room it was not, or not for children.
“It’s amazing, have a browse. Kex are in those drawers there...”
o0o
Not hard to see why Jamie had got bogged down in his selection, knickers and nothing more. The room was crammed with wardrobes, chests and tallboys, barely enough floorspace free to change in; and there were clothes enough in there to keep a trendy menswear shop supplied through the Christmas rush and after. Cousin Diarmuid might dress his boyfriends up to the nines of fickle fashion, but he must strip them bare when they left him.
I rummaged through the plentiful supply of underwear, where Jamie had directed me, and fiinally settled on a pair of black Brass Monkey briefs. We both added plain top-quality T-shirts, black for me and white for him; then we burned up a sudden rush of nervous energy in a giggling, stupid half-hour of chucking suits at each other, “Here, try that, you’ll look stunning...”
Armani, Jasper Conran, Nicole Farhi in both sharp and casual moods: how could we choose? Everything we laid hands on seemed to fit, we must have matched Diarmuid’s ideal as closely as we matched each other; everything felt wonderful as we paraded the narrow aisles, twirling and posing like idiots.
Me, I’d have chickened at the last, I’d have settled for jeans—designer jeans, natürlich—if Jamie had allowed me.
He wouldn’t, though. “If I’m going down there grand, then so are you,” he said, “and I am. Laura’d never forgive me, else. She’s going to want to see this...”
See it and keep it, I reckoned; Cousin Diarmuid would have a job reclaiming this gear, if he ever tried.
Jamie fixed on Ralph Lauren, in the end. I found a two-piece in charcoal grey that must have been made to measure some unknown but lusty lad; it was too smart even to be labelled. It wasn’t that which grabbed me, though it might have been measured exactly for me. It was the red silk lining, flaring unexpectedly when I swung the jacket open. I loved it, and Jamie wouldn’t let me take it off.
Sober dark socks of heavy silk, that felt amazing on my feet; and then we raided the shoe-cupboard and rebelled just a little against the implicit formality of our suits, each of us picking a serious pair of boots, Docs for him and Cats for me.
Half an hour at least we’d taken in there, likely more, and still Uncle James hadn’t despatched anyone to fetch us down. That was strange, it was unnerving, it made me wonder again why the hell he’d had us brought here. Jamie was getting fidgety also, once we’d stamped around a bit to check the boots out. Fun-time was over, we both knew that, though we did drag it out a little longer, to raid a drawerful of watches and a few other essentials from the jewellery-box. Jamie took a couple of matching gold rings, I noticed, one too small for his wedding-finger. He didn’t wear the other, though it was a perfect fit. He just slipped them both into a pocket and turned away, conspicuously avoiding my eye. I found a pair of earrings, tiny jade buddhas that went into my own breast pocket as I struggled to remember whether Janice had pierced ears. If not I could always buy her the holes as an extra present, if she’d only sit still for it...
o0o
That was that, though. One last survey of our finely clad and discreetly-glittering selves in the full-length mirror that made the door so heavy; one last grin at each other that mutually faded; and we pulled that heavy door open, his fingers above mine on the handle so that neither one of us was doing this to the other, and we walked out and down and in.
Into a room of murmuring man-talk, smells of whisky and good cigars, an air of quiet triumph and patient waiting. That last the most unexpected, though I hadn’t counted on any of this: my family was hardly famous for its patience, and I couldn’t think what they were all so visibly waiting for.
Uncle James was in positively expansive mood, for him. He acknowledged our arrival with a nod that held no disapproval for the time we’d taken, a twitch of the eyebrow to register our sartorial eloquence, and a generous wave of the hand towards Cousin Diarmuid’s sideboard, where spirits were.
I thought probably I ought to eat, we both ought, it had been a long time since the burgers; but there were nuts and olives to chew on, and I had no appetite for anything more.
Macallan for me, Laphroaig for him, the cool bugger, and a bottle of Bud each—the Czech stuff, the proper stuff, no American derivatives for Diarmuid—as a chaser; we retired into a corner, with no more information to mull over than a murmured, “Just wait, you’ll see,” from Conor when we tried to interrogate him.
o0o
We waited, we speculated in shrugs and whispers, we checked the time constantly on our brand-new watches; good practice, that, for shooting our brand-new cuffs. And we picked specks of lint off each other’s sleeves and wondered where on God’s good earth lint came from, because no one ever actually used it for anything except bandages, you never saw it around and yet it was always there in specks, waiting to cling to any particularly smart suiting that happened to wander past...
We were bored as hell, in other words. And bone-weary, spoiling the cut of our clothes by sagging at every joint; and we’d run totally out of things to say to each other and wouldn’t talk to anyone else, because no one would tell us the one thing, the only thing we really, really wanted to know.
We did think briefly about a getaway, slipping out and calling a taxi, going after the girls without an exeat from Uncle James. But something big was happening or due to happen, there was unfinished business still; and if even Jamie’s dad thought we ought to be there, I was reluctantly inclined to agree.
o0o
At last, something did happen. At precisely 2:05 (I checked), Diarmuid’s telephone rang.
Uncle James answered it, without even a glance at his host for permission. He spoke, listened, spoke again; then hung up, swept a glance around the suddenly silent room to be sure he had everyone’s attention, and nodded towards the door.
Still no one was talking, or not to us. They muttered to each other, too low to overhear, and began to file out. We went with Conor when he beckoned, but he wouldn’t answer questions; he just smiled with a grim satisfaction, and told us again to hold our horses, we’d see when we got there.
o0o
Into the cars once more, this time both of us in Conor’s, and off we all went in convoy: up onto the dual carriageway and along the route of the river
till we came to the first bridge over. We crossed there and headed back east, towards the coast again; and then south, leaving the main road and following a tourist trail that led nowhere except to a pub on the high cliffs with a famous cave beneath, that they’d done out as a restaurant.
We parked by the pub, which was dark of course and all locked up, this time of night. The moon was sinking now, but still bright enough to throw our shadows over the edge as we trekked in silence and single file along a footpath above the cliff.
Soon we could see lights ahead of us, bright lights where no buildings were. No roads either, but those were a car’s headlamps for sure, dipped to shine on the turf. Doors were open, interior lights were on too, showing us the high boxy shape of the car. Uncle James’ Range Rover, that was, well up to the bouncing ride over rough ground it must have had to get itself here.
There were figures too, silhouetted against the light, standing waiting for us. Slowly, my tired mind was working this out. The rough hand of Macallan justice was in action tonight. Uncle James was in vengeful mood, and he’d chosen a spectacular theatre to hold his private circus in.
o0o
A couple of hundred feet below us, the sea crashed and thundered unseen. Just here, more than the cliff defied it. A limestone spur ten or twelve metres wide thrust out maybe another fifty metres, though the unstinting work of water swirling at its base had hollowed it into a great arch, a landmark for sightseers and sailors both.
They were cousins, of course, at the car, more male scions of my wide-branching family. With them was one man else, standing tall and still, all too clearly a captive although no one’s hand was on him. None needed to be, Macallans don’t hold or bind their prisoners.
Nor was the man a stranger. Despite the strange glaring light and the black shadows it cast—or maybe not despite, maybe because of—I knew him instantly. Knew him from another place of shadows and glare, difficult seeing. The tunnel under the bridge, the man with a torch in one hand and a tube in the other, a teasing joke on his tongue as he CS’d us for his pleasure...
Light Errant Page 27