Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Thirty

  The Last Tea

  I was cooking up twenty pounds of sausages to go with the mash, for the last time.

  I kept telling myself I wouldn’t miss it. There was no need for my insides to ache so. The hotel season was about to start, as the rugby one ended: soon I could head for the Highlands and leave my cares behind. Manchester gangsters wouldn’t follow me up there.

  I’d be glad to be gone. I might never learn who Becki’s murderer was; and no matter what Frank said, I would do my best to forget.

  Fylington Freddy came trudging in. “Got a spare tea there, petal?” he asked, muffled. He was taller than last time.

  “You’re too early.”

  “I mean a cup of tea,” said Freddy, struggling to pull his head off with his paws. It was Niall. “Mother of Jesus, it’s hot inside there. Forget the tea, I’ll have a pint.” He seemed more subdued than usual. There was no sign of AnneMarie and the kids. Maybe she’d finally done it, refused to bring them down. Or maybe she’d walked out on Niall at last.

  I braced myself to ask. “How’s AnneMarie?”

  But Niall said blithely, “Ah, she’ll be down later on. She’s taken the kids shopping. That was hormones the other day, Lannie, I’m sure you understand.” He gave me a hard look that was at odds with his carefree manner.

  Making no comment, I went over to the deserted bar and began to pull him a pint. “Score?”

  “Losing five-ten. Hugh got a try.”

  “Good for him,” I said. “I’m glad he’s back.”

  “The girlfriend must have let him off the leash for the last match. He’s having a good game. Nobody else is, the bunch of useless donkeys. And that’s another thing! I told everyone to come down to watch and bring two mates, so where are they all? You tell me! I’ve done my bit.” Niall unpawed his hands and drained half his ale in one go.

  “I see Wade Dooley’s shirt is back.”

  “The buyer reneged. Won’t buy it without authentication,” said Niall sourly. “He said he thought it was signed, the tight bastard.”

  “Could you get it signed?”

  “Not by Wade Dooley.” But Niall looked suddenly thoughtful, making me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. When I locked the till and went outside to get away from him, he followed me like a giant eager dog.

  “Now how do you think we could get a look at his signature, Lannie? Would they have it on the internet?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “And if that shirt disappears again, so will half your team.”

  “Ungrateful lot.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard. “Hadn’t you better put your head back on? You don’t want to disappoint the kiddies.”

  “Ah, I suppose so.” He ambled away and I joined Bob and Flipper on the touchline.

  “Five-fifteen,” said Flipper despondently. “Not with a bang but a whimper.”

  “Hugh’s the only one with any bang left in him,” added Bob. Hugh was running and shouting like a demon, while the rest of the team ambled up and down the pitch as if the season had already ended. I guessed Hugh had missed his rugby. Just like he’d missed me, according to Charlotte. Poor Hugh. Granted a last glimpse of freedom by Tamara the Twiglet.

  “How’s the portakabin?” asked Flipper.

  “Better than the Woolpack,” I said, although it was marginal. I had to share the portakabin with Dottie who didn’t care for being a guard dog but whined at the door every night until I let her in. Then she slept happily through all the noises that kept me awake – car alarms, strange crashes, rattles at the gate – and woke up in the silence, barking at things that weren’t there.

  “And how’s Frank?”

  “You probably see more of him than I do,” I said. “I leave in the morning when he arrives.”

  “But he’s all right, is he?” asked Flipper.

  “Frank is unchanged,” I said.

  “That won’t please that lass of his. In from the side!” bellowed Bob, making me reel away. “Their bloody number six is all over the ruck. Christ, the fucker’s given them the penalty. Get your glasses on, ref!” he muttered. Bob never swore at the referees, only about them. I watched the opposition fly-half take up a careful straddling stance. A couple of minutes later, when the Fylington forwards had all begun to shout and complain, he kicked the penalty. KK threw his scrum-cap on the ground in disgust.

  “Christ, this is dire. And to cap it all, here comes Squirrel Fucking Nutkin,” muttered Bob, as Niall loped towards us, his head tucked under his arm. I had to escape back to the clubhouse again.

  Inside I found AnneMarie’s kids, who were watching cartoons and eating crisps, both at maximum volume. The ching of the till told me that AnneMarie had just been helping herself at the bar.

  She turned round with a full glass in her hand and a startled expression.

  “I put the money in the till,” she said, defiant and guilty.

  “Okay, that’s fine. I didn’t really expect to see you here this afternoon.”

  “Why not?” She stared at me aggressively. “Just because I said one stupid thing? I wasn’t myself. Come on, I know Niall isn’t a murderer. You know he isn’t. I was just wound up. It was the drugs talking, like Rhoda said.”

  “Not hormones, then?”

  “What?”

  “You still on the drugs?”

  “I’m off them. I’m on this.” She held up her double vodka.

  “Does Niall know?”

  “I don’t need Niall’s permission,” said AnneMarie frostily. “About anything. The great selfish lump.” She took a reckless swig of her vodka. “Anyway, I only said one stupid thing. The rest was all true.”

  “Oh, right.” This was getting beyond me. “Which bit was true?”

  “All those bitches. I didn’t lie about that. I have children.”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s an idiot,” said AnneMarie. “He’ll take anyone that looks at him twice. No bloody self-control.”

  “Mm.” I felt the urge to escape again, but my job was here. So I got behind the bar and pretended to tidy up.

  “They don’t care that he’s a married man. Sluts.”

  “Tut,” I said vaguely, rearranging glasses.

  “Would you believe,” spat AnneMarie, “that one of those bitches shagged my husband when I was pregnant with Taidhgh. When I was actually in hospital, really ill, I could have died, would you believe?”

  “How did you know about her? Did somebody tell you?”

  “Nobody needed to tell me,” she hissed. “She used my bloody hairbrush, the bitch. Covered in her hairs. Tissues in the bedroom bin. Her stink all over Niall. She’d always been after him, you should have seen the cow’s eyes she used to make. And that didn’t stop after Taidhgh was born.” She knocked back most of the vodka. My heart sank. I hoped she wasn’t going to collapse on the floor again, not with her kids here. I could refuse to serve her, but she was bound to kick up a fuss.

  Something occurred to me. “Hang on,” I said, “the till’s locked. How did you get into it? I’ve got the key in my pocket.”

  “What? Oh... I know where KK keeps the spare.” That was more than I did. A dull flush began to suffuse AnneMarie’s face.

  “You’d better show me,” I said. “I ought to know too.”

  “He hides it under a bottle,” said AnneMarie reluctantly.

  “Which one?”

  She was slow to answer. “The advocaat. Nobody ever drinks it.”

  I turned round and picked up the dusty advocaat bottle. “Surprised it hasn’t scrambled,” I said. “Can I have the key back?”

  She handed it over, ill at ease. Leaning my elbows on the bar, I read the yellowed label on the bottle. “Michelle used to drink advocaat,” I said conversationally.

  “Who?”

  “KK’s wife.”

  “I don’t remember what she drank.”

  “Until somebody put carpet cleaner in it,” I said.

  “That was KK. I told you about th
at.”

  “You did. How sick was she?” I asked.

  “Very.” The satisfaction was unmistakable. “He shouldn’t have done it, though,” she added as an afterthought. “It was really nasty of him. Mind you, she deserved it.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t KK, though,” I said. “I know who it was.”

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at me wide-eyed, until I took a bit of a flier.

  “It was you.”

  “How dare you! I’ve never heard such a vile thing!” She went all indignant and spluttery. I sat out the splutters, chin propped on my hands, pretending to be unmoved.

  “I’m not bothered. It doesn’t matter now,” I told her. “It was years ago, and after all it didn’t do Michelle any harm long term. I expect you just wanted to give her a bit of a fright.”

  “She needed teaching a lesson,” said AnneMarie sulkily. “They all did.”

  She was off her trolley. I picked up the key and twirled it round in my fingers.

  “Well, that’s in the past,” I said. “But AnneMarie, why did you take that money out of the till?”

  “What money? What are you talking about?”

  “The three hundred pounds that went missing after New Year.”

  “That was KK.”

  “Niall likes to blame everything on his brother, doesn’t he?”

  “KK owes him,” she said defiantly. “For the flat and everything else Niall’s done for him.”

  “But it wasn’t KK took the money,” I said. “KK thought it was Becki. Becki thought it was him. You know what? I think it was you. Wasn’t it? Because you knew where the key to the till was. And you needed cash to buy your drugs. After all, you couldn’t ask Niall for money.”

  “Shut up!” hissed AnneMarie, glancing fiercely at her children. They were oblivious.

  “They can’t hear us over the telly. I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

  “I never touched that money!”

  “Well, who else knows about the spare key?”

  “I have no idea,” said AnneMarie stiffly.

  “Who told you where to find it?”

  “KK.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “KK’s very jealous of his bar. He didn’t even tell me, and I work here. Shall I ask him?”

  “No. It might have been Becki. I forget.”

  “You know, AnneMarie, somehow I can’t see Becki giving you free access to the till. After all, you and Becki didn’t get on, did you?”

  She gasped. Then she went ape-shit. “What the hell do you mean? Are you accusing me? How dare you? You can just go screw yourself, you – you flat-nosed freak!” Nice one.

  “Keep your voice down,” I said. “Thought you didn’t want the kids to hear you. Anyway, what exactly am I accusing you of?”

  “Of Becki!”

  I spread my hands. “All I asked was who showed you the spare key.”

  “It was Niall,” snarled AnneMarie. “And I never took any cash out of the till.”

  The emphasis was on the wrong word. It should have been on the any, not on the I.

  “Niall,” I repeated. “Of course: he’s the chairman, he’s got access to everything.”

  “So he should! He does everything for this club! This club owes Niall a load of money! The time he’s spent, the work he’s put in for next to nothing, building the annexe roof–”

  “What, the one that blew off?”

  “He never even got paid properly for that! He’s a fool, the hours he puts into this place for no thanks and no reward!”

  I drummed my hands on the counter. “So you made sure he got what he was owed?”

  “I didn’t take anything,” said AnneMarie. Emphasis on the I again.

  “But Niall did?”

  “If he had, it would have been no more than he was owed!” Christ, this was a weird relationship. She was ready to shop him and defend him all in one go. Her despised meal-ticket.

  “What about the missing whisky?”

  “What whisky? Oh, those.” She dismissed them with a flick of her hand. “Christmas presents for Niall’s suppliers. It was only a couple of bottles. Things go missing in pubs and clubs all the time. Don’t tell me you’ve never poured yourself a free drink down the Woolpack!”

  “That’s not the same as litres of whisky.”

  “It’s nothing compared to what he’s given this bloody money pit of a sodding place. It would have fallen apart without him.” AnneMarie got out a cigarette and lit it, her hands trembling slightly. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, Lannie.”

  “I think maybe the members should know.”

  “They don’t need to know anything.”

  “Maybe I ought to tell them.”

  “Yeah, go ahead. Right up your street, that. Grassing,” said AnneMarie, as though the word tasted bad. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? You’re not telling anyone.”

  “Or else?”

  AnneMarie leaned towards me. “Or else, you bloody arse-licking snitch,” she said in a low, fast, furious whisper, her face inches from mine, “I’ll write to Strangeways. That’s where your beloved brother is, isn’t it? Or I could just plaster notices down Deansgate saying your little squealer’s living in Fylington, at Taylor’s yard, come and get her one dark night why don’t you?”

  “Nobody cares any more,” I said. “It’s old news.”

  “No it isn’t. It was on the telly the other day,” said AnneMarie, flashing her teeth in triumph.

  “What was?”

  “One of them’s just lost his appeal. Wilford Nevis. And they had a picture of your brother. Karl Herron, twenty-two. That’s him, isn’t it?”

  “He’s twenty-three now,” I said, but my throat had tightened.

  “So they won’t be feeling too happy,” said AnneMarie. “I think you should stay very quiet and get your ugly nose and your fat arse out of here. Out of this club. Right out of this town. Don’t you?”

  I couldn’t reply. Doors were banging as the disgruntled spectators marched back in demanding sausages and beer. AnneMarie stubbed out her unsmoked cigarette on the counter next to my thumb, and stalked away to defend her sons’ cartoons against the sports results. I replaced the key under the advocaat bottle, pretending indifference.

  But the fear came seething back up, like a saucepan of milk forgotten on the hob and about to boil over. I’d had enough of it: I was going to leave it all behind, escape to Scotland just as soon as I could. My hands were clammy as I went to serve the food.

  I’d forgotten to heat up any peas, and Bob grumbled at me.

  “Just as well Brendan’s not here to see the bloody third rate cook he’s loaned us! Thought you might have given us something flash for the last match of the season. Where’s our fucking Beouf Bourgignon?”

  “I did mustard mash.”

  “And cold fucking peas.”

  “Sorry, Bob. Did we lose, then?”

  “Total bloody dickhead of a ref,” said Bob. “Doesn’t know a scrum from a doughnut.”

  “Have an extra sausage.”

  Niall, still in his costume, examined the mash on his fork with narrowed eyes. He’d be over in a minute for a word. But then Frank arrived and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and the nosy congratulating him. Nobody thought of congratulating me, until Hugh came over, saying,

  “I hear it was your doing, Frank getting off.”

  “Yeah. Well, it was obvious he didn’t murder Becki. You never thought he could have, did you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hugh soberly. “I didn’t know what to think. You never really know anybody, do you? You don’t understand what they’re capable of. Everybody’s…” He shook his head. “Opaque. You don’t know what’s happening inside, how churned up they are, how confused and desperate.”

  “You’d know if a friend was a murderer.”

  “I hope so,” said Hugh. “Charlotte sends her best, and have you thought yet about her offer and moving back to Manchester?�
�

  “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. Do you think I should?”

  “It would be nice,” said Hugh, though with a disappointing lack of effusiveness.

  “It’d be better than the Portakabin.”

  “The what?” He frowned.

  “I’m staying in Frank’s Portakabin in his yard,” I explained. “Before that I was sleeping on the Woolpack’s benches, so it’s a step up.”

  “What happened to the house? Frank didn’t kick you out, did he?”

  “No, it wasn’t safe to stay. Charlotte never told you?”

  “I haven’t really seen much of Charlotte,” he said. “Not to talk properly. Other things took over.” Thanks, Tamara, I thought. Hugh really did look knackered. He had lost weight.

  “You didn’t hear about my midnight visitor?” I said. “Somebody followed me home and chased me over the moors. It wasn’t safe to go back to live in the house after that.”

  “What? When was this?” asked Hugh, staring.

  “About two weeks since. A Sunday night.”

  “Christ,” said Hugh. “I think that was me.”

  It was my turn to stare. “What do you mean, it was you?”

  “I wanted to talk to you, but it was late and I missed you at the pub. They were all locked up. So I drove to the house to try and catch you, but you weren’t in. I even went into the house to try and find you.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I tried the back door and the lock just gave way. Then I saw you through the window setting off for a walk up the hill. Too fast for me: you were steaming away. I couldn’t catch up. I thought you were just out enjoying the moonlight.”

  “Jesus! That was you?”

  “Actually, I thought maybe you were trying to avoid me,” said Hugh unhappily. “I shouted. I thought you must have heard me, or at least recognised the car.”

  “What colour’s your car?”

  “British Racing Green. You’ve been in it, Lannie.” He didn’t sound exasperated, just weary.

  “Christ, I didn’t know that was you!”

  “But you rang me that evening and invited me over. That was why I called round so late.”

  “I had no idea! I thought I was being chased by gangsters!” I was first bemused, then vexed to think that I had slept on the Woolpack bench and was now suffering the Portakabin’s draughts without cause.

  And then it hit me, more happily, that I had nothing to worry about after all. Nobody was after me. No midnight gangsters, no murderous player out to get me. I could relax. I’d spent the last fortnight panicking for nothing. Bloody Hugh!

  “You daft lummock! Why didn’t you just ring me?” I demanded, torn between annoyance and laughter. “No, don’t tell me. No signal. What did you want to see me for, anyway, Hugh?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about something Tamara said.”

  I stiffened. “Yes?”

  “She’s... Oh, Lord. She said something that... worried me. Well, I was worried already. Then I stopped being worried, then I started worrying again. Christ, I wish I’d never had that bloody fucking party.”

  I had never heard Hugh swear before. He was always so polite, with old-fashioned ideas about swearing in front of women. Maybe I didn’t count. Maybe he swore in front of Tamara. Maybe she had driven him to swear.

  “So what did she say?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s strange, I ...I don’t really understand. That’s why I need your help. Not Charlotte, it has to be you. But I... look, Lannie, this is really hard.” He swallowed, rubbed his forehead.

  “Have you broken up with Tamara?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He looked like he needed a shoulder to cry on. That’s what I was to him, a shoulder. Damn, he must really love the Twiglet.

  “Look,” said Hugh, “I think I need a drink. And somewhere quiet to talk.”

  “I’m nearly finished here,” I said. “We’ll go in the side room when you’ve got your drink.” I glanced at the bar. “Could be a while: they’re all busy buying Frank a pint.”

  “I suppose I better had too,” said Hugh despondently, and went to join the queue. KK was thumping Frank on the back. They’d be tossing him in a blanket next. All happy and jolly that he wasn’t a murderer.

  All happy except AnneMarie. She was doing her best Gorgon impression over by the TV. As soon as Hugh was out of the way, she came back into the kitchen and tried to corner me against the fridge.

  “What were you just talking to Hugh about?”

  “Nothing to do with you.”

  “It had better not be! I meant what I said,” she said vehemently. “You don’t tell anyone about that money, Lannie!”

  “If I don’t tell anyone, Niall will keep on nicking,” I said. “That’s the way it works.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “He will. Probably still is.” To get rid of her, I picked up the bucket of potato peelings and carried it outside.

  AnneMarie wasn’t giving up that easily. She followed me out round the car park to the wheelie-bins.

  “He’s not nicking,” she shouted. “He’s taking what’s his! And you’re not telling!”

  I upended the bucket into the wheelie bin. Becki’s body was still there, in a drift of potato peelings, every time I took out the rubbish. What a place to leave a ghost.

  “That’s up to me,” I said. A group of men was walking from the car park towards us. “Shut up now, there’s people coming. They’ll hear you.”

  “It’s you who needs to shut up, Lannie!”

  “Bloody hell,” I said. I felt like putting the bucket over her head. “Give it a rest.”

  AnneMarie kicked the wheelie bin, an overgrown toddler in a tantrum. She yelled furiously, making the men stare.

  “I’m not shutting up until you shut up! You bloody fucking busybody hypocrite, Lannie Herron, you’d better just shut your mouth!”

  The men stopped and looked at us. “Don’t worry, love,” said one of them. He wore a beanie hat. Beneath it, his face was narrow and hungry as a rat’s. It was Peel. “We’ll do it for you.” And he pulled a knife.

  AnneMarie turned and saw him. She opened her mouth again, but only a croak came out. I didn’t feel capable of making any noise at all.

  “Lannie Herron,” he said. His pale eyes were alive with pleasure. “Got a message for you, from Karl, and Wilford and the rest, with all their love. In’t that nice?”

  I jumped away from him behind the wheelie bins, and ran for the brambled fence under KK’s window. I wasn’t thinking clearly: even if I’d got over the fence, I’d never have forced a way through those brambles. As it was, they rasped at my clothes and ripped my skin before I felt hands on my shoulders hauling me back. My hair was nearly yanked out, and a pair of arms circled me like tree roots, hard and immovable, pinning both my own arms to my chest.

  I kicked backwards as hard as I could. Missed entirely: kicked only air, and was spun round with one of the steely arms pressing now against my throat, so that I had to face Peel and his knife who were standing in front of me. I didn’t bother looking at Peel. His knife had all my attention. Not a plastic job this time: they’d come prepared. It was a hunting knife.

  And I could see AnneMarie, her mouth stretched in fear and pain, arms held tight behind her back by a thin guy with a stupid little beard, who was laughing. She wriggled and kicked just as I had tried to do, but with more effect. As her high heel connected with the guy’s shin he gasped and loosened his grip. AnneMarie twisted round to knee him in the balls, and screamed like a banshee.

  “Fuck,” said Peel. The knife came for me. So I threw myself on top of him, which neither he nor the man holding me was expecting, and we tumbled over together in a threesome, crashing into a wheelie bin in a jumbled sandwich of wildly threshing limbs and beanie hats. I managed to pull my arms free and punched and kicked and scrambled my way out. Then I tried to push the wheelie bin over on top of them before they could grab me again. The bin swayed but disobligingly re
fused to fall over and crush them.

  Peel was up on his feet and launching himself at me a second time. I don’t quite remember shoving him as I tried to keep the knife away. What I do remember is the ground vibrating as the cavalry arrived.

  There were a lot of confused shouts and flying fists. KK was at the head of the pack: he grabbed the man who had grabbed me and smartly head-butted him. He had to lift him up to do it. A second later, Bob had Peel in an armlock and was whispering sweet nothings into his ear – I didn’t see how he got the knife off him, but there it was on the ground, and Peel was shouting “oh shit oh shit” so I guessed his shoulder might be in danger of dislocation.

  I sat down against the wheelie bin, since there didn’t seem to be any particular reason why I needed to stand up. I was aware of Flipper with his mouth open and fists bunched like a gentleman boxer, wondering who to hit, and Hugh looking very pale.

  Stevo and George had rescued AnneMarie and Stevo was now sitting on one of her assailants. The other, with the nasty little beard, was trying to climb over the fence. He got hauled back by Frank. Clinging to the fence with one hand, he fumbled at his belt with the other, but as his knife came out, Frank hit him. The knife hurtled, spinning and glittering like a circus acrobat, over the barbed wire. Its owner trampolined against the fence and looked like he didn’t fancy getting up again.

  Frank dragged him back to his feet nonetheless. “Who’s in charge here?” Just his normal voice. He might have been asking for a bag of chips.

  Daft Beard looked across at Peel.

  Bob let out a sigh of anticipation. “So what’s it all about, then?”

  “Fucking grass,” spat his armful. “That Herron, she’s got what’s coming. Fucking bitch, she put her own brother in jail.”

  “And?” said Frank.

  “Come to sort her out.”

  “Ah, brave boys,” said Stevo. “All this way from home.”

  “Mummy’ll be missing you,” said KK. He was leafing through a wallet he’d pulled from his buttee’s pocket. “Barclaycard, James Patterson. Mastercard, Nigel Worth. My, what a lot of names you’ve got. And a student union card. What you studying then? GBH?” The only answer was a groan.

  “So what shall we do with them?” asked Stevo.

  “I know what I’d do with them.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not allowed, KK.”

  “We’ll sue you for assault,” cried the man underneath Stevo.

  “We’d better give you good reason, then,” growled Bob. Peel howled.

  Niall came round the corner, still dressed as Fylington Freddy but without the head, and waving his phone. “Police are on their way,” he cried, “don’t panic.”

  “What took you so bloody long?” screeched AnneMarie.

  “I’ve been ringing the police! Someone had to! Just hold them here. Careful there, Stevo. Should we tie them up, do you think?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Stevo. He looked quite comfortable, although his seat was a bit small for him. It let out a moan.

  “I’ll just go and find some rope,” said Niall nonetheless. AnneMarie burst into tears. Daft Beard tried to scramble to his feet and run for it until Wayne and Jamesy grabbed him and used him as a chair as well.

  “Lannie,” said Bob, looking down at me, “You’re bleeding.”

  “Am I? It doesn’t hurt.” I wasn’t aware of being cut. It was only when I put my hand to the shoulder of my polo shirt and brought it away wet and red that I began to feel a bit odd.

  “Christ,” said Frank. “He’s stabbed you, the bastard. We’d better get you inside.”

  “Just need a few steri-strips.”

  “And the rest. Come on.” He and Flipper levered me up from my resting-place against the bin and began to steer me away from the crowd, across the car park.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I felt a bit wobbly, that was all; nothing seemed to hurt much. “You’d better see to Hugh.” Hugh was throwing up by the door. “It’s all right, Hugh, I’m fine,” I called out to him. I noticed that my teeth were chattering.

  Hugh straightened up, leaning his hands and his forehead against the wall.

  “Chicken legs,” he said.

  “What?” said Frank. “Christ, Lannie, you’re bleeding all over the place.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to my shoulder.

  “Did Niall call an ambulance?” asked Flipper.

  “Hugh, are you all right? Flipper, go and get the first aid box out the changing room,” ordered Frank. “And a clean towel, if you can find one.”

  Hugh closed his eyes. “Chicken legs,” he muttered. He opened his eyes and said more clearly, “There’s blood on the ground. It’s Baba Yaga.”

  “Oh no,” said Frank.

  Hugh stared round at me, blinking hard, and then began to talk very fast and low, as if he was afraid of being overheard. “She’s the witch. She’s coming to get me. I can’t see, Lannie, I can see everything, it’s the one with chicken legs, she wants to put me in a cage.”

  “It’s all right, Hugh,” I said, bewildered.

  “No but Lannie, I can see her. She’s right there! She’s there, Lannie, it’s the witch, she’s the one who puts children in cages, she’s going to cook them alive! You can hear the fire, it’s fizzing and hissing!”

  He was shouting now.

  “Christ, man, what are you on?” said Flipper.

  “I can see her, Lannie!” cried Hugh. His face was contorted with panic. “She wants to kill you. She’s behind you! She’s coming to get us both!”

  “She’s not real, Hugh,” I said. “You’re having a bad trip.” I tried to put my hands up on his shoulders and he flinched and knocked them away.

  “Get off me! You’re in this too, aren’t you?”

  Frank caught Hugh’s wrists. “Steady on,” he said. “Come and sit down, Hugh. Take it easy. The witch can’t hurt us inside.”

  “But she wants to kill us! She took the knife!”

  Frank merely said, “Then let’s go inside away from her, shall we?”

  Hugh stumbled through the door and sank to his knees, elbows resting on the grimy red plush of a stool like a man at prayer. Only it wasn’t a prayer that he was gabbling under his breath.

  “She, she, she, she wants to skin me. There’s a house on legs. Chicken legs. It was on fire. I had to. There was blood on the ground. She was a witch, Lannie, she was a witch! It was the one who eats the children! You’ve got to believe me!”

  He looked like a man about to be devoured, staring at the jaws of some huge, nameless monster. I put an arm around his shoulders, ignoring the blood seeping through my clothes and the pain that was just starting to kick in. “What did you do, Hugh?”

  “No,” said Frank. “Don’t ask him.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hugh, his voice almost lost. “I don’t know what I did.”

  “It’s just a bad trip,” I said, hugging Hugh. “It’s not real. It’ll go away again.”

  “But she keeps coming back,” murmured Hugh. “She keeps coming back with that knife.” He began to cry.

  “She’s not real, Hugh. It’s all over. It’s all right.”

  I lied. As he sobbed I rocked him in my arms. So many times I’d yearned to do that and never had, till now. Away in the distance I heard the first of the sirens screaming out in pain.