The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  ‘They have no family. Both of them lost their fathers to AIDS so long ago they can hardly remember them and then last year their mothers too. Is Tendai’s sister Joyce still coming to school?’

  ‘Yes, but she says she has not seen Tendai for weeks. She thinks he has run away, but she does not know why.’

  Moyenda’s brow furrowed. There was no reason for Tendai to run away. Or Henry for that matter. They had been overjoyed to be registered with a school for the first time and get their brand new, bright green uniforms so they could attend classes. Moyenda had found them nearly two years ago, begging on a street corner, scared to go home if they hadn’t collected much and unable to go to school because their mothers could not afford it. At eight and nine, they were too young to be on the streets but their plight was hardly unique in Malawi where there were over a million orphans. He had talked to them, talked to their mothers, and persuaded the women that if his charity, Samala, bought the boys their uniforms and books then they could afford to send them to school. He had watched them flourish and do well, proud to be at school and determined to show ‘Uncle Moyenda’ that he was right to have helped them. After their mothers died, they had been living at one of the few orphanages that Moyenda rated highly, but still begged at weekends. Moyenda had been dismayed to see Henry carrying heavy bags for people in the market for a few kwacha, but at least they were getting an education during the week.

  Then three months ago, first one of them had vanished, then the other. Henry had disappeared first, not returning after a weekend. A few weeks later, the same thing happened with Tendai. The boys in the project often did come and go, but they usually showed up in their community again at some point. Tendai and Henry were both from Bangwe but no one had seen even their shadow since their disappearance. Moyenda was worried. They were the sixth and seventh boys to have vanished in the past eight months and they were also the youngest.

  He shook his head, and noted the two were still absent on his list. There were thirty-two other children enrolled with Samala and however worried he was about Henry and Tendai there were plenty of other children who also needed his attention. At Masala, there were six other boys he needed to check on before travelling on to two more schools. It would be a long day.

  ‘You are fretful, Moyenda.’ Chotsani, broke into his thoughts. ‘You think something bad has happened?’

  Moyenda looked up. ‘I do not know. But yes. Yes, that is what I fear.’

  ***

  The bench in the park was cold and damp. Kate Hampton perched carefully, glancing around her, her fingers fidgeting on the handles of the large leather handbag grasped in her fists. No one recognised her. No one decided that they absolutely had to come and talk to her about manifesto pledges or waiting lists. A young man stared at her and her palms became slick before she realised he was staring because she was acting weirdly. She fingered the handles of the bag again then brushed a stray lock of dark hair back from her face. She tried to relax. Tried to look like she was just an ordinary woman taking a few minutes to sit down on a bench. It was hard to look natural when her heart was hammering in her chest and her anxiety levels were soaring. She clung on to the bag like a lifebuoy, suddenly terrified by the thought of a mugger snatching it from her and finding an unexpected bonus in the envelope in the side pocket.

  He was late. What if he didn’t come at all? Where would that leave her? A few thousand better off but with a sword of Damocles still hanging over her. Could he afford not to come?

  She glanced around, trying to spot him in the smattering of people coming and going around her. The park was a small oasis of green in the city, full of squabbling seagulls and scabby pigeons scrounging for scraps. Office workers from the surrounding buildings came here to eat their lunch, grasping at the oxygen here, kicking dispassionately at the begging birds when they came too close. Two young women were laughing, sitting on the next bench down, feeding the remnants of their lunch to some of the pigeons. Across from her two businessmen clung to opposite ends of a bench to maximise their personal space, each reading the same broadsheet. All witnesses, she suddenly realised with a sick feeling.

  She wished she’d brought a paper or a book to read—maybe she’d feel more natural and less like there was an enormous arrow above her head, screaming ‘Suspicious! Look! Look!’

  It was a huge sum of money. Yes, she could afford it financially, but it was a life-changing, career-ending meeting if anyone found out. She checked her watch. He was very late. She would have to go soon. She fished her mobile out of her bag, wondering where the hell he was. Would it be incriminating to call him? She stared at the phone for a moment then put it back, unused. Her temper rose. It had taken a huge effort to squeeze this time into her packed schedule and she couldn’t afford to be late back. There was only so long you could claim to have a screaming headache and need some air. She didn’t want to think what it would mean if she didn’t pay on time. Especially this week.

  She lifted her bag on to her lap and tugged open the zip of the side pocket to peek at the edge of the envelope. Satisfied that her savings hadn’t gone anywhere, she rezipped the pocket and bounced the bag on her knees for a moment. Her eyes did one last sweep around the rendezvous point then she swallowed and started walking briskly back to her office, her brain churning.

  She didn’t have a Plan B.

  ***

  ‘Rob? Rob, are you home?’

  Helen Wright pushed the door to her flat closed, juggling two plastic shopping bags and her handbag and tipped her head to listen for sounds of her brother. There was no answer. Taking the bags through to the lounge, she sighed at the mess. This was supposed to be a showcase for her blossoming interior design business; somewhere she could bring clients and impress them. It wouldn’t impress them like this. The sleeping bag her brother was using lay on the sofa like a shed skin, rumpled and wrinkled. On the floor were dirty socks and shorts, a mug with scummy dregs of coffee in it, a used cereal bowl and spoon, and a T-shirt.

  She rubbed her eyes, groaning. She had just wanted to come home and relax.

  ‘Your sergeant would have had your guts if you’d been this slobby in the army,’ Helen muttered, starting to pick up.

  But the army wasn’t something they talked about any more.

  Helen straightened the room up, smoothing her hand over the velvet cushions and rich, silk curtains. It was usually her favourite room—lavish and opulent yet still managing to be cosy and relaxing—but since Rob had moved in it was a constant source of stress. Maybe if he managed a few more jobs for her he’d get back on his feet and be able to move out. Mind you, she’d been hoping that since Christmas, four months ago.

  She crumpled into a seat and hauled her organiser out of her capacious handbag. She read over the bookings.

  ‘Did you make it to the McKays’?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Or did something happen?’

  Her mouth twisted on the last word as she remembered the last time he’d gone into a tailspin. Yes, it was hard for him after what he’d been through, but her patience was running out. She sighed, closing her eyes and feeling guilty again, but she ran a business, not a charity. Money wasn’t abundant enough for him to skip off and leave clients in the lurch, but what could she say? The two occasions when she’d tentatively suggested he see about getting help he’d gone ballistic. According to Rob, hard work and lots of exercise was all that was needed. Him and his damned macho pride.

  She unpacked one of her bags, crooning over the fabric samples in it and trying to work out the best way to display them. She laid them aside and carried the other bag through to the kitchen. It too was a showcase; part of the image. It too bore traces of Rob’s stay. She bit down her irritation and unpacked the food from the bag.

  ‘Am I eating alone again?’ she muttered, picking up her phone.

  He answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, Robbie. You going to be back for dinner?’

  ‘Hi, sis. Er, no. I’m going to be away for a couple of days
. Sorry. I should have left a note.’

  The line sounded crackly. Helen scrunched her face up. ‘Did you go to the McKays’ today?’

  ‘I did. They said that they wanted me to go back next week because they hadn’t finished clearing the space. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Helen pulled her organiser towards her, flipped to the diary and scanned through the days. ‘Next week was pretty clear anyway. I’ll tell them Tuesday, shall I? Week today?’

  ‘Whatever suits them best. I’m just the decorator.’

  She ignored the edge to his voice. ‘So, where are you? Somewhere nice?’ She snapped the fastener closed on the Filofax and leaned back against the counter.

  ‘I’m over in the west. After the McKays cancelled me, I called a mate from…’ he tailed off for a moment. ‘Called a mate, and we’re doing a spot of fishing. Archie also called about the place in Skye. Do you need me back?’

  Helen was secretly relieved to have the place to herself for a while. ‘No. Not at all. The diary’s empty. Have fun!’

  They said their goodbyes. Helen stared at her mobile, spinning it round in a circle. She desperately wanted to call Patrick. Talk to him. Apologise. Work things out. Make things right between them again.

  She knew he wouldn’t answer if she called.

  ***

  Patrick gave up trying to work out where he was being taken. Partly because he was disorientated in the back of the van; mostly because he was fairly sure he’d lost consciousness several times.

  The movement of the van slowed, then stopped. Patrick raised his head, memories of the previous blows triggering caution. The door swung open, the sudden light blinding him. The man who’d abducted him reached in, grabbed him by his top and hauled him towards the edge of the van. The rough cloth of a sack scratched his face as he was hooded and something closed tightly around his neck. He choked, panicky, struggling to breathe. The man dragged him out, still trussed, and slung him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing.

  Patrick thought he heard two doors being opened, before his head bounced repeatedly against his captor’s back, then he was tipped on to the ground. He sprawled sideways, banging his cheek on the floor. The plastic ties binding his wrists behind him were sliced off, taking a chunk of his flesh too. Before he could relish the restored blood flow to his arms, his captor wrenched them in front of him and viciously re-tied them.

  He struggled to sit up.

  ‘Stay where you’re fucking put.’

  Something hard collided painfully with his temple, sending him crashing back to the floor.

  There was a rushing sound in his head and everything went black.

  Tuesday Evening

  LB Stewart was bored.

  He should go out, do something, go somewhere; except he preferred company and everyone else was at work. He smoothed a hand over the back of his head, his cropped hair prickling his palm.

  There were only so many times you could tidy an immaculate flat.

  The catalogue in his hand stirred up a mixture of memories. It had been tucked into the magazine rack that squatted by the side of the sofa. The rack was hers as well. LB picked it up and turned it upside down, allowing more of Anya’s catalogues and magazines to slither out and flop on the floor like dead fish. He stepped over them and carried the rack through to the hall. Next time he was out he would take it to Oxfam.

  Did he have any regrets? He walked back to the lounge and stared at the pile on the floor. No. Not really. Anya could never have been described as high maintenance, but she’d needed more time and effort than LB could muster and she wasn’t one to accept second place. However, it was galling to be reminded, yet again, that he couldn’t find anyone who commanded more commitment from him than his job.

  He flipped through the catalogue. Some of the pages had their corners turned down and he looked to see what she had been marking. A turquoise laptop bag on one page and on another a notebook, similarly coloured, but just mismatched enough to infuriate him. He tossed it on the heap then scooped the whole lot up and threw them into the recycling crate in the hall.

  A final legacy of Anya hung on the wall and he gazed at it. It was an abstract by an up-and-coming Fife artist. Anya, who knew about these things, had taken LB to an exhibition of his work where he had seen the painting and fallen in love with it. Every time he looked at it, he felt a new emotion and marvelled at the artist’s skill. He had toyed with hanging it in the lounge but feared he’d get too used to seeing it and it would lose its freshness. Here in the hall he could see it several times a day but not have it constantly in his vision.

  Having drunk his fill of its glory, he breathed deeply, returned to the open-plan area and headed for the kitchen end to make coffee. While it brewed, he flicked idly through his collection of cookbooks, leafing through each one then replacing it precisely in its original place on the crammed shelf. He settled on his favourite –given to him by his mother, it instantly made him think of warm summers, fresh bread from the boulangerie and greaseproof-paper-wrapped packets from the charcuterie. He turned the pages slowly, ever amused to see the stains and grease-marks on the pages he referred to the most. He checked through the fridge, occasionally cross-checking with the recipe book as he chose what to prepare for dinner.

  He should have gone to France after all.

  It was his week off. In fact, it was his first week off in months. Yet it was only Tuesday and already he was fed up. He and Anya had planned to visit his parents for the weekend and then go on to Paris for a few days. Of course, he had cancelled that when he’d cancelled their relationship, but with hindsight he should have just gone on his own. He might have managed to unwind, clear his mind, stop thinking about work. His own fault for being stubborn.

  He poured a mug of coffee to take through to the lounge, tucking the recipe book under his arm and sank down into a beaten leather club chair, its decrepitude making it stand out in the otherwise pristine flat. The dark wood of the simple furniture was silhouetted crisp and clean against the pale walls. A square table stood guard in the window and a low side table nestled between the cream sofa and the battered chair. A crimson cushion, a scarlet vase and a print on the wall broke the monochrome, like splashes of blood around the flat. Apart from the chair, the place could have stood in for an advert for IKEA. Only tidier. The chair, however, was for holidays; somewhere to lounge, somewhere to drink too much whisky. Somewhere to allow the laissez-faire French side to escape from the Calvinist Scots.

  LB read through the recipes, sipping his coffee, trying to tame his restlessness. Time off came so rarely with his work. He knew he should use it more profitably but was blowed if he knew what to do. The last time he’d been single with time on his hands, he’d redecorated the flat but it scarcely needed doing again. He needed a project.

  Coffee finished, he returned to the kitchen, propped the book on to a stand and set some music to play on shuffle. To an eclectic compilation, LB rolled his sleeves up and donned a large green apron. He worked steadily, singing along to the music, tasting the meal as he went. Only when all the preparation was complete and the dish was in the oven did his ennui return.

  ‘Merde.’ He pulled his apron off, folding it neatly.

  He turned the music volume to low and picked up his mobile, dialling his partner from work.

  ‘Ben! No surprise. You bored?’

  LB chuckled. ‘Hi, Sandy. Yes. How’s work going?’

  ‘Miraculously, we are holding up without you.’

  LB listened to the bedlam in the background, picturing the chaos that was Sandy’s home life. He heard Sandy’s wife Isobel ask who was calling and the voices muffle as Sandy put his hand over the receiver to answer before the line cleared again.

  ‘Sorry, Ben. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Just as you say, bored.’

  ‘Ben, it’s your holiday! Enjoy it! Christ, I wish I was having a week off!’

  The sounds of three small children screec
hing in the background drowned out Sandy’s words and LB glanced around his spotless, empty flat.

  ‘Are you going to the pub later?’ he asked, despite knowing that once Sandy was home, he never made it back out again in the evening.

  ‘Oh, no, sorry. Probably not. Some of the others might be there though.’

  Again, the line went muffled as Sandy called out to one of the kids. LB waited, rubbing the back of his head. It was a few moments before Sandy returned.

  ‘Was there anything you really wanted?’ he started before LB’s growling laugh interrupted. ‘I mean, it’s time for the kids to go to bed, but if you needed to talk or something…’

  ‘No… Go! Go! I was just bored and needing inspiration. Go enjoy your family. I should have thought and looked at the time before I called you. I’ll pop down to the pub later, see if anyone’s there. See you next week.’

  Sandy laughed. ‘Ten quid you’re in the station before then!’

  LB chuckled. ‘See you next week. Go sort the kids out.’

  He rang off and poured himself a large glass of red wine before switching on the TV to catch the end of the news. A chilly-looking young reporter was standing in the street near a strip club in Edinburgh, waving her hand towards a cordoned off skip, explaining the discovery of a second body earlier that day. LB watched the report, wondering who was heading up the inquiry in Edinburgh. He sipped his wine as the programme moved on to cover the elections, showing the shadow education minister smiling through gritted teeth as she helped out with some finger-painting at a primary school, followed by a glimpse of the health minister as she opened the new wing of a maternity unit.

  If LB had realised how much the health minister was going to feature in his forthcoming week, he’d have paid a bit more attention.

  ***

  Summer leaned back into the corner of the sofa, nursing a glass of wine, wriggling her toes. She too was watching the local news, wondering if there would be any mention of Patrick’s disappearance. There wasn’t. She shook her head, fed up of hearing about the forthcoming Scottish elections and the various politicians as they annoyed people around the country pretending to be hugely interested in the artwork of primary-school children while in reality looking for any popularity-boosting photo opportunity. Once the weather forecast had finished, Summer switched the television off. She wanted to read but her brain was too flittery over the call from Patrick. Should she call the police again? She chewed her thumbnail, staring at her mobile, old encounters staying her hand. Finally, she picked up her phone and dialled, trying to quell her unease.