Behindlings (31 page)
She turned –alarmed –almost ready –
Oh my God
– to oblige him. Then she realised.
‘Trouble,’ Ted continued, and pointed, somewhat ineffectually, back down the corridor. ‘Is it Dewi?’ Katherine’s voice was hardened by self-disgust and the liquor.
Wesley glanced up, sharply.
‘I think…’ Ted interrupted again, ‘I think it might be…’
‘Behindling,’ Wesley flapped his bad hand, ‘just ignore them.’
‘No, but…’ Ted floundered, ‘well, there
are
Behindlings; the old guy we saw in the Wimpy earlier, and another man in a white van…’
‘Hooch,’ Wesley grimaced, adjusting the bird again.
‘But it’s the Police, too. They just pulled up outside. In a jeep.’
‘Looking for the boy,’ Wesley shrugged. ‘He’s under some kind of care order. It happens all the time. It’s nothing, believe me.’
Before he’d finished speaking, however, there came an authoritative rap on the front door, followed, seconds later, by the lifting of the postal flap, a short hiatus, then its
snap.
‘Will I answer it?’ Ted asked, breathing slightly faster. Katherine lifted her shoulders (as if suddenly feeling the chill) then bent stiffly over to pick up her pool of cardigans from the floor. ‘It’s my door,’ she said, her voice, as she crouched down, sounding –and for the first time –a little slurred.
The doorbell rang. Just a second too long to be entirely friendly. ‘Let Ted go,’ Wesley told her, ‘those wings’ll make it difficult to manoeuvre properly.’
He stood, placing his hand, as he rose –the
slightest
pressure –onto her shoulder. This weight pressed through her body and into her heels. They glued her to the floor.
Ted had gone already. Wesley followed, just a few steps behind him.
‘Don’t mention the bird, Ted,’ he instructed him, his voice hollowed by the close walls of the corridor. ‘If it is the police and they notice the blood, tell them it was a rabbit…’
The floor was… was
warm.
Katherine sat down on it, like a child in a sandpit –hands spreading flat behind her, knees falling open. The wings were heavy. She collapsed onto her back and stared up at the ceiling; bird-bones creaking, feathers skidaddling. The
ceiling…
right above her. So profoundly reassuring. So flat. So white. So very familiar.
‘I have some rather bad news for you, sir,’ the male officer spoke first, earnestly clasping his two hands together and glancing over anxiously towards his female accomplice. She nodded back at him, curtly.
Ted was there. Wesley had insisted. He needed a witness, he’d said –always did with the Law –and, much more importantly, an intermediary, because he tried not to speak to the people Following. The police were no exception.
‘Do you want me to…’ At the mention of bad news, Ted indicated modestly towards the living room door, ‘I’m happy to make myself…’
‘Ask them if it’s about the boy,’ Wesley instructed brusquely, ‘ask them if it’s about Patty.’ Ted shrugged, half-apologetically, at the handsome male officer (Ed Cole. He’d found him a lovely semi in Ellesmere Road, only last year).
‘I have no information
whatsoever,
’ the officer spoke to Wesley directly (ignoring Ted completely. Ted crumpled, involuntarily), ‘about any situation involving a boy. We’re here to discuss a
girl.
We’re here to talk about Sasha…’ he paused, uncertainly, ‘your daughter.’
Wesley was standing over by the window. He’d tugged the
curtains aside and was gazing out through the nets. It was raining. Only lightly. Under the streetlight opposite he could see a lone figure.
The figure –the girl –the informer –the double-face… It
had
to be –was staring (shoulders slumped forward, rather poignantly) towards the small green house with the prodigious balcony. She muttered something –he saw a puff of steam, a tiny cloud condensing in the dark night air –then stepped down heavily into the gutter and slowly began walking.
The gutter…
Ah
Wesley turned, abruptly.
‘What did you just say?’
Ted could tell that he wasn’t concentrating.
‘Sasha,’ the male officer repeated, ‘your daughter. She appears to have gone… gone…’ he struggled to find a word in his vocabulary less frightening than
missing,
‘walkabout,’ he said, finally.
Ted had a vision of the Duchess of Kent, in Eltham, opening a Conference Centre.
‘
Sasha.
’
Wesley repeated the name. It seemed alien to him. He paused, mulling it over.
‘Hang on,’ he suddenly butted in –although nobody else was actually speaking –‘has something happened to her?’
Still –Ted noticed –he seemed more irritated than concerned.
‘We hope not,’ the male officer spoke, ‘but her grandparents have reason to believe that she’s intent on making her way down here to Canvey. She disappeared first thing this morning. She took twenty pounds and left a note saying…’
‘But where’s her mother?’ Wesley asked.
‘Her mother…’ at last the woman officer felt able to contribute something, ‘is on the Island of Madeira. On Honey…’ she corrected herself, ‘on holiday. Her parents thought it best not to worry her –not at this early stage, anyway. As you probably already know, they currently enjoy full parental rights over the child –have done since she was a baby…’
‘Bloody Iris,’ Wesley muttered, ‘but the kid won’t get too far on twenty quid…’
‘I think you underestimate her,’ the female officer smiled, sarcastically, ‘apparently she’s very tenacious. Takes after her father.’
Wesley stiffened. He didn’t like this at all.
‘She’s been gone since first thing this morning…’
The male officer quickly took over. ‘She left for school, as normal, but didn’t arrive. In the light of your…’ he paused, ‘
celebrity,
the force became involved a little earlier…’
He looked over at Wesley as if expecting some kind of commendation for the promptness of their reaction.
Wesley stared back blankly at him. Giving nothing.
‘We know she caught a… got on a
train,
’ the officer stumbled, as if spooked by Wesley’s blankness, ‘to London. But we don’t know if she actually got there. She left a note saying…’
‘Was she alone?’
‘I was just getting to that part, sir. She took…’ the male officer faltered, ‘it sounds slightly…’ he grimaced, ‘she took a… a
reindeer
with her.’
‘She took a
what?
’
Ted couldn’t help himself. The male officer turned towards him, almost smiling his relief. Ted’s cheeks reddened.
Wesley glanced over. The grandparents farm them,’ he explained, tightly, ‘they run a Christmas-themed Garden Centre in Norfolk. They keep,’ he held up his bad hand, smiling darkly, ‘beautiful exotic owls there.’
Ted shivered.
‘May I…’ the female officer spoke again. She was staring at Wesley’s shirt, his hands.
‘What?’
‘It’s just that you seem to be very… very
bloody
this evening, sir.’
Wesley shrugged, ‘I killed a rabbit earlier.’
‘Well it certainly must’ve put up quite a
struggle,
sir.’
She was mocking him.
‘I
skinned
it,’ Wesley growled, ‘and we’re having it for dinner.’
The female officer turned to the agent, her eyebrows raised, ‘Is that right, then, Ted?’
Ted opened his mouth. He shut it. He glanced over at Wesley
whose jumper was –no point denying it –literally
coated
in bird down. He nodded his head.
‘How…’ to distract attention from the lie he addressed Wesley directly, ‘how old is she?’
‘Who?’
Ted swallowed, ‘Your… your missing daughter.’
Wesley shrugged, ‘Six… maybe seven.’
‘
Ten.
’
The female officer shot Wesley a potent look.
Wesley didn’t buckle. ‘I’ve never met the girl,’ he shrugged, ‘and the truth is that I have no interest in her. I had none when she
wasn’t
missing, so I might be in danger of seeming a little…’ he pondered, ‘
hypocritical
if I suddenly began caring about her now that she is.’
The female officer considered his answer for a moment. ‘Do you ever actually think about anybody except yourself, sir?’
Wesley laughed out loud. A bark.
‘Of course not,’ he said, ‘what a silly question.’
‘That’s as may be…’ the male officer quickly stepped in (struggling to keep the atmosphere down to a simmer), his right hand clutching at the collar of his stiff white shirt –
So damn hot
– ‘But I’m sure you must still feel some… some
concern
over this situation, sir. She’s only young. It’s freezing outside. She’s coming down to see you. She left a note behind saying…’
‘In actual fact,’ Wesley interjected, ‘I’m
not
especially concerned. The girl has never been fed any illusions about my intentions towards her. I have none. I’d call myself the anti-father, but I’m too indifferent to be anti-anything. I am the non-dad. Is that…’ he paused, ‘does that explain my feelings with sufficient candour?’
‘She’s a ten-year-old
child,
’ the female officer’s voice was harsh, ‘and it’s the middle of
winter…
’
‘If you’re so
concerned,
madam,’ Wesley interrupted, ‘then perhaps you should be out in the cold looking for her instead of standing here and harassing me.’
‘She’s a ten-year-old child, in the
pitch
dark, alone…’
‘With a reindeer,’ Wesley corrected her. ‘I find it’s always a good ruse,’ he continued facetiously, ‘to take a deer along to increase your
sense of anonymity. The force must be literally at their wits’
end
trying to hunt her down. Talk about merging into the background…’
The female officer’s fists tightened. Wesley –observing as much –put his own hand to his cheek. His bad hand. Rested it there for a moment.
The male officer quickly interjected again, ‘Do you have any reason to believe that she’ll know where to find you in Canvey, sir? Is she aware that you’re staying at this address currently?’
‘She may know,’ Ted piped up, struggling to be helpful, to improve the atmosphere, ‘if she has access to the net.’
‘It’s down,’ the female officer snarled, still glaring at Wesley –his cheek, his bad hand –‘since first thing this afternoon.’
The male officer glanced over at Ted, supportively. ‘Her grandparents do have a computer, though. So she may well have looked at the site last night. From what we’ve been told she was certainly aware of it.’
‘Down?’ Wesley frowned, dropping his hand to his side again.
‘Yes,’ the officer nodded, ‘some kind of virus.’
Wesley stared at him, as if in doubt of his sanity.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said.
‘Why?’ the female officer snapped.
Wesley shrugged, his face closing, ‘It just is.’
He turned to Ted, ‘Give me your phone.’
Ted scrabbled around in his jacket. He pulled out his mobile. Wesley took it and stuck it into his trouser pocket, ‘I’m getting back to dinner. Will you see the officers out for me, Ted?’ He left.
Ted stared –round-eyed –at the two officers. He swallowed. He took a deep breath –
The Pond…
Frogspawn throbbing and bubbling in the shallows…
The sweet, yeasty stink of thick, green pond-weed…
Then he indicated –summoning all the intrinsic authority of real, quality agenting (a straight arm pointing, a smile of untold promise and efficiency) –towards the wide-yawning doorway and its heavy muscle of straight, black-tiled tongue beyond.
The infamous Saks was just about as smoked-up, packed-out and crazy as she’d ever imagined it might be. Friday Night. The town’s outer periphery. Depths of winter.
Canvey.
Jo steeled herself, then pushed her way in, pulling back her hood as she staggered through the door, mopping her cheeks and lifting her chin –her eyes two wide saucers of anxious misanthropy –before forging a determined but unsteady (was that really
her
feet squelching so audibly?) route to the bar.
After five minutes of standing around in a thick scrum of drink-seekers (each part of her duly poked, nudged and trodden on by a dozen oblivious elbows, rumps and feet; fivers and tenners scything through the air like tiny, paper jack-hammers) she found herself a stool (walked straight into it, banged her thigh, nicked her calf), felt its seat with her palms, blindly, and then gratefully straddled it, holding her legs high off the floor (bent hard at the knee) like a tenacious spider riding out a flash flood on a bobbing wine cork.
Ten minutes later and she’d somehow connived to grab –wonder of wonders –a second stool. She yanked off her coat, slung it over, rested her sodden feet on its highest rung and linked her arms around her knees, struggling –and almost managing –to create a small, shoulder-high sanctum amidst the heinously convivial Friday night commonality.
During a brief lull she stood up and ordered herself a beer, then quickly sat down again, clasping her hands around the bottle and shuddering with an ill-concealed social anxiety. Cold.
Cold –And way too busy in here
She was still very wet; dripping, in fact. But when she glanced around (bending her head at the neck, like a tortoise blinking up from the shelter of its shell into the mean spring sun) it felt like she was the only one. Everybody else seemed as crisp, high-baked and cheerfully compacted as a creaking oak barrel of quality ship’s biscuits.
Dry.
Dry as Oscar Wilde in mordant humour. Dry as an actor’s mouth before the first twitch of the curtain. Dry as a maiden Aunt’s favourite pale sherry…
Roasted, seared, dehydrated.
Dry
She felt disgustingly conspicuous. And she was certain that when she’d first arrived she’d caught a glimpse of that nosy girl from the bakery over by the door. The one who…