The Summer We All Ran Away (8 page)

“But,” he said at last, “if you really think they've – you know, done
that
– shouldn't we go to the police?”

“We might be wrong! Do you want to go to the coppers just on the off chance you've caught a murderer? 'Cos I don't know about you, but I could do without stickin' my head over the parapet unless I really have to, you know?” Davey looked at her in appalled fascination, but she left no gap in the conversation for him to ask. “We've got to find out ourselves. I'm not dobbin' them in if they're just hiding from the taxman. I'll do it for a dead body, but not for anything else.”

“But - ”

“Look,” said Priss, “These are the choices we've got. We
could walk away and say nothin'. But then what if they
have
killed someone? What would that make us? Or we could turn 'em in to the police. But what if it is just the taxman? Besides - ”

“What?”

“I want to fuckin'
know,”
said Priss. “I've got a million ideas and I can't stand not knowing which one's right. I mean, maybe Kate's husband was hitting her and Tom's her brother and he helped her get away, or maybe Tom's claustrophobic and Kate's agoraphobic and they met in therapy and decided to run off together, or maybe they're both on the run from some dodgy London gang. Or maybe they're cyber-criminals who've had half a billion off the Bank of England, or - ”

“Or maybe they're star-crossed lovers,” said Davey eagerly, “and they've waited decades for their children to grow up so they could be together, or - ”

“Oh, shut up, you dozy twat. You think I'd hang around here for one fuckin' minute if I thought this was some soppy love story? One of the best things about getting old is you can stop bothering with all that hearts and flowers shite. Anyway, they don't share a room.”

“And what if we do find out?”

“When
we find out,” said Priss, “we make a decision. Maybe we dob 'em in, maybe we just walk away.” She tossed the tuft of needles away. “And if it's a good enough story, I'll change a few names and write a bestseller.”

“ - ”

“Good. That's decided.”

Was it? What had he just committed himself to?

And what if Tom, or Kate, or both of them, really had done something. Wouldn't that mean they could do the same to - ?

But would they do that after saving his life?

“Soft lad,” said Priss. “You're fuckin' terrified, aren't you? We'll be alright.”

“I'm not scared.”

“You're always scared.”

There didn't seem much to say to that, so Davey decided to
say nothing. Perhaps if he just sat in the sun for a while, this conversation would all have been a figment of his imagination.

“What's your favourite book, then?” he asked at last.

“The Bible.”

“Really?”

“'Course not.”

“I was only asking.”

“I don't do personal information.”

“You asked me.”

“So?
Life doesn't work the way it ought to. Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom,” said Davey.

“That's a dainty way of putting it. You're not going right back to the house, are you?”

“Well, um - ”

“Unless you're going for a shit, of course.”

“Priss!”

“Oh, Celia, Celia, Celia shits,” murmured Priss, closing her eyes against the sunshine. “Make sure the rabbits don't see. They'll complain to
The Times.”

Feeling prudish and paranoid, Davey scrambled down into the shelter of the woods. He glimpsed the half-open bars of the concrete enclosure, and turned away. He didn't like looking at it. He didn't want to see anything unpleasant. It looked like a prison. Who, or what, had been confined behind its bars?

As he re-zipped his jeans, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He opened his mouth to call out, then closed it again. The figure moving between the trees was taller than Priss, and the hair was the wrong colour for Kate, was it Tom? No, Tom was heavier and broader.

The man who emerged between two spindly rowan trees was a stranger.

His olive skin, black eyes and dark hair shot with silver made him look Italian, an impression enhanced by his crisp white linen shirt, stylishly half-buttoned over dirty blue jeans and tattered flip-flops. Davey, wondering if this was the owner
come to reclaim his property, saw the stranger was carrying a bunch of flowers, seemingly picked from the woods. Davey recognised lilac buddleia cones, white rhododendrons with haloes of glossy leaves, handfuls of campion and forget-me-not, a splash of yellow dandelions. If Davey had picked those flowers, he would simply have a badly-assorted bundle of blooms, but in the hands of the stranger, they were graceful and lovely.

The man knelt beneath a beech tree, sweeping aside the litter of husks to touch the dry soil beneath. What was happening here? The man's head was bowed. Was he crying? Praying? Davey didn't dare move.

Then, whatever it was, it was over. The stranger laid the flowers down, stood up, dusted his hands, and saw Davey staring at him.

Davey's first reaction was profound embarrassment. A hot wave of shame washed over him from head to foot, dyeing him scarlet and stopping his tongue. When he could bear to look again, the man was watching him curiously. Then he put one finger to his lips and winked conspiratorially.

“Okay,” whispered Davey. His throat was dry and the word was nearly silent, but the man must have seen his lips move, because he smiled, acknowledging their agreement, and disappeared into the trees.

Did that just happen? Should he tell Priss he just saw a man leave flowers beneath the beech tree? Should he mention that the man knelt and bowed his head first, tears on his cheeks as if in memory of someone who -

No
, he thought.
It's probably nothing, nothing to do with Tom or Kate anyway. They probably don't even know him, we might never see him again. Maybe he used to work here and he buried his dog there, it doesn't have to be a person, that's ridiculous
.

Maybe I even dreamed it
.

If I don't think about it, it never happened
.

Trying to arrange his face into an expression of innocence,
Davey made his way back to the candelabra tree.

“So,” said Priss as soon as he climbed laboriously back onto their chosen branch. “Who beat you up?”

“No-one,” said Davey. “I f-f-fell over in the shower.”

“Don't ever, ever go to Vegas. Was it someone at school?”

“I'm nineteen, I don't go to school any more, I'm g-g-g - ”

“Gagging for it? Gangrenous? Gutted? Genghis Khan's distant relative? Sorry, I know I shouldn't interrupt but I can't sit and wait for you to finish, it's just not in me. My school was full of bastards as well. They never bothered me, but that's 'cos I'm horrible. They only pick on the nice ones.”

“But they didn't, it wasn't - ”

“If you don't tell me,” Priss told him confidingly, “I'll just ask you and ask you and ask you until you go nuts. Did you go to boarding school?”

“How did you know?”

“'Cos you're fucked up and you talk posh.”

“That doesn't m-m-m-mean anything. I mean I don't assume you go to some inner-city s-s-sinkhole just because you curse all the time and you've got an accent.”

“Well, you should, 'cos I do.” She paused. “Did. Were you buggered by the prefects?”

“No!”

“Just asking. Isn't it weird everyone's up in arms about Catholic priests, but when it's posh kids doing each other, no-one bats an eyelid? D'you reckon that's 'cos no-one really believes it? Or is it the inherent decadence of the upper classes?”

“Listen, I was
not
- no-one did
that
to me, okay?”

“They picked on you, though.”

“You don't know that, how on earth would you know that?”

“You stammer when you get stressed. Bullies love predictable reactions.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that. Come on, right in the eye and say,
I was not picked on at school
and I'll believe you.”

“I was
not
p-p-p-p I wasn't p-p-p they didn't p-p-p - ” Priss looked satisfied. “Why didn't you just twat 'em back? You're six foot, easy.”

“Six foot one.”

“Mind you, posh boys are always bigger,” she went on thoughtfully. “And triangle-shaped! Have you ever noticed that? It's, like, this special build you only get if you've got rich parents. D'you reckon it's genetic? Or do you lot do different sports to the rest of us?”

“Erm - ” Memories of muddy fields and vicious kicks to the shins. Fortunately, Priss was still speaking.

“You could have had 'em if you'd tried. You only have to beat someone up really badly once, and they leave you alone for the rest of time. What?”

“You can't go round hitting people,” said Davey.

“'Course you can, you daft twat. They get away with it. Why can't you?”

“Look, what's it got to do with you, anyway?”

“I'm just trying to work out why you're so scared all the time,” said Priss. “And why you're so desperate not to think badly of anyone who's nice to you. It's funny, really. I'm way too horrible and you're way too sweet. I suppose if you average us out you get one normal person.”

The silence hummed companionably in their ears. Priss was chewing ferociously on her thumbnail. Black nail polish freckled her teeth. The contrast was surprisingly pleasing, like a Dalmatian dog.

“Actually,” said Priss suddenly, “if I had the choice of living in a deserted country house with a lad who doesn't take shit off anyone, or living in a deserted country house with a lad who's probably scared of wasps, I'd pick the one who's scared of wasps. At least you won't go bat-shit mental and kill us all 'cos you can't find a clean towel. Beta males are underrated. Do you want some lunch? I'm starving.”

Why did Priss get to dictate everything, all the time? Davey wondered crossly as he slipped and slithered down the
tree and followed her towards the house. And why did he go along with it? She was leading them past the caged enclosure. He didn't want to go that way.

“Can't we go back the way we came?” he asked.

He thought it sounded quite good, a decent approximation of innocence, but Priss was like a shark scenting blood.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“For you to suddenly assert yourself? What don't you want me to see?”

“I'm n-n - there's n-n-n - ” Her stare was like being stuck with a giant pin. The beech tree with its bunch of flowers was right behind her.

“D'you know you're staring at something over my shoulder?” said Priss. “Who the fuck put those there?” She picked up the bunch of flowers and sniffed cautiously.

“I d-d-d - ” This was the worst it had ever been; he had never felt so crippled, so trapped, so inarticulate. “I d-d-d - ” He closed his eyes. “I d - ”

“Why are you so stressed out?” asked Priss, baffled. “It's a bunch of flowers, mate, that's all.”

Was he imagining it, or did the ground beneath the beech tree have a gentle swell to it, as if something bulked out the earth from below? He thought of Tom, who had been kind, of Kate, who had saved him. She deserved to be left in peace.

“I did it,” he burst out. “I p-p-p-picked them, I was g-g-g-going to and then I felt stupid and I d-d-d-d - ”

The stammer clamped down tight again, but it was enough. Priss was looking at him in astonishment, but at least she seemed to believe him.

“You're not right in the head, you're not,” she told him. “I hope these were for Kate.”

Why would she hope that? Was he such a ridiculous prospect?

“It's not bad, though,” she said, inspecting the flowers critically. “Hidden depths, mate. You should give them to her.”
Hours later, Priss and Davey sat in the warm, drowsy kitchen and watched Kate making spaghetti bolognese. Tom washed cutlery and stacked it with military tidiness into the draining board, then went to stand in the doorway. Davey, idly balancing a teaspoon on the salt cellar, watched Kate chopping courgettes, carrots, onions, mushrooms and garlic, and thought dreamily that Kate and Tom were the most restful people he had ever known. They asked no questions. They had no helpful suggestions about how to spend the day. They seemed to have no expectations of him whatsoever.

Was it possible, he wondered, that he might be able to stay here forever?

“Have you and Tom lived here long?” The question bubbled straight up from his gut, with his brain getting no say in it. Priss jumped, and glared at him.

“Mmm?” Kate looked at him absent-mindedly.

“I just wondered how long you'd lived here,” he repeated.

“So long I can't even remember,” said Kate, smiling to herself. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know, I j-j-just w-w-w - oh, shit! I mean, sorry.”

Standing in the door from the hallway, waiting patiently to be noticed was the man Davey had seen in the woods. Despite his resolve to forget what Priss had said to him, Davey found himself glancing sharply around at his companions, trying to catch them in the unguarded moment of an unexpected meeting.

Tom looked honestly surprised, and also apprehensive, looking at the stranger as if he might be wearing a bomb beneath his shirt. Priss looked as if she was doing long division in her head. Kate's face was filled with delighted surprise, and she held out her arms in greeting, laughed a name,
Isaac
, and offered herself for an embrace. But as she turned back for a minute to turn off the gas on the stove, Davey thought he glimpsed another expression, older and sadder, as if she had been expecting and hoping to see somebody else, and was disappointed.