Читать книгу Heads I Win Tails You Lose - Lynne Fox - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

I spend a lot of time thinking because I’m naturally logical and methodical and I like to plan; a belt, braces and piece of string person. I know this is irrational as no-one can plan for every eventuality but, nonetheless, I have to try because it’s all part of the game I set myself; the challenge; my reason to exist.

I cast my mind back over the years and visualise myself sitting on the stairs, my arms hugging my knees, folding in upon myself for comfort. I can just see my parents in our lounge, framed by the edge of the door and the wall; like a tableau of idyllic married life. They’d been drinking, they often did, and as always with them the booze raised voices and loosened tongues. It was then I discovered that I was a Mistake; an error of judgement; something to be marginalised and preferably ignored.

I didn’t understand it at the time; I was only six, so I went to Matt, my big brother. He looked at me kind of funny and turned his head away, then suddenly swung round, grabbing me and throwing me onto his bed, tickling and telling me I was so gorgeous he wanted to eat me! I giggled and squirmed and shrieked and the moment passed but its undertone, the sense of something wrong, of an unjustified unkindness, lodged deep in my subconscious. Like a festering boil it swelled as the years passed until I discovered the means to lance it. The game I play is my scalpel and I now wield it with ruthless precision.

I pour myself a large glass of Chenin Blanc and curl up on the sofa with my album memories of Matt. Closing my eyes I recall the afternoon I’d found the album.

A young girl, my world had irrevocably changed; my brother had recently died so, as a way of keeping him with me, I decide I will make an album of Matt’s life. I traipse round the usual book stores but lack of enough cash and the seeming sterility of new books soon has me making my way to my favourite bookstore; the second hand bookshop at the top of the hill.

Once a dwelling house of some standing, the former home of a local dignitary, its front two rooms are now filled floor to ceiling with shelves crammed so tightly it’s often difficult to extract the items you want.

Using my shoulder for leverage, I push against the resistance of the entrance door’s strong spring and stumble down the step into the shop, the jangling of the brass bell discordantly announcing my arrival. As the door wrenches itself free of my grasp it slams back into its frame, dislodging a shower of fine dust that floats gracefully in the sunlight before settling on every surface within reach, including me.

I stand for a second, breathing in the muskiness of aged paper, sensing the inherent dampness of the building brush against my warm skin and absorbing the fecund silence of millions of words caught between covers, waiting to be released once more into human consciousness.

I pass swiftly through the front rooms on my familiar route out into the back garden where, in summer, a round metal table and chairs and a couple of wooden benches allow customers to sit and browse for as long as they please. The garden rises quite steeply via a crazy-paved path to an outbuilding, little more than a glorified shed, but it holds treasures that have entranced me since Matt had first brought me here on my eighth birthday to choose my gift. It was only fitting that I should end my search here.

The outbuilding houses a miscellany of items that have mostly seen better days; dejected looking works with worn covers, dog-eared pages sometimes defaced with comments by previous readers but it was this that, to Matt’s amusement, I loved.

Browsing through these old, discarded tomes, I find thoughts scribbled in the margins, corners of pages turned down to mark points of interest, sometimes phrases underlined or highlighted and I feel I have a window into other minds; I observe without being observed. It’s a good feeling.

It’s the album’s cover that catches my eye; worn leather, the charcoal-brown of singed toast etched with a filigree of fine lines, like tiny veins. Under the caress of my fingers it feels warm, a living thing. I lift it to my nose and inhale the dust of years, its animal and human scent. Inside are black pages made of an absorbent substance, reminding me of blotting paper but more substantial; here and there photograph corner tabs remain glued to the pages, with occasional annotations in white ink, written in a beautiful copper-plate hand; sad reminders of someone else’s treasured memories.

‘Y’know, you could use a bit of Dubbin on that cover; real leather it is, high quality once. Just needs a bit of TLC to stop it cracking any further.’

The bookseller, his skin as crazed as the cover of the album, leans in toward me, his fingers gently brushing the album surface as he speaks.

‘How much is it?’

He takes it from my hands and turns to the inside back cover.

‘Five pounds.’

Carefully, I count out the coins from my purse.

‘Oh, I’ve only got four.’

My voice breaks in disappointment as I hold out my hand, the coins displayed as evidence. He looks at my outstretched palm, its contents shining in a shaft of light from the open door and reaching out, scrapes the coins toward him with yellowed nails; a chicken scratching in the dirt.

‘That’ll do, young lady.’

I turn, hugging the album to my chest and step out into the winter sunshine. As I round the corner, out of sight of the second hand book shop and its owner, I pop into the sweet shop and spend my salvaged pound.

I’ve been adding photos and cuttings to the album since my brother’s death. Matt, fifteen years old, holding me as a baby, looking for all the world more like a proud father than my sibling; Matt pushing me on the garden swing; Matt helping me balance on my first bike; Matt teaching me tennis; Matt always there; where my parents should have been and then …. No more photos, just newspaper cuttings with sensational headlines; grainy images that blur the chiselled line of his jaw and dull the startling blue of his eyes as though he was already drifting away from me, fading into that “long goodnight” from which there is no return.

I pour myself another glass of Chenin Blanc as I take some stir fry out of the fridge; it will go nicely with the piece of fresh salmon I bought on the way home. I find preparing food a relaxing, therapeutic activity, it acts as a balm to my over-active mind which at the moment is fixated upon Barry. I keep musing about how events can completely alter one’s perception of people.

For instance, Barry stands just over six feet; he has a shock of black, permanently tousled hair and the deepest, darkest eyes fringed with lashes that girls spend hours trying to achieve with layers of mascara. His skin has darkened to an attractive bronze by all the hours he spends outside and he has a lean, toned body that attracts all the college females, both staff and students, something to which I’m not immune myself.

Barry has been in my class for the past six months. Learning about art history is not his main subject, he’s actually on the Small Animal and Wildlife Course but under the ethos of our Principal, Paul Whitlow, all students are compelled to take a subject outside their main area of interest. The Principal apparently believes this will turn them into more ‘rounded’ members of society. Complete rot of course but who am I to argue.

Just why Barry chose art history became apparent one afternoon when he asked if I could give him some additional help.

Being new at the college I was keen to make a good impression and my desire to please over-rid my better judgement. As Barry and I sat in the empty classroom, his text book open on the desk before us, Barry moved his chair closer to mine and leant so close that his face was only inches away from my own. His breath smelt of sweet peppermint and his aftershave had a heady, musky base that elicited a slight fluttering of response deep in my belly.

‘You know, you have the most beautiful eyes.’

I look up into Barry’s face and calmly appraise him. ‘Thank you, Barry but you really shouldn’t say things like that. Now, what were you having difficulty with?’ I prodded the book.

‘Keeping my eyes off you, what else?’

‘I think you’d better stop, Barry, before you embarrass yourself.’

‘I’m not embarrassed. Are you?’

I pushed my chair back and stood, trying to assume some authority, which isn’t easy when you stand a diminutive five feet three. ‘Out, Barry,’ I said walking past him and opening the door.

He obediently rose from his chair and made toward me, ‘See you tomorrow,’ his smile both inviting and seductive.

I wasn’t surprised that Barry fancied me, most men do, especially as I look younger than my twenty-six years, but I was quite confident that I had the measure of him – just a cocky little oik trying it on – until now that is.

The morning after my lunchtime encounter with the tramp I arrive early for my class to find the room abuzz with excited chatter. This is a small group of only ten students and all but one are in a conclave of animated conversation.

‘So, what’s got everybody’s interest this morning?’

The group reluctantly break formation and take their seats.

‘Haven’t you heard the news?’ Terri Westacott leans forward on her desk, her long hair pooling on the surface in front of her, a shimmering cascade of barley yellow.

‘What news is that, Terri?’

‘The murder in Melsham Park.’

‘What?’ The surprise spills the exclamation from my lips and my eyes dart over to where Barry Mason is sitting. Immediately, I switch my gaze back to Terri but not before I catch a flicker of concern flit across Barry’s face.

Barry sits silent, his chair tipped onto its hind legs, but I sense his attention is focused in my direction.

‘I bet it’s that tramp that’s been hanging about the college grounds.’ This time it’s Stephen Blake who takes up the tale.

I swallow hard. ‘And what makes you think that, Stephen?’

‘Cos he’s not there this morning and he’s been hanging around for a couple of weeks now. Haven’t you seen him?’

I vaguely recall seeing a shadowy figure lurking near the woods that form the right hand boundary of the college grounds but I hadn’t associated it with the tramp that had so frightened me. ‘I think it’s a bit early to be surmising as to who it is but I’m sure we’ll all find out in time, once the police have completed their enquiries. Now, can we get down to some work please?’

There’s a resigned shuffling of bodies as books are tossed heavily onto desks.

I find it difficult to keep the lesson on track as my mind is racing. It seems I may have a murderer sitting in my class who may or may not know that I was a witness to his act. Cautiously, I observe Barry during the lesson. He seems unruffled by the earlier exchange but that could just be bravado.

A murder investigation will undoubtedly be instigated which will surely involve DCI Munroe. If the body in the park is that of the tramp, then I have a hold over Barry that could prove useful but I need to take time and think things through. Munroe has a daughter, Lily, on whom he dotes and she’s about Barry’s age. Maybe, if I can get the two together … a DCI’s daughter and a murderer. I can feel a slight smirk develop as the idea gels but first I need to find out more about Barry.

I can’t deny that the end of session bell is a relief and in my haste to leave I drop some of the papers I’m collecting up. As I bend to retrieve them a large pair of Nike trainers clamp down on top of them. Barry bends down to my level and looks straight into my eyes, a searching, penetrating stare. ‘I’ll help you with those.’ He gathers up the papers and hands them to me, holding on to them just a fraction longer than is necessary so that I have to practically tug them out of his hand. ‘Seems like it would be a good idea to stop going to the park for a while, yeah?’

‘Thank you for your advice, Barry. I’ll bear it in mind.’

I can’t think he’d be quite so cocky if he does know what I’d witnessed.

At home that evening, I review events. Let’s face it, I don’t know yet if the body in the park is that of the tramp, for all I know he may have only been stunned from the blow and I didn’t go and find out, did I? In any case, why would Barry want to kill him? Admittedly they appeared to be having an argument but that, in itself, is hardly a reason to kill.

Everyone has an Achilles heel; locate it and you have the means to manipulate.

I realise now how little I know about any of my students; they’ve simply been voids that I try to fill with the requirements of the curriculum. I need to rectify this especially where Barry is concerned.

Mulling things over, I’d bet my salary that the body in the park is that of the tramp, it’s too much of a coincidence not to be but I can’t accept that Barry’s attack upon the tramp was simply a random act; perhaps there’s something in Barry’s background that precipitated such violence. If I’m to manipulate him I need to understand what makes him tick. Just attempting to blackmail him with my knowledge of his crime may not be enough. I need to know which buttons to press.

Barry’s personnel file at the college seems the most logical place to start but I know the Principal’s secretary, Janet Stevenson, guards all such information with the tenacity of a bulldog so it’s not a simple case of merely asking to view the file, she’ll undoubtedly demand a detailed explanation of why. Somehow, she must be distracted and removed from the office.

Walking from the college car park the following day I notice some lads hanging about the bicycle sheds and have a ‘light bulb’ moment. Going straight to Janet’s office I inflect genuine concern into my voice.

‘Janet, did you come on your bike this morning?’ I know that she did, she always does.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Well, I don’t want to worry you but I think some lads are doing something to your bike.’

‘What! The little shits!’ Thrusting back her chair Janet moves with surprising speed considering her immense bulk, such that I have to press myself against the wall to avoid being knocked over as she storms out the door.

Quickly, I open the cabinet drawer. Janet is meticulous in her filing and labelling so locating Barry’s file only takes a few seconds. I scan its contents; the most interesting entry being that against Next of Kin where is entered ‘Foster Parents’. I quickly scribble a note of their address and Barry’s current address and mobile number. There’s no time for anything else, I can hear Janet puffing back down the corridor and hastily make my exit before she returns.

I’m fortunate that today is my slack day for teaching and I’ve the whole of the afternoon free. I spend some time in a quiet corner of the college library with my laptop, devising a brief questionnaire and flyer.

Returning home I study my wardrobe. As a child I always enjoyed dressing up, pretending to be someone else, creating an imaginary world over which I had control. Now, as an adult, I find the skills I practised back then pay dividends. I eventually choose a smart business suit and low heels. The blonde wig and specs complete the picture. Inclining my head in greeting I admire my reflection. It always astonishes me how so little can create such a transformation.

Barry’s address is on the outskirts of town, a little way out in the countryside. I hate this kind of rural driving, finding that I’m holding my breath every time I negotiate a blind bend. I just know that at some point I’m going to encounter a tractor taking up the whole road and will have to back up for miles.

I don’t know what I expect to find but it isn’t the rough looking smallholding in front of me. I can see a few goats, hens and a couple of pigs milling about a large enclosure. The house is a two up, two down farm cottage but without the proverbial roses around the door, chocolate box image. Glancing up, the roof tiles are moss covered and in places, clumps of grasses poke their heads above the guttering. Heavy rains must cascade over the side, my assumption evidenced by a three feet wide shadow of damp running down the wall to the left of the front door.

The windows, small paned and sash, are blind with grime; it must be like looking out through cataracts, images clouded and indistinct. Wreathed in an air of neglect the cottage strikes me as a shelter of necessity rather than a home. Just looking at it makes me feel depressed.

I coast past in my car a couple of times; there doesn’t seem to be anyone about and the lane is equally deserted; the house standing beside the one straight piece of road in an otherwise tortuous and narrow country lane. What shall I do? I can’t keep driving backwards and forwards like this, it’s ridiculous; oh, but all that muck! I grit my teeth and on the third pass I will myself to turn in at the gate. The car tyres squelch in the cloying mud. For god’s sake, I only had this cleaned yesterday!

Pulling up as close to the front door as I’m able in an attempt to walk as short a distance as possible I open the car door and gingerly start to step out when the sound of bird song is shattered by vicious snarls and barks. Two Doberman hurtle toward me from around the side of the building. Christ! I throw myself back into the car as a waft of rancid, warm breath caresses my face just as I slam the door. Jumping up, teeth bared and slobbering on the glass, their attack instinct borders on insanity.

Oh God, where are my keys? I duck down and rummage in the footwell. I can’t see or feel them anywhere and then I realise, I must have dropped them outside. The dogs are still frantically jumping up and clawing at the door. I’d like to smash their heads in.

The cottage door opens and a man in his mid-fifties, swarthy and solid-framed, steps out, carrying hunks of raw meat. ‘Hitler! Goering!’ He slings the meat over towards the shed and the two dogs vanish as swiftly as they’d arrived.

As he saunters over my skin creeps as though a thousand tiny insects are running over me. He leans down, one hand supporting himself on the roof of my car and motions me to lower the window. I give the briefest shake of my head as I stare wide-eyed into his unrelenting gaze. He dips slightly, reaching down and comes up dangling my keys at the glass. ‘If you want to drive out of here, you’d better open the window, luv.’ His mouth creases into a sarcastic smirk as his gravelly voice vibrates through the car.

Reluctantly I lower the window a couple of inches and put my hand up for the keys. The man dangles them just beyond my reach, his hand carrying the smell of dead meat, bringing bile up into my throat. ‘Not until you tell me why you’re here.’

I make a huge effort to swallow and give what I desperately hope is an appealing and conciliatory smile. ‘Is this where Barry lives?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m from West Park College. He has this address on his personnel file.’

‘Then I should think it’s a fair bet that this is where he lives, wouldn’t you, luv?’

My hackles rise at his sarcasm but I bite my lip.

The man lets out an exasperated sigh, ‘Look, luv, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Why don’t you just step out of the car? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. The dogs won’t bother you while I’m here and my bark is definitely worse than my bite.’ His face creases into a grin that is mirrored in the crinkles of his eyes; a deceptive yet enticing transformation. He takes a couple of steps back from my car door and holds out his hands in a beckoning stance.

My mind is racing. I can’t drive off as he still has my keys and, in any case, to leave having learnt nothing would make the whole escapade futile. Taking a deep breath I treat him to my most winning smile and, opening the door, gingerly step out, trying my best to avoid the mud. In very gentlemanly fashion he takes my hand to steady me as I attempt to negotiate a large puddle just beside the car’s front wheels. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘forgot my cloak.’ His grin widens. Smart arse! I’d like to wipe that smirk off his face.

Inside the cottage the kitchen initially seems surprisingly clean and cheerful yet a quick scan reveals that this is merely surface gloss. The tea towel hanging on the cooker could do with a good wash and the dishcloth on the draining board is so grey it should have been condemned to the waste bin weeks ago. The floor is grimed and the tiled splash back to the cooker is speckled with grease spatters. That and a blackened pan on the top of the stove suggest that fry-ups are the main culinary skill of this household.

The man motions me to a chair at the table where I sit and remove my laptop from its case, setting it on the table in business-like manner.

‘Tea?’ He has the kettle in his hand and I note that he makes his way quite slowly across the kitchen to the sink taking in my appearance as he moves. I can tell he approves of what he sees.

‘That would be lovely, thank you. Perhaps I might explain why I’m here.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

‘As I mentioned, I’m from West Park College and Barry has been nominated for an award – he’s one of our brightest students – and I’m gathering some information on him ready for an article should he win. I’m visiting all the nominees. I wonder if you could tell me a little about Barry’s background.’

I shuffle a little on my seat, placing my fingers lightly on the keyboard in readiness to type his response.

‘No.’

I’m not adept at dealing with such rudeness. I press my lips into a tight line trying to control the urge to snap back.

‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind, at least, telling me how you came to know him and how he came to lodge with you.’

‘Why don’t you ask Barry?’

‘I just said; he’s been nominated for an award. We don’t want him or any of the other candidates to know just yet. It would spoil the surprise and possibly raise false hopes.’

The man sighs, his exasperation evident.

‘Look, luv, I may be a bit rough round the edges but I’m not chewing on a piece of straw. I don’t know why you want to know these things about Barry but you’re not going to get any of it off me so I think you’d better just drink your tea and leave.’

For the briefest moment our eyes lock, assessing each other’s determination. Deciding the brute won’t be swayed I choose to change tack. Slowly folding down my laptop screen I smile sweetly.

‘I’m sorry you don’t feel able to answer my questions but I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell Barry about my visit. This is the first year the college have given out this award and we’d like to keep it quiet until we’re much nearer making a final decision.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ He moves to rinse his mug in the sink, ‘Bloody hell, stay there, I’ve got an escapee.’

As he races outside I make a very risky split-second decision. I’m not going to endure the indignity of all this simply to leave empty-handed. Swiftly I make my way upstairs; opening the first door on the small landing I find I’ve hit the jackpot. I recognise immediately Barry’s leather jacket hanging over the back of a chair; the phoenix motif drawn on the back had caused quite a stir the first time he’d worn it to college.

There’s a single bed pressed up against one wall looking as if its occupant has just rolled out, a chest of drawers, a single wardrobe and a table he’s obviously using as a writing desk. The floor is mainly exposed boards with a rug by the bed. The one window looks out over the front garden from where I can see the man trying to shepherd one of the pigs back into the enclosure.

Hurriedly, I open the drawers, careful to replace the clothing as I find it. Under a pile of shirts my fingers touch something shiny, a photograph. A woman and boy, presumably Barry and his mother; Barry would have been about five years old. The woman is pretty in a fragile way but there’s a sadness and fear in her eyes that belies the smile on her lips. I carefully replace it. There seems to be little else of interest or use to me until my eye is drawn to the book open on the table. I know I’m not one for wildlife and animals but the illustrations in the book are quite exquisite.

Despite the risk of remaining too long, I find myself turning the pages, enthralled by the artistry. Flicking to the front of the book I see a handwritten inscription: ‘For Barry Howden, happy memories. John Simpson.’ Simpson is the name of the author/illustrator but who’s Barry Howden? I turn to the back cover where there’s a brief profile informing me that John Simpson lives in Sheffield.

Glancing out the window I see the pig is back in its enclosure, but Jesus, where’s he gone? The man’s nowhere to be seen. I lean on the window cill trying to get a better view, my nose pressed up against the glass, momentarily forgetting caution in my desire to locate him. Where the hell is he? I turn and race out of the room, vaulting down the stairs and just manage to be sitting at the table finishing my tea when he re-enters. I stand immediately. ‘Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thank you for the tea. May I have my car keys please?’

He places them in my hand. ‘I’ll walk you back to your car so you don’t have to worry about the dogs.’

Trying to get the car into reverse I manage to crunch the gears. ‘There’s a whole box of them in there somewhere, luv!’ He’s grinning from ear to ear, laughing at my discomfort; a slight I won’t forget.

Once out on the lane I press my foot down on the accelerator, anger making me reckless as I take the blind bends at ridiculous speeds but I won’t let this one little setback throw me off course.

By the time I arrive home I’ve calmed down enough to be able to assess the small amount of information I’ve garnered. I’ve discovered the oddity of the name in the book on his desk, ‘Barry Howden’ as opposed to Barry Mason but all that tells me is that he might have changed his name. The annoying thing is, I didn’t get time to note down his foster parents name from his personnel file and I can’t recall what I read – damn! Even so, it doesn’t tell me why; alternatively, it might not even be him! I’m also wondering why he should choose to leave his foster parents to live in such conditions; perhaps it’s to gain hands-on experience in animal husbandry. Maybe I’ll chat with Ben, Barry’s tutor on the Small Animal and Wildlife course, see if he can provide some insight.

Next morning at college I learn that while I was off, police officers were there talking with students, trying to find out more about the tramp and why he might have been hanging about the college.

I’m heading towards the staff room when Janet, the Principal’s secretary, corners me. A disproportionately large woman, her hips and buttocks are so oversized they seem to lower her centre of gravity so that when she walks she sways from side to side like a Silverback gorilla. I find myself pressed against the wall as she leans in towards me, eyes narrowed into a penetrating stare. I flinch and turn my head to one side attempting to avoid her garlic-tinged breath.

‘The police want to speak with you; asked for you specifically.’ The sneer in her tone is unmistakable and my hand itches to slap her face.

‘Really? In what connection?’

‘That tramp who’s been hanging about the college; they’ve been talking to everyone.’

‘I don’t know what they think I can tell them.’

‘That’s what I wondered but they definitely asked for you.’

I keep my voice steady and smile pleasantly, ‘I expect they just want to tick me off their list if they’re speaking to everyone.’

‘Mmm, possibly, thought I’d better just let you know though, so you can get your story straight.’

‘Story? Why should you think I need a story?’

‘Well, you’re the one in the park most lunch times, although, as I told the police, I can’t think why, especially in this cold weather. That’s somewhere else he went, apparently, so I guess that makes you more interesting than the rest of us. There’s no need to look at me like that; I was only trying to help with their enquiries. That isn’t a problem, is it?’

‘No, why should it be? Are they here now? Perhaps I ought to speak with them, clear this up.’

Janet gives a shrug and turns away. ‘I expect they’ll get in touch with you when they’re ready,’ she smirks, ‘I gave them your address.’

Gritting my teeth, I watch Janet’s bulk receding down the corridor. I could spit venom.