Come to Harm (10 page)

“No frame,” she said. “Everything just bolted to everything else. Is it safe?”

“Completely,” said Murray. “What's probably bothering you is the front forks.” He pointed. “Brampton forks—pretty spindly compared to the rest of it.”

Keiko nodded. “Yes, you're right. That
is
why it looks so peculiar—compared with the Harley.”

Murray laughed at her again. “You'd get lynched if anyone heard you. Seriously, British bikes. I got into a bit of bother when some people heard I'd got a Hog. BSA parts guy in Liverpool assumed I would be selling up and came all the way up here to get first crack at the Gold Flash. Couldn't believe it when I said I was keeping both.” Keiko shook her head along with him. “Speaking of the Gold Flash,” Murray went on. “You haven't been introduced.”

But Keiko held up her hands to stop him. His frown flashed down until she explained. “I'll forget if you tell me any more,” she said. “A Harley Knucklehead and a Vincent Rapide. Cat's-eye dash, no frame, Brampton forks. We should stop there for today.”

Murray relaxed completely into a smile again and began to replace the covers. Keiko wandered around the back of the room looking at the shelves of boxes and trays hoping that her
for today
hadn't been presumptuous.

“So many tools,” she said. “And some of them seem to be exactly the same as the others.”

“Well, you need different spanners for the American and the British bikes,” Murray said. “Different everything.”

Keiko looked at the five identical trays of wrenches and raised her eyebrows.

Murray laughed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “What's the diagnosis then?”

“Oh, you're a very sad case,” said Keiko. “I diagnose … doing what you like with your own things in your own place and harming no one.”

Murray laughed even louder. “You totally get it, don't you?”

“I can't work unless my printer tray is full and there's a block of extra paper still in its wrapper too.”

“What could be more normal than that?”

Keiko waited for him to finish tucking the covers around the wheels and straightening the folds. “Murray,” she said. “Can I ask a question?” She pointed to the canvases on the green mat. “Why do
these
bikes get to be on a rug?”

Murray laughed. “They're not bikes,” he said. “Have a look.”

Keiko didn't even try his flamboyant trick with the cover; she was too short and could never carry it off, might even fall over. She just bundled the sheet off the shape underneath, dumping it into Murray's arms as he came up to join her.

“Ah,” she said looking at what she'd revealed. It was a weight lifting machine—multi-gym? Bench press? She knew the words but not the meanings. Next to that was something like the harness from a glider but without the wings. She frowned at them.

“Not sculptures? Not beautiful?” asked Murray. Keiko looked at him in the mirror. He was hugging the bundle of canvas and there were shadows on his arms showing the outline of the tendons between wrist and elbow. Under his rolled-up sleeves, his biceps and shoulders curved like sand dunes, separated by a dip that Keiko could have spanned with her hands.
Stock pot
, said her mother's voice in her head again. Keiko turned back to the equipment and bent her head letting her hair drop forward across her face.

“Have you ever done any weight resistance?” Murray asked.

“I'm a brain in a jar, remember?”

“I can't agree with you there,” he said. “You're a fine feat of engineering. Well worth taking care of.”

“That is the strangest compliment I've ever been paid,” said Keiko.

“At least you're laughing,” said Murray. “You didn't slap me.”

“I'm catching it from you,” she replied, thinking she had never known someone laugh at himself so much, thinking it was a very good thing in a man.

“Me?” said Murray. “I laugh so I don't scream.” And, of course, saying this he laughed again. “You can use the gym equipment anytime you like.”

“I wouldn't know where to begin,” said Keiko.

“I can show you.” He wasn't laughing at all now. “Then they can do their damnedest and it won't get them anywhere.”

“Who?” Keiko said.

“All of them,” he said. “They're no match for me.”

thirteen

Saturday, 26 October

Fancy dropped Viola off
with Mrs. McMaster after breakfast and, leaving Keiko standing to attention behind the counter at Fancy That, walked to the top of the town. Pamela Shand in the Cat's Whiskers took a flyer, asked for a poster to put in her window, and made an appointment for a peppermint foot massage later that week.
All very well and good,
Fancy thought,
but you're an incomer and a bit of a flake, so that doesn't get me anywhere.
At the hairdressers, she went right inside (Janette Campbell had a tattoo and couldn't stand Mrs. Dessing) but she walked straight past Pet's flower shop, telling herself that she could give Pet a leaflet anytime and Vi wouldn't want her boring old mum cramping her style on her day at Granny's.

Meanwhile, Keiko took details over the telephone of two children's party cakes, booked out a Viking costume for the following weekend and, in the long pauses between calls on her attention, tried to work on her psychological profiles.

suggestibility/skepticism

suspicion/trust

innovation/conservatism

list making/actually doing something

She chewed her pen. You could buy profiling packages, but they were expensive. You could copy them, but everyone said the big professional profiling companies were crazy about protecting their copyright and always sued, every time. So she would make up her own.

If extraterrestrials contacted me, I would: see a doctor / call the police / find a priest / assume it was a hoax
. She nodded.
If I read that tomatoes caused cancer, I would: stop eating them / stop eating them raw / eat only organic / keep eating them
. She tapped her pen on the paper.
If I found a letter not meant for me I would: tear it up / open it / put it back where I found it.
She crossed that out but immediately thought of another one.
If two young women had suddenly left my town, I would: wonder why / try to find them / watch my bac—

She looked up as the shop door opened and Malcolm Poole sidled in.

“Malcolm, good morning,” she called out, safe and powerful behind the counter. He looked up in surprise and then smiled, coming towards her in an awkward route around the obstacles of copy machines and racks of costumes.

“Malcolm, can I ask you a question, please?”

“Anything.”

“What would you do if you read in the newspaper that tomatoes gave you cancer?”

“I'm not that keen on tomatoes,” he said.

“Or how about this one?” said Keiko. “If extraterrestrials contacted you, would you call the police, a priest, or a doctor? Or the army?” she added.

“Is this a joke?” asked Malcolm. “Oh, okay.” She watched him, her pen hovering ready to record his answer. “If extraterrestrials contacted me, I would … um … I would see what they wanted, I suppose. Get to know them.” He stopped and dropped his head under Keiko's stare.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was most helpful.”

“Is that how you do it?” Malcolm said. “You ask a real-life question first and then you do your special ones?”

“N—” Keiko began, then checked herself. “I'm not supposed to reveal my methods,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Just some copies,” he said slowly, bending one arm in towards his body and plucking some papers from inside his jacket. He laid them on the counter and smoothed across them twice with both hands. “I want these made into wee flyers. A5, I think it is.” Keiko slid down off her stool and took them over to the machine, Malcolm drawing up beside her just as the first sheet curled out and she held it up to show him.

“That's perfect,” he said, with such animation that she looked to see what was on the paper; she had thought at first glance it was just a list of products and prices. “You get it?” he asked, and she looked again as the next sheet glided out. “We do these freezer packs. A Lean Selection—loin chops, chicken breasts, and that; and a Busy Pick—stir-frying, minute steaks, all ready-marinated. But the budget packs have never sold well. And I think it's the name: Cheap Cuts.” He edged closer to Keiko to watch the flyers emerging. “So—here's the genius—I'm relaunching it, but I'm calling it the Hearty Appetite—good big rolled cuts for slow cooking, nothing expensive, sausages—nice big thick ones to go in a casserole. And I thought I'd put in one different thing each time, with a recipe. Oxtail maybe, or tripe. Try to get people interested again. You see, the way I'm thinking, if people think they're buying a budget pack it makes them feel poor and that makes them feel sad, but if they buy a Hearty Pack with my old-time recipe revivals they'll still be saving the money but they'll feel happy about it. It's all about getting people over the door, really. Youngsters, I mean. Kids that weren't brought up to go to the butchers. Once they're in the shop I can talk them round to anything—even tripe!—but it's getting them started. If I can just get them started, I'm laughing. And they'll be the better for it, get them off all those pizzas and God knows what.”

He bent over slightly to look up into Keiko's face as she rolled the sheets up and snapped a rubber band around them.

“That's very kind,” she said. “What's tripe?”

“Sheep's stomach lining,” said Malcolm, “Delicious, really tender. You cook it slowly in milk and onions and it comes out like a kind of rich, creamy soup you eat with buttered bread.” Keiko felt her face twist and she swallowed hard. “It's lovely,” he said. “The butcher does all the cleaning and the first cooking in the shop, so all the stomach contents and juices are gone by the time you …” He stopped.

“I don't have a freezer,” offered Keiko.

“Don't forget we're having you for lunch tomorrow,” Malcolm said.

_____

She hadn't forgotten. Of course, she hadn't. She had already bought a box of mint chocolates and a potted chrysanthemum to take with her. Fancy's advice.

“A bottle of spirits would be a scandal, see? Might as well take a five-quid baggie. Wine is like saying their own might not be worth drinking. Flowers are a bit too swanky, but a plant—better value and more boring—is fine. Chocolates are a tough call. Anything in a flat box with a ribbon is showing off, anything in a stand-up box, likes of Celebrations or that, is thumbing your nose at them. Safest bet is something minty—not nice enough to be a proper treat, but kind of saying it's a posh meal like you'd have mints after.”

“Are you joking?” said Keiko. “Thank God Rosa took me out to the chippy.”

“Yeah, just as well you've got me as a Sherpa.”

“Eh?”

“Don't say
eh
. And don't say
God
. Or
chippy
. What's happened to you? If your English goes up the spout, who d'you think's gonna get the blame? Muggins here.”

“
Muggins
?”

“Don't say that either.”

“So many rules,” said Keiko, rolling her eyes. “No one told me hostess gifts in Britain were such a minefield.” She threw teabags into two mugs and poured over water from the kettle.

“This ain't Britain,” Fancy said. “This is small-town east-coast Scotland. Cue the banjo music. You're in lonely country now.”

“You are joking, aren't you?” Keiko said. “This is a safe place re
ally?”

“What you on about?” Fancy said, rummaging in Keiko's cupboard for a packet of biscuits. “You're not making much of dent in this lot, are you?”

“They brought more,” Keiko said. “I'm on about …” She didn't want to mention Tash again after the atmosphere last time. Fancy had denied it, but Keiko knew better. But she didn't have to mention Tash because that's not all it was. “Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Glendinning?”

“From the newsagents? Course I do. He's got a belly like a beach ball, she's got a face like a smacked arse. Why?”

“They said something I can't get out of my head.”

“Oh?” said Fancy.

“They called me
this one
. But I thought the Traders had never sponsored a student before. So how can I be
this one
? It smells fishy.”

Fancy sniffed. “Something does,” she agreed. “No offence, Keeks, but you should get yourself over to McKendrick's and get a sink trap. Your drain's minging.”

“It's been like that since I got here,” Keiko said.

“Probably something in U-bend,” Fancy said. “If you get something hard stuck, it clogs like nobody's business. You need to get Malcolm or Murray up and see.”

“Murray,” said Keiko, then flushed as Fancy arched an eyebrow. “Malcolm wouldn't fit under the sink.”

“Good point,” Fancy said. “You forget once you're used to him.”

Sunday, 27 October

She made her way towards the Pooles' house at noon with the mints and chrysanthemum, passing the Bridge Hotel, crossing the street of big houses, through the street of small houses with chain-link fences and cars parked at the kerb, onto a quiet curving road where bungalows were set on green cushions of lawn that rose plumply from the pavement's edge.
Where is everyone?
she wondered. It was a pleasant autumn day, but the streets were deserted. Where were all the people?

A few at church; a few more at golf; many still in bed or at least in dressing gowns, with the Sunday papers almost read and the third pot of coffee brewing. And upstairs at the ironmongers five of them were sitting round a table, no armchairs and crystal glasses of wine this morning, big decisions to be made today.

“Is it my imagination,” Mr. McKendrick was saying, “or am I still sensing cold feet here?”

Kenny Imperiolo, Etta McLuskie, Sandra Dessing, and Iain Ballantyne looked at one another, waiting for someone to speak first. At last, Sandra shook her head.

Mr. McKendrick saw the shake and pounced. “Good,” he said. “Maybe you can talk round this lot, then.”

“It's just …” Sandra began. “We do see, of course. And we do all feel the same way you do. We're Painchton folk. And we agreed we had to do something. To get fresh … whatever. It's just that …”

“Keeping up with the cover story isn't easy,” said Iain Ballantyne. His hand shook a little as he fiddled with his pen.

Mr. McKendrick noticed but his expression showed nothing. “I wouldn't say
cover story
,” he said. “I'd say what we told the open meeting was for general consumption in the meantime. But come the hour, come the day, they'll all be invited to the party. There's plenty for everyone.”

The silence in the room lasted even longer this time and was only broken when Mr. McKendrick spoke again. “And as to confidentiality,” he said, “it's Etta it's weighing on. The rest of us just need to hold firm.”

Etta McLuskie turned and looked out through the net curtains to the bay window above the Pooles'.

“Is Grace coming?” she asked. “I'd be happier to hear from her own lips that she's still with us.”

“She's busy today,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Making Keiko Sunday lunch.”

_____

A figure, garbled by the frosted glass, came towards the door and opened it. Murray. He started to hold out both hands towards her but then stepped aside, smoothing his hair back, gesturing for her to come in. Mrs. Poole was standing at the back of the hall, silhouetted in a doorway by harsh kitchen light and looking strange without her overall. She said hello and then went back to her cooking with a distracted glance over her shoulder. Murray led the way into the living room, where Malcolm was halfway across the thick carpet towards the door.

He stopped as they entered and turned back. “You found us okay, then,” he said, his voice seeming more muted than ever, as if soaked up by the room, by the plush upholstery, textured wallpaper and velvety rugs, thick drapes hanging snugly ceiling to floor, creamy net muffling the window.

Keiko sat down in one of the bulbous armchairs, sliding herself backwards until she rested against its cushions with her feet off the floor, and looked between the two brothers, smiling what she hoped was a friendly smile. Malcolm had settled into another chair and sat back, his head cradled, his feet firmly planted and a hand clasping each of the arms.

Murray perched on the sofa, making no impression on its muscular cushions, his head bowed under the lea of the headrest. “So,” he said. “Wild weekend so far? Ready for more?”

“It's good to see you here at last,” said Malcolm. “We've left it too long.”

“Not at all, please don't mention it,” said Keiko. “It hasn't been a time for visiting.”

Malcolm glanced towards the fireplace, where framed photographs were arranged, and in the lull that followed, Keiko went to look at them. There were studio portraits of babies and little boys, a wedding photograph of a young Mrs. Poole in a bushy veil and tight dress, and a black-and-white picture of Mr. Poole, half-hidden by a spray of freesia. He was in a suit and tie, with Mrs. McLuskie's chain of office around his neck and he must have been a huge man, since the chain that reached to Etta McLuskie's waist was stretched wide across his suit shoulders and rested between his lapels.

He explained Malcolm, Keiko mused, but not Murray. Except that the face in the picture, when she looked closer, was an unsettling mixture; the peaked hair and lifted eyebrow of Murray along with the high plane of cheek and long stretch of jowl of Malcolm. It was as though the shadow of each of their faces lay in his wherever she was not looking, and when she shifted her gaze to catch it, it shied away again.

Beginning to wonder if she was being rude, she turned back to the room. Both boys were staring at her. Both looked away as Mrs. Poole come in with a tray of glasses. Keiko picked up the chrysanthemum and chocolates and went towards her.