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Authors: Nathan Dylan Goodwin

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Chapter Fifteen

 

Sunday

 

He had driven back to their former home in
Rye, back to what felt to Morton like a different world, another
lifetime.  So much had happened in such a short time that it defied
belief.  Yet here he was, back where he used to call home.  All
alone.  He looked at his watch – Juliette would right now be in the
interview which decided the fate of her PCSO career.  She had no idea
which way it was going to go and if the last couple of weeks had taught Morton
anything, then it was to expect the unexpected.  ‘Great, thanks for those
wise words, Morton,’ she’d replied before leaving home for the lion’s
den.  Jeremy had thrown his arms around her and told her it would all work
out fine.  He would be at the hospital right now, visiting their father,
contrary to his original plan of seeing Guy today.  He’d rung the hospital
first thing to check on their father’s progress to be told that he’d ‘had a
very bad night’.  He was still alive, though, which Morton thought was a
minor miracle in itself.  He wondered what would happen to his newfound
relationship with Jeremy when their father did eventually leave this mortal
coil.  At the moment it was based in a surreal, parallel universe where
they lived in the same house, shared clothing and went to village fetes
together.  It was like a dodgy American sitcom on the verge of being axed.

Morton stepped
out of the Mini into the damnable heat of the day and stared at the gap
occupying the space where his house had once stood.  Apparently the two
adjoining properties didn’t feel able to support themselves without his house
in the middle and had slumped into an unrecognisable pile of building
materials, leaving in their wake a miniature Ground Zero.  A spider’s web
of scaffolding encased the neighbouring properties, presumably to stop the
whole of Church Square from dominoing into a pile of rubble.  The
spectacle had evidently become one of Rye’s latest must-see attractions; a whole
horde of people stood behind the hastily erected barricade, gazing at the
half-a-dozen workmen who seemed to Morton to be doing very little to clear the
wreckage.

A red Vauxhall
Astra bearing the logo ‘Fire Brigade’ drew up to the cordon and a burly, brick
of a man climbed out carrying with him a Pampers Nappies box.  Morton
hadn’t really expected to get anything back from the fire but seeing the sum
total of thirty-nine years of life heading towards him in a nappy box actually
choked him.  That was everything: his whole life reduced to one box. 
Should he take heart that the box was relatively large?  Had the Fire
Brigade managed to retrieve many sentimental goods?  Surely he wouldn’t
have bothered returning a packet of cornflakes or a sodden pair of boxer
shorts, would he?  Morton couldn’t help but think about his school
reports, greetings cards dating back to his first birthday, correspondence, an
assortment of yellowing photo albums, family home videos – the list of his
possessions ran like a tickertape through his mind and made the lump on the
side of his head ache all the more.

‘Morton
Farrier?’ the fire officer questioned.

Morton nodded
and he thrust a meaty hand towards him.  Morton’s insides sagged when the
fire officer managed to effortlessly balance the nappy box in his upturned left
hand while the other rigorously shook Morton’s hand.  ‘Assistant
Divisional Officer Stephenson.  I’m afraid that what the fire didn’t
destroy, the sheer quantity of water that we had to use probably did.’  He
passed over the Pampers box.  ‘Apart from this lot that my boys pulled out
yesterday.’

‘Thanks,’
Morton said doubtfully.  The box was virtually weightless.

Stephenson made
a noise that sounded like a cross between an incredulous laugh and a
scoff.  ‘Whoever did this used enough Semtex to bring down a large
superstore.  Amazing.’

‘Yeah,’ Morton
agreed.  He wasn’t sure that amazing was the adjective he would have used,
but it wasn’t worth splitting hairs over.

‘Is there
anything else I can help you with?’ Stephenson asked.

Rebuild my
house?  Catch the people who did this?  Find me somewhere to
live?  Help me solve the Coldrick Case?  What could the Assistant
Divisional Officer help him with?  Nothing, that was what. ‘No, I don’t
think so.’

‘Well, good
luck with it,’ he said, his job done.  He turned on his heels and returned
to his vehicle.

‘Thanks,’
Morton said vaguely, unsure of what he was thanking him for.  It was a
curious parting comment, he thought.  He took one final glance at his
house then he carried the Pampers box into town in search of a decent cup of
coffee.  It was a deliberate ploy to delay opening the box for as long as
possible.  Once he looked inside, he would know exactly what had survived
and all the rest of his possessions would be forever consigned to
oblivion.  The longer away that moment was, the better.

He took a
mini-statement from the hole-in-the-wall and stared at his bank balance, as if
they were an assortment of random numbers.  From fifty to twenty-five thousand
in seven days – that had to be some kind of record.  Jesus.  Where
the hell had twenty-five grand disappeared to?  He marched inside the
bank, the ping-pong ball on the side of his head throbbing with each footfall,
and demanded a full statement from a harassed-looking woman at the customer
service desk.
 

The car had
obviously taken a fair wodge and then there was his new Apple Mac.  The
rest, in the spirit of egalitarianism, had been evenly distributed among Top
Shop, Miss Selfridges, H&M, Mango, Laura Ashley, Debenhams, Karen Millen,
John Lewis, French Connection, Jaeger, and Marks and Spencer.  Juliette
really had gone to town.  Christ. 
And
she’d complained
because she’d had her shopping spree cut short because he’d had the audacity to
ask her to collect him from Sedlescombe.  Now he understood why rich
businessmen had offshore accounts out of reach of their wives.

Jempsons always
did a good cup of coffee.  And they had air-conditioning.  He tried
to force his dwindling bank balance from his mind, as he sat down in a seat
beside the window with a large latte.  He stared at the passers-by and
tried to avoid the inevitable: the time had come to open the Pampers box; a
feeling of mild nausea prickled his stomach.  He pulled open the box and
took the items out one by one, setting them out on the table in front of him.
 
A black granite squirrel.  A darts trophy.  A briefcase.  A
silver jewellery case.  James Coldrick’s copper box.  It was like a
sick joke – just five items had randomly survived the explosion.  Well,
four actually since the black granite squirrel didn’t belong to him.  It
was the kind of thing Mrs McPherson next door might have owned though. 
Quite how it ended up in his box of last worldly goods was another matter. 
He realised then that he hadn’t even asked the fire officer about his
neighbours.  Poor Mrs McPherson was in her eighties and had lived in that
house since before the war; a shock like this could have killed her if the
house crumbling around her hadn’t already done the job.  He’d have to find
out where she was staying and return the squirrel to her: that might cheer her
up.  He looked at the other items. 
How had the darts trophy that
he won at the age of twelve survived the inferno? 
It was made
entirely of cheap, gold lacquered plastic.
 

He opened the
small black briefcase and was relieved to find that actually the sales pitch
about it being ‘the black box for the home’ was quite true.  All their
important documents, passports, certificates and insurances (including buildings
and contents, thankfully up-to-date) were safe and untouched by the
blaze.  Last but not least there was James Coldrick’s copper box,
blackened and scratched, but with the coat of arms still clearly visible on the
top.  He unhooked the clasp and fully expected to find the box empty, that
someone had got to the contents first, but the letters and the photo had
miraculously been preserved.

Morton swigged
his latte and stared at the lamentable assortment of junk on the table in front
of him.  An elderly lady at the next table was staring, looking entirely
flummoxed.  ‘The summary of my life,’ Morton said helpfully.

‘Oh,’ the old
lady replied.

Morton picked
up the copper box.  It was the only piece of tangible evidence still in
his possession and he was stumped by it.  Well and truly stumped.  It
was time to seek help from an old acquaintance.

He gulped down
the remainder of his drink, left the coffee shop and made his way back to the
car to visit Soraya.

As he walked,
he dialled the headquarters of the Forensic Science Service in Birmingham.

 

‘He's only been to school twice since it
happened,’ Soraya whispered to Morton.  They had been sitting in her
sister’s lounge, a surprisingly large suburban townhouse, for some time whilst
Morton brought her up to speed.  She listened fixedly, yet to Morton her
mind seemed elsewhere.  Tired, dark circles curled under eyes and recent
events seemed to be finally taking their toll on her.

Fin had yet to
make an appearance, playing a PlayStation game that sounded alarmingly destructive
to Morton.  He wondered if it was a sensible idea to allow an
eight-year-old, whose dad’s head had recently been blown apart, to play
something so violent. 
What was wrong with Connect Four or
Kerplunk? 
It had been good enough for him as a child, a revelation
which made him suddenly feel old.

‘They’re
sending round the educational psychologist to talk to him and try and get him
back to school properly.  Honestly, Morton, the sooner this whole business
is over the better,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

‘I couldn’t
agree more,’ Morton replied, which was a bit of an understatement, all things
considered.  The way that Soraya spoke was as if all of Fin’s problems
would be miraculously solved if a DNA connection could be established with the
Windsor-Sackvilles.  As far as Morton was concerned, that would be when
the trouble started.

‘It doesn’t
help living out of a suitcase either, neither of us feels settled.  My
sister’s been great, but we just want to be back home again.’

‘Well, let’s
get this test done then,’ he said.

Soraya nodded
and called for Fin.  Four polite requests and a final threat to have his
PlayStation unplugged later and Fin finally, and very sullenly, appeared in the
lounge.  He seemed surprised to see Morton, and not in a good way.
 

‘Fin, you
remember my nice friend, Morton, don’t you?’ Soraya said, over-exaggerating the
words, like an animated primary school teacher. 
Nice friend,
Morton,
that was one way of describing him.  Much better than
that-horrible-man-who-made-you-cry-last-time,
Morton.  This wasn’t going to be pleasant, he could tell
already. 
How was he even going to take the swab?
  There was
no sensible reason (beyond telling the truth, and he wasn’t about to open
that
can of worms) that Morton could pluck from his brain to justify shoving a stick
into Fin’s mouth and wiping the inside of his cheek eight times.

‘What game are
you playing?’ Morton asked.  It was a lame question, but it was the only
one he could think of.

‘War Storm
Four,’ Fin murmured, unable to look Morton in the eyes.

‘War Storm
Four?’ he said, attempting to mock incredulity.  ‘What was wrong with the
other three?’

Finlay
shrugged.  ‘They were rubbish.’  Morton wanted to give a hearty,
supportive laugh, but what came out of his mouth was more of a mocking snigger. 
He
really
shouldn’t have kids.

‘Fin, Morton’s
got an extra special test to do for your diabetes.’

Fin looked
uncertain.  ‘Will it hurt?’

‘No, not a
bit,’ Morton said.  ‘Look.’  He pulled out a swab stick slightly
larger than a nail file and held it aloft.  If he’d used his brain he
would have brought two along and demonstrated it on himself first.  ‘All I
have to do is rub this on your cheek.’

‘My cheek?’ he
said, raising a finger to the side of his face.

Morton
nodded.  ‘Inside.’  The boy clamped his mouth shut and looked
horrified.  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t go down your throat or anything,’ he
quickly added, but the horror remained in Fin’s eyes.

‘It’s okay, it
really won’t hurt at all,’ Soraya said, hamming up her reassurance. 
‘Okay?’

Fin nodded and
Morton approached him, trying to hold the swab stick in such a way as to not
make it look like he was brandishing a weapon of torture.  Fin opened his
mouth and allowed Morton to take to the swab without a fuss.

‘There, all
done,’ Morton said, delighted with the small triumph of not making an
eight-year-old boy cry again.  ‘You can go back to War Storm Four if you
want.’
 

Seconds later
the sounds of explosions and gunfire came from Fin’s bedroom.

‘Well done,’
Soraya said with a smile, ‘you’re good with kids.’

BOOK: Hiding the Past
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ads

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