Meanwhile Gardens (31 page)

“How is she now?”

Tanya paused for a moment to find the right words.

“For the past week I’ve been sensing she’s more confused than fearful. Something’s happened alright, but what and where I couldn’t tell you.” She got up to fill the kettle. “What I
can
tell you is she certainly wouldn’t come back to see her family.”

The following morning, having spent the night cocooned in the sunbeds, the brittle tanning elements softened by blankets, Ollie and Jake bade Tanya their farewells.

“Sorry again about the accommodation but it would have been more comfortable than upstairs. You wouldn’t have got a wink all night with my lot.”

Ollie quickly scribbled his number on a scrap of paper, “Call me if anything changes.”

The Ward household stuck out from the other dismal semis on the estate by its hideous stonecladding. Jake checked the number again. “This is it: 328 Stovolds Avenue.”

As the van drew up outside they could see the net curtains twitch.

Ollie looked at Jake, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

With Hum growling by their side they went through the latch gate into the front garden that had been completely concreted over.

“‘West Country’,” Ollie pointed to the expanse of stone where not even a weed could be seen.

Jake shuddered, “Let’s hope there’s just soil under that.”

The door opened before Ollie could knock. A young woman stood before them. Ollie figured she must be about twenty, although with her hair in pigtails she looked alot younger. Behind her he could see two other young women, Rion’s sisters Ollie guessed, peering out from the first doorway. They also had their hair in braids and looked equally childish.

“Yes?” she enquired in a peculiar mix of insolence and nervousness.

“Unless they’re offering money I’m not talking,” a man’s voice slurred from a nearby room. A crashing sound followed. Ollie and Jake watched as the other two sisters were elbowed out of the way and an illkempt man lurched into view. It could be no one else but Mr Ward.

“Did you hear me?” he staggered to the door and stared at them through bleary eyes. The man slapped his nearest daughter on the head, “Get me a Guinness if you know what’s good for you.”

The unfortunate girl scurried out of view.

“I’m selling my story to the highest bidder but,” he bared his stained, English teeth, “I’m open to better offers.”

Ollie again felt comforted by Hum’s low growling.

The first daughter ran back with a can of beer that she opened, lightly spraying her father with foam.

“Now look what you’ve done!” he roared.

The girl dodged out of his way and ran back inside the house.

Mr Ward turned his attention to the two young men on his doorstep. “Did you hear me?” he asked again.

As he took a large sip from the can Ollie made a point of looking at his watch. It was ten thirty.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by Mr Ward. “The stress of Marion vanishing has done this,” he leered at the can of beer in his hand. “This is all her fault,” he put his face
up to Ollie’s, the rancid alcohol fumes caused the young man’s eyes to water.

“I’ve agreed to go with the Sun, still negotiating but – ” Mr Ward’s face changed to something that on anyone else would probably be a smile but on him was more like a scowling smirk, “give me fifty pounds and – ”

Unable to stomach any more of this Jake interrupted, “Mr Ward.”

“Alright, alright, make it twenty five.”

“Mr Ward,” Jake began again.

“A tenner and that’s my last offer.”

“We’re not – ”

“Give us a fiver and I’ll see you right.”

“We’re not giving you
anything
,” Ollie said firmly.

Mr Ward squinted at them, confused all of a sudden, “You what?”

“You heard,” Jake said. “We’re friends of your daughter’s from London. We came to see if you might know where she might be but it’s obvious she wouldn’t come here.”

“Now lads if – ”

“You burnt her wrists with cigarettes you fucking monster,” Ollie couldn’t contain himself.

Surprised by where the conversation was going Mr Ward regained his natural state. “So what if I did?” he glowered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “She’s my daughter isn’t she?”

“So what if you did?” Ollie repeated enraged. “This is what!” he clenched his fist and sent it straight towards Mr Ward’s eye. Rion’s father fell back. His head hit the floor with a satisfying crack.

Jake was stunned for a second, “Ollie?”

Ollie rubbed his hand. As a nervous reaction he gave a winded laugh. The three daughters whispered amongst each other from the end of the hall but did nothing.

“Is he...?” Jake didn’t dare say the word.

Ollie looked at the supine figure. “Oh my God,” he said nervously, realising for the first time what he might have done.

Jake pulled him by the shoulder, “C’mon.”

Hum rushed into the house and gave a quick nip to the man’s exposed ankle before running out again.

As they left through the latchgate they heard Mr Ward groan.

“C’mon!” Jake said more urgently.

Before they had gone a few yards a bellow was heard signalling Mr Ward was conscious once more. Ollie and Jake hopped in the van, did a quick u-turn and sped from the estate.

Jake laughed, “Rocky Marciano, Muhammed Ali, Ollie Michaelson!”

“Do you think he’s alright?”

“I hope not! I bet he won’t even remember it though. Guys like that exist in permanent blackout.” Jake chuckled and gave Ollie a playful punch, “Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee!”

W
hat was going on? What
was
going on? Rion still hadn’t got over the picture of herself on the front of yesterday’s Sun.
Tipped for the top by the editor of top-selling Glamourista
ran the headline. What was going on? she asked herself for the umpteenth time.

As soon as Rion saw the accompanying picture of Lady Peters she knew exactly who she was – Jake’s lady friend with the dazzling turquoise pumps. But why hadn’t Jake told her about the editor of Glamourista when he knew Rion’s ambition was to work there?

Perhaps he didn’t know. That could be the only explanation. The connection must have been through Nicky and Johnson. Rion was certain they knew Lady Peters, they’d said as much hadn’t they?

But why was Lady Peters tipping her, tipping Rion for the top? And the top of what exactly? It seemed so unfair! Here she was being acclaimed for something, when she was hidden God only knew where unable to take advantage of God only knew what.

What was going on?

A raucous filing broke into her thoughts. After a brief stint with a powertool Senior and Beck had returned to manually severing the cast iron bars.

“I bet you wish you had that electric saw!” Rion said with her knack for stating the obvious. The miniature Black & Decker they had brought in yesterday, whilst making their work easier, had nearly been their downfall. Rion’s surprise appearance on the front of the Sun had meant frequent unannounced visits from Ted, Mary and Gorby who came to wonder at their newly valuable prize. The sound of a powerdrill would have been hard to explain.

Rion had hoped to engage the twins in conversation but Senior simply grunted whilst Beck ignored her completely.

“How long do you think it’ll take you?” she asked.

Senior shrugged his shoulders, “As long as it takes.”

Rion watched as he carried on sawing with Beck. It seemed every few minutes another fresh blade was needed, the teeth of the previous one soon dulled and bent useless.

“They didn’t want to make it easy for you did they?”

Rion got tired just watching them and then got tired
of
watching them but there was nothing else to occupy her mind in the Rosleagh vault. She felt her several attempts at conversation had been discouraged: what subject could she pick that would bring forth more than a grunt and a monosyllabic reply?

In the corner by the door she saw what could provide a good topic. She waited until the next break, which wasn’t long in coming.

“What do you do with those swords?”

Beck brushed his hair away from his face, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Rion had already decided she didn’t like the more junior of the twins. The combination of weakness and power reminded the girl of her father.

“Shhhh,” Senior glared his brother into silence.

“Do you fence with them?” she continued.

“Something like that.”

“If this was
Give us a Clue
I’d be out by now wouldn’t I?”

The twins didn’t even grunt a reply.

Rion tried again, “Well, what makes them so special?”

Senior looked at the floor in a gesture of humbleness that made Rion suddenly warm to him. “You’ll only laugh,” he said. “People always do.”

“People that don’t understand always do,” his brother corrected.

“Try me.”

Senior held Rion’s eye for several seconds, closely examining her face for any reaction to what he was going to say. Just when Rion was tempted to look away Senior broke the silence, “We’re Morris Dancers.”

Conscious of the watching twins Rion knew her first reaction – a smirk – would be the wrong one. She managed to control herself by opening her eyes wide as if madly interested.

“You don’t think that’s funny?” Beck asked.

“Most people do,” Senior added.

“Someone even wrote a book called, ‘I’ll try anything once except Incest and Morris Dancing’,” his brother said in disgust.

“Maybe if they knew more they wouldn’t laugh, I mean loads of things seem funny at first don’t they?” Rion gushed.

The answer seemed to please the twins.

Encouraged Rion carried on, “What people see are men with bells on their toes waving hankies in the air – ” Rion saw the twins exchange a quick look and realised she mustn’t be seen to be taking the piss. “ – when I’m sure there’s much more to it than that isn’t there?”

Senior was unsure for a moment whether to confide his
passion or not. Again he examined Rion’s face but could discern no hint of amusement. “Much more!” he said, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

“People only mock what they don’t understand,” Rion echoed Beck’s earlier thought. She knew she was on the right track when Senior jumped up, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

“Exactly!” Senior strode to the end of the vault, executed a neat spin on one heel then strode back. “They don’t realise that the dance is a sacred act – dance is religion and religion is dance.” He pulled his brother to his feet, “C’mon. I’ll be the Foreman.”

Beck wasn’t as willing as his twin but upon his urging followed his steps. Their legs swayed and flashed as they moved in complex co-ordinated rhythms. Occasional high leaps punctuated the steps as they came to an end of the stanza. The moves were then repeated backwards.

Although at first finding it difficult to conceal her amusement Rion was soon gripped by the hard and fast pace of the dance. Mesmerised by the swirls and patterns she was relieved when the twins, with a final leap, came to face each other and stopped. Breathing heavily the twins broke the trance and moved away from each other.

“Well?” Senior asked, his chest rising and falling.

Rion didn’t know what to say and so, impressed, just opened her mouth and shrugged her shoulders.

“Those steps are the same as the ones danced in the courts of Celtic warlords.”

Rion managed to regain her powers of speech, “It’s so complicated.”

Senior smiled, “The more intricate the steps, the more the need to concentrate, the more the conscious mind is occupied, the more the spirit is able to soar.”

As Rion took it all in Beck spoke up, “Every birth, marriage and celebration, each planting, harvest and change of the moon, each sacrifice,” Beck paused, “each death…. ”

Rion didn’t notice as Senior glared at his twin to stop.

“ – for all of these the dance is needed.”

“It’s the way to communicate with the Gods,” Senior said.

“But the success of everything depends on the accuracy of the steps, of the ritual.”

Deciding his brother had spoken enough Senior pulled him to his feet. “Let’s show her something different.” He went over to the door, picked up one of the long swords and tossed it over to Beck who caught it with ease.

Rion, all trace of amusement gone, watched entranced as the twins again went into the demanding, repetitive steps this time accompanied by intricate swordplay.

T
he journey up from Bridlington had been easier than the journey down. They had made much better time – at least forty minutes Ollie calculated – on the previous day. As Ollie swung the van through the cemetery gates Jake gestured for him to pull over.

“Let’s walk down. It deflects attention and – ” Jake yawned, “ – I need to stretch my legs.”

“So does Hum.”

In his red coat the hound bounded past the monuments and mausolea of Centre Avenue. Ollie didn’t bother calling to Hum who wouldn’t come to him anyway. The dog knew Ollie waited with collar and lead – there were too many scents in the cemetery for him to waste time at his master’s side.

Ollie never ceased to be amazed at the tombs on this, the cemetery’s main thoroughfare. Pyramids, sphinxes, winged cherubs, griffins, canopies, columns and sarcophagi all vied for attention in the maze of burial plots.

As they came to the Anglican Chapel Jake stopped, the top of his tree visible above the hillock in front of them. “It’s good to be home isn’t it?”

Ollie smiled, “It will be when I get there.”

Before Jake could head for the canal they were stopped by a woman’s distant voice, “Ollie! Ollie!”

They turned to see a figure hurrying along the muddy track beneath the huge chestnut trees. Ollie waved, instantly recognising who it was. “What’s Nicky doing here?” he wondered.

Within a few moments the photographer arrived breathless beside them. “You drove right past me!” she complained. Unused to the sudden bout of exercise Nicky steadied herself against Ollie, “I was having lunch at William 1V – ”