The Hunger Trace (22 page)

Back in Detton, he stopped the car at the bottom of the hill, out of sight. She could see that he had retreated into himself, for both their sakes. He looked down the road when she kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for today.’

She climbed the hill, feeling shaken, smashed, and better than she ever had. When she reached the cottage she put her head against the door and sighed.

‘Hello.’

Louisa spun rapidly with her key forced between her knuckles. It was Maggie. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Louisa said and put a hand to her chest.

‘Sorry,’ Maggie said, wincing. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Louisa could still smell Adam on her skin. A man that Maggie, amongst others, had been fucked by. She waited for Maggie to speak.

‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time, so when I saw you coming up the hill, I made a run for it.’

‘Hi,’ Louisa said.

‘I bought these Robin Hood DVDs for Christopher, kind of an early Christmas present, and I was just wondering if you might like to come over and watch them with us tomorrow night,’ Maggie said. ‘He breaks up from college tomorrow.’

‘Can’t,’ Louisa said. She was seeing Adam.

‘Okay. Well, how about tonight? I could sure eat some food.’

‘I’ve eaten.’

‘Oh yeah? What did you have?’

It may well have been an innocent question springing from a good appetite, but to Louisa it felt like a criminal interrogation. ‘Look. I’m just not . . . I’ve got an early start in the morning.’

‘Okay. I hear you,’ Maggie said. Louisa detected a little terseness in her neighbour’s voice, and had to control her instinct, which was to respond in kind.

‘I’d love to bend your ear on a few park matters, too. When you’ve got a minute,’ Maggie said, in such a way that it seemed to be a reminder of the plans they had made together. Louisa gave the faintest of nods.

Maggie held up her hand and began to walk away. Louisa turned towards the cottage door with some relief.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ Maggie said. ‘Christopher sends a message. I don’t know if you’ll be able to decode it. He says, “Mutual Assured Destruction.”’ It was a passable impression of his voice.

‘Right,’ Louisa said.

Maggie nodded, waved.

Safely locked in the cottage, Louisa allowed herself to think of Adam again, but only for a moment. She went to the window and watched Maggie trudging back to the big house.

Adam was not, at that moment, on his way to an appointment. He was travelling, instead, to his sister’s house, this time with a very clear objective.

He had resumed his evening job four nights ago, but already the differences were clear. Severing the link between his body and his mind was never a problem, and he was physically still able to perform. The after-effects, however, were more difficult to take. He woke with sliding limbs in his mind, and no matter how much he washed he could not rid himself of the smell of the clients.

He had begun to find the personal items in other people’s houses unbearably depressing. The feeling made him want to steal things and dump them in the river: postcards from corkboards, children’s toys, digital alarm clocks. Such objects would all be sailing out to sea if he had his way. He could not explain it.

Money was a problem. Lizzie’s mother had split from her man, and the pressure fell back on Adam. Why shouldn’t Lizzie go to college? Why should she pay for her parents’ mistakes? Adam agreed.

Sophie was smoking on the doorstep in a long padded coat that made her look like a chrysalis. When she saw his car, she shooed the children out of the hallway and up the stairs. She poked her head further into the street and looked both ways before letting him in.

Her youngest boy stood at the top of the staircase, naked, and peered through the banister spindles. Adam nodded to him in greeting. The boy disappeared.

‘Leon’s back from work in a bit,’ Sophie said. ‘Do you need tea?’

‘No ta, Sis.’

Adam sat on the edge of the sofa, which was low and soft. The multi-coloured plastic play pen stood between them. ‘How’s the lad? With his leg?’

‘He’s fine. He goes to physio once a week. Fine.’

A year ago, Adam had loaned Sophie two thousand pounds so her eldest could have a private operation on his foot.

‘That why you’re here?’ she said.

‘I was just wondering how you were doing in terms of freeing up some cash for the repayments,’ he said.

She shook her head and bit her lip, as though his mentioning the loan was an unjustified imposition. ‘There isn’t any
free cash
, Adam. Things are tight at the moment.’

Adam, without meaning to, looked at the holiday photograph on the mantelpiece. It was a recent picture of the family in Lanzarote, the black rocks and sea in the background.

Sophie laughed. ‘Jesus. What? You begrudge us a holiday? Your nephews?’

Adam held up his hands. ‘Course not, kid. I wouldn’t ask, obviously, but I’m struggling myself.’

She smiled and gave a couple of quick blinks – a trait she had carried from childhood. ‘Business slow, is it?’

He nodded. ‘Well, it’s too wet for golf, isn’t it? We’re working day on, day off.’

‘Golf,’ she said, and snorted.

‘Listen, my cash is
okay
, isn’t it?’ he said. He did not speak aggressively, he just wanted to get past the brittleness that money always brought to their conversations. ‘I mean, you don’t have a problem with letting me help you out once in a while, do you?’

Sophie tilted her head and blinked again.

‘I don’t want the full amount, Soph. Just anything you can spare. I’ve got Lizzie’s payment coming up at the end of the month.’

‘I don’t know why you have to keep paying for her,’ Sophie said.

‘You’d know quick enough if you were on your own with these kids.’

‘Oh that’s nice. Thanks for that.’

‘Come on, Sis, give me a break.’

Sophie looked as if her resistance was about to collapse, but then she smiled, as if possessed of some brilliant new idea. ‘
Mum’s
coming round tomorrow,’ she said slowly, with mock brightness.

Adam looked at his feet.

‘I think she’s got a bit of money stashed. I can have a word if you like. Explain your situation. About how slow
work
is at the moment.
Golf
. Maybe she’ll be sympathetic.’ Sophie smirked.

‘I see,’ Adam said.

They sat in silence for a moment, Adam staring at her, trying to be resilient, trying to get her to see that the nature of her victory was nothing to be proud of.

‘Is everything okay, otherwise?’ she said.

‘Surprisingly well,’ he said. ‘Unusually well.’

Sophie did not probe further. Despite her threats of disclosure, she could not stomach the details of his life. But Adam realised that he wanted to tell her about Louisa. It made him feel better just thinking about telling her.

‘We’ll be back up to speed with the repayments next month,’ she said, all the tension and animosity gone from her voice.

‘Right-o.’

He could feel the eyes of the children on him, and turned to see them peering through the banisters. He stuck out his tongue, and they bundled out of sight, giggling. He turned back to Sophie, and stuck out his tongue at her, too.

The hairy, spongy chairs in Cullis’s office smelled to Christopher like cigarettes and bananas. It was the last day before the Christmas break, and Cullis was skimming over the Robin Hood essay. Christopher had finished the first section (‘Hooded Man/Psycho Killer’), which left him with two remaining chapters: ‘Love on the Brain’, on which he was currently working, and ‘Death’.

Cullis looked up from the paper. ‘Christopher, there are gaps in your logic. You’ve got to get over these people being real. It’s only natural that as time passes, Robin should gain a fictional love interest in the guise of Maid Marian.’

Love interest
, thought Christopher; the kind of phrase used only by turncoats and seasoned backstabbers.

‘Can you imagine a play, or even a Hollywood film, without a leading lady?’ Cullis continued. ‘People might question what Robin Hood was
doing
in the woods with his merry men, all dressed in tights.’

‘There’s, erm, no historical evidence to suggest that he wore – hold on. Are you, erm, saying that Robin Hood was
strange
, at all?’

‘Look, all I’m saying is that a homeless, dispossessed vagrant, even a fictional one—’

‘Not fictional.’

‘—would find a willing wench hard to come by. No dating websites in those days, Christopher.’

Dating websites? Christopher wondered whether Maggie Green had been on his computer, and then fed the information to Cullis. He decided to ignore the comment and concentrate on frying bigger fish.

‘So you’re standing there, erm, telling me that Marian de Lacy didn’t really, erm, exist?’

‘Actually,
you’re
telling
me
that,’ Cullis said.

Oh that is absolutely typical, thought Christopher.

‘Christopher, you believe in the psycho – the aggressive killer of the early ballads, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Erm. What if?’

‘Well there’s no mention of Marian in Robin Hood literature until the eighteenth century. You can’t have it both ways.’

Christopher tore at his coffee cup. He knew it was true. It was true, and no Marian meant no progeny, no family values.

‘Love in the forest is a pleasant romantic notion, Chris, but—’

‘My name is not, erm . . .’

‘—life is just not that simple.’

With his leading ladies and unwilling wenches, Christopher thought Cullis was a treacherous bastard. He could almost have provoked Christopher to use such language out loud.
Life’s not that simple
?

‘Erm, erm, erm. Tell me something I don’t know.’

Christopher took the bus home. While the other students wore tinsel and Santa hats, and sniffed poppers, Christopher brooded on the unsatisfactory nature of his own love-life. He had arranged to meet Carol-Ann, from the dating website, tomorrow. At first they had agreed that she would bring along Simon, her baby son, who – for Christopher – was very much part of the package. In a recent text message, however, Carol-Ann had informed Christopher that Simon would stay at home with his grandmother. This was to give Carol-Ann and Christopher some proper time to get to know each other, Carol-Ann said.
Get to know each other?
Christopher had thought. After the promises they had already made, he viewed this as a significant retreat. Despite his determination that his thoughts on love should remain pure, Christopher could not help but detect the stink of betrayal.

His suspicions had been further aroused by a text two days later, changing the venue from a pub in town to the Little Chef Travelodge off the A52, and moving the time forward to mid-afternoon. Christopher had received the text in one of Cullis’s classes. ‘Ding-ding. Alarm bells,’ he had said aloud, to the confusion of several other students. Cullis had ignored the mumblings Christopher made as he typed his reply:

In the next reply, Carol-Ann blamed her father, saying that he had insisted on neutral territory and daylight hours. Christopher did not see why a modern woman in her late twenties with a baby and a job needed her father’s advice. So much for the power of love. He was not, however, about to ruin his one shot at domestic happiness.

On the bus home, he leaned his head against the cool condensation of the window, and tried to think of what his father would have advised. But his father’s sayings about women blurred with those about bullies.
Do it to them before they do it to you.
That probably wasn’t relevant, Christopher decided.

He had always thought his father had done well to land himself a humdinger like Maggie Green, but then again, he had been blind to her traitorous ways. Christopher searched his memory harder. He saw his father slapping his own face with both hands. He saw him raising his leg and lowering his elbow to fart. He heard him whistle through his teeth with exasperation. He saw him crying. These were things most people had never seen. Most people, thought Christopher, just remembered what a legend David Bryant was, in his Stetson with his animals and his pint of bitter.

In any case, Christopher reasoned, this current problem could not be solved by those who would never again darken anyone’s towels. How was he, Christopher, going to get to a hotel on the A52? He certainly wasn’t going to ask Maggie Green. Fighting the vibrations of the window, Christopher wrote ‘C-A’ in the condensation with his finger. Within seconds the letters were sagging with strings of moisture.

When Christopher arrived at the den, he saw two boys playing in the pools of standing water in the field across the brook. They pointed their torches at him, whispered for a moment, then continued splashing. Christopher stooped under the corrugated roof.