Missing Joseph

by Elizabeth George

  He pointed to three squares of yellow light some distance across the field in which he stood, on the other side of the wall. “Farm,” he said. “They’ll have a barn. We can doss there.”

  “In a barn?”

  He brushed back his hair. “What’d you think, Mag? We don’t have any money. We can’t exactly get a room somewhere, can we?”

  “But I thought…” She hesitated, squinting at the lights. What had she thought? Get away, run off, never again see anyone but Nick, stop thinking, stop wondering, find a place to hide.

  He was waiting. He dug inside his jacket and brought out his Marlboros. He shook the pack against his hand. The last cigarette popped into his palm. He began to crumple the pack and Maggie said:

  “P’rhaps you ought to save the last one. For later. You know.”

  “Nah.” He crushed the pack and dropped it. He lit up as she picked her way up the loose stones and over the wall. She rescued the pack from the weeds and carefully smoothed it, folded it, and put it into her pocket.

  “Trail,” she said in explanation. “If they’re looking for us, we don’t want to leave a trail, do we? If they’re looking.”

  He nodded. “Right. Come on, then.” He grabbed her hand and headed in the direction of the lights.

  “But why’re we stopping now?” she asked once again. “It’s too early, don’t you think?”

  He looked at the night sky, at the position of the moon. “Perhaps,” he said and smoked thoughtfully for a moment. “Look. We’ll rest up here a while and doss somewhere else later. Aren’t you feeling clapped out? Don’t you want to have a sit?”

  She did. Only she was also feeling that if she sat anywhere, she might not be able to get back up. Her school shoes weren’t the best for walking, and she thought that once her head sent her feet the false message that their evening’s walk was at an end, her feet mightn’t cooperate in setting off again in an hour or so.

  “I don’t know…” She shivered.

  “And you need to warm up,” he said decisively and began to lead her towards the lights.

  The field they walked across was pasture, the ground uneven. It was littered with sheep droppings that looked like shadows against the frost. Maggie stepped into a pile of these, felt her shoe slither among them, and nearly went down. Nick righted her with a “Mag, you got to watch for the muck,” and then he added with a laugh, “Lucky they don’t have cows here.” He clasped her arm and offered her a share of his cigarette. She took it politely, sucked in on it, and blew the smoke through her nose.

  “You c’n have the rest,” she said.

  He seemed glad to do so. He picked up their pace to cross the pasture but slowed abruptly as they neared the other side. A large flock of sheep were huddled together against the pasture’s far wall, like mounds of dirty snow in the darkness. Nick said in a low voice something that seemed to be, “Hey, ah, ishhhh,” as they slowly closed in on the flock’s perimeter. He extended his hand before him. As if in response, the animals jostled one another to allow Nick and Maggie passage, but they neither panicked, bleated, nor began to move off.

  “You know what to do,” Maggie said and felt a tingle behind her eyes. “Nick, why d’you always know just what to do?”

  “It’s only sheep, Mag.”

  “But you know. I love that about you, Nick. You know the right thing.”

  He looked towards the farmhouse. It stood beyond a paddock and another set of walls. “I know with sheep,” he said.

  “Not only sheep,” she said. “Truly.”

  He crouched next to the wall, easing a ewe to one side. Maggie crouched next to him. He rolled his cigarette between his fingers and after a moment drew a long breath as if to speak. She waited for his words, then said herself, “What?” He shook his head. His hair fell forward across his forehead and cheek and he concentrated solely on finishing his cigarette. Maggie clasped his arm and leaned against him. It was pleasant here, with the wool and the breath of the animals to warm them. She could almost think of staying the night in this very spot. She raised her head.

  “Stars,” she said. “I always wished I could name them. But all I ever could find was the North Star because it’s brightest. It’s…” She twisted round. “It should be…” She frowned. If Longridge was to the west of Clitheroe, with just the smallest jog to the south, the North Star should be…Where was its bright shining?

  “Nick,” she said slowly, “I can’t find the North Star. Are we lost?”

  “Lost?”

  “I think we’re going in the wrong direction because the North Star isn’t where—”

  “We can’t go by the stars, Mag. We have to go by the land.”

  “What d’you mean? How d’you know what direction you’re heading in if you go by the land?”

  “Because I know. Because I’ve lived here forever. We can’t go climbing up and down fells in the middle of the night which is what we’d be doing if we headed direct west. We have to go round them.”

  “But—”

  He crushed his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. He stood. “Come on.” He climbed the wall and reached back over to hold her hand as she did the same. He said, “We’ve got to be quiet now. There’ll be dogs.”

  They slipped across the paddock in near silence, the only noise coming from their shoe soles crackling against the frost-covered ground. At the last wall, Nick hunched over, raised his head slowly, and examined the area. Maggie watched him from below, hunkered against the wall, gripping her knees.

  “Barn’s on the far side of the yard,” he said. “Looks like solid muck, though. It’s going to be messy. Hold on to me tight.”

  “Any dogs?”

  “I can’t see. But they’ll be about.”

  “But Nick, if they bark or chase us, what’ll—”

  “Don’t worry. Come on.”

  He climbed over. She followed, scraping her knee across the very top stone and feeling the corresponding rip in her tights. She gave a little mewl when she felt the quick heat of abrasion against her skin. But to feel a scratch was baby business at this point. She allowed herself neither a wince nor a hobble as she dropped to the ground. It was thick with bracken along the edge of the wall, but rutted and muck-filled as it gave onto the farmyard itself. Once they left the protective cushion of the bracken, each step they took smick-smacked loudly with suction. Maggie felt her feet sinking into the muck, felt the muck seeping over the sides of her shoes. She shuddered. She was whispering, “Nick, my feet keep getting stuck,” when the dogs appeared.

  They announced themselves by yapping first. Then three border collies tore across the farmyard from the out-buildings, barking wildly and baring their teeth. Nick shoved Maggie behind him. The dogs slithered to a stop less than six feet away, snapping, snarling, and ready to spring.

  Nick held out his hand.

  Maggie whispered, “Nick! No!” and watched the farm-house fearfully, waiting for the door to crash open and the farmer himself to come storming out. He’d be shouting and red in the face and angry. He’d phone the police. They were trespassing after all.

  The dogs began to howl.

  “Nick!”

  Nick squatted. He said, “Hey-o, come on, you funny blokes. You can’t scare me,” and he whistled to them softly.

  It was just like magic. The dogs quieted, stepped forward, sniffed his hand, and within an instant became old friends. Nick petted them in turn, laughing quietly, tugging at their ears. “You won’t hurt us, will you, funny old blokes?” In answer, they wagged their tails and one of them licked Nick’s face. When Nick stood, they surrounded him happily and acted as escort into the yard.

  Maggie looked round at the dogs in wonder as she carefully sloshed through the mud. “How’d you do that? Nick!”

  He took her hand. “It’s only dogs, Mag.”

  The old stone barn was a section of one elongated building, and it stood across the yard from the house. It directly abutted a narrow cottage on whose first floor a cur
tained window was lit. This had probably been the original farm building, a granary with a cart-shed beneath it. The granary had been converted sometime in the past to house a worker and his family, and its living quarters were gained by means of a stairway that led up to a cracked red door above which a sole bulb was now glowing. Beneath, lay the cart-shed with its single unglazed window and its gaping arch of a door.

  Nick looked from the cart-shed to the barn. The latter was enormous, an ancient cow-house that was falling into disuse. Moonlight illumined its sagging roofline, its uneven row of pitching eyes on the upper storey, and its large wooden doors with their gaps and their warping. As the dogs sniffed round their shoes and as Maggie hugged herself against the cold and waited for him to lead her onward, Nick appeared to evaluate the possibilities and finally slogged through a heavier patch of muck towards the cart-shed.

  “Aren’t there people up there?” Maggie whispered, pointing to the quarters above it.

  “I s’pose. We’ll just have to be real quiet. It’ll be warmer in here. The barn’s too big and it’s facing the wind. Come on.”

  He led her beneath the stairway where the arched door gave entrance into the cart-shed. Inside, the light from above the labourer’s front door at the top of the stairs provided a meagre, match-strength illumination through the cart-shed’s single window. The dogs followed them, milling about what was apparently their sleeping quarters, for several chewed-up blankets lay in a corner on the stone floor and the dogs went there eventually, where they sniffed, pawed, and sank into the pungent wool.

  The cold outside seemed to magnify in the stone walls and floor of the shed. Maggie tried to comfort herself with the thought that it was just like where the baby Jesus was born—except there hadn’t been any dogs there as far as she could recall from her limited knowledge of Christmas stories—but odd squeakings and rustlings from the deep pockets of darkness in the corners of the shed made her uneasy.

  She could see that the shed was used for storage. There were big burlap sacks piled along one wall, dirty buckets, tools she couldn’t have named, a bicycle, a wooden rocking chair with its wicker seat missing, and a toilet lying on its side. Against the far wall stood a dusty chest of drawers, and Nick went to this. He shimmied open the top drawer and said, with some excitement in his voice, “Hey, look at this, Mag. We’ve had ourselves some luck.”

  She picked her way through the debris on the floor. Out of the drawer he was taking a blanket. And then another. They were both large and fluffy. They seemed perfectly clean. Nick shoved the drawer partially closed. The wood howled. The dogs lifted their heads. Maggie held her breath and listened for a betraying movement in the labourer’s quarters above them. Dimly, she could hear someone talking—a man, then a woman, followed by dramatic music and the sound of gunfire—but no one came in search of them.

  “The telly,” Nick said. “We’re safe.”

  He cleared a space on the floor, spread the first blanket down, doubling it up to serve as both cushion against the stones and insulation against the cold, and beckoned her to join him. The second he wrapped round them, saying, “This’ll work for now. Feel warmer, Mag?” and drew her close.

  She did feel warmer at once, although she fingered the blanket and smelled the fresh lavender scent of it with a twinge of doubt. She said, “Why do they keep their blankets out here? They’ll get messed up, won’t they? Won’t they get rotten or something?”

  “Who cares? It’s our luck and their loss, isn’t it? Here. Lie down. Nice, that, isn’t it? Warmer, Mag?”

  The rustlings along the wall seemed louder now that she was at the level of the floor. They also seemed accompanied by an occasional squeak. She burrowed closer to Nick and said, “What’s that noise, then?”

  “I said. The telly.”

  “I mean the other…that…there, did you hear it?”

  “Oh, that. Barn rats, I expect.”

  She flew up. “Rats! Nick, no! I can’t…please…I’m afraid of…Nick!”

  “Shh. They won’t bother you. Come on. Lie down.”

  “But rats! If they bite you, you die! And I—”

  “We’re bigger than they are. They’re lots more scared. They won’t even come out.”

  “But my hair…I read once where they like to collect hair to make up their nests.”

  “I’ll keep them away from you.” He urged her down next to him and lay on his side. “Use my arm for a pillow,” he said. “They won’t climb up my arm to get you. Jeez, Mag, you’re shaking. Here. Get close. You’ll be okay.”

  “We won’t stay here long?”

  “Just for a rest.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah. Promise. Come on. It’s cold.” He unzipped his bomber jacket and held it open. “Here. Double warmth.”

  With a fearful glance in the direction of the deepest pool of darkness where the barn rats skittered among the burlap sacks, she lowered herself onto the blanket, into the confines of Nick’s bomber jacket. She felt stiff with both the cold and her fear, uneasy with their proximity to people. The dogs hadn’t roused anyone, that was true, but if the farmer made a final round of the yard prior to going to bed, they’d likely be found.

  Nick kissed her head. “Okay?” he said. “It’s just for a while. Just for a rest.”

  “Okay.”

  She slipped her arms round him and let her body warm from his and from the blanket that covered them. She kept her thoughts away from the rats and instead pretended that they were in their very first flat together, she and Nick. It was their official first night, like a honeymoon. The room was small but the moonlight gleamed against the walls’ pretty rosebud paper. There were prints hanging on them, watercolours of frolicking dogs and cats, and Punkin lay at the foot of the bed.

  She moved closer to Nick. She was wearing a beautiful full-length gown of pale pink satin with lace on the straps and along the bodice. Her hair flowed round her, and perfume rose from the hollow of her throat and behind her ears and between her breasts. He was wearing dark blue pyjamas of silk, and she could feel his bones, his muscles, and the strength of him along the length of her body. He would want to do it, of course—he would always want to do it—and she would always want to do it as well. Because it was so close and so nice.

  “Mag,” Nick said, “lie still. Don’t.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m just getting closer. It’s cold. You said—”

  “We can’t. Not here. Okay?”

  She pressed against him. She could feel It in his trousers, despite his words. It was already hard. She slithered her hand between their bodies.

  “Mag!”

  “It’s nothing but warmness,” she whispered and rubbed It just the way he’d taught her.

  “Mag, I said no!” His answering whisper was fierce.

  “But you like it, don’t you?” She squeezed It, released It.

  “Mag! Get off!”

  She ran her hand Its length.

  “No! Damn! Mag, leave it be!”

  She recoiled when he knocked her hand away and felt quick tears come in answer. “I only…” She ached when she breathed. “It was nice, wasn’t it? I wanted to be nice.”

  In the dim light, he looked like something was hurting inside him. He said, “It is nice. You’re nice. But that makes me want to and we can’t right now. We can’t. Okay. Here. Lie down.”

  “I wanted to be close.”

  “We are close, Mag. Come on. Let me hold you.” He urged her back down. “It feels good just like this, lying here, you and me.”

  “I only wanted—”

  “Shh. It’s okay. It’s nothing.” He opened her coat and slipped his arm round her. “It’s nice just like this,” he whispered against her hair. He moved his hand to her back and began caressing the length of her spine.

  “But I only wanted—”

  “Shh. See. It’s just as nice like this, isn’t it? Just holding? Like this?” His fing
ers pressed in long, slow circles, stopping at the small of her back where they remained, a tender pressure that relaxed and relaxed and relaxed her completely. She finally slipped, protected and loved, into sleep.

  It was the dogs’ movement that awakened her. They were up, about, and dashing outside at the sound of a vehicle coming into the farmyard. By the time they were barking, she was sitting up, fully awake, aware that she was alone on the blanket. She clutched it to her and whispered, “Nick!” frantically. He materialised from the darkness by the window. The light from above was no longer shining. She had no idea how long she had slept.

  “Someone’s here,” he said unnecessarily.

  “Police?”

  “No.” He glanced back at the window. “I think it’s my dad.”

  “Your dad? But how—”

  “I don’t know. Come here. Be quiet.”

  They gathered up the blankets and crept to one side of the window. The dogs were sending up enough noise to announce the Second Coming and lights were snapping on outside.

  “Hey there! Enough!” someone shouted roughly. A few more barks and the dogs were silent. “What is it? Who’s there?”

  Footsteps sloshed across the yard. Conversation ensued. Maggie strained to hear it, but the voices were low. A woman said quietly, “Is it Frank?” at a distance and a child’s voice cried, “Mummy, I want to see.”

  Maggie pulled the blanket closer round her. She clutched on to Nick. “Where c’n we go? Nick, can we run?”

  “Just be quiet. He ought to…Damn.”

  “What?”

  But she heard it herself:

  “You don’t mind if I have a look round, do you?”

  “Not at all. Two of them, you said it was?”

  “A boy and a girl. They’d be wearing school uniforms. The boy might have had a bomber jacket on.”

  “Never saw a hair of anything like that. But go on and have a look. Let me get my boots on and I’ll join you. Need a torch?”

  “Got one, thanks.”

  Footsteps went in the direction of the barn. Maggie grabbed Nick’s jacket. “Let’s go, Nick. Now! We can run to the wall. We can hide in the pasture. We can—”

  “What about the dogs?”