I would not have burnt him though. Never. I struck a match and watched it burn, held it till the flame licked my fingertip – weird how it felt cool – and dropped it on the floor. We had to go. I lit another. We had made love. Doggo had made love to me. The flame flapped against the dirty floor and died. And made love to Sarah too.
We really had to go.
I made some tea. Soon as we’d had the tea I’d persuade him that we had to leave. There would be a way. We were two of a kind, Doggo and me, and belonged together, that was obvious. Of course it was. It would be the two of us, together on the run. Even running for our whole lives would be better than any other life I could imagine. Because now we were lovers and I could persuade him. I know I could have done.
I took the tea up. He was asleep again, his eyelids twitching in another dream. I bent down to kiss him but before I touched him with my lips there was a sudden blurt of Trumpet Voluntary. I jerked upright, sloshing the tea. He woke with a start. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘who’s that?’
‘Dunno,’ I said. My heart was going like a hammer. The Trumpet Voluntary went again and then there was a banging, a serious banging, and the sudden smash and splinter of the door. The dogs were going berserk down there. Doggo leapt up and pulled a pair of jeans on. His hair was wild and his cheek creased from the bed. He knew and I knew straightaway.
‘Run down and out the back,’ I said.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid.’
He sounded calm for someone about to be arrested. We could hear them getting in downstairs. He pulled me to him and hugged me hard. Our two hearts banged together like prisoners through walls and then he let me go. Feet were coming up the stairs.
‘Take dogs to my gran’s,’ he said.
‘Martin Wickerson? It’s the police, Martin. Are you there?’
‘OK,’ he shouted, ‘I’m coming down.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid.’
‘Write to me,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘I dunno.’ My mind jumped.
‘Martin?’
‘OK.’
‘Your gran’s.’
‘What?’
‘We’re coming up.’
‘I’m coming.’
He gave me a long wild look, a shrug, a miserable smile and went down ahead of me. There were four policemen. Two in uniform and two not. Four to catch one man. A man hunt, men hunting a man. And catching him. We all trooped down into the back room. Gordon wagged his tail when he saw Doggo and sat beside his feet. They handcuffed Doggo. They went through all the rigmarole they have to say. He looked small and shifty, his eyes cast down. Then they turned to me.
‘Name?’
‘Zita,’ I said.
‘Surname?’ The policeman had a dewdrop on his nose. He waited, pencil poised.
‘Innocent.’
Doggo turned his face away before it could explode.
The policeman raised an eyebrow. ‘Zita Inn-o-cent,’ he said, raising an eyebrow as he wrote it. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘Just a mate,’ Doggo said.
‘And what are you doing here – Zita?’
‘I’m Sarah’s friend. This is her house.’
‘Either of you know someone known as’–he squinted at his pad – ‘Lamb?’
‘No.’
‘Nah.’
‘Address, Zita? We’ll have to ask you to make a statement.’
I gave them the Harcourts’ address. It was what came into my head. Well they don’t know a Zita Innocent, do they?
‘Are you aware Mr Wickerson is an escaped criminal?’
‘He’s not,’ I said.
‘How well do you know Mr Wickerson, Zita?’
I shrugged.
‘How long have you known him?’
‘We just met,’ Doggo said.
Then they took him away.
‘I … I’ll see you,’ I said, as they led him out. Stars came in his eyes, and one trickled down his cheek. ‘I’ll wait for you. Yeah?’
Our eyes met. ‘Yeah,’ he mouthed and then he looked away.
‘We’ll certainly need your statement, miss,’ the policeman said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Bye, Martin,’ I said. ‘See you soon.’
He said nothing. That was OK. I could see he couldn’t speak. I followed them down the hall to the front door and watched them go off down the path. The rain had stopped. Doggo looked so small between the four policemen. He didn’t once look back at me.
They opened the back door of a police car and he climbed in. I watched the two cars drive away, listened to the engine sounds blending with all the sounds of the world out there till they had died away.
I bang-shut the door and then it’s only me. I listen to the shadow of the bang, the echo. My echo twitches on the floor in front of me. The house, Sarah’s house, settles round me, sighs. Not only me. There are the dogs. Gordon looks up at me and yaps, head cocked. What now?
I get my stuff. Some photo albums, some plastic ear-rings, a silver lamb. Doggo’s new coat, which he forgot. I put it on, though it’s still damp and the sleeves are much too long. I’ll wear it till I give it back. I fasten the dogs’ leads, pick up Doggo’s gran’s address. She’s alone too. I think she will be glad to see me, with her bad hips and her failing mind. She will be very glad.
Before I leave I build a fire. Boxes, a camp bed, ladders, deck chairs, magazines. Remembering what Doggo said about how to build a fire, leaving air space, piling on plenty of kindling before the heavier denser stuff. On the cellar floor I build a fire, which I could light before I leave. That would serve Sarah right.
I light a match, watch the wobble of the flame and blow it out. Because if the house burned down, the lighthouse room would be gone. And I don’t want that. Even though I’ll never see that room again, or be in it, I’ll want to, need to, know it’s there.
I step outside where the air is fresh and sweet after the rain. A bird sings, maybe thinking it is spring. I look at the wreck of the garden one last time. Out of the mud a skinny snowdrop droops. I wish Doggo had seen.
About the Author
Lesley Glaister (b. 1956) is a British novelist, playwright, and teacher of writing, currently working at the University of St Andrews. She is a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a member of the Society of Authors. Her first novel, Honour Thy Father, was published in 1990 and received both a Somerset Maugham Award and a Betty Trask Award. Glaister became known for her darkly humorous works and has been dubbed the Queen of Domestic Gothic. Glaister was named Yorkshire Author of the Year in 1998 for her novel Easy Peasy, which was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Award in 1998. Now You See Me was shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2002. Glaister lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with her husband, author Andrew Greig.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Lesley Glaister
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9417-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Now You See Me Page 25
