by Liz Evans
No doubt you’re now thinking that that was my opportunity to do something heroic in the ‘with-one-bound-Jill-was-free’ mode. Fling myself forward and whip out his feet with a cunningly placed kick while I wrested the weapon from him, perhaps? Or distract his attention by throwing something to the opposite end of the barn while I sprinted through the doors, maybe?
Listen, that’s your fantasy. When I was in the police I saw the results of shotguns up close on two occasions. The first was a domestic argument. The woman’s loving other half had blasted her in the back as she tried to escape from the house. Luckily for her he had been too drunk to aim properly. The blast had glanced off her right shoulder and gouged out a large lump of flesh, muscle and sinew. I saw her again two years later - despite plastic surgery the area resembled a moon crater covered in puckered greyish skin. It looked ugly and it always would.
The second time it was self-inflicted. The victim had crouched on the floor by his kid’s cot and put both barrels in his mouth. They recovered some of his brain tissue from inside the lampshade hanging from the rose in the centre of the room.
So to sum up: if you want to rush a loaded shotgun - be my guest. Personally I intended to do everything Ned Kelly told me to, which in this case meant slipping the noose over one wrist and wrapping the rest of the thong several times round the corner post of one of the stalls.
He edged forward and grabbed the spare end from me. ‘Hand up,’ he growled.
I put it in the air. A rumble of annoyance behind his teeth told me I’d made the wrong choice. Swiftly I stuck it against the one that was already tethered. Right choice. The rest of the strap was whisked round in fast, competent movements, until the post and I were irrevocably joined until death or a deal did us part. I was rather hoping we could achieve the latter now I was safely trussed up and no threat to him anymore.
‘Listen, maybe we should try names? I’m Grace Smith. What should I call you?’ (Apart from raving, I added mentally.)
For a moment I thought I wasn’t going to get an answer. Then he mumbled: ‘You knows. You ain’t catching me that way.’
‘I’m not going to catch you any way like this, am I?’ I flexed the bonds and was pleased to discover that keeping my wrists side by side instead of crossing them had given me the play I’d hoped for. ‘I’ve got to call you something, haven’t I?’
‘No need. We got nothing to say. I ain’t coming with you. I can’t. I’ve got to look out for Madge, see?’
He had the old local accent I’d heard in the postmistress, with the ‘I’ve’ coming out as ‘Oi’ve’.
‘Hey, I certainly wouldn’t want to come between you and Madge. Er ... what does she call you?’
‘Atch.’ The barrels mercifully had been drooping nearer and nearer to the floor as we spoke. Now that I was no longer mesmerised by those two deadly tubes, I looked at their owner with more attention. He’d lost muscle and fat as he’d aged. In addition to the slight stoop, his clothes hung on his skin and his skin hung on his skeleton. In fact the only bit of him that didn’t seem to have shrunk with the years was his teeth. Whenever he spoke, I got the full glory of a mouthful of yellow paving slabs that would have looked at home in the plough-horse that ought to be in this stall instead of me.
‘Any chance of you getting Madge over here?’
‘What for?’
‘Just to get her side of the story. Maybe the three of us could work something out. How about you fetching her?’
A worried frown flickered over the weatherbeaten features. ‘I can’t find her. I been looking, but she ain’t nowhere.’
‘She might have gone to the village. St Biddy’s, you know? I could help you look, if you like.’
He shook his head; the thatch of white hair lifted for a moment, then resettled. ‘I can’t let you go. You’d take me away. I’ve seen you all looking for me. But I’m smart, see. I hid from your mates. They never caught me, not once.’
‘That’s great, Atch, but I think there’s been some kind of mix- up. As far as I know, none of my mates have ever been here. Must have been some other mates.’
‘You’re not from the same mob?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I’m the most antisocial person I know. I never join anything. Never volunteer, that’s my motto.’
Unexpectedly he chuckled. ‘Government got you too, did they? Didn’t know they was taking women. They’ll not take Madge, though - not in her condition, I don’t reckon.’
‘Definitely not. I’d say Madge was OK.’ I had absolutely no idea what he was babbling about, but agreement seemed the simplest option.
He beamed, and I felt quite pleased with myself. We were definitely making progress here. Another half an hour and we’d be exchanging holiday snaps. ‘You fancy a cuppa?’ he asked.
‘I sure do, Atch. Wouldn’t mind a biscuit too. Or a bit of cake. Good cook, is she, your Madge?’
‘Ahr. She’s a fine cook, my girl. We’ll do well here. We’re going to have pigs.’
‘That’ll be a nice change for the midwife.’
‘How’s that?’
He squinted from beneath the fringe fronds. I sensed I was losing him and quickly suggested I’d like to meet Madge.
‘I’ll go fetch her.’
He shuffled back towards the barn doors - taking his damn gun with him. I’d been rather hoping he’d untie me, but getting rid of him so I could work at the straps myself was the next best option.
It was slow going. A parallel bar between the two upright posts prevented me from heaving the strap up and over. The timber looked old and might have been rotten. It wasn’t.
I had a go at shoulder-charging the plank and then balancing on one foot and kicking with the other heel. All I achieved was a shorter temper and a bruise. My mouth was drying up; I sucked my thumb vigorously to work up some spittle, then licked and spat over my wrists.
I don’t know how long I worked at the damn things. Atch had a pretty mean style with knots, I discovered. The thongs had been twisted and secured in a way that prevented me from getting free but didn’t obstruct the blood flow in my hands. It was a neat trick. Maybe it was the sort of thing you learnt on a farm.
Every few minutes I stopped jiggling and listened hard. There was no sense yelling for help if the place was as deserted as it had been when I arrived; but the first hint of intelligent life out there and I intended to bawl my head off.
It was warm work. Sweat oozed out of my pores and stuck the singlet to my back and bust. All my spittle had gone and I could have murdered for that cup of tea.
I assumed Atch had wandered off into whatever dimension he cruised in, and forgotten all about the offer of refreshment, but he proved me wrong. I’d just got the strap halfway over rubbed- red knuckles, and was leaning back to give it one more heave and rip, when the door lock rattled warningly. I froze as the steel barrels nudged open the door and Atch shuffled in behind them, clutching a blue and white mug in the other hand.
‘Tea.’ He nodded. ‘Didn’t forget.’
‘You’re a hero,’ I said, trying to inject love, empathy and friendship for life into my voice. Please like me, I projected silently. Be my pal. And untie me, you stupid old idiot.
‘No, I’m ain’t.’ The barrels jerked up less than two inches from my stomach. ‘I don’t want to be no hero.’
‘OK. Fine. You’re the biggest yellowback this side of the Thames,’ I agreed hastily. ‘Can I have that tea then?’
He seemed to rediscover the mug attached to the end of his fingers. I’d hoped he’d untie me so that I could hold it myself. Instead he held it to my lips, but at least that meant he had to angle the gun barrels away from me.
I gulped the sweet liquid down greedily. ‘Any sign of Madge?’ I asked, when I finally came up for air.
‘I can’t find her. ’Spect she’s gone for the shopping. Ought to have told me first. She knows I worry.’ Setting down the mug on top of the post, he tested the leather straps. And discovered how far I’d got th
e left hand out.
I half expected him to turn nasty - I’d noticed in the past that those who tie you up have an unreasonable attitude to escape attempts. Atch, however, merely muttered under his breath, shuffled over to the far wall and picked up another length of what I reckoned had been some kind of horse’s rein at one time. It was three more loops, two twists and no chance of getting free this time, Grace.
‘Hey!’ I yelled at his disappearing back. ‘Where’s Harry Rouse?’
He paused briefly, one hand on the open door. The sun was behind him, so that all I could see was a featureless silhouette.
‘No one’s going to find Harry Rouse. I seen to that.’ He raised the gun in salute. The light caught both barrels and a shaft of white brilliance sprang from them like fire. They looked beautiful, and very, very deadly.
Suddenly I could hear Carter’s voice: ‘That’s Harry Rouse. ’S funny, Gran was saying just before you came that he hadn’t been in all week . . .’
6
It was a very long afternoon - which, when you consider the alternative, was better than a very short one.
My thoughts kept going back to Atch’s comment on Harry Rouse, like a tongue niggling at an aching tooth even though you know damn well every probe is going to make it worse.
I got flashes of the figure in Barbra’s photos lying somewhere inside the house with a large hole in his chest. Supposing he’d been shot soon after Barbra snapped him last week? In this weather he’d be smelling the place out by now, rather like that distinctly pungent whiff I’d caught near the farmhouse when I first arrived here, when I thought about it. I decided I’d rather not think about it, and concentrated instead on positive images like chocolate, sex and chips.
Finally, after what felt like several hours, I heard the sound I’d been praying for all afternoon: a human voice, shouting and whistling in an effort to attract someone’s attention.
Flinging back my head, I tried to join in. My first screech came out as a pathetic croak before I dissolved into coughs. Terrified my rescuer would end up captured - or shot - before he could get me out of this mess, I spat, breathed hard and YELLED.
I held my breath and listened hard. It wasn’t until the door fastening rattled that I was certain he’d heard me.
Because the light was behind him and my eyes had to adjust after the gloom of the barn, all I saw was height and leanness. He plainly had a better view of me, judging by the exclamation of: ‘Bloody hell. What’s happened?’
‘I was held up by a geriatric lunatic with a set of teeth he borrowed from a cart-horse, and a loaded shotgun.’
‘That’ll be Dad,’ Harry Rouse said, leaning over the top bar to test the leather bindings.
‘That’s it?’ Relief that he wasn’t decomposing somewhere, plus the imminence of rescue, was restoring my courage. ‘Just That’ll be Dad? Is that the best you can come up with?’
He’d taken a penknife from his jeans pocket and was sawing at the knots. With a crack, one parted from its thong and the rest of the straps fell away. ‘OK?’
‘Of course I’m not bloody well OK.’
He tried to help me up. I elbowed him aside and stood by myself, shaking and waving my arms to get the blood flowing properly again. He was a bit too flaming casual for my liking.
‘Does your dad make a habit of this? Or is it just a weekly thing since he can’t get out to the over-sixties’ bowls club?’
‘Sorry.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Look, come up the house, and I’ll fix up those wrists and some tea. Or something stronger, if you like. Please. Just give me a chance to explain.’
I hesitated. My first instinct was to put as much distance as possible between me and that gun. On the other hand, I was going to have to find out some more about Harry if I wanted to collect my fee from Barbra. And he seemed fairly confident his dad wasn’t about to start blazing away.
‘All right. I’ll have tea and what had better be a bloody good explanation if you don’t want the police up here in the next half an hour.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot, Miss ... er—’
‘Grace Smith.’
‘Harry Rouse.’ He offered a hand. I polished a palm on the seat of my combat pants before accepting it.
The bike was where I’d left it, propped outside the farmhouse, with the contents of the basket still intact, as far as I could see.
‘Wondered who it belonged to,’ Harry remarked, ushering me into a dark hall, its wooden floor protected by old strips of faded carpet that seemed to have been flung down randomly as the one underneath wore out. At least this bit looked like my mythical olde-worlde farm. So did the kitchen.
The assorted china displayed on the Welsh dresser had probably been in the family for a hundred years or so, judging by the worn patterns and cracked glaze. The kitchen table was solid wood, scarred by a hundred chopping knives and decorated by the shotgun balanced across one corner.
The sight of those barrels reminded my legs and stomach just how scared I’d been.
‘You OK?’ Harry turned as I grabbed a chair and sat down quickly. Following the direction of my gaze, he leant over, broke the gun and showed me the empty chambers. ‘It’s safe.’
‘It’s not safe,’ I snapped. ‘It’s a gun. You’re supposed to keep them secure, not hand them out to the odd passing psychotic parent.’
‘Dad must have found the key to the cabinet. I’ll move it. You don’t have to worry, though.’ Fishing inside his pocket again, he hauled out a bunch of keys and separated two small ones with his forefinger. ‘Ammunition box. I always keep it separate.’
‘Oh, great. You realise he wants locking up?’
‘Aye, I do,’ he agreed calmly, dropping tea bags into a pot and adding boiling water. It had heated so fast it was pretty obvious the kettle hadn’t been long switched off. The thought made me nervous again. I inched the chair around so I could keep an eye on the door. Who knew how many murderously inclined relatives Harry had?
‘He went off to look for someone called Madge,’ I said.
‘That’s my ma.’ Harry set two mugs of tea on the table, took half a bottle of whisky from the drawer and added an inch to each.
‘Is she around? Or has she popped over to the neighbours with some home-baked cookies and the chainsaw?’
‘She died when I was thirteen.’
Why does that always happen to me? Just when I’m in the right for once, I somehow end up in the wrong again. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, taking several quick mouthfuls of the brew.
‘It was a long time ago now.’ Like his dad and Carter’s gran, he had that slight trace of old local accent in his voice, that should have been West Country but wasn’t. Rummaging in a drawer, he drew out a lethal-looking knife and then produced a part-cut loaf from an old bread crock. ‘I’m having toast. Fancy some?’
‘Sure.’
He hacked off slices - thick at one end and transparently thin at the other - and set them under the grill before joining me at the table. Elbows resting on it as he cradled his mug, he said: ‘Dad has dementia. It’s been coming on for the past few years. But this last eighteen months, it’s just got ...’ He made a chopping motion with the side of his hand, indicating the end, I suppose.
‘And you leave guns where he can play with them?’
‘I don’t. I told you. I didn’t know he’d found the keys. As a rule, I’d not have left him, but I had to go out unexpected for a few hours. He was fast asleep when I went. I thought he’d be OK. He sleeps a lot now. Anyway, what else could I do? There’s no one else to do the minding.’
‘No other family?’
‘My wife walked out to live with a mortgage on a centrally heated semi ten years ago. There’s just me and the old man now.’
Snatching the toast from the griddle with bare fingers, he dropped it on plates and added an assortment of mismatched knives, a butter dish and a large pot of lemon curd. ‘Help yourself.’
I did, but the sight of more bread going under the grill and another
tea being served up was taking away my appetite.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he said, interpreting my expression correctly. ‘Take your cap off.’
I’d forgotten I had the thing on. But I whipped it off and shook out the locks, combing them down with my fingers. Harry hitched a brushed cotton man’s shirt from a peg on the back of the door. ‘Stick this on over your top and haul your chair up to the table a bit. Get those trousers out of sight.’
‘Why?’ I asked, shrugging myself into the shirt, which smelt - of Harry, I assumed.
‘Because you look like you’re in uniform - and army uniform at that.’ He added the new toast to the table and rasped butter thinly over the unevenly browned surface, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and sent a shrill whistle into orbit. ‘Ever heard of National Service?’
‘The compulsory conscription of male civilians into military service for a period between eighteen months and two years. It was finally scrapped in this country in nineteen sixty,’ I said promptly. (It had come up in a pub quiz last month, in case you were wondering.)
‘Right. Dad got called up just after he got Mum in the family way with me. Some blokes might have reckoned that was a lucky break, but not Dad. He was desperate to stay with her. She was barely seventeen and he thought they’d take her off to one of those homes for unmarried mums and make her give the baby up. They did that back then. Girls didn’t have no choice, according to Dad. It was keep quiet, read your Bible and sign the forms when they told you. So he goes on the run from the training camp, marries my mum and brings her back here to stay. Trouble was, by that time they’d started a war in Korea. Do you know about that war?’
‘I’ve seen M.A.S.H.’ I accepted the lemon curd pot from him and slapped a large dollop on my toast.
‘Right. So Dad starts thinking, what’s going to happen if he gets himself killed out there?’
