by Freer, Echo;
Cerys was only too keen to embark on an interlude of intrigue. Being a year older than Modesty, she had a mountain of coursework to finish over half-term and, after only the first day, was in danger of becoming one of her mother’s helpline clients. She squeezed her legs into her knee-high leather boots eagerly.
‘Are you going to be all right walking across the flats in those?’ Modesty asked, looking at the two- inch heels.
‘Aren’t we getting the bus?’ Cerys looked aghast at the thought of going on foot. ‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘Walking’s good exercise and it’ll keep you warm.’
The older girl tutted and grabbed her suede coat. Their friendship was based on the proximity of their houses and the social unacceptability of their fathers’ jobs, rather than any mutual interests and, although it pained Modesty to see her friend wearing leather and suede, she would never have criticised her for doing so.
Once outside, Cerys couldn’t wait to tell Modesty about her own little intrigue.
‘You’ll never guess who’s been texting me?’ she giggled as they set off across the flats, a wide area of common land that stretched from Manor Park to Leytonstone.
It was a cloudless evening and a full moon cast a silver ribbon of light across the duck pond opposite the cemetery gates. Frost had already begun to edge every blade of grass with pearly crystals that shimmered in the light breeze. Modesty pulled the zip of her parka higher to keep herself warm. Her mind was full of Oz, wondering what he’d meant by something weird going on.
‘Sorry,’ she said, distractedly. ‘What did you say?’
Cerys clutched her friend’s arm in excitement and repeated the question.
Modesty shrugged. How was she supposed to know who was texting Cerys? ‘Dunno. I’m not psychic, you know.’
‘Just guess,’ Cerys persisted, hopping from one foot to the other in a mixture of cold and anticipation.
‘Can’t you give me a clue?’
‘He’s well fit,’ Cerys purred.
Modesty felt a slightly sick feeling in her stomach. What if Cerys told her that it was Oz who’d been texting her? She feigned indifference. ‘I dunno - David Beckham?’
‘Better.’
‘I give in.’
‘Midge!’ Cerys squealed.
Modesty stopped and stared at her friend. ‘What, our Midge?’ Cerys nodded.
‘As in Colin, the coffin-maker, Midgely, Midge?’
Cerys could barely contain her excitement. ‘Yes!’
Modesty was lost for words; as much as she liked Midge, he was hardly the sharpest nail in the coffin. ‘What can I say? That’s, er, brilliant.’
Cerys’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’
Modesty was quick to salvage the situation. ‘No, I do - I really do. I think Midge is great. But he’s so much older than you.’
Her friend flapped her hand dismissively, relieved that that seemed to be her only objection. ‘Neh! He’s nineteen and I’m sixteen. It’s not an issue.’
‘So when did all this start?’
‘Oh, Moddy,’ Cerys continued, her tongue almost trailing on the floor, ‘it was a couple of weeks ago. I saw him at that old footballer’s funeral when he was pall bearing and talk about phwoar! He doesn’t half scrub up well when you see him in his livery.’
Modesty had to agree. Everyone who worked at de Mise’s was expected to double as drivers or pall-bearers when there was a funeral. The entire workforce wore a uniform of Edwardian tail-coats trimmed with velvet, over waistcoats and wing-collared shirts with cravats. Although Modesty had never really been turned on by men in uniform, she had to admit that even Stan the mechanic was worth a second look in his livery.
‘Cool. So are you going to go out with him, do you think?’
Cerys squeezed Modesty’s arm until it felt as though the blood had stopped flowing. ‘Dunno - he hasn’t actually asked me yet, so I was thinking about asking him.’ She looked to her friend, trying to gauge her reaction.
‘Go for it!’
‘Tonight,’ Cerys added.
‘Tonight?’ Modesty was annoyed.
‘I thought I could text him to come over to the circus and we could make it a foursome.’
Suddenly things were getting out of hand. ‘I’m meeting Oz because he wants some support over his gran’s death - we’re not going on a date.’
‘Yeah, right!’ Cerys jeered.
‘It’s true.’
‘It’s a line, Moddy - surely even you could work that out.’
Modesty felt her cheeks flush. She’d only seen Oz twice since Beattie’s death and the closest he’d come to intimating that he liked her had been that morning when he’d said he needed a friend. It hardly constituted a declaration of love, or even attraction.
‘Why would he do that? He doesn’t need an excuse; if he wanted to go out with me, he’d just ask.’ She knew she sounded defensive and realised that, deep down, she wanted to believe Cerys’s assessment of Oz’s motives but was scared to. There was an ease about her relationship with Oz that even four years’ separation had not diminished - yet she was frightened that, if she allowed herself even the tiniest glimmer of hope that he might be interested in her in any way other than friendship, she’d just be setting herself up for disappointment. ‘And anyway, he’s only down here for a couple of weeks.’
‘God, Moddy, a lot can happen in a couple of weeks!’
Modesty could feel herself getting panicky. ‘Let’s drop the subject,’ she said. But as the words left her lips, an awful thought struck her - wasn’t that just what she’d accused her parents of doing, changing the subject when things got uncomfortable? Great, her worst nightmare was coming true - she really was turning into her father’s mini-me.
They had reached the road and could see the big top a few hundred metres ahead. Cerys walked across so that she was standing beneath one of the sulphur streetlights and took out her mobile phone.
‘I’m just going to phone Midge to come over.’ Then, seeing her friend’s dropped shoulders and dejected expression, she stopped. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve lost a tenner and found a penny.’
Modesty shook her head. ‘I think I’m turning into my dad.’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘OK - Midge’s driving over here now,’ Cerys chirped. ‘I’ve said we’ll wait here and he can drive us the last little bit.’
Modesty rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly - you are something else, you know!’
Cerys grinned as she stamped her feet to keep them warm. ‘Well, just wait till I tell you what I’ve sorted out for Saturday night!’
‘What?’ Modesty asked, feeling flat again. There seemed little point in sorting out anything with Glenys on duty.
‘Get this, right - you know me and Mum are supposed to be coming over to stay at yours? Well, I’ve only gone and arranged with the woman who does the rota at the crisis service for Mum to do an overnighter on Saturday. That means eight till eight - straight through.’ Cerys grinned. ‘Course she doesn’t know yet. I’ve asked them to keep it shtumm at the centre till the last minute - just so she doesn’t get the chance to swap shifts.’
‘Oh my God, Cerys, you’re a star!’
‘I know. In fact, I think my genius deserves to be treated to a candy floss when we get to the circus.’
‘It’s pure refined sugar - very bad for you,’ Modesty teased.
‘Now you’re turning into your father!’
Midge picked up the girls and drove them the last few hundred metres to the circus. When they pulled up, Modesty was shocked to realise that she had underestimated the number of people that would be there. The three of them walked across the grass towards the enormous tent, making their way through the ring of caravan
s that circled the big top itself. Slightly apart from the others was a large stripy caravan with several queues of people in front of it.
‘That’s the ticket office,’ Modesty called over her shoulder. ‘He’s supposed to be meeting me there.’
A man on stilts strode by waving at the crowds and Modesty noticed a black armband round his yellow and red striped coat - a token of respect for Hywel the Human Cannonball. Sadly, that was one act that wouldn’t be performing that night. A young woman wearing only a scarlet satin costume, fish- net tights and goose-pimples walked in and out of the crowd selling programmes. Modesty began to worry that she wouldn’t be able to find Oz. She was nudged and bustled as she made her way through the families who were milling around buying tickets and toffee apples before the show. How would she ever find him in amongst all this?
‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ she said to Cerys, taking a shoulder charge from a boy she knew from school.
But Cerys held out her hands. ‘Er, hello! How am I supposed to recognise him? The last time I saw Oz Appleby he was a scrawny little kid who looked like he’d just escaped from a sanatorium.’
‘Believe me, no way does he look like that now. He’s absolutely gorge-’ She was stopped by someone grabbing her arm.
‘Hi,’ Oz said. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Once more Modesty felt that weird fluttering just below her navel and had to lower her eyes before she felt composed enough to make the introductions.
‘Nice to meet you, mate.’ Midge started to move away. ‘You two going in?’ he asked, nodding towards the ticket office.
Modesty looked round the site and, seeing the tiger cages behind the main tent, she shook her head. ‘Not if there’s animals.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, stepping forward into the queue to buy tickets.
‘We’ll leave you two to it, then, and see you back here when it’s finished - OK?’ Cerys gave Modesty a knowing wink before joining Midge in the queue.
‘Just run us through it one more time, son,’ Archie Bigg said wearily, walking in to the sitting room of his house and plonking the telephone handset back on its base.
Mickey lolled dejectedly on the Louis XV style settee while his girlfriend from hell stood glaring at him poisonously and Cynthia, Archie’s beloved daughter, knelt on the floor gazing up at her best friend with fawning adoration.
Archie went across to the bar in the corner and flicked a switch. A blue neon sign with the word bar flickered on above his head (just in case anyone was in any doubt) and he poured himself a large tot of single malt. Although it was still only early evening, it was already dark outside and the enormous patio doors reflected his image against the night. In summer you could see an outdoor swimming pool and, beyond Archie’s garden, the golf course. He had designed the house himself thirty years ago when he was fresh out of borstal and already a teenage prodigy in the underworld.
Unfortunately, a few years later, while Archie had been doing a five stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, his wife Crystal had decided to take advantage of their prime location and invest in golf lessons. She’d soon found her coach’s ability to drive a hole-in-one down the fairway infinitely more appealing than her husband’s ability to drive a hole through a bank vault.
She and Archie had stayed together just long enough to inflict Mickey and Cynthia on the world, then Crystal and the golf professional had run away to Florida leaving Archie with the children, and the children with annual trips to Disney World.
Archie took a sip of his whisky and pressed the remote control button for the electronic curtains to shut out the darkness. The recent phone call had left him subdued as he turned back to face his family in the sitting room.
‘You done good, son - don’t get me wrong, you done really good - but just tell us exactly what you did find.’
‘Nuffin’! I told you, Dad. It was full of stiffs.’
Harley Spinks folded her arms and paced the floor. ‘Course it was full of stiffs,’ she snarled. ‘What d’ya think you was gonna find in an undertaker’s, Mickey - a load of Tellytubbies doin’ the bleedin’ ‘okey cokey?’
‘Aw, leave it out, ‘Arl darl, you weren’t the one what ‘ad to go in there - it creeped me out.’
‘Creeped you out?’ she mimicked. ‘I’ll flamin’ well creep you out. We need to get that diamond and we need to get it before Flash goes into the oven-’
‘ ‘Arley, ‘Arley - please!’ Archie set down his tumbler with a bang. ‘The bloke’s only just drawn ‘is last and you’re talkin’ about ‘im like ‘e’s a lump of sirloin.’
‘When you’re dead, you’re dead, Arch. No point gettin’ all gooey about it. Now the stone gotta be on ‘im somewhere - we just got to find where.’
Archie shook his head sadly. ‘Listen - I told you, this is pointless. If Flash ‘ad tucked it under ‘is nails or ‘is tongue or some place like that, the pathologist would’ve found it.’
‘Well, if it ain’t on ‘is body, it must be in ‘is clothes,’ Harley suggested.
Again, Archie shook his head. ‘Gordon bleedin’ Bennett! ‘Ow many times do I ‘ave to go over this with you lot? Talk about never workin’ with children or animals...’
Harley Spinks turned her most smouldering glare on him. ‘I ain’t sure which category you’re puttin’ us in, Arch, but this might be a good time to remind you that I got a visitin’ order to see my old man comin’ up.’
Archie gritted his teeth and pulled back the corners of his mouth to form something that he hoped would pass as a smile. ‘Now, now, ‘Arley. Don’t lose your sense of ‘umour over all this.’
Harley narrowed her eyes, unmoved by his fake grin. ‘I ain’t got one.’
‘It’s true, Dad,’ Mickey interjected. ‘She don’t ‘ardly ever laugh at-’
‘Shut it, Mickey!’ Harley said matter-of-factly. ‘Now, Arch, you was sayin’?’
The older man cleared his throat. ‘I was sayin’ that if it ‘ad been in ‘is clothes, then forensics would ‘ave found it, wouldn’t they? Flash was a known face what died at the scene of a blag. They ain’t gonna let that go by without goin’ over ‘is stuff with a fine- tooth comb.’
Harley’s brow furrowed. She once more paced the floor. ‘You know what? I think you might be on to somefink, Arch.’
Archie downed the remainder of his drink and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So,’ he said, flopping down on the settee next to his son, ‘where does that leave us?’
‘Well, if you ain’t got it and Flash ain’t got it and we’ve said we can rule out the broker on account of ‘im being kosher, that leaves the Arab geezer and the old boy what pegged it.’
Archie shook his head. ‘The sheik was scared rigid. ‘E was like a rabbit in the bleedin’ ‘eadlights - didn’t move a muscle. I think ‘e’s out of the frame.’
Harley and Archie looked at each other. They’d been here before. ‘The old geezer!’ they said in unison and then turned their gaze on Mickey.
Several seconds later, Mickey grimaced. ‘Oh no! You ain’t gonna make me go back in there?’
‘Flamin’ ‘ell, Mickey, what you got down the back of your shirt, a backbone or a bleedin’ marshmallow?’
‘But won’t that dead-doctor geezer ‘ave done a post thingy on ‘im too?’ Mickey said, clutching at straws.
‘ ‘E will, son, ‘e will but as a decent gent with a dickey ticker, the pathologist ain’t likely to ‘ave ‘ad the old bill on ‘is back while ‘e was doin’ it. So you go back in there and ‘ave a shufti while ‘Arley, you find out where ‘is daughter lives and see what you can suss out there.’
At that point the phone rang and Cynthia leapt to her feet to answer it. She passed her father the receiver.
Archie looked irritated. ‘Who is it, babe?’ he mouthed.
‘Someone called Peggy?’ she replied.
&nb
sp; Archie looked uncomfortable. He snatched the receiver. ‘ ‘Ow many times ‘ave I told you not to ring me at ‘ome?’ he said as he left the room.
The three younger members of the group looked at each other in silence.
‘Peggy?’ Mickey asked in disbelief. ‘ ‘As Dad got a girlfriend?’
Cynthia shook her head. ‘If ‘e ‘as, she’s got a very deep voice.’
Harley slapped Mickey on the arm. ‘Forget about your old man, let’s splash some cash - where’re you gonna take me tonight?’
Mickey’s face lit up. ‘What about...’ he said eagerly, ‘...the circus?’
Harley stared at him with disdain. ‘Do I look like someone what gets off on watching men in tights prancing around in sawdust?’
‘I thought...’ he began.
‘Well, don’t think. Come on, you can take me and Cynth down the snooker ‘all.’ She cast a glance at her friend’s ruched skirt and fluffy slippers. ‘But put some decent clothes on, Cynth - them’s minging.’
Oz held out his bag of chips to Modesty. Even though the chances of either the potatoes or the oil being organic were pretty remote, she took one - simply on the grounds that Oz had offered. The two of them were sitting on a log on the edge of Wanstead Flats. The bright lights of the circus were ahead of them, close enough that the music and the drone of the generators were clearly discernible but not so close as to drown out conversation. The sickly smells of doughnuts and hot dogs merged with that of petrol fumes and animal dung, but at that moment Modesty thought it the most wonderful aromatic cocktail she’d ever smelled.
‘Something really strange is going on, Moddy, and I don’t understand it.’
‘Strange how?’ she asked, resisting the urge to comfort him in some way.
‘It’s my mum, she’s gone all psycho. She says she’s not going to Gran’s funeral on Friday.’
Modesty gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘Well, sometimes people find funerals very difficult and they decide they just want to remember their loved ones as they were.’
‘No, no!’ Oz said quickly. ‘It’s nothing like that. She was really up for it until earlier tonight and then she got a phone call on Gran’s landline. She went deathly white...’ He stopped. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
