‘It’s all right, honestly. What about the brother, Roger?’
‘Oh, Roger. He used to be an artist, long ago. I’d stay out of his way, if I were you.’
‘I do,’ said Heidi. ‘Is it true their father burned their house down?’
‘I’m afraid so! Florian, that’s Mr Maylock senior, was a real “wild child” of the Sixties. A hopeless alcoholic by the end. Or so they say: it was before we came here.’ Mrs Healey hesitated. ‘You’ve noticed the steel door in the basement stairwell? Well, there used to be an underground passage. For smuggling, or something to do with the French Revolution; I don’t really know. It had to be blocked up after the fire, it’s very dangerous. Don’t try to explore anything like that, will you?’
‘I won’t.’
‘Heidi, I have to get on. This snow! I’ll pick you up in the van on sorting day, but I’m sure we’ll be in touch before that. And if there’s anything, give me a call, day or night—’
After lunch she ran to the village, her phone glowing in her pocket. The Inspector had come through. He needed a biometric signature for the travel warrant, and to hell with wet feet, Heidi could not wait. The Learning Centre hummed with activity. Primary kids buzzed in a classroom; a chorus of nursery voices could be heard, belting out ‘The Three Gos’. But Heidi’s nerves had vanished. She didn’t bat an eye when the man behind the Reception desk looked at her curiously. She just said Hi, and walked right into the Access Booth.
This time a woman’s avatar came into the virtual room, and sat beside the Inspector at the blue table. She explained who she was; what a transient biometric scan was; that it was completely harmless and would be destroyed after use. Heidi pretended to look at the terms and conditions: gave her consent and the scan was taken. Nobody waved a wand around, she didn’t walk through a gate: she didn’t have to move from where she was. Weird to think that this was such a big deal at home, and people were outraged and terrified—
It depends what you need, she thought. If you need it, you’ll put up with anything.
‘Funny you ended up in Mehilhoc,’ remarked the Inspector, as they waited for the confirmation. ‘It’s a special sort of place, I hear. What d’you make of the set-up?’
‘It seems like a bit of a rich hippies’ private manor,’ said Heidi, shrugging. ‘They rule the roost, but they share the wealth and all that, so I suppose it’s fine.’
‘Mm, I see. How does this “sharing the wealth” work?’
“Oh, I dunno. Just, they organise stuff, and look after their own, I suppose.’
‘Interesting.’
In the crisp afternoon she ran joyfully uphill, and made another attempt to reach the towering Sequoia. Again it managed to vanish, so she ran to the knoll at the end of the ridge instead, to visit The Magic Vistas Panorama. The views of the Gardens weren’t much: too many wind-sown young trees had sprung up. She could barely make out the roof and chimneys of the Garden House; gingerbread gables like surprised eyebrows. One of the high windows must be her own. She felt like waving to the Bad Dream Cat: but she couldn’t quite figure out which. And there was the Sequoia, of course. She liked the sound of that word, the way it flowed: se-quoi-a. But you couldn’t put it in a poem, unless you had a good reason. It was too different. I won’t chase you anymore, she thought. One day I’ll just find you, and something marvellous will happen—
The best vistas were far off in the distance: the dark river winding through snow; the village of Mehilhoc all tiny, and the white-iced spurs of cliff-tops that must hide the sea. A spiky blot on one of the spurs puzzled her. It looked as if the villagers had been building a monster bonfire. Maybe they have human sacrifices, she thought. Maybe Gorgeous George has to slice up a maiden with a golden knife every Beltane, to make the crops grow.
If Brooklyn’s mum is going be nearly crying, and telling me she’s so sorry, a hundred times a minute, whenever she sees me, I just hope I don’t have meet her very often.
I am a stranger in a place
Of horror and secrets
Sequoia is my guardian
From the grey-eyed prince’s knife. . .
Rubbish. Grey-eyed prince, bleggh. Get out of my head, Gorgeous George! She was going to see Mum, and that made everything okay. Common sense whispered in her ear: the police never do you a favour for nothing, what does he want? But she didn’t care.
The sun had gone in. She ran again, until she spotted the Painted Dragon: first time since the day she found the Door in the Wall. Her feet couldn’t get more cold or wet, and she had time to spare, so she decided to check it out. She scrambled through undergrowth, down to the wall under that roof, and followed it through snowy thickets to the front of an enclosure. It genuinely was a dragon, not a weird-shaped branch. It pranced along a tiled roof, glaring at her. The tiles were green; except where they’d vanished. She’d found another Temple, like the Temple of the Dead Cats, but Chinese-style. A shallow flight of steps, white and spotless, led up to a gateless gate.
The snow had melted, or been blown away, from the courtyard inside. She crossed it, looked into a dark doorway, and immediately saw the boy called Clancy sitting on a stone platform: watching her from under his hood.
‘Hallo, Hooded Boy,’ said Heidi. ‘You must have heard me crashing about.’
‘I did. I’ve seen you passing before, on your flying way. Is that what you do, in the real world? You’re a teen athletics star?’
‘Nothing like. I never ran except for a bus, until I came here. I don’t know why I started, but it’s good exercise Are you living in here?’
She could see a drab-coloured one-man tent behind him; the kind you inflate.
‘Should I have asked your permission?’
‘Not me, my owners. I wouldn’t bother. Isn’t it too cold to sleep out?’
‘Nah. My bivvy’s a Five Season, and I can have a fire in here if I’m careful.’
‘You swept away the snow in the courtyard so you wouldn’t leave footprints, I get it. How do you manage the steps?’
The hooded boy shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I like being left alone. Got some issues.’
Heidi nodded politely. She thought she knew what was on the form he’d shown to Tanya, and she was not impressed. Mental Health Issues: it had to be, from that special look Tanya gave him. The Hooded Boy had a toff’s accent. His family must have fixed it, which Heidi thought was completely stupid. How could a few years of farm work be worse than having MHI on your file for life? But it wasn’t her business.
‘Okay then. I’ll be off.’
‘No, stay: you’re all right. What’s it like, being Indentured?’
Heidi sat cross-legged on the pavement. ‘Not bad. I have a roof over my head. Flush toilet, hot water a few flights of stairs away; three meals a day. It’s a weird deal though. The Gardens all gone to ruin, when you’d think they’d be in Food Production. And Tallis and Roger, my owners, are pretty strange. They’re not really old, or helpless, but they dress like beggars, never go out, never get calls. Except Brooklyn’s mum turned up today—’
‘Brooklyn is the very thin girl with the hat?’
‘Yeah. I thought she was anorexic but it’s heart. Her mum delivers supplies. She said she was going to explain everything. She didn’t, but I think I’m getting the idea. It’s Roger, the brother. I’ve a feeling he’s been in trouble. I think he might be on a long-term tag.’
‘You’re living with a dangerous criminal. Terrific.’
Heidi was trying not to worry about the face that had looked into her room. What was the point? There was nothing she could do. Verruca had given her fair warning: she’d get no protection from Angel Care.
She shrugged. ‘I’m not bothered. Tallis keeps him out of my way. She’s supposed to have moderate vascular dementia, but I don’t know. She’s not like a normal confused person. She doesn’t repeat herself, she’s sharp as often as she’s crazy and she doesn’t move or act the way people with dementia do. You know: that where am I look—’
> ‘What do you mean , normal? Dementia isn’t normal.’
‘Well, not now. But the Elders we’re assigned are likely to be too old to have benefited from the treatments, so if they do have dementia, they’re stuck with it. That’s why everyone gets taught about it, in Sharing the Care One. You must have done Sharing the Care One? ’
‘Nah, I’m faking it. What’s it to you? My old dear’s definitely demented. She doesn’t even know her own name.’
‘Does she have family?’
‘A daughter who disappeared in the Occupation, with her husband and kids. And a son who’s not interested. No contact, it says on the form.’
‘Try talking about the past. Get her to look at old photos. Normal dementia can’t attack old memories, only stops you forming new ones. She probably remembers lots of things.’
‘I’ll make a point of asking her. The first mobile phones, the kind you had to pull after you on a cart. The Cuban Missiles.’
‘The Vietnam War. The Birth of the Internet.’
Clancy smiled under the hood, and shook his head. ‘Wild. What about that time in the Crisis, when there was no internet and no phones for years?’
‘I don’t remember, I was too young . . . I think my mum and dad kind of liked it.’
‘What about the Occupation. D’you remember that at all?’
Heidi shook her head. ‘Nah. Except it was horrible, and Mum and Dad were glad when the Chinese invaded us, whatever anyone says.’
‘Yeah, same here. Living under Chinese Rule is a disgrace, but it’s a sight better than the alternative. D’you think modern civilisation is ever going to come back?’
‘I don’t care if it does or not.’ said Heidi. ‘My mum didn’t kill my dad, and I have to prove it. That’s all I worry about.’
‘Right I don’t care, either. I just want to be free.’
‘Ha. You wish. Are birds free from the chains of the skyways? ’
‘Bob Dylan. I like Dylan. But only the early stuff. Nothing after Blood On The Tracks.’
‘I disagree,’ said Heidi. ‘There’s duds, but there’s a lot of good stuff in his later work.’
The stone floor’s cold claws were climbing painfully up her backbone, and she’d lost all feeling in her feet. ‘I’ve got to move. I was sweating, I’ll catch a chill.’ She stood up.
‘Okay. See you around, on your flying path.’
‘If you stay here, you probably will.’
He grinned. ‘The Hooded Boy and the Running Girl. Drop by again.’
As she headed for the Garden House, the promise that she would see her mum like central heating in her heart, she wondered why she hadn’t offered to sneak the Hooded Boy a few stockpiled groceries. The Wrecks would never miss stuff. She hadn’t offered, because he hadn’t wanted her to offer any help: and this earned her respect. Clancy was someone who could control what was said to him; control how close anyone approached him. He had his own personal force field.
8: Sharing The Care
Dr Gunn was a retired Civil Servant. She lived alone except for Evie, her guide dog, in a picture-book cottage on Church Lane, next to St Mary’s churchyard. Her dad had been the vicar. She’d been an important person in Mehilhoc when George was a little kid; although she’d seemed ancient even then. He’d thought she was in charge of everything, the way everyone deferred to her; even his mum and dad. Tall and stern, she’d bend down from her height and peer at him through her glasses, the green stone in the brooch she always wore flashing like a magic sign of power. As if she knew every naughty thing he’d ever done.
He was in no danger, as he looked through her possessions. The green brooch wasn’t going to swoop down on him. Given the choice of Elders available, he’d struck lucky. Dr Gunn wasn’t senile. There weren’t going to be any old-person ‘accidents’ for George to deal with. She had a daily cleaner, a man to do her garden, and she wasn’t even house-bound. She could still be seen striding along with Evie, taking her daily walk along Sea Lane and round the harbour. All George had to do was turn up, and make a sandwich.
And never miss a visit, as his dad would have his hide if he didn’t play the game.
Her bedroom smelled of antiseptic cream, essence of old age. There were strange old hats in boxes on top of the wardrobe, a suitcase full of papers under the bed. Drawers stacked with old lady underwear, in exactly squared off layers: no hidden treasures between the folds. How did she keep things so neat when she couldn’t see? Warning bells rang. If she knows where everything is, she’ll notice if anything’s gone—
Downstairs he had no chance. Everything was on display, getting dusted daily by the cleaner. Her bedroom was equally as bad: frozen and spotless. Stepping softly, he tried the spare room. This looked more promising. An empty-room smell. Oil-paint portraits on the dark green wallpaper. Photographs in silver frames, heavy candlesticks, a bowl of old brown rose petals, a gold locket decorated with pink-cheeked miniatures—
Under George’s wandering feet Angela Gunn sat with Evie in reach of her hand; the sunlight from the snowy garden streaming over her right shoulder. A bulky braille New Testament lay open on her lap. She was a fluent braille reader: she found the old-fashioned practice restful. She was also blessed with acute hearing, highly accurate powers of mental visualization, a retentive memory and nerves of steel: traits that had been useful in her long career; not all of it spent behind a desk. The visitor sat to her left, in an armchair that had been her father’s; where she could see him in her surviving peripheral vision.
His official ID spoke to her fingertips from the braille page, in fleeting impulses, but the ‘warrant’ was unnecessary. She knew this man of old. She knew why he was here, and his presence chilled her to the bone —although she was almost too old to fear death; and although it was she herself who had raised the alarm.
‘How long have we known each other, Angela?’
‘Hm. Twelve, maybe thirteen years, Minister.’
‘Nah. Tha’s not me. Not for a long time now.’
‘Minister will do,’ she said firmly.
They listened together to George’s stealthy footsteps.
‘What’s he doing up there?’
‘Looking for small objects to steal,’ said Dr Gunn coolly. ‘Or cash. Which is useless in Mehilhoc but I keep a reserve, just in case. He’s a troubled boy, has been for a long time. Don’t worry, his mother returns everything. But he may come down at any moment.’
‘He won’t see me,’ said the visitor. ‘I’m not here.’
‘I believe you.’
‘You weren’t living in Mehilhoc when I first worked with you.’
‘No, but I visited as often as possible. After my father died I used the cottage as a weekend retreat. I came back for good during the Occupation. I have stayed here ever since, keeping George Carron-Knowells under observation; and Portia. I have known Portia all her life.’
‘Carron. You think we can nail him this time?’
‘Yes Minister,’ said Dr Gunn. ‘I think we can, and I think we must. But the circumstances are alarming, and the consequences—’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t like to think of them.’
‘Ooh, I carn’t see there’s going to be any consequences. An’ if there even was, it won’t be your problem. We’ll make sure of that. Just tell me what you have to report.’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Dr Gunn carefully. ‘No evidence, none whatsoever.’
‘But someone might take a second look. No harm in that.’
No harm, yet Dr Gunn’s old hands took a firmer hold on the holy book that had summoned her saviour. She steadied herself, smiling at her own irreverent joke, and the footsteps overhead moved softly.
‘Anyone you plan to tell about me not being here?’
‘The old gormless, tactless question trick. Certainly not, Minister. I’m old, and tend to cling to my good name. Bear in mind that one can barely move in Mehilhoc without running into George Carron and Portia Knowells’ philanthropy.’
Th
ey sat in silence. Dr Gunn knew that trick too, but she spoke her mind anyway.
‘I suppose this is what we fought for, you and I and many others. The Big Austerity. The whole world pulling together to save the future. But here you are, Minister, errand boy for a foreign power, here I am reporting that in the most deadly danger imaginable, I can’t trust my neighbours; and there’s still no light at the end of the tunnel, is there?’
‘I’m not her errand boy, an’ yes, there is.’
‘So you must say. Do you believe it?’
Evie the champagne Labrador looked up, and beat her tail placidly on the rug. George came into the front room, with a self-conscious grin he tried to smother, although he knew she couldn’t see it. Dr Gunn continued to read her Testament.
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Huh—?’
‘You were looking for odd jobs that needed to be done.’
‘You need a new washer on one of the bath taps.’ George plonked himself in the vicar’s armchair and seized the Mehilhoc Times with a rustling flourish: a four-sheet bulletin written, edited, printed and distributed by Brook’s dad, Tim Healey. ‘I’ll read you the paper.’
He launched, in a loud, toneless drone, into the front page article.
‘The retooling of the Old Cement Works, for My-Kel-eeuum —I can’t even say it— production, without inquiry or consultation, brings unknown environmental hazards. Blah, blah. Shall I go on?’
‘Mycelium,’ said Dr Gunn. ‘The vegetative part of a fungus, a valuable and versatile natural fibre. No, thank you George. Perhaps I should read to you.’
George shook his head, and stopped himself. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Such a shame, thought Angela, remembering a golden-curled, sturdy little child, swinging along, holding his mother’s hand, beaming up at his daddy: so proud to be their little boy. Children have such hopes of their parents.
‘Did you like your sandwich?’
‘I did indeed.’ Evie had enjoyed the ungainly confection, but Dr Gunn had appreciated the gesture. ‘I know what you can do for me in future, George. You can work in the garden, under Mr Moss’s direction. I’ll make sure he’s here next time you visit.’
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