He'd reckoned without his dad, though. Ol Fielder had long been a man of peace.
As he was at this moment, with Billy in front of him, itching to get into it and looking for an opening.
He said, “Got to get to work, Bill. You'd do best to find yourself a job.”
“I had a job,” Billy told him. “Just like you. Just like my granddad and great-granddad as well.”
Ol shook his head. “That time's past, son.” He made a move towards the door.
Billy took him by the arm. “You,” Billy said to his father, “are a useless piece of shit,” and as Paul gave a strangled cry of protest, Billy snarled at him, “And you stay out of it, you wanking little twit.”
“I'm off to work, Bill,” their father said.
“You're off to nowhere. We're talking about this, we are. Right now. And you are looking at what you done.”
“Things change,” Ol Fielder said to his son.
“You let them change,” Billy said. “That was ours. Our work. Our money. Our business. Granddad left it to you. His dad built it up and he left it to him. But did you fight for it? Did you try to save it?”
“Had no grounds for saving it. You know that, Bill.”
“It was meant to be mine like it was yours. It was what I was s'posed to bloody do.”
“I'm sorry,” Ol said.
“Sorry?” Billy jerked his father's arm. “Sorry won't do shit. Won't change what is.”
“And what'll change that?” Ol Fielder asked. “Let go m' arm.”
“Why? You scared of a little pain? That why you didn't want to take them on? Scared you might've got messed with, Dad? Little bunged up, maybe? Little bruised?”
“I got work to go to, lad. Let me go. Don't push at this, Billy.”
“I'll push when I push. And you'll go when I say you c'n go. Right now we're talking this out.”
“No purpose to that. It is what it is.”
“Don't you say that!” Billy's voice rose. “Don't you sodding tell me. I worked the meat since I was ten years old. I learned the trade. I did it good. For all them years, Dad. Blood on my hands and on my clothes, the smell of it so strong that they called me Roadkill. You know that, Dad? But I di'n't mind 'cause it was a life. That's what I was building, a life. That stall was mine and now it's nothing and that's what I'm left with. You let it all get snatched away 'cause you di'n't want to get your hair mussed. So what've I got left? You tell me, Dad.”
“It happens, Bill.”
“Not to me!” Billy shouted. He released his father's arm and shoved him. He shoved him once, then twice, then a third time, and Ol Fielder did nothing to stop him. “Fight me, you fuck.” Billy cried with each shove. “Fight me. Fight me.”
On the bed Paul watched this through a blur. Dimly somewhere else in the house, he heard Taboo barking and voices going on. Telly, he thought. And, Where's Mum? Can't she hear? Won't she come to stop him?
Not that she could. Not that anyone could, now or ever. Billy had liked the violence of butchering, implied though it had been. He had liked the cleavers and the blows to the meat that severed flesh from bone or bone itself into pieces. That being gone from his life, he'd had an itch for months to feel the power once again of decimating something, of slicing it down till there was nothing left. It was all pent up inside him—this need to do harm—and he was about to gratify it.
“Won't fight with you, Billy,” Ol Fielder said as his son shoved him a final time. The backs of his legs were against the side of the bed, and he sank down onto it. “Won't fight you, son.”
“Too afraid you'd lose? Come on. Get up.” And Billy used the heel of his hand sharply against his father's shoulder. Ol Fielder winced. Billy grinned without humour. “Yeah. Tha's it. Have a taste of it now? Get up, you sod. Get up. Get up.”
Paul reached for his father, to pull him to a safety that didn't exist. Billy turned on him next. “You keep away, wanker. Out of this. Hear? We got business, him and me.” He grabbed his father's jaw and squeezed it, twisting his head to one side so Paul could clearly see his father's face. “Check this mug out,” Billy told him. “Pathetic worm. Won't fight no one.”
Taboo's barking got louder. Voices came near.
Bill brought his father's face back around. He pinched his nose and grabbed both of his ears. “Wha's it going to take?” he mocked him. “What makes you into a real man, Dad?”
Ol shoved his son's hands away from his head. “Enough!” His voice was loud.
“Already?” Billy laughed. “Dad, Dad. We're just starting up.”
“I said enough!” Ol Fielder shouted.
This was what Billy wanted and he danced away in delight. His hands made fists and he laughed, punching triumphantly at the air. He turned back to his father and mimicked the fancy footwork of a boxer. He said, “Where d'you want it, then? In here or outside?”
He advanced on the bed, throwing jabs and thrusts. But only one of them connected with their father's body—a blow to the temple—before the room seemed full of people. Blue-uniformed men came crashing through the door, followed by Mave Fielder carrying Paul's youngest sibling. Right behind her were the two middle boys, jam on their faces and toast in their hands.
Paul thought they'd come to separate his father and his oldest brother. Somehow someone had rung the police and they'd been nearby, so close as to be able to get here in record time. They would take care of matters and drag Billy away. They'd lock him up, and there'd be peace in the house at last.
But what happened was something far different. One said, “Paul Fielder?” to Billy. “You Paul Fielder?” as the other advanced on Paul's brother. That one said, “What's going on here, sir?” to Paul's father. “Is there some sort of trouble?”
Ol Fielder said no. No, there was no trouble here, just a family squabble that was being sorted out.
This your boy Paul, the constable wanted to know.
“They want our Paulie,” Mave Fielder said to her husband. “They won't say why, Ol.”
Billy crowed. “Caught you at last, you tosser,” he said to Paul. “Been making a real spectacle of yourself at the public loo? Warned you about hanging about down there, di'n't I?”
Paul quivered against the headboard of his bed. He saw that one of his younger brothers was holding on to Taboo's collar. The dog was continuing to bark, and one of the constables said, “Will you shut that thing up?”
“Got a gun?” Billy asked with a laugh.
“Bill!” Mave cried. Then, “Ol? Ol? What's this about?”
But, of course, Ol Fielder knew no more than anyone else.
Taboo continued to bark. He squirmed, trying to get away from Paul's youngest brother.
The constable ordered, “Do something about that bloody animal!”
Taboo just wanted to be released, Paul knew. He just wanted to reassure himself that Paul wasn't hurt.
The other constable said, “Here. Let me . . .” And he grabbed Taboo's collar to drag him away.
The dog bared his teeth. He snapped at him. The constable gave a cry and kicked him soundly. Paul flew off the bed to go to his dog, but Taboo ran yelping down the stairs.
Paul tried to follow, but he found himself held back. His mother was crying, “What's he done? What's he done?” as Billy laughed wildly. Paul's feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor, one of them accidentally kicking a constable's leg. That man grunted and his grip on Paul loosened. Which gave Paul time to grab his rucksack and make for the door.
“Stop him!” someone yelled.
It was a small matter to do so. The room was so crowded that there was nowhere to go and certainly no place to hide. In short order Paul was being marched down the stairs and out of the house.
He existed within a whirlwind of images and sounds from that moment forward. He could hear his mum continuing to ask what they wanted with her little Paulie, he could hear his dad saying, “Mave. Girl, try to be calm.” He could hear Billy laughing and, somewhere, Taboo barking, and outside he co
uld see the neighbours lined up. Above them, he could see the sky was blue for the first time in days, and against it the trees that edged the lumpy car park looked like impressions rendered in charcoal.
Before he knew what was happening to him, he was in the back of a police car with his rucksack clutched to his chest. His feet were cold and he looked down at them to realise he had on no shoes. He was still in his tattered bedroom slippers, and no one had thought to give him time to put on a jacket.
The car door slammed and the engine roared. Paul heard his mother continue her shouting. He screwed his head round as the car began to move. He watched his family fade away.
Then from round the side of the crowd, Taboo came running after them. He was barking furiously and his ears were flapping.
“Damn fool dog,” the constable who was driving murmured. “'F he doesn't go back home—”
“Not our problem,” the other said.
They pulled out of the Bouet into Pitronnerie Road. When they reached Le Grand Bouet and picked up speed, Taboo was still frantically running behind them.
Deborah and China had a bit of trouble finding Cynthia Moullin's home in La Corbière. They'd been told that it was commonly called the Shell House and that they wouldn't be able to miss it despite its being on a lane the approximate width of a bicycle tyre, which was itself the offshoot of another lane that wound between banks and hedges. It was on their third try when they finally saw a post box done up in oyster shells that they decided they might well have found the spot they were looking for. So Deborah pulled their car into the drive, which allowed them to note a vast wreckage of more shells in the garden.
“The house formerly known as Shell,” Deborah murmured. “No wonder we didn't see it at first.”
The place looked deserted: no other car in the drive, a closed-up barn, curtains drawn tight against diamond-paned windows. But as they climbed out of the car onto the shell-strewn driveway, they noted a young woman crouched at the far side of what was left of a fanciful garden. She embraced the top of a small shell-crusted concrete wishing well, with her blonde head resting upon its rim. She looked rather like a statue of Viola after the shipwreck, and she didn't move as Deborah and China approached her.
She did speak, however, saying, “Go away. I don't want to see you. I've phoned Gran and she says I can come to Alderney. She wants me there, and I mean to go.”
“Are you Cynthia Moullin?” Deborah asked the girl.
She raised her head, startled. She looked from China to Deborah as if attempting to make out who they were. Then she looked beyond them, perhaps to see if they were accompanied by anyone else. There being no one with them, her body slumped. Her face settled back to its expression of despair.
“I thought you were Dad,” she said dully, and lowered her head to the rim of the wishing well again. “I want to be dead.” She went back to clutching the sides of the well as if she could force her will upon her body.
“I know the feeling,” China said.
“No one knows the feeling,” Cynthia rejoined. “No one knows because it's mine. He's glad. He says, ‘You can go about your business now. The milk's been spilt and what's over is over.' But that's not how it is. He just thinks it's over. But it never will be. Not for me. I will never forget.”
“D'you mean you and Mr. Brouard being over?” Deborah asked her. “Because he's dead?”
The girl looked up again at the mention of Brouard. “Who are you?”
Deborah explained. On their drive from Le Grand Havre China had told her that she'd not heard a whisper about Guy Brouard and anyone called Cynthia Moullin while she herself had been at Le Reposoir. As far as she'd known, Anaïs Abbott was Guy Brouard's only lover. “They both sure acted like it,” China had said. So it was clear that this girl had been out of the picture prior to the Rivers' arrival on Guernsey. It remained to be seen why she was out of the picture and at whose instigation.
Cynthia's lips began trembling, curving downwards as Deborah introduced China and herself and laid out the reasons for their visit to the Shell House. By the time everything had been explained to her, the first tears were snaking down her cheeks. She did nothing to stop them. They dripped onto the grey sweatshirt she was wearing, marking it with miniature ovals of her grief.
“I wanted it,” she wept. “He wanted it, too. He never said and I never said but we both knew. He just looked at me this one time before we did it and I knew everything had changed between us. I could see it all in his face—what it would mean to him and everything—and I said to him, ‘Don't use anything.' And he smiled that smile which meant he knew what I was thinking and it was okay. It would've made everything easier in the end. It would've made it logical for us to get married.”
Deborah looked at China. China mouthed her reaction: wow. Deborah said to Cynthia, “You were engaged to Guy Brouard?”
“Would've been,” she said. “And now . . . Guy. Oh Guy.” She wept without embarrassment, like a little girl. “There's nothing left. If there'd been a baby, I'd've had something. But now he's truly, really dead and I can't bear it and I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He says, ‘Go on, now. Get on with your life. You're free to go about like before,' and he acts like he didn't pray for this to happen, like he didn't think I'd run off if I could and hide till I'd had the baby and it was too late for him to do anything to stop it. He talks about how it would've ruined my life, when my life's ruined now. And he's glad about that. He's glad. He's glad.” She threw her arms round the wishing well, weeping against its granular rim.
They definitely had their question answered, Deborah thought. There could hardly be a cloud in the sky of certainty about Cynthia Moullin's relationship with Guy Brouard. And the he that she hated had to be her father. Deborah couldn't imagine who else would have had the concerns she was attributing to the he she so despised.
She said, “Cynthia, may we help you into the house? It's cold out here and as you've only that sweatshirt . . .”
“No! I will never go back in there! I'll stay out here till I die. I want to.”
“I don't expect your dad's going to let that happen.”
“He wants it as much as I do,” she said. “‘Hand over the wheel,' he says to me. ‘You're not deserving of its protection, girl.' Like I was supposed to be hurt by that. Like I was supposed to get his meaning. He's saying ‘You're no daughter of mine,' and I'm supposed to hear that without his saying it. But I don't care a bloody whit, see. I do not care.”
Deborah looked at China in some confusion. China shrugged her own mystification. These were waters far too deep just to wade in. Obviously, some sort of life belt was needed.
“I'd already given it to Guy anyway,” Cynthia said. “Months ago. I told him to carry it with him always. It was stupid, I know. It wasn't anything but a stupid stone. But I told him it would keep him safe, and I expect he believed . . . because I told him . . . I told him . . .” Her sobbing renewed. “But it didn't, did it? It was only a bloody stupid stone.”
The girl was a fascinating mix of innocence, sensuality, naivete, and vulnerability. Deborah could see her appeal to a man who might want to educate her in the ways of the world, to protect her from it simultaneously, and to initiate her into some of its delights. Cynthia Moullin offered something of a full-service relationship, a definite temptation for a man with a need to maintain an aura of superiority at all times. In fact, Deborah could see herself in the younger girl before her: the person she might have been had she not struck out on her own in America for three years.
It was this realisation that prompted her to kneel by the girl and put her hand gently on the back of her neck. She said, “Cynthia, I'm terribly sorry for what you're going through. But please. Let us take you into the house. You want to die now, but you won't want that always. Believe me. I know it.”
“So do I,” China said. “Really, Cynthia. She's telling you the truth.”
The idea of sisterhood implied in their statements seemed to reach the girl. She all
owed herself to be helped to her feet and once upon them, she wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her sweatshirt and said pathetically, “Got to blow my nose.”
Deborah said, “There'll be something you can use in the house.”
Thus, they got her from the wishing well to the front door. She stiffened there, and for a moment Deborah thought she might not enter, but when Deborah called out a hello and asked if anyone was at home and no answer came, Cynthia became willing to go inside. There, she used a tea towel as a handkerchief. Afterwards, she wandered into the sitting room and curled into an old overstuffed chair, putting her head on its arm and pulling down a knitted blanket from its back to cover her.
“He said I'd have to have an abortion.” She spoke numbly now. “He said he'd keep me locked up till he knew if I'd need one. No way was he going to have me running off somewhere to have that bastard's bastard, he said. I said it wasn't going to be anyone's bastard because we'd marry long before it was born, and he went quite mad at that. ‘You'll stay till I see the blood,' he said. ‘As for Brouard, we'll see about him.' ” Cynthia's gaze was fixed on the wall opposite her chair, where a collection of family pictures hung. Central to them was a large shot of a seated man—presumably her dad—surrounded by three girls. He looked earnest and well-meaning. They looked serious and in need of fun. Cynthia said, “He couldn't see what I wanted. It didn't matter to him. And now there's nothing. If I at least had the baby from it all . . .”
“Believe me, I understand,” Deborah said.
“We were in love but he didn't get it. He said he seduced me but that's not how it was.”
“No,” Deborah said. “It doesn't happen like that, does it?”
“It doesn't. It didn't.” Cynthia crumpled the blanket in her fists and brought it up to her chin. “I could see that he liked me from the first and I liked him back. That's what it was. Just us liking each other. He talked to me. I talked to him. And he really saw me. I wasn't just there in the room for him, like a chair or something. I was real. He told me that himself. And it happened over time, the rest of it. But not one single thing that I wasn't ready for. Not one thing that I didn't want to happen. Then Dad found out. I don't know how. He ruined it for both of us. Made it ugly and foul. Made it sound like something Guy did for a laugh. Like he had a bet with someone that he could be my first and he needed the bedsheets to prove it.”
A Place of Hiding Page 53
