The boy swung round and snatched the briefcase out of the trolley. Cars were still cutting off his escape. He held up the briefcase, and Jack's innards twinged as he realised that the boy meant to fling it into the traffic. "Do that and I'll kill you," he warned, stumbling to a halt in the middle of the island.
His intention was to give the boy a chance to drop the briefcase without feeling threatened, but the girl grabbed the trolley and pushed it towards Jack with all her strength. It stopped yards short of him, slowed down by the grass. He had already sidestepped, and now he ran at the boy. "Bastard," the boy yelled, hurling the briefcase across the island, and fled onto the road.
The briefcase landed at the very edge of the grass and sprang open. The blow lamp rolled out onto the island. The children dashed across the road, dodging cars, and began to shout at Jack upon reaching the verge. Their insults grew fiercer as they put more distance between him and themselves, but Jack was scarcely aware of them. So long as he ignored them, he felt, they couldn't draw attention to him. He replaced the blow lamp quickly in the briefcase and stood up. Once the traffic permitted he strode off the island and onto the parched verge. He was halfway to the van when he saw that someone was waiting for him.
The man was leaning on a baseball bat, a pose which, like his bright red singlet, seemed designed to show off the muscles of his hairy arms. Jack bore down on him without breaking his stride. He was the Count now that he had his case back.
The man straightened up as much as he could without lifting the bat from the tarmac and thrust his flattened mottled face, whose most prominent feature was its dislocated nose, at him. "What were you doing with them kids?"
"The absolute minimum, considering."
The man made a face that squashed his top lip under his nose. "Less of the fancy language, bud. What were you after?"
Jack held it up. "My case."
The man considered it and the answer at length, then allowed his lips to sag. "You'll be wanting to report it, then."
"No point. I didn't see their faces."
Perhaps he should have asked the way to the police station, because the man looked laboriously suspicious. "What were you doing stopped round here?"
"Trying to find my way, and I wouldn't object to some help."
"You wouldn't, wouldn't you?"
"If I can find something called the Concourse," Jack said as though his patience was almost exhausted, "I'll know where I am."
The man started to knock on the roadway with the tip of the baseball bat, until Jack wondered if he could be signalling to another vigilante. The gesture was apparently an aid to thought, however. Eventually the man lifted the bat and pointed with it towards the roundabout from which Jack had retrieved the briefcase. "Across there and the next one. And the one after it, and you'll see the caterpillar."
The last Jack saw of the man was a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of him poking the grass verge with the bat as though he regretted having put it to so little use during the encounter. Then the roundabout swung him out of the mirror and there was only tarmac and grass. The road sloped upwards for no particular reason and down again to the next roundabout, where a sign directed Jack to the town centre. A one-way system wandered around the Concourse, a large windowless box containing all the shops. On its roof there did indeed stand a giant bespectacled caterpillar. Jack left the van in the car park over which the caterpillar kept watch and made straight for his destination, across the one-way road.
All the street names were grouped in alphabetical order as if they might have been invented and then placed by a computer. On one side of the road were Flamstead, Flaxton, Flimby and Flordon, on the other were Harsnips and Hartshead and Hawksclough. Fomble should be just around the bend, and there it was, opposite Hazingly. The clairvoyant's was the end house, which had sprouted a lanky stained-glass porch to distinguish it from the rest of the chocolate terrace. Before Jack could ring the bell a woman stepped into the porch, colours spilling down her ankle-length white dress as if she had just upset half a dozen pots of paint over herself. "I sensed you were near," she said. "Mr. Onze."
"Who else."
Her wide face looked tautened by earnestness and by the rainbow hair band from which her red hair flowed over her shoulders. "Come in, dear, so we can keep the heat out," she said.
The narrow hall smelled of incense and a fried breakfast. Framed photographs of figures outlined by flaring colours hung on the staircase wall. Ursa Gemini ushered Jack into the first room, which was darkened by curtains embroidered with silver crescent moons and pentagram stars. One corner of the small room was occupied by shelves of books in shabby jackets Nostradamus, Strieber, von Daniken, Vogh and much of the rest of the wall space was concealed by greenery in pots. "Sit at the table, dear," the clairvoyant said like an aunt having a child to tea.
The top of the round table which occupied the centre of the room was covered in green baize. This, and the Tarot pack that lay on it, suggested to Jack that they were about to play a game which the Count would win. The large white globe dangling above it imparted a glow to the baize while keeping the rest of the room dim. Jack took his place on one of the twin straight chairs as Ursa Gemini faced him across the table. "You've an unusual name, dear. Where are you from?"
As Jack met her green-eyed gaze she held up one hand glittering with rings. "Don't tell me. Have you something to do with water?"
"Not directly."
"I see you near water, and the letter could it be N or M?"
"I'm sure it could be."
"Could I be seeing a river, dear?"
"If you say so."
"I see you by the river. Would that have an M in it?"
"Among many other things."
The clairvoyant waved her ringed fingers at him. "Try and help me a little, dear, so that we can establish a rapport. You live near the river, don't you? The Mersey, I believe."
"True so far."
"And the name of the place, dear, would that be the N?"
"Good heavens."
"I nearly see it, but it won't come clear. Is it quite a long word?"
"Even longer."
"Yes, of course, two words. It's by the Mersey, isn't it? New Brighton, am I right, dear?"
"Amazing. However do you do it?"
"We all of us have the gift, dear. It's a question of putting your faith in it and making it work for you." She sat forwards, brushing the Tarot pack aside, and took his hands. Hers were soft with plumpness, but their skin was rough. "Now, dear, tell me how I can help you," she said.
"I wanted to tell you that over the phone, if you remember. You don't think you could say now without my having to."
"I'll do my best if that's what you want, dear," she said like the aunt indulging the child. "I never ask anyone to pay unless they believe in me."
She grasped his hands more firmly and closed her eyes. After a while she said "I get the impression you're concerned about someone besides yourself."
"I think you could safely say that."
"I feel it may have to do with how you make a living."
"That may be the case in a manner of speaking."
Her hands had grown absolutely still, and Jack sensed her trying to read any movements of his, but he let them go limp. "I see danger," she said. "Do you make your living by taking risks, Mr. Onze?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
She appeared to be listening intently, but Jack thought that was only to him. "I still get danger," she insisted. "Has it to do with protecting other people, what you do?"
"Yes indeed."
"Are you worried about someone at the moment, dear?"
"Come to think," Jack said with surprise, "I suppose I am."
"Someone close to you?"
"Couldn't possibly be closer."
"I feel it's a woman."
"Right in one."
"It must be your wife."
"Even closer than my wife just now."
Her hands shifted uneasily, then she opened her
eyes. "You could try to help me a little, dear. I'm beginning to wonder if you're really here for a reading."
"Why else do you think I would be?"
"I'm not sure I care to know." She gazed at him and flexed her fingers. "Do you want to hear the truth?"
"I'm counting on it."
"I don't believe Bernard Onze is your real name."
"I can't quite see a birth certificate saying Ursa Gemini."
She let go of Jack's hands and pushed them away. "If you came to try and discredit me, dear, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. I've no time for anyone who wants to destroy other people's beliefs because he's no faith of his own."
Before she could stand up, Jack closed his hands around her wrists. "Let go of me, dear," she said, loudly enough to be preparing to cry for help.
"I want you to feel that I'm telling the truth. Don't make me let go until we've reached an understanding." He tightened his grip, gently but firmly enough that she would bruise herself if she tried to break free. "I don't know why you should feel discredited. You were closer to the truth than you seem to think."
Her hands were flattening themselves under his as though they were doing their best to be inconspicuous. "You said everyone can see the future if they work at it," he said. "Let me tell you what I see for you."
He felt the pulsing of her veins, her tendons growing tense. "If you keep up your correspondence," he said, "all will be well."
He thought she might be impressed by his being specific so quickly, but she looked resentful. "Who with?" she demanded. "What about?"
"With thirteen people, and you didn't need to compose a single letter."
She stared at him, and her hair band shifted as a ripple passed through her forehead. "I don't hold with such things, dear. They're superstition. If that's all—"
"If you believe in what you do you must believe in them. They work."
Something froze her: his gaze, or his hands on her wrists, or the tone of his voice. "You must be able to sense if I'm telling the truth," he said. "Am I trying to deceive you in any way?"
She seemed to have some difficulty in moving her lips. She belched suddenly, and her right hand twitched as if she wanted to cover her mouth. Eventually she whispered "No."
"Have you kept the letter you received?"
"No," she said in a small high pleading voice.
"If you were to get another, would you do as it says?"
Her voice was shrinking as though it was trying to hide. "Yes."
"If you don't I can't see any future for you at all, just a blank. You're certain?"
"I've said."
Her tone was edging closer to resentment. Jack let go of her wrists but kept his eyes fixed on hers while he reached for the briefcase on the floor. He didn't need to glance away in order to find her letter on top of the remaining wad. He slid the letter across the table and waited for her to look.
Her face tightened as she saw the envelope. When she raised her eyes he could see that she was disappointed and perhaps rebellious. She must feel tricked. "I told you I was worried for you, and I am," the Count said. "Whatever you do, don't go back on your word. I've seen the consequences, and you wouldn't like them."
He was willing her to believe him. She had almost used up her chance. He watched as she took hold of the envelope with both hands. "Don't tear it," he heard someone murmur under his tingling scalp.
When she stood up, pushing the envelope into the hip pocket of her dress, he covered his mouth to quieten a breath of relief. "Does this count as a reading?" he said, reaching past the clown's head in his pocket for a sheaf of banknotes.
"You don't owe me anything," she said loudly and clearly, reasserting herself. She hurried to the curtains and shoved them open, brightening the jungle of the room. She waited until Jack preceded her into the hall and opened the door to the porch, where slivers of glass flared up like jagged flames to meet him. As soon as he stepped out of the porch she closed the door behind him. "I did see water," she said.
He glanced back as she retreated into the house, slamming the inner door with one hand and crossing herself repeatedly with the other. He'd made such an impression on her, he thought, that she was unlikely to break her promise. He strode back to the car park, swinging his briefcase and feeling the blow lamp roll. A uniformed attendant with a book of parking tickets was making his morose way along the rank of vehicles which included Jack's. "Enjoy your day," Jack called to him, wreathing; him in fumes as the van pulled out of the rank.
Once he was past the outbreak of roundabouts the road brought him to yet another motorway. His route led past Warrington and Helsby, and the landscape seemed increasingly like a record of the Count's adventures. Soon they would come to an end. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but until the end came he wouldn't need to know.
He was almost forty minutes early for work. He parked by the library and strolled to a pub where he quenched his thirst with a pint of Wobbly Bob, then contented himself with another half and a ham roll. He ambled to the library, feeling amiably vague, and arrived at twelve minutes to one. As he emerged from the staff room Stella caught sight of him. "I didn't know you were here," she said.
"Why, was someone wanting me?"
"Yes," she said, shifting a sweet which rattled against her back teeth. "Your wife wants you to call her. Something about where she used to work."
THIRTY-NINE
The Count took most of Saturday afternoon to make a call he should already have made. The first time he heard the answering machine he replaced the receiver at once, and had to remind himself that the dressmaker might be waiting to hear a voice before she accepted the call. He dialled again, and said "Hello' when the recording invited him to speak. "Hello? Hello?" There was no response, and a student was waiting at the reference library counter.
He fetched the last two weeks' issues of three newspapers and carried them to a table as the student followed him, her metal crutches clicking. Once she was seated he phoned again. "Amy Conning. I'm not able to come to the phone just now. If you'd like to leave your name and number after this short tone I'll get back to you," she promised, and emitted a shrill beep.
"Hellou?" the Count said in a deep cultured unctuous voice. "Is there anyone there, hellou?" This met no more success than Jack's voice had. After thirty seconds or so the tape beeped again and gave way to the dialling tone as a rotund man plodded over to Jack for help in discovering the origins of his surname, Sarney. By the time Jack had settled him with a pile of genealogical tomes the student wanted last month's newspapers. As Jack sorted those she'd finished with, several headlines caught his attention HAS MERSEY BURNER KILLED AGAIN?; HORRIFIC GARAGE MURDER; ROCK FERRY MURDER "MAY BE COPY CAT' SAY POLICE
and seemed to be urging him not to waste time.
"after this short tone I'll get back to you. Beeeep."
"Allo, annyboddee? Allo?" Bernard Onze's trace of a French accent earned no response either. Soon Stella came upstairs to staff the desk while Jack had his tea break, and when he returned there were queries waiting to be answered. Picking up the receiver when eventually he was left alone was so automatic he didn't need to think of the number.
"back to you. Beeep."
"Miss Conning? Mrs. Conning? I don't suppose you're there, by any chance?"
"It's Ms Conning. Did you call before?"
She sounded ready to lecture him on the proper use of the answering machine. "Why, does my voice seem familiar?" he said.
"I really couldn't say. Should it?" Without pausing she said "Did you want to make an appointment?"
"Please."
"Who's it for? I don't dress men."
"My daughter."
"How old?"
"Twelve."
"What do you want for her?"
"A fortune," Jack might have said, but the Count used Jack's voice to say "An outfit for the heat."
"Bring her so I can look her over. When do you want?"
"How late do you see people?"
"My evenings are my own. I can measure her when she gets off school on Monday if that's any use to you."
"Would that be your last appointment?"
"Five o'clock would be."
"That sounds ideal. We'll look forward to dealing with you."
"I don't have your name and address."
"Bernard Onze, 11 Counting Way."
"Whereabouts is that?"
"On the new estate."
"Five Monday, then. Please don't be any later. Now you'll have to excuse me while I boot my two-year-old out of the kitchen before she burns herself."
"I wouldn't want that to happen to her," Jack said with a grin like the one he was fingering on the clown's head, and held onto the phone until it replaced the dressmaker with emptiness. He hadn't asked about the letter because he felt he didn't need to ask: her whole attitude told him that she would have torn it up. "Looking forward, looking forward," he murmured, and let go of the receiver and the clown's head as a bell rang to announce that the library would close in ten minutes. The last reader left the building eleven minutes later, and Jack drove home.
When he unlocked the front door the house was silent. "Anyone?" he called.
Julia came out of the bathroom with a towel around her hair. "Where's Laura?" Jack asked.
"Out on her bike. Probably on her way back from the library by now."
"She'll be fine."
"I know."
No doubt Julia was thinking of the self-defence class Laura had helped get started at the school, but she seemed preoccupied. Tensive," Jack said.
"Don't laugh, but I'm feeling sorry for Luke."
"Well, sympathy comes cheap. And birds go it," he added when she looked hurt. "I expect Rankin's clients could use a bit of sympathy, not to mention the people like you he left out of a job."
"I see all that. Now you'll laugh, but I feel almost guilty after what he just did."
"Guilty of what, for heaven's sake?"
"I suppose about wishing the worst for him. I didn't know he was going to take all the blame on himself."
The Count of Eleven Page 29
