by Dana Cameron
Trevor didn’t even spare a scowl for her but set off in the opposite direction from the Prince of Wales. This was new, I thought. Then it occurred to me that I was seeing a lot of deviations from the norm today: Trevor’s rejection of the usual pub, Jane’s cracking and her later cussedness toward me, the friction between her and Greg, and the presence of the very angry George Whiting on the site, confronting a woman whom, by all rights, he should have been very happy to avoid. I had already tried to ask Jane what was happening to no avail and Whiting wouldn’t be likely to answer my questions, so I decided that it was time to see if I could find out from Trevor what had had such a profound effect on him.
I realized that I had taken it upon myself to look into things, ask questions of people who didn’t want to answer. It occurred to me that Sabine had noticed what I hadn’t—that after Jane’s interview with the police, I’d easily, unconsciously, slipped again into the role of being the one to sort things out. Greg’s behavior was another spur, as were Andrew’s absences and then Trevor’s. On top of those pictures of Julia and the modern skeleton with the tip of a knife lodged in it—the list was getting very long. I needed to find out what was going on, and if no one would tell me, then I would find other avenues to explore. Jane just didn’t understand: I could help her with this.
I caught Jane’s eye as I picked up my bag. “I’ve got an errand or two to run. I’ll meet you at the pub, okay?”
She looked puzzled and almost said something, but then changed her mind at the last moment. “All right, then.”
I let Trevor get a block or so ahead of me, and since he didn’t expect anyone to follow him, I had a pretty easy time of it. Though I supposed there was no real reason even to stay out of his sight.
After a few blocks, I noticed that this section of Marchester was a little more run-down, a little less nicely kept up than the sections I’d spent my time in up until now. The doorways were strewn with discarded and stained wrappers from fast food joints, and there were beer cans, taller and with more colorful labels than the ones we had at home, mingled in with them. I still wasn’t quite used to the idea of being able to walk around with a beer in my hand, if I wanted to. Where I came from, you got a warning from the cops if you even thought about liquor in public. I paused to cross the street—again, carefully reminding myself that the traffic was going to be coming on my right. Graffiti began to appear, mostly raillery against the local police, and the longer I followed Trevor, the more the buildings took on a distinctly seedy appearance. I sped up a little, not so much to keep Trevor from getting out of sight, as to suggest to the loitering youths that I knew where I was going and that I had a purpose in being there. They didn’t say anything to me, though they did turn quiet as I passed, and one clucked at me; this was followed by laughter in the group. I wasn’t fooling them or myself.
Before too long, Trevor turned into a pub and I followed him, grateful to be getting off the street. The Fig and Thistle was not as well marked as the Prince of Wales—there was none of the landlord’s pride in the exterior—but even the gloom inside didn’t faze me at first. The Prince of Wales had been dark too, but then I began to realize that darkness was cozy rather than dismal. Even so, I really should have been more aware of what I was getting myself into.
Trevor was at the bar, paying for a large glass of clear liquid, as the bartender put away a bottle of nondescript vodka. The student drank off half his glass. As I went over to Trevor, I tried to catch the bartender’s eye, but he looked straight at me and walked past without stopping. Mentally I tried out a new word that I’d heard someone use when talking to Trevor: wanker. Never mind, I had other things on my mind than drinking.
I pulled up next to Trevor, who choked when he recognized me. I sat down and waited for him to stop coughing.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He whipped his head around wildly, perhaps trying to see if anyone saw us together.
“Just thought I’d try a change from the Prince of Wales. Though I don’t think the bartender—landlord? publican?—would you say—”
“I wouldn’t say bollocks,” he sputtered.
“—Is as nice as Ian. Still.” I tried to get the attention of the barman again, with no further luck. “That’s quite a nose job you got there. What happened?”
“None of your bleeding business! Why don’t you piss off?”
I decided that the direct approach would be best. “Where have you been the past couple of days? I mean, it doesn’t take two days to get a nose patched up, unless of course you went in for cosmetic surgery, in which case you should be more careful about going out into the sun, not that there’s been much of that lately. Is there someone you’re trying to—”
“There’s never a moment’s peace from you bloody women, is there?” Trevor slugged back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the sticky wood of the bar, kicked back his stool, and left.
That was when I noticed just how quiet the rest of the pub had become. I watched Trevor leave, and looking around me, I saw that I was the only woman in the pub. Every eye in the place was on me, there was no friendliness in any of them, and every one of the other patrons had observed my brief row with Trevor. There was, however, amusement in two faces that I was startled to find I recognized. I swore under my breath and turned quickly around, pretending that I hadn’t seen anyone I knew. The bartender, now watching me intently, sauntered slowly over to my end of the bar, a cigarette dangling from one side of his mouth.
“Pint of bitter, please,” I said, thinking quickly, hoping that he would serve me this time, hoping I would be allowed to sit at the bar and the others at the table would get up and leave without passing me. I really should have just left.
“Ladies don’t drink pints of bitter,” he said loudly, mockingly. A few chuckles were heard from the tables. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering what was going on. “In Britain, ladies have halves of cider.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m an American, then, isn’t it?” I said, then cringed: I had been trying for banter, but it came out as more of a challenge than I intended. I decided that if I was going to get out of this, I had to stand my ground. “Just the pint, please.”
The bartender held my gaze for a moment longer, then pulled out a pint glass and managed the optic in a careless fashion. The result was a glass that was only three quarters filled, about half of that foam.
“Two pounds fifty,” he said, and although I suspected the price had been inflated for my benefit, I put the money on the bar without arguing. Call it the unladylike-American tax.
“Emma, come join us,” called the voice I had hoped not to hear. I took a sip from my miserable pint, and resigned, turned and walked over to the table. As heads turned to follow my progress, I began to wonder if whether I mightn’t be better off with my two companions, as much as I had hoped to avoid either of them: Maybe their company would get me out of the Fig and Thistle without further incident. It was an unattractive sort of hope, but then I found myself in a situation where any hope at all was welcome.
Avery and Palmer sat together, smirking amusement evident in every one of their features. Palmer indicated a chair. “Have a seat,” he said.
What the hell were these two doing together? “Maybe just for a moment,” I said. “I told Jane I’d meet her.” I wasn’t keen on mentioning Jane in front of Palmer since he’d spoken against her, but I did want to give the impression I’d be missed.
“Course you will. I can tell. You’re a social sort, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but leaned across the table conspiratorially. “This isn’t the sort of place for ladies to be social, though, if you get my drift.”
“Well, the bartender certainly didn’t seem to appreciate my presence,” I said. The foam in my glass had just settled enough so that I could see there was only about a half a pint of beer.
“Oh, anyone can see that,” Palmer said, nodding. “Bu
t what I have to ask is what brings you here in the first place? The Prince of Wales is much more your speed.”
“Just trying to catch up with Trevor.” I shrugged, looking around. Attention was still on our table. “Seems he’s had a rough couple of days—”
“Someone cracked him a sweet one, didn’t they?” Palmer mused thoughtfully. “Wonder what he did to deserve that. He probably put his nose where it didn’t belong, and that’s how it got flattened.”
I swallowed. This sounded exactly like the sort of thing he’d said to me in the car the first day we’d met, but I couldn’t understand what his interest in any of this was. I shrugged. “I can’t imagine Trevor being at all curious. He probably did just trip over the cat, as he claims.”
“Possibly, though I don’t see that miserable little sod as an animal lover. What do you reckon, Avery?”
Avery the photographer hadn’t said a word. He looked up from his drink, something I could smell from where I sat was coconut-flavored Malibu, and he grinned. It was an expression that spoke of toothy Halloween masks, perhaps even less attractive than his behavior in the darkroom. He shook his head.
“But one does wonder what would have happened, if he was the sort to extend himself, doesn’t one?” Palmer took a long drink. “It would be a shame for him to find out the hard way.”
Avery hadn’t done anything this whole time but turn his glass around and around in place on the table and stare at me. Piqued, I stared back, not blinking, not hostile, not smiling. He slowly removed his hands from the glass and raised them in front of his face. At first I thought that he was going to say something—his hands seemed to shape a prayer—then I realized he was now holding an imaginary camera. His right index finger snapped down briefly, and Avery smiled faintly, his thumb automatically advancing the imaginary film as he lowered his hands into his lap, still gazing at me.
I turned back to Palmer, disconcerted. I swallowed as shallowly as I could, and when I realized that I was clutching the edge of the table, loosened my fingers ever so slightly.
“How is it that you two know each other?” I asked, taking a sip of my beer.
“Oh, well, it’s a small world, isn’t it?” said Palmer comfortably. “Everyone knows everyone else, knows all their business too. A very tight-knit community, our little neighborhood, always has been. No use for outsiders. We know everyone’s troubles, where all the skeletons are—”
I started. Palmer noticed this with interest.
“Oh, yes. All the skeletons. Who’s doing well, who’s had to scrabble, who might have tiptoed across the narrow line of the law, who’s married to a nutter. Whose daughter is dead.” He said that last with such a satisfaction that my blood froze in my veins.
“You’re not a fan of George Whiting, I take it.” I was as careful as I could to keep my shaking from becoming obvious.
Palmer shrugged elaborately. “Now that you mention it, I’m not. I was a lowly employee of his, once upon a time. Man fired me on suspicion of thievery. Some copper wire went missing from one of the sites.”
“Didn’t help it was found in your garden shed,” said Avery in his cartoon character voice. He laughed silently into his glass.
“I have no idea how it got there to this day,” Palmer averred solemnly. “And that was the first time I went to Hackmoor as well, bastard.”
I suddenly understood that Hackmoor was a prison, recalling Palmer’s earlier description of his limited travels.
Palmer continued, increasingly heatedly. “But the point to that is, the man’s got above himself. He’s no better than any of us, and because he happened to come into a bit, he thinks cake comes out his arsehole. Worse than that, he forgets how things were done, how a bloke, seeing a bit of loose copper about, thinks to make himself a spare quid or two. Some might congratulate him on having an entrepreneurial spirit, seeing as it’s really not doing anyone any harm. No harm in the world; it’s the punters what pay for it, innit? But others take it personal, where there’s no malice intended. But there is now. Malice aplenty. I’ll wager he got what he deserved. Didn’t he?”
With those last words, he looked at me with a hatred burning in his eyes that shocked me to the core. He blinked and something else was there, interest or calculation.
He began to tap on the table with his index finger. “Now you might remember that I suggested that you shouldn’t get mixed up in your friend Jane’s business. It’s complicated enough as it is. And yet here you are, poking about where you’re not wanted, and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’d want to go and ignore me. Seeing as I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
I stood up. “It’s probably because I can’t imagine why it’s any concern of yours, either Jane’s affairs or my best interest. Or in fact, why you care at all. Maybe if you answered me that, then I’d have some reason. Until then, I’m just not impressed.”
“I’ll tell you why you should be impressed. Your friend Jane will be just fine on her own. She’s the sort to use people, then toss them aside. She’s done it all her life, by all accounts, and she’s moved here to Marchester; she’s doing it now with that poor sod of a husband of hers. She probably done it with Julia Whiting too. So she’ll survive just fine; her kind always does. And she wouldn’t think twice about using you the same way. There’s a big hole where her heart ought to be. And that’s just for starters.”
He stood up now and leaned in close to me; panicky as I felt, I tried not to move away from him. “What my interests might be is no concern of yours. If I find they become such, you’ll wish you’d never been born. That’s a promise.”
I shrugged, showing carelessness I was miles from feeling. “We’ll see.” I raised my glass and took a sip of the beer. It wasn’t very nice beer and I noticed my hand was shaking. As I set it down, however, wondering how I was going to just walk away from the Fig and Thistle, a shout from the bar caught the attention of everyone in the pub. The bartender was shouting at a young, disheveled man who was coming from the back of the pub.
“Here, you! I told you I was sick of your coming in here all the time, using the gents as a bathhouse! I don’t want your sort in here!”
“Here, now,” said Palmer, with interest. The quiet that had settled on the pub during our conversation was now animated with little gestures and nods toward the bar. Something was brewing, and everyone knew it.
The young man, small and slenderly built, had curly dark hair that was badly in need of cutting. “I ordered a whiskey. What more do you want? I’m not hurting anything.”
“I don’t care if you ordered a general strike! Get the fuck on your bike and don’t come back, you little—”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the harangue. I set my glass down and walked toward the door. Alas, I made the mistake of looking back. Palmer was still unusually interested in the young man arguing with the bartender, but Avery was watching me. He reached over and brushed his fingers along the rim of the glass from which I’d been drinking.
I groped for the door and got the hell out of there.
As I hurried down the street, no longer caring whether I attracted any undue attention, I forced myself to consider Palmer’s chilling words: “He got what he deserved, didn’t he?” The horrible simplicity of his equation, a dead daughter repays a jail term, was so natural to him that I had to wonder what he might have done to bring it about.
“Oi, you!”
The voice behind me was male, one I didn’t recognize; I walked faster, trying to decide where I should head if things got dicey again. There weren’t many options, as straight back was the only way I knew that might possibly lead me away from trouble.
The voice called out again. “Steady on, there! I want a word with you!”
I hurried along, wishing I’d worn my sneakers instead of my work boots.
“You, Yank! Hold up a moment, damn it!”
I couldn’t think of anything I was less likely to do and further increased my speed. I heard footsteps follow
ing behind me. I felt in my coat pocket for something I could use to protect myself and seized a ballpoint pen, flicking the cover off with my thumb.
I heard hurrying footsteps behind me. “Shit, I’m not going to—I just want to ask you about Julia!”
That was possibly the only thing in the world that would have slowed me down that evening. I continued to walk, but slower now, and waited until the footsteps were just behind me, then whirled around to face whoever it was. The young man who’d been banned from the pub, surprised, stepped back a bit, which was the way I wanted things. I pressed my advantage, not knowing how long it would last.
“What do you want? Why do you think I can help you?”
He hooked a thumb back toward the pub slowly, so as not to startle me, I guessed. “I heard you talking with those two…back there. I heard her name. Did you know her?”
Though the light was dim, I could see he was not badly dressed, but had given his clothes hard use lately. He moved with barely contained patience.
“I never met her,” I said warily. “I’m working on the same dig as she was, is all. Who are you?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I just came back to see her and I was too late. Why were you talking about her?”
I had to be careful here. “A friend of mine has been questioned about Julia’s death; I’m sure she’s not involved and I’m just trying to find out how to prove it.”
“How do you know?” He stepped forward eagerly; I stepped back just as quickly, and brought my hand out of my pocket, still clutching the pen. I probably looked more crazy than dangerous, but I was willing to let that work for me as well. The stranger put his hands up.
“I don’t want to hurt you, I just wanted to…I don’t know, talk to someone who might have known Julia.” He sighed and rubbed at the back of his head. “Who might be able to tell me how she died. If you find anything, will you let me know?”
“Why should I?” I took a step back again, not entirely because I was scared, but in part because I was no longer in a state to trust anyone.
