‘How much?’ Tom had no idea library fines could be so expensive. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes sir, it’s fifteen pence per book per day, that’s ninety pence per book. Ten books altogether, so that’s nine pounds exactly,’ she said with a flourish.
‘Heck, can I pay next time?’
‘We’d rather you pay now, sir, otherwise it affects your borrowing rights.’
Typical, thought Tom; he screws my wife, I pay his library dues. Anyway, he needed to get the man’s name and address. He handed over a ten pound note, and, trying his best to sound casual, remarked: ‘I think you may have my old details on there, can you tell me what address you’ve got for me?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t because of the Data Protection Act, but I can confirm an address. What details do you think we have?’
This was going to be more difficult than anticipated. He tried to quickly think up a fictional address – the street next to his. ‘Er, twenty-four Crescent Road?’
‘No, that’s not it. Previous address?’ she asked, handing him back his change and a receipt.
‘Forty-four East Avenue?’
‘No, that’s not it either. Perhaps you should bring in some proof of address next time you’re in, like a gas bill or a recent bank statement.’
‘Can’t you just tell me?’
‘No, I’m sorry, sir, it’s the–’
‘Data Protection Act, I know.’ It hadn’t worked. £9 for nothing – no name, no address. ‘OK, thanks anyway,’ he said, turning away from the counter.
‘A pleasure, Mr Moyes.’
Tom stopped. Mr what? He knew that name. He turned back to face her. ‘What did you say?’
Tom’s odd reaction took the smile off her lips. ‘Erm, I said it was a pleasure.’
Mr Moyes? Wasn’t that the name of Charlotte’s history teacher? ‘Do you have my first name? I think it’s Mark.’ He wondered whether that sounded as ridiculous as he feared.
She glanced nervously at the screen. ‘Er, yes, sir, Mark.’
‘Oh bloody hell,’ Tom muttered under his breath.
‘Are you... you all right, Mr Moyes?’
But Tom had stormed out, clutching the one pound coin and the crumpled receipt, his head spinning. The young library assistant stared at the computer screen, trying to work out what she had said to suddenly upset Mr Moyes. He seemed quite nice at first – before he turned all weird on her.
Chapter 3: The Letter
The bright morning sun streamed through the thin curtains and into the bedroom. Tom opened his eyes, smiled at the prospect of another day off, and turned his head on the pillow to look at his still-sleeping wife. His stomach lurched at the sudden remembrance of the preceding day; those few seconds of somnolent morning optimism quickly draining away.
Why Mark Moyes?
Julie stirred next to him. ‘Hello, darling,’ she yawned. He felt Julie’s clammy hand rest on his stomach. Slowly, her hand inched down, her fingers crawling, spider-like, over his skin.
‘Julie, I’ve got to get up.’
‘Hmm,’ said Julie dreamily.
‘No, no, really...’
‘Get up for what? It’s half-term, you’re not going to work, I just thought that we could, er, you know...’
‘Maybe later, eh?’
‘Go on, you know you want to,’ she purred as her hand slid gently under the elastic of his pyjama bottoms.
Out of principle, Tom did not want to give in to her erotic intent. She had that look he knew so well; when her eyes glazed over, her pupils dilated and the way she bit her bottom lip. Is this how she looked when she was with him? Despite himself, he felt a twinge of anticipation as her warm fingers crept delicately down, while her other hand undid the buttons of her pyjama top.
‘Christ, Julie, I said no.’
Julie reeled back. ‘Heck, all right. Jesus, Tom, what’s got into you?’
‘I’m sorry; I... I didn’t mean to shout. Sorry.’
She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. ‘It’s all right, I guess.’
While Julie had a shower, Tom came downstairs to find Charlotte sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal while reading the cereal packet. The radio was on, blaring out Peter Andre’s old hit, ‘Mysterious Girl’. He switched the kettle on. ‘So then,’ he said loudly, trying to compete with the music, ‘did you enjoy the museum yesterday?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ Charlotte replied without looking up from the packet.
‘All right,’ repeated Tom, chewing the phrase. ‘Look, can you turn that down?’ With a slight tut, she reached for the volume dial. ‘And, er, have you decided what poem you’re going to use for your recital?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t Abigail help you choose one?’
Charlotte blushed and stuffed a large spoonful of cereal in her mouth. ‘No, couldn’t decide,’ she spluttered. ‘Probably one by Wilfred Owen,’ she said by way of adding some authenticity to her lie.
‘How were Rachel and Bluebeard?’
‘What?’
‘Rachel’s new boyfriend – he’s got a blue beard. He works for a rival firm. Anyway, I’m sure Mr Moyes will be impressed, whatever poem you choose. Your mum and I are looking forward to seeing him on Tuesday, the dreaded parents’ evening, eh Charlotte?’ He made his tea and sat down next to her.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ she said, immediately standing up and taking her bowl to the sink.
‘Hang on a minute–’
‘Sorry, Dad, I’m meeting someone.’ She darted past him and out of the kitchen. ‘See ya later,’ she called as she pounded up the stairs.
Tom sighed; his mere presence was enough to drive her away now. He noticed the letter at the end of the table and tried to remember if he knew anyone in France. He opened the envelope fully expecting to be disappointed by its contents. Inside was a word-processed letter with an address in a place called St Omer, and an email address. He turned off the radio, having no desire to listen to Britney Spears. As he was about to read, he heard Charlotte running back down the stairs, calling for Angus. The dog jumped up from his basket and with tail wagging, waddled towards her. ‘Later,’ she yelled as she breezed out of the front door.
Dear Mr Searight,
My name is Maria Dubois. You do not know me and you must excuse me writing to you like this. But I am trying to find an English family with your name. I shall explain why.
A year ago, my grandmother died. She was an old lady, over 90 years old. She had been an archivist here in St Omer. Many years ago, the archive needed more space. They threw away some old books and documents. One of them was a diary which my grandmother saved. It was a diary written by an English soldier of the Grande Guerre. His name was Guy Searight. He wrote it during the war, then donated his medals and the diary to the archive. Before she died, she asked me to find Guy’s family and return these things to them.
She always wished to do so herself, but she could not bear to part with them.
Guy was an ordinary soldier who belonged to the Essex Regiment. So I looked up the telephone pages in Essex and London on the Internet. It is lucky for me his name is not Smith! If there was a Guy in your family, please let me know, so that I can return you his diary.
It is of no value, but I think it is most interesting to you. Please write to me or use my e-mail address.
Many good wishes and thank you,
Maria Dubois.
Not the sort of letter one receives every day, he thought. Tom had never shown any interest in his family history, but he vaguely recalled his parents talking of a Guy Searight. He would have to ask his father who, presumably, would have received this letter too, so he could deal with it, the sort of thing he would enjoy. Or were his parents still ex-directory? Tom couldn’t remember.
*
It was another hot day and Charlotte wished she’d remembered her sunglasses. She popped into the local newsagents and bought a can of Coke and a pack of Spearmint chewing gum. She looked a
t the time on her phone – it was ten, if she didn’t hurry up, he might think she wasn’t coming and give up on her. She quickened her pace. Hopefully, he’d have something on him today. Yesterday had been such a disappointment. She’d been looking forward to it all day, kept thinking about it at the museum, but he’d come empty-handed. It wasn’t his fault, she supposed, he wasn’t always successful in getting some and sometimes he simply didn’t have the money. She once offered to pay something towards it, but he wouldn’t take it. Charlotte often wondered how he could afford it – surely a paper round didn’t pay that much. Maybe he stole to pay for the stuff, but it wasn’t something she could ask, and anyway, perhaps it was best she didn’t know. Yesterday had been an effort. Once she realised there was nothing forthcoming, she had to endure his limited company for half an hour before she felt comfortable enough to make her excuses and leave. Had she left immediately, he would have realised how fickle she was, how she was simply using him; ‘cupboard love’ her mother would call it. And that, of course, would jeopardise future supply. In fact, all round, yesterday had been a waste of time. Her dad had suggested a trip to the Imperial War Museum and she only accepted because she thought it would impress Mr Moyes. She liked her history teacher. He seemed so intelligent and sensitive, unlike all the retarded boys around her at school. One day, she would marry him or, at least, someone very much like him.
Once inside the park, Charlotte let Angus off the lead. He immediately ran off, squatted down near the paddling pool and did a huge poo. Had her father been with her, he would remind her whose dog Angus was, produce a plastic bag and make Charlotte scoop it up. But without her father, Charlotte had the rebellious satisfaction of leaving it where it was – just waiting for some poor sod to step in it. As she turned the corner, she could see the oak tree looming in the distance. It always embarrassed her how her parents insisted on calling it their tree, as if they had a God-given right to it just because they used it so often as a picnic place. She scanned the park, looking for him. Surely, he hadn’t gone already, she wasn’t that late. Angus trotted a few yards ahead of her. As she approached the giant tree, someone stepped out from behind it.
‘Boo!’
Charlotte jumped, Angus barked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Gavin, what are you playing at?’ she snapped.
The chubby youth with spiky, dyed black hair and an earring sniggered. ‘Watchya.’ As always, he was wearing his black tee shirt with bold red lettering on it, which read: ‘Swivel on it’, and a pair of fresh, white trainers and an Adidas bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Why did you bring that stupid mutt?’ he asked with a sneer.
‘He’s not a “stupid mutt”.’
‘I ’ate dogs. Stepped in some dog shit yesterday. If I’d seen the bugger, I’d have kicked the bloody thing.’
Charlotte smiled at the thought of Gavin stepping in Angus’s poo. ‘Guess you didn’t step in it with those lovely white trainers, didya?’ She knew his trainers were too new and clean for his liking.
‘Piss off,’ he said.
There was a lull. She was desperate to know whether he’d brought anything, but she had to maintain her cool. But having a conversation with Gavin was difficult. Unless he was mouthing off about one of his numerous pet hates, he had virtually nothing of interest to say, at least nothing of any interest to Charlotte.
‘Shall we go then?’ he asked.
‘What? You’ve got some?’ asked Charlotte, trying not to appear over enthusiastic.
‘What do ya think, baby? Do you want some?’ He was relishing his moment of power.
‘Yeah, hell, why not.’ She always swore when she was with Gavin; it was like a prerequisite. It didn’t come naturally, but she hoped it made her look cooler. ‘Look, I’ll give you some money towards it soon, I can always nick a bit from my mum’s purse; she’d never know.’ The thought appalled her.
‘Nah, don’t worry ’bout it,’ said Gavin, ‘I’ll think of some other way you can pay me... one day.’
Charlotte didn’t know why, but his choice of words made her feel uneasy. Maybe noticing her discomfort, he immediately qualified it. ‘You can do my history homework if you like. What do you know ’bout the Great Fire of London, 1665?’
‘1666,’ she corrected him.
‘Whatever.’
‘Not much, but I could find something out from the Internet if you want.’
‘You’re on. C’mon, let’s go.’ Gavin led the way towards the path at the far edge of the park, away from the café and the paddling pool. Charlotte called for Angus and followed. They walked silently along the path for a small distance until they came to a stretch of bushes. They fought their way through the waist-high thicket and found the large boulder they always sat on; the bushes round them providing a degree of shade from the glaring sun and shielded them from passers-by. Even if they were spotted through the scrub, no one ever challenged them. They sat down. Angus scuttled off sniffing for new olfactory delights, but stayed within close range of Charlotte.
Gavin produced the familiar green and gold tobacco tin from his bag. Inside were a couple of cigarettes, a packet of long cigarette papers, a lighter, and a little block of the shiny dark substance. Charlotte watched as Gavin split one of the cigarettes down the middle with his fingernail and spread its contents evenly down the length of a cigarette paper. He then produced the dark cube of resin and carefully softened it by holding it above the lighter flame.
Charlotte noticed the picture of the sprawling naked woman on the lighter. In any other circumstances, she might have objected to this small but blatant example of pornography, but this wasn’t the time. With the resin sufficiently softened, Gavin crushed the corner of the block between his fingers and, like a stock cube, sprinkled it evenly over the loose tobacco. He then expertly rolled the extra-long cigarette, licked it secure, and twisted the paper at one end. Finally, he tore a small piece of cardboard from the packet of cigarette papers, which already had a number of similar-sized pieces missing from it, rolled it up tightly, and pushed it down the other end of the joint.
‘There!’ he said triumphantly. ‘You first.’
‘No, no, after you.’ Having waited all this time, Charlotte wanted to delay the pleasure for a few more seconds.
‘Right you are.’ Gavin lit the joint and took a couple of long puffs. ‘No effect yet,’ he said, passing it to Charlotte. She took it and inhaled deeply, waited for a few moments, and inhaled again. She smelt the acrid smoke and derived great pleasure from it, symbolising as it did her act of rebellion. After the third draw, she began to feel the tingling sensation slowly cascading through her insides. She took another drag and her head began to swim. She handed it back to Gavin and hunted around her bag for the can of Coke. She swallowed a couple of large swigs to try and counter the burning sensation on her tongue. Like an unspoken rule, conversation was prohibited during the ritual of smoking. For the next ten or so minutes, the two of them sat in total silence, passing the joint to and fro. She contemplated Gavin’s bag. The joke at school was that Adidas stood for ‘after dinner I dream about sex’ or ‘after dinner I do a shit’. She grinned to herself.
‘You finish it,’ said Gavin passing the frazzled end to Charlotte. She drew on the last possible bit, burning her fingertips in the process, and then threw the butt into the undergrowth where they watched it slowly burn itself out. They remained silent, Charlotte enjoying the relaxing warm feeling that seemed to reach to the very end of her fingers and toes. But then she suddenly felt nauseous; the last heavy draw had tipped her over the edge. She tried desperately to suppress the urge to be sick, not wanting Gavin to realise. But the urge became too strong and she retched.
‘Oh shit,’ said Gavin. ‘You’re not gonna be sick, are ya?’
Charlotte couldn’t talk. She tried to stand up, but felt dizzy in the heat and sat down again. Her head throbbed. She groaned and retched again. She put her head between her knees and tried to catch her breath. Finally, after a couple of minutes, the nausea began to rece
de. She looked at Gavin from the corner of her eye, too shamefaced to look at him directly. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘Don’t worry ’bout it. Happens to all of us.’
Charlotte was taken aback. She’d never heard him admit to the slightest hint of weakness before, and she certainly hadn’t expected any sympathy from him. Angus nudged her elbow; he wanted to go. She stroked him and Gavin almost smiled. ‘I’d better go,’ she said.
‘Right.’
She took a last gulp of warm Coke and flung the empty can into the undergrowth – it would have looked too uncool to put it in her bag. She stood up. She felt unsteady still, but she needed to leave. ‘I’ll be seeing ya then.’
‘Yeah, I’ll text you when I get some more, all right?’
‘Cheers, Gav.’ She made her way through the bushes back to the path and, with Angus running in circles around her, headed back towards the oak tree.
Once out of the park, she put Angus back onto the lead. As she ambled home along the backstreets of Holloway, she chewed on her chewing gum; she needed to freshen her breath before getting back. Her cheeks still burned with the heat of the day and the embarrassment of having almost been sick in front of Gavin. The nausea had subsided but she was left with a throbbing headache; she needed to lie down in a cool room. As she turned into her road, Angus saw something on the opposite pavement, his ears pricked up and suddenly he darted off, the lead slipping from Charlotte’s light grasp before she had time to react.
‘Angus!’ she screamed as the terrier charged across the empty road. Whatever had pricked Angus’s attention had vanished, leaving the dog barking at nothing, his tail wagging furiously. ‘Angus, you naughty dog,’ said Charlotte as she caught up with him, slapping him with the end of the lead. She took Angus home, the dog sufficiently cowered, holding his lead with a firmer grip. By the time she reached home, his tail was wagging again, the incident already forgotten.
*
Tom sneaked out of the house while Julie was still getting dressed. He had no desire to stay in while Julie was around. It was another glorious day; the sun seemed to bounce off the pavement, bleaching the paving stones. He phoned Rachel on his mobile and asked if he could come round for a coffee. At first, Rachel hesitated, said she had an appointment at the bank. Tom said it didn’t matter; he’d catch her some other time. But no, Rachel insisted on cancelling the appointment and yes, she was sure, totally sure. Strange, he thought – having arranged to see her he was immediately regretting it.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 3
