Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

It was seven o’clock before he arrived home at his flat in the four-storey Georgian townhouse. Flat was an optimistic term. The impressive door at the end of the huge hall led only to a palatial broom-cupboard: palatial if you were a broom. The house’s owners had maximised their investment by giving the cupboard running water, a gas supply and a small window. A single bed, with cupboards beneath, ran along one wall and beyond that squeezed a tiny sink, hob and microwave. The rest of the space was taken up with a chair and fridge. He put a potato in the microwave and broke eggs into a jug, replaying the day in his mind. Had he said the right things? He beat the eggs with a fork, turned the potato and tapped in another four minutes. He reached in the cupboard under the sink for an omelette pan and frowned at a small damp patch. If it was a leak, it was little more than a sweating joint; he couldn’t see or feel where it was coming from. He dried the patch and turned on the gas hob; he’d check if it was wet again in the morning. Butter spat and sizzled as he tipped the eggs into the hot pan, making the flames spark blue and yellow. Flames… That odd carving… he’d seen something like it before.

  An image filled his mind, the perfect figure: thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six. What made him think that, other than being sex-starved? He pushed the egg around the pan and cut slabs of cheese. He’d seen a photograph… Roger had shown him photographs of carvings.

  He had Roger’s mobile number in case he ever decided to get a life and go for a drink after work. He thumbed it in. ‘Roger, those photos of the carvings that looked like flames. Did you fax them to Duxford?’

  ‘Adam. How did the interview go?’

  ‘All right, I hope.’

  ‘So, what did you want to know?’

  ‘I’ve found a carving. It looks like it may have been made by the same person. Did you fax Duxford?’

  ‘No,’ Roger confessed. ‘When I came to do it the whole lot was missing. Lord knows what I did with them.’

  ‘I didn’t think chaos was catching.’

  ‘I don’t even have the lady’s name or phone number. I only remember the code was Lyndhurst… my aunt lives near there.’

  ‘What’s the code?’

  ‘Zero, one, seven, zero, three.’

  ‘Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six… You said I’d fancy the woman who brought in the photographs and that she was single. I remember thinking that if her figure was as good as her phone number you could be right.’

  ‘It was I assure you. Are you going to phone her?’

  ‘It was you she approached.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m married. Just be sure you think up a better chat-up line than the last one. You don’t want matching scratches.’

  ‘There can’t be two women as insane as that hellcat. Was Miss what’s-her-name really a looker?’

  ‘Stunning, Adam.’

  ‘Oh hell, I’ve set fire to my omelette.’

  ‘Bugger the omelette. Give the woman a ring. What have you got to lose?’

  He put down the phone. Get a life? With luck, life was about to be delivered prettily packaged.

  ***

  Charlotte thumbed in Robin’s number. ‘Robin…’

  ‘Charlotte? How are you?’

  It was like talking to a stranger. ‘I’m good… you?’

  ‘Lonely… feeling stupid… Missing you.’

  Maybe not a stranger. He made it hard for her to be angry with him for long. ‘You wanted to talk… where, when?’

  ‘Well, here of course, now… where else are we going to be?’

  ‘I’m not ready to come home.’

  The silence at the end of the line could mean anything. She gripped the phone harder. He was angry? Thinking? He broke the silence at last. ‘I’ll book a table at The Crooked Man. Remember it? Say six o’clock, or seven if that suits better? We can chat over a meal, like we used to.’

  The Crooked Man was in the Cotswolds, about halfway between them. It held memories. Words stuck in her throat. ‘A… a meal would be nice. This evening?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She couldn’t think of a reason. ‘Okay. Oh, and can you bring my phone charger?’

  ‘Will do. Thanks, Charlotte… look, I know I’ve a lot of apologising to do. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  She replaced the receiver. Lucy’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘We’re going for a meal this evening. I’ve nothing to wear…’

  ‘What did you buy in London?’

  She reached into a store bag, stuffed into the under-stairs cupboard, and drew out a flimsy, off-the-shoulder dress in deep burgundy. Not one of her more rational purchases. She held it out to show Lucy. ‘I can’t wear this. I don’t even know why I bought it.’

  ‘To make yourself feel good? You’ll look fantastic.’

  Robin had said he missed her. ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know you still love him, sis. So fight for him. Show him you’re still the woman he married. Independent, sassy, sexy. If all he wants is a baby-machine then let him get on with it.’ Lucy smiled. ‘You’ll knock him dead.’

  She slowed her breathing. Lucy was looking at her strangely. She laughed. ‘Anyone would think this was a first date… I’m nervous…’

  ‘He wants to see you, sis. Listen to what he has to say. He’s had time to think. Time to realise you’re more important than children. He adores you. Anyone can see that.’

  She parked outside the hotel, checked her makeup in the visor mirror and changed her driving shoes for strappy black heels. She reached for her handbag and adjusted the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. The dress clung to her hips: smoothing the fabric, she pulled in her stomach and bottom and walked towards the oak-beamed entrance of The Crooked Man.

  A hand on her arm made her stiffen: she turned to stare into Robin’s dark eyes.

  He smiled, perfect teeth framing teasing lips. ‘You look beautiful.’ He opened the door for her and led her to a table. ‘Would you like a drink before we order?’

  ‘A fruit juice… thank you.’

  Robin returned with drinks and a menu. ‘The barman was in a talkative mood. Thought I was never going to get away.’ He handed her a menu and put her phone charger on the table. ‘No excuse not to ring me, now.’

  ‘Thank you… sorry.’ She opened the menu and stared at the words without seeing them. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think… I do want children, you know that.’ He put a hand on hers, gentle, reassuring. ‘The clinic… I should have listened… We may not be too old to adopt if… I’m prepared to give it a go. I’ll do anything you want… if you can forgive me.’

  ‘You were under huge pressure, Robin. I do forgive you… it’s just… We can go back to the clinic together and find out exactly where we stand… but children aren’t the real issue here, are they?’

  ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I should have expected that. I don’t know how I can convince you of…’ He put a hand on his chest. ‘…what’s in here. How I feel.’

  A waiter approached. ‘Are you ready to order, sir?’

  Robin waved him away. ‘Charlotte, come home with me. Let me prove I mean what I say.’

  She hadn’t missed Robin’s flash of anger at the interruption ‘You had a traumatic childhood, Robin. It’s still affecting you, and it will until you come to terms with what happened. You’re like a pressure vessel without a safety valve. How would you cope with a baby that cried all night when you’d had a bad day? Or a toddler that stuffed biscuits into your DVD recorder? You have your father’s temper, and look at the harm that’s done.’

  His eyes sparked. ‘I’m nothing like my father.’

  ‘No? You must learn to control your temper. I can’t live my life never knowing if I’m saying the wrong thing. I won’t live like that.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I can control my temper, believe me.’ He was controlling it now? His finger touched hers. ‘You’re not wearing your weddi
ng ring. Why aren’t you wearing it?’

  ‘It’s to remind me to stay strong. If… when I come home it will be on my finger, I promise. If I give in now and come home, what’s that saying to you? It’s alright to hit me… yell at me? I’ll come running back, no matter what? Do you think I don’t want to come home? You frighten me, Robin.’

  ‘You will come home. We will make it work. I’ll do anything it takes, anything.’ He smiled and the tension dissolved. ‘What would you like to eat?’

  They ordered. Conversation turned to safer ground and she relaxed. Work, the colour scheme they’d been planning for the lounge, the holiday they could take later in the year: ordinary, everyday things. Perhaps adoption would be possible if IVF, or some other treatment, wasn’t an option. Maybe they could be a proper family, after all.

  Robin poured a glass of wine and raised his glass. ‘To us.’

  She smiled and clinked her glass against his. ‘To the future.’

  It was already late when she looked at her watch. ‘I should go. I don’t want to disturb Grant and Lucy’s sleep… Duncan does enough of that. None of us are getting enough sleep.’

  He leaned towards her and tilted his head to one side. ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘It’s a long drive back.’ She reached for her handbag.

  ‘I booked a room…’ His fingers stroked the back of her hand and tiptoed up her forearm, sending a tingle before them. His eyes promised her the world. ‘You could ring Lucy and say you won’t be back. You shouldn’t drive if you’re tired.’

  ‘I should really…’

  ‘You and me are the important thing, tonight.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist. His eyes met hers. ‘Say you’ll stay, for me.’

  Her resolve melted away. ‘I suppose…’

  ‘That’s settled then. We’ll have a nightcap. Brandy?’

  ***

  Charlotte looked around the first-floor flat in Totton and sighed: the only thing in its favour was the rent. She and Robin had reached an agreement: he’d promised to get counselling. It would be a while before they knew if it helped, and in the meantime she needed somewhere to live. To remind herself she was an independent woman, capable of making her own decisions, she’d decided to stick to her maiden name, as well as not wearing her wedding ring; Robin must prove himself. She loved him, and she understood his problems, but she wouldn’t go home to find nothing had changed.

  The estate agent, a young woman in a business suit, gestured with enthusiasm. ‘You could move in straight away with a bond and one month’s rent.’

  It was a thousand pounds she’d no intention spending on making herself depressed. She thanked the woman who was waffling pointlessly about schools in the catchment area. ‘I’ve another property to view.’

  ‘I have a couple viewing this one this afternoon, Miss Masters.’

  She wouldn’t be forced into a snap decision. ‘I’ll ring you later, then.’

  The other property, a cottage near Brockenhurst, had it not been tiny, would have been twice the rent. As it was, the agents were asking an extra hundred pounds per calendar month. In a thatched terrace of stone cottages, Sunnybank’s chocolate-box image was described as “bijou”. It comprised one room downstairs with a log-burning stove, an oak beam low enough to give her a headache, and a red and black quarry-tile floor begging for chess pieces. A kitchen not big enough to swing a woodlouse adorned the back of the cottage, and steep stairs led off it to a low-ceilinged bedroom with en-suite shower room and toilet: en-suite because there was nowhere for a landing.

  The agent was calling lack of space character. She opened the back door and the smell of summer filled a small garden that cascaded with roses and honeysuckle; an outside privy had ivy growing over the door and swallows nesting. It was perfect.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Miss Masters. You’ll need to let us have references, the bond and one month’s rent.’

  ‘When can I move in?’ She’d sleep on the floor if she had to.

  ‘About a week?’

  ‘A week? I’m sleeping on a sofa at my sister’s house. I’m… separated.’

  The agent was sympathetic. ‘I’m sure we can hurry things up, especially if you pay cash. Leave it with me.’

  ‘I’ll call in with the cash and references.’ She drove, anxious to catch the bank before they closed, her mind already imagining pictures on the walls, summer evenings in the garden. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be here for the winter but, if the worst happened, she would have cosy winter nights in front of the fire with a good book… no arguments, no making up…

  ***

  Charlotte slammed the car boot on the cleaning materials she was taking to Sunnybank, and hurried indoors to answer the ringing of the phone.

  ‘This is Adam Bancroft. I’m phoning about the photographs you left with my colleague. I’m afraid they’ve been misplaced… I don’t know your name.’

  Her hope of news died as quickly as it had surfaced. ‘It’s Charlotte Masters. Would you like me to e-mail more copies?’

  ‘I may have found a carving like the ones you have… at the Imperial War Museum at Duxford.’

  ‘You have? That’s brilliant.’ She swung round and almost knocked bottles of cleaning fluids out of Lucy’s arms. ‘I’d like to see it. Is that possible?’

  ‘It’s on public display.’

  ‘Will there be someone there I can talk to about it?’

  Silence suggested a moment’s hesitation. ‘I shall be there on Friday afternoon, if that suits you. I confess I’m curious about it myself.’

  ‘Friday will be fine. What time?’

  ‘Shall we say three o’clock?’

  ‘Dr Bancroft, there could be a letter that belongs with the carving. Is it possible for you to find out if one exists?’

  ‘I’ll look into it. I’ll see you on Friday… in the coffee shop at three?’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much. I’ll be there.’ She rattled the receiver onto its hook, her hand shaking.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They’ve found another carving.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday: Charlotte followed the signs to the coffee and gift shops. She had twenty minutes before her meeting with Dr Bancroft.

  She rounded a corner and jarred to a halt, the hairs on her neck prickling: a carved wolf, fangs bared and lips curled in a snarl, had its eyes on her throat. A sudden movement at her side made her twist round: grey eyes fixed her with a cold stare.

  The man who’d attacked her at the Imperial War Museum in London glowered at her. ‘Not you again… What did I do to deserve bumping into you twice in my life?’

  She took a step backwards. ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘You must be joking. I still have the scar from our first meeting.’

  ‘And I still have the bruises. Leave me alone.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ He swivelled on his heel and walked away.

  She needed a coffee. She ordered a cappuccino and chose a table. Five minutes: she tried to spot someone who looked like a historian. His voice on the phone had sounded youngish, friendly, intelligent. The wretched weasel was across the room, sitting alone and searching the customers, as if looking for someone. His eyes met hers and her heart thudded. He picked up his coffee cup and threaded his way between the tables towards her.

  ‘Please, don’t tell me you’re Charlotte Masters.’

  ‘I won’t, if you don’t tell me you’re Dr Bancroft.’

  His lips twitched into a smile. He held out his hand. ‘Shall we begin again? I apologise for having you arrested, and I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

  She took his hand. ‘Apology accepted.’ Her words sounded begrudging.

  He sat opposite her and regarded her over the rim of his cup. ‘Is the carving the one you were looking for?’

  She needed him on-side. She experimented with a smile. ‘It could be. It’s… scary.’

  His lips twitched again. ‘Product
of a disturbed mind?’

  Her smile faded. ‘My grandfather had nightmares.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He took a long, slow sip of coffee. ‘What’s the carving’s history?’

  ‘My grandfather made several of them over thirty years ago. We found the first recently, when my grandmother moved house. My… it got broken.’

  ‘Didn’t Roger say it had something inside it?’

  ‘Two wooden candles, packed in human hair, and a message.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I think so. The letter with the carving had the name of a local solicitor, who had a second carving.’

  ‘So this is the third? Did the second one have anything in it?’

  ‘Yes, a message of sorts… and the initials IWM, among others.’

  ‘That’s what led you here?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s all I know, really.’

  ‘Do you have the others with you?’

  ‘I brought the photographs and copies.’

  His features relaxed into a sheepish grin that lit his eyes. He looked at the photos briefly. ‘Yes, Roger showed me them... before he mislaid them.’ His fingers traced the scratch on his cheekbone and the smile faded.

  She finished her coffee. ‘I’d like to hold the wolf, if that’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll see if they’ll let me have the key.’

  She followed him back to the display case. The wolf was minutely detailed. A wide curve swept along one side of the carving’s base, opposite two rounded bumps. The back of the base was straight and the front angular. It was the strangest of all the carvings.

  Dr Bancroft returned, unlocked the case and put the wolf in her hands. Ice tingled down her spine. ‘It’s almost alive. But why choose a shape like this?’

  He leaned closer, his eyes serious. ‘Why do you think he carved them?’

  ‘I remember Mum saying something once. Dad wasn’t one for doing things without a reason. He wouldn’t talk about himself, but I always felt…’ She shrugged. ‘My mother thought the others looked like flames of hell.’

  ‘The detail is amazing.’

  Grandpa’s hands had touched this: shaped it, polished it. He’d put his soul into his wolf and she wasn’t leaving without it. ‘I have paperwork to prove my grandmother’s right of ownership. Do you have the authority to release it or do I need to speak to someone more senior?’