The Camel Trail

by Merrigan, Peter J

  Cocktail time was twice a day, but Tessa had told Sarah that Martin would be forced to take his tablets more often as he matured. Seven brightly-coloured pills made up his current regime. His doctor was testing a new combination aimed at slowing down the degeneration process. Or speeding up the regeneration process—Sarah couldn’t remember which.

  They migrated to the kitchen where Tessa was preparing dinner and Kevin went straight to the cupboard in the far corner as though it was his right to do so. He pulled out pill bottles and carried them to the table, his face set in stubborn concentration as he forced the child-proof lids off.

  As Martin settled at the table, Alan filled a glass of water for him. It must be awful, Sarah thought. A couple of painkillers for a few days every month—not to mention the inexplicable chocolate craving—was bad enough for a grown woman, but to have to take this amount of pills every day for the rest of your life would be hell.

  What kind of a life is that? she thought, and felt guilty for considering herself lucky that Kevin was normal.

  It was raining the night he left Enfield over two years ago and it was raining when he returned, the kind of rain that got you really wet even though you couldn’t quite feel it.

  Frankie jumped out of the car and said, ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘Not here, I won’t,’ Robert said. ‘I’ll park up around the corner. Just be quick.’

  Frankie slammed the car door and walked up the garden path to his old house. He rang the doorbell, picked some invisible lint from his shirt sleeve, and rang the bell again. A short, plump, elderly woman answered.

  Frankie put on his prizewinning smile, the one he reserved especially for short, plump, elderly women. ‘Hi there,’ he said in a sickly sweet voice. ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind, but I used to live here a little while ago and I was wondering if you had any letters for us—my wife, she gets forgetful sometimes and didn’t tell everyone our new address.’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman said, with honest surprise. ‘No, I don’t think we do. We’ve been living here for nearly a year.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand. If you could just make sure you don’t have anything for us…’

  The woman squinted at him for a moment, then said, ‘Okay, wait here,’ and she closed the door on him.

  Frankie turned to face the street, his smile never faltering. Derek Rogers had let his garden go; must be his poor health. The old rusting Honda Accord was still slouched outside number 12, propped on bricks. Number 16 had half a dozen new gnomes added to their eye-sore of a collection. There was many a night when Frankie came home from the pub, staggering up the street in an I-can-walk-a-straight-line-just-watch manner, where he wanted to stomp on Rogers’ flowers, smash in the windows of the paralysed Honda, or drop-kick the pathetic little gnomes with their pathetic little paint jobs and their pathetic little smirking faces.

  He pushed his hands into his pockets. Damn, it was cold. He was beginning to think the old woman had gone to bed and died when she finally came back to the door. ‘Sorry, love,’ she said. ‘We don’t have anything, unless you want my water rates bill.’

  Frankie laughed his most sycophantic laugh. ‘Thanks anyway. Sorry to have disturbed you. You have a nice day, okay?’

  The woman smiled, nodded, and started to close the door on him. Frankie turned back to the street as though to leave, then stopped, turned to the woman again.

  ‘Actually,’ he said. The woman paused, the door almost closed. ‘I can’t remember—did my wife leave our new address? Just in case you do get anything for us.’

  ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘I’m afraid she didn’t. Would you like to leave it now?’

  Frankie smiled. ‘I suppose there’s no point, is there? You haven’t had any post for us so far. No, never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  He kept smiling until she had closed the door and he was half way down the garden path. ‘Bitch,’ he said. He didn’t bother closing the gate.

  He paused on the street, looked each way, and considered his options. The Natals two doors up had been relatively friendly with them, always offering recipes for their God-awful curries or giving them platters of Gujia during Diwali. They probably wouldn’t speak to him now.

  He stared at Derek Rogers’ unkempt garden and he could think of nothing else than to dance on his flowers.

  Sarah and Tessa walked even slower than the boys, their arms linked, scarves pulled tight around their throats.

  ‘It’s beautiful out here,’ Sarah said.

  ‘It’s even better in the summer. Everything gets so colourful. Martin loves it here.’

  ‘Kevin tells me Martin wants to walk the whole way.’

  Tessa sighed. ‘Last time he walked the whole way, he was probably five. Even then it was a struggle. He was diagnosed the year before. Eleven miles is a long way for any five-year-old, but Martin insisted. And he did it, too. He took Graeme’s hand and he walked the whole way on his tiptoes.’ She laughed. ‘When he stumbled, he’d just pick himself up, take Graeme’s hand again, and keep going. He’s always been a daddy’s boy. He always will be.’

  ‘Thank God Kevin’s not,’ Sarah said.

  Tessa patted her arm. ‘Let’s catch them up.’ When they were beside Alan and the boys, she said, ‘Time to go home?’

  ‘A bit further,’ Martin said. He was clinging to Alan’s sleeve.

  ‘It’s too cold,’ Tessa said. ‘And it’s going to rain soon.’

  ‘Five more minutes, Mum. Tell her, Alan.’

  ‘Your mum’s right,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll walk some more tomorrow. Anyway, we still have to walk back to the car and I’d like to get home before dark, if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘You guys can go back. Me and Kevin’ll keep going.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Not okay,’ Sarah said. ‘If Martin’s mum says it’s time to go home, we don’t disagree.’

  Kevin looked sheepish and Sarah ruffled his hair.

  ‘You’re all spoilsports,’ Martin said, turning round and taking Alan’s sleeve again. He started forward. ‘Well, are we going home or are you just going to stand there?’

  Tessa rolled her eyes and held her hands out as though to strangle someone. To Sarah, she said, ‘He comes this close, sometimes. I swear.’ They laughed.

  Martin looked behind him. ‘We don’t have all day, you know.’

  Derek Rogers opened his front door and said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s no way to greet a neighbour, is it?’

  ‘We’re not neighbours. Last I heard you were…’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not. Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Derek said.

  Frankie pushed his way inside anyway.

  ‘Hey!’ Derek said. ‘Beating up old men is just one step removed from beating up innocent young women.’ He followed Frankie into the living room.

  ‘Talking about innocent young women,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I don’t know where she is,’ Derek said. ‘And even if I did—’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell me, I know. I’ve heard it all before.’ Frankie moved to the mantelpiece, touched a porcelain cat, picked up a photo of Derek’s dead wife and put it back. He sat in the brown leather armchair next to the fire. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘I think you do know. And I also think you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘Listen to Ronnie Kray,’ Derek scoffed. ‘Who do you think you are? You don’t scare me.’

  ‘Good,’ Frankie said, standing up again. ‘I’m not here to scare you. I’m just here to find out where my estranged wife has gone.’ He picked up Derek’s black iron fireplace poker with the vitreous enamel handle.

  Derek took a tighter grip on his walking stick.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Robert asked.

  Frankie got in the front passenger seat and closed the door. He sighed, then punched his knuckles into the dashboard. ‘Drive.’

  ‘Wha
t have you done?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Just drive, will you?’

  Robert started the car, clicked his seatbelt into place, indicated, and pulled away from the curb.

  Frankie sat in silence while Robert drove down through Southgate towards the M25. He could feel heat radiating from his cheeks and a pain spreading across his knuckles from hitting the dash. He shook his hand.

  ‘Who did you see?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Rogers.’

  ‘The old man? You didn’t—’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. What do you think I am? I just asked him a couple of questions. There’s some old bitch living in my house; doesn’t know a thing.’

  ‘What about Rogers?’

  Frankie shook his head. ‘Says no one knows where she went. Lying, stinking bastard.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘Let’s stop for a drink. It’s long overdue.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We passed a pub back that way. Swing around.’

  When they were settled in a small, comfortable pub with wooden chairs and tables and floors and ceiling, Robert said, ‘What about that place you used to go on holiday? Up by her aunt’s.’

  Frankie chased his beer with a whiskey, smacked his lips and said, ‘She might be a dumb bitch, but she’s not stupid. She knows I’d think to look there.’

  ‘What if she tries to double bluff you? She knows you’ll think about that place, knows that you reckon she won’t go there because of that, so she moves there thinking you won’t bother looking there. People do it, you know.’

  ‘Not Sarah.’

  Robert drained his pint. ‘Same again?’ When he returned to the table, he said, ‘What about the courts? She took your son away. You have every right to see him. They can get a subpoena or something.’

  ‘You are thick sometimes, you know that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The courts are going to take one look at my record and laugh out loud. No, there’s another way. There has to be.’

  ‘You want to stop by Mum’s now?’ Robert asked.

  Frankie rolled a cigarette. ‘Not until I’m well and truly tanked and you have to carry me there.’

  Chapter Five

  Cigarettes. It’s all she could think about. Two weeks since the New Year and every day was as hard as—no, harder than—the previous. Kevin was impressed, though. He told her on New Year’s Eve that he knew she still smoked, told her to give up as a resolution. ‘I’ll give up beer and loose women if you give up the smokes,’ he had said.

  ‘Deal,’ she said and shook his hand on it. ‘And if I catch you with any loose women before you’re sixty I’ll ground you for life.’

  Now she was almost desperate. She sat her mug of coffee on the kitchen counter top and said, ‘Just one little drag, that’s all I’m asking.’

  Tessa, at the table, looked up from the glossy magazine she was flicking through and said, ‘It starts with one little drag and then it becomes one little cigarette, and before you know it you’re back to spending forty pounds a week on the damn things and sucking your life away. Think about how much better you’ll feel. And the money you’ll save. Never mind how disappointed Kevin’ll be if he finds out you’ve started again.’

  ‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’

  Tessa rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and looked back down at the magazine. ‘Don’t you think she looked awful in that dress at that awards ceremony?’

  ‘You’re changing the subject,’ Sarah said.

  ‘I’m good at it. And besides, you won’t get any sympathy from me. There’s nothing worse than an ex-smoker for a friend when you want a sneaky cigarette.’

  When the doorbell warbled, Sarah went to answer it, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’ll just have to sneak one when you’re not around.’ Through the frosted glass pane on the front door she saw a hulking figure on the doorstep. When she opened the door, she nearly fainted. ‘Oh, God, no. What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘May we come in, madam?’ the uniformed police officer said.

  Sarah let go of the door and allowed the two officers in. When Tessa stepped out from the kitchen, the first officer said, ‘Can we possibly speak in private?’ Sarah waved the comment away and the officer said, ‘It’s about your husband,’ as though to clarify the need for privacy.

  Tessa put a hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘What’s he done?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He’s been released from prison.’

  And then she did faint, just for a moment. Her vision started to spin and her head felt heavy and light at the same time. As she swooned, Tessa and the officer caught her. Her vision quickly cleared and she stood upright again, but her head still felt funny.

  ‘When?’ she asked calmly, belying the torture in her head.

  ‘Three days ago,’ the officer said. ‘Word was passed down from London.’

  Sarah looked at Tessa, then her eyes widened. ‘I need to get Kevin. We need to go. We should go. I need to get Kevin.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Tessa said. ‘It’s all right.’

  The officer said, ‘Mr Catchpole has no idea where you are. You’re quite safe here. Kevin—is that your boy?’

  ‘He’s in school,’ Tessa told him.

  ‘I see no reason to bring him home. He’ll be ’right in school. Last thing we need is a panic.’

  ‘Panic?’ Sarah almost screamed. ‘Frankie Catchpole nearly killed me and would’ve, too, if Kevin hadn’t been clever enough to get on the phone. He’s a sore-as-hell bastard and the first thing he’s going to do is come looking for us. If we were put on witness protection like I asked in the first place…’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the case, Mrs Catchpole. I can try to organise someone on duty outside your house, but believe me, if he doesn’t know where you currently reside, it’ll be impossible for him to find out.’

  ‘The officer’s right,’ Tessa said. ‘Everything’ll be okay.’ To the officer, she said, ‘You’ll be keeping an eye on his movements, right?’

  ‘Not personally, miss, but those London officers are a pretty decent bunch of lads. They’ll let us know if he’s up to no good, I’m sure.’

  Frankie had thought of another way to track down his estranged wife. It was so obvious that he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. When the time was right—just gone nine thirty—and Robert was helping their mother to bed, Frankie went to the foot of the stairs and picked up the phone.

  He kept the home phone number of his brief in his wallet, for emergencies, but when his wallet was confiscated as he entered Her Majesty’s finest hotel he couldn’t contact the attorney at home. He dialled the number now and listened to the ringing of the phone on the other end.

  As he waited, he decided this would be the last time he would visit his mother until he came to pay his respects. Looking at her, all frail and winkled and grey, coughing up blood and pissing in her chair, made him feel sick to the stomach. She wasn’t his mother anymore, just an empty shell, a babbling and drooling clone as though she’d been taken over by some alien parasite like you read in those science fiction stories, the ones that come and take over your body and look like you and smell like you but aren’t you. He read a lot of those stories. He liked that one about androids dreaming of electric sheep, but he couldn’t remember what it was called.

  When Henry Turner picked up the phone at the other end, Frankie could hardly hear him over the sound of loud music and laughter.

  ‘Henry, mate, it’s Frankie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Catchpole.’

  ‘Oh. You’re out, I hear.’

  ‘Few days ago,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Look, is this a social call?’ Henry Turner asked. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re having a party.’

  ‘It’s my daughter’s twenty-first.’

  ‘Maybe I should come over.’

  ‘No.
Listen, was there something you wanted?’

  ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

  Sarah sat on the edge of Kevin’s bed with her head in her hands. Kevin was asleep and the only sounds in the room were his deep breathing and the tick of the wall clock.

  She had been sitting there for some time now, not watching him sleep, not trying to wake him, just comforted by the knowledge that she was not alone.

  She found herself crying, silently, without sobs, and it surprised her. Her hands were slick with tears when she finally pulled them away from her face. It was impossible for Frankie Catchpole to find her now. She wasn’t even using his surname anymore, though officially she still carried the name around like a lead weight. Wherever she could, she used her maiden name, Derry. She could be foolish sometimes. She should have dumped his name like she dumped his wedding ring. She should have filed for divorce like everyone had told her to.

  Eventually, she rubbed her hands on her jeans and stood to leave. She looked around Kevin’s bedroom, at the few toys and jigsaws on top of the wardrobe, at the mess of yesterday’s clothes on the floor in the corner, all the artefacts of childhood, and was loath to make him give it all up and join her on the run again. She wouldn’t let it happen. They had settled this time; finally found somewhere to call home.

  As she turned and walked to the bedroom door, Kevin’s small and timid voice said, ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

  Sarah sniffed, rubber her eyes. ‘Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  He sat up in bed and asked again, ‘What’s wrong?’

  She went to his bedside, crouched, kissed him, and said, ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, and she cried even harder. She knelt and laid her head on the bed and she sobbed. She felt his hand on her head as his fingers combed her hair. ‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ he said again and she knew he was crying too—he never called her Mummy anymore unless he was upset. ‘Don’t cry.’

  Chapter Six