by AB Morgan
‘Hang on mate, I may have an answer for you.’ Keith could be heard shouting across the office at his end of the telephone line. ‘Rachel. Quick question. You called Anna Chamberlain back yesterday or whenever. Was she referred through to services in Lensham?’ There was a pause before Rory had his answer. Rachel had phoned the local mental health community services in Lensham to give them a heads up on Anna’s request for help, only to be told she had been closed to follow-up appointments because she failed to engage with them.
‘The last time she was seen was about two years ago.’
‘Can you tell me what she was on when she was with your team?’
‘No of course I can’t tell you she was on antidepressants and antipsychotics. That would be a breach of confidentiality. Neither can I confirm her diagnosis of psychotic depression. If her diagnosis was correct then she could be prone to relapse …’
‘Not just an extreme adjustment reaction to her husband’s death then?’
‘No. Not that straightforward I’m afraid. She had been low in mood for a while during his tour to Afghanistan according to the notes in front of me, which of course I’m not reading to you.’
‘Of course. That would be professional misconduct and several other major misdemeanours.’
Both men sighed into their phones simultaneously. With Anna’s assault on Brenda, the issue of risk to the public had raised its thorny head. ‘The police are looking for her, so that’s my best bet. But if she turns up here today I need a plan.’
‘Local crisis team?’
‘I could give it a shot but I’d be surprised if they’ll accept a referral from me. What I might do next is approach the GP, tell her what I’ve witnessed, and perhaps she can make a direct referral to crisis services. That may be my only option.’
‘Be careful. The last thing you need is to have her confronting you again, especially if she’s hostile, paranoid and delusional.’
‘Don’t worry I don’t intend to. I have a boxer’s nose courtesy of that girl already. The last thing I need is more physical damage to my head. It’s already screwed up inside.’ Although spoken in jest, Rory could not have been more serious. He thanked Keith for his help and promised to stay in touch, even though he wasn’t convinced he could keep to his word. He wanted to, but he couldn’t imagine being able to hold his emotions in check if they did meet in person again. Keith had been too close to Sara.
It was far too early to phone the GP practice to speak to Dr Dalby about Anna, so Rory busied himself by preparing for the day’s students and it occurred to him that Steve was not going to be amused. Three brand new students wanting to pass their CBT and none of them had reached the tender age of eighteen.
‘Oh fuckin’ joy of joys,’ were Steve’s first words when he was given the news. ‘We have to spend the day running a crèche for hormonal fuckwits who never listen to instructions and can’t string a sentence together. Here comes the first one. Blue fuckin’ hair. What’s that about?’ Both instructors watched as the puny boy with an electric-blue floppy fringe waved goodbye to his mother as she drove off in her battered Nissan Micra, leaving him staring at the portacabin as if he were about to enter prison for life. He clasped the requisite paperwork to his chest to prevent it from being shaken out of his hand by the rampaging tremors of anxiety threatening to turn into flat panic. He dithered in the doorway.
‘Come in young mate. Don’t look so worried, we won’t hurt ya. We’re here to help you learn to ride a motorbike.’
Rory winked across at Steve, who, seconds before, had blustered and moaned like an old misery-guts. He knew the gnarly Kiwi was a soft-hearted man underneath the greying goatee and worn, black leather exterior.
‘You give your paperwork to the miserable skinny beanpole over there. That’s Rory Norton, our lead instructor. You may have heard of him, thanks to his parents, he’s named after a motorbike. He should have joined the Royal Marines, but he let them down badly. It’s true.’
The blue-haired youth stood staring at both men in turn, eyes wide, pale hands shaking as he offered the paperwork to Rory. Steve continued in the same vein, even though the boy standing wringing his hands together had probably never heard of a Norton Commando before.
‘Fortunately he saw the light and followed his true calling. Motorbikes, my boy. Sex on two wheels. What’s your name?’
‘Kyle Quinn.’
‘Welcome, Kyle. Let’s do a quick check on your visual acuity, as they say, then you can take a seat. Ah, now here come the other two young men we’re expecting. What names have we got for them?’
‘We should have the company of a lad by the name of Gregor Townsend, his parents must be into their rugby, and the other guy should be … let me check … Wayne Fewtrell.’ As Rory said this, he caught Steve’s attention by cocking one eyebrow and miming the first swearword that came to mind.
Steve welcomed both newcomers in the same cheerful manner he had displayed when greeting the timid Kyle. Gregor turned out to be a polite and affable young man who was keen to make his way in the world through hard graft. He was studying for A’ levels and aiming for university. He handed Rory his paperwork including his theory test certificate and his provisional driving licence.
‘That’s great, now follow Steve and he’ll ask you to read a number plate from a distance. If that checks out then you can take your seat next to Kyle. Wayne, can I see your papers please?’ Wayne was a tall, thickset lad with a shock of dark spiked hair. His dark eyes, obnoxious manner and arrogant stance helped to confirm that he was indeed related to Leonard Fewtrell.
‘I ain’t got it with me.’
The lids to Rory’s eyes closed and opened slowly as the inevitability of what was to come next sunk in. ‘You need to have your licence with you otherwise you can’t undertake your CBT, I’m afraid. We can give you a few minutes to go home and fetch it, but that’s all. Do you live locally?’ Rory was sure he hadn’t seen the boy living next door.
‘It ain’t there yet.’
‘What “ain’t there yet”? Your provisional? Then where is it?’
‘They ain’t sent it back.’
Rory rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead as he let out a lengthy sigh of resignation. ‘Wayne, I’m sorry, but without your provisional licence you cannot continue this morning. When you receive your licence then rebook. Okay?’
‘No, it’s not fucking okay. I’ve paid for this lesson.’ Wayne Fewtrell narrowed his eyes as he spat his frustration out. ‘I ain’t going nowhere.’ He stomped one foot loudly on the floor of the cabin.
‘Fine by me. You can stay and watch the other two lads. It’ll be useful for you. However, like it or not, you cannot take your CBT without a provisional diving licence. You can swear and you can stamp your feet, but that is the law.’
‘Fuck the law. What are you? A copper or something? You can’t tell me what to do.’
Rory was restrained. ‘Yes, I can. Now I suggest you leave quietly while I’m still willing to rebook you for another day.’
‘Or what?’ Wayne growled with a nasty sneer.
‘Or you can do your CBT with another company.’ Rory kept his voice flat and low in tone, assertive. ‘Well?’
Wayne stiffened and a furrow formed between his two dark eyebrows. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’
Rory wanted to laugh at the boy but thought better of it. ‘No. I’ve never met you before in my life. It wouldn’t matter if I did know you. The rule is a simple one: no licence, no lesson. You had the information sent to you. Look, you seem like a bright enough lad, so I assume you read the instructions and advice, otherwise you wouldn’t have arrived on time and wearing suitable clothing.’
Wayne turned on his heels and, in one slick move, kicked out at the chairs next to Kyle sending the blue-haired boy scurrying for the corner of the room in terror.
‘Fuck you!’ Wayne stomped out through the door barging into Steve who had returned with Gregor after the sight test. Steve was unimpressed, giv
ing Wayne nothing more than a grunt in response to his stroppy exit. ‘What’s got him packing a sad? Another teenage rampage? What’d he do? Forget his licence?’
‘Got it in one.’
There was an almighty crashing noise as Rory said this, which had him sprinting through the door in time to see Wayne kicking hard at a second motorbike. ‘Leave! Go! You forfeit your money and you cannot rebook. Understand? Now piss off.’ Rory was infuriated by Wayne’s behaviour but he knew better than to retaliate physically.
‘My grandad said you was a wanker. Fuck you. I ’ope you’ve got life insurance cause he’ll ’ave you buried, you tosser.’
By this time, Steve had taken up position leaning against the side of the portacabin taking a long draw on his vape pipe as he watched Wayne storm out of the premises. Meanwhile, Rory righted the Yamaha and inspected it for damage. ‘Thank God the postman and the DVLA were slow. If he’d received his licence we could have had him here all bloody day long, the little shit.’
‘I bet he never even filled in the form,’ Steve added. ‘People like them think they’re above the law, I reckon.’
It was lunchtime before Rory had chance to phone Dr Dalby’s practice and he was not reassured by the response he received from either the receptionist or from Janice Dalby. Steve was the first to hear the details as they sat outside on the bench, leaving Gregor and Kyle to finish their sandwiches in the portacabin. Kyle had sweated so much with nerves that the temporary blue dye had hastened its retreat from his hair and was running in smeary blue rivulets down his temples and the translucent white skin of his forehead.
‘We’ll give him one last go on a scooter, but the boy’s a bag of nerves and I don’t think he’s safe to take out on the road,’ Steve ventured.
‘I agree. So we’re down to one student. Never mind.’
‘What did the doc say about our girl Anna?’
Rory repeated almost exactly what the ineffective GP had given as a lame excuse for not acting to help. ‘She said the immortal words “Well, dear, as you know having being a mental health professional yourself, activity is good for depression. It can be as effective as medication, if not more so on occasion”. She had this really annoying squeaky patronising tone until I reminded her that people with depression don’t usually spend the greater part of the day talking to their dead husband.’
Steve punched Rory gently on his shoulder. ‘Nice one.’
‘She rang the local crisis team straight away, so with any luck Anna will be seen this afternoon … if they can find her.’
19
Mrs Norton Arrives for the Weekend
Leaving less than an hour after work to prepare to meet his mother at The Valiant for dinner, Rory had little time to think about the events of the day and he had all but forgotten about the incident with Wayne Fewtrell until there was a meaningful knock on his front door. Whoever it was had decided to by-pass the doorbell.
There, on the doorstep, stood Leo Fewtrell, his feet wide apart, pelvis thrust forward, hands in pockets, shoulders back. Rory’s heart began to hammer rhythmically and a cold feeling of imminent doom swept over him as he held onto the door for protection and turned sideways to present less of a target.
‘My grandson Wayne says you refused to give ’im a bike lesson today because ’e didn’t ’ave a licence. Is that right?’ The gruff voice resonated through Rory’s chest increasing the tension of the situation, but he forced himself to match Leo’s stern stare as he replied, ‘Yes. Exactly that.’
‘That’s what I thought. I ’ope he didn’t cause you too much bother. ’e’s got a foul temper on ’im. Says ’e kicked over one of the bikes. Any damage done?’ Rory felt wrong-footed. He began to wonder what the catch was as he shook his head.
‘Nothing beyond a few scratches on the paintwork.’ He waited for the explosion, for the fury and the punches to start flying, but they didn’t. Mad Leo Fewtrell merely swivelled and waved his hand in the air as he said, ‘let me know if you find any other damage. I’ll cover the cost. The boy ’as to learn to be more respectful of engineering. Well done for sticking to your guns.’
He then strode back towards the garden gate where he stopped. In the space afforded by the partly opened sheet metal gates, Rory spied Dylan watching the scene, covering Leo’s back as always. It appeared that Leo had something to add. He raised a finger in the air as if an idea had occurred to him. Following a sharp U-turn, he walked up the path towards Rory again. Serious face. Hands thrust into his deep trouser pockets. ‘Of course, you’ll make sure ’e passes when ’e turns up next.’
‘That depends.’
Leo captured Rory’s gaze and held it without blinking ‘Depends on what exactly?’ The tone had changed to one of greater menace.
‘It depends on whether he has his licence with him, his theory test certificate, and whether the examiner passes him through both modules. If he is prepared to listen and learn, then I can teach him to pass. No problem.’
‘What ’appened to riding round the block and doing an emergency stop when some old duffer pounces out in front of you with a clipboard? I thought you were one of them fellas.’
Rory could feel the tension in his own chest threatening to strangle his ability to talk with any authority on his specialist subject. When his throat began to close he feared he would sound like a nervous adolescent. He forced himself to breathe through his nose several times before trusting himself to respond.
‘No, those days are long gone I’m afraid. Passing a bike test is a lot more taxing these days and I’m an instructor, Mr Fewtrell. I can teach but I have no sway over the decisions of the examiners. As I said, if Wayne is willing to learn, then I can teach him. If he behaves himself.’ That last phrase resulted in Leo Fewtrell frowning and removing his fists from his pockets. Rory pulled back. ‘He’s an intelligent enough lad. I’m sure he’ll pass.’
‘You make sure ’e does, mind. Otherwise you and me’s gonna fall out. You don’t want me as an enemy, boy. Not now. Not ever.’ Leo Fewtrell paused for thought then strolled towards the waiting Dylan who was grinning, giving a thumbs up. ‘Make sure that boy fuckin’ passes!’ he yelled.
‘Make sure that boy has a fucking provisional licence before he turns up again,’ Rory shouted back, feeling braver now there was distance between his face and Leo’s fists. Unexpectedly, both Leo and Dylan Fewtrell laughed at the show of courage.
Even though adrenalin overload had ebbed away as rapidly as it had arrived, Rory was still shaking slightly as he closed and locked his front door. He leant against it for a minute to refocus. ‘How did I get away with that?’ he asked himself. Blowing a lungful of air out through pursed lips, he gathered his wits and was about to head for the shower to wash off the nervous sweat and the day’s dirt when he was diverted by a scraping sound. He stopped and moved into the lounge, which, with bay windows front and back, made for a light and airy room. He waited until he heard the sound again before striding towards the rear corner and sitting on his haunches to listen once more. It sounded as if the Fewtrells were moving heavy items around in the outhouse on the other side of the adjoining wall. There was a definite bang and scrape of an object being dragged against the brickwork.
Rory shrugged and continued with his plans for the evening. A Friday night was usually most people’s idea of the end of the week, but not for Rory. On any normal weekend he would have had lessons booked in on the Saturday. However, respecting his mother’s need to spend time with him, another colleague had been drafted in to cover his shifts, a trainee instructor from a sister branch would be in Steve’s enthusiastic hands. Rory could only hope that his work colleague would remember not to swear with such gusto, as was his usual pattern.
Feeling vibration in his pocket he pulled out his mobile. The text from Barney made him feel instantly better about the evening ahead.
* * *
‘Your mother is in the pub. Please hurry, she’s flirting with Rob. His drooling has resulted in my beer going as flat as
a witches tit and is such an unpleasant sight that Netty has been put off her pork scratchings!’
* * *
There was no time to waste. Rory tried to keep his showering routine to a minimum before dressing and marching out the door into the mellow evening. It was his habit to be rigorous with his hot shower after a sweaty day at work, and on this occasion, although he didn’t stay under the waterfall showerhead for so long, he scrubbed, cleaned and dried himself as thoroughly as always. Using the tips of his fingers, Rory felt the skin under both arms before deciding whether or not to shave them again. ‘Hmm, a bit stubbly,’ he concluded as he reached for the shower gel and sponge to lather up, taking the safety razor from its place on the soap dish.
After showering, he used copious amounts of roll-on deodorant and shaved. Once satisfied with the smoothness of his chin, he finished off with a dab of aftershave, cleaned his teeth and rinsed with minty mouthwash. Checking in the mirror, he rubbed a little hair sculpting clay through his short thick scruffy locks. ‘Not bad, even if I do say so myself.’
Ensuring that appliances were switched off at the wall and that the tiny red indicator lights were working on each smoke alarm, he took a jacket from the coat rack by the front door and slung it over one shoulder.
He hesitated before opening the door, remembering at the last second to put a torch in his pocket for the journey home and to leave an outside light on. Despite the sense of urgency contained in Barney’s text, he resisted a brisk walk to the pub for fear of undoing the good work achieved by his meticulous ablutions.
Before the large oak door was halfway open, Rory could hear his mother cooing. He forced himself to remain relaxed as he entered the busy bar of the beamy old inn, where the gentle hubbub of regulars drinking was interspersed by his mother’s unladylike cackle. His parents had divorced when he was a teenager and Rory continued to be torn. He didn’t see his father as often as he would have liked but they chatted often enough on the phone and kept up with each other’s lives via email. Since childhood, he had shared a love of bikes with his dad and, when they could, they would make arrangements to meet at a favourite motor museum and ride their motorbikes to spend a day together. Rory’s father was an ex-naval engineer who had an easy-going confidence about him.
