TWO

On Friday, Hibou opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and silence fell in the kitchen.

‘What? Do I look daft?’ She looked down at what she was wearing.

Nobody had seen her out of overalls or jeans since she’d been at the farm. Now she was wearing a short blue corduroy skirt and a suede jacket, open over a pale turtleneck jumper.

Mrs Tozer had been mixing a batter. She paused, bowl under one arm.

‘They fit really well, don’t they?’

Old man Tozer made a strange noise: half splutter, half groan.

‘Why is nobody saying nothing? Hel? You said I could borrow your clothes.’

A dollop of batter splodged onto the floor. Still nobody moved.

‘Those aren’t my clothes,’ said Helen quietly.

‘Oh. But I thought you said…’

Breen looked at Helen’s parents, both open-mouthed.

‘They were in Paddy’s room,’ Hibou explained. ‘And I thought they were yours… I’m sorry.’ She turned to head back up the stairs. ‘I’ll go and change them.’

‘I never threw them away,’ said Mrs Tozer.

‘No,’ said old man Tozer, finding his voice. ‘It’s OK.’

Everybody turned to look at him now. His eyes seemed redder than usual.

‘I thought they were a bit, you know, bigger…’ said Hibou.

The clothes fitted Hibou well. They made her look much older than her seventeen years; much more sophisticated. Helen was skinny. Breen looked at the swell beneath the suede jacket. Her sister, Alexandra, must have been larger than her, too.

‘You look lovely, my dear,’ said Mrs Tozer, wooden spoon starting to move again.

And Hibou beamed and shook out her blonde hair. Briefly, Breen caught Helen’s eye. She looked away, unnerved.

The spoon clacked against the side of the pudding basin.

‘Don’t look,’ said Helen. ‘It’s my ex.’

‘Where?’ said Hibou.

‘In the lounge bar. By the window. Oh, God, no.’

The public bar was standing room only, air damp from wet clothes and thick with smoke. There was a jukebox playing Elvis Presley.

‘The one with the little moustache? He looks OK,’ said Hibou, peering past the bar into the room beyond.

‘You are blind.’

Breen was having trouble protecting his arm from the jostling around him in the Union Inn. Neither he nor Hibou was drinking. In a pub like this it wouldn’t have mattered she was underage, but she didn’t like alcohol, she said. He was still on antibiotics.

‘You really went out with him?’ Hibou said. ‘When was that?’

‘Yonks ago. We were engaged for a bit. Almost married.’

‘Never? You? I can’t imagine that.’

‘That was the problem. Neither could I.’

Breen was drinking Coca-Cola. Helen was on rum-and-black.

‘See? This is why I hate being back here. This place is too small.’

‘In London I felt lost,’ Hibou said. ‘People are friendly here, I think.’

‘’Cause you’re in a miniskirt,’ said Helen. ‘That’s why they’re friendly.’

‘Don’t,’ said Hibou, but she smiled all the same.

It was true, though. Hibou exuded a kind of obvious sexiness that Helen didn’t have. People turned their heads. Men stared at the bare legs, then upwards to the rest of her. Breen wondered if it had been like that with Alexandra, too. He also wondered how aware Hibou was of the effect she had. A little too aware, perhaps.

‘I’d have hundreds of children if I was married. Would you have kids, Hel?’

Helen shuddered. ‘I don’t ruddy think so.’

‘Why not?’

A young man with sideburns approached. Through a straggle of long hair, Breen noticed a tattoo of a swallow on his neck. He leaned forward, towards Hibou, putting his hand on the wall behind her. ‘You new around here?’

‘She’s helping us out on the farm,’ said Helen. ‘Leave her alone, Spud.’

‘I like shy, me. You want to be a farmer, do you, darling? I’m a farmer.’

Helen said to Breen quietly, ‘You OK?’

‘Not my thing, really,’ he said.

Spud and Hibou were talking. She didn’t seem to mind. She was laughing at something the young man was saying.

Helen said, ‘What were you looking for, up at the spinney, when you fell?’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there. Did I upset your father?’

She looked past him, towards the lounge bar. ‘Did you find anything?’

He shook his head. ‘I just fell. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. I just thought if I looked I might see something. I’m supposed to be a policeman.’

‘Supposed to be,’ said Helen.

‘Did you ever see any reports? Any paperwork about what they’d done?’

She shook her head. ‘I always got the idea they never told us everything. Didn’t want to upset us.’

He nodded. ‘You look tired,’ he said.

Helen glanced over towards Hibou. ‘Oi, Spud! She’s only sixteen.’

‘I don’t mind if she don’t.’

‘Seventeen, actually. Almost.’

‘The farm’s losing money,’ Helen said. ‘Our herd’s yield is way down and we had too many new stillborns. Milk prices are down since they scrapped free milk for secondary schools. I don’t know where the money’s coming from, be honest. We need to get through this winter first, then sort it out.’

‘You’re a different woman down here,’ said Breen.

‘Boring, you mean.’ She swilled down the rest of her glass and licked the rim.

‘When I’m back in London,’ said Breen, ‘will you come and visit me?’

‘I miss London so much already,’ she said.

‘Heard of Tyrannosaurus Rex?’ Spud was saying to Hibou.

She nodded. ‘They’re OK.’

‘I’m getting tickets. Next month. Want to come, Hel?’

Helen sniffed. ‘They do all that Hobbity stuff.’

‘It’s, like, psychedelic.’ He mimed smoking a joint.

Hibou giggled. Spud, reaching to put his arm around her, said, ‘I’m going to Marrakech in the summer. Hitchhiking.’

‘You? You’ve never been further than Bristol,’ said Helen.

‘Bollocks,’ said Spud. ‘I went to London when I was eighteen. Tower of London. Everything.’

‘People who go to Morocco don’t come back,’ said Hibou. ‘Boy from the squat I used to live in said he knew someone who went there. Disappeared.’

‘Too much wacky baccy I expect,’ said Helen.

‘No. Seriously. Just vanished. Him and the other guy he was on the road with.’

‘You used to live in a squat?’ said Spud, impressed.

‘Oi, Spud. Leave that poor girl alone and get us another.’ Helen held out her glass to him.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Spud.

‘I suppose you want one, mister?’ Spud asked Breen.

Breen shook his head.

‘You OK?’ Helen said to Hibou when he was at the bar. ‘I’ll tell him to bog off, if you like.’

‘He’s a bit of a laugh, that’s all.’

‘You written that letter?’

Hibou shook her head.

‘You promised me. God. He’s spotted us,’ said Helen.

‘Who?’

Breen looked. Her ex was waving across the bar to them.

The fact that, apart from Hibou and himself, everyone was drunk made Breen feel even more sober. Sergeant Sharman was pushing his way through the crowd towards Breen, hand out, bouncing off other drinkers as he made his way across the room. They had met before; he was younger than Breen by a couple of years, but jowlier and rounder at the waist.

‘Breen, isn’t it?’

Breen held out his good hand to shake.

‘Hadn’t expected to see you back down here, city boy,’ Sharman said, looking Breen up and down. ‘Don’t tell me. You and Helen must be courting, then?’

‘No,’ said Breen. ‘It’s not that.’

‘Word to the wise, chum. She’s a tricky one.’ He laughed. ‘I know that from personal experience. But good luck to you.’

‘We’re not going out,’ said Breen. ‘I’m just down here on sick leave.’

‘Hel. She’s a bit of a handful, ain’t that right, Spud?’

Spud, returning from the bar with a rum-and-black, scowled.

‘Mind you, you’re a bit of a handful yourself, so I hear,’ he said to Spud. ‘We’re keeping an eye on you, lad.’

‘I’m not going out with Helen,’ Breen shouted above the noise.

‘Sick leave? Bit of skiving?’

‘He was shot,’ said Hibou.

‘What?’

‘He was shot,’ shouted Hibou louder, and the pub suddenly went quiet.

Everybody seemed to turn and look at Breen.

‘What?’

‘Almost killed,’ said Hibou more quietly.

‘Ruddy hell. Where was he shot?’

Hibou pointed at Breen’s shoulder.

‘Did you get him?’ asked Sharman.

‘Sort of,’ said Breen. He remembered the nightmare he’d been having. The man who shot him eventually fell nineteen floors from the top of a London tower block.

‘Bloody hell.’

A man in a worn overcoat said, ‘What’s that like, then, being shot?’

Everyone was clamouring around Breen now.

‘Bet it bloody hurt.’

‘Drink, boy?’

‘Proper hero, you are.’

‘That right?’ said Sharman. ‘You were shot?’

Breen nodded.

‘Bloody Nora. London. Mad, in’t it?’

‘Let him sit down. He’s injured.’

Somebody got a chair and pushed it at Breen. Sharman pulled one up next to him.

‘We don’t get that many shootings round here,’ said someone, thrusting a pint of beer at him.

Sharman asked, ‘Where did Helen go?’

‘Lav,’ said Hibou.

Drunk, Sharman looked her up and down, licked his moustache, then turned his attention to Breen again.

‘Hurt still?’

Breen nodded.

He pulled his chair closer to Breen. ‘How is Hel? Police weren’t to her taste, then?’

‘No, no. She had to come back because of her father.’

Sharman stopped smiling. Everyone knew why Mr Tozer had fallen apart. He hadn’t been the same since his daughter was murdered. No policeman liked to be reminded of cases they have failed to solve.

‘Helen says he turned in on himself after her sister was killed. But it got really bad this winter. He’d pretty much given up on the farm.’

The chatter of the pub drifted back.

‘Terrible thing,’ said Sharman. He looked around uncomfortably. ‘Expect you’re bored silly. Play darts? We got a team at the station in Torquay. You could come down. Got a board in the canteen.’

‘Bad shoulder,’ he said. He was grateful for the excuse. He didn’t want to spend his time here in a country police station.

‘Something else then. Maybe you should come out with us boys one evening. You probably need a bit of a laugh.’

‘Maybe,’ said Breen.

‘Course you do.’

Helen was weaving her way back from the Ladies, scowling.

‘Hello.’ Sharman stood, smiling, leaning forward towards her.

‘Thought you were a married man,’ said Helen.

‘Don’t mean I can’t go out for a drink on a Friday night. We’ve missed you.’

He leaned towards her to give her a hug.

‘Get off.’ Helen scowled, lit a cigarette without offering him one. ‘How’s the kiddies?’

‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘Come on. We used to be mates.’

‘Get us a drink then,’ she said. ‘Double rum-and-black. You want anything?’ she called to Hibou, who shook her head.

Hibou was on her own again; the lad she’d been flirting with had made himself scarce now Sharman was around. ‘You all right? Want to head home soon?’

‘I’m OK,’ she said.

A man was selling raffle tickets for a leg of lamb. Breen shook his head.

Helen and Freddie Sharman were in conversation now. Sharman had his arm around her and Breen noticed her leaning into him, her lips close to his ear. As she talked, Sharman glanced over and looked straight at Breen. Were they talking about him? They must be.

Breen felt irritated. She would be telling him about how he was hating it down here, probably. Breen didn’t mind Sharman. He was a good enough copper. But she shouldn’t be fooling around with him like this.

Now Sharman was shaking his head. Helen was smiling at him still.

He realised that Hibou was looking at him, too. She must have noticed the look on his face as he watched Helen and Sharman.

‘Helen said you had a thing with her in London,’ said Hibou.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nothing serious.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s not my type. Or I’m not hers.’

‘Your type?’ she said. ‘What’s all that? You’re just building walls around you.’

‘What do you know? You’re just sixteen.’

‘Seventeen tomorrow.’

He looked around the pub full of drunkards and farm boys. The window was dripping with condensation. Outside, it was dead and black. The London streets would be bright, full of artificial light. They would be busy with buses and taxis. People you didn’t know doing so many different things, talking in different accents, dressing in different clothes. There would be films to see and concerts to go to.

It was that feeling of wanting to hear a well-loved song again. He would kill for a decent cup of coffee, too.

Breen and Hibou walked back from the pub together, Hibou quiet, self-absorbed, Breen silently angry at Helen. There was a lock-in back at the pub. ‘You go home, Paddy. Not your scene,’ Helen had said.

When they got to the farm Breen opened the small cupboard under the stairs and pulled out the big silver torch. Hibou watched him, puzzled, but didn’t ask what he wanted it for.

That night, again, he lay in bed wide awake. At around one by the luminous hands on his watch he heard Helen returning from the pub, tripping up the stairs. However drunk she was, he would have liked it if she had come to knock on his door on her way to bed, but she didn’t. Soon he could hear her snoring softly at the other end of the corridor.

At around two he sat up straight, yanked himself from the bed. At the window he switched on the torch. The light barely made it across the farmyard to the henhouse. He waved the torch backwards and forwards, but there was no one there. The gate was still closed. He had thought he heard someone moving around out there, perhaps opening the gate to the enclosure, but it must have just been his imagination.

He switched off the torch again and the world became completely black.