IT’S TRUE WHAT they say.
An Englishman’s home really is his cavern.
I got up from my bearskin, pulled aside the pelt covering the cave entrance, and sighed. Was I the luckiest girl in the Jurassic, or what! My eyes travelled over the steep sides of the gorge, the river snaking through down below, the sun angling through the trees. Sometimes I almost have to pinch myself. Here’s me, a girl from the booncaves, living the high life in Beverly Holes, waking up to the best view in the world, and going to bed with the finest man to ever throw a spear.
I glanced over my shoulder at the rib cage rising and falling under the bear skin. I fell in love with Spruce the moment I saw him. I was gathering berries. He was out on the plains with his best mate, Jagga. The two of them were skinning a mastodon, a mammoth task I can tell you, but despite the blood and stench and sweat, Spruce jumped up, punched the air, and began to sing. I smiled across at the sleeping figure, remembering it as though it was only last year. Well, actually it was only last year. Not the point. It was his voice, carrying clear across the open space, that sent goosepimples down my arms, and I nearly dropped my basket when he looked right into my eyes.
‘Tramps like us,’ he sang, ‘baby, we were born to hunt.’
Tears welled in my eyes then. They still do.
I know it’s hereditary, and that all the Stonesteens are terrific singers, but Spruce stood head and shoulders above the rest of his family. Not physically, of course. I mean his voice. His delivery. The way he wove words and chords together. Throughout the months he took me clubbing—and I hate to brag, but I still have some of the bruises—he couldn’t stop talking about the plans he and Jagga had for forming their own boulder-and-roll band.
Enough of this strolling down memory lane, though. Spruce was stirring. Time to fire up the George Beforeman grill, and cook my man his breakfast.
‘Hello?’ a voice called from below. ‘Is the Boss in?’
Spruce walked out to the ledge and peered down. ‘She sure is. Hold on, I’m sending the elevator down.’ He unrolled the rope ladder and let it fall. ‘Come on up.’
‘Bo!’ I squealed. ‘Lovely to see you!’
If you want the latest gossip, no one’s ear was closer to the ground.
‘You, too Dinah.’ He heaved off the pack of pelts strapped to his back, and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Marriage suits you, darling. You’re positively glowing.’
He wasn’t talking to me.
‘You can thank your business partner for that,’ Spruce gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder.
Bo and I had worked closely for as long as I can remember. He designed next season’s fashions and cut the material to suit, I sewed the pieces together. The famous Bo Nydle and Dinah Sewer, what a team!
‘Right, then, that’s me off.’ Spruce tucked his skinning knife in his belt and picked up his spear. ‘What do you fancy for dinner tonight? Bison or antelope?’
‘Bison,’ I said. I’m not into fast food.
I swear he wasn’t half way down the elevator, before Bo started dishing the celebrity dirt. ‘You remember Poppy, who modelled stripes for us last summer? Poor darling’s distraught. That shaman she moved in with only broke up with her, didn’t he? And by cave painting, too, the snivelling coward. Then last night, in the Fight-or-Flight Club, I was just heading for the cave marked Hunters, when guess who I saw coming out of the Gatherers? Merry Berri, no less, talking about Dahlia, the smith’s daughter, saying everything she cooks tastes like pterodactyl...’
I drank in all the gossip while sorting through the pelts (he was going for spots this season, then?) thinking it would be easy to stitch this lot together, hardly anything there. Gosh, there were going to be some chilly willies this autumn— ‘Say that again. The bit about Vlad Pritt.’
‘Dead. I know, darling. What a shock.’
‘That’s the bummer of it, Bo. We eat lean, we eat clean, we keep fit, no processed food, tons of fibre, and dammit we’re still dead by the time we hit thirty-five.’
‘This wasn’t natural causes. Dear old Vlad took the wheel out for a spin, and pfft. Never came back.’
‘Not another case of woad wage?’
Bo leaned close. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but the poor bugger fell asleep at the wheel.’
‘Holy moon, did it fall on him?’
‘Worse.’ His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘He stopped for a breather and was resting against it, when a sabre tooth tiger pounced. Which reminds me. Have you seen the size of the mastodon Mork Jagga painted outside his entrance? All I can say is, don’t believe everything you read.’
‘I will not, repeat not, have that name spoken inside my home, and you know it.’
‘Sorry, darling, I forgot. Your cave, your rules.’
All those plans Spruce and Jagga made about forming their own band? Dammit, Jagga only went off and started the Rolling Boulders on his own, with himself as lead howler, and not a word about it to Spruce until it was done. I kept telling my husband that it didn’t matter. That he’d be great as a solo artist—maybe even better—but it was the sneaking around, the lies, the back-stabbing, that hurt him. Hurt him to the core, and then some.
‘If it helps, love, Jagga doesn’t have a fraction of the downloads that he had last year. Barely ten chips off the old block, compared to over a hundred for Sprucie—‘
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘What I’m saying, darling, is that he’s not turning out songs that people will still be humming a thousand years later, and it’s not because he’s not talented. Just that he’s made so many green pebbles, he just wants to spend them, but oh dear, talk about lack of taste. I mean, have you seen his art collection? So paleolithic, and all those handprints on the walls? I said to him, Mork, you have to stop with the selfies—ooh, is this Sprucie’s latest song?’
I looked up from sorting the leopard pelts from the cheetahs to see Bo flicking through my husband’s Apple i-boulder.
‘Wow, these lyrics are amazing. You can’t stoke a fire, you can’t stoke a fire without a spark, this spear’s for hire, even if we’re just shooting for a lark.’
That was yet another bone of contention, I told Bo. Spruce’s original title was Jumpin’ Black Fish, but somehow Jagga got wind of it, and next thing you know, he’s blasting out his own song under that title.
‘Don’t let it get to you, sweet. Mork’s too busy partying these days to give The Stonesteen any kind of competition. Every night, he’s pulling a different girl. Frankly, I’m amazed they have any hair left to pull, and that stuff they smoke? Let’s just say they don’t call it chickweed for nothing. Honestly, Dinah, if you saw the shenanigans that go on over there—’
‘Seriously? I can hardly bloody miss them!’
As if things weren’t bad enough, Jagga moved into the cavern right across the gorge from us, after that lovely Glint Westwood moved out.
‘Every night there’s a dinosorgy, with naked girls prancing about, men glued to their shell phones, that fermented grape juice from Tuskani flowing like water.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘None of the neighbours can sleep for the music blasting into the wee small hours. Trust me, Bo Nydle. That sacks and drags and boulder-and-roll lifestyle is going to kill Mork Jagga one day.’
A QUARTER MOON later, I was round at Poppy’s, consoling her. The poor girl was still distraught over the break-up, and understandably so. The match-making window is short enough as it is, and, thanks to that pig of a shaman, she’d have to wait until the spring gathering of the clans before casting around for a new mate. So I was hoping to cheer her up with a preview of the autumn fashions, and at the same time, since the cut was so...let’s say economical...make sure the shaman saw what he was missing. Literally, given the way Bo had cut this season’s pelts, but that’s not the point. No one took to the catwalk better than Poppy, and it lifted my heart to see the spring in her step as I pinned her into the leopardskin pelt. (Oh, come on. I could hardly bring a cheetah round, could I?) Besides. I wanted to share my good news.
‘You remember that patent I put in for?’
‘The one where you took some kind of fat and made it lather up, so it cleans all the mud off our bodies?’
‘That’s it.’ Foamosapiens. ‘Well, Blakkandecka bought the rights to manufacture and market, and look how much they’re prepared to pay.’ I chipped open my tablet and showed her the figure. Neither of us had seen so many vertical lines. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Oh, hell, yes!’ Poppy’s eyes twinkled and bulged as she jumped up and down, clapping her hands in excitement. ‘Well, actually, no...’
‘It means that between Spruce’s singing, my sewing and Foamosapiens hitting the market, we’ll be able to buy Jagga out.’
No more watching my husband’s nose being rubbed in his best friend’s betrayal. No more noisy parties. No more chickweed stinking the air. And especially no more having my sister blackmailed into gathering berries for her mother-in-law as well as her own family, or her brother-in-law would show her husband his cave painting of my sister with Jagga.
‘Free at last,’ I told Poppy.
Which is more than she’d ever be in that leopard skin. I’d sewn it so tight, the poor girl could hardly breathe, but! As I said. Perfect catwalk model.
‘Here,’ I said, squinting at the hawks, snakes and eyes scored into the wall. ‘Are those hieroglyphs?’
‘They certainly are.’ Poppy twirled and adopted a pose. ‘I’m learning a second language for when the clans gather next year, because I want Arno Shortsandkickers to see that I’m not some empty-headed bimbo.’
‘Arno Shortsandkickers? For pity’s sake, Poppy, he’s a lazy good-for-nothing womaniser, who doesn’t know his auroch from his elbow.’
‘I know. A keeper, right?’
I was this close from banging my head against the wall in frustration, when Bo burst in to the cave. ‘Have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Poppy and I chorused.
It had to be big for him not to notice the pride of his autumn collection parading round the fire pit.
‘Jagga.’ He slumped down. ‘He’s dead.’
‘I told you that lifestyle would kill him,’ I said smugly, because I might have my faults, but being wrong isn’t one of them.
‘It wasn’t the weed or the booze that did for him, Dinah.’ Bo wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘Mork was murdered.’
GEESE FLY. TIME flies. Flies fly. None of them, trust me, flew faster than I did that day.
‘You were with me.’
Spruce looked up from where he was sharpening his spear. ‘I was?’
‘You were.’
‘And where, exactly, were we..?’
‘Here. We were here.’ I wasn’t breathless from the run. Well, OK, I was. The main reason I couldn’t breathe, though, was fear. ‘We were home all day, trying to make babies, all right?’
‘Someone’s been at the goatskin of brandy, I see.’
Usually I love to hear his rich, deep chuckle. Not today. ‘This isn’t funny.’ I scoured the gorge, expecting to hear the clomp of heavy feet. ‘When Hemlock Holmes comes asking, you were here. With me.’
‘Why on earth would he want to question me?’
‘Jagga. He’s—‘
‘I know.’
‘I know you know, that’s the point.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘And frankly, I don’t blame you. Jumpin’ Black Fish was the last straw, I understand that. But Holmes won’t, and—‘
‘Wait. You think I killed him?’ His jaw dropped. ’Babe, Mork was my best friend.’
‘Until he wasn’t,’ I snapped. ‘He formed a band behind your back—‘
‘Only because he thought I was better than playing second fiddle to him. Which, by the way, I can’t actually play, but we decided that if he pretended to freeze me out, people would think I had no other choice than to fly solo. And our plan worked. Look at the publicity from that fake feud. Our sales soared.’
‘You could at least have told me.’
‘Don’t be cross, babe. It was such a big deal, and if Bo Nydle found out—‘
‘How dare you think I’d betray your secret!’
‘Not on purpose, but you’re so open and honest, Dinah. If you were chatting and accidentally let it slip, there’s no way he’d have kept that to himself, no matter how much he crossed his heart and hoped to die.’
True.
‘But the song title. Jumpin’ Black Fish? Jagga stole that from you.’
‘That’s a load of aurochs. My new song’s called Prancin’ in the Park, fish don’t even feature in it.’ Spruce spiked his hands through his hair. ‘I can’t believe you’d think I killed him.’
‘You came home covered in blood.’
‘Duh. I’m a hunter...’
‘But you were back so early! The sun had hardly moved round the sky.’
Spruce pointed to the clearing by the river below. Explained how he was just about to cross, when a stag came down to drink, and hey presto. Venison steaks and venison stew, with a lovely set of antlers for the wall.
‘Those?’ I was horrified. They were enormous. ‘You shouldn’t have tackled a beast that size on your own. Good grief, those stags can grow up to six feet.’
‘Yes, but usually they only grow four.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I thought so.’ He pulled me into his big, strong arms and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. Before I knew it—well, let’s just say, we wouldn’t have been lying to Hemlock Holmes about staying at home making babies...
The sun was sinking by the time we wriggled out from under the bearskin.
‘Next you’ll be telling me that Jagga moving in across the other side of the gorge was all part of the plan.’
Spruce pointed to the fire. ‘Everyone’s on Smokenger these days, but Mork and I connected through Instasmoke. Much quicker.’
Had I really been too busy stitching pelts to notice what was right under my nose? Sadly, yes.
THE FULL MOON came, and still no news about who might have had it in for Jagga. Rumours abounded. Jealous husbands. Jilted lovers. Drug-crazed fans and stalkers. Angry neighbours driven to their limit was what my little green pebbles were on, only everyone Holmes questioned had an alibi, which of course they would. That’s the whole point of clans, safety in numbers. Down in the gorge, the leaves began to turn, there was a chill in the air now, and it wouldn’t be long before we’d have to dig out our winter furs. The constellations shifted. Another full moon lit the sky, and as much as everyone pretended life went on as normal, it did not. We were all looking over our shoulder now. Wondering, was it personal? Or was the killing random, are we next? My heart was in my mouth every time Spruce went out to hunt. It didn’t stop racing until he returned home safe and sound. In fact, the moon had waned to another nerve-racking quarter before we got to the bottom of the mystery, and naturally, it was Bo who heard it first.
‘They got him,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Turns out it was one of those—what’s the term for blokes who don’t want to hunt, tan or fish, but go on long, aimless rambles instead?’
‘You mean a meanderthal?’
‘That’s it. Anyway, seems this bloke knew Jagga liked to swagga with a sack of green pebbles on his back, so everyone could see he was rolling in it. And being a lazy sod, our drifter reasoned, why work for it, when you could simply take it?’
Vile senseless crimes committed by vile selfish people? Nothing ever changes, it would seem.
‘How did they catch him?’
‘He only did it again, didn’t he? On the far side of the mountain, except this time there was a witness, who picked him out of the fotofit line-up etched on Holmes’ wall.’
‘They’re just stick figures,’ I said.
‘And this was a stick-up.’
Which, like Jagga’s murder, also went horribly wrong.
I broke the news to Spruce the instant he came home that evening. Especially how Hemlock Holmes was able to tie the drifter to the killing, because he was still wearing Jagga’s distinctive sabre tooth amulet round his neck.
‘I gave Mork that,’ Spruce said. ‘The day we made our pact.’
I sniffed. ‘I’m so, so sorry I accused you of his murder. I don’t know how you managed to forgive me—‘
‘Easy, babe. You put two and two together, and come up with twenty-two every time, which is why I couldn’t tell you about our plan.’ He scooped me in his arms. ‘You don’t have a devious bone in your body, Dinah, but from tragedy comes tribute. Listen to what I’ve written about Mork—‘
He began to sing.
‘Drawing in a dead friend’s town, lots of blood when he hit the ground... I’m calling it “Drawn to a New Essay,” what do you think?’
I snuggled closer.
‘What I think, Spruce Stonesteen, is that now is a very good time to tell you about the baby we’re having.’
And cross my fingers that it doesn’t look like his father. Mork Jagga’s nose was pretty damn distinctive...