Razor fled deeper into the woods until his brain had unscrambled. Zigzagging, backtracking and paddling through water, he ran until he felt safe from pursuit. He subsided to a jog and put more distance between him and the incident, just in case. Now and again he looked back over his shoulder, but he was always alone and although the rational part of his mind doubted the police would mount a search after such a minor incident, he couldn’t make himself entirely sure. The whole thing baffled him. He had no doubt the man had been chasing the woman, so her reaction to Razor’s courageous intervention had stunned him, almost as much as her stick.
Maybe two hours later, having long ago slowed to a normal walk, he’d changed tack so many times he’d lost his bearings. However, even though the park was extensive, he could relax, for he had nowhere to be and would end up somewhere or other, sooner or later.
It came as a complete surprise when the boggy track he’d followed took him onto the broad ride up to the town gate where a police car lurked. A police officer was talking to a man with a small dog while another officer chatted to a woman with a grizzling kid in a buggy.
Razor performed a quick about turn and casually sauntered back into the woods, his heart thumping. It seemed they were out to get him after all!
‘Excuse me, sir.’ A loud official voice destroyed any hope they hadn’t noticed him.
He engaged headless chicken mode and fled until breathlessness forced a slowdown and gave him time to think. Now he’d got his bearings back, he remembered a splendid stone side gate that led onto Duck Mill Lane in a quiet and wealthy part of Sorenchester. Keeping alert, he adjusted his route and was relieved when the gate was open and unguarded. A quick reconnaissance of the area satisfied him that no one else was around. He sneaked through, adopted a casual saunter and turned down the path by the brook, Duck Mill’s water source in its working days before the church acquired the building for an old parsons’ home.
All was quiet except for rippling water, the distant murmur of traffic and a feisty wren in the branches above, but despite the apparent safety he thought it wise to change his appearance again. He considered the possibilities of a wig and stick-on beard, but the only place that sold such items around town was the party shop and he could not persuade himself that comedy hair would prove convincing. Perhaps something simpler, like a new coat and hat, would suffice.
Without further thought, except to give thanks the rain was still holding off, he removed his parka, stuffed it into a rubbish bin and headed towards town, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Euphoric at his continued freedom, he punched the air in triumph until guilt reminded him that he had no right to be happy. Even so, despite his best efforts, he felt more alive than he had in months. Cursing the adrenalin and endorphins he supposed were flooding his body with this unasked for well-being, he hurried into town, trying to regain his accustomed misery.
The Shambles, a broad avenue watched over by an imposing medieval church, was far busier than usual, with an excited crowd gathered around the Corn Hall. Curiosity persuaded Razor to linger.
A rotund, red-faced woman spoke to a lanky friend who’d just arrived. ‘Hiya, Sal. You hear what happened this morning?’
Sal shook her head.
‘Some lunatic attacked Danny in the park…’
‘No! Is he alright?’ Tears started in Sal’s eyes.
‘He’s fine, don’t worry. According to my pal who works at the hospital, he was only shaken up and winded.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yeah, but kudos to Helen—she beat the nutter off with a stick. The cops are hunting him now.’
‘Good for her. You know I always thought he was wasted on her, but maybe…’
No one had called Razor a nutter before and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He slipped away, trying to work out why the names Danny and Helen had struck a chord.
The new Camping and Outdoor shop on Vermin Street had a sale on. Razor entered, nodded at the spotty youth at the till, and browsed. After a few minutes, he settled for a dull grey coat with a waterproof shell and removable fleece lining. He took it to the till, reached for his wallet and went hot and cold at the same time—he’d left it in the pocket of his parka.
‘Nice composite coat, sir. I’ve got one myself,’ said the spotty youth, as if his endorsement carried enormous weight. ‘That’ll be forty pounds, please—quite a bargain.’
‘The thing is,’ said Razor, sure he was red-faced and about to make a fool of himself, ‘I… er… I left my wallet…’
‘… with me,’ said Kev.
Razor stared. It was his wallet. It was in Kev’s hand. ‘How?’ was a question that formed in his mind though his mouth could not articulate.
‘Are you alright, sir?’ asked the till youth.
Razor pulled himself back together. ‘Fine thanks… how much was it again?’
‘Forty pounds. That’s a lot of coat for the price, sir.’
Razor took the wallet, extracted two twenty-pound notes, and handed them over, becoming the proud possessor of an ugly new coat.
‘We’d better hurry,’ said Kev, dragging him to the door. ‘The meeting’s in twenty minutes.’
‘Right,’ said Razor as Kev hustled him outside. ‘Er… meeting?’
‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten,’ said Kev. ‘Honestly, Dave, you’d forget your own head if it wasn’t screwed on.’
‘Dave?’ The shop door closed behind them and Razor was too baffled to object when Kev shoved him along the street. ‘What the hell just happened?’ he asked.
‘I got you out of a jam,’ said Kev with a grin that showed off his glistening white teeth, ‘and the false name was a brilliant subterfuge.’
‘Was it? If it was, then thanks. How come you had my wallet?’
‘I took it from your parka. I’ve got that too if you want it.’
‘I was trying to get rid of it.’
‘Why?’
‘I fancied a new coat.’
‘Anything to do with changing your appearance after booting Danny Gilbert?’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘I was keeping an eye on you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m worried. There’s something about you that’s not quite right. Am I wrong?’
‘None of your business,’ said Razor.
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. Have you been following me?’
‘You might think that. I would insist that I chanced to be walking in the same direction as you.’
‘And then you stole my wallet.’
‘No, mate, you discarded it and I happened to find it. I have your old coat, too if you want it—I’m a snapper up of unconsidered trifles.’
‘What do trifles have to do with anything?’ asked Razor, his mind filling with thoughts of jelly and custard. ‘I made sure no one was watching, and I certainly didn’t see you.’
‘You wouldn’t have,’ said Kev, shoving him into an alleyway. ‘In here.’
‘Why?’ said Razor, wondering what Kev’s game was.
‘Cops,’ said Kev. ‘This way.’
They scurried down the alley which was lined with dirty brick walls and stank of damp and decay. Further along, a solid-looking wooden fence replaced the wall on one side. Kev stopped, glanced around and pressed something invisible to Razor. A panel opened.
‘Get in,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Razor, stumbling as Kev bundled him through the gap into a garden otherwise enclosed by blind stone walls. A ramshackle shed leaned casually against the far one and in the middle stood a small tree that was dropping its last leaves into a pond watched over by a wooden table and chairs.
‘If you must talk, do it quietly,’ Kev murmured, closing the panel and muffling the street sounds. ‘I don’t think the cops recognised you, but I wouldn’t swear on it and they may be close behind. You should have got yourself a hat. That bald pate of yours shines like a beacon.’
‘There’s a hood on this coat,’ Razor whispered.
‘Yes, but it’s not raining—you’d just look suspicious.’ Kev flapped his hands, mouthing, ‘Shut up!’
Two pairs of heavy feet trudged past on the alley side.
‘Are you sure it was our man?’ asked a bored voice.
‘Not really, Sarge, but he had a shaved head and took off fast.’
‘Suspicious, but there’s no sign of him here. Anyway, he’ll run into the patrol on The Shambles if he keeps heading this way. I wonder what made him run—he couldn’t have seen us.’
‘You know, Sarge, for a moment I thought someone was with him.’
‘Ah well. Let’s get back to our patch. We’ll pick him up sooner or later.’
‘Yeah. I wonder why he did it? Kicked Danny Gilbert, I mean.’
‘Probably jealousy. Danny is talented, rich, and good looking too.’
‘He’d have to be to pull that Helen. What a stunner!’
As the voices faded away, Razor got it at last. He’d attacked Danny Gilbert, possibly the most gifted English footballer of his generation, who’d been raised in Sorenchester. Helen, his new wife, had become the people’s darling at the last Olympic Games, returning with three gold medals. Flit had mentioned it, but Razor had been too busy to take much notice.
‘So, what have you got against Danny?’ asked Kev.
‘Nothing. I thought he was a bad guy chasing a woman, and I lashed out.’
‘You really didn’t recognise him? Or her?’
‘Well… no, not at the time. What I saw was a young woman who appeared to be in trouble. He could have been anybody.’ Razor was suddenly aggrieved. ‘Why was he chasing her? They weren’t in running gear or anything. It looked sinister.’
‘It’s what they do, mate. She credits running away from Danny for building up her speed and stamina.’
Ashamed of his ignorance, Razor changed the subject. ‘Where are we?’
‘In the secret garden,’ said Kev.
‘Does it belong to the cake shop on the corner?’
‘No, it’s mine.’
‘How? It’s not like it’s connected to your house.’
‘It was a legacy from Uncle Bob.’
‘Yeah,’ said Razor, sceptical. ‘You mentioned him earlier. So, Bob’s your uncle?’
‘He was, and it’s not uncommon to have an Uncle Bob—all my brothers and sisters had one.’
‘Yeah, I suppose they would’ve. But isn’t it strange to have a garden without a house attached?’
‘Quite strange. Uncle Bob reckoned it resulted from a medieval property dispute between an earl and a bishop.’
‘But why do you get into it through the fence?’
‘Another peculiar vestige of times past—there’s no legal access point, so I have to sneak in. It’s useful to have a secret place sometimes.’
‘Weird,’ said Razor, suspecting Kev of pulling his leg. ‘What do we do now?’
‘If I were you, I’d walk to the police station and hand myself in. I doubt they’d do more than question you, and if you stick to your story, I reckon they’d soon let you go. You might get lampooned in the press, but that’s the worst that could happen since no one was really hurt and your intentions were honourable. However, I suspect that’s not what you intend doing.’
Razor shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than today’s incident and to be honest, I’d rather avoid the police. It’s not that I’ve done anything wrong, at least not on purpose, but I really don’t want to… explain some things.’
‘What things?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Kev. ‘You have secrets you don’t want to share and so do I. I’ll not pry. What would you like to do now?’
‘I’d like to get something to eat.’
‘Not a bad idea, mate, but first you need something to cover that brain case of yours. Tell you what, give me some cash and I’ll buy you a hat.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends on what you want. I can probably pick up a beanie for under a tenner, but something posher, like a trilby, will cost rather more. What size is your head? It looks a little on the large side to me.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Razor, trying not to take offence. ‘A fleece beanie, or a woollen one, would be best. I’m not aiming for a sharp fashion look.’
‘Any preference as to colour?’
‘Something not too distinctive… black, grey, navy blue. You know?’
‘Right you are.’
Razor handed a twenty-pound note to Kev who, after listening for a moment, opened the fence and slipped out.
Risking a soggy bottom, Razor sat on a chair, and stared at the murky waters in the pond, trying to understand how Kev had known about the incident in the park. He must have been watching, but why had Razor not seen or heard him? And where had the little guy been hiding when he’d discarded his parka? No one had been in sight, and he was certain there’d been no nooks or hidey-holes where anyone, not even someone as diminutive as Kev, could secrete themselves. And what about this secret garden? He’d never heard of such a thing, although perhaps he wouldn’t have if it was secret. However, Kev puzzled him the most. What was he up to? In Razor’s experience people didn’t just help out strangers without expecting something in return, though perhaps the little guy was just kind or grateful. Razor remained suspicious—there was something unusual about the man.
Ten minutes later, Kev returned with a knitted black beanie and pulled it over Razor’s shiny skull before he could get to his feet.
‘It suits you, mate, and only cost a fiver.’ Kev handed back three uncreased five-pound notes. ‘Put your coat on, let me carry your backpack, and the cops’ll never recognise you.’
‘Right,’ said Razor, doing as he was told. ‘Now, let’s get something to eat. Where’s the best place, d’you think? Is there anywhere I could keep my hat on?’
Kev glanced at the sky. ‘The rain’s still holding off, so what about fish and chips? We could take them into St Stephen’s Park.’
Although Razor hadn’t considered that option—Flit had banished fatty foods from his diet—he started salivating and nodded.
Although Razor stared hard, he couldn’t see any mechanism as Kev let them back through the fence into the twisting alley. They walked along it until they reached The Shambles, where the warm aromas of fish and chips and vinegar lured them into The Fat Friar.
‘What do you fancy?’ asked Kev.
‘Cod and chips,’ said Razor, ‘and a can of lemonade.’
‘Battered sausage and chips for me,’ said Kev. He shuffled along with the queue until he could give their order to the skinny older woman at the counter.
The woman went to work. ‘Salt and vinegar?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said Kev, ‘but only on my chips.’
‘No thanks,’ said Razor—salt was also on the banned list.
It didn’t matter. She was already shaking the condiments everywhere.
Kev glanced at Razor and shrugged. Razor reached for his wallet, but Kev got there first. ‘Sebastian’s treat,’ he said and paid.
A crack in the clouds allowed a sliver of sunlight through, prompting a robin to burst into song in an overhead rowan tree as Razor and Kev found a dryish bench in the park and sat to open their parcels of fish and chips. Razor, as hungry as he’d ever been, wondered if the old woman had sensed this, since his portions were more than generous. He stuffed until the sharp edge of his appetite had been dulled, and slowed down to savour the delicate flavours of the fish, soft and flaky beneath a crunchy batter, and the crisp satisfaction of chips with just enough added salt and vinegar to perk them up without being overwhelming—the woman had clearly known her business. Kev munched at his side. They appeared to be the only people in the park until a harassed young mother walked past, pushing a screaming infant in a buggy. From the corner of his eye, Razor glimpsed a succulent chip spin through the air and land on the kid’s chest. Fast as a snake, a pudgy hand grabbed it and shoved it into his mouth. His mother, who hadn’t noticed the incoming missile, looked utterly relieved when he shut up.
Kev stared innocently into the middle distance.
‘Nice shot,’ Razor murmured, producing a quick grin.
Then, other than the robin that had stopped singing and was making belligerent ticking noises, all was quiet until they’d finished eating, when two puny explosions signified the opening of lemonade cans.
‘Cheers!’ said Kev, rapping his can against Razor’s.
‘Bottoms up,’ said Razor, with a happy chuckle that made him feel bad.
They drank, relaxing in the sun’s autumn warmth.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Kev, breaking the silence. ‘This looks like trouble.’ He nodded towards three large men, all with shaved heads like Razor’s, who were lurching in their general direction, preceded by the stink of stale booze, old sweat and cigarettes.
Razor glared at them. ‘Not the trouble I had in mind, but what the heck?’
‘You what?’ said Kev.
‘Why are you staring at us?’ asked the tallest man.
‘Because I despise drunken imbeciles,’ said Razor, forcing a sneer, even though his insides were turning to liquid.
‘What?’ asked the fattest of the trio, looking puzzled.
‘A drunkard is a person who is habitually drunk,’ Razor explained, ‘and an imbecile is an unusually stupid person.’
‘Are you looking for trouble?’ asked the tall one.
‘It has a way of finding me.’
‘My friend is only joking, of course,’ said Kev. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm.’
‘Really? Well, that’s alright then,’ said the fat one, smiling and turning away.
Although Razor received hard looks from the other two, they appeared to be on the verge of leaving. ‘No, I meant what I said, though I don’t suppose intelligent words mean anything to these boneheaded buffoons.’
Kev gasped. ‘What are you trying to do, mate?’
‘Just having fun,’ said Razor, sprawling on the bench as if he owned both it and the park.
‘At our expense,’ said the man who hadn’t yet spoken. ‘Don’t you think that’s rather rude?’
‘Maybe,’ said Razor, ‘but there’s a reason for it… I don’t like you… any of you, and especially not you.’
The man shrugged and glanced at his mates. ‘Some people,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Snivelling cowards.’
The men walked away.
‘Well, that’s not what I’d call trouble,’ said Razor, relieved, if disappointed.
‘Not them,’ said Kev, ‘Him. Hello, Liam.’
A tattooed nightmare, six-foot-six of muscle and meanness with cropped blond hair was stalking towards them, oozing menace.
‘I thought it was you, you little runt,’ said Liam. ‘Where have you been hiding? Are you going to pay for the car and give Gary back what’s his, or would you prefer a taste of hospital food?’
‘A friend of yours, Kev?’ asked Razor, far more scared than he had been.
‘Not exactly. He’s a mate of my cousin, Gary.’
‘You can get lost, unless you want some as well,’ said Liam, fixing an unblinking stare on Razor.
‘Some what?’ asked Razor, struggling to stop his voice quavering.
‘Some pain.’
Razor forced a laugh. ‘I doubt it from a wimp like you… maybe you could hurt an ant… if it was a tiny one.’
‘Shut up, mate,’ murmured Kev, who’d put the park bench between him and trouble. ‘He nearly killed a guy once and got locked up. That’s how he met Gary.’
‘Really?’ said Razor, standing up slowly. ‘He looks more like a frisky little puppy than a jailbird.’
‘I’ll smash your brains out.’ Liam bunched thick fingers into fearsome fists. ‘If you’ve got any.’
‘I’ve won awards for them,’ said Razor, aware Kev was no longer behind him.
‘You’ve got guts, mate,’ said Liam with a sneer, ‘and now I’m going to spread them round the park.’
Hoping to protect Kev and desperate to provoke the thug to murderous violence, Razor lunged, shoving Liam in the chest with all his might. He was astonished when the big man went over backward like a felled tree—Kev had sneaked behind on all fours in just the right place to make a human tripping hazard. Liam lay still. He didn’t even twitch.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Kev, rubbing his back and getting to his feet.
Grabbing the backpack, Kev hustled Razor from the park. Though nervous, Razor soon slowed them to a brisk walk so they wouldn’t draw attention.