The following morning, despite the shouty man having haunted his dreams again and waking with a beery head, Razor felt far better than he had any right to. His hangover was mild—and not worth a mention alongside the monsters he’d fought when he’d hit the whisky bottle after the funeral. He still planned to die, but for the time being it felt okay to be alive. However, though a little more sleep would have been great, he could not ignore the frantic signals from his bladder. He got up, yawning and wandered into the bathroom.
All the surfaces were gleaming and a fresh scent filled the air. Since he hadn’t bothered to clean since Flit’s death, or, to be more honest, ever, it must have been Kev, which was a mystery as the little guy’s own bathroom had been such a stomach-turning disaster area.
A minute or two later, he examined his battered face in the mirror. The swelling had reduced and the grazes and lumps were less obvious. During a long, hot, relaxing shower, Razor’s headache faded into the background and he caught himself humming a section of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, a favourite when he’d been happy and a reminder of an old girlfriend at university who’d introduced him to classical music—among other things. He wondered what Jill was doing now, whether she was still as pretty and whether she’d ever married, but, as he stepped from the shower, memories of the young woman from the night before last nudged such thoughts aside. His conscience kicked back in. Cursing his unfaithful mind and needing to punish himself, he slapped his face hoping to put an end to thinking that way. When the pain had subsided, he dried, dressed and went downstairs.
Kev, engrossed in yet another book, looked up from the sofa. ‘Your face looks like a slapped arse—what happened?’
‘I slipped in the shower.’
Kev looked unconvinced. ‘Would you like breakfast? There’s bacon and eggs, or porridge, or toast and marmalade. Or a combination.’
‘Just some porridge would be great, thanks… if there’s any syrup?’
‘There’s a tin in the cupboard.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Razor, feeling like a guest in his own home. Come to think of it, why was Kev still there? However, being hungry, he had no wish to press the point and followed him into the kitchen.
Kev set to work with oatmeal and water in a copper saucepan that Razor didn’t know he owned. He felt inadequate—other than cheese on toast, he’d never got much beyond pouring semi-skimmed milk onto muesli and, since Flit’s death, he’d regressed. His confidence as a cook, always fragile, had shattered after his brilliant timesaving idea for boiling eggs—weeks later, the microwave still exuded a faint eggy aroma. His incompetence was his own fault—both his mum and Flit had been fine cooks, albeit in very different ways, but he’d chosen to remain ignorant, adhering to the weird concept that cooking was only for women and girly men. Now he wondered if being as reliant on others as a newborn baby was anything to boast about.
Kev dished out a bowl of steaming porridge and Razor made the most of it, still enjoying the experience of eating something at home that was neither cold nor ruined by his failure to read the instructions.
‘Thanks,’ he said when he’d scraped the bowl clean. ‘How do you make it like that?’
‘One third good oats, two thirds fresh water and just the right amount of salt. Then all I do is heat it up, stir like crazy and keep it on a simmer until it looks and tastes right.’
‘Is that all?’
Kev nodded. ‘Simple really.’
‘And then you put in sugar and cream?’
‘There’s no cream—it’s creamy enough on its own the way I make it and I left it to you to add sweetener.’ Kev tapped the unopened tin of golden syrup.
‘How did you learn to cook so well?’ asked Razor.
‘It’s nice you think I do. I used to watch Aunt Elsie when I was a kid and the rest I learnt by trial and error.’
‘I suppose I ought to try harder, but I was never much good. Everything turns out wrong because I don’t know what I’m doing. Do you ever make mistakes?’
‘Yeah, but not often,’ said Kev, taking a seat opposite. ‘Probably the worst was my incendiary disaster.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was years ago and I was cooking a pease pudding. A wasp got in and began buzzing around my head, so I chased it round until I could catch it in a bottle and evict it. Then the post arrived with a letter I’d long been expecting, so I sat down and started reading. It was a good one and it was only the burning smell that alerted me how long I’d been away.’
‘And then what?’ asked Razor, smiling at Kev’s expression of woe.
‘The pan was ablaze, so I opened the window and chucked it out. Unfortunately it was giving off so much smoke that I didn’t notice my neighbour’s moped out there. To cut a long story short, the moped caught fire, its petrol tank exploded and set his cat alight.’
‘Poor cat! Was it hurt?’
‘It died, but only after it had run into my neighbour’s house and set fire to the bed.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes. Especially as my neighbour was taking a nap at the time. He didn’t make it either.’
‘Gosh,’ said Razor, so appalled he couldn’t think of a more appropriate reply.
‘And do you know the worst part of the story?’ Kev continued.
‘No.’
‘It didn’t actually happen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s true I did once set fire to a pease pudding when reading a letter, but the rest of the story was pure embellishment.’
‘So the cat was alright? And the neighbour?’
‘There never was a cat and my neighbour never had a moped.’
Razor clapped his hands to his head. ‘So, why did you tell me all that bullshit?’
‘I wanted to see your reaction.’
‘Why? That wasn’t very nice.’
‘Sorry,’ said Kev, a smirk belying the apology, ‘but without invention life can be as tedious as a twice-told tale. But, to get back to your question, I do sometimes have culinary cock-ups, but not often, and I hope my worst mistakes were when I was learning. It sounds like you’ve never cooked.’
Razor shook his head. ‘I never had to. Perhaps I should have made more effort, but I could never see the point when my wife was so excellent.’
‘She’s the lady in the photographs?’
Razor nodded. ‘Felicity. I called her Flit. She died.’ It was the first time he’d said it.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kev. ‘What happened?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Then I won’t ask about it. Have you had enough to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said Razor, getting up and walking away, unwilling to let Kev see the tears in his eyes.
‘I’ll wash up,’ said Kev.
Razor dashed to the bathroom, splashed cold water in his face and took deep, calming breaths. Although he’d revealed little, it was more than he’d wanted to, and although the horror of that awful evening had ebbed a little, his shame and guilt had reached the point where he feared he might explode. He’d have loved to have got it all off his chest, if he could only have borne the shame of explaining just how much he’d let her down, and how useless he’d been.
Ray had always been a coward. He hoped Razor was braver.
It must have taken half an hour before he’d tamed his tumult of self-loathing and could trust himself to keep a stiff upper lip. He drifted downstairs where the hall clock lied that it was one o’clock. It had stopped months ago—not, poetically, at the moment of Flit’s death, but a few days later, and for a week he’d failed to understand why it always showed lunchtime. He thought he might have gone mad. He certainly would have done at the funeral, had it not been for Alex. It was sad how he’d once got the man so wrong, for since that terrible day, Alex had been the only one to visit, to ask after his well-being and to help out. All his other so-called friends had become strangers. Not that he blamed them—he suspected he’d have done the same had the situations been reversed. Other peoples’ bereavements were so awkward.
Razor sat down in the armchair.
Kev was curled up on the sofa with his book. ‘Alright, mate?’
‘Not so bad,’ said Razor.
‘Have you any plans for today?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was just wondering what to do about food.’
‘Buy something if you want—there’s money in my wallet. But first tell me why you’re still here? I’m grateful, of course, for all your cooking and cleaning and tidying up and all that, but I don’t understand why you’re doing it.’
‘You appear to be in need of help, and I have nothing on my schedule that I can’t put off for a few days.’
‘Thank you, but I’m going out now,’ said Razor. He needed the soothing routine of mindless walking to trample down the guilt.
‘Will you be back for lunch?’
‘I don’t know.’
Razor put on his new coat and beanie, left via the back door, and marched, keeping well away from roads and houses, grateful for the few remaining fog pockets in which he could lose himself. After a while, he was squelching along a public footpath around the edge of a muddy field, but exercise and solitude weren’t as comforting as usual. The waterlogged mud clinging to his boots made every step a feat of endurance, but did at least remind him how soon he’d be laid to rest deep in the earth—it was some comfort. After trudging for a couple of hours and his legs growing tired, he began to feel lunch might be advisable. Regretting his earlier terseness, he decided to head home and hope Kev was still there, so he could apologise and eat. And if it worked out as he hoped, after lunch he would say thank you and goodbye, and return to Glevchester.
His walk had taken him to near Willoton Manor, where Alex lived in one of the six luxury apartments. A rustle alerted him to a tall, plump man lurking in the hedge and peering through a gap. The cold gleam of a blade in the man’s right hand gave Razor hope that a glorious death might have come closer to home than expected. The lurker, oblivious to being watched, took a deep breath, squeezed through the hedge and lumbered across the lawn, splashing as he went. As soon as he’d disappeared around the side of the manor, Razor followed, wondering what to do next.
A terrible scream made up his mind. He broke into a run, preparing for battle and trying to convince himself that it would be a good day to die. As he crossed the sodden lawn, chill water spattered up his trouser legs. Gravel scrunched when he reached the path. After a brief pause to gather his strength, he charged round to the front of the manor, screaming something he hoped sounded as fierce as a Viking war cry. He expected to do or to die and hoped to get transported to Valhalla, or wherever dead heroes ended up. The man he’d been following turned, white-faced and shocked.
It was Tom Talbot who lived next door to the manor in a once derelict cottage he and his wife, Serena, had done up. In Tom’s right hand was a butcher’s knife, in his left the scrawny neck of Launcelot, a cantankerous peacock whose penetrating cry had annoyed the villagers for years. Tom dropped both knife and bird and fled. Launcelot ruffled his feathers and launched a vicious counter-attack, a blur of flapping wings, slashing feet and jabbing beak.
The knife looked sharp and heavy. Razor stooped to pick it up.
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ A slim, elegant man was standing in the manor’s doorway. ‘Oh, it’s you, Raymondo.’
‘Hi, Alex.’
‘Did you come here to slaughter our peacock?’
‘No, it wasn’t me.’
Although Alex looked and sounded relaxed, he was gripping the heavy studded oak door in one hand as if he feared he might need a shield. ‘Okay, mate, I believe you—thousands wouldn’t. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He’s not to everyone’s taste.’
Razor shook his head. ‘Somebody was out to get him, but it wasn’t me. All I did was pick up his knife… he dropped it when he ran.’
‘Okay, if that’s your story. But are you sure you’re alright? It’s not sensible to be out in public carrying a big knife—someone might get the wrong idea and call the police.’ Alex paused. ‘By the way, if you aren’t here to murder Launcelot, what are you here for?’
‘As I told you, I like to walk and I ended up passing here by chance.’
‘Fair enough. And who’s that little guy in your house?’
‘Just a friend.’
Alex nodded, still keeping an eye on the knife. ‘You should put that down.’
‘No, I’ll return it to… to its owner.’
‘Alright, Raymondo, if you must. Did you know the police were round your place on Tuesday? Was it in connection with the incident on Bindover Bridge that the paper reported?’
Razor’s throat felt dry, and he was aware of gulping air. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Okay, but why that?’ Alex nodded at the knife.
‘It really isn’t mine. Honest.’
‘So whose is it?’ asked Alex.
‘The man who brought it here.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘Yes, or rather, no,’ said Razor, ‘because it was… a stranger. I’d never seen him before in my life.’
‘And yet you seem to believe you can return it to him? Okay. Could you describe this… stranger? Because, if there is a maniac on the loose, I’d better inform the police—who knows what other weapons he might be carrying, and he might not stop at birds next time.’
Razor nodded, trying to exude sincerity. ‘I got a reasonable look at him. He was about average height. Not fat. Nor thin. About average you might say. He wasn’t young, or very old. And he was wearing a black leather jacket, and… er… shoes… and trousers.’
‘That’s it? An average man in shoes and trousers? That’ll give the police something to go on.’ Sarcasm and scepticism mingled in Alex’s voice.
‘That’s right. They were ordinary ones. Nondescript.’
Though Alex shook his head, Razor couldn’t help feeling proud that his, admittedly rather generic, description was nothing like Tom. He quite liked the man, having met him and his glamorous wife a few times at village events. He also sympathised with, if not quite condoned, the attack on Launcelot, whose frequent screams, even out of the usual breeding season, had vexed so many.
‘In all seriousness, Raymondo, I’d feel much safer if you put your weapon down,’ said Alex.
‘Of course, though I say again that it’s not mine.’ Razor squatted and placed the knife on the edge of the lawn.
‘That’s better,’ said Alex, smiling. ‘Do you want to come in while I call the police?’
‘You’re really going to call them?’
‘Of course, and since you are the only witness, you’d better stay here.’
Although Razor was certain he could clear up the misunderstanding on Bindover Bridge and the incident with Danny in minutes, he still couldn’t bear the thought of answering questions, whether they came from the police now or whether they came later at Flit’s approaching inquest. He feared what might emerge and what people would think of him. He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, Alex, I’d love to, but I’m late for lunch already. See you.’
He turned away with what he hoped was a casual wave and strolled down the long gravelled driveway towards the road. As soon as he was out of sight of the manor, he bolted, taking the shortcut home. Yet again he intended to run away, but first he needed his things.
Heart pounding, he burst into the kitchen, startling Kev who was stirring something on the stove. The aroma was wonderful.
‘What’s up?’ Kev asked.
‘Just thought of something—got to rush over to Charnham. No time to explain—the taxi’s waiting.’ Razor grabbed his backpack, stuffed his wallet and a few essentials into it, and slung it on his back. ‘Bye.’
‘What about lunch?’
Razor shook his head and ran for the fields, hoping his mention of Charnham might throw the police off the track should they come looking for him and question Kev. It was a feeble ploy, but it was all he had.