9

Razor followed deserted lanes, forgotten paths over windswept hills, and steep muddy tracks into deep valleys until he emerged beside a wide road with traffic. The feeble sun, his only companion, dipped its head, leaving him to the care of sodium lights as they came on, though it wasn’t yet too dark. The chill on his face suggested a possible frost though the exercise and his new coat and hat kept him toasty.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Glevchester, the turmoil in his head had trickled away, leaving only hunger. All the small cafes he passed were closed, a puzzle until the bells of Glevchester Minster reminded him that it was Sunday. He trudged on, trusting there’d be places to eat further into town.

His confidence was not misplaced and, before long, a whiff of curry drew him towards The Good Lucknow restaurant. His mouth was watering even before he entered the smart establishment where the fragrance of cooking spices almost made him cry. Although busy, one or two tables appeared free.

A skinny little waiter in a white shirt and neat black trousers approached, his forehead rutted into a frown. ‘Good evening, can I help you… sir?’

‘I’d like a table for one, please.’

‘You would like to reserve a table for one o’clock? Tomorrow?’

‘No, for now, please, and for one person—me. If that’s okay?’

As the waiter looked him up and down, shaking his head and his frown deepening, Razor realised what a horrible sight he must be. A man who’d spent the night on leaves, was encrusted in mud, had two days of stubble bristling on his head, and had a wealth of bruises decorating his face evidently did not reach the required standard for customers. He became aware of how clean and smart everybody else looked. They were staring at him: some with disapproval, as if a verminous beggar had barged in, others with amusement, and one or two with sympathy.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are fully booked tonight.’

‘Oh no,’ said Razor, his spirits sinking to his boots. ‘It’s just that I haven’t had a bite since breakfast. I will tidy myself up, first… and I can pay.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Well, is there anywhere else around here I can get something to eat?’

The waiter looked more sympathetic, but shrugged. ‘There’s a burger place about half a mile down the road.’

After his previous experience, it was not at all what Razor wanted, but he thanked him and turned towards the door, sagging with disappointment and fatigue.

‘Or, we could do you a takeaway, sir. If you’d care to sit over there and read through the menu, I’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘Thank you,’ said Razor, ‘that’s most kind.’ He took a seat in an alcove by the door, resting his weary legs.

He glanced at the menu and ordered chicken tikka masala with naan bread, like always. Flit had used to take the mickey, claiming it wasn’t even a genuine Indian dish, but he liked it and didn’t care. After paying, he absent-mindedly slipped his wallet into his backpack and picked up the Glevchester Mirror from the rack.

A paunchy middle-aged man and an ample woman of similar vintage were already eating at a nearby table. It took all of Razor’s resolve not to watch every mouthful, as if he were a ravenous dog.

The last time hunger had hurt so much was after Flit’s funeral and a four-day whisky binge. The resulting humongous hangover had left him too lethargic and indifferent to feed himself. In the end, Alex had turned up, made toast and marmalade, cajoled him into eating it and more or less forced him out of the house for a walk in the fresh air. Now, Razor could hardly wait. He flicked through the paper, but found little of interest—there was no mention of Bindover Bridge, of knife-wielding maniacs, or of anyone being injured in St Stephen’s Park.

At last, the waiter brought over a bulging paper bag. Razor took it, said goodbye and walked from the restaurant.

A bench by the bus stop on the far side of the road offered a place to sit, and though it was not a scenic spot for a picnic, it would do. He crossed over, sat down and unpacked the bag, trying not to drool. Out came a box of curry, a white packet of naan bread, a polythene bag with a salad garnish, a paper napkin and a little packet containing a wet wipe. After cleaning his hands, he spread the empty bag across his lap and opened his meal, delighting in the blend of chicken, yogurt, coconut, tomatoes and spices, scooping mouthfuls up with chunks of naan, and it would not have taken much to persuade him it was the most delicious meal in the universe. After he’d hoovered up every last morsel, even the garnish, he sat back with a sigh, filled with gratitude for the waiter’s kindness, the cook’s skill and for the genius who’d created the dish in the first place.

Razor stretched out and watched life pass by, thinking how much Flit would have loved The Good Lucknow. Although the thought hurt, he felt almost cheerful and put it down to elevated blood sugar. Attempting to regain his happy state of misery, he considered likely places to meet his death, until distracted by two scruffy young men. One was lanky, the other short and rotund. Both were lurching down the road, shouting, swearing and swilling lager from cans—not the first they’d consumed that evening judging by their staggering gaits. Now and again they’d intimidate other pedestrians with sudden rushes, shoulder barges and slurred threats. Razor braced for trouble though it looked like being of the annoying rather than of the lethal variety. However, if they even noticed him, they ignored him, and lurched across the road, causing a car to screech to a halt inches away. They jeered and gesticulated when the driver sounded his horn.

Razor relaxed and considered his next move—he had intended to head straight to the perils of the Severn Wharves, but he was so damnably tired. Yet, why should that be a problem? He still had plenty of money and what would be the harm in checking into a hotel? A hot shower, a long sleep in a warm bed and a good breakfast would leave him much better prepared for whatever came next. Tomorrow would be just as good a day to die.

As he yawned, a prolonged outbreak of foul-mouthed shouting drew his attention back to the two drunken louts. Egged on by his big mate, the squat one was urinating on The Good Lucknow’s window. As the skinny waiter rushed outside, imploring them to leave, the lanky one pulled a brick from under his jacket and hurled it. The waiter ducked back inside, the brick missed him, rebounded from the door frame and landed on the tall guy’s foot. Bellowing and cursing, he dropped to the ground. The squat one, outraged by the poetic justice, barged into the restaurant, knocking the waiter to the floor.

It all happened so fast that Razor was still on the bench. When his brain caught up, adrenaline flowed and he sprang into action. Dropping his napkin, he grabbed his backpack, sprinted across the road and roared, ‘Stop that!’

Much to his surprise, Squatty stopped a kick aimed at the fallen waiter’s face. The lanky one, hopping on his good foot, retrieved the brick and launched it at Razor, who was so fired up he barely noticed it bounce off his chest. The two thugs exchanged a glance and fled. Razor took off after them, fatigue forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase, though he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he caught up. At first this seemed unlikely—Squatty showed a surprising turn of speed and the tall one, despite his flattened foot, was a born runner.

Razor, puffing like a chain-smoking dragon, came close to admitting defeat, but something impelled him to make a valiant effort. Gritting his teeth, he put on a spurt. It soon became clear that, despite his initial speed, Squatty didn’t have much in the way of staying power. Razor was closing the gap, though the lanky one was already out of sight. They were heading towards the Severn Wharves.

Pent-up rage boiling over into blood lust, Razor maintained the pursuit down a narrow passage between old warehouses until he was within spitting distance of Squatty, whose breathing was erupting in loud, strained gasps. Just as Razor reached out to collar him, Squatty reached the end of the passage and made an abrupt left turn.

Ahead, a dock reflected street lights like a dark mirror. Razor’s momentum carried him onward. He put the brakes on and came to a stop, teetering on the brink, looking down into the water. A noise made him glance over his shoulder.

The lanky thug was on the charge, using a supermarket trolley as a battering ram. Razor had no time to react.

It hit him.

He fell.

The shock of icy water took away any remaining breath, and although he gasped in desperation, his lungs just wouldn’t fill with air. When he tried to swim, his new coat puffed up and stopped his arms moving. The cold hurt. Panic took over. Foul water flooded his mouth as he screamed, and he knew he would sink. Although his body kept up the fight for precious life, his brain accepted death. His last sight was an ornamental rowan tree, its berries glowing like blood beneath a street light. As he slipped below the surface, there was a moment of exhilaration that he’d achieved what he’d set out to do.

All was cold. Blackness engulfed him.

Then there was nothing.

The water was nice and warm, but he didn’t like the pain. He tried to retreat to the comfort of oblivion, but had to come to terms with one incontrovertible fact—he was still alive. This was impossible. He must have drowned. So why could he smell flowers? He opened his eyes. His naked body lay in a white bath, in a white bathroom.

‘Welcome back, my lovely,’ said a woman with a soft lilt to her voice.

‘Where am I and what am I doing here?’

‘You’re in the bath, taking a bath.’

She was in the doorway, a small, pretty woman with eyes as blue as forget-me-nots and a strange air of sadness. Her lips twitched into a half smile, and it took a moment before he knew her. Without her coat or cloak she looked tiny and fragile, and the shapeless black dress she wore accentuated the paleness of her skin.

‘You’re the lady who looked after me on the bus,’ he said, intensely aware of his nakedness. He covered up as well as possible, feeling ridiculously vulnerable.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Who are you?’

‘People call me Miranda.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miranda. I’m Ray… Razor.’

‘I know.’

‘How?’

She shrugged.

‘How did I get here?’

‘We carried you.’

‘And how did I get out of the water?’

‘You’re still in the water, my lovely.’

‘But at the Wharves?’

‘We pulled you out as you were on the way down.’

‘Who did?’

‘We did.’

‘We?’

‘My companion and I.’

‘Thank you, I suppose… both of you.’

‘You are most welcome.’

Her answers weren’t entirely satisfactory and Razor wondered if she was hiding something. Then again, her accent might hint she was a foreigner and was answering as well as she could, though her words were clear and concise without undue pauses for thought. Her half smile disconcerted him.

‘Are you warm enough?’ she asked. ‘You were icy when you arrived.’

He nodded. ‘I think so, thank you, but where is here?’

‘In my house.’

‘Then thank you for taking me in, Miranda.’

‘My pleasure.’

Razor’s head was so full of questions he couldn’t concentrate on any one in particular, and when he thought he had something to say and opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t come out. He feared he was doing a fine goldfish impression.

‘Are you ready to get out?’ asked Miranda.

Razor nodded. She stepped towards him, picking up a vast white towel.

‘Can you leave it on the edge?’ he said, unwilling to stand up and expose himself. He blushed.

‘I’ll fetch a robe,’ she said putting the towel down and walking away.

‘Thank you,’ he managed, regretting her departure though relieved to be alone. He pulled the plug, stood up and dried himself.

All sorts of feelings needed resolution. While part of him resented still being alive, another part was grateful he’d been spared. A large part found Miranda intriguing. Who was she? Where did she come from? How was he still alive and in her bath? Despite this, and though he tried to persuade himself that he wasn’t interested in her in the way a man is normally interested in a pretty woman, another part condemned him for disloyalty to Flit.

His emotions still unresolved, he got out the bath and glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. Something didn’t look right, but it was only when he scratched his chin that he put his finger on it—he’d been shaved. The thought of Miranda’s cool little hands touching his face caused a shiver of excitement and allowed in another thought—had she washed him? Had her hands been all over him? He broke into a sweat, trying to unthink it and to ignore the guilt it brought, though one thing was clear—he’d missed a woman’s touch.

It was wrong! He would not allow such thoughts. Nothing she could do would deflect him from his mission. He was determined to die and she couldn’t keep on rescuing him, but he would have felt more heroic and resolute had he been dressed. The bathroom door opened and she handed him a soft white bathrobe.

‘Thank you,’ he said as she left.

Her scent was alluring and her face looked angelic and calm, but Razor experienced a deep unease, way beyond his normal background level.

He put on the robe, making sure to tie it in a double knot, before stepping out onto a landing lit only by two flickering gas lights. The ceiling was high, the walls were covered in dark wooden panels and the floor with time-dulled red and white patterned tiles. There were three closed doors to his right and two to his left. Just ahead was a wooden staircase, with a strip of threadbare maroon carpet held in place by stair rods. Razor hadn’t seen such things since his grandparents moved—about the time he first went to school.

The house was cold and as quiet as the grave. He shivered, wondering what had put that thought into his head.

‘Hello,’ he said.

There was no response. He shrugged and headed downstairs. This too was gas lit and dim.

‘Miranda,’ he shouted on reaching a hallway, much like the upstairs landing, but with an immense grandfather clock standing to one side. ‘Where are you?’

She didn’t answer. Even the old clock was silent. It looked well cared for and smelled of beeswax, but both hands pointed straight down, though his watch told him it was approaching two o’clock. The door opposite was ajar, which he took as an invitation. He entered a large room with four maroon-leather chairs huddling around a wide stone fireplace in which a pile of hefty logs blazed, scenting the air with apples and a hint of smoke. Shelves sagged beneath a library of old books on three sides, and heavy curtains concealed a window on the other. A rich, deep red carpet covered the floor.

Razor checked the next room, finding it cool, damp and dark, with mysterious shapes covered by white dust sheets, like the ghosts of old furniture. The next two rooms looked empty, though one was huge, with French windows at the far end boarded up with heavy planks. He tried the last door, not expecting an electric strip light to come on as it opened. He’d reached the kitchen. It was compact, clean and modern, like the bathroom. A sheet of cream paper lay on the table in the middle.

It was a short message written with a fountain pen. The handwriting was small and neat.

Dear Mr Razor,

I apologise that we had to go out and leave you alone in a strange house. The fire in the drawing room is made up and should last, but feel free to add more logs should the need arise—there are plenty in the basket. The fridge is well stocked, so please help yourself to any food and drink you require. In addition, should you fancy a nip, there are alcoholic beverages in the globe in the drawing room.

Your clothes have been laundered, but are still drying, and I regret my wardrobe has nothing that would fit you, or, indeed, suit you in the meantime.

I have prepared a bed for you in the bedroom with the blue door. Toiletries are on the chest. Please make yourself as comfortable as you can.

Don’t wait up for us. We will probably be late, but should be back before first light,

Miranda

P.S. Go anywhere you want to, but, please, avoid the cellars as the staircase is rotten and there is no lighting.

Razor dropped the note back onto the table, struggling to understand his disappointment. He wondered who the ‘we’ was, and hoped it wasn’t her boyfriend or husband, though it was none of his business—or so he told himself. Something about her intrigued him even though it had no right to.

Trying to divert himself, he thought he’d make a pot of tea—everything he needed was on a side table. He took a delicate china dessert plate from a selection on a pine dresser and piled it with biscuits from a tin although he wasn’t hungry. After making tea, he loaded his bits and pieces onto a richly decorated enamel tray, carried it through to the drawing room and took a seat by the fire, trying not to feel like an intruder.

Everything in that room would have looked at home there a century ago—there was no television, phone, radio, or computer. He didn’t mind—as far as he was concerned the outside world could stay there until he was ready for it again. The house, with its assortment of ancient and modern, neglected old rooms, smart modern ones, and its mix of gas and electric lights, fascinated him and added to the mystery of Miranda.

After drinking the whole pot of tea and clearing the plate of biscuits, he no longer felt at all like sleeping and was unsure what to do. There were plenty of books—it had been an age since he’d read one for pleasure. He examined the shelves, hoping for a light novel, but found mostly leather-bound volumes that were either financial records or medical tomes. The few novels scattered through the shelves at random looked old, and he’d never heard of most of the authors or titles. He did recognise Defoe, Bronte, Dickens, and Austen, but none of them suited his mood.

After slumping back into his chair, twiddling his thumbs and sighing, he got up, dropped another log on the fire and decided to explore—she’d said it would be okay. Being a methodical man, he thought he’d start at the top and work his way down, avoiding the cellars, of course. He strolled upstairs, and looked inside the room with the blue door, which was his to use, should he feel the need of sleep. A faint gas light cast dim shadows.

It was a small, cosy bedroom with an iron-framed single bed covered in thick blankets and a colourful counterpane. There was a small oak wardrobe, a matching chest of drawers and a round bedside table supporting a silver candlestick with a long white candle. On top of the chest was a soft white towel, a toothbrush, a bar of plain soap, a shaving brush and a safety razor like his granddad had used. On impulse, he opened the drawers. There was nothing in them. Nor was there in the wardrobe.

The next room, slightly larger, was empty, with an uncurtained sash window and a bare wooden floor. The boards creaked as he walked across and looked out. All he could see were tall evergreen trees, a sliver of pale grey sky and a ragged string of dark cloud. Perhaps there was a hint of moonlight though it might have been a distant street light.

The second room was much the same and had a similar view, while the third faced a blank wall. After that there was only the bathroom, and two closets with a selection of cleaning materials. He wished he’d found some clues to help him work out where the house was. Not that it mattered—he’d find out sooner or later.

He hadn’t seen his clothes anywhere, which was a puzzle. Could he have missed a room? Impossible. Even more puzzling, was that he’d found no sign of Miranda’s bedroom. Surely, she and her mysterious companion slept somewhere. He just hoped it wasn’t together.