Despite nightmares involving icy waters, dead uncles in boxes and a blurry figure screaming into his face, Razor did not wake until the night was long passed. His left side was sore, his forehead tender and there was an unfamiliar smell, an exotic blend of mustiness and wax polish, topped off with a hint of Miranda’s delicate fragrance. On opening his eyes, he saw his clothes, all clean, pressed and folded, atop the chest of drawers. He could hardly believe that he’d ended up in Miranda’s house. Even more amazing, Kev was her cousin. The two of them shared the blame for Razor still being alive, though why they kept bothering with him was a mystery—he deserved no kindness.
When conscious enough to move, he got up and walked out onto the landing, clutching at his pyjama bottoms, several sizes too large around the waist and far too short in the leg, as they attempted to drop around his ankles. He pulled them up and held them, hoping she was not around to see, but the house sounded quiet, as if no one else was yet up. Out of nowhere came a horrific thought—he’d bet he was wearing Uncle Bob’s pyjamas.
His skin crawled at the idea of a dead man’s garments. With a shudder, he hurried back to his room, stripped and flung on his own clothes. Released from the horror, he tried to think about his mission. It would be difficult to live without money or possessions though this should spur him towards a quick end.
First, he told himself, he’d have to ditch Kev and Miranda.
He tiptoed downstairs, trying to convince himself he wasn’t sneaking, and was being considerate in not disturbing his friends. After all, they’d had at least as long a night as him and were, no doubt, still fast asleep, wherever they were. Why their sleeping arrangements should bother him was a conundrum—they were both adults, even if they were cousins, and there was no reason for jealousy, which was fortunate. He definitely wasn’t jealous.
Another note lay on the kitchen table.
Dear Mr Razor,
Help yourself to breakfast. There is food and milk in the fridge and cereals in the cupboard by the back door.
See you later,
M.
Breakfast struck him as an excellent suggestion. He made tea, poured out a vast bowl of Frosties and picked up a carton of milk. It was full-fat and Flit had always insisted on skimmed. Since her death, without thinking too much, he had more or less stuck to the rules, but what was the point now? He opened the carton, splashed milk onto his Frosties and sat down to eat.
Afterwards, still peckish, he toasted two slices of bread, slapped on butter and plum jam, and stuffed his face to fullness. When he arose, he was unhealthily and happily full of carbs, as Flit had called them—a sensation he hadn’t enjoyed since his bachelor days. Back then, he’d been a little on the podgy side. She’d helped him stay healthy and slim, but with no time left to get fat, he was determined to enjoy any remaining meals.
He washed his dishes, set them to dry on the draining board and prepared to leave, although his body was more inclined to slump into an armchair and digest his breakfast. Putting aside such weakness, he scribbled a polite thank you note, picked up his coat and opened the huge, heavy front door, briefly wondering why it had no lock.
He stepped out into bright autumn sunshine. Ahead, was an impressive gravelled driveway, lined with tall evergreen trees and scrubby looking grass that had presumably once been a lawn but could not have been cut in years. He walked along it for a minute or two before stopping to look back at the house. It was far bigger than he’d imagined, with two gabled wings and an outhouse. He realised he’d only explored one side and had unaccountably failed to find the other wing and the top floor. It was perplexing, but comforting since it could explain where Miranda and Kev had slept. Observation had never been one of Razor’s strengths—Flit had often called him Sherlock in jest when he’d yet again missed something obvious.
He turned away. A few minutes later, he approached a massive iron-studded wooden gate set in a high stone wall and with wicked-looking spikes on top. The formidable chain and padlock securing the gate made him wonder if he might be a prisoner after all, but on drawing closer, he noticed a small door in the big gate. It was just tall enough for a short person to step through without ducking and swung open easily. He stooped, stepped over the frame and felt the sudden exhilaration of freedom. The door swung back into place and clicked. There was no handle on the outside, and no way for him to get back in—not that he wanted to.
Razor had come out into a puddle-strewn, rutted back lane, carpeted in damp brown leaves. The tall walls along either side made it appear even narrower. At first, he wasn’t sure which way to turn, but the muted sound of heavy traffic indicated a main road to his left. He set off, his shadow suggesting he was heading roughly southward, though the lane twisted and turned like an eel. It came as a shock when he rounded a bend and came out on a busy dual-carriageway, with cars, vans and lorries flashing by almost within touching distance. He was back in the modern world, with all its pollution, smells, noise, dirt and people, though he still wasn’t sure which bit of it.
Turning in a random direction, he strode along a wide pavement until a sign indicated he was on Osric Way, a major road through Glevchester. However, it wasn’t until the imposing tower of the Minster came into view that he finally got his bearings. Soon, tiring of the noise and exhaust fumes, he turned onto a quiet side road, lined with banks of large older houses, all with gardens and mature trees. It appeared to run parallel to Osric Way and would take him towards the peace of Glevchester Park—a good place to sit and think.
‘Help!’
The cry made him start like a dog that had just spotted a squirrel. A damsel was in distress—a perfect opportunity. Thoughts of chivalry and glorious death filled his head. Adrenalin surged in his veins. He broke into a run.
A little, white-haired older lady was facing a tall young man with cropped black hair and a bushy beard.
‘Alright, what’s going on here then?’ Razor demanded because, although mentally prepared for battle, he’d learned a lesson and had no intention of rushing in without knowing what was happening.
The woman looked startled, but pointed at the young man. ‘It’s all his fault.’
‘What’s he done?’ asked Razor, slowing to a walk.
‘Nothing. It was an accident,’ said the man, ‘and I said I’m sorry.’
‘Accident, my arse!’ The woman shook a bony finger. ‘You shouldn’t have let it happen.’
‘I didn’t let it happen. The damn thing escaped when…’
‘… when you weren’t looking. So you said. How many times have I told you to be more careful?’
The old woman appeared more angry than frightened, the young man apologetic rather than threatening. Razor struggled to stay in hero mode. ‘What’s escaped?’ he asked.
The woman pointed.
‘The tree?’
‘No, you idiot.’ The old woman rolled her eyes. ‘Elsa.’
‘Elsa?’
‘Gran’s stupid cat,’ the young man explained.
‘You’re the stupid one, my lad. I keep telling you to be careful, but you never listen, do you?’
‘Never what?’ said the grandson.
‘Listen… and you can wipe that silly grin off your face.’
Razor cut in. ‘Your cat escaped and is in the tree?’
Gran nodded.
‘Is it stuck?’
‘She’s meowing.’
‘I’m sure she’ll come down when she wants to,’ said the grandson. ‘After all, you never see cat skeletons in trees, do you?’
‘True,’ said Razor.
‘You never see any squirrel skeletons either,’ Gran pointed out.
‘That’s also true,’ said Razor. ‘I guess they fall out when they’re dead.’
Gran wailed. ‘I don’t want her to die. Go and fetch her down.’
Grandson shook his head. ‘I’m no good with heights, but if you’re still worried I’ll call the fire brigade. They might be willing to help.’
His hour had come.
‘No need,’ said Razor, stepping forward. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘You’re a kind man,’ said Gran. ‘Not like him.’
Razor squinted into the tree. ‘Where is she?’
Gran pointed. ‘There… at the top.’
His gaze followed the direction of her finger, and his stomach lurched. A small, fluffy white cat was clinging to a swaying branch a heart-stopping way up. Still, he’d said he’d do it and he would—if he could.
‘How do you intend getting up there?’ asked the grandson, his expression suggesting interested scepticism.
It was a good point. The trunk was too broad to grasp, and its lower branches were way above jumping range. Razor looked around for inspiration and found it in the shape of a green plastic wheelie bin standing next to the house. If he positioned it with care and jumped from it, he should reach the first branch.
‘Watch and learn,’ he said, and fetched the bin, trying to look nonchalant, despite his lily-livered body trembling. It wasn’t heights that terrified him as such, more the idea of plummeting from them. Although trying to convince himself that death would be welcome, the process of dying terrified, and what if he survived but was left with grotesque injuries, or paralysed? However, it would be too embarrassing to walk away now. This was the time to do or die.
Squaring his jaw, assuming a careless attitude, he scrambled onto the bin and stood up.
‘Be careful,’ said Gran as he wobbled.
‘Of course,’ said Razor, and jumped.
But he’d failed to take into account one important factor—wheelie bins move easily on their wheels. Instead of a graceful leap into the branches, he performed a graceless dive onto the ground.
‘I wondered if that might happen,’ the helpful grandson remarked as Razor sprawled in the dirt like a defeated gun slinger. ‘I’ll hold it steady next time, shall I?’
Razor could only nod as he got back to his feet.
With the bin secure, his next attempt was a little more successful. A light leap skyward and both hands got a firm grip on the lowest branch. He dangled a moment before swinging up his legs, hooking them over the branch and hanging like a sloth. It was exhilarating to have accomplished the most difficult part, for he could see the rest of the climb would be relatively easy—at least until the tiny topmost branches where the cat was still hanging out, making piteous cries. He shuffled along to where he could reach the next branch and steadied himself. It was time to get cracking.
Something cracked.
He plunged and splatted onto his back, still grasping the broken branch between hands and knees, and with all the wind knocked from his lungs. As he sprawled there, dazed, in pain and struggling for breath, the cat ran straight down the trunk, hissed at him and minced towards Gran.
‘There you go,’ said the grandson, as she bent to stroke the beast. ‘I told you she’d make it down alright.’
‘And you were correct,’ said Gran. ‘She’s a clever kitty, and I’m just a silly old fusspot, but I do worry about her. She’s all I’ve got.’
‘Nonsense, Gran. You’ve got a big family… and three other cats. Let’s go in, it’s time for lunch.’
Grandson picked the cat up and led Gran back to the house. Razor had just managed to reinflate his lungs and was in the process of sitting up, groaning and checking himself for injury. Nothing seemed to have broken, but it shocked him that they’d just walked away, ignoring his accident and his pain. It was no way to treat a fallen hero, though, thinking about it, all he had achieved was the fall. Battered and bruised, crestfallen, he struggled to his feet and hobbled away.
Yet the failure had not knocked all the optimism from him. He set course for the massive bulk of the Minster.
Next time, he might do better.
Next time happened sooner than expected. As he passed a Chinese restaurant, crockery shattered and a woman screamed. He ran inside.
A tubby, bald man with tomato-red cheeks and streaming eyes was staggering around, clutching his throat, gurgling and wheezing. Two smart women, a mother and daughter by their looks, were trying to catch up as he crashed into tables and chairs.
‘Somebody help him!’ the older woman cried.
Razor grabbed the choking man from behind as he slumped onto a table, one hand in a dish of Mu Shu pork, the other making frantic gestures. The elderly couple sitting there were gape-mouthed, chopsticks loaded for action. Razor thumped the casualty between the shoulder blades with the heel of his hand. Nothing happened. He repeated the procedure with the same result.
The younger woman began crying.
Razor, an island of calm in a sea of panic, tried the Heimlich.
On the third attempt, a mess of semi-masticated pak choi flew from the casualty’s mouth and splashed down in the old man’s lager.
‘Are you alright, Dad?’ asked the younger woman, pushing past Razor.
Dad nodded and wiped his eyes, the redness draining from his face, breathing returning to normal.
‘I told you not to wolf it,’ said his wife. ‘Why do you never listen?’
Without waiting for thanks, if any were going, Razor ambled away, playing the silent hero, modest, but pleased to have helped. Although the incident had not offered him a chance of death, it had been an encouraging sign of the opportunities in Glevchester. If he remained alert, his chance would come.
Razor entered the ancient part of the city where a multitude of medieval and Tudor buildings clustered in the Minster’s shadow, attracting tourists as a picnic attracts wasps. A party of elderly Americans stopped to pose for photos in front of the fifteenth-century timber-framed Pilgrim Inn.
‘Holey Moley!’ exclaimed a petite, grey-haired lady who was reading a booklet. ‘They reckon William Shakespeare performed here and…’
A massively muscled man in tattered khaki trousers and shabby sweatshirt darted from the shadows, snatched her bag and ran.
‘My purse!’
People stared. Some took photos, others gathered around to comfort the robbed woman, but Razor took off in pursuit.
The bag-snatcher was threading a twisting path through the crowds, occasionally barging people aside. Razor, more careful of other people, lost ground. By the time the crowds had thinned a little, he’d lost sight of the man and thought he’d failed. Disappointed, he was about to walk on when he heard a groan from a narrow alley just in front. Exhilarated, Razor charged in, hoping he was heading for glory, but only found his quarry lying face down on the litter-strewn slabs, the handbag still gripped in one hand and blood trickling down his face.
Half suspecting a trick, Razor approached with caution. He noticed a loop of nylon strapping, the sort used for holding parcels together, was wrapped around the robber’s ankles. The fleeing man must have run into it, tripped and knocked himself out as he crashed to the ground. Disappointed, though victorious, Razor took the handbag, and went to find its owner. The woman, surrounded by her friends and a larger group of gawpers, was quietly having hysterics.
Enjoying his big moment, Razor squeezed through the crowd. ‘I believe this is yours, ma’am,’ he said.
She took the bag with amazed thanks, but Razor had glimpsed two police officers approaching. ‘Tell them they’ll find their man in the alley opposite the tea shop.’ He slipped back into the crowd and marched away.
He was heading nowhere in particular, except away from the Minster, but after a few minutes, he noticed he’d come out near Glevchester railway station, where he and Flit used to wait for trains after nights out in town. That had all ceased when he started working for Burke and Coe, enjoyed the privilege of a company car and had to become responsible. He wondered what had happened to his car. All he could remember was parking it near the Severn Wharves, walking to and from the cinema, and the attack. Was it still there waiting for him? Probably not. He guessed someone had reclaimed it—there’d been letters from work that he’d never got round to reading. He still had no recollection of getting home from the hospital, though he remembered Alex had been there, tidying up. Even though Razor would have preferred to have been alone, he’d appreciated the gesture of support.
Tired and thirsty, he headed for the station. There were a few coins left in his coat pocket, enough for a drink at the cafe. He went in, bought himself a large coffee and carried it to an empty plastic-covered table in the corner.
‘Well done, mate,’ said Kev, sliding into the seat opposite. ‘You’ve had a busy day. Action makes the hours seem short.’
Razor spluttered and gaped.