16

The footpath took Razor and Kev towards Sorenchester. Despite mud and some puddles, the way was clear and easy for the most part. Unseasonal sunshine beamed down, making the fields steam, and Razor could have enjoyed the warmth and the exercise had he been able to forget the treks and rambles he’d enjoyed with Flit before work had gnawed away so much of his life. He’d now accepted that he’d gone home tired, grumpy and preoccupied far too often, and that he’d been reluctant to waste any remaining energy on leisure or culture. It was awful that he’d scoffed at Flit’s attempts to explain the work-time balance, and had taken her love for granted. What a fool he’d been to waste so much time getting rich. What use was money now?

Such recriminations pointed back to his usual swamp of guilt and despair, though thoughts of Miranda, Kev and Rocky prevented him from wallowing in its familiar, comfortable misery. Kev, trudging by his side, stayed glum and silent until they were long past the blackened carcasses of the car and caravan.

‘I liked Rocky, but I don’t know what to make of him,’ said Razor after a few minutes of futile musing on the man’s weirdness.

‘I have an idea,’ said Kev, ‘though I’m not sure I should tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t think you’ll believe it, and you’ll get all red-faced and cross like you do when you don’t understand something.’

‘I don’t,’ said Razor, getting angry, which was not helped by Kev’s smile. ‘Well, if I do it’s only because someone is withholding information.’

‘Alright then,’ said Kev, ‘I will concede that you are the most even-tempered bloke I know.’

‘That’s more like it. Now tell me what you mean.’

‘I really don’t think you’ll like it.’

‘Spit it out, man.’

‘I will not, but can you see the sign over there?’

‘The old wooden one?’

Kev nodded. ‘Take a look. It might give you a clue.’

Razor looked. ‘The Olde Toll House. So what?’

‘What do you think it means?’ asked Kev.

‘That’s easy—Rocky’s place is where the toll keeper lived in the olden days.’

Kev nodded. ‘That would be a plausible explanation, if his house was situated by an important road. However, this little track could never have been one.’

‘True,’ Razor admitted, ‘but I fail to see the significance—it’s just a name.’

‘But names can mutate over the years. Letters get changed or missed out entirely as folk forget their original significance. There’s a possibility it was originally called something that looked and sounded similar but had a completely different meaning, like the Olde Troll House. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

Although Razor’s annoyance flared up at Kev taking him for a fool, he shook his head and calmed down. ‘I take it you’re as much in the dark as I am. Let’s get out of here.’

They continued along the track until it joined The Green Way. Razor, lost in a maze of disconnected thoughts, took off his heavy tweed jacket and slung it over his shoulder.

‘Warm today,’ Kev remarked.

‘Makes a change,’ said Razor.

Conversation exhausted, they trudged on, pleased when a cooling breeze sprang up. The Green Way became a suburban road, leading them to the busy crossroads before the centre of Sorenchester.

While they were waiting for a break in the traffic, Kev pointed to a wall of lead-grey cloud building on the horizon. ‘The tempest growls. I imagine any threat from Kane has diminished considerably so you’re welcome to come back to my place.’

‘Thanks for the offer,’ said Razor, ‘but I intend to head back home—there are things I need to check, and I’d rather be alone.’

Kev shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want, but you’ll need your keys.’

‘True.’ Razor held out his hand.

‘I don’t have them,’ said Kev.

‘You’ve lost them?’

‘I didn’t lose them—I gave them away.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Razor felt like punching the little guy and restrained himself with some effort.

‘Because you said you didn’t want them.’

‘So I did,’ said Razor. ‘Who did you give them to?’

‘Miranda.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’ asked Kev. ‘She was available. Should I have given them to someone else?’

The question stumped Razor. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll get them later… if I need them.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll take the bus to Glevchester and see her.’

‘You don’t have the bus fare, mate.’

‘Perhaps I’ll walk then.’ Razor found the idea of seeing her attractive. He wouldn’t allow himself to understand why.

‘You may have visited her house, but could you find it again?’

The lights changed and the traffic came to a stop. Razor and Kev stayed put.

‘I reckon so—more or less,’ said Razor, though details of its location were hazy.

‘I don’t reckon you could.’

‘Well, tell me her address.’

‘There isn’t one as such—I just know how to find it. Anyway, you’d never get past the gate.’

‘What about her phone number?’

‘She doesn’t have one—you must have noticed when you were exploring.’

‘Everybody has a phone these days.’

‘She doesn’t,’ Kev pointed out, ‘I don’t, Rocky doesn’t, and neither do you.’

‘I used to have a nice one,’ said Razor, his position as an authority on the subject undermined.

‘But you don’t now. Why not?’

‘I smashed it.’

‘Why?’

‘I was drunk and upset.’ Remembering how he’d felt at the time, Razor was unwilling to say more. He didn’t want to leave Kev with a bad impression.

‘Fair enough,’ said Kev. ‘We all have our guilty secrets.’

‘I didn’t say it was a secret, and why would you think it was a guilty one?’

‘Fair enough. It was just a feeling.’

‘I’m interested why you’d suggest such a thing,’ said Razor. ‘Does that mean you have a guilty secret? What is it?’

‘It wouldn’t be secret if I told you.’

‘No, I suppose not, but I bet yours is not as bad as mine.’

‘Aha! So you admit to having one,’ said Kev. ‘Is that why you’ve been trying to snuff out your life?’

‘Was I so obvious?’ asked Razor.

Kev nodded ‘Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use.’

‘What?’

‘Actions speak louder than words.’

Razor pondered a moment. ‘Was that Shakespeare?’

‘Abraham Lincoln this time.’

‘How do you know all this stuff? Did you go to a good school?’

‘It was approved. No, the truth is I didn’t get much schooling, but I read a lot,’ said Kev.

‘I’ve never had much time for books,’ said Razor. ‘I was always too busy trying to pass exams or making a living.’

‘It shows,’ said Kev with a grin.

‘An insult?’

‘An observation. I may have had little formal education, but Uncle Bob said if I read, watched, listened and thought I’d get more enjoyment from life. He also reckoned a few beers judiciously applied enhanced the happiness.’

‘Are you happy?’ asked Razor. ‘From my point of view, you’ve got little and achieved less.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, mate. I’ve got what I need, and I achieve what I must.’

‘Sounds lame,’ Razor insisted, although without the conviction he’d have once had. He knew he’d lost sight of the enjoyment of life. Even worse, he’d neglected the one person who’d made him happy.

‘So,’ said Kev after a while, when the traffic lights had changed colour several times, ‘what are you going to do?’

Razor decided. ‘I’m going home. I need to talk to Alex and I should be able to get my key back from him. If not, I’ll break in if I must. Thanks for all your help. Goodbye.’

He walked away, a little disappointed Kev had not offered to come with him, for although he didn’t dare admit it, he’d found it pleasant to have someone to talk to, despite the infuriating way the little guy spoke in idiotic quotes and stuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a friend and was finding life almost tolerable.

Nevertheless, Kev’s question about Alex had made him curious. He needed an answer. Furthermore, old worries about Flit’s fidelity had been rekindled. He hated suspecting her and needed to find out the truth—it was the only thing that would set his mind at rest.

Unless it didn’t.

Willoton lay seven or eight-miles along the winding main road from Sorenchester, though he knew of shortcuts across the fields that would cut the journey to about five miles—a two-hour walk or thereabouts. No doubt his belly would be empty when he got there. It would have to stay that way, unless he could get into his house and Kev had left something in the fridge.

At first, he had no option except to walk along the main road, with cars and lorries hurtling past, blasting noise and dirt, but after about fifteen minutes he reached a stile and climbed onto a public footpath signposted to Willoton. The traffic rumble was soon muted.

A rising wind buffeted him and the neglected footpath was deep with mud. He re-estimated his journey time to about three hours as dark clouds blotted out the sunshine. Soon, the first heavy raindrops spattered down. He put his jacket back on, buttoned it up and turned up the collar. Within minutes a full-on downpour engulfed him, washing away all the pleasure of walking, turning the mud to glue. The naked trees and tumbledown stone walls along the way provided little shelter. He feared three hours had been over-optimistic.

The clinging mud sapped energy and willpower and his old-fashioned tweed jacket, though warm enough, retained water like a sponge, weighing him down like a suit of armour. Razor had hoped to use the journey time for thinking, but the storm blew everything away, except his determination to keep going.

His mud-slick dancing shoes slipped halfway down a slope. He crashed onto his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. Unable to stop, he slithered into a hollow filled with icy water. If not for the torment of Flit’s death, this would have been a contender for the most miserable moment of his life—even worse than a horrific incident in the Himalayas when he’d sat down to rest after a long trek and had squished a succulent blood-engorged leech between his buttocks. A day or two earlier, he might just have closed his eyes and allowed hypothermia to take him, but something inside had shifted. He had no wish to die until he’d sorted things out. After that, maybe he might even build on his friendship with Kev… and with Miranda.

Dripping wet and chilled, he dragged himself from the puddle and resumed his yomp, as the army called a trek over tricky terrain. The word reminded him that for a short time between university and Flit, he’d considered joining up after an invitation to a mess dinner by an old school-friend. In the end, despite having enjoyed great food and copious wine and the sense of comradeship, the thought of being ordered into some pointless war in a place he’d never heard of, where people wanted to kill him, had dissuaded him. It had been early evidence of his cowardice. If he’d only had a teaspoon of courage, Flit might still be alive.

Trying to muffle the morbid horrors in his head, he counted steps which helped avoid thinking, though it made the tedious trudge seem even longer. Hours later, energy flagging, worrying he’d lost his way, he emerged from a bare brown, hedge-lined field and recognised the outline of Willoton Ridge ahead. How long was it since he’d holed up in the old pillbox? It felt an age, though it was only a few days. He wondered how McGill was doing and a new dagger of guilt stabbed his conscience—he hadn’t even thought about the old farmer since that morning. Still, knowing he was approaching the end of the journey gave him a boost, and he found he was marching again, humming snatches of tunes with beats to match his increased pace as he began the climb. The rain diminished to an annoying drizzle as he started back down the slope, the afternoon darkened towards evening and hunger gnawed. At last, he left the fields and turned onto the lane into Willoton.

He trudged into the village, its emptiness suggesting it had reached the quiet time between school pickups and executives driving home from Sorenchester or Pigton. A sign outside the Watermill stated tonight was curry night, and the aroma of hot spice and onions wafting from the kitchen tormented Razor’s growling belly. If only he had some money.

A male voice came from the small wooden shed where exiled smokers topped up on nicotine.

‘What are you doing here? And what the hell have you been doing to yourself?’

Without a doubt it was Alex.

Shivering, Razor leaned against the car park’s dry stone wall and waited.

‘I had some bother last night,’ said a rough voice that Razor knew but couldn’t quite place.

‘Your battered face would back that up,’ said Alex. ‘No wonder you wished to meet out here, though I fail to understand why it should concern me. Just because I have occasionally employed you does not mean I have any interest in what you get up to in your own time. I did not summon you, and have no immediate need of your services, so explain why you are here.’

‘Because, Al, the bother might interest you.’

‘Kindly refrain from addressing me as Al.’

‘Sorry, Mr Bond.’

Razor barely smothered a gasp. The second voice belonged to Kane Cullum.

‘That’s better,’ said Alex. ‘Explain what you mean.’

‘Well, Mr Bond, the boys and me were out lamping…’

‘Get on with it,’ said Alex.

‘Well, it was like this—you remember that job I did for you in Glevchester?’

‘The one you messed up? Of course I remember.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t have known she’d…’

A BMW, its headlights blazing in the gloom, pulled into the car park, its engine drowning out the conversation. Razor ducked out of sight and kept his head down. The driver was Tom Talbot, the failed peacock murderer. Tom parked before escorting his wife, Serena, towards the Watermill’s entrance.

‘Did you see the fellow lurking by the smokers’ bothy?’ Serena asked. ‘For a moment, I thought it was the poor chap whose wife got killed.’

‘He looked more like a tramp, dear. I bet he was looking for something to steal. We ought to mention it to Ron,’ said Tom.

Serena nodded and stepped inside.

Razor was dismayed and a little amused that anyone could mistake him for a tramp—not so long ago, he used to pride himself on his smart appearance. Still, he’d enjoyed hearing sympathy in Serena’s voice and seeing her again—she still looked incredibly beautiful. It came as a shock to realise that he’d admired her before, and still did—so much for his conviction that he’d only had eyes for Flit. But there was no time to wallow in recrimination—he had to look after himself first. Now he’d stopped walking, his teeth were chattering and his legs had stiffened.

Without heat he knew he’d soon be in big trouble, and trying to get his key back from Alex was out of the question for the moment—he had no desire to run into Kane again.

He remembered the gents’ toilets being just inside the pub’s porch. They would provide warmth and, with care and luck, he’d reach them without being seen. He scrambled over the wall into the car park and sneaked towards the front door, though he needn’t have bothered—the smokers’ sanctuary was now empty. He slipped inside unnoticed, delighted to find the gents unoccupied. After filling a basin with hot water, he immersed his hands before they could freeze into permanent claws. As the mud washed away, warmth spread, making his fingers ache and tingle. He kept his hands in the water as long as he could bear it and dried them under the blower. An idea entered his befuddled brain. Unbuttoning his sodden jacket, he squeezed against the hot air nozzle and luxuriated as warm air circulated around his chilled body. After ten minutes of heat treatment, he was approaching normal body temperature, his face glowing.

Hearing footsteps, he darted into a cubicle and bolted it.

The door of the gent’s opened and clicked shut. Razor used a hand to muffle his mouth.

There was a pause, a series of mobile phone beeps and Kane spoke. ‘That you, Winston? Yeah, it’s me… Have you come to your senses yet? Not even if I pay double? Give us a break, mate… That’s your last word is it? Sure you won’t reconsider? Right then, I suppose I’ll have to do it myself. How’s Micky? Good… Bye then.’ Kane indulged in a bout of lurid and imaginative swearing.

Metal screeched. Glass shattered. The door opened and shut. Razor waited a moment and emerged from the cubicle as Ron, the landlord, and a barman entered.

Ron looked at where the hand-drier had been. Then he looked at the shattered window. Finally, he looked at Razor. ‘Call the police,’ he said.

Barging Ron aside, ducking beneath the barman’s lunge, Razor legged it.