Come to Harm (27 page)

Fancy retreated a step. “No, you've got to wait for Mr. McKendrick. He said I was to call him Uncle Jimmy and he'll be here very soon to take you home.”

She walked backwards along the passageway to the front door, like a ceremonial page-boy, keeping eye contact with Keiko as she fumbled behind her for the handle and then stepped backwards onto the landing as the door closed on her.

“What's she doing?” asked Malcolm. “Is she all right?”

Keiko nodded. “I think she's trying to be.”

thirty-five

Mr. McKendrick arrived just
after 3 a.m. and joined Keiko and Malcolm in the unlit living room, dropping into a chair and resting his head against the back of it. He smelled of oil and faintly of smoke, causing a jolt like an extra stair in the dark, reminding them of what was going to happen—what was already happening, while they sat here in the stillness. Keiko spoke first.

“Fancy's gone home and Mrs. Poole is downstairs with the washing. Did everything—”

“I'm not going to tell you,” he said. “The less you know the better, in case you're questioned.”

“And did you really not know any of this, Mr. McKendrick?” said Keiko. “I was so sure that you had a secret.”

“Me?” said Mr. McKendrick.

“The committee,” Keiko said. “I was convinced that something was going on and that everyone on the committee knew.”

“Aye well, you were right enough there,” Mr. McKendrick said. “But I can't blame the committee. It was me pushing it all the way. Hand-in-hand with the redevelopment, you know.”

“What was it?” said Malcolm.

Mr. McKendrick shifted about a little before he spoke. “A grand idea,” he said. “Etta tipped us off. She got wind of it from a pal of hers at Holyrood and she let us get ahead of the pack here in Painchton, so we'd win the bidding.”

“Win the bidding for what?” said Keiko.

Mr. McKendrick laughed, but it was a dry and ugly sound. “Oh, a high honour,” he said. “Lots of publicity, lots of press, good for business. We were going to be Scotland's Food Town.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Malcolm.

“Ah,” said Keiko. “
That's
why I was so important then. A scholar of food.”

“Studying our traditions and writing about them,” said Mr. McKendrick.

“Jesus,” said Malcolm again.

Mr. McKendrick's jaw worked for a while, then he sniffed deeply, clapped his hands onto his knees and pulled himself forward until he was sitting up straight. “Now, I don't think anyone saw us, but still we'd all better get gone. Malcolm?”

“I'm going to stay here,” said Malcolm. “I don't want Keiko to be on her own with Viola when the sirens start.”

“Keiko can manage,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Your mother shouldn't be alone.”

“You stay with Mum,” said Malcolm. “My place is here.”

And that was the start of it; Malcolm saying straight out what he wanted to do. Typical though, that what he wanted to do was take care of someone.

And perhaps that was all there was to it, but she didn't think so. She lay in bed beside Viola listening to her breathing and remembered. Malcolm, saying if aliens came he would talk to them. Malcolm, making suet pudding and yakitori, making sure people on the budget option didn't feel their poverty. Malcolm, dancing in the streaming gutters when it rained. She slid out of bed and went to stand outside the spare bedroom door, talking herself in and out of it twice before knocking. There was no reply and she wondered if he was sleeping, but when she went in he was standing in the middle of the floor as close as he could get to the window without his shadow cutting into the block of moonlight. He had wrapped himself in a blanket and his silhouette was mountainous. When she walked up and leaned against him, letting her whole tired weight fade into his, it was as if he had taken root there; it was like resting against an oak tree.

She put one arm across the middle of his back and clutched the blanket in a fist to hold it there, remembering their collision and struggle, Craig McKendrick's hoots of laughter rising behind them, their swift embrace cluttered with wineglasses, how she had backed away.

In a moment, she heard or felt him shift to look down at her, taking his gaze away at last from the window. One side of his face was in deep shadow, and where the moonlight hit the other it made pale, lava-lamp shapes of his features. His breathing was laboured, his mouth hanging slightly open as usual, and the breaths warming her face were sweet, as clear and clean as Viola's breath when she was sleeping.

He turned to look out of the window again, forcing a draft of cool air between them with his movement, making Keiko shiver.

“Cold?” he asked. She nodded and he opened his arms, making a space for her in the roll of blanket, releasing a trace of that rosemary-scented warmth. Keiko stepped in and his arms engulfed her, spreading so that she felt swaddled from her neck to her waist and she let him take her full weight. She couldn't make her arms reach around him, so instead she threaded them under his armpits and hooked them over his shoulders, squeezing as hard as she could, trying to make something big and strong out of her small body to comfort him. She rested her face against the middle of his chest where his shirt was open. And it didn't feel clammy after all, but fur-covered, solid and warm, with the thump of his heart in her ear like a club beating on bark. He cupped the back of her head in one hand and she looked up at him, put her hands to the sides of his face and found that his hair was not oily as she had always imagined, but so soft and fine that she could draw her fingers through it from the roots to the tips and let it fall back like hanks of silk. He bent and kissed her head before pulling her against him again and, although her heart was racing, his remained slow and steady against her cheek until the first shout came from outside.

_____

By the time the crowd had gathered, standing outside with coats over their nightclothes, the fire was burning as high as the two-storey buildings framing it at either edge of the Green, making a giant yellow-red cradle of flame wisping off into the black of the winter's morning, occasionally split by a gust of wind that revealed a skeleton of rafters with the roof peeling back from them.

The heat kept the crowd swept back in a perfect arc, unable to take another step towards the oven blast that would tighten the skin on their faces like baking apples. They peered over the shoulders of the police patrolling the line and watched the firemen, distant stick figures against the glare.

Mr. McKendrick, persuaded to give up on his relay of buckets and stay out of the firemen's way, stood on one side of Mrs. Poole with his arm around her shoulders. Malcolm held her other hand and although the crowd kept back from them as much as from the fire, Mrs. Poole could hear the whispers swoop and ripple.

“Murray Poole.”

“Nobody knows for sure.”

“All she said was he wasn't at home.”

“But nobody knows.”

“Dear God.”

“God in heaven, no.”

The firemen retreated, hacking and steaming, lighting incongruous cigarettes and muttering to each other. A group standing close together bent respectfully and listened to a police sergeant, who looked like a doll beside them. She stretched out her radio hand again and again as she spoke, pointing into the crowd, and each time the firemen's heads lifted and followed the gesture. Then two of them made their way over to Mrs. Poole and asked her where they could talk.

Just inside the street door, they peeled off their stinking armour and followed Mrs. Poole, Mr. McKendrick, and Malcolm upstairs, with the little policewoman behind them.

Fancy was sitting with Keiko in the kitchen. She had left her house at just the moment she might have if she had been woken by the sirens, and had come straight to the flat to check on Viola, clenching Keiko into a hug, enveloping her into the smell of washed hair and bathed skin.

“I just saw the fire,” she had said. “Is she awake? Is she sleeping through it? Listen, I've just been having the most disgusting nightmares I've ever had in my life. I must be psychic, eh? Do you hear me? I had a really bad dream. But I don't ever want to talk about it, right?”

The firemen insisted, with practised rhetoric, that they should stay on washable surfaces, away from fabric, so they all huddled into the kitchen, Malcolm squeezing himself into the window casement to make more room for the others. Keiko and Fancy started making tea.

“And what makes you fear your son might be in there, madam?” asked what Keiko and Mr. McKendrick decided must be a pre­arranged spokesman, perhaps a trained communicator, whose job it was to liaise with the public in these soothing and confident tones.

As the sky lightened, dimming the fire ahead of its death, the talk in the kitchen circled and thrashed. Keiko put pans of extra water on the cooker to boil and rummaged out spare cups, Malcolm made toast, Fancy ferried trays of tea up and down to the parched throats of the rest of the crew, busy now. Once the fire had had its glory, there were small victories to be won.

Upstairs, the two firemen's early hunch—that no discarded cigarette butt could do that much, that fast—was strengthening. The building was changing hands? There was some dispute over who was going to buy? So the missing young man might be angry? Mrs. Poole, clouded by lack of sleep, was not pretending as she reached out for what was being suggested here. She grasped at the fantasy that Murray was on the run from a terrible crime, sickened for real at the other story the fireman skirted round: that he had choked in the smoke while the rest of them were sleeping.

“Nobody seems to know what Mr. Byers's home address might be,” said the policewoman.

“We'll just wait for him to turn up for work,” said Mr. McKendrick. “See what he has to say.”

“And Forensics will start as soon as they can, Mrs. Poole,” said the fireman. “If your son was in there, and God forbid that he was, we'll find something, but it's not going to be much. You should prepare yourself for that, if you can.” He shook his head in practised sorrow, although he'd always found that a loved one gone with only zips and buttons curled into petals behind them wasn't as hard to face, after months and cards and flowers had gone by, as a good-sized box of remains. He couldn't say that right now, of course. Right now, the story of an absconding arsonist was still on the table, but he had been in this game too long not to know the feel of a site where souls had got away. He pulled a sigh up from his stockinged feet. “Whoever set that fire knew what he was doing,” he said. “And I'll bet my pension that somebody set it.”

Fancy, pushing the door open, coming back with a tray of empty cups, caught Malcolm's eye, and Sergeant Ballam, seeing the flash that passed between them, drooped into her tiredness just a little more. They cared about this biker boy, then, and she had a feeling there were no happy surprises to come; these good people had only pain ahead. She had seen them before, these shifts between despair and relief that were crossing Mrs. Poole's face, the exhaustion of worry and that strange euphoria that every fire brings with it, and she knew that when you start your grieving bone-tired already from hope, it was a hard haul to the other side.

She and the firemen did not have to speak as they parted out on the street in the grey light. The men headed back to the trucks in the hero swagger of their heat-proof boots. The sergeant spent another while in desultory interviews with witnesses, each one confirming what she already knew, some of them even joking.

“Bloody good thing the fire was tonight and not yesterday, eh? Or Jimmy McKendrick would be cuffed and cautioned for sure.”

She chuckled. Laughing at their jokes was a big part of community policing.

“Aye, if they knew where to look for him,” said someone else. “I heard it wasn't his own place he came from this morning.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And Malcolm Poole was on the scene pretty quick too.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes.”

Behind her smile, the sergeant wondered—and not for the first time—how in God's name anyone could live in a place like this. They'd eat you alive.

postscript

Keiko stood at the
kitchen window, staring down into the yard. If she shut her eyes tight she could still just get the sequence to play: the grim-faced woman with her buckets, kicking the door shut behind her and plodding to the centre of the concrete to tip out the water into the drain. But the features were beginning to blur and no amount of effort could map them on to Grace's face in her imagination, just as no amount of trellis and clematis could disguise the three hulking bins down there and make it look less like a yard and more like a garden, even with the extra space where the slaughterhouse used to be.

She would be sorry to leave. More than that if she were honest; she was scared to leave. The memories were ever a little paler, a little smaller, against the changed reality of the place where she had lived through them, but they might begin to grow again once their only home was in her mind.

The printer was still whirring on the big table in the living room, and she padded through to check on its progress. Seventy pages done and the same to go. It was going to cost her a fortune to post it to Dr. Bryant, but she knew if she took it to him by hand he would make a point of pretending it was nothing very special and, although she didn't believe he could take away her swell of pride and relief, she wasn't sure she could resist crumpling up the pages and hurling them at him one by one, or just whacking him in the kidneys with the ring-binder. She squared up the cover sheet on top of the first seventy.
Forty-three Cooks and a Pot of Broth: decision-making by committee
. The title had been Malcolm's idea and she knew Dr. Bryant would veto it, but it had made the Traders laugh when she'd presented her final report at the last meeting, and any respect Dr. Bryant might have started out with had been killed off by her swerve into a completely different topic halfway through her first year, despite all the profiling work she'd done.

Keiko heard a car slowing down and glanced out of the window. Surely they weren't here. If she was working when they arrived, the visit would be off to a very frosty beginning. The car carried on up the street and away.

Of course it was too soon for them to be here. There was a speed-bump at the top of the memorial gardens, where the petrol station used to stand. It marked the beginning of the twenty zone, and she still thought every car was stopping.

No one had minded giving up the roasting pit and picnic tables; everyone agreed three trees to honour the dead were much more fitting. A maple for Mr. Byers, a willow for Murray Poole and a magnolia that most thought a strange choice for Duncan Poole, but a few knew was perfect for Natasha Turnbull.

Forty pages still to go. Keiko took another bundle out of the printer tray and added them to the bottom of the pile. She knew her parents wouldn't mind that she hadn't gone to collect them at the airport. It was better for her to be here to welcome them into her home. If she had turned up in the terminal, swinging car keys, it would have shocked them.
The nail that sticks out gets hammered,
her mother would say. Much more fitting for Malcolm to greet them and bring them home and for her to be waiting. They liked Malcolm. They had cowered at first when she took him to Tokyo, despite her warnings that he was “large, mother, very large indeed,” and even Keiko—who was used to him—had been astonished at how enormous he seemed there, someone to break all the furniture and knock down buildings. But they liked him. They knew he lived here with her, because he answered the phone, but he would stay with Grace and Jimmy during the visit, and they would like that too.

“Don't you mind?” she had asked him.

“We've got the rest of our lives, Keko-chan,” he said. “I don't mind anything.”

Twenty pages left. She had plenty to do after this, after her visit to the post office to send it on its way. Eight people for dinner tonight, and she was cooking, thinking perhaps her parents would need a little time to recover from their flight before sitting down to one of Malcolm's dinners. He liked her cooking almost as much as his own now and, although she knew Mrs. Watson was joking when she pretended to scold Keiko for letting him fade away, it was true that he no longer needed extra tape sewn to the strings of his work aprons.

Eight for dinner; she must be mad. She had invited Craig McKendrick
as Jimmy's nearest relation and good company in any gathering, and of course Fancy was going to be there. Keiko smiled to herself. Fancy had taken Mr. McKendrick up on his invitation to call him Uncle Jimmy, and it didn't seem so odd after a while, when she was installed at his right hand in the long months of meetings and when she walked beside him with a hard-hat and clipboard just like his as the work on the memorial garden finally got underway. Craig McKendrick said nothing. He said nothing either when he saw Fancy and her first fireman out for a drink in the Covenanters' Arms, and he only mentioned to Keiko in passing that Fancy seemed to have found a good supply when he saw her with her second fireman in the Bridge. Keiko told him gently that she was sure there was nothing serious going on, but Craig wouldn't admit to the worry she was trying to soothe, and Fancy threatened to warm her arse for her if she scuppered Fancy's chance to get her own back on bloody Craig McKendrick for all the fannying around she'd had from him. Keiko couldn't argue.

However, the firemen were in the past now and Craig was home from his travels, and so something Keiko must remember to do in this busy day was write out place cards for the dinner party and make sure they were sitting together.

Fancy would be angry with her.

“He didn't say a word to Tash,” she reminded Keiko last time the subject of Craig came up. “A foster kid, like me.”

“And like Craig,” Keiko said gently.

“Living with your uncle, who's king of the hill, is
nothing
like getting farmed out to whoever'll take you,” said Fancy.

“He didn't harm Tash,” said Keiko.

“What? Not like me, you mean?”

“You didn't harm her either. But you'll never find peace in anger.”

“He's not right for Vi and me,” Fancy said. “We don't all get a fairy tale ending.”

Ten pages. Keiko hoped she'd have time to cross to the river and stand at the railings, look down into the water and clear her eyes. Perhaps she'd even have time to walk up the bark path through the woods to the little look-out platform above the waterfall. Maybe someone she knew would happen by, and she would tell them that she was finished and they would hold out a hand and say well done.
Or more likely,
she said to herself,
they would say what a good thing to get it over and done with just in time.

The town was very excited about the wedding. The town. If she tried she could still just about think of it that way: the town that had been shocked numb and silent after the fire; the town that hated its notoriety and wouldn't want to be famous for anything.

“I thought the committee would have my guts for garters,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Me changing my mind after all the work I'd done to persuade them about Food Town. Going on about a big splash in the national press, Painchton in the spotlight. But they didn't mind. They seemed … relieved.”

“Really?” said Keiko. “I wonder why.”

But she didn't wonder; she knew. Because she had asked them. Sandra and Iain with their affair. Kenny and his sock puppet reviews. Etta McLuskie and her backroom deals to start the Food Town bid early. All of them thinking their secrets were bound to come out, and a big splash would only make the stories worth more to whoever was selling.

She had asked Mrs. Watson too, one quiet evening, about the envelope
for you
. And Mrs. Watson had told her about those dreadful days—years ago—when the nasty things started up, one after the other and the last one asking for money.

“Of course, I knew it was just nonsense,” she said. “I've done nothing to make someone blackmail me. But when I saw you with one in your hand that day and thought it was starting again …”

“Why didn't you tell the police, Mabel?” said Keiko.

“I didn't know who it was who'd sent it, poor soul,” Mrs. Watson replied. “Some friend, some neighbour, not in her right self.”

“
Her
?”

Mrs. Watson flushed. “Grace was going through a right bad spell just then,” she said. “Very low. I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd made it worse for her.” She sniffed. “And anyway, they stopped after the one that asked for money, didn't they?”

They stopped for anyone who didn't pay
, Keiko thought.
Anyone innocent. But there were plenty of others.

“Willie bloody Byers just picked a town and set up shop,” Fancy said.

“No trouble with planners and zoning in the blackmail business,” said Keiko.

“And paying him killed my father,” said Malcolm. “Even though Byers knew nothing.”

They all agreed that Grace should never hear the truth—that they'd paid for no good reason, after all. Grace was looking forward to the wedding. And Keiko had offered herself up to all the rituals she must follow, from the borrowed veil to the hen night to the first waltz, which Mr. McKendrick had taught them. But she would be glad when it was over.

There had been such a regular drumbeat of occasions, all different enough to other people, she assumed, but all so much the same to her, with their flowers and toasts, hats and handbags. The opening of the memorial gardens, James and Grace's wedding, even Mrs. McMaster's adoption of Fancy in the registrar's office, where Viola pirouetted with excitement. All the gatherings took Keiko back to Murray's funeral—the empty coffin lowered into the grave beside his father's, and Mrs. Poole, after the guests had left, sliding down the wall to the floor, rucking her skirt up to her waist, spewing out the ugliest, most wretched noises Keiko had ever heard, draining the blood from Mr. McKendrick's face and drying Malcolm's tears.

The printer came to rest with its fan purring. She took out the last warm bundle and lifted the rest of the pages onto the top of it, making the finished pile as tidy as she could get it, knowing it would never be the same smooth sculpted block of cool blank paper as when she'd begun.