Enchantment (13 page)

‘Sounds fascinating.' Craig pushed down a seat and sat on it. ‘Go on.'

Tim leaned against the back of another seat. ‘It sounds daft, but this man, Barry McCarthy, he was involved in it too.'

‘You met him?'

‘No, but I knew he was in it. Point is, everyone's saying he was such a quiet man – never harmed anyone. But he invented this really wicked character, see?'

Craig was absorbed. He leaned forward, hands on knees, nodding rapidly.

‘Black Monk. An evil friar. Killing was his bag. Cut down, hack and slay.'

‘Barry McCarthy?'

‘Yeah.' But it was Harold's face Tim saw above the monk's black blood-stained robe, moving mercilessly through the forest.

‘My God.'

Having made his effect, Tim went along down the row. ‘It's only fantasy, after all. Not important.'

‘Oh, but it
is
. This ought to be reported.'

‘No, don't tell anyone. This is just chat. I thought it would amuse you.'

‘I am not amused.' Craig stood up. ‘I'm horrified.' He looked at Tim attentively. Then he nodded and said, ‘Thanks,' and went away up the aisle to the front of the theatre.

‘Good God, who's that?'

Jack and Brian were up, Brian making the tea, and Jack at the table with a dressing-gown over his night-dress, reading the paper.

Two pairs of feet were going up the stairs to Tim's flat. It was not yet eight o'clock in the morning.

‘First, our boy has no visitors at all. Then he has this stream of men with big feet up and down the stairs at peculiar hours.'

‘Police.' Brian lifted the tea-bags out of the mugs and flipped them into the bin. ‘They're on to you at last, Cindy dear. You'd better run up and put your trousers on.'

Actually, it was the police. Detective Sergeant Miles, Special Squad, and Detective Constable Something, incident room, looking for Timothy Wallace Kendall.

Tim was both terrified and thrilled. The two men produced their warrant cards, just like in a film. One part of Tim wanted to hold out his wrists for the handcuffs. Another part wanted to crawl back into the bed that had not yet been made into a couch. Another part ducked his head and said, ‘I've got to get ready. I'll be late for work.'

‘Shan't keep you long, Mr Kendall.' The Detective Sergeant had hair like corrugated iron. ‘Just like to ask you a few questions.'

‘Would you –' Tim indicated the table and chairs. His coffee was cooling on the counter and the thermostat on his toaster didn't work. He wanted to get nearer to it.

‘That's all right, Mr Kendall. Shan't keep you a moment.'

They knew about
Domain of the Undead
, and about Barry McCarthy and Black Monk. Craig had taken Tim so seriously that he had gone to the police.

It was tremendously dramatic. The police had come to Tim to
hear something they did not know about an important crime. Well, of course they didn't know it, because it wasn't true. The Detective Constable produced a witness statement form and sat down on the window-sill to fill in Tim's name, address, date and place of birth.

‘Occupation?'

The toast began to burn, and Tim got away to the other end of the room, had a quick gulp of coffee with his back to the policemen, and got his wits together.

‘We'd like to take a statement from you, Mr Kendall.'

Tim took a deep breath. Something about the imperturbable eyes of the two men made it impossible to say anything but, ‘I, er, I'm sorry, but I'd better tell you. What you were told I'd said, well it isn't really true.'

‘You didn't say it to Mr, er, Mr Cwaig Weynolds?'

You didn't often meet a policeman who couldn't pronounce his
r
's.

‘Yes, I said it, but it – well it wasn't strictly true.'

‘Is that your statement?'

‘Yes.'

‘Would you like to vewify it?'

The words on the form blurred in front of Tim's eyes. He nodded miserably. He had let it go. He had lost it, the drama of being a witness.

‘Thank you. You know, Mr Kendall,' Detective Sergeant Miles said pleasantly, ‘wasting the time of the police with false information is an offence.'

‘Oh – I – oh, but I –' Tim felt his mouth opening and shutting like a fish.

‘It could bring you before a court.'

‘But I didn't give you the information,' Tim said desperately.

‘That's true, but given the nature of the crime involved, it could be assumed that you knew that Mr Reynolds would not keep your information to himself.'

‘I'm sorry.' There was nothing else to say.

‘Don't worry.' The Detective Constable stood up. ‘There's thousands like you,' he said stoically.

‘You mean, people who –' The drama had vanished. Tim was only one of humdrum thousands.

‘Oh, yes, do it all the time. Most of them confess to the cwime itself.'

‘They do
that?
'

‘All the time.' The man sighed and looked at his watch.

‘Why?'

‘Why did you tell Mr Weynolds about the fantasy game?'

‘To amaze him,' Tim said plainly. He had been jolted out of nonsense, but even so, he liked hearing himself give the simple honest answer.

‘Well, then.'

The two policemen left. Tim's mind raced ahead of them to the station. He would walk in with his small head high – when he was in his teens, he used to measure it constantly to see if it had grown – courageous.

I'm the man you're looking for …

‘Everything all right?'

As Tim stood at his open door to watch the detectives' car drive away, Brian called up from the garage. ‘You've got early-bird friends.'

‘Yes. Haven't I?'

‘Thought you'd got the bailiffs in.' Brian pushed up the overhead door and went inside.

I'm the man. At the desks behind the high counter, heads would lift, pens in mouths, a stir.

Come off it, Tim. They've got him, remember? He's dead.

Brian's car backed out of the garage. Jack came smartly out of the back door, pulled down the overhead door and got into the car.

Tim brushed his hair, put on his tie and jacket, left the flat untidy, with his cold coffee and burnt toast, and was ten minutes late into the department.

‘Late on parade.' Mr D. fussed. ‘It throws the whole operation out of gear. I may have to ask you to stay an extra ten minutes this evening. Your excuse, please.'

Just this: I was helping the police with their inquiries.

But he would never tell. Torture me, Mr D. Put upholstery tacks under my nails. In the incident room, our lips are sealed.

A green Webster's envelope came through Brian's letter-box. Tim's rent money. He usually knocked, and handed it over.

Brian opened the door. ‘Why so furtive?' Tim looked as if he had been caught ringing bells.

‘I thought you were both out.'

‘School holiday.'

‘Oh yes, of course. Well … it's all there.'

Poor little devil, he had been late with it only a few times in his tenancy. ‘I'm not worried,' Brian said. As Tim turned to go, with that nervous duck of the head, he asked him, ‘Everything all right?'

‘What? Oh yes, thanks.'

‘It
was
the police, though, wasn't it, the other morning?'

Tim shook his head. But the lie was a lost cause.

‘Come on, I can tell the flowerpot men by their feet.'

‘Parking offence.' Tim was at the end of the path.

‘Remember,' Brian gave him the trustworthy smile, ‘if you ever need help …'

He stood at the door and watched Tim walk away fast to the bus stop, thin, young, not quite filling the dark suit, the back of his neck, where the hair's edge was clipped too high, vulnerable as a baby.

Not fair to play games with him. It should have been funny, but it wasn't.

Pocket Pickups
, page 92: ‘Don't ignore the plain, unattractive girl. Chances are, she will be warmer and friendlier than the girl who
can have any man she wants. She needs to be. Look inside, not outside, and if you really can't stand the outside, treat her to a professional make-up and hair-do, and a really sexy outfit.'

Oh, Helen, by the way. Tim could just hear himself. I've made an appointment for you at Beautyworks. After, we'll go to Ladies' Fashions at Webster's …

‘Oh, Helen.' He had left a message with the neighbour, and Helen had rung him back. ‘I was wondering. Haven't seen you for a while.'

‘And the last time was so awful. With Julian. I thought you'd never want to see us again.'

‘Oh, well. Well, I'd like to.' She must be waiting for him to say, ‘I want to see
you
,' but in an odd, compulsive way, he did want to see the child again. The sleeping prince. The boy who would never get into trouble for making up stories, since stories were not a part of his detached world. ‘What about Sunday? I thought perhaps you might like to come to my place.'

‘Oh, Tim, that's nice of you,' Helen said in a rush. ‘But he can't go on buses. He gets fetched to and from the school.'

‘I'll fetch you, then.'

‘No, I'd worry about your flat.'

‘Well, he couldn't bite through the cable of the television, because I haven't got one.'

‘He'll mess the place up.'

‘I wouldn't mind.' Brian and Jack might. It might undo the benefit of seeing a woman's legs – even Helen's thick ones – going up the stairs.

‘You've got no idea. You come here. What about Sunday afternoon?'

‘All right. I'll bring the supper.'

‘Thank you.' Helen rang off, and Tim went into a state of anxiety that would last until he had actually bought the food on Saturday.

*

No, he had no idea. His memories of Julian had been softened into a few bits of odd behaviour and a temper tantrum in the supermarket.

The child had a slight cold, so as well as spitting, he blew his nose, not even into his fingers, but snorting straight on to the carpet or the furniture or your knee, whatever happened to be in the line of fire. He dragged off his shorts and nappies and smeared their contents on the wall.