Missing Joseph (46 page)

The rustlings along the wall seemed louder now that she was at the level of the floor. They also seemed accompanied by an occasional squeak. She burrowed closer to Nick and said, “What's that noise, then?”

“I said. The telly.”

“I mean the other…that…there, did you hear it?”

“Oh, that. Barn rats, I expect.”

She flew up. “Rats! Nick, no! I can't…please…I'm afraid of…Nick!”

“Shh. They won't bother you. Come on. Lie down.”

“But rats! If they bite you, you die! And I—”

“We're bigger than they are. They're lots more scared. They won't even come out.”

“But my hair…I read once where they like to collect hair to make up their nests.”

“I'll keep them away from you.” He urged her down next to him and lay on his side. “Use my arm for a pillow,” he said. “They won't climb up my arm to get you. Jeez, Mag, you're shaking. Here. Get close. You'll be okay.”

“We won't stay here long?”

“Just for a rest.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise. Come on. It's cold.” He unzipped his bomber jacket and held it open. “Here. Double warmth.”

With a fearful glance in the direction of the deepest pool of darkness where the barn rats skittered among the burlap sacks, she lowered herself onto the blanket, into the confines of Nick's bomber jacket. She felt stiff with both the cold and her fear, uneasy with their proximity to people. The dogs hadn't roused anyone, that was true, but if the farmer made a final round of the yard prior to going to bed, they'd likely be found.

Nick kissed her head. “Okay?” he said. “It's just for a while. Just for a rest.”

“Okay.”

She slipped her arms round him and let her body warm from his and from the blanket that covered them. She kept her thoughts away from the rats and instead pretended that they were in their very first flat together, she and Nick. It was their official first night, like a honeymoon. The room was small but the moonlight gleamed against the walls' pretty rosebud paper. There were prints hanging on them, watercolours of frolicking dogs and cats, and Punkin lay at the foot of the bed.

She moved closer to Nick. She was wearing a beautiful full-length gown of pale pink satin with lace on the straps and along the bodice. Her hair flowed round her, and perfume rose from the hollow of her throat and behind her ears and between her breasts. He was wearing dark blue pyjamas of silk, and she could feel his bones, his muscles, and the strength of him along the length of her body. He would want to do it, of course—he would always want to do it—and she would always want to do it as well. Because it was so close and so nice.

“Mag,” Nick said, “lie still. Don't.”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You are.”

“I'm just getting closer. It's cold. You said—”

“We can't. Not here. Okay?”

She pressed against him. She could feel It in his trousers, despite his words. It was already hard. She slithered her hand between their bodies.

“Mag!”

“It's nothing but warmness,” she whispered and rubbed It just the way he'd taught her.

“Mag, I said no!” His answering whisper was fierce.

“But you like it, don't you?” She squeezed It, released It.

“Mag! Get off!”

She ran her hand Its length.

“No! Damn! Mag, leave it be!”

She recoiled when he knocked her hand away and felt quick tears come in answer. “I only…” She ached when she breathed. “It was nice, wasn't it? I wanted to be nice.”

In the dim light, he looked like something was hurting inside him. He said, “It
is
nice. You're nice. But that makes me want to and we can't right now. We
can't
. Okay. Here. Lie down.”

“I wanted to be close.”

“We are close, Mag. Come on. Let me hold you.” He urged her back down. “It feels good just like this, lying here, you and me.”

“I only wanted—”

“Shh. It's okay. It's nothing.” He opened her coat and slipped his arm round her. “It's nice just like this,” he whispered against her hair. He moved his hand to her back and began caressing the length of her spine.

“But I only wanted—”

“Shh. See. It's just as nice like this, isn't it? Just holding? Like this?” His fingers pressed in long, slow circles, stopping at the small of her back where they remained, a tender pressure that relaxed and relaxed and relaxed her completely. She finally slipped, protected and loved, into sleep.

It was the dogs' movement that awakened her. They were up, about, and dashing outside at the sound of a vehicle coming into the farmyard. By the time they were barking, she was sitting up, fully awake, aware that she was alone on the blanket. She clutched it to her and whispered, “Nick!” frantically. He materialised from the darkness by the window. The light from above was no longer shining. She had no idea how long she had slept.

“Someone's here,” he said unnecessarily.

“Police?”

“No.” He glanced back at the window. “I think it's my dad.”

“Your
dad?
But how—”

“I don't know. Come here. Be quiet.”

They gathered up the blankets and crept to one side of the window. The dogs were sending up enough noise to announce the Second Coming and lights were snapping on outside.

“Hey there! Enough!” someone shouted roughly. A few more barks and the dogs were silent. “What is it? Who's there?”

Footsteps sloshed across the yard. Conversation ensued. Maggie strained to hear it, but the voices were low. A woman said quietly, “Is it Frank?” at a distance and a child's voice cried, “Mummy, I want to
see
.”

Maggie pulled the blanket closer round her. She clutched on to Nick. “Where c'n we go? Nick, can we run?”

“Just be quiet. He ought to…Damn.”

“What?”

But she heard it herself:

“You don't mind if I have a look round, do you?”

“Not at all. Two of them, you said it was?”

“A boy and a girl. They'd be wearing school uniforms. The boy might have had a bomber jacket on.”

“Never saw a hair of anything like that. But go on and have a look. Let me get my boots on and I'll join you. Need a torch?”

“Got one, thanks.”

Footsteps went in the direction of the barn. Maggie grabbed Nick's jacket. “Let's go, Nick. Now! We can run to the wall. We can hide in the pasture. We can—”

“What about the dogs?”

“What?”

“They'll follow and give us away. Besides, the other bloke said he was going to help in the search.” Nick turned from the window and looked around the shed. “Our best hope is to hide out in here.”

“Hide out? How? Where?”

“Move the sacks. Get behind them.”

“But the rats!”

“No choice. Come on. You've got to help.”

The farmer began to tromp across the yard in the direction of Nick's father as they dropped their blankets and started pulling the sacks away from the wall. They heard Nick's father call out, “Nothing in the barn,” and the other man say, “Have a go with the shed, here,” and the sound of their approach spurred Maggie into a fury of pulling sacks far enough from the wall to create a burrow of safety. She had retreated within it—Nick had as well—when the light from a torch beamed in through the window.

“Doesn't look like nothing,” Nick's father said.

A second light joined the first; the shed became brighter. “The dogs sleep in here. Can't say as I'd want to join them even if I was on the run.” His torch clicked off. Maggie let out her breath. She heard footsteps in the muck. Then, “Best to have a closer look, though,” and the light reappeared, stronger, and shining from the doorway.

A dog's whine accompanied the sound of wet boots slapping on the floor of the shed. Nails ticked against the stones and approached the sacks. Maggie said, “No” in despair without making any sound and felt Nick move a step closer.

“Here's something,” the farmer said. “Someone's messed with that chest.”

“Those blankets belong there on the floor?”

“Can't say they do.” The light darted round the room, corners to ceiling. It glinted off the discarded toilet and shone on the dust on the rocking chair. It came to rest on the top of the sacking and illuminated the wall above Maggie's head. “Ah,” the farmer said. “Here we've got it. Step out here in the open, youngsters. Step out now or I'll send the dogs in to help you make up your minds.”

“Nick?” his father said. “That you, lad? Have you got the girl with you? Come out of there. Now.”

Maggie rose first, trembling, blinking into the torchlight, trying to say, “Please don't be angry with Nick, Mr. Ware. He only wanted to help me,” but beginning to weep instead, thinking, Don't send me home, I don't want to go home.

Mr. Ware said, “What in God's name were you thinking of, Nick? Get out here with you. Jesus Christ, I ought to beat you silly. You know how worried your mum's been, lad?”

Nick was turning his head, eyes narrowed against the light that his father was shining into his face. “Sorry,” he said.

Mr. Ware
harumphed
. “Sorry won't go far to mend your fences with me. You know you're trespassing here? You know these people could've had the police after you? What're you thinking of? Haven't you no better sense than that? And what were you planning to do with this girl?”

Nick shifted his weight, silent.

“You're filthy.” Mr. Ware shone the light up and down. “God almighty, just look at the sight of you. You look like a tramp.”

“No, please,” Maggie cried, rubbing her wet nose against the sleeve of her coat. “It isn't Nick. It's me. He was only helping me.”

Mr. Ware
harumphed
again and clicked off his torch. The farmer did likewise. He'd been standing to one side, holding the light in their direction but otherwise looking out the window. When Mr. Ware said, “Out to the car with both of you, then,” the farmer scooped up the two blankets from the floor and followed them out.

The dogs were milling round Mr. Ware's old Nova, snuffling at the tyres and the ground alike. The exterior lights were shining from the house and in their glow Maggie could see the condition of her clothes for the first time. They were crusted with mud and streaked with dirt. In places the lichen from the walls she'd climbed over had deposited patches of grey-green slime. Her shoes were clotted with muck out of which sprouted bracken and straw. The sight was a stimulus for a new onslaught of tears. What had she been thinking? Where were they supposed to go, looking like this? With no money, no clothing, and no plan to guide them, what had she been thinking?

She clutched Nick's arm as they slogged to the car. She sobbed, “I'm sorry, Nick. It's my fault. I'll tell your mummy. You didn't mean harm. I'll explain. I will.”

“Get in the car, the both of you,” Mr. Ware said gruffly. “We'll do our deciding about who's at fault later.” He opened the driver's door and said to the farmer, “It's Frank Ware. I'm at Skelshaw Farm up Winslough direction. I'm in the book if you discover this lot did any damage to your place.”

The farmer nodded but said nothing. He shuffled his feet in the muck and looked as if he wished they'd be off. He was saying, “Funny blokes, out of the way,” to the dogs when the farmhouse door opened. A child of perhaps six years old stood framed in the light in her nightgown and slippers.

She giggled and waved, calling, “Uncle Frank, 'lo. Won't you let Nickie stay the night with us please?” Her mother dashed into the doorway and pulled her back, casting a frantic and apologetic look towards the car.

Maggie slowed, then stopped. She turned to Nick. She looked from him to his father to the farmer. She saw the resemblance first—how their hair grew the same although the colour was different; how their noses each had a bump on the bridge; how they held their heads. And then she saw the rest—the dogs, the blankets, the direction they'd been walking, Nick's insistence that they rest at this particular farm, his form at the window standing and waiting when she had awakened…

Her insides went so calm that at first she thought her heart had stopped beating. Her face was still wet, but her tears disappeared. She stumbled once in the muck, grabbed the Nova's door handle, and felt Nick take her arm. From somewhere that sounded like a thousand miles away, she heard him say her name. She heard him say, “Please, Mag. Listen. I didn't know what else…” but then fog filled her head and she didn't hear the rest. She climbed into the rear seat of the car. Directly in her line of vision a pile of old roof slates lay beneath a tree, and she focussed on them. They were large, much bigger than she'd imagined they would be, and they looked like tombstones. She counted them slowly, one two three, and was up to a dozen when she felt the car dip as Mr. Ware got into it and as Nick climbed in and sat next to her on the rear seat. She could tell he was looking at her, but it didn't matter. She continued counting—thirteen fourteen fifteen. Why did Nick's uncle have so many slates? And why did he keep them under the tree? Sixteen seventeen eighteen.

Nick's father was unrolling his window. “Ta, Kev,” he said quietly. “Don't give it a thought, all right?”

The other man came to the car and leaned against it. He spoke to Nick. “Sorry, lad,” he said. “We couldn't get the lass to go to bed once she heard you were on your way. She's that fond of you, she is.”

“S'okay,” Nick said.

His uncle slapped his two hands down on the door in farewell, nodded sharply, and stepped back from the car. “Funny blokes,” he called to the dogs. “Away with you.”

The car lurched round in the farmyard, made a slippery turn, and set off towards the road. Mr. Ware turned on the radio. He said kindly, “What d'you fancy, youngsters?” but Maggie shook her head and looked out the side window. Nick said, “Anything, Dad. It doesn't matter,” and Maggie felt the truth of those words pierce through her calm and drip like cold bits of lead into her stomach. Nick's hand touched her tentatively. She flinched.