Something Only We Know (41 page)

She shifted, raised her hand as if to shade her eyes from the moonlight. She didn’t deny it, though.

‘You’re going to have to straighten yourself out, Hel, same as I am.’

‘Mm.’

‘Whatever it is you’re up to.’

‘I know what you think—’

‘Who was it, that day in the kitchen? When I heard that man’s voice and he ran off and you were so weird after? If your conscience is clear, why can’t you tell me?’

‘I just can’t. Please.’

‘If it is Joe—’
He’s too repulsive and I can’t bear it.

‘It’s not him.’

‘Who, then?’

No answer.

‘God, I don’t know what to make of you. I never have done.’

Somewhere far off I could hear wind chimes tinkling.

‘I promise you it’ll come right,’ she said.

‘What will?’

‘All of it. Everything.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Not for everyone. It won’t come right for everyone. Just for us. The good guys.’

‘You think the universe is that fair?’

She brought her hand down to her side, and where it fell there was the faintest contact between our knuckles.

‘I think we make our own universes, in the end.’

CHAPTER 12

Four solid weeks of rain we’d had. The flooding was unprecedented. There’d actually been days when the main road to Chester was closed; I wouldn’t have been
able to get into work even if I’d had a job. Wouldn’t have been able to meet Owen even if he’d wanted to see me.

In the meantime I’d attacked my bedroom, gutted it, set it up properly as a home office and then pursued the Glasington story with vigour. I’d met various dead ends: there were more
people than Rosa didn’t want this story out in the public domain. But there’d been one blinding breakthrough which had kept the momentum rolling. My investigations turned up one Launce
Tart, ex-regional TV presenter from the 1980s, a local household name and the kind of guy who still opened supermarkets and fêtes. He’d been a member of the hunt for just two years,
quitting in 2009 after a row with the Master. So keen was Tart to distance himself from any wrongdoing that he’d fallen over himself to help, giving me a long interview via Skype detailing
some of the activities and attitudes he’d witnessed. ‘I’m not into blood sports anyway. I only ever went for the social side, join in with the countryside, that sort of
thing,’ he told me. ‘I rode at the rear. I never saw a kill.’ Nevertheless, he was able to confirm some of what Mr Williams had said. ‘A lot of the guys were OK, you know?
Decent people. It was just this feeling one or two of them had that they could do what the hell they liked and get away with it. It gave me the spooks. Which is why I got out.’ Now two
high-profile animal charities were investigating, as well as the police. My blog post had received 150,000 hits.

I’d had offers off the back of it as well, but only from outfits who couldn’t pay: fringe animal rights groups who wanted a volunteer press officer or web manager. So that was no go,
because not only did I need a job with wages, career-wise I didn’t want to tie myself down to a single-issue campaign. I watched from the sidelines as Launce Tart played the media; I observed
how he moved from my blog interview to chats with local press, to a piece in the
Mirror
, to a profile in the
Guardian
. He spoke out against hunting with the zeal of the converted,
rekindling his career in the process. Clever man. Apparently I’d had a national-interest story after all.

Other spin-offs had included messages from old college friends congratulating me on the piece, and a storm of pro-hunt abuse on Twitter, including a link to a field sports forum where members
were discussing in robust terms what they’d do if they ever got their hands on me. The Glasington themselves had made a short statement denying everything, then withdrawn from the debate.
Gerry had sent me a photo of a mug he’d started using in the office bearing the slogan
For Fox Sake Keep the Ban.

‘Well, I hope it was worth it,’ had been Rosa’s parting shot as she saw me sweep my neon paperclips into a cardboard box. Gerry had made himself scarce on the morning I left,
but Alan had skulked around, rubbernecking, and Tam had given me a sad wave from over by the water cooler. That was a wobbly moment. Had it been worth it? Not in terms of financial gain, no. I
hadn’t made a penny out of the episode. My email to the
Guardian
enquiring about a follow-up piece or even some shift work had gone unanswered. I was earning pocket money by
reorganising Dad’s filing system at the haulage depot.

But in terms of my peace of mind, in terms of my sense that I’d done what was right and spoken out against bad behaviour, I was a winner. If I could go back in time I knew I’d have
acted exactly the same. Only last week I’d had a card from Mrs Williams telling me how quiet everything had gone, how the intimidation seemed to have stopped for the moment, and expressing
her heartfelt gratitude at what I’d done for them. The card contained a lucky cockerel tail feather. I stuck it in my pencil pot, on my revamped desk.

And today, the day of my sister’s birthday, the skies had eventually cleared and we’d woken to mist rising off the grass under an already warm sun. I stood at my bedroom window and
let my eyes follow a tatty crow which was stabbing its beak into the lawn over and over. Sometimes it froze like a statue and cocked its head, then it would jerk into life and jab downwards. I
liked the way it walked about, this bird, with a jaunty, comical stride. Sometimes, when it paused, it seemed to be looking right at me, asking me what I thought I was doing.

‘Clinging on,’ I told it. ‘Just about clinging on.’

I pulled on my trackie bottoms and a T-shirt, stuck a pair of trainers on my feet and made my way downstairs, in search of some coffee and toast.

In the kitchen I met Dad. He was coming in through the back door, laden with boxes.

‘Are those Helen’s presents?’ I asked in surprise. As far as I knew, she’d only asked for a new laptop cover and a pair of Aztec-patterned slipper socks. She didn’t
like it when you bought too much, made a fuss.

He shook his head and put the boxes down on the floor. Now I could see they held a bottle of whisky, a collection of old, damp-swelled books, a bundled-up sheepskin coat. ‘Mine,’ he
said.

And I understood what he was doing: dismantling his garage den. End of an era.

‘Need a hand?’ I asked.

‘No. There wasn’t much. It’s all straight in there.’

‘OK. Right.’ I wondered if I should say something significant to mark the occasion.
Well done, welcome back into the family.
Instead I poured him a hot drink while he went
to rehouse the whisky in the drinks cabinet and lose the books on the shelf.

A minute or two later and he reappeared, brushing garage dust off his sleeve. There was something determined but understated in the action. Suddenly I found myself rushing forward and giving him
a fierce hug around his wide middle. He staggered slightly in surprise, then recovered himself.

‘Hey up,’ he said.

‘I love you, Dad.’

‘That’s nice. I’m pretty fond of you, too.’

A beat.

‘Are you OK, Jen? I mean, with everything that’s gone on. Are you managing?’

‘I’m sorry about my internship.’

His chest rose and fell with a sigh. ‘Ah, well. You can’t turn the clock back so there’s no point fretting about it. You just need to crack on with the next phase,
eh?’

‘Yeah.’ I broke the embrace. He was a good father. He was my father. Whatever he’d done, the past was the past.

‘What have you bought your sister, anyway?’ he said, rolling his bulk onto a kitchen chair. Helen’s healthy eating programme really wasn’t touching him.

‘Earrings with little birds on them. Oh, and a zumba mix CD. It’s one I’ve put together myself, of the best songs we’re doing in my class. Because Hel goes to a different
group now, I didn’t want her to miss them. I thought I could teach her some of the steps. We could do the routines at home. And then if she ever does decide to come with me again,
she’ll know the moves so she can join in.’

‘Sounds terrific. Will you do one for me?’

‘Zumba to the sound of Mungo Jerry?’

‘That’s right. I bet I’d be red hot.’

‘I bet you would.’

Dad had left the door ajar, and through it I thought I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. When I put my head out to see, there was the rear end of Ned’s Fiat tucked in against
the kerb. I went to greet him.

‘All right, shorty?’ he said when he saw me.

‘All right, scruff?’

We’d just about regained our equilibrium – I could sit in the same room as him and not feel gripped by an urge to get up and run away – but there was still a self-conscious
edge to our banter. We didn’t touch any more, no jokey wrestles or casual arm-linking. A nervous force-field surrounded each of us, keeping the other at bay. Our most intimate moment in the
past month had been when he’d caught me on my own and told me he was proud of me for finishing things with Owen. ‘Mind your own damn business,’ I’d replied sweetly.
He’d looked crestfallen.

I patted the roof of the Fiat. ‘You’re way early, you know. I’m not sure if Hel’s even up yet. Her bedroom door was closed when I went past.’

‘Good.’

‘How so?’

‘Because I don’t want her to see her birthday present till it’s set up.’

‘Oh yeah? What’ve you got her?’

‘This.’ He opened the rear door and bent to slide out a large box. A blanket was draped over the top so I couldn’t see the detail, but whatever it was it was a good size.

‘Shall I take the other end for you?’

‘Nah. It’s not heavy. Just large.’

I followed him into the house where he nodded at me to clear the breakfast bar. I whisked away plates and cups so he could set the parcel down. Dad watched, his mouth full of toast.

For a while Ned faffed about, lining up the object so it was square with the edge of the work surface, then he took a corner of the blanket between his fingertips and drew it off with a
flourish, like a magician. ‘Ta daaah!’

What we had was a rodent cage, one of those multilevel deluxe ones with plastic pipes sticking out and pod-things and hammock-type arrangements. My first thought was,
He’ll never
squeeze a guinea pig through those tubes.
My second was,
If he’s planning on installing that contraption here, however’s Mum going to react?

I moved forward and took a closer look. Inside the cage, propped against the wall, was a cut out of a hamster with a speech bubble emerging from its mouth. ‘Hello! I’m Hammy!’
it was apparently saying.

‘Hammy?’

Ned pulled a sheepish face. ‘Yeah, sorry. Not the most original of names, I grant you. Then again, creativity’s not my area.’

Dad was lost. ‘You’re never giving her a cardboard hamster for her birthday, are you? Because I appreciate you know Helen best, but I can’t see that going down well.’

I said, ‘It’s because he didn’t want to stress out a real hamster by driving it over, is that right, Ned? But you’re going to pick one up at the pet shop
today?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Oh, right. And where’s it going to live, this hamster-mansion?’

‘Yes, where?’ Mum had materialised, still in her dressing gown. Some sixth sense must have told her to hurry downstairs, that her domestic hygiene was under threat.

Ned held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Crossley. I’ve managed to sweet-talk my landlord into letting me keep a pet round at mine. As long as I don’t allow it to damage
the fabric of the property, it’ll be OK, he says. I only brought the empty cage round to show you. To show Hel.’

Sighs of relief all round, though I found myself thinking how nice it would be if we did have a rodent on the premises again, a little fat hamster or a cheeky gerbil, maybe. I could have it in
my room and teach it tricks. Toffee used to turn circles for Helen, and jump onto an upside-down shoebox to be fed.

‘Right. And how long do they live?’ asked Mum, ominously.

‘A lot depends on how they’re looked after, plus what species you get, because the Russian dwarf ones have a faster metabolism than the Syrian so that means—’

He never got to give us a definitive Hammy lifespan, though, because that’s when Hel arrived on the scene.

She was dressed today in jeans and a floaty smock top, her hair taken up off her forehead with two enamel combs. She’d put on mascara and lip gloss and I thought I could detect a smudge of
powder under her eyes, perhaps to hide the dark circles there. This last fortnight she’d been having difficulty sleeping, Mum had told me.

I went, ‘Morning. I’ve put your present next door, on the sofa.’

Ned just grinned. I suppose he was feeling fairly confident about the reception he was going to get.

‘Happy birthday,’ said Mum, kissing her on the side of the head.

‘Aye, happy birthday, love,’ said Dad.

‘What in God’s name’s that?’ asked my sister, pointing at the cage.

‘“Oh, darling, thank you so much for the amazing present.”’ Ned supplied a more appropriate response.

‘Yeah, that. But what is it?’

‘He’s buying you a hamster, you ingrate,’ I said, picking up my coffee again. ‘And he’s going to keep it at his flat for you so you won’t have any bother. You
won’t even have to clean it out. Just play with it whenever you fancy. Isn’t that nice of him?’

I suppose we were expecting too much. Hel was thirty-one, not six. She was hardly going to clasp her hands and skip round the kitchen, shrieking with glee. Still, a broad smile might have been
reasonable. A few exclamations of mild delight.

She came forward and pinched open the wire hatch at the top of the cage, poked at the feeding tray, frowned.

Clearly time to leave them to it.

Dad poured Mum a coffee and handed it to her, and then they went outside to drink it on the patio. I could see them through the window, Mum scrubbing at something on the arm of the vinyl chair
with her hanky. Meanwhile I folded my last piece of cold toast and stuffed it in my mouth. My fingers were greasy so I walked over to wipe my hands on the towel, passing Hel. She was still
examining the hamster cage and fiddling with its various attachments. Her face looked knotted up with anxiety.