Thicker Than Water (9 page)

‘Yes, darling? What?’ She must remember to collect that parcel from the sorting office, too, and it closed at midday.

‘Suppose someone likes you,’ he began hesitantly. ‘Someone older, I mean, but you don’t want to be with them. What can you do?’

‘I’m sure you can find some excuse,’ Elaine said absently. ‘You will remember to bring your games kit home, won’t you? Judy will be picking you up, so I shan’t be there to remind you.’

Josh sighed. ‘I’ll remember,’ he said.

Six

Having stopped to fill up with petrol, it was shortly after nine when Callum reached his desk.

‘You just missed a call,’ his secretary told him.

‘Typical,’ he replied, dropping his briefcase to the floor. ‘When did anyone last phone before nine fifteen? But the one time I’m late . . . Who was it?’ He reached for his phone, but her voice stopped him.

‘I didn’t get the number, I’m afraid. It was personal, and he didn’t leave a name.’

Slowly, Callum let his hand fall. ‘What did he say?’

‘Just what I told you. That—’

‘Exactly?’

Phyllis Jones flushed. ‘“Callum Firbank, please.” I told him you were due any minute, could I take a message, and he said, “No, it’s a personal call.” So I started to ask if you could ring back, but he cut in saying it didn’t matter, and rang off before I’d a chance to ask his name. I’m sorry,’ she finished, eying his taut face. ‘I even tried 1471, but the number was withheld.’

‘Typical,’ Callum said again. He frowned, looking up at her. ‘How did he sound?’

‘A bit abrupt, I thought.’

‘Any accent?’

‘Hard to tell; he only said a couple of words, but it was a – flat voice.’

Callum sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘All right, Phyllis; you can bring the post in,’ he said.

The call lodged at the back of his mind all morning. Each time the phone rang, he snatched it up, hoping to identify its originator, but each time he was disappointed. He’d always loathed uncertainties, needing immediate answers to anything puzzling him, and now there were two outstanding – this morning’s caller, and the stranger who’d approached Bob ten days ago. Were they one and the same? If so, who the hell was this guy, and why was he trying to contact him?

A flat voice. Try as he might, Callum could think of no one to whom that description might apply.
Why
, he asked himself repeatedly, had he not waited to fill up on the way home?

At twelve o’clock he switched off his computer, giving up all pretence of work. He needed some fresh air; a brisk walk, followed by lunch, should clear his head. And if the stranger rang while he was out, to hell with him.

He took a bus to the botanic gardens and walked solidly for an hour, taking in very little of what he saw. There was no point working himself up over this; whoever this man – or these men – might be, could have no link with the past. He’d taken great care to ensure that was well and truly buried, and there was no way it could be resurrected at this late stage. If either or both were subsequently identified, so much the better. If not, he’d simply expunge their existence from his memory.

By the time he returned to the office after lunch, his equanimity was restored, and he did not even enquire if there’d been any calls.

During the rest of that week, the weather steadily deteriorated, dominated by cloudy skies and biting winds. One morning, they woke to find a blanket of snow, but it melted almost at once in the weak March sun.

There’d been no further personal calls, and Callum had for the most part succeeded in putting the incident out of his mind. During the day, that is. Unfortunately, and possibly as a direct result, he was suffering one of his rare periods of insomnia, and in the long night watches he’d considerably less control over where his mind led him.

Wary of waking Judy, he first tried reading by torchlight, but the strain on his eyes rapidly led to headaches. So he took to prowling round the house, glancing in at his daughters, asleep and untroubled in their beds, wandering downstairs to pour himself a whisky, sitting in the shadowed family room watching overfamiliar DVDs. Eventually he would doze off, his head at an awkward angle, so that he’d wake an hour or two later with a stiff neck, which as often as not lasted throughout the day.

Once or twice Judy, waking to find an empty space beside her, came down in search of him, sliding cushions under his head if he was asleep, bringing him hot milk if awake. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he loathed it, that drinking it almost made him gag, and that it had unwelcome connotations with his childhood.

‘Perhaps you should try some sleeping pills,’ she suggested towards the end of the week. ‘Just a short course, to break the cycle.’ She paused, stroking the hair back from his damp forehead. ‘There’s nothing worrying you, is there, darling?’

He’d forced a smile, reaching up to pat her cheek. ‘What could possibly worry me?’

‘I don’t know – problems at work?’

But he smilingly shook his head. At least there could be no financial difficulties, she assured herself; in addition to his substantial salary, Callum had a sizeable amount of family money – inherited, she assumed, from his parents, though he’d never said.

When, after fitful snatches of sleep, he woke on the Saturday morning, Callum had both a stiff neck and a raging headache, and all he wanted was to crawl back to bed and pull the covers over his head. Instead, a horrendous schedule lay ahead of him: a half-hour’s drive to Fenby, the stress of finding somewhere to park in an already overcrowded village, and, to top it all, the constant soundtrack of exhausts and revving engines for the rest of the day.

Even the weather was against him, he reflected gloomily; whereas the previous days’ cloud would at least have been kind on the eyes, this morning the sun was back, glinting blindingly on the frosty grass.

Judy surveyed him over the breakfast table. ‘You don’t look well,’ she said worriedly. ‘Ring up and cancel it, darling. They’ll understand.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t, love. Josh has been looking forward to this for weeks, added to which it’s our last outing together, at least for a while. I can’t let him down.’

‘Couldn’t you go in later, then? Make it half a day instead of a full one?’

‘Can’t do that, either. The parade starts at eleven.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll survive. Just have a large drink ready when I get back – medicinal, of course!’

‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said.

When he backed the car out of the drive, Josh was waiting for him at the gate, flushed and bright-eyed.

‘Are you OK, Callum?’ Elaine asked, as she steered her son on to the passenger seat and handed him his seat belt. ‘You look rather pale.’

‘Bit of a headache, that’s all,’ he said. ‘The fresh air should clear it.’

‘What time do we expect you back?’

‘Things usually start to wind down about three o’clock. We should be back by four, or soon after.’

She nodded. ‘Have a good time, then. And you, young man, behave yourself, and do everything Callum tells you.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Josh drawled in bored tones.

She lifted her hand in a wave as Callum pulled away, and as he turned the corner, he could see her in the rear-view mirror, hand still raised.

‘Will the pillion rides be before or after the parade?’ Josh asked eagerly.

‘After. According to the programme, the fair itself opens at ten, with stalls, hot dogs, coconut shies, et cetera. Then at eleven the motorbikes ride in convoy through the village and into one of the fields, where they’ll give a display of some fancy riding and stunts.’

‘And
then
we can have a go?’

Callum smiled. ‘You can. Count me out of that.’

‘I asked Dad how soon I could have a motorbike, and he said never!’

‘Well, you might be able to talk him round when you’re eighteen. On the other hand, by then you could be more interested in cars. A lot safer, I’d say.’

‘Safer!’ Josh repeated with derision.

As they drew nearer to Fenby, the narrow country road became more congested, until they were driving bumper to bumper in a stream of traffic converging on the village. The sun was warm through the glass and glinted blindingly on the rear window of the car in front, scarcely dulled by his sunglasses. Callum’s head set up a steady thrumming. It was going to be a long day.

As they reached the front of the queue of traffic, a steward waved them into a field that was providing a temporary car park, and another guided them into the requisite slot. Looking about him, Callum was unsurprised to note that the crowd streaming towards the village was almost exclusively male – fathers, sons and grandsons, most of them attired, like themselves, in jeans, trainers and padded jackets, eagerly anticipating a day spent admiring what Judy referred to as ‘boys’ toys’.

Even from this distance, blaring music reached them, amplified by loudspeakers positioned around the village. Every now and then it ceased mid-tune, to give way to a raucous voice reminding everyone of the timing of main events, and extolling the goods on offer at the stalls. There was also a tombola, they were informed, and a raffle with ‘stupendous prizes’.

Josh had already set off towards the gate, and Callum hurried to catch up with him, joining the moving throng streaming towards the village.

‘Keep close to me,’ Callum advised the boy as they entered the main street. ‘It’s easy to get separated in this crowd.’

Josh nodded, but his eyes were everywhere, scouring the stalls and amusements lining the road.

‘Can I have a hot dog?’ he asked eagerly, as the scent of frying onions wafted malodorously over them.

Callum held down a wave of nausea. ‘You’ve only just finished breakfast!’

‘That was ages ago!’

‘All right.’ He felt in his pocket for cash, but Josh shook his head.

‘Dad gave me some money. I’ll use that.’

He joined the queue by the kiosk and Callum stood waiting, marvelling at the digestive systems of young boys, and wondering how soon he could top up the painkillers he’d taken before leaving home. The music continued to blare overhead, and he was jostled continuously as the crowds surged past, each push seeming to send a hot poker through his head.

The next forty-five minutes were a rarefied form of torture. Josh moved from stall to stall, his pocket money dwindling. Among a selection of other bric-a-brac, he bought something claiming to be a whale’s tooth, a miniature ship in a bottle, some candy floss and a couple of CDs selling for fifty pence each.

Not wishing to be thought a wet blanket, Callum allowed himself to be coerced into having a go at hoop-la and the coconut shy, managing to acquit himself reasonably well. But he drew the line at the dodgems, which had been set up on the school playground, and contented himself with standing on the perimeter watching the endless bumping and manoeuvring.

Josh had just climbed reluctantly out of his car when the loudspeaker announced it was time for people to make their way to the main street for the arrival of the motorbike cavalcade, and there was more pushing and shoving as everyone jostled for a good view.

The roar of the approaching bikes, loud in the expectant silence, preceded their arrival by some minutes, then, suddenly, they were there, a flashing rainbow of red, blue, black, silver and green, chrome gleaming, paintwork shining, as they sped through the street, did a sweeping turn at the end of the village, and roared back again, horns blaring as the crowd cheered wildly. Callum reckoned there must be about twenty in all. Beside him, Josh was jumping up and down with excitement, and even he, in his weakened state, was stirred by the spectacle.

The bikes wheeled again to ride down the street a third time, and when they reached the far end, turned into the field designated for the display. Immediately, the crowd began to stream in their wake, while the loudspeaker informed them there would be a fifteen-minute interval to allow the spectators to take their places.

‘Didn’t they look wicked?’ Josh demanded, as they were swept along.

‘They did indeed, Josh.’

‘Thanks ever so much for bringing me, Callum. It’s really cool!’

‘Glad you’re enjoying it. Have your ticket ready – we’ll need to show them as we go in.’

The field was large and rectangular, and plastic barriers had been set up to separate the audience from the performers. Callum noted that some of the older spectators had had the foresight to bring shooting sticks and folding chairs, and envied them. The only other option was the grass, which the melting frost had left damp and unwelcoming. He should have thought to bring a rug, he chastised himself.

Once everyone was in place, the display began. Only twelve of the original twenty riders took part, and the next half-hour was a breathtaking performance of stunts, the mere names of which – Circles, No-handed Wheelies, Hyper Spin, Standing Burn-Out, High Chair Stoppies – were enough to quicken the blood. The reactions of the crowd echoed Callum’s own response – silence, followed by gasps, and then wild cheering as each of the riders in turn seemed to take his life in his hands.