Tyme's End (3 page)

But I think I know where he's going.

I cram my feet into my shoes without untying the laces and check my keys are still in my jeans pocket. Then I'm running down the stairs, keeping close to the wall so the floorboards don't creak. I go out into the street and shut the door behind me.

I'm almost too late. He's just disappearing out of sight, turning left at the end of the street. I follow, dodging in and out of the pools of light from the street lamps, but he's looking down at the ground and doesn't glance up, even when he comes to the turning towards the High Street. He goes right, past Eddie's closed-up shop, the way I went this afternoon. He stops in front of the gates to Tyme's End, and I slip sideways into the porch of the Cloven Hoof in case he turns round. A car goes past, but once it's gone the world seems quieter than ever, like we're underwater. He stands there, his hands in his pockets, just watching. If it wasn't the middle of the night he'd look like a tourist, or a casual passer-by, pausing for a few desultory moments to read the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
sign, wondering who owns Tyme's End these days.

He crosses the road slowly, as if he doesn't care if he gets runs over, and goes right up to the gates. He reaches out and touches the padlock, shakes it a little, so it chinks on its chain. It's like he's checking how securely it's locked. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against the bars.

He stays there for so long my heart stops thumping and my breathing goes back to normal. I take a few steps forward, so that if he looked round he'd see me, but he doesn't move. I keep going until there's only the width of the road between us.

He's mostly in the shadows, and his clothes and hair are dark, so it's as if he's blurred at the edges. His hands and neck are very pale. I can see the shape of his back through his jumper, the breadth of his shoulders.

I open my mouth because I want to say something, but I can't manage to speak. I feel strange, like I'm not quite real. I'm scared that if I called out to him he wouldn't hear me.

More than anything in the world I want to go up behind him and touch the bare nape of his neck, where his jumper dips. I don't know why. I want him to turn and see me and –

Somehow I know he's going to turn round a split second before he does.

He frowns. For a moment we stare at each other, silently. Then we both speak at exactly the same time.

I say, ‘I wasn't following you. I just wanted to say I was sor—'

He says, ‘Leave me alone. Go away.
Go away
.'

.

I run home without looking back. I stumble through the front door and slam it. I nearly bolt it behind me, so he has to stay outside all night. He's got Tyme's End, after all; he can stay there, with the rats and wasps and my emergency whisky and Coke. But I have just enough self-control not to do it. I pound up the stairs to my room, not caring if I wake Sam up, and slam that door behind me too.

I don't cry. I refuse to cry.

I
wasn't
following him. Not like that. I just –

I shut my eyes and think of Tyme's End, quiet, waiting for him beyond the locked gates. I remember that moment, just before he saw me, when I felt like a ghost. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to –

I curl up on my bed without taking my shoes off. I arrange my papers around me, building a landscape of computer printouts and pictures from magazines, desert and dusty villages and bright Mediterranean sea and tower blocks and beaches. I do it so that when I narrow my eyes it's as if I'm looking out of a blurry aeroplane window, gazing down at the place where I was born. Then I put my favourite photo in front, so the background merges into the rest of the pictures. Now my mother's standing there with me in her arms, and behind her the country is spread out in widescreen Technicolor. She's grinning at the camera. I stare at her and try to remember what it felt like to be held like that, to be so small she could balance me on her hip.

I keep looking, until I've almost convinced myself I'm there. I concentrate, blocking out the noise of the road and the scent of the rain still coming through my window.

After a long time I fall asleep. I don't hear Oliver come back in.

*

The next morning I'm sitting behind the counter in Eddie's shop, my head in my hands and my sunglasses on, because the light's streaming through the front window and my eyes don't feel up to the challenge. I feel hungover, even though I'm not. I didn't sleep very well; I had uneasy, sticky dreams that left a kind of damp taste in my mouth and made me struggle to escape from my duvet. Now I feel like death – and I don't look much better, according to Eddie. He was whistling a second ago, but I made a noise like an animal caught in a trap and he shut up. Now he's piling books on top of each other with exaggerated care, making a point of how quiet he's being. He glances round at me and smirks. I ignore him.

Leila comes through from the back office with a cup of tea. She puts it in front of me. ‘There you are, lovely. Toast?'

‘Don't give her toast, she'll get crumbs in the till.'

‘No thanks, Leila,' I say. I don't want breakfast. When I left the house Mum was cooking a full English, presumably for Oliver, and the smell made me want to throw up.

She pats my hand. ‘No problem. Any time, honey. We foreigners need to stick together.'

Right now, I could do without people telling me I'm a foreigner. But she means well, and she's just made me a cup of tea, so I only smile.

Eddie says, ‘I'm a foreigner too, if it comes to that.'

‘Being Welsh doesn't count,' Leila says.

He mock-scowls at her through his beard. ‘Try telling Owen Glendower that.' He squints at my tea and then turns back to Leila. ‘And where's mine?'

‘No, maybe you're right.' Leila winks at me. ‘They're not like those polite English people. Always wanting something, the bloody Welsh.'

‘It's easy to be polite when you've stolen everyone else's country. Now –
tea
, woman! And make it –'

The bell tinkles and Eddie stands up to peer round the bookcase into the front area. I slouch down and close my eyes behind my sunglasses, because I can't handle someone I don't know, not first thing in the morning, when I feel this rough.

Eddie says, ‘Good morning. Do excuse the mess – I've just had a delivery.'

‘That's OK.' The voice hesitates. It's a soft, American-sounding voice. Oh, crap. I slide even further down, so I'm almost hidden behind the counter. ‘Um . . . I just wanted to look around.' He clears his throat. ‘It says outside, second-hand books?'

‘That's right, boyo. Section through there – see the doorway?' He never calls anyone
boyo
in real life, but he likes to make a point of it for the tourists.

Either Oliver doesn't notice me as he goes past, or he's ignoring me. I'm glad. I glance up and then force myself to turn away, because it's not as if I care what he looks like. He doesn't seem to see me.

Then he stops. He reaches sideways to the nearest bookcase and pushes against the books with his fingers in a strange, tense, distracted way, as if he's trying to keep his balance. He's looking at Eddie's half-built display. He doesn't say anything, but he's pressing so hard that the top joints of his fingers bend backwards.

Eddie looks up from his unpacking and says, ‘New book. Just in. One for the tourists.' Then he adds, hastily, ‘We get a very high class of tourist, you know, very educated, not just your average –' He's probably about to say
your average American
, because he stops. He pulls another armful of books out of the box and proclaims, ‘
Mapping the Sands: The Strange Inner Life of H. J. Martin
. Nice cover. I mean, they all use that photo, but the blue's good, unusual – normally they're sort of yellowish.'

A pause. Eddie looks from him to me, raising his eyebrows, and I shrug, knowing he can't see through my sunglasses. Finally he says, ‘Well. Feel free to have a look if you want.'

Oliver takes one of the books from the display and flips through it awkwardly. His fingers slip and fumble with the pages. He stops in the middle, on a page of photos. I count to ten slowly. Then he puts the book back in the display case and looks round, as if he's seeing the H. J. Martin section for the first time. He clears his throat. ‘How many – you've got a lot of biographies of H. J. Martin.'

‘Well, yes. That's what a lot of people come for. Bit of a pilgrimage site, Falconhurst. I do the books, Malcolm down the road is the Secretary of the H. J. Martin Society. Steeped in history, this bit of the world.' Eddie staggers to his feet with an armload of books. ‘Not you, then? He was a fascinating man, though. I recommend
The Owl of the Desert
if you're at a loose end while you're here.' Eddie grins, pointing to the de luxe illustrated edition in the window, which costs a good thirty quid more than the paperback classic. Then his smile slips. ‘Now I may be wrong, but haven't you been here before? A long time ago? I seem to remember –'

‘No, I don't think so. I don't remember. Possibly.' A pulse is beating in Oliver's temple. He rubs at his face with his hand, as if he's trying to hide it, or his expression.

‘Oh, well.' Eddie walks past him and starts to prop the books up one by one, until there are dozens of them, all with black-and-white faces on the front. ‘Great writer, H. J. Martin, interesting man . . . One of the most controversial and intriguing figures of the twentieth century.'

I know for a fact that he's quoting the blurb of
The Owl of the Desert
. He looks wistfully at the book in the window and back at Oliver, then sighs and gives up. He adds, more casually, ‘The grave's in the churchyard. Pity the house isn't open to the public.'

‘Is it? A pity?' His voice is tight, but Eddie doesn't notice.

‘We've got a petition somewhere, if you fancy signing it. Thousands of names. Not that we've ever had a bloody answer. But you have to think, sooner or later –'

‘You're probably wasting your time.'

‘I doubt the solicitors pass it on to the owner, frankly. Every month we send off the new names, get a nice little note back – yes, thanks very much, all duly noted. But there's never been anything else. And the house – have you seen it? It's a disgrace. I mean, even if it wasn't of historical interest it's scandalous, letting a listed building go to seed like that. Must have been worth a bomb when the old man died. It was in a decent state then, but
now
–'

Leila comes through the door with a mug of tea. ‘Eddie! Let the poor gentleman look at the books. He doesn't need a rant.'

‘It's all right, I'm just browsing.' Oliver smiles at her, but it seems to take an effort. He glances at the books again and takes an odd, lurching step sideways, as if he's trying to get past the display. Unexpectedly, he catches my eye.

For a second I think he hasn't recognised me, or that he has and he's going to smile at me or say hello. Then he turns sharply on his heel and strides towards the door to the street. Eddie rocks backwards, surprised.

Suddenly, for no reason, I feel my throat constricting. It's stupid. I don't care what he thinks of me. I don't
care
.

I say, ‘You could just give him the petition now, Eddie. Now that he's actually
here
. Then at least you'd know he'd seen it.'

Eddie frowns and does a kind of double take. ‘Er . . . ?'

Oliver pauses, so abruptly it looks like it was involuntary, on the doorstep. I see his shoulders move as he takes a deep breath.

‘He owns Tyme's End. That's him. The mysterious owner. Why don't you just hand the petition over right now?' My voice comes out hoarse and spiteful.

‘Oh.' Eddie and Leila swap a glance. ‘Er . . .'

‘He told us last night. He's staying with us. He's going to sell it.'

‘Well, that's –'

‘To the highest bidder. He doesn't care who gets it. So it'll probably be converted into commuter flats. Won't that be nice?'

Oliver puts the flat of his hand on the door, spreading his fingers out on the glass so that a mist grows between them like mould. Without turning round, he says, ‘That's right. Won't it be nice.'

Eddie says, ‘Oh. Well, maybe – if I could give you Malcolm's phone number – the H. J. Martin Society might –'

‘Tyme's End is
mine
. I don't want it, but that's the way it is. So –' He does turn round, then. His eyes are narrowed, shining brown-green, and he's looking straight at me. One dark lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. ‘Jesus! What's your problem? Why don't you mind your own business? Just –
leave me alone
.'

He slams the door. The bell tinkles and clinks and finally rattles into silence.