*
Cairo sat on the edge of the iron bed in Richard's attic room. The sawn-off handcuff was still attached. She slipped her hand inside, the metal felt cold and hard. She slipped out of it and rolled up her left sleeve. Then, from a pocket, she drew out the mother-of-pearl penknife she had stolen from the kitchen, opened out the blade, and drew it across her left forearm. The pain was exquisite. The blood beautiful. She held up her hand and watched it run down to her elbow and drip to the floor. And then she lay down and cried. Long silent sobs heard by nobody.
Richard, Shillingham
Richard woke with a start at the sound of a car horn, he shivered and blinked at the bright morning light noticing that there were pedestrians on the footpath and cars in the street. Shifting his cramped legs he knocked over a small pile of coins that were on the step beside him, he looked around in confusion until he heard a gentle tapping on the inside of the shop door behind him. He turned stiffly and saw an old lady peering at him through the glass, she pointed towards the coins and then made a 'shooing' gesture with her hands, Richard got the message and stood up. She had mistaken him for homeless and given him some money to go away, he picked up the coins and stumbled into the street.
After a few minutes walking Richard found what he was looking for; a public telephone. He dropped in some of the coins and dialled his home number, there was no answer. Next he dialled the office and was shocked to hear the ‘disconnected’ tone. In his mind he remembered Eve's parting words,
“Don't expect to see her pretty face again!” That was the moment when he realised that Susan really was gone, Eve had murdered her and boasted about it. A sudden rage overwhelmed him and he smashed the phone receiver against the wall, he kicked and punched the phone box tearing the skin off his knuckles until the frenzy was over. Staggering into the street he collided with another pedestrian, nearly knocking him over,
“Watch where you're fucking going!” He shouted, the other man walked away quickly, visibly nervous. Richard wanted to scream at everyone, to shout and punch their smug, fatuous faces. He stood swaying on the footpath, glowering at the passers-by, wishing that someone would pick a fight with him. Someone did. A large middle-aged uniformed policeman crossed the street and planted himself in front of Richard. His hand rested lightly on his truncheon.
“Fuck off!” Richard spat out the words and stared him right in the eyes. The policeman's eyes narrowed slightly but he didn't seem particularly annoyed, he spoke carefully and quietly with a hint of an Irish accent,
“You'd better be movin' on now, you ‘travellers’ are not welcome around here. This is a nice quiet respectable little town, and we don't want any scum like you making a mess of the place, so turn around and hoof-it right back where you came from!” He took out his truncheon and tapped it lightly in his palm, adding,
“Your friends are camped in the lay-by about a mile down that road.” He pointed with his truncheon to a road leading out of town. Richard realised that the policeman had mistaken him for a crusty ‘new-age traveller’, all of a sudden he had the urge to tell the policeman who he was and what had happened to him,
“Listen to me…“ He took a step towards him, “...I’ve been kidnapped!…” He blurted out the words sounding almost hysterical, “…No listen, I was held a prisoner by two crazy women! They chained me to an iron bed!” Richard realised that he sounded crazy. The policeman smiled, a mirthless grin on his mouth and hatred and disgust in his eyes,
“Are you sure it wasn't ‘the aliens’ who abducted you then?” He asked sarcastically before raising his voice menacingly and waving his truncheon in Richard's face,
“Now get your fucked-up, drugged-up filthy carcass out of my town, go on move it!” Richard turned away and headed down the road, his anger had dissipated when he realised how foolish he appeared, he trudged out of Shillingham without any idea of what he was going to do, the hopelessness of his situation becoming more apparent with every weary step. Walking like an automaton he plodded without thought. Gradually the houses gave way to fields and trees, and he saw an old-fashioned single-decker bus parked in a lay-by. An old woman sat in its doorway with a steaming mug held in both hands, on the grass nearby sat an Asian man tending a camp fire, he remembered the words of the policeman, “Your friends are camped in the lay-by about a mile down that road.” Richard was hungry and desperately thirsty, he approached the woman,
“Can you spare some water, please?” He asked hoarsely.
“Piss off scrounger!” She glared at him and spat on the floor, Richard recoiled, shocked, then tried again,
“Please! I'm desperate, all I want is a-” The old woman stood up, turned around and went into the bus closing the door in his face. Richard stood there for a moment, stunned, until the sound of another voice made him turn,
“Hey! If you want something from us then you have to be prepared to trade, go and fetch some more wood for this fire, then we might be able to trade you some water.”
Richard could hardly believe that he had to barter for a drink of water but it seemed like there was no alternative, he wandered off the road into the trees picking up twigs and fallen branches. A few minutes later he returned to the camp with a bundle of firewood, the Asian man eyed the twigs critically before handing over a mug half filled with water,
“Sip it. You're dehydrated.” His English was very good but he retained a far-east accent. Richard wondered if he was Chinese and was surprised when he answered his unspoken question,
“I was born in Japan.” He said it as if Richard had actually asked the question, then continued,
“Now sit down before you fall down.” The Asian had a powerful grip as he took Richard’s arm and eased him down beside the fire. The heat from the flames felt good and the water was cool and refreshing. Richard shuffled backwards getting more comfortable leaning against a bush, he felt that he ought to say something,
“Thank you…” It seemed appropriate, he continued, “…Can I rest here for a little while? Just until I get a little strength back? I‘m very tired.”
The Asian looked a little surprised, then replied,
“Strength, my friend, does not ‘come back’, it is not a thing which comes and goes like the moon or a migrant bird, it is always with you. It is born in you, A man only needs to know his strength and when and how to use it.”
The statement was wasted on Richard, he'd only meant to say that he was tired and would like to rest for a while, the Asian man kept talking,
“I am known as Tsuba...” He held out his hand, Richard wearily took it and was surprised again, the hand felt as strong as iron, “...You are welcome to stay here for a while, but if you want to continue to use the fire then you will have to fetch some wood, and some more sturdy pieces! These few twigs will not burn long.” Tsuba pointed to the pile that Richard had collected and then at some others that, presumably, he or the old woman had collected earlier, Richard nodded and promised to fetch some more later. The warmth from the fire and the weak sunshine helped Richard to relax and in only a few short minutes he had fallen asleep.
Eve, on the prowl - Birmingham
Eve sipped from a bottle of American lager, she was in Birmingham, in one of its more fashionable nightclubs, and she was bored. Usually such places were a hotbed of emotional and sexual tension, tonight things were a little quiet, it was midweek and the club was only half full, the clubbers that were there seemed only half interested as well. She was about to grab Franco and leave when she heard the immortal words,
“So what's a pretty girl like you doing all on her own?” She turned and saw a moderately attractive middle-aged man beaming his best ‘I'm here on business and I've got an expense account’ smile. She favoured him with a suggestive lick around the rim of her bottle before replying,
“I'm not alone any more, am I?”
Walther, London
Back on his boat Walther emptied his jacket pockets and found the letter that he'd picked up when he was in the Hammer
smith house with Susan, he read it. The contents were irrelevant but Sir Clive’s name on the front told him who owned the house and gave him the idea that he might also own another house elsewhere, where Eve might now be hiding. It was a small lead but one well worth pursuing, he used his phone to make an appointment with a local private detective. He had also decided to find Susan and remembering her parent’s names and that they lived in Norfolk meant that he should be able to trace her quite easily. He was convinced that she would be hunting Eve for personal revenge and he wanted to offer his help, “It is the least I can do...” Walther was getting back in the hunt and determined that this time he would succeed, “...But I would not blame her if she...” he smiled sadly as he thought of the foul language Susan seemed prone to, “...told me to fuck off.”
Susan, Norfolk
After that first terrifying night in the house Susan’s dreams had not been troubled by the spectres of her parents, instead she had vivid nightmares about Richard, somehow she could not accept that he was dead, he was missing and that was all, she would find him and bring him home. Home to Norfolk. Not their own house in Windsor, that had to be put into the past, she would build a safe haven for him in her parents' old cottage.
She had adopted a new sin to carry the guilt for, she blamed herself for Richard's disappearance. And that meant that she had to find him, or at the very worst what became of him, she anchored her life, and sanity, in that tiny house next to the church.
In the few days that followed her arrival she had spent a lot of time reading through her father’s and mother’s writings, all she’d found were a few notes in a diary regarding a woman they’d met in Africa, but there was nothing concrete, nothing as straightforward as an address or contact.
She hadn't left the house since her arrival and had been surviving on the little food parcels left for her by the Vicar, there was a note pushed through the letterbox on her second day which read,
My Dear Susan,
I’ve taken the liberty of collecting a few things together for you (look on the doorstep!) Please call me if there is the slightest thing I can do to help,
With kind regards,
Vicar.
She was angry at first but then admitted to herself that she was being irrational. She peeked from the curtains until she was sure the coast was clear then took in the parcel, grateful and surprised when she saw the bottle of sherry,
“Vicar's tipple!” She laughed out loud for the first time in ages.
Eve, driving back to Sir Clive's House
Eve sat in the passenger seat while Franco drove them back to the big house in the countryside near Shillingham, she’d noticed that he'd been quiet and a little pensive during recent days,
“Franco, tell me what’s wrong? You've hardly spoken a word for days. What are you brooding about?” He paused for a few seconds trying to frame a reply, then spoke quietly,
“I'm not sure, I’ve just got that feeling, you know the one, the one that tells you things are not as they should be.” He shrugged. Eve knew him well enough to know that his hunches were usually worth taking note of,
“In that case you had better talk to me about it...” She said, “…when a wily old fox like you gets the heebies there must be something up.”
“Okay, I will try to explain, No, I'll ask you the same questions that I’ve been asking myself, lets see if you come up with the same answers:
One - Who was the man you and Dick saw with Bryant’s wife?
Two -Why did they kill Joan?
Three - Why didn't they go to the police after you killed Leach? And again when Bryant went missing? After all, any normal person would have gone to the police straight away, wouldn’t they?”
They were both silent for a few seconds before Eve answered,
“It must be me they're after.” Her voice was soft, thoughtful, Franco nodded in agreement, adding,
“That was my guess also.” He said. Eve pursed her lips in thought,
“Do you think they'll try again?” She asked.
“Yes I do, I’m certain of it, otherwise we would have heard from the police by now.”
There was another few seconds thought then Eve asked,
“So who do you think the ‘other man’ is?”
“Von Vohberg. Who else could it be?”
“He's dead!”
“He had children, two sons I believe.” Franco pointed out with quiet intensity. Eve threw back her head and laughed,
“Ha ha! Of course. Now I see it, Von Vohberg’s idiot offspring set to carry on his father's heroic crusade.” Eve suddenly fell silent, vividly recalling Walther’s father, and the Nazis.
Richard, a roadside Camp
Richard woke up when Tsuba gently shook him at the shoulder, he was surprised to find a blanket across his chest up to his neck,
“Here my friend, have another drink - and sip it, it’s hot.” Tsuba pressed a steaming mug into Richard’s hand, he obediently sipped, the contents were warm, herbal and refreshing. He finished it in a few moments and got to his feet, he felt stiff but generally much better. He saw that Tsuba was cooking something in a large metal pot over the open fire, there was no sign of the old woman,
“Francesca is on the bus…” Tsuba nodded his head in the direction of the bus as he again seemed to read Richard's mind, “…she’s not so bad, she has had problems.”
“I'd better go fetch some more firewood.” Richard offered. Tsuba nodded without looking at Richard, he was sprinkling some chopped leaves into the cooking-pot.
This time Richard's foraging was much more successful and he’d gathered up a decent stack of stout lumber, as he returned to the camp he noticed that the sun had gone behind a large mass of dark cloud and that the late afternoon was quite cold,
“Looks like it might be a cold night.” He ventured in conversation. Tsuba just nodded again, he seemed to be concentrating on his cooking. Richard hadn't eaten for two days and fervently hoped that dinner would consist of something more substantial than a pot of simmered leaves.
Tsuba eventually looked up and nodded approvingly at the heavier timber,
“That's good! Now you've paid for the use of the fire and blanket, what will you trade for some food?”
“What!” Richard was furious and threw the wood down in temper. Tsuba laughed as he continued stirring the pot,
“You look very hungry!” He called out cheerfully enough, but Richard's fuse was so very short and he blew his top,
“You know I haven't got anything! What the hell do you want for fucksakes? blood!?...” Spittle flew as he screamed at Tsuba’s impassive face, “…you can keep your fucking food! Shove it where the fucking sun rises! I can live quite easily without a bowl of boiled hedgerow cuttings anyway!” He started to stamp away from the camp, and then he saw the bread. Tsuba had been baking unleavened bread on a flat rock at the side of the fire, it looked hot and delicious. Across the fire Tsuba again caught his eye, speaking as gently as ever,
“There is something you have for which we would be pleased to trade for a hot meal and a dry bed.” Richard stopped, took a deep breath and asked,
“Like what?” Tsuba took no notice of Richards annoyance and replied jovially,
“Your story of course! I can see that you have been through quite an ordeal. We all have a story to tell, tell us yours. I have a hunch that it will be worth more than just one meal and a place to sleep.” Tsuba grinned and beckoned Richard back towards the fire,
“You have a quick temper.” He noted. Then they both heard the door to the bus open and saw the old lady emerge with a large colourful shawl around her shoulders, she glowered at Richard and moaned,
“Why's 'e still 'ere?…” She asked of Tsuba as she pointed to Richard with her thumb, “…Can't yer get rid of 'im?” She sat herself down grumpily by the fire, warming her hands in front of its cheerful flames.
The house in the Countryside
Cairo sat at a small square wooden table in Mr Underh
ill's shack. He was making tea in his own large quiet manner, moving even more carefully to avoid aggravating his bite wounds. The shack consisted of a downstairs living room with a kitchen area at one end and a narrow wooden staircase that led up to the single bedroom, she wondered how he managed to get up such a tiny space. Almost every available shelf had a plant or flower on it as well as most of the floor space. The wooden walls of the shack blended in with all the foliage like flat tree trunks creating the atmosphere of a forest clearing on a still summer afternoon.
Sunlight peeked through the flowers of a pretty square window and Cairo watched leafy shadows dance on the rough-grained table top.
“Milk and sugar?” His voice was deep and sweet, like music from the bottom of a deep, wide wishing well.
“Yes please.” Her own voice sounded small and soft in her ears. Since Richard had gone she had spent more time out of the house than in it, many of her usual haunts having been abandoned, she had even taken to sleeping in her bed instead of under it, mainly because she didn't want to talk to Button. She knew that she had changed inside but didn't know how much, the feelings that she had been receiving from people had scared her at first and so she spent most of her time alone in the garden or with Mr Underhill. They hardly spoke but they felt quietly comfortable together.
He placed a china cup and saucer in front of her almost filled to the top with pale sweet tea, then, in the centre of the table, he placed a small terracotta pot in which a tiny white flower had just bloomed.
“I hope you like it. It's a species that I've crossed myself, I've named it Pure Cairo.” She looked deeply into his eyes feeling his emotions without embarrassment, she felt an intense, warm passion radiating from him, a passion way beyond anger, fear or hate, she felt the passion of his love.