more could he take, damn him?
Dewi placed the remainder of his sandwich down onto the window ledge. His stomach was churning. And time was passing. He shifted his weight. He wiped his mouth. He glanced at his watch. Twelve twen… Twelve twenty-one?
What?
Two whole minutes later than she ever was, normally?
Sweet Katherine
Not that he kept tabs or anything.
Twelve… twelve… twelve twenty-two already?
By twelve twenty-three Dewi had already run several times through every conceivable option:
A delay at work
A random conversation
A breakdown
An accident
Or was it something more insidious? Something to do with the Estate Agent? With Ted? Sharp-suited, sandy-coloured Ted. Or with the kid in her garden? Or the boy-girl? Or the ruined old fellow with the little dog? Or the notebook-clutching fool in the plastic hat? The Followers. The Behindlings.
He clenched his teeth in frustration. He’d guessed they’d be back. He’d predicted it. After the book initially came out –almost two years ago now –they’d come then (not in hordes, not in their hundreds, but in dribs and in drabs, in gangs, in clutches. Just enough of them, basically, to bug, to chafe, to niggle him).
And they’d continued to come. Predictable as bad weather. Twice as persistent. Men, mostly. Sad cases. Trouble-makers. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Saintly sinners yearning to share something (experience? Pity? Semen?).
And the locals joked about it, to start off with. Then the neighbours started complaining. But Katherine? She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did (and she must’ve) then she never spoke out about it, never let on to anyone, just pretended she didn’t care, just lived her life, same as ever, quietly, firmly, impassively.
That was Katherine.
Oh God, he’d wanted to hurt Wesley, then. To damage him. Because he couldn’t comprehend it. He couldn’t understand how a stranger could be so cruel. So cavalier. So careless. It was more –so much more –than just the fact of the matter, it was the basic, fundamental bloody principle of the thing.
The principle.
And then… And then finally –ah yes, finally; the sheer, raw pain of this spuriously conclusive word made him almost catch his breath –just when it seemed like all the fuss and the misery might actually be in danger of diminishing a little –two whole years of trouble, two whole crazy years – the icing on the cake, the culmination of everything: that stupid fucking pointless competition. The treasure hunt.
The Loiter.
And clue three? Daniel’s Candy.
The woman serving in the chippie had explained the connection to the man in the queue standing two customers ahead of him. Daniel Defoe, she said (Robinson Crusoe, ironically, had been his favourite book as a boy) once called Canvey by that curious name in a book about Great Britain. A travel journal or something.
Candy Island. And Dewi knew –he knew – right there and right then, that these five sweet letters spelled an infinity of trouble; for him, for Katherine. Pretty much the same stuff as before, only more of it this time. Much more. Because of the treasure, obviously. And because of that poor man dying so tragically. The publicity.
Oh Lord. Today was just the beginning. It wouldn’t end here. Dewi kicked one hefty, steel-toe-capped boot against the other. Where the leather stretched thinly over the worn crest of the toe, a sleek shimmer of metal was visible, peeking through. When it struck the second boot it clanged sonorously, like an old, dented gong, upended in a cellar. He did it again. He did it a third time.
Wesley. Wesley. Dewi shook himself. He was still dusty. He inspected his forearms. Dusty. His palms. Dusty. Surely it couldn’t be simply a coincidence? He’d seen his photo on the book cover. And he’d seen the same picture, by sheer chance, on the late night news. Last year. Springtime. A stupid scandal over paternity. And then, when that poor man drowned on Guy Fawkes Night, in Anglesey, in the midst of all that terrible tragedy: Wesley’s foul and unrepentant grin, plastered everywhere, staring out at him from magazine racks, from the tabloid papers, from the broadsheets (even the broadsheets couldn’t seem to get enough of him).
And the pay-off?
‘Colin Sumner won. That’s the important thing. Colin Sumner’s a winner.’
No thought of an apology. No remorse. No pity.
What kind of a thing was that to say? Colin Sumner won? He’s a winner? A man dead. What kind of a stupid, smart-arse, senseless, thoughtless, pointless…?
Good God. Twelve twenty-five, already? A delay at work. Had to be. Or a conversation? But who would Katherine speak to? And why? Katherine didn’t speak much. Not in general. The locals found her difficult –different, inexplicable – even though she was one of them.
A local. She was local, wasn’t she? Born in Canvey. But never fitted. Always too large, too brave, too bold for her surroundings. Always too bright, too fierce for a place like this. Too grand for this fucked-up, washed out, anaemic little town.
She was different. That was all. With her fine, low voice… her too-light eyes… her small hands… tiny hands. Fingers like pieces of stripped willow.
She frightened people. She frightened him, too, sometimes (he made no bold claims to be braver than the rest of them). Yet he loved every inch of her. Every hair, every dimple. The good parts, the bad parts. She was strong meat. She had vision.
Ever since she was a girl she’d had it. Her father a headmaster. Her mother a minister. Tricky combination. Methodists, to the core, imbued with that ancient, powerful, crazy-Dutch puritanism. Devout people. Hard-edged. But not her. Not Katherine.
Twelve thirty? So perhaps she’d returned early, without him seeing. Perhaps she’d secreted her sweet self and her bright red bike clean away while he was still in his kitchen. Home early. Perhaps she’d received prior word about Wesley? Advance warning.
But who would warn her? Nobody trusted her. Only him. Only Dewi. And she despised him for it. She didn’t want to be trusted. Didn’t need it. Had no use for it. She laughed at his loyalty. She teased him for it. She found it hilarious.
But that was just Katherine. That was her way.
Twelve thirty-three?
So who might she speak to, realistically? The newsagent? The butcher? The girl in the bakery? No. Never. Even shopkeepers kept their distance, exchanging only nods and grunts, refusing to allow any transaction –no matter how plain or small or innocent –to be incriminated by syllables. She terrified them. Men especially. And wives, obviously. And mothers. And children. Little children, even.
She preferred it that way.
Twelve
