A Question Of Identity Part 13

She bent, made a s...o...b..ll, and threw it at him. They ran, laughing, towards the house in which his flat at the top was an eyrie and a refuge.

n.o.bby watched them, from his hiding place in the shadow of the cathedral. The stone gave off the cold but he would not move away until they were out of sight. He heard the echo of their laughter across the blue-white snow. Silly laughter.

He waited another few minutes before slipping out of the shadows and round the side, into the lane. Shadows here too. High walls. Icy. Be careful, n.o.bby, he said. You don't want to go having an accident and getting taken to hospital and having to answer a lot of questions. You mind your feet.

There was no one else about until he reached the top of the lane. Then there was someone. Just one person, like him, walking and not as careful as he was, so once and then again he slipped and almost fell. n.o.bby kept back. He didn't want to see anyone else's accident either, have to stop and help and answer questions there as well.

Stay back. The other one reached the square and turned the corner. When n.o.bby caught up, he was gone. n.o.body. A single taxi waiting at the rank. Then a man and a woman getting in. Not the same man.

n.o.bby kept to the shadows of the shops and the pub and the bus shelter, slipping in and out. Not a bad night, and it wasn't over yet.

Eighteen.

A LONG WAIL of distress. Then another.

Harry Fletcher opened the door of the boys' bedroom on the third, by which time Bradley was sitting up and leaning over his bunk. Harry got him to the bathroom in the nick of time.

'Daaaad . . .'

'Hang on.' Harry grabbed a flannel, wet it and wiped his son's face. 'Better?'

'No . . .' Bradley bent his head abruptly over the toilet bowl again.

'What's happening?' Karen came into the bathroom, half asleep.

'Muuuum . . .'

'Throwing up,' Harry said. He could cope with it. Sick. Nappies. Toilet upsets. All the stuff that seemed to accompany having kids. He mopped up, changed pyjamas, got a bowl for beside the bed. Looked at his son's pale pinched little face with sympathy. He remembered being sick as a kid and how it had frightened him. He didn't want his own being afraid of anything.

Outside, the snow fell again, covering the pavements and the paths and the gardens. Covering up footprints and paw prints and tyre marks. Covering every trace.

Karen's mother had been due to move into her new bungalow the previous day but with the bad weather it was thought best to postpone until a thaw.

In the morning, Bradley was candle-coloured and weak in the aftermath of his sickness, Harvey had complained of tummy pains. They would be puking puppies, and Karen would be stuck in with them all day. He couldn't stop work for sick lads. Couldn't afford to catch anything.

He got into the van with a sigh of relief, feeling like someone escaping the prison cell. He loved his sons but money was scarce and he needed the work. He loved them more than he'd admit to anyone. He'd had no idea what he'd feel about having kids, hadn't dared to look ahead, had been worried by the whole business. But the minute he saw them, he'd known. He'd do anything for them and he'd kill the person who ever wronged them. Simple as that.

d.u.c.h.ess of Cornwall Close was nice enough but it looked a bit raw and bleak with snow all round, no greenery, none of the bits and pieces people put on their window ledges, no doormats or pots or notices about junk mail. But a white van, bigger than his own, was parked up. And the front door was ajar.

Rosemary's was on the far side. Bit close to the neighbour on the left, Harry thought, but it had a patch of lawn and some fencing to the right. The gardens here backed onto a path and a line of trees. They wouldn't hear much noise from the road.

He went up to the front door and pushed it further open. 'Who's there?'

A man emerged from the kitchen.

'Didn't know anyone was still working in here, thought it was all done.'

'Checking the electrics. Who's asking?'

Harry stood his ground. 'Family,' he said.

'What family?'

'Of the new tenant in here. Doing a bit of checking myself.'

'Right.'

'You worked on all of these places?'

'Most. They're not bad. Went up a bit fast, some shoddy workmanship, but they're not bad.'

'Which is the warden's house?'

'Now you're asking. Was going to be the bottom maisonette in the block.'

'Was?'

'Not any longer. No warden after all. No money for a warden.'

'You're kidding? That's diabolical!'

'Tell me about it.'

'What are these old people meant to do if they have a problem, they have a fire, or they can't make the heating work, or they get taken ill? Anything could happen.'

'Yeah, well, I don't make the rules.'

'That's absolutely not on. I don't like the idea of her being here on her own, no warden, nothing.'

'Your mother?'

'In-law. Good for her age but that's beside the b.l.o.o.d.y point.'

The electrician had gone back into the kitchen. Harry went into the sitting room. Bleak, with nothing in bar the carpet. It looked cold and felt cold. He went round, checking each room. Doors and windows, fastenings, locks, taps. The electrics were off. Bit of slapdash paintwork on the cupboards in the kitchen. He opened the window and closed it. It fitted badly. The door needed a draught excluder strip.

'I'm done. You want me to let you out or what? I'm over to the flats now.'

Harry watched the sparks shut the front door and double-lock it, then walk off without another word.

When Harry pa.s.sed between the bungalows he saw that the residents could be neighbourly but not too close, talk across the paths from their front doors but be secluded in their back gardens and patios, where the fences were higher. They were well designed, so that they would all get a decent amount of sun in the afternoon and evening, mainly on the gardens the front rooms might be a bit dark but, in his experience, kitchens and gardens were what people would prefer to have bright and warm. The bedrooms were either at the back or the side, well placed for quietness. The heating system was communal, the roofs had solar panels, the walls had been decently insulated. The storage s.p.a.ce could have been better but who wanted to bring a load of clutter forward into old age?

He went back to his van and rang Karen to report. Her mother was going to enjoy herself here, she was going to be comfortable, warm, peaceful, safe, with plenty of neighbours nearby. The only fly in the ointment was that there would be no warden, as they'd been promised.

'I'm going to jot down a list few odd things need finishing off. The usual workmen rushing to get done and on to the next, screws missing here and there, paintwork not properly coated underneath shelves and inside doors . . . but on the whole . . .'

When he'd gone through everything, he asked how Bradley was.

'It's more Harvey now, he's been sick three times and he won't get off the toilet.'

Harry said he was late to look at a boiler breakdown on the other side of the town and cut her off before she could go into any more detail.

Forgetting who you were. Remembering who you are. It's hard. You wake up in the night for months after, sweating because it's all gone, everything names, places, the way to your old house, the way to your new one.

Only then you remember something else. Why. And then you laugh.

You have to laugh.

Nineteen.

'WHERE WERE YOU?' Cat said as she walked round the kitchen putting shopping away. The thaw had set in and the supermarket home delivery had reached them. She had made it to Emma's book group the previous evening, but Judith had not, which was surprising as she had been one of the first and most enthusiastic members, had never missed a meeting, and the book they had discussed was her choice.

'Things cropped up, you know how it is.'

Cat took the hint and did not pursue the subject. But things did not just 'crop up' to keep Judith from the book group.

'What are we reading next?'

'Wide Sarga.s.so Sea . . . I've got a spare copy somewhere if you need it.'

'I'm pretty sure there's one here, thanks. I have read it, but years ago.'

Cat bent to put cheese into the fridge, the phone to her ear.

'By the way, we went to the Italian for supper last week, the night before it thawed. Pretty hairy journey into town mind.'

'Worth it though. It's a comfort place, that restaurant.'

'I needed a bit of comfort. Simon was there.'

'Well, it's his local. On his own?'

'No, with Rachel.'

'Aha.'

'Good thing?'

Cat sighed, heaving cat food tins up onto the shelf. 'For him, yes.'

'But . . .'

'Do you know, I just can't worry about Simon and women any more. I've had so many years of it, I've picked up so many pieces not his usually I've decided to stay out of it. He's a grown-up for heaven's sake. No, hang on . . . maybe that's going a bit far.'

'I have a theory. Serrailler men never grow up. I know they seem to manage to hold down quite grown-up jobs, but they themselves are fatally underdeveloped.'

'Wonder if mine will inherit that. Sam sometimes seems to be going backwards. He had quite a lot of sense when he was nine.'

'When does Hannah hear about this film part?'

'Final choice on Thursday. It's down to two of them and to say nerves are frayed would be the year's understatement.'

'Do you think she'll get it?'

'I know she wants it. We'll see. But listen, Judith '

'Darling, I must go, something on the stove . . . Talk later and ring the minute you hear anything.'

There was nothing on the stove, Cat was certain. Judith had not wanted their conversation to veer back in her own direction, nor had she been prepared to answer questions. 'Something's up' that had been Chris's catchphrase, and he usually had good antennae for what, but even Chris wouldn't have been able to get over the barrier Judith seemed to have erected recently. Hannah fell in through the door, arms full of homework bag and sports kit, expression alert and anxious.

'Have you heard anything?'

'No, and we won't until Thursday you know that. Do you want cheese on toast or eggy bread?'

'Marmite.' The bags fell in a heap on the kitchen floor.

'Han . . .'

'OK, OK, sorry, but I'm so wound up I think I might go ping.'

Cat laughed. 'It's no good saying try and forget it because you can't but at least try and practise diversion tactics. Such as what's for homework?'

'English essay but I've got three days.'

'Nothing else?'

'Read the first three chapters of Jewish Feasts and Festivals and be ready to discuss.'

'Interesting.'

'Yes, did you know . . .' She hitched herself onto the worktop counter stool, ate a slice of toast and Marmite until her mouth was stuffed full, then began to explain how Pa.s.sover was celebrated. Usually, Cat would have prompted her to swallow first. Now she said nothing. Hannah was indeed liable to 'go ping'. Cat looked at her daughter, a Serrailler in features but not in colouring, whereas Sam was as blond as Simon and Felix was the carbon copy of his father, chunky, dark-haired, square-faced.

Hannah was on the cusp of adolescence, grown tall, slender and long-necked. It was possible to see what she would look like as an adult. Interesting, Cat thought, trying to be dispa.s.sionate, she will be interesting and intelligent, but with every emotion and pa.s.sing thought visible on her face, every joy and sorrow chasing one another like clouds across a bare hill. Her desperation to get the film part was obvious and painful. Don't let her be disappointed, Cat thought, as she had thought so often in the last couple of weeks. Please let her have this or she will be beyond devastated. Was she praying then? Not exactly. She always had the sense that prayers ought to be about serious matters, not trivialities, so she would pray with and for patients in Imogen House every day, but hesitated to ask for anything for herself. Was asking this for Hannah trivial?