Homeland (12 page)

He knocked and heard silence, then her voice, muffled, but not so muffled that it wasn’t apparent she was talking to someone inside the house. The mistake came to him with a lurch, he felt
a rush of humiliation, he would have walked away there and then but it was too late, a light had sprung on over his head and Annie was opening the door.

‘Billy,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a surprise.’

‘I was just passing,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d say a quick hello.’

Her hand was still on the door, ready to close it again. ‘I thought you’d left,’ she said.

‘Change of plan. I’m staying till tomorrow night.’

She said brightly, ‘That’s wonderful.’ She was wearing a deep pink lipstick which made her lips seem very full and very wide. Her hair fell to her shoulders in glossy waves.
She said, ‘Stan and Flor must be pleased.’

‘They should be. I’ve cleared most of the withy shed and half the yard.’

‘I meant – pleased that they’re getting to see a bit more of you.’

He scoffed, ‘I doubt it.’

‘You’re too hard on them, you know.’

He pulled a frown that went too far and turned into a scowl. It had been a mistake not to get that drink inside him; he would have handled the situation much better.

She had relaxed now, her weight on one foot, her head tilted to one side. She had kept her hand on the door, however, as if to remind him that she wouldn’t be stopping long. She was
wearing a cardigan that matched her lipstick and small gold earrings. She said, ‘They always thought more of you than you gave them credit for.’

‘Well, they had a strange way of showing it.’

‘Just their own way, maybe.’

Normally he wouldn’t have let the remark pass, but he was sharply aware of the unseen presence inside the house, of the cosy scene he had so stupidly interrupted. Did the two of them enjoy
a drink or two before going to bed, he wondered? A little chat by the fire? Or was it straight into the sack? The thought brought a coldness over him that was like revulsion.

‘Well,’ he said, taking a step backwards, ‘I’m due at the George, so . . .’

She reached out as if to hold him back. ‘I quite forgot – I meant to say before – there’s something wrong with the chimney at Crick Farm. It’s blocked
or—’

‘I’ve cleared it.’

‘Have you?’ She smiled. ‘But of course you have. You were always good at fixing things.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘How do you mean?’

What he meant was,
not good enough to earn praise
, but he wasn’t going to argue that corner now. ‘Better be on my way, then.’

The wasp-like buzz of an engine sounded somewhere in the distance and the section of Billy’s mind that automatically categorised anything mechanical marked it down as a motorbike.

‘Billy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What for?’

‘For doing what you could. For staying on a bit.’

He gave a careless shrug. Then the devil was whispering irresistibly in his ear, and the devil won. He said in a tone of exaggerated innocence, ‘Sorry to have interrupted your, er . . .
evening
.’ With a tip of his head he indicated the scene beyond the door.

‘That’s all right,’ she said.

Feeling he had regained the upper hand, Billy took a couple of steps towards the gate and said brightly, ‘Bye, then.’

‘Goodbye, Billy. And good luck with the—’ But something distracted her and she began to speak softly to the person inside the cottage. Billy took the last two steps to the gate
and looked back over his shoulder, intending to deliver a nonchalant wave, only to find Annie still occupied with her companion, talking gently, bending forward a little, aiming her remarks
downwards as if to . . . In the instant he registered his mistake, he heard the high fluting notes of a child’s voice and two small outstretched arms emerged from behind the door and wrapped
themselves around Annie’s waist. The child was a girl with long dark hair and round eyes. She was wearing a pink dressing gown. Pressing her head close against her mother’s side, she
gave Billy a fierce stare.

Billy took a step back towards the door, and said, ‘Hello.’

‘This is Beth.’

‘Hello, Beth.’

He had no experience of children; he didn’t know what to say to them, so he said to Annie, ‘She’s a beauty.’

‘Thank you.’ There was pride in her voice, but also a note of finality.

‘I’d no idea.’

‘Why should you?’

He wasn’t much good at children’s ages, but he thought she was about five, possibly six. At this, an astonishing thought struck him. He went very still except for a heavy pulse high
in his head which seemed to beat and beat. Six . . . Before he could stop himself, he stared incredulously at Annie.

Catching his expression, her smile died, she gave a questioning frown, she shook her head as if she were having trouble believing what she was reading in his face. Finally, she gave a furious
gasp. ‘My God! You don’t change, do you, Billy? Your blooming arrogance. How dare you even think what you’re thinking? How
dare
you!’

Billy made a gesture of retreat.

‘This is my daughter, the daughter of my marriage –
right
? My God, Billy, you are the absolute limit!’

‘No offence,’ he said, and tried a sheepish smile.

But she was still a long way from calming down. ‘Arrogant doesn’t begin to describe you, Billy Greer . . . Doesn’t even
start
!’ Trembling with undischarged fury,
she swung away to deal with the child, shooing her upstairs, issuing instructions about bedtime.

When she returned, her face was cold and expressionless; only her eyes held a wealth of anger.

‘I wasn’t thinking straight,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

She shook her head wordlessly.

‘I’ve never been any good at . . .’ But it struck him that an inability to judge children’s ages might not count for much on the charge of arrogance, rather the opposite
in fact, so he shut his mouth and allowed the sound of the motorbike to distract him. The howl was much closer now, and approaching fast. But something about the engine note wasn’t right. It
was pitched too high and racing even higher, as though the rider were still accelerating.

Billy frowned his concern to Annie, and received an anxious gaze.

He stepped back from the porch and saw beyond the corner of the cottage a flickering shaft of yellow light piercing the darkness and dancing over the wall of the churchyard, which lay dead ahead
on the turn of the right-angled bend. And still the engine was hammering . . .

Suddenly the engine note fell right away and for an instant Billy thought the rider might have throttled back just in time. But then the beam of light sharpened and the bike shot into view,
going like stink, and Billy knew the rider hadn’t a chance. Too late the headlamp jerked sharply towards the cottage as the rider attempted to over-steer his way out of trouble. But the
trajectory, the angle of the machine, above all the crazy speed were carrying it relentlessly towards the churchyard wall. In the halo of light around the headlamp Billy glimpsed the contortions of
the rider as he flung his weight against the bike’s momentum. For a split second it looked as though there might be a miracle, that he might manage to control the skid after all, but then
with a graunch of tyres and a scream of brakes, the bike hit the wall sideways on, tyres first, bodywork next, with a dull smack.

In the startled silence that followed, Billy gripped Annie’s arm protectively and said, ‘Stay here!’ before sprinting across the road and half vaulting, half rolling over the
churchyard wall. A series of gasps and retches quickly led him to the rider, lying on top of a grassy grave, clutching his stomach and fighting for breath.

Billy dropped down at the man’s side. ‘Hello there, chum. How’re you doing?’

The rider coughed and retched, and sucked in his first proper breath.

‘You hurt?’

Through the rasps came a snort or an exclamation.

Billy pushed up the rider’s goggles and unfastened the strap of his leather helmet. The rider put a hand to the helmet as if to pull it off, only for his arm to fall heavily when the
effort proved too great.

‘Take your time. Get your breath.’ There was no moon, it was too dark to make out the man’s features, but he seemed tall and gangling.

‘Christ . . .’ came a hoarse voice. ‘Who put . . . that bloody wall . . . there?’

Billy sat back on one heel. ‘Not Christ, but you’re getting close.’

‘So I’m . . . where I think . . . I am?’

‘Keeping the dead company all right.’

‘A bit sooner . . . than planned . . .’

‘Well, you’re not dead yet.’

A grunt that was almost a laugh. ‘Life’s . . . full of . . . surprises . . .’

Annie came hurrying from the direction of the gate. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Just winded, looks like.’

Annie crouched down beside the rider and asked what, if anything, was hurting. The figure breathed, ‘I’m all right. Really.’ But Annie pressed a hand to his chest and stomach
and ordered him to move each limb in turn before she’d let him sit up. Billy looped the rider’s arm around his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. As the other man’s head drew
level, Billy caught a whiff of alcohol, followed at the next breath by a stronger blast. No wonder the lunatic hadn’t broken anything, Billy thought; he probably thought he was flying.

Billy helped him through the graveyard. At the gate the rider said, ‘Think I’m all right now, thanks, old chap,’ and disengaging his arm limped into the lane under his own
steam.

Annie went attentively to his side. She must have been supporting his arm because the rider appeared to lean slightly against her as they started up the lane. Billy went on ahead, intending to
look at the motorbike, until he heard Annie laughing softly. Something about the sound made him stop and look back. In the feeble light from the cottage porch he could make out the two figures
bending towards each other. It seemed to Billy that the rider’s voice, already low, fell still lower as they drew closer. Finally Billy caught a few words: ‘. . . into a strange country
. . .’ before Annie replied with another soft laugh, ‘Not so strange . . . unless you mean . . .’ He missed the rest as her voice also dropped away. Then the rider was speaking in
a whisper so flagrantly low, so obviously intended to exclude him, that Billy felt like throwing him back over the churchyard wall.

They fell silent as Billy joined them until, reaching the bend in the churchyard wall, Annie said, ‘They’ve found your bike.’

It was a couple of men from the pub. They had righted the motorbike – it was a Norton 500 cc, Billy noted – and were waiting to offer opinions on the damage. The rider listened to
what they had to say before thanking them with elaborate politeness and mounting the machine. As he climbed on, his face became visible in the thin light from the cottage, but it wasn’t one
Billy recognised.

Annie was saying anxiously, ‘You’re not thinking of driving, are you?’

He smiled at her. ‘Just trying the engine.’

He kicked down on the pedal, and again, until at the third attempt the engine gave an answering roar. He revved it for a few moments before switching it off again. Directing a slow grin at
Annie, he lifted an upturned hand, like a gambler who has pulled off a win against the odds.

The men from the pub were wandering off, chuckling. ‘You should count your lucky stars that wall weren’t no higher,’ one of them called.

‘And no harder, neither.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ the rider said, and fastened the strap of his helmet.

Annie said, ‘I really do think you should stop for a cup of tea before you go. You might be suffering from shock.’

‘You’re very kind,’ he said, ‘but I’m late, you see.’

This time his smile had a blatantly forlorn quality that made Billy’s hackles rise. It was the sort of look that made stupid women go soft around the knees and grown men want to vomit. The
accent was another source of suspicion. It wasn’t quite officer material, and it wasn’t quite other ranks either. Billy thought: You’re a fake.

‘I really don’t think we should let you drive,’ Annie said, throwing a look at Billy for support and getting none.

‘It’s his funeral,’ said Billy.

The rider gave Annie a last smile before pulling down his goggles. He kicked the bike into life again, and with a careless wave sped off into the darkness.

Billy snorted under his breath, ‘Stupid bugger.’

Annie said, ‘He’s in no state to ride that thing.’

‘You can say that again.’

Annie pulled her arms close to her body and shivered.

‘You’re cold. Here—’ As he moved to take off his jacket, she took a deliberate step away from him.

‘I’m all right,’ she said

‘You’re shivering.’

‘I must get back.’ She walked rapidly towards the cottage.

With a shrug, Billy followed her. ‘You know that loon then, do you?’

She threw him a puzzled look. ‘Course. It was Lyndon Hanley.’

‘Hanley?’ At first Billy could only remember the father, a dairy farmer with a big place along the ridge. The son took a little longer, but finally and somewhat incredulously Billy
connected the motorbike rider with a pasty-faced smart alec who had gone away to boarding school and rarely been glimpsed by the common herd. ‘
Lyndon
,’ he scoffed. ‘What
sort of a name is that?’

Reaching the cottage, Annie went inside to call to the child before coming back to close the door. ‘Good night, Billy.’

He put a hand on the jamb. ‘Fancy a walk tomorrow?’

She shook her head instantly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not even five minutes?’

‘We’re busy.’

‘What, all day?’

A small frown ruffled the smoothness of her forehead. ‘Well – yes.’

‘Is it what I said just now? I told you – I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t thinking.’

She made an effort of memory. ‘Oh,
that
. No, no – we’re just busy.’

She wasn’t going to give an inch then. Well, he thought with sudden heat, we’ll soon see about that.

He gave a wide shrug, a sudden smile. ‘Just wanted to catch up. Hear what you’d been doing.’