Saving Nathaniel (5 page)

'Now you listen to me, woman and listen good, because I don't want to have to repeat myself,' he said, his voice low and tight with anger. 'As far as you're concerned, my private life is just that…private. It is absolutely none of your, or anyone else's damned concern so keep your nose out. It's not an issue to be gossiped about with your sister, speculated on with those busybodies down at the Post Office or discussed over the garden fence with the old trout next door. Do I make myself perfectly clear?' Megan, holding her breath, nodded. 'Now, get back to the work I'm paying you for, mind your own damned business…and keep your hands off my fucking car!'

Shocked into virtual speechlessness by the abrupt change in his temperament, she could only force out a fragile, 'I'm sorry…'

He wasn't interested in her apology, and she abandoned it. She got to her feet and strode quickly into the safety of the house.

After fifteen minutes spent brooding on the wall, he had calmed down. He took the polishing rag from his pocket and gave his car a final wipe over. Content with the standard of finish, he tidied the cleaning materials into the garage and went back into the kitchen. He put his dirty coffee cup on the sink drainer and washed his hands. From a respectable distance, Megan handed him a towel to dry them. As he took it from her, their fingers accidentally touched and she withdrew hers as if burned.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't have yelled at you, but you overstepped the mark.'

She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the towel. 'I know. It was my fault. I wasn't thinking.'

He held it out for her to take. 'Don't do it again.'

She glanced up and met his eyes for an instant 'I'll try not to.' Immediately she corrected herself. 'I won't.'

'See that you don't.'

He clapped his hands loudly, startling her, and rubbed them briskly together. 'Now, is there any chance of some lunch? I'm famished!' he said, all trace of harshness gone,

She had now witnessed Nat's volatile temper firsthand and it troubled her deeply how easily a seemingly trivial comment could set off such fury. Rebecca had cautioned her it could happen, but she hadn't heeded the warning. In future, she knew, she would have to be more careful.

It's never a good idea to prod a sleeping bear with a sharp stick
, she told herself.

She made a concerted effort to curb her tongue and become more observant of his moods, and soon became adept at spotting an impending change by the set of his face, his mannerisms or the tone of his voice.

Often she could turn him around with a kind word, careful attention and an encouraging smile. Other times she simply needed to stop talking, walk away and leave him alone. When his temper did get the better of him he was usually, but not always, apologetic and remorseful afterwards.

Despite her preparedness, Nat still managed to perturb her.

He had called her into the study one afternoon. She hadn't been in the room since her initial furtive survey of the house, but it looked different from how she remembered it. He had seemingly taken it upon himself to tidy up and move the furniture around.

He was now busily sorting books into a pile, and she stood quietly in front of the fireplace, waiting for her instructions. The only sound in the room, apart from the quiet thud of book being stacked upon book, came from the hypnotic ticking of the wood-cased mantle clock. It reached into the expectant silence and as it did, she allowed her eyes to wander around the revered study.

It was an odd mix of old and new items, each contrasting the other. The massive, antique oak desk that dominated one side of the room carried Nat's ultra modern shiny laptop. The flat screen TV and satellite system looked out of place beside the wood panelled walls and the high stained glass window with its Victorian window seat cushioned in plush green velvet, in patches a little threadbare. A functional, high-backed office chair stood in stark black newness compared to his shabby brown leather armchair. The armchair was showing considerable age, and both it and its matching footstool had been almost worn through to the stuffing in places.

Against the walls, bookshelves groaned with books of all shapes and sizes, and where there was no more room, they stood piled on the floor.

With the room tidier, she noticed a piece of furniture she hadn't seen before. A cupboard, a little over five feet high and shaped like a narrow coffin of highly polished mahogany stood bolted to the wall. It carried a very sturdy lock and lurked in the corner of the room as if it didn't want to be seen. She was startled out of her pondering by the clock on the mantle unexpectedly chiming out the half hour. It was then her eyes lit on the elegant picture frame standing beside it. Its ornate body encased a colour photograph of a woman in her late thirties with long brown hair, hazel eyes and a soft, friendly smile. Her arms were hugged around the neck of a large white dog.

This must be his wife…what was her name - Joanna?
She thought and out of the corner of her eye she became aware of Nat watching her as she scrutinised the picture.

'She's very pretty,' she said, and heard him breathe deeply.

'Aye, she…was,' he said, almost inaudibly.

'You must miss her.'

He touched his fingertips to the photograph, at the woman's cheek. 'That's a bit of an understatement. When she went she ripped my soul in half.'

He gazed into the woman's motionless eyes and Megan, never having seen a man's face so full of sorrow
, genuinely thought she felt her heart move in her chest.
You poor wretched man
, she thought.

'Aren't you going to give me the usual platitudes?' he said, his eyes roving over the photograph. 'How about, 'I'm sorry for your loss', or 'what a terrible tragedy'
and all that worthless nonsense.'

'Would it make you feel any better if I did?'

His head shook slowly. 'Not in the least.'

'Then I won't.'

He smiled gently and to her surprise, briefly touched his hand to her arm, accepting her quiet sympathy with good grace. 'Thank you,' he said.

He took a deep, cleansing breath before returning to the business for which she had been summoned. 'Put those in the recycling will you…' he said indicating a collection of hundreds of magazines piled in a precarious hip high stack. 'And these books…' He pointed to several piles on the floor. 'Find some boxes and take them down to the dump or the charity shop, whatever you want. I don't want them any more.'

'There aren't any valuable ones are there?' she asked, examining the heap. 'There's a market for old books, you could sell them you know.'

'No, just get rid of them. If there's any you fancy, you can have them.'

'Thank you. That's very generous.'

He rearranged the books into a steadier pile and Megan glanced over at the strange cupboard again. 'Can I ask you?' she said, pointing at it. 'What's that?'

'What?' He saw where her hand pointed. 'Ah, that's a gun cabinet.'

'Guns?' She felt a tell-tale twinge of alarm. She didn't like guns.

'I have a pair of shotguns,' he replied with nonchalance.

She looked apprehensive. 'Are you allowed to have them in the house? Is it safe?'

'Perfectly. I'm all legally licensed and they are well locked up. Everyone around here has guns. They are rather nice. Would you like to see them?'

'Erm…' she hesitated, unsure if a refusal would offend. 'Not if it's any trouble.'

'None whatsoever.' He dug in his front trouser pocket and pulled out a well-loaded keyring. At his desk, he unlocked a small drawer. From it, he withdrew a small metal box. Another key on his keyring unlocked that, and inside was a third set of keys and he used those to release the guns from their secure holding place.

There were two and they looked identical. He took one out, broke the barrel to ensure it was not loaded and showed it to her. When they were both satisfied of its safety, he joined it together again with a metallic
click
and
held it out to her.

She had never touched a real gun before and took it carefully in her hands. Its weight surprised her; she reckoned it at around seven pounds, maybe more, and it was beautiful.

The polished barrel shone like a silken mirror and the stock was an exquisite burred walnut. The metal panels had been engraved with tiny, detailed images of foliage, rabbits and birds and there were words neatly engraved in a small scrolled panel - Holland and Holland - the maker's name, one of the most prestigious in the country.

Not merely a weapon, this was a work of art. She turned it over in her hands to see all its aspects. It did not disappoint.

'It's so beautiful,' she said, breathless with admiration.

'They're second hand unfortunately,' he explained, 'but they're hand-made and I was lucky to get them. They're a fine pair aren't they?'

'Indeed.' She ran her fingertips over the engravings, appreciating the subtle delicacy of the work. The etching was so fine and clear, the images might well have been photographs.

'Look at this incredible workmanship,' she said, her voice low with respect. 'It must have taken an age to do. They're absolutely amazing.' She tore her eyes from the gun and looked up at Nat, who appeared to be enjoying her appreciation of his toys.

'I don't want to be rude,' she said, 'but I have to ask. Were they expensive?'

He shrugged. 'Not really for what they are - only fifty five thousand.'

She was astonished. 'What…lira?'

'Pounds,' he said. 'And that's each, remember. They're always sold in pairs. Those babies cost me almost as much as the Range Rover.'

She was astonished. 'That's
over a hundred thousand
pounds! You paid a hundred thousand pounds for a car?'

'I could have paid a lot more for both,' he said, untroubled by her incredulity. 'Guns like these are an investment. The car is a necessity.'

And someone not a million miles from me has more money than sense,
she thought.

'You hold it like this,' he said, moving behind her and reaching his arms around her, pressing his chest and belly against her back. She could feel his body heat through his shirt and smell his cologne. Her pulse and respiration quickened; imperceptible to him, but very noticeable to her.

He helped her position the gun so that the stock rested against the fleshy front of her shoulder. With one hand he guided hers to support the gun from underneath, and with his other placed her finger on the trigger. As soon as it touched the cold metal, Rebecca's voice echoed at her.

'More than once I thought he might top himself,'
she had said
. 'He used to have a shotgun, I think he still might, and I played it out in my head, over and over, what I'd do if I came in one day and found him dead …'

Quite clearly, inside her head, she heard the resonating blast from the discharging weapon. She gasped audibly and an involuntary shiver ran through her. Nat felt it and pulled away to put his hands on her shoulders. 'What's wrong?' he asked.

She shook her head and tried to swallow down her fright. 'Would you put it away now please?' she said, holding out the gun for him to take.

'Sure.' He took it from her, puzzlement on his face. 'What's the matter?'

She couldn't tell him she had just had a mental picture of him slumped in his chair with half his head blown away, blood and brains splattering the walls and ceiling. Her stomach writhed and she felt sick. 'Nothing,' she lied. 'Please…will you put it back in its box and lock it up?'

He did as she asked and she paid close attention, ensuring all the locks had been properly secured. 'Okay now?' he asked.

'Yes, thank you.' She gave him a small, relieved smile. 'I'm sorry to be bothersome.'

'No, it's my fault,' he said, 'I shouldn't have given it to you. I didn't think it would frighten you.'

She shook her head. 'No…no it's not that. I wasn't frightened of it. I was admiring it as a work of art and not fully appreciating the fact that you could actually, really kill someone with it.'

'You can rest assured I've never killed anything with it,' he said. 'Not so much as a rabbit. It's just for clays and that's perfectly harmless if noisy fun.'

'Well, that's alright then,' she said, unconvinced.

'Would you like to have a go? I'll take you if you like, if you're interested. You can try it for yourself.'

She shook her head again. 'Thank you, but no. It's kind of you to offer and I appreciate it.' She began to edge her way towards the door. 'I'll, er, go and find you those boxes, shall I?'

She turned and left the room and crossed the hall without so much as a backward glance. It was a long time before she returned.

Chapter 5

One afternoon, not long after the incident with the shotguns, Megan was standing at the kitchen sink, peeling vegetables for Nat's evening meal. He was filling the coffee machine and they were chatting as they usually did. In the background the radio played. She liked the radio on as she considered the house far too quiet. He tolerated it as a gesture of good will, so long as it was not too loud or interfered with his work.