The Grasshopper's Child (9 page)

Heidi shook her head. ‘Nah. Except it was horrible, and Mum and Dad were
glad
when the Chinese invaded us, whatever anyone says.'

‘Yeah, same here. Living under Chinese Rule is a disgrace, but it's a sight better than the alternative. D'you think modern civilisation is ever going to come back?'

‘I don't care if it does or not.' said Heidi. ‘My mum didn't kill my dad, and I have to prove it. That's all I worry about.'

‘Right I don't care, either. I just want to be free.'

‘Ha. You wish.
Are birds free from the chains of the skyways?
'

‘Bob Dylan. I like Dylan. But only the early stuff. Nothing after Blood On The Tracks.'

‘I disagree,' said Heidi. ‘There's duds, but there's a lot of good stuff in his later work.'

The stone floor's cold claws were climbing painfully up her backbone, and she'd lost all feeling in her feet. ‘I've got to move. I was sweating, I'll catch a chill.' She stood up.

‘Okay. See you around, on your flying path.'

‘If you stay here, you probably will.'

He grinned. ‘The Hooded Boy and the Running Girl. Drop by again.'

As she headed for the Garden House, the promise that she would see her mum like central heating in her heart, she wondered why she hadn't offered to sneak the Hooded Boy a few stockpiled groceries. The Wrecks would never miss stuff. She hadn't offered, because he hadn't wanted her to offer any help: and this earned her respect. Clancy was someone who could control what was said to him; control how close anyone approached him. He had his own personal force field.

8: Sharing The Care

Dr Gunn was a retired Civil Servant. She lived alone except for Evie, her guide dog, in a picture-book cottage on Church Lane, next to St Mary's churchyard. Her dad had been the vicar. She'd been an important person in Mehilhoc when George was a little kid; although she'd seemed ancient even then. He'd thought she was in charge of everything, the way everyone deferred to her; even his mum and dad. Tall and stern, she'd bend down from her height and peer at him through her glasses, the green stone in the brooch she always wore flashing like a magic sign of power. As if she knew every naughty thing he'd ever done.

He was in no danger, as he looked through her possessions. The green brooch wasn't going to swoop down on him. Given the choice of Elders available, he'd struck lucky. Dr Gunn wasn't senile. There weren't going to be any old-person ‘accidents' for George to deal with. She had a daily cleaner, a man to do her garden, and she wasn't even house-bound. She could still be seen striding along with Evie, taking her daily walk along Sea Lane and round the harbour. All George had to do was turn up, and make a sandwich.

And never miss a visit, as his dad would have his hide if he didn't play the game.

Her bedroom smelled of antiseptic cream, essence of old age. There were strange old hats in boxes on top of the wardrobe, a suitcase full of papers under the bed. Drawers stacked with old lady underwear, in exactly squared off layers: no hidden treasures between the folds. How did she keep things so neat when she couldn't see? Warning bells rang.
If she knows where
everything is, she'll notice if anything's gone—

Downstairs he had no chance. Everything was on display, getting dusted daily by the cleaner. Her bedroom was equally as bad: frozen and spotless. Stepping softly, he tried the spare room. This looked more promising. An empty-room smell. Oil-paint portraits on the dark green wallpaper. Photographs in silver frames, heavy candlesticks, a bowl of old brown rose petals, a gold locket decorated with pink-cheeked miniatures—

Under George's wandering feet Angela Gunn sat with Evie in reach of her hand; the sunlight from the snowy garden streaming over her right shoulder. A bulky braille New Testament lay open on her lap. She was a fluent braille reader: she found the old-fashioned practice restful. She was also blessed with acute hearing, highly accurate powers of mental visualization, a retentive memory and nerves of steel: traits that had been useful in her long career; not all of it spent behind a desk. The visitor sat to her left, in an armchair that had been her father's; where she could see him in her surviving peripheral vision.

His official ID spoke to her fingertips from the braille page, in fleeting impulses, but the ‘warrant' was unnecessary. She knew this man of old. She knew why he was here, and his presence chilled her to the bone —although she was almost too old to fear death; and although it was she herself who had raised the alarm.

‘How long have we known each other, Angela?'

‘Hm. Twelve, maybe thirteen years, Minister.'

‘Nah. Tha's not me. Not for a long time now.'

‘Minister will do,' she said firmly.

They listened together to George's stealthy footsteps.

‘What's he doing up there?'

‘Looking for small objects to steal,' said Dr Gunn coolly. ‘Or cash. Which is useless in Mehilhoc but I keep a reserve, just in case. He's a troubled boy, has been for a long time. Don't worry, his mother returns everything. But he may come down at any moment.'

‘He won't see me,' said the visitor. ‘I'm not here.'

‘I believe you.'

‘You weren't living in Mehilhoc when I first worked with you.'

‘No, but I visited as often as possible. After my father died I used the cottage as a weekend retreat. I came back for good during the Occupation. I have stayed here ever since, keeping George Carron-Knowells under observation; and Portia. I have known Portia all her life.'

‘Carron. You think we can nail him this time?'

‘Yes Minister,' said Dr Gunn. ‘I think we can, and I think we must. But the circumstances are alarming, and the consequences—' She shook her head. ‘I don't like to think of them.'

‘Ooh, I carn't see there's going to be any
consequences
. An' if there even was, it won't be your problem. We'll make sure of that. Just tell me what you have to report.'

‘That's the problem,' said Dr Gunn carefully. ‘No evidence, none whatsoever.'

‘But someone might take a second look. No harm in that.'

No harm
, yet Dr Gunn's old hands took a firmer hold on the holy book that had summoned her saviour. She steadied herself, smiling at her own irreverent joke, and the footsteps overhead moved softly.

‘Anyone you plan to tell about me not being here?'

‘The old
gormless, tactless question
trick. Certainly not, Minister. I'm old, and tend to cling to my good name. Bear in mind that one can barely move in Mehilhoc without running into George Carron and Portia Knowells' philanthropy.'

They sat in silence. Dr Gunn knew that trick too, but she spoke her mind anyway.

‘I suppose this is what we fought for, you and I and many others. The Big Austerity. The whole world pulling together to save the future. But here you are, Minister, errand boy for a foreign power, here I am reporting that in the most deadly danger imaginable, I can't trust my neighbours; and there's still no light at the end of the tunnel, is there?'

‘I'm not her errand boy, an' yes, there is.'

‘So you must say. Do you
believe
it?'

Evie the champagne Labrador looked up, and beat her tail placidly on the rug. George came into the front room, with a self-conscious grin he tried to smother, although he knew she couldn't see it. Dr Gunn continued to read her Testament.

‘Did you find anything?'

‘Huh—?'

‘You were looking for odd jobs that needed to be done.'

‘You need a new washer on one of the bath taps.' George plonked himself in the vicar's armchair and seized the
Mehilhoc Times
with a rustling flourish: a four-sheet bulletin written, edited, printed and distributed by Brook's dad, Tim Healey. ‘I'll read you the paper.'

He launched, in a loud, toneless drone, into the front page article.

‘The retooling of the Old Cement Works, for
My-Kel-eeuum
—I can't even say it— production, without inquiry or consultation, brings unknown environmental hazards. Blah, blah. Shall I go on?'

‘
Mycelium
,' said Dr Gunn. ‘The vegetative part of a fungus, a valuable and versatile natural fibre. No, thank you George. Perhaps
I
should read to
you
.'

George shook his head, and stopped himself. ‘I'm fine, thanks.'

Such a shame, thought Angela, remembering a golden-curled, sturdy little child, swinging along, holding his mother's hand, beaming up at his daddy: so proud to be their little boy. Children have such
hopes
of their parents.

‘Did you like your sandwich?'

‘I did indeed.' Evie had enjoyed the ungainly confection, but Dr Gunn had appreciated the gesture. ‘I know what you can do for me in future, George. You can work in the garden, under Mr Moss's direction. I'll make sure he's here next time you visit.'

The terraces by the Cement Works, two concentric curves of ugly pebbledash cottages called Upper and Lower Hillside, were the low-rent area of Mehilhoc. What they lacked in roses, wisteria and thatched eaves they made up for in fly-tipping, whole families who hadn't been in work for generations, and scary teenage thugs of both sexes, who'd never seen the inside of a Learning Centre. At least the scary teens were all gone now.

Daffodil Dyson opened the front door of number 17 Upper Hillside, and greeted Brooklyn with the bared teeth of a human tigress, prepared to defend her young. She was dressed, as usual, incredibly inappropriately, in a puff-sleeved micro-skirted party frock, the bodice straining over her large breasts, and white lacy tights. She wouldn't catch cold, however. She kept the house near to boiling, on her dad's Disabled Energy Allowance.

‘Are you going to let me in?'

‘
Of course
, Brook. Daddy's
expecting
you.'

Mrs Dyson was dead. The other Dyson children had married and/or fled. Daffodil, fifty-something, jobless and single, was savagely devoted to her old dad. A succession of besotted boyfriends had failed to break the spell. Everyone in Mehilhoc was amazed at the way she racked-up those boyfriends, but it was always Daffodil who broke it off.

Mr Eric Dyson sat in the stifling front room, a tartan rug over his knees.

‘Take off yer hat,' he suggested. ‘It's rude to wear a hat indoors.'

‘I don't want to, thank you.'

The old man cackled, displaying shrunken gums and tombstone grey teeth, all his own.

‘You've got that
alopecia
.'

‘No I haven't.'

‘Everyone knows. Y'er bald as a billiard ball, from the drugs and yer nerves. How bad are you now? I heard they gave you six months, last check up.'

‘You heard wrong. I'm doing well. How long have
you
got, Mr Dyson?'

‘Heh heh. I'll see you out, young lady. You don't look very well to me.'

Brooklyn took off her coat, scarf and gloves, but not her hat. Daffodil perched on the arm of her father's chair, fluffy mauve mules dangling from her white lace toes. The only other chair was piled with ironing. Graciously, Daffodil indicated a footstool on the hearth rug.

‘Go on, Brook. Take a seat.'

‘Aren't you going out? This is your respite time.'

‘In this weather? Anyhow, why would I want to be anywhere but with my daddy?'

‘Okay, fine. I'll do your shopping for you.'

‘We don't need anything.'

‘Then I'll do the ironing. You could go upstairs and have a rest.'

‘I don't like anybody to touch my things. I'm not being awkward, am I?'

Mr Dyson chuckled, delighted to have the ladies fighting over him. He tugged his side-table closer and set out the Cribbage. ‘We'll play for matches. All right, Brook?'

One more time, she thought, hunched on the footstool, dealing the cards under loony Daffodil's ferocious eye. And then I'm quitting. Never again. Don't care what Tanya says. This is
ridiculous.