Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

He looks older, in the flesh. Not old. She knows from his Wikipedia page that he won’t be fifty until next year. But the stubble on his cheeks is greying and there are deep grooves in his cheeks. Even so, his blue eyes sparkle.

‘Not late, am I?’ he asks the room in general. He edges past Karen. Swings his battered leather satchel off his shoulder and slumps down on the edge of the nearest desk, toppling a pile of books. He makes a face, embarrassed with himself. Reaches out to start tidying them and Karen tells him to stop. Annabeth notices he is wearing soft cords and hiking boots. Holds back a smile as she clocks the odd socks. She wonders how much of this is an affectation; whether he saw Hugh Grant play the bumbling Englishman one too many times, or if he has been like this all his life. He certainly seems genuine. She can imagine him attending dinner parties at the homes of directors, photographers: dipping aubergine crisps in roasted red pepper hummus with old school friends called Aubyn, Barclay and Euripides. Knows that he will have at least five or six Pippas in his phone.

‘Annabeth! We meet at last. Goodness, what a cheerless place! Well-run, you can see that immediately, but frightfully dispiriting. George here was telling me it has its own ghost. How fascinating, and what a boon for our lessons. Do you want to tell me how you’d like to play things or shall we just busk it? I’m rather excited about all this. I did Northallerton when I was starting out but this seems a different kettle of fish, if you’ll excuse the cliché. Actually, remind me of this when we put the punt in the water, would you please? Origins of the word “cliché”. Past passive participle, borrowed from the French and not given back, early nineteenth century, I think. Same period that gave us “saboteur” – the act of throwing a shoe in a loom …’

Annabeth realizes she hasn’t spoken yet. Puts out a hand. Orton shakes it, miming seriousness. She fancies he would have offered a hug were he sure of the rules.

‘You talk as you write,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Your messages, not your books. It’s like there’s fireworks in your head.’

He grins, delighted. ‘I did warn you. They do say that listening to me talk is like getting molested by a thesaurus.’

‘Do they really,’ asks Annabeth, retrieving her hand.

‘No. They just say I talk a lot of bollocks.’

‘Then you’ll be right at home,’ butts in Hale, and gives a barked laugh as he raises a hand in farewell and stalks back out towards the doors.

Annabeth keeps her eyes on Orton’s as Karen fusses around him, procuring pens and blank paper, exercise jotters and printed worksheets. Annabeth pushes her hair behind her ear. Gets a fleeting whiff of woodsmoke and tobacco. Expensive soap.

‘It’s nice to meet you in person,’ she says, quietly, as Karen momentarily disappears and bustles off towards the noticeboard at the back of the library. ‘She was flapping.’

‘I was here in plenty of time. Got chatting to a lovely young lady on reception.’

‘Neck tattoo?’

‘Yes – Frida Kahlo and arum lilies. Not a reader, apparently, though still intrigued to meet a writer.’

Annabeth rolls her eyes. ‘I rarely get the chance to use the word “incorrigible”. Thanks for the opportunity.’

He doesn’t smile as she had expected him to. He seems to have exhausted his supply of froth and frivolity. He’s turned inwards, darkness in his eyes, as if something is troubling him. He presses his lips together in a bloodless line.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, her voice soft. ‘Are you OK with this? If it’s the VP, I can still say no. I only said yes because a colleague wore me down. I didn’t think you’d mind. One peep of trouble and he’s out.’

Orton shakes his head. Wrinkles his nose: a child sniffing something unpalatable on a proffered spoon.

‘Bit nervous, truth be told,’ he says. ‘Never very good at getting the rough boys to like me. All seemed very different in my imagination. Rather shitting the old plus-fours now I’m here.’

Annabeth reaches out. Squeezes his forearm. He’s strong. Beneath his soft cords and rugger-bugger wardrobe, he’s made of teak. ‘I’ll be here the whole time,’ she says, and as she speaks she wonders just what she would really like to happen next.

‘You’re littler than I thought,’ he says, looking her down and down. ‘The uniform suits you. Not everybody can shine in polyester.’

Then Karen is back in the doorway, holding out a pristine copy of RedGreen. ‘Would you mind signing this please, Rufus? I adored it. I’ll only forget to ask if I don’t ask now. Then we’ll get you a coffee and crack on, yes?’

He looks momentarily pained. Then he’s back in what passes for character: humble and blushing and fumbling about on the desk for a suitable pen.

Suddenly, she’s worrying. She feels like she’s about to throw a lamb to the wolves.

Wonders what it says about her that she rather wants to know what he will look like when they tear him apart.

NINE

He enjoys making an entrance.

There is something delightful about seeing the heads turn in his direction: big meaty necks rotating like doner meat on a spike. Eyes widening. Hackles rising. It makes him feel as if he is a star taking his turn on the stage: perhaps an A-list singer making an impromptu appearance in a village pub.

Of course it only takes a moment for things to turn. Once they realize who he is, what he is, things quickly sour. The air fills with that certain, indescribable something. It’s primordial: an ancient impulse to fight or flee. He likes watching them make their connections. Sees them remember who they are, and how they are supposed to feel about him. He is Griffin Cox, pervert and killer, even if the courts have never proven it beyond a reasonable doubt.