Cold Boy's Wood by Carol Birch (if you liked this book TXT) 📗

last minute because of some stupid thing about brass bands.’

‘Ha,’ he said, smiling faintly. ‘Did they pay you?’

‘No, they did not. They weren’t paying me anything anyway.’

He opened a pack of cigarettes, offered. She shook her head then said, ‘Oh, go on then.’

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that was ages ago. It’s not news any more.’

‘I know.’

He lit her cigarette and she smoked awkwardly. ‘I suppose it wasn’t important. No one took any notice of it even when I first told the police. They made me feel a bit of a fool. I just thought it might be important, you never know, with this happening round about the same time as the body, you know, and this man with blood on his face…’

The boys got off the fence. ‘Nan,’ said one, peering up at her, ‘where’s Ellie?’

‘Somewhere over there,’ she said vaguely.

‘You think it had something to do with the body?’ said Dan.

‘Oh, probably not,’ she said breezily, ‘I just got a bit fixated on it for a while.’ She hoisted the bag, adjusted her scarf. ‘That’s it then, boys,’ she said briskly, ‘come on now, let’s go to the race track and see what’s happening.’

The other boy hurled himself backwards off the gate. She caught him under the arms, swung him around. ‘It was funny really,’ she said, deftly setting him on his feet, ‘I never give lifts to lone men, you know, not as a rule. But this one I felt sorry for. I just got a feeling he was OK. But then when he got in I saw the blood on his face and I thought, whoops!’

‘Where was the blood?’ he asked.

‘It was on his face. It was in his hairline by the looks of it and it looked as if it had trickled down past the corner of his eye and down the side of his face and dried. He might not even have been aware of it.’

‘Where’d you pick him up?’

‘It was all in the paper,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see it?’

‘Probably. Can’t remember the details.’

‘Where the road comes down from the Wights. He said he’d been to see the stones. He thought they were wonderful. And I dropped him the other side of the village. Do you know?’ She grabbed the lads, one on either side. ‘I could swear it’ll rain later.’

*

That night, Saturday night. He walked through the kitchen singing: Saturday night at the movies, who cares what picture you see?

Face of a horse. Poor Madeleine. Never harmed a soul. All she ever wanted to do was help. His mum could be a real cow.

Weeks. God knows. Poor old Mum. She couldn’t help it.

The way she used to walk about, after his gran died, that look on her face. Big wide suffering eyes and a pendulous lower lip. Even when you couldn’t see her, you’d hear her, that soft martyred cough in another room, a small stern clearing of the throat that served no other purpose than to say: I’m not happy, it’s your fault. She looked at him like the Magdalen, Cassandra, Joan of Arc. Such suffering passion. He shouldn’t have had to deal with all that. Obvious now.

God knows it can’t all have been bad, how could it? The thought of how she’d feel to see him like this, all her love and expectations, every hope, to end up in him, here.

‘Sorry, Ma,’ he said, and laughed.

He stuck a pie in the microwave, ate it, poured a tot and turned on the telly. He wanted a film. Netflix. He’d seen all the good ones. Pete Wheeler’s kid knew how to get any film you wanted off the internet, God knows how, God knows if it was legal. The boy was a genius. Just say the film you fancied and he’d get it for you, just like that. He didn’t know what he wanted to watch, kept starting things and getting bored. He imagined Madeleine’s house, all trendy and correct. It would be something like that house in Outnumbered only tidier. Ended up watching some courtroom thing and losing track because his mind wasn’t there. He kept thinking about how gross and embarrassing his mum had been, those horrible dinners. It wasn’t fair.

She could say, ‘Well, you look nice, Madeleine,’ and make it sound like an insult.

‘How long have you been wearing your hair like that?’

Just that. Nothing more.

‘Oh, I don’t know!’ says Madeleine, quiet, a bit awkward. ‘It’s always been like this,’ and then a silly laugh. ‘I’ve never been able to do a thing with it.’

Then his mum would give that tiny snort of a laugh and look away with a sly almost-smile.

And even later, when there’d been that ridiculous marriage talk (he could hardly believe it even now) and she’d got the idea it might actually happen, she’d still been horrible to Madeleine, even when she was freaking her out with all that stupid crap about them both coming to live here with her and having a baby, started talking about where it could sleep, in your gran’s old room, till it all made him feel sick. The whole idea of it, that horrible room full of old age and death, the chaise longue and those heavy dusty curtains, the slightly off smell of old ladies who never leave their rooms.

‘Here we are, a little sherry. Madeleine? Go on.’

Skipping out for the cake.

Madeleine’s face, upset but holding it in. Whispering fiercely. ‘She’s not serious, is she? Can’t you say something to her? I mean, we’re not even…’

‘Yeah, I will, I will. Later.’

Bloody hopeless.

‘It just wouldn’t work, Mum.’

‘This is a big house, Danny.’

‘It doesn’t matter! It’s just not a good idea. People don’t live with their parents when they get married.’

‘Yes they do!’ She started listing examples then started crying. ‘I can’t live on my own, you know.’ Her eyes filling up with heroic tears. ‘I can’t help it, Dan-Dan, I just can’t. I’m sensitive. And anyway, what about you? I’m thinking about what’s best for you, after all.’

‘Me? Best for