Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

‘Nice place,’ says Rufus, to Annabeth, as if she were personally responsible for its upkeep. ‘Apologies for use of the word “nice”, but it is somewhat apposite. Cosy. Welcoming. I could doze off under a broadsheet newspaper. And a very fine real ale.’

Annabeth raises her glass. Chinks it against Rufus’s. She takes a sip and he downs his froth, then points at the empty glass. Fran takes a clean one from under the bar and begins to pour.

‘You should have been in when the fireworks were on,’ says Annabeth, remembering. ‘City of Culture celebrations. People going nuts to get tickets and us lot up here seeing the whole lot across the river for nothing. Amazing evening.’

‘I did some stuff for all that,’ says Rufus, and there is a slight slur to his ‘s’ that suggests he’s a couple of pints past merry. ‘Wrote a script for some mixed-media play they were doing in a warehouse. All very avant-garde. I can’t even remember what it was but it paid OK.’

Annabeth shakes her head. Takes a swig of her wine. ‘I don’t remember your name in the programme,’ she says, frowning. ‘I’d have been there, if I had.’

‘Ah, I wasn’t involved as Rufus Orton,’ he says, as if imparting a confidence. ‘I was Simone Lewis, if my memory serves. Got the gig through a friend of a friend, who wouldn’t know Rufus Orton if they fell over him. I pitch for no end of work under a pseudonym. Makes it less dispiriting when people turn me down – it’s not the real me, it’s the avatar. I’ve told you before – I’ll do what must be done to put food on the table.’

Annabeth lets her sadness show in her face. She’d like to put her hand on his forearm and tell him that he deserves to be sitting in a private members club in Soho sipping cocktails with the bigwigs, rather than stuck here, on the wild and windswept spur of East Yorkshire, with a prison officer who can never put enough miles between herself and her past. She makes a concentrated effort to change the subject.

‘Was it OK, all told? The course, I mean? That unpleasantness with Cox this morning, I’ll admit I was grateful he didn’t make it back for the afternoon.’

Rufus licks his lips. Closes an eye to better see the memory. ‘I was rather disappointed not to get a rematch. I do hope he’ll be there tomorrow. An interesting mind. Not somebody I would ask to babysit, of course, but clearly very bright.’

‘Good at rattling people’s cages, certainly. Say the word and he won’t be back tomorrow …’

Rufus looks past her instead of replying. Annabeth turns, aware of a presence behind her. It’s Mark, bringing his and Julie’s glasses back to the bar.

‘Evening,’ says Annabeth, smiling and a little flustered. ‘Mark, this is Rufus – the writer who’s been teaching some of our wannabe literary sensations. We were just talking about Griffin Cox, and saying—’

‘All right mate,’ says Mark, cutting her off and reaching past to shake Rufus’s hand. ‘She look after you OK? One of our brightest and best is Annabeth. I’ll be calling her “Boss” before we’re through, I promise you.’

Annabeth pulls a face, embarrassed. He’s always saying things like this: implying she’s going to the very top. She wishes she could tell him not to expect so much of her. Any higher up the ladder and she risks her anonymity, and it is her anonymity that keeps her the right side of the bars.

‘How do you do,’ says Rufus, earnestly. ‘Yes, this fellow Cox, he was certainly making his presence felt this morning, asking one or two slightly lewd questions. Shame to lose him for the afternoon. Called to a legal meeting, or some such, I believe.’

Mark laughs: a harsh bark that sounds unpleasant at close quarters. ‘Life’s going to get very interesting for Mr Cox,’ says Mark, conspiratorially. ‘Two of Humberside’s finest had him in the sweat room for nigh-on three hours this afternoon. They’re digging up a great chunk of farmland over Kirmington way – right by the airport on the road to Grimsby. Got it on good authority that some young lass he picked up, years ago, is under the potatoes in Chappell’s Farm. Must be twenty years she’s been missing. Witness has come forward to say he helped our Griffin dig the hole. Old boy now, trying to clear his conscience. They must be taking it seriously if they’re digging the place up, eh? Can’t remember the name. Bronwen or Bryony or something. Either way. So if he’s still fancying doing the course, I’d see if you can get him to write a memoir – save the coppers the bother, eh?’

There is a clink as the glasses hit the bar. Mark gives Annabeth’s shoulder a squeeze. He seems pleased she’s out with company. ‘Nice to meet you, Rufus. Annabeth loaned me one of your books. Couldn’t get into it myself but Julie loved it. Anyway, enjoy your night.’

Annabeth mutters some bland reply while Rufus does the handshakes and farewells. Her mind is racing. Griffin Cox is facing serious time. He’s in the frame for an old, unsolved murder. He’s gone out of his way to get on a course organized by an officer that he may know secrets about. Beneath her hoodie, the hairs on her arms begin to rise. She realizes that she doesn’t know enough about this man; that she has allowed a serpent to slither into her and Ethan’s Eden.

‘You seem miles away,’ says Rufus, quietly, so close to her that she jumps when she realizes he is near. ‘Are you OK? I really do appreciate the bed for the night. I checked my messages by the way. Don’t worry, I won’t be a dick about it but you did say it was one a week for six weeks. I’m not going mad. But seriously, I’m very glad to be here.’ He reaches out and