Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

to get out – trying to find a mate. Bronwen cried like a baby about it. Watched the pretty little thing go mad in front of her. That weren’t long before she went. She wouldn’t even let us throw the thing away. We found it in the outhouse a day or so before she went. She’d spread its wings out and pinned them to this piece of wood, all fancy, like. Looked bloody creepy, like it was still alive. God knows what she was thinking.’

‘And that went to evidence too, did it?’ asks Neilsen.

Bob shakes his head. ‘Went on the fire. I didn’t want people thinking my girl was a nutter or anything. Doubt it matters now. I suppose it was pretty enough, what she’d done. Like, she was trying to keep it beautiful, even after it was gone.’

‘What did she call it?’ asks Neilsen, opening the door and feeling the cold air rush in.

‘Phil,’ says Bob, with a little laugh. ‘Philo-something. Philomena, Philomela – you’d have to ask the wife.’

Neilsen doesn’t turn around. Knows that if he did, tears would spill.

Walks into the evening air, and closes the door softly behind him, leaving the old man to his ghosts and his tears.

NINETEEN

She wakes to the smell of bacon, of coffee and burnt toast. Drifts, one-eyed and dozy, down the stairs, wrapping herself in a drab grey dressing gown; only noticing her bare feet and the chipped nail polish on her toes as she pushes open the living-room door. She pauses on the threshold of the living room, about to rush back upstairs, but she hears him shout through from the kitchen. She’s been spotted.

‘Oh excellent, you’re up. I was about to come and make noises outside your door. How did you sleep? I got a few hours – must be the sea air. Hope you don’t mind me fiddling about in your kitchen but I couldn’t think of any other way to say thanks for your hospitality. I could have written a sonnet, I suppose, but I don’t know enough about you yet and the only rhyme I can find for Annabeth is ‘black death’ and even that’s a stretch …’

She regards him through screwed-up eyes, pushing her hand through her hair. He looks fresh as the morning dew. Showered, shaved, comb-lines in his thick, swept-back hair. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes. She wonders what he slept in. Whether he’s wearing yesterday’s pants and socks. Stifles a little giggle as she chides herself for thinking it. He grins, widely, and holds out a mug, steam rising above the lip.

‘Did I have bacon?’ she asks, drowsily.

‘In your freezer. Cold water then the microwave and you’re good to go. Not exactly a survival technique but a thing worth knowing.’

She slithers into the chair at the kitchen table. Glances through the glass. The air looks cold: a muzzling rain blowing in from the water; great concrete blocks of cloud and a dirty blue sky. She raises her mug. Tastes good coffee: the posh stuff she keeps at the back of the cupboard for best; whatever as-yet-undiscovered form ‘best’ may take.

‘Are you always this perky in the morning?’ she asks, still muzzy with sleep. She tries to wake herself up a little. She’s never been good in the morning but has always managed to navigate the trifling tasks on a form of auto-pilot: dozily grunting her way through her various ablutions until the zestier aspect of her personality wakes up at a more civilized hour. She struggled terribly when Ethan was small, trying to be the best kind of parent she could be: doing things the way experts advised. She would bumble through to his crib, stumbling on toys, leaking milk, accidentally squeezing something fleshy or scratching something soft as she tried to scoop him up for comfort while still in the liminal space between awake and asleep. Eventually she gave up on doing things the way the experts advised. Shoved him in her bed and got in the habit of feeding him without even waking up. She has never perfected a similar technique for handsome, effervescent houseguests who want to engage her in conversation while she is still sleepy to the point of coma.

He plonks down a plate of bacon, eggs, white toast and spaghetti hoops. She burps last night’s brandy and stifles it, hiding behind the mug. She’s dry-mouthed and a little queasy but the food looks inviting. He hands her a knife and fork and she tucks in, losing her inhibitions and feeling better with each forkful. She feels absurdly pleased to observe that he has a tea towel over his shoulder. Feels even happier when he starts rinsing the plates under the tap, whistling to himself as if he’s on holiday somewhere sunny.

‘Spaghetti hoops?’ she asks, taking a breather and a swig of coffee. ‘You’re a maverick.’

‘I have this discussion a lot,’ he says, earnestly. ‘So much more appropriate than beans, I reckon. Less heavy. More complementary. Fewer unintended consequences. People are wrong to think otherwise. My daughters agree with me on this. Little else, but on this we are united.’

‘Did you call home?’ asks Annabeth, smiling.

‘Briefly. Shonagh called me “a silly goose” which means she’s not really cross at me. She doesn’t sound so delightfully middle-class if she really thinks I’m an idiot.’

‘Was she OK about the accommodation arrangements?’ she asks, making a face that implies not all partners would be on board with the set-up.

‘I declined to mention that,’ says Rufus, picking up his own coffee from the counter and grinning boyishly at her before taking a slurp. ‘To all intents and purposes, I’m staying in a delightful bed and breakfast by the coast. Lovely landlady, can’t do enough for me, and a nutritious, delicious evening meal.’

Annabeth almost chokes on her laugh, eyes watering as she makes a raucous snorting sound. Embarrassed, fighting a cough, she drains her coffee, then makes a face at her guest. ‘That’s where the trouble starts, mister. One lie leads to another,