Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

Mr Iveson’s fault if a lad he took in when his mother died has gone on to be a bad chap. You’ll have heard about the prisoner who did a runner a few days ago from the back of an ambulance? Self-same gentleman. As you can imagine, we’ve had a few phone calls on that front too, and the police even sent a couple of officers. What did they think? That he was hiding in the conservatory behind a pot plant? Anyway, we’ve given people very short shrift. I’m just pleased you came to me direct. An author wanting to talk about violins? That’ll make his day.’

Rufus gives a smile, hoping it reaches his eyes. He feels mildly pleased with himself for choosing to contact management rather than concoct some elaborate ruse to gain access to Wilson Iveson. But now he’s secured access to the man who knows Griffin Cox better than anybody, he has no idea what to ask him.

‘Anyway, I’ve been very rude. Can I get you something? Tea, coffee? Then I’ll have Katrina take you up to his room. He’s happier there than in the lounge. Listens to his music, sometimes an audiobook. Looks at his photographs, reads his old sheet music like he’s lost in a good book. Don’t let the sound of the oxygen canister upset you – it does take some getting used to but at present he’s in no pain. And please, don’t be upset if he ignores you or falls asleep. He’s in a world of his own most of the time.’

‘Coffee would be lovely,’ he says, feeling a little sick. Questions line up like bullets but he’s terrified of firing a single shot lest he somehow cause injury to those who stand behind him. He wishes Annabeth would answer his calls. He feels so damn lonely that this morning he took Shonagh a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich, leaving them outside the bedroom door with a little twist of wildflowers foraged from the garden. He hasn’t had any response yet. Feels a bit silly now, as if he’s asked a girl out and been flatly rejected in front of his friends.

‘If nothing else, do take a look at his albums,’ says Wendy, leading him through to an office behind the desk, where a middle-aged and rather mumsy woman is reading a magazine and eating cold pasta from a Tupperware box. She blushes as he smiles at her, mouth full.

‘His albums?’

‘The photographs of the gardens he looked after. I doubt they’re in such good shape now but back when it was a hippy paradise it was like something from another world. Like Ancient Rome, or Ancient Greece, or … well, somewhere ancient …’

Rufus stays quiet. Just opens his mind, and feels the oxygen of new ideas rush in.

In his eyes, on the black dots of his pupils: a pinprick of fire, glowing like liquid gold.

THIRTY-FIVE

Wilson Iveson’s room is on the first floor. It’s a pleasant, comfortable space and if Rufus were booked in for an overnight stay after an appearance at a literary festival, he would have no complaints. The Lodge has the feel of a country hotel: carrying an air of ubiquitous Englishness, from the heavy floral curtains to the elegantly potted aspidistras that bask in the sunlight on every sill. Rufus enjoys seeing grey heads turn as he and Katrina pass the conservatory: a sea of pink women and grey men, clad in pastels and sitting up in high-backed chairs, reading books, knitting or simply staring into the past with old, damp eyes. Katrina, it transpires, is even more talkative than Ruth.

She’s in her late twenties, and not much taller than her boss, but whereas Wendy is made up entirely of overripe melons, Katrina is all breadsticks. She weighs about the same as Rufus’s leg. She has black curly hair and glasses that sit in an odd place on her nose, bisecting her eyes and making her look quizzical and simple all at once.

‘Not really an old person, if you catch my meaning,’ says Katrina, conspiratorially. ‘What I mean is, not all old people are nanas and grandads. They don’t all go soft and carry toffees in their pockets and give you a quid that you can’t tell your mam about. Some of them are just the same people they were when they were young, but with more wrinkles. Mr Iveson’s like that. He was always a bit, well, aloof – like he didn’t really want to be here but he knew he had no choice. I suppose when you’ve lived your life in a big mansion with its own lake, or you’re swanning off all over the world all the time, this must all feel like a bit of a comedown, but we do try and make it nice for him. But don’t get your hopes up. I brought a couple of those detectives to see him last week and he didn’t even look in their direction. I don’t think we’ve got him for long, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.’

‘Does he know about his stepson then?’ asks Rufus, a little breathlessly. ‘Apparently somebody he used to be guardian to has disappeared from prison?’

‘Yes, all rather exciting, isn’t it?’ asks Katrina, beaming. ‘The police I mentioned, well they mentioned it, but if he even knew who they were talking about he didn’t respond. Poor old chap – did a good turn by somebody years ago and still getting bothered about it now.’

Rufus realizes he should probably feel a little guilty. Tries. Can’t seem to remember which buttons to press, so just smiles: the very image of compassion and understanding.

‘Here we are then,’ says Katrina, and Rufus wonders for a moment if he’s expected to leave a tip. They’ve come to a halt outside a wooden door. There are pictures in frames on the wall near the handle: mugshots of smiling staff members, clearly placed there in case the residents forget who they are or where