Hartsend (22 page)

‘‘Heavy breathing.''

‘‘Well, not even that, actually.''

She sat on the rug beside the desk, so that her back was against his left leg. He had to stop himself from touching the fair head so close to his hand. Those days were gone. How he hated it that they were gone. In the bookcase against the wall, almost exactly level with Harriet's shoulder he saw ‘‘How to understand your teens.'' An excellent book. He recalled reading it. In fact he had underlined several useful passages. Sadly, the book on how to handle Harriet had not yet been written.

‘‘He says his mother's all worked up about it, making herself ill, but she won't do anything.''

The paper clips were being linked into a necklace. He had a sudden memory of summer daisies being made into chains in their first garden, Harriet sitting against her mother on the back doorstep, concentrating fiercely, tongue between her lips, carefully inserting the stems into one another after Jean had made slits with a pin, while he and Kerr practised putting strokes on the tiny strip of grass where an empty soup tin had cut out a circle of turf and been reversed into the hole to catch the ball.

‘‘And what does Ryan want you to do?''

‘‘Phone the number and find out who's calling them.''

Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.

‘‘And he can't do this himself because …?''

‘‘I'm not sure. That's what worries me. But I don't want to say no, either.''

Was this their fault, this unwavering determination in Harriet to adopt every lame duck in sight? One day a duck more lame than any who'd gone before would limp across her path, and some completely unworthy young man would take her from them.

Every milestone had hurt. Her first period, not that he was supposed to know; her first bra, ditto; the first phone call from a boy whose name he didn't recognise; the first party when he wasn't allowed to come inside but had to wait in the car.

‘‘But she doesn't fall out with you,'' Jean told him. ‘‘I'm the one ruining her life. She still thinks you're her pal.''

It was nice to know, but it wasn't enough to make him feel secure. Pals came and went.

He cleared his throat. ‘‘What do you want me to do? Would you like me to talk to him?''

‘‘Maybe.''

‘‘Well, I suppose you could suggest it. If he says no, we'll go to plan B.''

With a faint smile she raised her hand, ‘‘What's plan B?''

‘‘I've no idea.''

This was the question and answer always used in family ‘discussions' when they took wrong turnings and got lost, or forgot to set the oven timer to cook Sunday lunch, or put diesel in the new car (an opportunity for grace). This time it sounded worn and tired, and not terribly amusing.

Harriet got to her feet. When had she got so tall? Something seemed to go ‘ping' between his ribs, like a button flipping out of its hole.

‘‘Are you going to unclip those for me?'' he said.

‘‘Of course not.''

She draped the long loop over his head and left.

He turned back to First Corinthians. Some time later, in mid sentence, it struck him that he knew who the mystery caller was, knew who Lesley Crosthwaite's unnamed, unhappy friend was, knew more about Ryan Flaherty's troubles than the boy did himself.

‘‘So how are Harriet's exams going?'' Dr Gordon asked, watching the Reverend lower his trousers.

‘‘I don't think they're causing any real trouble. She'll do well in the subjects that interest her and not so well in the ones that don't. With Harriet it's always been a case of whether she likes the teacher or not. That's it there,'' he indicated the small dark shape on his inner thigh.

‘‘Skin tag,'' Gordon said, after a close look. ‘‘Fibroepithelial polyp, to give it its Sunday name. Completely harmless. It's gone dark because it's not getting any blood supply. It'll fall off pretty soon. You could put an Elastoplast over it when you get home, if you like, but I wouldn't bother.''

‘‘I was a bit worried.''

‘‘Absolutely nothing to worry about. But you were right to get it checked. We might as well do everything since you're here. If you roll up your sleeve … You know, I can't imagine Harriet being bad in class.''

‘‘She isn't bad. She does this passive aggressive thing, not doing more than the bare minimum required to pass. She's too proud to actually fail, unfortunately.''

Gordon watched the dark red fluid enter the Vacu-tainer, then handed Smith a small pad of cotton wool, telling him to press down on it. He applied an adhesive strip. ‘‘Why ‘unfortunately'? No, keep the arm up for a couple of minutes.''

‘‘She's never failed at anything in her short life. It's not good preparation for the big, bad world. I worry for her.''

Was this said as a joke? He'd never trusted grand statements about learning from failure; they generally came from people who eventually found success. Failure seemed to him a little like salt in your soup, fine in very small doses. He'd had enough failure in his life to last him for the next few decades. Chiefly his marriage. Two years that had lasted.

‘‘Ok, blood pressure next. Other arm. So what did you fail at?''

‘‘Depends which day of the week we're talking about.''

‘‘No, I'm serious. Major failures. You can put that one down now.''

Smith obediently rolled up his other shirt sleeve. ‘‘I'm not telling you about those. Those are gone. Even God's forgotten those.''

Gordon said nothing. When God occasionally strayed into the conversation, it wasn't a problem. He'd discovered early on that the Reverend was too polite to continue in a religious mode when met with silence. He liked the man, admired his love of family, his genuine concern for his parishioners, even the occasional naivety he'd first interpreted as an ironic take on life.

‘‘That's fine. Nothing to worry about,'' he jotted down the figures. ‘‘Maybe Harriet's tougher than you think. Or wiser.''

‘‘Wiser? It's a nice thought. Her intentions are always good, but not necessarily wise. I'm supposed to be helping one of her lame ducks tonight but I've a feeling the duck might not want my help.''

‘‘Surely that's your job, helping waifs and strays. ''

‘‘It's not so easy when the waif in question isn't in the least waif-like. Strange word, waif. One of those words that loses its meaning when you say it over and over.''

‘‘Most words are like that,'' Gordon suggested. ‘‘I take you to mean you can't help someone who doesn't admit he needs help. I had a patient in my last practice who kept coming for weeks before I found out what was actually wrong with her, and when I did, she stopped coming. Now then, no headaches, chest pain, dizzy spells?''

‘‘No. What was wrong with her?''

‘‘She was a kleptomaniac, though she'd presented with back pain. Because she only stole from department stores, and nothing she stole was valuable, she didn't think of herself as a criminal. But at the same time, she was crippled with guilt.''

‘‘And that caused the back pain.''

‘‘No, it was postural. We solved that with a new office chair. But I wanted her to get counselling. It was such a shame, because kleptomania is one of the few control disorders that people can recover from.''

‘‘What's the current thinking on paedophiles?''

The question startled Gordon. Where had it come from?

‘‘We're not talking about Harriet's lame duck, are we?''

‘‘God forbid. Is that me done?'' Smith reached for his jacket. ‘‘No, I was thinking of these rumours going round the village.''

‘‘I've been warned that most of them begin in our Surgery,'' he said lightly. ‘‘You think this one's true?''

‘‘Who knows? But what you were saying about control disorders … Can paedophiles recover? Supposing they want to?''

Surely they'd been over this before. ‘‘Recover? Huge question.'' He went to the sink to wash his hands. ‘‘I don't think so myself, but that's more of an instinctive reaction on my part. Why does it happen? I honestly don't know, and I don't know anyone who does. It's not the same as alcoholism, for example. Alcoholics are never cured, but they recover in the sense that they stay well, provided they don't touch alcohol. But that's incredibly simple in comparison. There are so many different forms of paedophilia. I can lend you some books if …''

The minister shook his head. ‘‘No, don't. I've a stack of books a foot high beside the bed already.''

‘‘Let me give you a question,'' Gordon said, irked that his offer had been so flatly dismissed. ‘‘The Bible says that man was made in the image of God, right? So whose …''

‘‘Whose image is a paedophile made in?'' The minister made a face. ‘‘I had an awful feeling you were going to ask that. I'd have to lend you a whole library of books on that one.''

Ryan stood at the manse gate. He crunched through what was left of an extra strong mint and put another in his mouth. He'd resisted the urge to put on a shirt and tie for this. Now he wished he had. ‘‘You're so bloody depressing,'' his sisters said. ‘‘Why d'you wear black all the time? Black's for funerals.'' He'd never been to a funeral. On the way in he'd tried not to notice the old graveyard with its shaggy yews and leaning slabs. He didn't ever want to be dead.

He wore black because you didn't have to make choices in the morning. Black didn't bother him one way or another. And he didn't feel depressed the whole time. Sometimes there were good things no-one else noticed. Like the smell on the leaves of old Crawfurd's pot plants or the green lines inside the snowdrops growing at head height beside a wall he walked past near the Art School. They were early, he guessed, because they faced south, and the stone wall sheltered them. He was ready to bet that no-one else he knew had ever looked inside a snowdrop. A small thing like that was sometimes enough to keep him from giving up. Did anyone else wonder why flowers were scented and coloured? He knew the slick answers, different coloured molecules make different colours, different colours attract insects or birds, different fragrances do the same thing at night. He remembered that much from Biology in first year. But this was like saying snowdrops have to be white because they're white. Why shouldn't they all be shades of grey? Why did they have to be beautiful? Why did his brain tell him they were beautiful?

Harriet was a beautiful thing. Her name was wrong, though. It was a hawk's name, ugly, nothing soft or smooth about it. Not that any name really fitted her. He'd gone through the alphabet more than once trying to find one that was right. It would be enough just to watch her every day, see her doing ordinary things, like lifting roast potatoes from a dish onto his plate the way she had that time he'd eaten with them. When one landed in Kerr's lap, her laugh had got right inside him.

He should have known Harriet would talk to her father. She'd no reason not to. For her, talking to a parent made sense. She was one of those lucky people whose whole life made sense. She could even laugh when things went wrong. It was like she'd had happiness or whatever it was pouring over her since she was a baby. He could picture it, like a shower of gold, like glittering special effects in a TV ad.

The outside light came on.

‘‘Why the fuck am I doing this?'' he said aloud, pressing the doorbell.

She was wearing a sweater he hadn't seen before, a pale pink v-neck that showed her collar bones and the smooth hollows above them. She led him to the sitting room. Her father was reading a newspaper, which he folded and laid on the coffee table. He was wearing a dark green fleece over a tee shirt, and jeans, not the priest's outfit.

They shook hands. Harriet said something Ryan didn't catch, and went out of the room.

‘‘So how's the new term treating you?'' The man gestured to a chair.

‘‘It's OK.''

‘‘Kerr went back a couple of days ago. We haven't heard from him, so I suspect he's probably not out of bed yet. Did you ever hear anything about your mobile phone, by the way? Did you get a replacement?''

Ryan shook his head. In fact he'd bought one from another student without questioning the ridiculously cheap price.

‘‘Harriet's going to come back in a minute. I wanted a word with you on your own first.''

He didn't like the look on the man's face. ‘‘I haven't touched her, if that's what you want to know.''

Why did it sound like a lie? He shouldn't have sat down. He'd be at least three inches taller than the man if they'd both been standing.

‘‘That wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about, Ryan, but thanks anyway.''

The sarcastic smile was too much. ‘‘This is a fucking mistake,'' he said, getting to his feet.

‘‘Ryan, wait. I think I know who's making these calls to your house.''

He turned slowly, his hand still on the door.

‘‘That's why I asked Harriet to give us ten minutes. I wanted to discuss it with you first. By a series of small coincidences …''

‘‘Who've you been talking to? Father Breslin?''

‘‘No. Nobody else knows about this.''

‘‘Yeah right. You can't fart in this fucking place without someone knowing. You think you. …''

‘‘That's probably true. But I'm pretty sure no one's talking about you. I hear things because of who I am, but what I know stays here,'' he tapped his forehead. ‘‘It was all in small, disconnected parts. No-one else could put them together. Harriet doesn't know.''

‘‘Doesn't know what?''

‘‘I may be wrong, Ryan, but I believe these calls are coming from your father.''