Someone Else's Conflict (21 page)

He hears a heavy vehicle approaching and instinctively ducks into the scrubby undergrowth before it comes into view. His gun has been an added burden in the heat, but he feels safer with it. The armoured truck turns out to be one of theirs, but is past by the time the adrenalin rush of fear subsides. He hears others approaching and waits, concealed, for them to pass. Nothing is certain here. Even walking down a road. There were no road blocks in this area last time he was here, but it has been a while. His senses send feelers out around every bend. It is a relief of sorts to turn up the stony track and know that anyone who passes is likely to be friendly.

One more hillock to go and he is relieved not to see a pall of smoke. Relieved, too, as he crests the rise in the land and does not see an empty, blackened shell. The fields of a working farm are a rare sight in a place where most have done the sensible thing and fled for safety. Or stayed and been killed.

The newly reopened wound in his side nags, the hastily-rebound bandage chafing. His weakness, which eventually got the better of him so he could no longer hide the pain, means he has been allowed some time to rest and recuperate here before it is back, back to the constant fear of being hurt, seeing others being hurt. The fear of his own actions inflicting that on someone else. He never voices that last one, doubting it is a fear the others share or would understand. It stays inside, eating at him like the infection in his side had. He's getting over that, isn't he?

Zora isn't expecting him. Her surprise makes the homecoming even sweeter. She embraces him and her touch makes his dusty, war-weary world seem momentarily brighter. He leans his head on her shoulder, wondering if he will ever be able to leave again.

She dispels his guilt with a kiss and a few words.

‘You did well. I've heard things are going well. Don't be ashamed you've had to come back. They weren't sure you should go at all, you know.' For all he feels different now, her smile can still melt him. ‘But you showed them.'

She means ‘us' – he knows she'd shared the opinion. He went back before he should, not only because he couldn't watch Ivan leaving another time without him. He'd gone to prove himself. To her, as they both know. He smiles, telling her even Lek might be beginning to respect him – he's allowed him back now after all. But none of it is making him feel as good as it should. Not even when she says he must be fearless.

He shakes his head. ‘No. You don't stop feeling fear. You just get used to it.'

Despite the absence of Lek and the others, he is surprised when she invites him to her that night. He can't refuse. He shouldn't be there but it's where he wants to be.

Fear isn't the only thing you get used to
.

Chapter 17

Marilyn woke to an empty bed. As she realised that the space beside her was cold and empty, she wondered if he'd been suffering his night terrors again and crept out of their bed to his sleeping bag in the spare room. But as she came fully awake she recalled the growing foreboding of the previous evening's endless wait. On her way downstairs she glanced into the spare room, still vainly hoping to see the huddled shape of his sleeping bag. There was certainly more space after her clearout, but no one had been there. The armchair downstairs that had become his was also untouched. She'd told herself throughout not to get attached, but the hollow emptiness of absence hurt nevertheless.

Over breakfast she listened to the showers pattering occasionally against the windows as she relived the previous evening's drive to the end of the lane to meet him off the bus, recalling the way her heart leapt as the wide-spaced headlights rounded the corner, the bright rectangles of the steamy windows brash and out of place in the dark countryside. Eagerly anticipating his pleasure and surprise as he saw her and realised he didn't have to face the long walk to the cottage, she'd felt an intense wave of disappointment as the bus didn't even slow. She'd driven to Holdwick, searched the emptying, orange-lit market square and scanned the road on the way back for the eerie movement of the reflective strip on his jacket in her headlights.

Now, in the clear light of morning, the recollection reawakened her growing concern, which she fended off with indignation and practicalities. If he didn't come back she'd have to find someone to continue the building work. A good job it was a Sunday, allowing her to postpone the difficult decisions until a more reasonable time to be phoning round. She glanced frequently towards the kitchen window over her breakfast toast and coffee. A sudden rattle sparked a hope of his hand on the latch, until she realised it was the cat flap. Genghis made a noisy entrance, his demands for food like a strident reproach.

‘You know there'll be a good reason for it,' she told the cat, trying to convince herself of it as she rose to feed him and go about her morning routine.

As she crossed the living room she paused in front of the pictures. Two matching frames she'd found during the big clearout yesterday. She'd returned the souvenirs of a holiday in Tuscany with Matt to the album, so she could use the frames for the pictures Jay had brought.
The Rock Sequence
,
he'd called them with a laugh. A couple of days ago they'd allowed themselves a break and set off to explore the moors. She could still feel the freshness of the wind, the earthy peat beneath their feet, the expanse of blue-grey sky keeping guard. The rocky outcrop showed no signs of habitation despite its fort-like appearance, but they drank in its atmosphere all the same, taking photos of one another. Textures, shapes, light, shadow, skyline. He'd surprised her on Friday by having the
Sequence
developed while he was out and presenting the pictures to her before she even realised the film had gone from her camera. Matt had bought her a digital camera and sulked when she continued using her old one. She took Jay's lack of comment as tacit agreement – a roll of film concentrated your mind and imagination, as did the black-and-white. Whatever the reason – perhaps it was simply the remembered magic of the moment – these pictures were special and she'd enjoyed picking out her favourites, one of each of them, and fitting them in the frames. Carefully positioning them on top of the bookcase, where they'd felt right. Yesterday. And today? What if he didn't come back? Then they'd be there as a memory of the fleeting time they'd enjoyed together.

Reminding herself to be careful how
together
she thought of them, she tried to convince herself there'd be a perfectly rational explanation for his absence. Anyway, if he'd gone for good he'd have taken his rucksack. She went upstairs and checked, as if it might have grown feet and tiptoed out to join him in the night. It was lying open, still occupying the corner of her bedroom that it had claimed as if it had always belonged there. Like its owner. Without thinking she knelt down and lifted up the canvas skin that held together the viscera of a life on the road. She had a moment of doubt, imagining him appearing in the door behind her demanding what did she think she was doing – she almost hoped – but smiled as she saw the cover of a book. Whenever she went to someone's house she loved browsing the shelves, comparing, recognition alternating with curiosity and unasked questions. Jay had done the same in her house and that was all she was doing now. It looked like there was little else in the rucksack anyway; his washbag was in her bathroom and his clothes were in a pile on the nearby chair. She distracted herself by taking Matt's jumper and jeans from the pile ready to return, but was drawn inevitably back to Jay's backpack. She convinced herself she simply wanted to feel closer to him; in any case, he'd left the bag open and she had no doubt that anything truly private would be with him, in his pockets.

The novel,
Crime and Punishment,
was well-thumbed. She frowned slightly as she noted the pencilled price from a charity shop and read the blurb, wondering how much it meant to him before savouring the memory of the night she'd first seen him reading it. The bookmark was a dog-eared photo of an attractive terraced house. Old mellow brick, but otherwise impossible to locate. On the back, in Jay's handwriting, the simple word
Home?
Probably the house he'd mentioned. The question mark seemed poignant. She tucked it back in its place. The clip-on reading light was there, half a dozen CDs with a portable player and ear buds, and a Landranger map of the area. A small fold-away gas stove lodged in a lightweight pan, a plastic mug and plate, a container of instant coffee and a couple of packs of dried food, a compact first-aid kit and a water bottle. Beneath that was a pair of open-toed sandals; she wondered if he noticed the difference in summer when it came to wearing the sandals and carrying the heavier boots. Practical, and comfortingly ordinary if she disregarded the fact that this was his life. She took out one of the CDs, attracted by the cover, a medieval-looking woodcut of a fairytale town, and filled the house with strange and mysterious but somehow familiar music, at once ancient and modern, as she washed up and got ready for the day.

She remembered a couple of particularly heavy boxes of rubbish in the spare room, which she'd been intending to leave for Jay to carry out, an opportunity for him to indulge his self-image of the gallant knight errant. She decided now to make the effort herself, dividing up the contents if she had to. Having manoeuvred the two boxes down the narrow stairs and out through the rarely-used front door, she lifted the tarpaulin she'd used to cover the bonfire, placed the new boxes on the pile and weighted the tarp carefully back in place with stones. The wind was only light, but she didn't want any of her past escaping to litter the future.

She stood back and looked at the heap. Jay had had a point; sorting through it all had been something to do for herself, but she'd looked forward to him being there so they could set light to the bonfire together. The unlit pile now seemed like a symbol of her faith in his return. Smiling at her own exaggerated notion, and insisting to herself that his return meant nothing more than rewarding her faith in him as a reliable man who wouldn't leave the building job half-done, she imagined them watching the flames, wine glasses in hand, eyes following the clouds of tiny sparks rising into the night sky to join the stars. Backs freezing, faces burning. She'd describe to him the alchemic processes in the kiln she was increasingly desperate to get going; he'd tell her an equally magical fire story.

On her way back to the house, she glanced over at the barn. It looked forlorn, awaiting attention, and she wondered when it would get it. Perhaps the contents of Jay's rucksack, which until now she'd considered a kind of insurance policy guaranteeing his return, were disposable and he'd done a disappearing act after all. She'd wait another day – she had plenty to be getting on within her temporary workshop at Matt's – and then decide what to do. All kinds of notions crowded their way into her imagination; perhaps he'd got into some kind of trouble. Perhaps he was visiting one of that string of women whose existence he'd denied – a scenario she'd used before in a vain attempt to curb the growth of her feelings. She liked to think she knew loneliness when she saw it, but the idea continued to niggle and in her moments of doubt she was glad of it. Surely he could at least have let her know where he was? Her indignation at the fact he'd failed to do so was immediately superseded by the realisation that her phone was off and he might well be trying. She really wanted to believe in his goodness, that he wouldn't let her down, but despite their growing closeness, she didn't really know him at all.

On her way back into the house she gathered some logs from the porch to lay a fire. A vivid image of Jay in the living room flashed into her mind, and it reminded her of the night they'd come home to find the electricity was unexpectedly back. That had been eclipsed in her memory by what happened later that night, but now she felt a lingering trace of unease. What
would
he have done if someone had been there? She busied herself with newspaper and kindling, chiding herself for her negative thoughts. He'd merely been nervous; protective of his new-found temporary home, of her. Home? She certainly felt he belonged here, for the time being at least. Perhaps she should be worried about that, too. It had all happened so fast. Matt had swept her off her feet once, and look where that had left her. But this was different. Or so she'd thought. She wasn't so sure now.

After the daily ritual of trying the phone – still dead – she drove down the lane to within mobile signal, to call Sue and make sure the pub could manage without her for a second week off. Thinking of her empty house, she half hoped she'd be needed, but Sue assured her everything was fine. Once again she wondered how long she'd have a job there now the tourist season was over. To stop herself asking outright she began to tell her friend about the new man in her life.

‘So what does he do?'

‘He's a storyteller.'

‘I mean for a living.'

‘Yeah, that's it. Street entertainment, busking.'

‘You
are
joking?'

‘No. He does make a kind of living from it. Odd jobs, too. He hasn't always done that – just made a conscious decision to leave the rat race behind, you know?'

‘Oh my god, Marilyn, you haven't found yourself a bloke who's more of a dreamer than
you
are? Are you sure you can trust him not to wander off when the wind changes?'