The Summer We All Ran Away (11 page)

“No harm done,” said Tom. “We'll need more wood for tonight. Want to come and help?”

Davey followed Tom down the path, pondering his response. “No harm done.” Was it simply a kind attempt to reassure him? Or was he elegantly sidestepping Davey's attempt to discover how long Tom had lived here? The paper Isaac had given him was like a shrieking mandrake in his pocket. The contents of this letter had united in his mind with a theory of his own to produce a brilliant but as-yet-un-established whole. If he could find a way to prove it, dazzle Priss with his solution -

In a dilapidated stone building that could have been a barn or a stable or an unusually opulent garage, the walls were stacked several feet deep with logs. In the centre, a chopping
block waited. A stack of newspapers had sprawled out across the floor,
The Mirror, The Guardian, The Times, The Express, The London Evening Standard
, recent editions as far as he could see, although no visitors had come to the house since he had been here. Was this what Tom did every day? What was he looking for? The phrase
something nasty in the woodshed
slunk through his brain.

“Does it get cold here in the winter?” Davey asked Tom.

Tom was gathering the newspapers back into a pile, his movements slow and careful, almost as if he were acting the appearance of casual ease. “We'll be alright. We'll keep a few rooms warm.”

Again that evasive switch of focus from the past to the future. Was it deliberate? Or was he simply sensitised to it?

“I've never lived anywhere without central heating,” said Davey, then had to stop himself from wincing. He was glad Priss wasn't here to laugh.

“No,” said Tom. “No, that makes sense. Davey, since you're here - ”

Davey felt a spasm of alarm.

“Look, I'm not going to pry,” Tom continued. “Everyone's entitled to their past. But, the thing is - ” he hesitated. “Is there someone who'll be worrying about you? Someone you ought to get in touch with? Just to let them know you're alright?”

His cheeks burned as if Tom had slapped him. “I wrote to - ”

“Yes, but did you send it?” asked Tom, very gently. Davey couldn't answer.

“I can post it for you. It's alright,” he added, “I'll take the ferry. They won't trace you from the postmark.”

“Do you know where there's a p-p-p-post box?”

Tom swept a few splinters of wood from the top of the block. “Davey, all towns have post boxes. Pass me some of those logs, will you?”

“I ought to go myself,” said Davey. “You don't have to.”

“It's okay, I don't mind.”

Tom swung the axe. The log fell apart in two halves with a satisfying
thunk
. Keen to look useful, Davey heaved another log over.
Thunk
. The slicing of the wood was clean and quick. Was Tom willing to go because he had nothing to hide? Or was it because he was hiding in plain sight?

“Want a go?” Tom was holding out the axe towards him. Davey took it warily. “You'll be fine as long as you're careful. Hold it there, and there. No, further up the handle. Swing with your whole upper body, not just your arms. Now try.”

Davey swung the axe. It went in, but stuck halfway down the log. He pushed down hard on the handle to force the log to split.

“Careful, you'll wreck the blade.” Tom levered it carefully out. “Let me show you again.”
Thunk
. The log split effortlessly in two halves that showed their creamy insides as they fell. Davey watched in frank admiration. “So, do you want to try again? Or do you want to tell me what you came down here to ask?”

Davey looked at him miserably. “I just - ” he began. “I just - ”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to, I wanted to, I just thought I ought to - ” The guilt compressed his tongue like a scold's bridle. How could he accuse Tom of committing a crime? “Oh, God - ”

“Can I give you some advice?” said Tom. “Confession is overrated. It really is. There's no point going over the mistakes of the past. We do the things we do, and we live with the consequences, and then we move on. That's it. That's all there is. Looking back, trying to find answers, it'll drive you mad.” He placed a log on the block. The axe swung. The log fell in two perfectly bisected halves. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Is this your house?” Davey blurted out.

Tom looked at him for a long time. Davey noticed how silent the garden was, how sharp the blade of the axe as it whistled through the air. How Tom was between him and the door.

“For what it's worth,” said Tom at last, “that's a consequence I'm living with. I gave up all my rights to ownership a long, long time ago. I don't think I'll ever really own anything ever again.”

Outside, the drizzling rain continued to drench the gardens.

“That was amazing,” said Davey, sighing. “And we've eaten all the bread, sorry - ”

“Cooks like people to eat what they make,” said Kate. “Don't apologise.”

“But it's not fair on you,” said Davey. “You cook for us all the time.”

“I like to cook.”

“No-one likes to wash up,” Tom pointed out. “But half the time you won't even let us do that.”

“I like looking after people.” Her smile, Davey thought, was the warmest he had ever seen. Kate, when happy, could light up an entire room.

“You should make me and Davey do it,” said Priss. She had been quiet this evening, and half her bread was rolled into meticulous little grey-white pills arranged around the border of her plate.

“I don't mind,” said Kate, and began to clear the plates. Isaac, looking guilty, tried to help her, but she slapped his hands away and pushed him back into his chair. Isaac glanced at Tom and shrugged.
I tried
. Priss was fumbling with something underneath the table.

“Look what I found,” she announced, dropping a long, flat cardboard box on the table. “Cluedo. Who wants to play?”

No-one other than Priss seemed desperately keen, but she was already unpacking the box, dropping weapons into rooms and sorting through the character cards. “Who d'you all want to be?”

“The yellow one,” said Tom. Priss flicked over the Colonel Mustard pawn.

“Have I got to?” asked Davey.

“Yes you have. Pick one or I'll make you be Miss Scarlett.”

Davey muttered something inaudible, but obediently took the pawn for Reverend Green. Isaac, who had shed his fisherman's jumper, revealing a faded lilac t-shirt with a ragged hem, took Professor Plum.

“I'll be Mrs Peacock if you like,” said Kate.

“No-one's picked Miss Scarlett yet.”

“Mrs Peacock's fine.”

“Okay. So I'll be Mrs White.”

“Why?” asked Kate.

“'Cos she's got a nasty, mean face and she looks like a horrible person,” said Priss. Davey saw she had bitten the nail of her left thumb down far beyond the quick, and the skin was ragged with dried blood. Glancing round the table, he saw Isaac noticing the same thing. Davey picked up the dice hastily.

“Who goes first?”

The game got under way. To his surprise, Davey found himself enjoying it. The kitchen was warm and the pawns made a pleasing
click
against the board. Tom was going out of his way to be friendly towards him. Their conversation that afternoon might never have happened.

“It's strange,” Davey said as he counted out squares, “to be playing a game about a murder in a country house, while I'm actually in a country house.
Ow!”
He looked at Priss reproachfully. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” said Priss. “Foot slipped. Make a suggestion.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Davey stared blankly at the board. “Okay, I think it was Reverend Green, in the conservatory, with the candlestick.”

“Why?” asked Priss.

“What?”

“Why pick that person in that room?”

“Because it's a game of deduction,” said Davey. “You've got to start somewhere.”

“You know you just accused yourself of murder?”

“Well, it might have been me just as much as anyone else.”

Priss sniffed. “He looks alright on the card.”

“It's a game of chance, it's got nothing to do with how anyone - look, have you got anything to disprove it or not?”

“You go clockwise round the board,” said Priss, looking smug. Kate shook her head. Isaac held the candlestick card out to Davey. Kate threw a two and inched towards the conservatory. Isaac threw a six and made it into the study.

“Suggestion,” said Priss.

Isaac was scribbling on his notepad. Everyone tried not to stare. After a few moments, he laid the paper down on the table. In the library, Miss Scarlett loomed over the prone body of a man, clutching a piece of lead piping in her hand. Her face was savage and beautiful. Priss laughed in delight.

“That's brilliant,” said Davey reluctantly.

“He is brilliant,” said Kate, and reached behind Davey to ruffle Isaac's hair. Isaac looked modest. Everyone sorted through their cards. Kate showed him something from her hand. Isaac nodded. Tom threw a five. Colonel Mustard made it into the lounge.

“Reverend Green,” said Tom, yawning. “In the ballroom. With the dagger.”

Priss held out a card under the table. “Why have you all got it in for the vicar?”

“It's a game of deduction,” repeated Davey. “It could just as well be Reverend Green as - ow, will you stop kicking me!”

“I'm just interested,” said Priss. Her ravishing face was a picture of innocence as she gazed at Tom. “Why are you all picking on the man of the cloth?”

“Why are you defending him?” asked Tom. “Are those Catholic roots showing?”

“How'd you know I was raised Catholic?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Well, I don't believe,” said Priss, frowning.

“In lucky guesses?”

“In God. In the church. Anything. It's all bullshit.”
Kate looked scandalised. “Sorry, I don't mean to be, like, disrespectful or anything, but that's what I think.”

“I agree,” said Tom. “We're responsible for our own actions. All there is, is what there is now. We shouldn't waste a second of it.”

“So can we stop playing this game then?” asked Davey. No-one took any notice.

“Doesn't that make you sad?” asked Kate. “Thinking there's nothing after we die?”

“Death isn't frightening,” said Tom. “It's programmed in. When the time comes, our bodies know what to do. But truly, what an obscene waste, worrying that some magical eye-in-the-sky's judging us and everything we do - ”

Davey realised he was staring.

“Okay,” said Tom. “Sorry, Davey. Rant over. Priss, your throw.”

Mrs White took the secret passage.

“Why is there a secret passage from the kitchen to the study?” Priss asked. “Professor Plum, in the study, with the lead piping.”

“Because they're at opposite corners of the board,” said Davey. “Here.”

Priss glanced at the card he held out, and crossed
study
off her list. “But why connect those two rooms?”

“Maybe Dr Black liked to snack in the middle of his experiments,” said Kate.

“What experiments?”

“Well, he's called Dr Black and he lives in the middle of nowhere. I'm thinking Bond Villain. Something pointless, insane and spectacular.” Isaac passed a sketch to Kate, who laughed and held it up. “Something like that.”

A man in a black suit wrestled a triffid-like plant with the face of a beautiful woman.

“So if Dr Black was evil,” said Priss, “should we even be trying to find out who killed him? Maybe the murder was, like, for the good of society.”

“It's never okay to kill someone,” said Kate.

“Not even if it was, like, Hitler or someone?
What?
”

“I was just invoking Godwin's Law,” said Davey smugly.

“Alright, then, Slobodan Milosevic. Would it be okay to kill Slobodan Milosevic?”

“Is this before or after the massacres?” asked Tom.

“Does it make a difference?”

“Well, it's a different proposition. If you kill someone before they do something terrible, you're assuming you're infallibly right and they were definitely going to. And if you kill them after they did it, you're just punishing them.”

“So is it ever alright to do it?” Priss persisted.

Tom shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I want to know what you think.”

“You're young. You're supposed to have all the answers.”

“That's a really shitty thing to say,” said Priss. “I know I'm only sixteen but I'm not so fuckin' dumb I think I know everything yet. Don't treat me like an idiot, okay?”

Tom was very carefully not making eye contact with anyone. “Alright,” he said slowly. “For what it's worth, I think sometimes you have to make a choice and live with it. And if your best judgement is you absolutely need to kill someone, you accept you'll live with it hanging over you for the rest of your life, and if you get caught, you'll probably go to jail for it. Good enough?”

Davey's spine felt like a rod of ice. He didn't dare move or look at anyone. Priss nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Kate.

“What do you think?”

Kate moved Mrs Peacock into the dining room. “I think,” she said, “I'm ready to make an accusation.”

“You can't be,” Davey protested. “We've only played three rounds, there are hundreds of combinations - ”

“I'm ready,” Kate insisted. “I think it was Miss Scarlett, in the hall, with the dagger. Right, I'm having a look.” She opened up the envelope, and smiled. “Told you.” She spread the three cards out so the rest of the players could see them.

“How did you know that?” asked Davey in disbelief.

“Because it's
always
Miss Scarlett,” said Kate, shrugging.
“Cherchez la femme.”