Surface Tension - Chapter 18 Part 2

This morning it all seems so distant but the memory of the cold that slapped into us as we walked out makes me shiver again.  I press myself up against the lorry, trying to make sense of everything. The smell of cigarette smoke drifts from the back of van.

I glance at my watch. I’ve been here 45 minutes.  I should be in a warm library working away. For the first time I let myself acknowledge that, that is not going to happen again, it’s over. But it's odd nobody’s called. I’d have thought one of the team would be worried.

I pull my mobile from my coat. It’s not switched it on.  No wonder I've not heard from anyone.  I switch it on. Behind me, from the other side of the van, there are voices. 

            “When are you going to be done?”

            There's a muffled conversation in the back of the lorry and then:

            “'Another couple of hours Mr McClelland should see us right.”

            Mr McClelland? I slide along the lorry peering round the corner. It's Steven. He’s standing outside the front door.

            “Yeah, well make it quicker.”         

            “We'll do our best, Mr McClelland.”

            “I’m not payin’ you to smoke, you know.”

            The removal men troop up the porch steps. He ignores them but likes a cigarette, taking a long pull as they pass. As they disappear back in the house the old bloke turns and flicks him the finger behind his back.

            He's dressed in jeans and a red v-necked sweater.  He stands on the porch scanning the drive.  I push myself hard back into the side of the lorry, trying to be as invisible.  Involuntary I catch the scab in my mouth. I feel the warm salty taste of blood again. 

 

I feel the punch landing, the surprise suddenly registering his fist heading my way, my head; momentarily being aware of so many options: duck, sway, side step, hit back; but none are processed quick enough.

I take the hit.

The moment of impact, the immediate lack of pain or sensation but a sudden realisation that my legs are buckling, staggering back, reeling, sensing that the fist is withdrawn and preparing to come again.  There's venom in his eyes, he's measuring me, assessing the risk. As I topple his tensed body relaxes and a victor's sneer appears. 

Me? There’s a thought: we all express our grief in different ways and this is his.

            I stumble, spinning into an ornamental urn that grinds and wheels until it turns and topples.  For a moment I'm more aware of the rasping scrape on my calves, stone on flesh than the growing pain in my mouth which now has gained a fresh taste of blood.

 

I peer round the van again. Has he been sent to find me? Maybe Mrs McClelland’s spoken to her eldest. Even if she didn’t know who I was maybe he’s worked it out.

And he wants’ to finish what he started last night.

I peek again. He’s not moved. If he is after me, he’s not seen me. I smile.

He flicks the cigarette butt away, turns on his heels to head back into the house and in doing so he looks out towards the gardens and I catch his look. I dart back behind the van.  My breathing’s rushed and I close my eyes, grit my teeth and listen hard.

Nothing.

Then there’s the crunch of gravel, a pause and another. He’s coming. I begin to back down the side of the lorry heading for the front.

He’s coming, I know he is.  I duck round the front of the truck, wishing I’d done this earlier, pause and start trotting towards the conifers. I’ve got this vague idea that I can use them as cover, hide and seeking my way to the road outside.

Last night.

We’d left as he’d instructed but once we were on the porch we realised we’d not got our coats. We’d turned to go back but he blocked. Ellen tried to brush past him but he’d shoved her back, almost knocking her to the floor.  She’d spat some insult at him and then made a lunge, clearly the alcohol kicking in. He fist was drawn and I’d gone to pull her back.

            He saw me coming.

            He’d stepped forward forcing us back and down the steps.  Ellen tried to go past him. He’d grabbed her wrist twisting it. She gave a gasp of pain.

I stepped forward, reaching for Ellen’s hand and at the same time turning to Steven. I said something about letting her go. There was a push, I was going backwards and then the fist came up.

           

I can hear his trainers on the gravel behind me; he's not running but I reckon he’s gaining on me.

            I give up the idea of going for the shelter of the trees. It’s straight down the drive and out but I’m incapable of breaking into anything other than a fast walk, the cold’s numbed my limbs.  I'm rounding the curve, moving out of view of the house; willing myself to move faster. And my chest is burning with the exertion.

I’m rounding the corner and picking up speed, I flick a look over my shoulder.  We're still comfortably apart. I think I'm home and dry and then I slam in to something solid.

 

I was dazed. It's only as I sat up that I became really aware of the throbbing in my mouth.  I grasped my chin and could feel the blood oozing out from my mouth.

Everything was fuzzy, Ellen was in Steven’s face shouting. He was pushing her back.  Words jumbled. I could make no sense.  Someone else had appeared on the porch, all I could work out was an angry cry of “Steven.” It was a sharp, shrill female voice. It took a moment: Mrs McClelland calling her son to heel.

            The door slammed shut, then Ellen was by me side.  I was mumbling something about the last time I was punched: I was eight and it was Fiona Russell who’d ‘laid one on me’. 

The object I’ve hit grasps me.  I look up. It’s one of last night’s border guards.  He says nothing, just stares impassively beyond me in to space, his large blue eyes not focusing on anything, hardly registering my presence, but that doesn’t mean he lessons his grip on me.

            My captor spins me round so I can see Steven coming.  He slows as he reaches us. 

The guard places two bear like hands on my shoulders. He’s pressing down, crushing my spine.  I'm amazed that out of his large pudgy palms extend long slim fingers that have beautifully manicured nails.

            “I thought I made it quite clear that you were not welcome here,” he’s in my face. I look down; his fists are rapidly clenching and unclenching. He checks himself, looks over his shoulder and then nods to my captor indicating that I should be moved off the drive.

I'm manhandled onto the grass and pushed into one of the conifers.  For a moment I don’t understand but then realise we must be perfectly obscured from the house.

Steven’s eyes are wide, his pupils jerking erratically; he jigs and sways, a pent up jack-in-the-box, eager for release.  The guard lets go of me taking a couple of paces back, taking his place behind his boss. Steven’s at me.

            “What do you want?  Why did you see my mother?” I wince at the ciggie breath. “I know you’ve got nothing to do with my father.  What are you?  Some grubby journalist looking to dig dirt? You being paid to find something, get something? That girl set you up.”  Each question is accompanied by a short, sharp jab in my chest which pushes further me into the tree. The cold, icy fronds of the fir are on the back of my neck, the branches scratching my legs.  He reaches forward grabbing the lapels of my coat, yanking me toward him. 

If I wasn’t so frightened I think I’d laugh, he so set on being a living, walking gangster cliché. 

He shakes me, “Well? Well?” and with that drops me leaving a silence colder than the day around us. He slips his hand into his back pocket, he stare does not waiver. He can see my fear. A sneer spreads across his face and for one horrible moment I think he’s going to pull a blade on me.

He lights up.

My jaw is aching, I've no desire to add to its bruising:  “I came to apologise,” a half truth, which from the way his faces twists he doesn't buy.  His left hand snakes out and grasps my collar again, the cigarette brushing my face. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his right clenching into a fist. 

The security guard stands impassively behind, giving them impression that  this is nothing more than routine.

 “Look, I came to apologise for the trouble last night, I didn't mean to be… cause any… be disrespectful.  I didn’t know your father, Mr McClelland, I shouldn’t have been here…”  I'm jabbering hoping something will get him to uncoil. 

He's still not buying it.

“I wanted to pay my respects…properly.” The grip on the lapel tightens and the fist flexes.

 

We'd scarpered up the drive and scrambled into the Micra.  I’d sat in the passenger seat nursing my face.  I’d muttered my address and have no recollection of the journey.  By the time we’d got home Ellen had begun to sober up, the adrenalin rush had passed and judging by the expression on her face she'd a thumping headache.  We parted in silence. I'd crawled up the stairs; collapsing on my bed.  I must've got some ice from the fridge as I woke with a sodden paper towel in my hands, my head lying on a damp sheet.  I'd a vague recollection of the telephone ringing but that's it. I’d showered under a hot cascade and it was then that I’d decided on the pattern of the day. 

Maybe I should have just stayed in bed.

 

Steven cocks his head, his grip lightens.  He then pulls me toward him tight again: “I’m checking Mr Dafoe, checking.”

I'm so close to his face I can count his stubble.  There’s a small knick, a pink cut on his chin, the residue of another fight. 

“I know, Mr Dafoe, where you work, or should I say worked. The University,” (So all that stuff about journalists was guff; there’s a worm digging into me, he knows), “and if you’re trying to pin what’s happened on my family, well, you’ve another thing coming.  I'm still looking after the family interests, some of us may not care but I do and if I find a link… well…” he says nothing, just lets his eyes doing the talking. 

I understand the threat.  He drags me forward, spins me round and pushes me back to the drive.

“Goodbye Mr Dafoe.  I like the bruise. I think you’d look good with another one.” He turns crisply back towards the house, his security following behind.

            I stuff my hands deep in my coat and feel my phone.  I jump when it rings.