officer would have no official role in the search. The visit, Mr Golightly guessed, had more to do with nosy curiosity, or, heaven help him, with yet another request to assist with some wretched form of creative writing.
‘Now I’ve got you in my clutches, if you’ll pardon the liberty, sir, there’s this idea I had for a book. Stop me if you’ve heard it,’ requested Wolford, sitting back confidently in the easy chair.
From his post in the yew tree, Johnny Spence had been spying on the various comings and goings of Great Calne. It was the Easter holidays, so for the time being he had no obvious need of concealment. But his stepdad was off work, and his mum had gone somewhere, so there was no safety at home. And Johnny hadn’t many friends – none now he’d knocked Dave Sparrow’s teeth down his head for him for saying he was queer. Partly out of boredom, and unwilling to waste an opportunity, Johnny elected to see if there was anything worth nicking from the church.
As Johnny slid jaguar-style from the tree, Brian Wolford was leaving Spring Cottage. The idea for the novel, about a sex offender doing life, had yielded no response from Golightly. He had made it pretty plain that he wasn’t much interested. Probably jealousy. Those writer johnnies were touchy as hell about their status.
Wolford’s own temper was uncertain; as a child he had knowingly starved his pet rabbits and his mother’s cat knew to keep out of his way when he was in a bad mood. Spotting Johnny Spence, Wolford quickened his stride and was in time to grab hold of the boy at the church door.
‘Whatcha do that for?’ Johnny asked, balefully rubbinghis arm. Wolford’s grip was strong enough to have bruised the flesh. Up at the prison, it was common knowledge that it was wise to stay on the right side of Wolford.
‘What you up to going into the church, then?’
‘Just going in there, aren’t I?’ Johnny knew what Wolford did. His stepdad was fond of telling him how he’d land inside himself one day.
‘Oh, a churchgoer, are we?’
‘Said I’d go there for the chappie yonder?’ said Johnny quickly, nodding his head towards Spring Cottage.
‘Oh yes,’ said Wolford. ‘What does Mr Golightly want you to do that for, then?’
Inspiration is democratic – it abandons great artists without a backward glance and alights on the shoulders of ragamuffins. ‘Wanted me to get him a hymn book, didn’t he?’ Elvis had been religious.
‘Oh, really?’ Wolford’s eyebrows signalled pleasure at this patent fiction. ‘Hymn books, is it? We’ll see what Mr Golightly says when I ask him, won’t we?’
‘Yeah,’ said Johnny, uneasily.
Wolford looked at his victim’s face more closely. ‘You live up Storey Lane, don’t you? Your dad know what you’re doing?’ He knew Phil Spence by reputation – a drunk and a layabout, probably a ‘domestic violent’ too.
‘Yeah,’ said Johnny, too quickly this time.
‘Well, now, you get back to your hymn books then, Mister Spence, and maybe I’ll pay your dad a visit. I’ll be asking questions about you, don’t you worry.’
Johnny’s sense of danger was acute: he knew that it wasn’t safe to tangle with a sadist. As he and the screw were speaking, he’d seen, in his peripheral vision, the tenant of Spring Cottage go out of the house and off up the street. Mr Golightly had been OK. Maybe his best bet was to go after him and explain. If Wolford spoke to his stepdad he’d be for it – and so would his mum.
The prison officer’s visit had left Mr Golightly feeling the need for a change of air. He had not cared for Wolford, nor his fiction proposal, which struck Mr Golightly as based on something unsavoury into which he did not wish to delve. And the mention of the escaped prisoner had touched off those insidious feelings which so haunted and perplexed him.
The fact was that Mr Golightly had a secret – or rather, not a secret exactly, because it was not that he was hiding it
‘Now I’ve got you in my clutches, if you’ll pardon the liberty, sir, there’s this idea I had for a book. Stop me if you’ve heard it,’ requested Wolford, sitting back confidently in the easy chair.
From his post in the yew tree, Johnny Spence had been spying on the various comings and goings of Great Calne. It was the Easter holidays, so for the time being he had no obvious need of concealment. But his stepdad was off work, and his mum had gone somewhere, so there was no safety at home. And Johnny hadn’t many friends – none now he’d knocked Dave Sparrow’s teeth down his head for him for saying he was queer. Partly out of boredom, and unwilling to waste an opportunity, Johnny elected to see if there was anything worth nicking from the church.
As Johnny slid jaguar-style from the tree, Brian Wolford was leaving Spring Cottage. The idea for the novel, about a sex offender doing life, had yielded no response from Golightly. He had made it pretty plain that he wasn’t much interested. Probably jealousy. Those writer johnnies were touchy as hell about their status.
Wolford’s own temper was uncertain; as a child he had knowingly starved his pet rabbits and his mother’s cat knew to keep out of his way when he was in a bad mood. Spotting Johnny Spence, Wolford quickened his stride and was in time to grab hold of the boy at the church door.
‘Whatcha do that for?’ Johnny asked, balefully rubbinghis arm. Wolford’s grip was strong enough to have bruised the flesh. Up at the prison, it was common knowledge that it was wise to stay on the right side of Wolford.
‘What you up to going into the church, then?’
‘Just going in there, aren’t I?’ Johnny knew what Wolford did. His stepdad was fond of telling him how he’d land inside himself one day.
‘Oh, a churchgoer, are we?’
‘Said I’d go there for the chappie yonder?’ said Johnny quickly, nodding his head towards Spring Cottage.
‘Oh yes,’ said Wolford. ‘What does Mr Golightly want you to do that for, then?’
Inspiration is democratic – it abandons great artists without a backward glance and alights on the shoulders of ragamuffins. ‘Wanted me to get him a hymn book, didn’t he?’ Elvis had been religious.
‘Oh, really?’ Wolford’s eyebrows signalled pleasure at this patent fiction. ‘Hymn books, is it? We’ll see what Mr Golightly says when I ask him, won’t we?’
‘Yeah,’ said Johnny, uneasily.
Wolford looked at his victim’s face more closely. ‘You live up Storey Lane, don’t you? Your dad know what you’re doing?’ He knew Phil Spence by reputation – a drunk and a layabout, probably a ‘domestic violent’ too.
‘Yeah,’ said Johnny, too quickly this time.
‘Well, now, you get back to your hymn books then, Mister Spence, and maybe I’ll pay your dad a visit. I’ll be asking questions about you, don’t you worry.’
Johnny’s sense of danger was acute: he knew that it wasn’t safe to tangle with a sadist. As he and the screw were speaking, he’d seen, in his peripheral vision, the tenant of Spring Cottage go out of the house and off up the street. Mr Golightly had been OK. Maybe his best bet was to go after him and explain. If Wolford spoke to his stepdad he’d be for it – and so would his mum.
The prison officer’s visit had left Mr Golightly feeling the need for a change of air. He had not cared for Wolford, nor his fiction proposal, which struck Mr Golightly as based on something unsavoury into which he did not wish to delve. And the mention of the escaped prisoner had touched off those insidious feelings which so haunted and perplexed him.
The fact was that Mr Golightly had a secret – or rather, not a secret exactly, because it was not that he was hiding it
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