Bronwen comes to the turn of the stair, sees me, and her face changes two or three times before settling on something bland and cautious. The older woman, her mother I assume, vanishes back to the land of the blue TV.
Bronwen comes downstairs. She’s still dressed in her work clothes. A dark woollen skirt and formal jumper. No shoes, just stockinged feet.
‘Bronwen, hi. I’m Fiona, remember? From the—’
‘Yes. Is it OK?’
‘It’s all fine, totally. Just, could I have a private word for a minute?’
I can. We go upstairs. There are boxes in the hall and on the stair landing. Not the sort of boxes that say ‘All packed and ready to ship’, but the sort which say, ‘Random crap accumulates in this house and never gets tidied or sorted.’ A plus-size lace camisole hangs on the frame of a bedroom door. A giant teddy sits on top of a box from whose torn corner there is a spillage of DVD cases, a hoover part, a canvas strap, and some kind of kitchen gadget not removed from its plastic packet.
Bronwen makes a silent face which says, I think, ‘I know what you’re thinking and I agree.’
Her room is the opposite of the house. Ordered and neat. The window slightly open and a smell of air freshener.
I sit on the bed, Bronwen on the only chair.
I say, ‘Is it OK coming here? If it was easier, I could come and see you at work.’
‘No, no, it’s OK. Here’s probably better.’
‘Mr Evans. A difficult boss, I imagine.’
She makes a curious gesture before she answers. A sideways bat of her hand, accompanied by a movement of the head. She says, ‘He’s a character, that’s true.’
‘Sexual harassment is an offence. You don’t have to report it, that’s your choice, but if you want to, you can call me. I’ll give you my direct line.’
‘Thank you. It’s OK. I’ve done four months. I just want to build my CV, then . . .’ She wants to dismiss the subject, but I do write out my direct line – the one leading in to Ifor’s dungeon – and my mobile number as well. Tear those out of my notebook and pass them over. ‘It is an offence. The law does protect you.’
Her lips say ‘thank you’, though her voice says nothing.
We sit without talking. Then, simultaneously, we speak.
She says, ‘Can I get you anything?’
I say, ‘And look, there’s something else.’
12
Penry arrives punctually at eight. He gives me a bunch of flowers. Roses, stock, gerbera, carnations. They look nice, and I say so.
He looks smart too, or smartish. Clean, ironed shirt. Jacket. I’ve a momentary worry that he thinks this is a date, even though there’s a good twenty years between us. I never know how these signalling things are meant to work. Whether I’ve been sending funny signals or not reading the ones he’s been sending me. But then he rescues me by mentioning a party he’s going to on Friday night. ‘Maybe get back in the game,’ he says, meaning, I think, that I’m not the game.
Which is good.
I give him beer and my ninety-per-cent not-awful chicken.
To start with we eat in the kitchen, but that feels strange, so I say we should go and eat in the living room, plates on our laps.
That’s better, but still not right. I try turning most of the lights off. Then sitting on the floor. Then playing music. Then not playing music.
Then realise that it’s the fakery which is bothering me, and I go and get my stash of photos for Penry to look at. Shots of Moon’s injuries mostly. But also that one of the daffodils on his grave. Some of Plas Du, and the impossible burglary.
Only when those things are strewn all over the floor do I feel relaxed.
I tell him about my crimes. The burglary at Plas Du. The security guard with a broken skull.
I want to talk about Moon’s long leap over the cliff top. About the sticklebacked rock that split his head open. But I don’t do that.
I want to tell him about the girl in the red coat, about the grave and the daffodils, but I don’t do that
Bronwen comes downstairs. She’s still dressed in her work clothes. A dark woollen skirt and formal jumper. No shoes, just stockinged feet.
‘Bronwen, hi. I’m Fiona, remember? From the—’
‘Yes. Is it OK?’
‘It’s all fine, totally. Just, could I have a private word for a minute?’
I can. We go upstairs. There are boxes in the hall and on the stair landing. Not the sort of boxes that say ‘All packed and ready to ship’, but the sort which say, ‘Random crap accumulates in this house and never gets tidied or sorted.’ A plus-size lace camisole hangs on the frame of a bedroom door. A giant teddy sits on top of a box from whose torn corner there is a spillage of DVD cases, a hoover part, a canvas strap, and some kind of kitchen gadget not removed from its plastic packet.
Bronwen makes a silent face which says, I think, ‘I know what you’re thinking and I agree.’
Her room is the opposite of the house. Ordered and neat. The window slightly open and a smell of air freshener.
I sit on the bed, Bronwen on the only chair.
I say, ‘Is it OK coming here? If it was easier, I could come and see you at work.’
‘No, no, it’s OK. Here’s probably better.’
‘Mr Evans. A difficult boss, I imagine.’
She makes a curious gesture before she answers. A sideways bat of her hand, accompanied by a movement of the head. She says, ‘He’s a character, that’s true.’
‘Sexual harassment is an offence. You don’t have to report it, that’s your choice, but if you want to, you can call me. I’ll give you my direct line.’
‘Thank you. It’s OK. I’ve done four months. I just want to build my CV, then . . .’ She wants to dismiss the subject, but I do write out my direct line – the one leading in to Ifor’s dungeon – and my mobile number as well. Tear those out of my notebook and pass them over. ‘It is an offence. The law does protect you.’
Her lips say ‘thank you’, though her voice says nothing.
We sit without talking. Then, simultaneously, we speak.
She says, ‘Can I get you anything?’
I say, ‘And look, there’s something else.’
12
Penry arrives punctually at eight. He gives me a bunch of flowers. Roses, stock, gerbera, carnations. They look nice, and I say so.
He looks smart too, or smartish. Clean, ironed shirt. Jacket. I’ve a momentary worry that he thinks this is a date, even though there’s a good twenty years between us. I never know how these signalling things are meant to work. Whether I’ve been sending funny signals or not reading the ones he’s been sending me. But then he rescues me by mentioning a party he’s going to on Friday night. ‘Maybe get back in the game,’ he says, meaning, I think, that I’m not the game.
Which is good.
I give him beer and my ninety-per-cent not-awful chicken.
To start with we eat in the kitchen, but that feels strange, so I say we should go and eat in the living room, plates on our laps.
That’s better, but still not right. I try turning most of the lights off. Then sitting on the floor. Then playing music. Then not playing music.
Then realise that it’s the fakery which is bothering me, and I go and get my stash of photos for Penry to look at. Shots of Moon’s injuries mostly. But also that one of the daffodils on his grave. Some of Plas Du, and the impossible burglary.
Only when those things are strewn all over the floor do I feel relaxed.
I tell him about my crimes. The burglary at Plas Du. The security guard with a broken skull.
I want to talk about Moon’s long leap over the cliff top. About the sticklebacked rock that split his head open. But I don’t do that.
I want to tell him about the girl in the red coat, about the grave and the daffodils, but I don’t do that
Similar Books
