Echo

*18*

I reckon you and Mike take me for a mug," said Terry, opening another can of lager and sprawling on the sofa again. "I don't swallow this bullshit about you wanting to know what Amanda looked like. I've seen the way you watch Mike, and I've seen the way he watches you, and my guess is you're panting for him to do some uphill gardening, and he don't fancy the idea."

Barry wouldn't look at him. "I don't understand what you're talking about," he said.

'Sure you do. You're a faggot, Barry. So what were you fer when you went round Amanda's? And what did the old Bill nick you for?" He put a cigarette between his lips rolled it from side to side with the tip of his tongue. ."Know what I think? I think you got well worked up having a drink with me and Mike, and then went out to do some damage to the competition. I bet it really sticks in your gullet that he fancies Amanda more than he fancies you. Am I right or am I right?''

Barry reached forward to switch up the volume on the television. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.

"Stands to reason. You might hear something you don't want to hear, like Mike ain't so unavailable as he's making out." His lips thinned to a cruel line as he lit his cigarette. "He's pretty fucking keen on me, that's for sure."

Barry didn't say anything.

"How about you, then? You keen on me, too, are you? You were getting mighty close last night when we were going through them photos." He propped himself on one elbow and drank noisy mouthfuls of lager.

"You shouldn't be talking like this."

"Why not?" said the boy with a sneer. "It makes you excited, doesn't it?"

Barry doubted anything would excite him again. Fear was the only emotion he understood now. He should have trusted his first impression that Terry was a shaven-headed thug, then he could have saved himself this terrible disappointment. He took off his glasses and stared blindly at the screen. "If I were a different kind of man-a braver one," he said after a moment, "I'd stand up to you. Not for me, but for Mike. It doesn't matter what you say about me, I've had people talk about me behind my back all my life, but Mike deserves better. The sad thing is, he thinks you're a decent lad." He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if trying to hold back tears. "But he couldn't be more wrong, could he?"

"Yeah, well, it ain't your place to lecture me about decency, being as how you most likely got arrested for indecency."

"Did you abuse Billy's friendship the way you're abusing Mike's?"

"If I knew what it meant, I might be able to tell you."

"Yes, I forgot. You're ignorant as well as despicable."

Terry grinned. "You want to be careful what you say to me, Barry. I ain't scared of no queer." He blew a stream of smoke disdainfully in Barry's direction.

"Don't do that," said the fat little man in a stifled voice. "I suffer from asthma."

"Jesus wept. If you weren't such a girl, you'd've hit me. Ain't you got no bottle at all?"

He was quite unprepared for the speed with which Barry launched himself at his throat, and equally unprepared for the little man's deceptive weight and strength. As his lungs started to struggle under the combined constriction of his throat and Barry's solid knee in the center of his chest, he realized he'd tried the rape scam on the wrong person. He looked despairingly into Barry's unseeing eyes and saw only madness.

"Where's Terry?" asked Deacon as he let himself back into the flat.

"In his room."

"Asleep?"

"Probably. He's been in there half an hour. Can I get you something, Mike? Coffee? A drink?"

Deacon looked around the room, noticed Terry's abandoned cigarettes on the floor and the stain on the carpet where his lager had fallen over. "What's been going on?"

Barry followed his gaze. "I'm sorry about that. He knocked the can over accidentally. He's tired, Mike. Don't forget he's only fourteen."

"Did he try something?"

"I'd rather you asked him."

"Okay. How about a coffee? I'll check on him while you're making it." He watched the other man go into the kitchen, then went down the side corridor and tapped lightly on the spare bedroom door.

"If that's you, you murdering bastard," said Terry's suspicious voice from the other side, "you can bog off. I ain't coming out till Mike gets back."

"It is Mike."

"Jesus," said the boy, pulling the door wide, "am I pleased to see you. Barry's round the fucking twist. He tried to kill me." He pointed to his throat. "Look at that. Fucking fingerprints."

"Nasty," said Deacon, looking at the red marks on the boy's neck. "Why did he do it?"

"Because he's a nutter, that's why." Terry poked his head nervously round the doorjamb. "By rights I should have the law on him. He's well dangerous, he is."

"What's stopping you?" Deacon's eyes narrowed. "You weren't so backward when Denning went mad."

"That were different."

"Meaning Denning didn't have a reason to attack Walt, but Barry had a damn good reason for attacking you? You're a fool, Terry. I warned you to behave while I was out. Frankly, if you're not prepared to treat Barry with respect, then you'd better leave now."

"How do you know it weren't him started it?"

"It's the law of the jungle. Rabbits never attack weasels unless they're cornered. Plus, you're still alive, which you wouldn't be if Barry was a nutter." He started to walk away. "You've got two choices, sunshine," he said over his shoulder. "Apologize or go."

"I ain't apologizing to no pervert. It's him tried to kill me."

Deacon turned round. "You didn't learn a damn thing from Billy, did you?" he said wearily. "He put his hand in the fire to teach you the dangers of uncontrollable anger, be it yours or anyone else's, but you were too stupid to understand the message. I think I'm wasting my time with you. just as he did. You'd better start packing."

It was a subdued Terry who joined them in the kitchen ten minutes later. There was a revealing redness about his eyes, and his walk was less cocky than usual. Deacon, who was reworking his chart, glanced up briefly, expression neutral, then returned to what he was doing. Terry thrust his bony hand at Barry. "Sorry, mate," he said. "I were well out of order. No hard feelings, eh?''

Barry, who had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence while Deacon ignored him, took the hand in surprise. "I think-" he looked at the marks on Terry's neck-"well, it's I who should apologize."

"Nah. Mike's right. It were me pushed you into it. You're braver than you think. You said you'd stand up, and you did. It were my fault."

Barry looked as if he was about to agree with him until he caught Deacon's gaze on him and changed his mind. The only thing Deacon had said to him since he'd returned to the kitchen was: "I don't care what he said to you, Barry, if you ever lift a hand against a child again, I'll take you apart at the seams."

Now Deacon pointed to an empty chair as he pushed the chart to one side. "Sit down," he invited, listening to the distant sound of bells ringing out for midnight mass. "Perhaps we should have gone to church," he said, nodding towards the window. "We always used to go to midnight mass when I was a child and it's the only time I can remember us functioning as a normal family."

Terry, accepting this for what it was-a truce-perked up again. "Did you go the night your dad shot himself?"

Deacon smiled slightly at Barry's horrified expression, but the horror was for Terry's insensitivity, he thought, and not his father's messy death. "No. If we had, he wouldn't have done it. We stopped going to church when he and Ma stopped talking."

"Billy said the family that prays together stays together."

Deacon didn't reply because he didn't want to disillusion the boy. He often thought it was the accruing disappointment of the thousand prayers that went unanswered that had led his family to disintegrate. Please God, let Pa be nice to my friends ... Please God, let Pa be ill so that he won't come to sports day ... Please God, let Pa die...

"My father was an atheist," said Barry apologetically, as if he, too, didn't want to disillusion the boy.

"What happened to him?" asked Terry.

"He died of a heart attack when I was ten." Barry sighed. "It was very sad. My mother changed afterwards. She used to be such a happy person, but now-well-the trouble is I look so like my father-she resents that, I think."

The conversation lapsed and they listened in silence to the pealing bells. Deacon regretted stirring memories, however good the cause. In twenty years he had not rid himself of the terrible sight of his father's blood-spattered study and the shapeless huddle that had once been Francis. Suicide, he thought, was the least forgivable of deaths because there was no time to prepare for the shock of bereavement. Whatever grief he had felt had been subsumed in disgust as he had wiped his father's blood and brains off walls, paintings, shelves, and books. It led him to think of that other suicide. "I wonder why Verity hanged herself," he murmured.

"I don't reckon she did," said Terry. "I reckon it were Billy killed her." He gripped the air as he had done beside the brazier the first time Deacon had met him. "That'd be more than enough to send him off his rocker."

Deacon shook his head. "That's the first thing the police would have looked at. The evidence of suicide must have been very convincing to persuade them otherwise."

"Surely Anne Cattrell's right," said Barry. "If Verity found out by accident that she'd married her husband's murderer, wouldn't that be reason enough to kill herself?"

"I don't see why. She hated Geoffrey." Deacon tapped his pencil against his teeth. "According to Roger Hyde's book, her son thought she was having an affair." He circled Verity's name and drew a line down to James Streeter. "How about that? Think how alike James and Peter were. She'd have been attracted to James on looks alone. It's one explanation for Billy's interest in Amanda's address."

"Meaning he was after revenge?" queried Terry doubtfully. "I don't see that, Mike. First off, he'd be taking revenge on the wrong person, and second off, the dish wouldn't just be cold, it'd be fucking freezing."

Deacon chuckled. He would never tell the boy how much he admired the guts he'd just shown in that handshake with Barry, but it didn't mean the admiration wasn't there. Shades of his relationship with his mother? In the end, perhaps love was stronger for being disguised. Clara had never ceased declaring her love right up until the day she left him. "All right, hotshot, give me a better idea."

"I ain't got one. I just reckon it's all to do with fate. See, Amanda could've talked to any old journalist, but she picked the one who'd get hung up on it enough to keep going. You said yourself you and Billy are linked by fate."

"She didn't pick me," said Deacon. "I picked her, or more accurately my editor picked her and sent me off against my will to interview her. Depending on what she was expecting to achieve, she was either lucky or unlucky that events in Billy's life have faint echoes in mine."

But Terry was not to be dissuaded. "And then there's me. I weren't never going to phone you about Billy, but then I had to because of Walt. And if Mr. Harrison hadn't recognized Tom, I wouldn't have been worried about him dropping me in it, and if you hadn't met old Lawrence and persuaded him to come and hold our hands, then he wouldn't've stuck his nose in about good parenting-" he paused for breath-"and I wouldn't be here now. Plus, Barry wouldn't've got pissed and taken himself off to gawp at Amanda and none of us would know that Nigel was still shafting her. That's fate, that is," he finished triumphantly. "Ain't that right, Barry?"

Barry ducked his head to take off his glasses. He was so tired after the emotional buffeting of the last twenty-four hours that he was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation. "I suppose it depends on whether you think, as my father did, that everything happens accidentally," he said slowly. "He believed there was no purpose to life beyond the furtherance of the species, and that you could either suffer your pointless existence or enjoy it. But to enjoy it you had to plan ahead in order to minimize the threat of unpleasant accidents." He smiled ruefully. "Then he died of a heart attack."

"Do you agree with him?" asked Deacon curiously.

"Oh, no, I agree with Terry. I think fate plays a part in our destinies." He replaced his spectacles and sheltered nervously behind them like an inexperienced knight preparing for battle. "I can't help feeling that it doesn't really matter why Verity hanged herself, or not as far as Amanda Powell is concerned anyway." He put a fat finger on Deacon's chart where it said: "Where was Billy in April 1990?" "This is Billy Blake's fate, not Peter Fenton's. Peter Fenton died in nineteen eighty-eight."

Far away, the bells fell silent as Christmas Day began.

Such strange dreams inhabited Deacon's mind that night. He put them down to the fact that he opted for the sofa in order to have Barry and Terry securely shut in bedrooms with himself as a physical barrier between them. But he sometimes thought afterwards that it was too easy to say it was a bad night, coupled with subconscious fears of homosexual rape scams and memories of his father, that led him to dream about James Streeter covered in blood.

He started out of sleep in a thrashing frenzy at four o'clock in the morning with his mind full of the knowledge that he was James and that he had woken seconds before the final crushing blow that was going to kill him. His face was awash with sweat-blood?-and his heartbeat hammered in the silence of the night. And when the heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet ... Was this a dream? My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt ... Who am I? Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews...

It soon became clear that the old adage "too many cooks spoil the broth" was a true one. Barry began patiently enough but, faced with Deacon's and Terry's natural incompetence in the kitchen, he progressed rapidly through irritation to outright tyranny. "My mother would have your head for this," he remarked acidly, pushing Deacon away from a bowl of saturated stuffing and transferring it to the sink.

"How am I supposed to get it right if I don't have a measuring jug?" asked Deacon sulkily.

"You use your intelligence and add the water a little more slowly," said Barry, pressing the soggy mess into a sieve and squeezing out the excess liquid. "It may come as a surprise to you, Mike, but you're not supposed to pour the stuffing into the turkey, you're supposed to stuff it in. That's why it's called stuffing. If you poured it in it would be called pouring."

"All right, all right, I get the message. I'm not a complete idiot."

"I told you he couldn't cook," said Terry self-righteously.

Barry turned his indignation on the boy and lifted a tiny sprout from the meager pile on the draining board. "What's this?" he demanded.

"A sprout."

"Correction. It was a sprout. Now it's a pea. When I said take off the outer leaves, I meant one layer, not two centimeters' worth. We're supposed to be eating these, not swallowing them with a glass of water."

"You need a drink," said Deacon's shaven-headed incubus prosaically. "You aren't half ratty when you're sober."

"A drink?" Barry squeaked, stamping his little feet. "It's nine o'clock in the morning and we haven't even got the turkey in yet." He pointed a dramatic finger at the kitchen door. "Out of here, both of you," he ordered, "or you can forget lunch."

Deacon shook his head. "We can't do that. I've invited Lawrence Greenhill over. He'll be very disappointed if there's nothing to eat." He watched fury rise like a red tide in Barry's face and flapped his hands placatingly as he backed towards the kitchen door. "Don't panic. He's a great guy. You'll like him. I'm sure he won't mind waiting if the meal isn't ready on the dot of one o'clock. Look, here's an idea," he said, as if he was the one who had thought of it. "Why don't Terry and I make ourselves scarce so that you can get on with things? We'll be back at midday to lay the table."

"That's good," said Terry, raising two thumbs in salute, "Cheers, Barry. Just make sure you do loads of roast potatoes. They're my favorite, they are."

Deacon caught him by the collar and hoicked him through the door before their chef vanished in a puff of spontaneously combusted smoke.

"Where are we going?" asked Terry as they climbed into the car. "We've got three hours to kill."

"Let's muddy some waters first." Deacon reached for his mobile and dialed Directory Assistance. "Yes, the number of N. de Vriess, please, Halcombe House, near Andover. Thank you." He took a pen from his inner pocket and wrote the number on his shirt cuff before switching off the telephone.

"What are you going to do?"

"Phone him and ask him what he was doing at Amanda Powell's house on Saturday night."

"Supposing his wife answers?"

"The conversation will be even more interesting."

"You're cruel, you are. It's Christmas Day."

Deacon chuckled. "I shouldn't think anyone will answer. It'll be his secretary's number. Guys like de Vriess don't make their private numbers public." He squinted at his cuff as he punched the digits. "In any case I'll hang up if Fiona answers," he promised, putting the phone to his ear. "Hello?" He sounded surprised. "Am I speaking to Nigel de Vriess? ... Is he there? ... He's away? Yes, it is important. I've been trying to contact him on a business matter since Friday ... My name's Michael Deacon ... No, I'm phoning from a mobile ..." A long pause. "Would it be possible to speak to his wife? ... Can you give me a number where I can find Nigel?... Then perhaps you can give me an idea of when he'll be back? ... My home number? Yes, I should be there from midday onwards. Thank you." He gave his telephone number at the flat, then disconnected and frowned thoughtfully at Terry. "Nigel's gone away for a few days and his wife is too unwell to speak to anyone."

"Jesus, what a bastard! I bet'cha he's ditched the poor cow for Amanda."

Deacon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Except I'd put every cent I've got on that being a policeman who answered the phone, and you don't call in the police just because your notorious husband is shagging another woman."

"What makes you think he was old Bill?"

"Because he was too damned efficient. He cut me off after I gave my name in order to see if it meant anything to whoever was in the room with him."

"Could of been a butler. You're likely to have a butler if you live in a mansion."

Deacon fired the engine. "Butlers speak first," he said, "but there was silence on that line till I asked for Nigel de Vriess." He drew out into the road. "You don't think he's done a bunk, do you?"

"Like James?''

"Yes."

"Why'd he want to do that?"

"Because Amanda warned him that Barry saw him in her house and he's decided to run."

"Then why hasn't she gone, too?"

Deacon recalled the suitcase that he'd seen in her hall. "Maybe she has," he said rather grimly. "That's what we're going to find out."

They drove into the Thamesbank Estate and parked across the road from Amanda's house. It had a deserted look about it. The curtains were open, but, despite the greyness of the morning, there were no lights inside and the car was gone from in front of her garage.

"She could be at church," said Terry without conviction.

"You stay here," Deacon said. "I'm going to have a look through her sitting-room windows."

"Yeah, well, just don't forget what happened to Barry when he did that,'' said the boy morosely. "If the neighbors see you, we'll be carted off to the flaming nick to answer more bloody questions, and I ain't going without my lunch two days in a row."

"I won't be long." True to his word he was back in five minutes. "No sign of her," he said, easing in behind the wheel and fishing out his cigarettes. "So what the hell do I do about it?"

"Nothing," said Terry firmly. "Let the old Bill work it out for themselves. I mean you're gonna look a right plonker if you go steaming in with stories about Nigel and Amanda scarpering when all that's happened is they've holed up in a hotel somewhere to hump each other. You've got a real thing about her, except I can't decide whether you fancy her something rotten or think she's a hard-nosed bitch. On balance, I reckon you fancy her because you sure as hell don't like the fact she's still fucking Nigel." He cast a mischievous glance at Deacon's profile. "You look like you're sucking lemons every time the subject comes up."

Deacon ignored this. "All these houses are identical and hers is the tenth. Why did Billy choose hers?"

"Because the garage door was open."

"Number eight's open now."

"So what? It weren't open when Billy came here."

Deacon looked at him. "How do you know?"

There was a momentary pause before Terry answered. "I'm guessing. Look, are you planning to sit here all day. or what? Barry ain't gonna like it one little bit if Lawrence turns up and we ain't back."

Despite Terry's protests, Deacon dropped in at the police station to request Sergeant Harrison's home telephone number. Sir was joking, of course. Did he think private numbers were given out to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asked for them? Had he forgotten that it was Christmas Day and that policemen, like ordinary mortals, welcomed the peace and quiet of the precious little time they spent with their families? Deacon persisted, and finally compromised on the officer's promise to phone Harrison "at a reasonable time" to relay the message that Michael Deacon needed to talk to him on a matter of urgency regarding Amanda Streeter and Nigel de Vriess.

"It's ten-thirty," said Deacon, tapping his watch. "Why isn't this a reasonable time?"

"Some people go to church on Our Lord's birthday" was the sharp response.

"But most people don't," murmured Deacon.

"More's the pity. A God-fearing society has fewer criminals."

"And so many whited sepulchres that you can't believe a word anybody says."

"Do you want me to make this phone call, sir?"

"Yes, please," said Deacon meekly.

When they were within a mile of the flat, Deacon drew the car into a curb and killed the engine. "You've been lying to me," he said pleasantly. "Now I'd like the truth."

Terry was deeply offended. "I ain't lied to you."

"I'll hand you back to social services if you don't start talking pretty damn quick."

"That's blackmail, that is."

"Exactly."

"I thought you liked me."

"I do."

"Well, then."

"Well, then, what?" asked Deacon patiently.

"I want to stay with you."

"I can't live with a liar."

"Yeah, but if I told the truth, would you let me stay?"

It was a strange little echo of what Barry had said yesterday ... "Will they let me go if I tell the truth?" ... But what was truth? ... Verity?... "You mean, heads you win, tails I lose."

"I don't get you."

"Presumably you've spent the last three days trying to weasel your way in by not telling me the truth." Deacon toyed with the idea of revisiting Terry's behavior of last night, but thought better of it. He knew from his own experience that postmortems were bitter affairs which achieved little beyond continuing warfare.

"I reckoned you needed time to get to know me. It took Billy a couple of months before he realized I was the next best thing to sliced bread. Anyway, you can't kick me out. Not yet. I ain't learnt to read, and I want to earn that money you promised to pay me."

"You've already cost me a fortune."

"Yeah, but you're rich. Your ma's house alone has gotta be worth a bob or two, so you can easily afford another mouth to feed."

"I told her to sell it."

"She won't, though. She's well gutted about tearing up your dad's will and giving your fortune away to your sister. When the time comes-which is the few months she's given herself-she'll fade away. She's made up her mind to it. and there ain't nothing you can do to stop it unless you make it worth her while to stick around a bit longer."

"And how do I do that?"

A sort of ancient wisdom glimmered in the boy's pale eyes. "Billy said it's curiosity that keeps people alive, being as how we all want to know what happens next. And them that kill themselves or lie down and die before they need to reckon there's nothing left to be curious about." He spoke seriously. "You and your ma ain't got nothing to talk about except the stuff that made you angry enough to walk out on her, so you've got to give her something else to think about. Like me. She'd be well excited if you told her you was gonna keep me. She'd be on the phone all the time sticking her nose into our business."

"That's enough to put me off the idea for good."

"Except if you don't give her a reason to talk to you, then another five years'll go by. And you don't want that any more than she does."

"Are you sure you're only fourteen?" Deacon asked suspiciously. "You talk like a forty-year-old sometimes."

Terry looked injured. "I'm mature. Anyway, I'm nearer fifteen than fourteen."

"Social services won't allow you to stay with me," said Deacon, handing him a cigarette. "If I expressed even mild interest in taking care of you they'd label me a pedophile. It's dangerous these days for men to like anyone under the age of sixteen." He held a match to the tip. "Also, I'm responsible. I shouldn't let you smoke these damn things for a start."

"Give over. I didn't get none of this grief from Billy. He just took me on board like I was his long lost kid. I ain't asking you to adopt me, and chances are I'll be off out of it in a couple of months. Look, I just want to stay for a while longer, learn to read, meet Mrs. D again. It's a free country and if you ain't doing nothing wrong, 'cept giving a homeless bloke a bed, why should the bastards at social services interfere?"

"Because that's what they're paid for," said Deacon cynically, staring through the windshield. "How much is it going to cost me to keep a six-foot-tall teenager in food, clothes, beer, and cigarettes for weeks on end?"

"I'll go begging. That'll help out."

"No way. I'm not having a beggar in my flat or an illiterate with an impoverished vocabulary. You need educating." Don't say it, Deacon... "You're going to bankrupt me, probably land me in prison, and at the end of it all you'll rugger off leaving me to wonder what the hell came over me."

"I ain't like that. I stood by Billy, didn't I? And he weren't half as easy to like as you are."

Deacon glanced at him. "If you put one foot out of line and drop me in it with social services or the police, I'll come after you with an axe the minute I'm out of prison. Is that a deal?'' He held out his hand, palm up.

Terry gripped it excitedly. "It's a deal. Now can I phone Mrs. D and wish her Happy Christmas?" He reached for the mobile. "What's her number?"

Deacon gave it to him. "You really like her, don't you?" he said curiously.

"She's an older version of you," said Terry matter-of-factly, "and I ain't never met two people who treated me straight off with respect. Even old Hugh was okay, so maybe you're none of you as bad as you like to make out. Have you ever thought of that?"