Dead Statues (19 page)

Thaddeus smiled and said, "Why? Have you got yourself a better offer?" He laughed softly into the evening but not mockingly.

"Look, why don’t you fuck-off? I said I ain't interested, didn’t I?” she snapped at him.

She had her back to him, but he could sense the fear in her voice. Thaddeus felt ashamed; he hadn't meant to scare her. So he spoke to her again, but this time soothingly, his voice like a song against the steady hiss of traffic.

"Look, I'm sorry if I have upset you, no harm was meant. I would just like to pay you for the privilege of your company for the next few hours."

The young girl listened to the sound of his voice, rather than what he was saying. She was caught by it. For a moment she was entranced by the sound of it. After mere seconds, she pulled herself together and wheeled around to face him.

"How many ways have I got to tell you? I ain't gonna screw you, however posh you talk with all your fancy words!"

Thaddeus never broke his gaze, eyes locked onto hers as if they couldn’t, or wouldn't let go. He spoke softly to her again.

"I never said I wanted to bed you. Quite the opposite, in fact. All I want to do is buy you dinner and talk.” Then showing her the palms of his hands, as if to prove she had no reason to fear him, he smiled again and said, “Just talk."

She broke his stare for the second time that evening and rocked her head back, spilling laughter into the night. "Yeah, right! You want to buy me dinner. Now I really have heard it all. I've been given some bullshit in my time, but that...."

"Look, I am being straight with you,"

Thaddeus cut in, his voice was sincere as he held her gaze again. “I have no interest in having sex with you of any kind. I have no intention of harming you in any way. We can eat wherever you wish. I just want to talk to you."

The young girl felt the sincerity in his voice, and believed she saw it in those eyes of his . She felt drawn by them, could feel herself soften and weaken. The thought of a good meal sent her stomach into hungry convulsions. She spoke to him, this time calmer.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Knowing he had her, he took her gently by the arm and led her up to the Strand. "You eat first,” he said, “then I talk."

As they moved off, a very odd-looking couple but completely unnoticed in London, she thought whatever it was he wanted to talk about, she could listen to his voice all night long.

Fifteen minutes later, Thaddeus Blake was sitting opposite the young girl in a pizza parlour. He watched with some amusement as she forked large helpings of pasta into her hungry mouth. She washed every forkful down with a gulp of milk, leaving a white fringe across her upper lip. Thaddeus looked on with fascination as he smoked and drank a large mugful of sweet black coffee. Both the bitter scent of the coffee beans and the tobacco smoke, which lingered around his fingers, masked the stench that wafted across the table from the girl. As he pitched his cigarette out into the ashtray, she spoke to him through a mouthful of food.

"You said you wanted to talk. Go on then." She knocked her fringe from her eyes, and Thaddeus noticed two things that pleased him.

Although her hair was matted with dirt and grime, he could see that if it was washed, it would blaze a bright copper. What pleased him more than anything, were her eyes. Thaddeus knew that with some rest and healthy living, they would shine a beautiful green. Her lips were pale, seemingly bloodless, but with a strong cupid’s bow.

"How old are you?" he questioned her.

She replied quickly without looking up from the plate of food. "Twenty-one."

"Truthfully, please," he asked again.

This time she did look up at him and met his gaze. "Eighteen."

Thaddeus nodded and spoke again, "Friends or family?"

She took another swig of the milk, swallowed hard, and then said, "Are you taking the piss?”

“Sorry,” Thaddeus said, regretting his naive line of questioning.

“I’ve been in care for as long as I can remember,” she said. “It wasn’t so great. So I did a bunk when I was fourteen and came to London.

Been here pretty much ever since.”

“Drugs?” Thaddeus asked.

“No thanks,” she said, forking more of the pasta into her mouth.

“I wasn’t offering them to you,” he shot back. “Do you take them?”

“I’ve done a lot of stuff I’m not necessarily proud of,” she said, staring at him across the table, “but I’ve never done no drugs.”

Then leaning across the table, Thaddeus gripped hold of her left wrist and forced back the sleeve of her shabby sweater to the crook of her elbow.

“Hey!” she barked, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Thaddeus looked at her pale arm. The skin was milky-white and unblemished. “I’m sorry,” he said, and released her arm.

“No drugs, and no sex,” she whispered, and pulled down her sleeve. Then fixing him with an angry stare, she added, “I know your type. You think that everyone who is homeless is a drug-taking whore.”

“I’m sorry,” Thaddeus said, and an uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

Thaddeus lit another cigarette as he watched the girl. When he had smoked it down almost to his knuckle, he said, “What's your name?"

"Winter McCall,” she said, forking the last of the pasta into her mouth.

“Winter? Is that some kind of street name?” he asked her, feeling slightly amused.

She saw the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and said, “No, it’s my real name.

Apparently I was born during the middle of the worst snowstorm in years. The snow was so deep that the ambulance got stuck before reaching the hospital. I was born in the back of the ambulance, so my mum called me Winter. Most people just call me Winnie.”

“What do you prefer?” Thaddeus asked her.

“I don’t care much,” she shrugged, staring out of the window, wondering how long it would be before she was forced out into the cold again.

Then, looking back at the stranger who had bought her dinner, Winnie said, “So what’s your story?

What’s your name?”

“My name is Thaddeus Blake, and I’d like you to work for me,” he said, then swilled down the rest of his coffee.

"Sorry, mister,” Winnie said, standing to leave. “I don’t need no pimp.”

Thaddeus moved with lightning grace and took hold of her hand before she could leave. "I didn't mean that. I wouldn't be so vulgar to offer you such a proposition. The work isn’t of that nature."

Winnie looked down into his eyes and saw the openness, that honesty she had seen before on the steps of the Embankment. He spoke again, his voice gentle as always, "Please stay a while and listen to what I have to say, and if when I am finished you still want to leave, then you won't get any more harassments from me."

He let go of her hand. Winnie stood between the chair and the table. She looked down at the stranger before her and felt confused. On one hand he seemed strong and slightly arrogant, but on the other hand, he seemed gentle and a little naive. He implored her once more, his voice barely a whisper.

"Please trust me. Stay a little longer. You can go at any time. I am true to my word.”

Those last two words Winnie had heard so many times before in her life, and too often they had meant very little. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Winnie found herself taking her seat once more on the opposite side of the table. Somehow, she felt strangely in control of the situation. She sensed a certain desperateness about Thaddeus Blake which he fought to keep hidden beneath his cool exterior.

"Okay, I'm listening,” she said, “but any funny stuff, and I'm gone, mister.”

"Please, call me Thaddeus,” he smiled warmly.

Winnie eyed him cautiously and said, “So what kind of job are you offering?"

Thaddeus drew a silver flip case from his breast pocket, opened it, and offered a cigarette to Winnie.

“It’s not a habit I can afford,” she said, waving the case away with her grubby hand.

Thaddeus put the case away after taking one for himself and lit it. Once settled, he spoke.

"I’d like you to come and work for me at my home in Cornwall. In the last year, I have purchased a big home there, which takes a great deal of looking after and care. All I'd ask of you is to keep it clean. Your other duties would be to prepare my meals and do my laundry."

Winnie watched him blow smoke out of his nostrils as she said, "Ever thought about getting yourself a wife, mister. Or a maid?"

"I’ve had both. My wife died almost a year ago of cancer, and the maid just didn't work out."

“A wife?” Winnie asked, unable to mask her surprise. “You must have married young. You can’t be any older than twenty-five.”

“We met as teenagers,” he said, turning as if to watch the people pass in the street outside.

“From the very first time I saw her, I loved her.”

Winnie watched his pale reflection in the window and said, “I’m sorry that you weren’t together longer. She must have died very young.”

“The time we spent together was very special - it felt like an eternity,” he whispered, looking back at Winnie.

Not knowing what to say next, and embarrassed by Thaddeus’s obvious sadness, Winnie said, “So why didn’t the whole maid thing work out?”

Thaddeus stubbed out his cigarette, which was only half-smoked, and laced his hands over each other on the table. "I have become somewhat of a recluse. I keep myself to myself. I tend to keep strange hours, mostly sleeping during the day and working through the night. It just got too much for my maid. She was old, and fetching my meals during the night and changing my linen became too much, and we parted company."

"Ever thought about changing your sleeping pattern?” Winnie asked dryly, eyeing him from beneath her matted fringe. “It might work wonders for your social life.”

“Let’s just say I prefer the moonlight,” he smiled wistfully. “Besides, after my wife's death, I had what you might call a breakdown. It wasn’t my mind which was broken - it was my heart. I shied away from people and the daylight, and all that it offered in its bright and harsh clarity. I prefer the nights. They are quieter and full of peace, with everybody away in bed. I can come and go as I please without being disturbed. The world seems mine then, and mine alone. As I have said, I work at night and I find the peace it gives me refreshing."

“What's your work?"

"I'm a writer; a poet in fact,” Thaddeus explained. “So as I'm sure you'll understand, I enjoy the solitude of the night. It sounds a little pretentious, I know, but I prefer to work that way.”

"Okay, mister, but...” Winnie started.

"Please, call me Thaddeus,” he reminded her with a smile.

"Okay, Thaddeus,” she said, “but what you’ve said doesn’t explain a great deal. Why choose me? I’m a beggar, living on the streets of London, without anything to offer. To be honest, I can barely read and write...”

Before she’d had a chance to finish talking herself out of the job offer, Thaddeus cut over her and said, “I've been in London over this last week visiting with my publishers, and each evening it has been my wish to walk along the river. Each night when I've reached the Embankment, there you have been, begging and being sneered at by strangers. Don't get me wrong; I'm not offering you pity or charity. If you do decide to come back to Cornwall with me, you'll be working hard for your keep. As I have already pointed out, I do have some strange habits, and perhaps a few requests from time to time that you might think a little odd, but let me assure you once again, I don’t want you for sex of any sort."

Winnie looked across the table at him and asked bluntly, “Are you gay?”

“No, I’m not gay,” Thaddeus said, with a smile. “As I have already explained, I’ve been married. I loved my wife very dearly and she will never be replaced."

Winnie watched him. She had become good at people watching during the many hours she had spent begging outside railway stations, and she couldn’t help but notice how his eyes grew almost black as he spoke of his wife. It was more than just sadness she could see in them; it was despair.

"How much will you be paying me?" she asked, changing the subject.

"You'll have your own private room. All food and any other extras will be paid for,”

Thaddeus explained. “You won’t have to pay any bills. I’ll give you two hundred pounds per week, to spend in whatever way you see fit, as long as you are there when I need you, and are willing to succumb to any other little request I might make of you.”

Winnie swallowed hard. Two hundred a week. Lately, she'd been lucky if she'd scrounged two pounds a week from begging. Money aside, she was still wary of Thaddeus Blake. She only knew what he had chosen to tell her about himself.

“Two hundred a week, huh?” she said, pulling the ends of her sleeves down over her dirty hands. “A big house in the country… I didn’t know anyone could make so much money from writing down a few fancy words that rhyme.”

Thaddeus laughed and said, “I wish my poems made me money, they only make a fraction of my income - just pocket money, really. No, my wealth has been inherited. Like I have explained, I am the last and have no one to share it with – unless, that is, if you take me up on my offer.”

Winnie looked back at him across the table and said nothing.

"What have you got to lose, Winnie?” he asked.

Again, she said nothing and just stared into his brown eyes.

“I have been honest with you,” he shrugged, as if now the whole thing was not so important after all. “It’s up to you. No pressure. I have kept to my side of the bargain. I bought you dinner and we talked."

Sensing that her opportunity of escaping London and the evils she had discovered there was may be slipping away, she whispered, "How can I be sure that I can trust you?"

Thaddeus looked Winnie squarely in the face and said, "You won’t know unless you come back to Cornwall with me.” Then pushing his chair back from the table, he added, “The hour is getting late. I’ll be leaving tomorrow evening at seven from Paddington Railway Station. If you wish to take up my offer, meet me on the concourse and we shall leave together. If you chose not to meet me, I shall go back to my home and forget this meeting, and you."