Harvest (4 page)

“
Well, at least you know
he came from good-looking stock, Grant was a looker. I just hope my
girls take after me and not my Brian,” Claire joked. Claire was the
only one who didn’t avoid talking about his dad as if he was some
dark secret. Claire cocked her head towards the twins’ room. “Don’t
you worry; I’ve got dibs on him for one of my girls. I see wedding
bells in the future. I’ve seen the way they look at him. They adore
him!” She laughed and his face burned more fiercely. He didn’t
think of the girls like that. He didn’t think of girl’s like that
full stop. Actually he did think of girls, but girls and the idea
of “going out with them” was a bit of a mystery to him. He could
feel Claire watching him fondly as he headed off down the hall to
the twins’ bedroom.

“
Yeah, but he will have
to choose between them; who will he pick?”

“
Oh, my God, that’s a
point. They argue about Barbie enough now. Could be Jason
next!”

“
Hope not, I’ve seen
their toys afterwards. They aren’t playing tug of war with my kid’s
arms!” Their laughter trailed out of clear earshot as he headed
into the girl’s bedroom.

Emily and Amy both looked up
from their play and greeted him enthusiastically. He was eleven –
four years older than Emily and Amy. He bothered to get on with the
girls more than other boys his age seemed to because Amy and Emily
accepted him and he valued that, so he happily joined in their
games, even if it meant helping dress dolls and playing “girly”
games. They also had a different games console to his, which was an
added attraction. Jason didn’t have many friends – none that he saw
out of school; it was one of the reasons he didn’t go out – as well
as being frightened that he might bump into those that picked on
him. David Renshaw and Mikey Kent, two boys from school, lived in
his block a few floors down from his home. They hadn’t hit him or
anything, just taunted him about his dad leaving, and anything else
they could think of. He chose to avoid them. It made things
easier.

He sat with Amy on the floor
and idly joined her in some drawing. He could hear Emily behind him
on the other side of the room talking firmly to herself or her
doll.

Emily’s voice was suddenly
harder and louder and in his ear. “Stop it!”. He yelped as she
thumped his back, more through surprise than pain.

“
What was that
for?”

“
You started it. You kept
calling my name!” She frowned moodily.

“
I didn’t call you, you
idiot.”

“
I’m not an idiot,” she
sulked.

“
He’s been helping me,”
Amy defended.

Jason laughed as he frowned at
Emily and shook his head dismissively. “Idiot!”

“
I’m not...” she mumbled.
She looked about her room at the piles of teddies and dolls.
“Someone called me...”

Chapter
Three

Albert Taylor marched
purposefully down the stairs. He didn’t like to take the lift when
he was in his undertaker’s uniform. It tended to make people think
the worst; that someone had died in the building. He also disliked
making pleasantries with people he knew or recognised. It wasn’t
becoming of a mourner, or indeed a chief undertaker. His very job
was to be discrete and create a solemn sense of
mourning
,
somethin
g he didn’t feel he could do while
talking about the weather with Mrs Jenson, the football results
with Bob Chanter or listening to Rose McCarthy’s
gossiping
,
or whatever with
whomever
else
he could encounter in the
lift. It just didn’t seem right.

Despite the fact he was on an
early call and was unlikely to meet anyone, he still descended the
ten floors by foot in his heavy black suit, well tailored to his
broad towering build. Despite his sixty-three years and the
exertion of descending six flights of stairs, he still walked with
a stiff back and a regimental even step. He saved his cheer and his
slouching for when he was at home with his wife Iris. Two years
more and he could retire and be with her, for against his solemn
dark look when working, he was a warm sensitive man with a deep
love of his wife and cosy home and distant children, and maintained
a jovial outlook on life. He could handle the descent and the
climb, but he was glad the storm of a couple of nights ago had
ended the heat wave; the stairs had been hot and airless. The crepe
wrap on his black top hat trailed softly and ghost-like in his
wake.

Slowly Albert’s pace lost
its rhythm. At first he ignored it. He was a stubborn man. He only
wanted to weaken and take his medication if it was necessary, not
just at any twinge. A belt of pain cinched his chest sharply and
forced the air from him. It took both his hands to steady himself
on the banister. His hat came lose and fell from his head, toppling
down the middle of the stairwell with the black crepe trailing and
flapping gently behind as it disappeared. He fumbled for his spray.
He heard his hat hit the ground with a hollow slap that sounded out
in an ever-decreasing echo. He was scared, scared that this attack
could be the one that the doctor had warned him about.
He didn’t want to die alone.
He
flipped the lid of the spray. He wasn’t going to go without his
Iris being there to be held. He gave two measured sprays under his
tongue and waited.
He thought of her warm plump body
in his arms.
Slowly the pain abated and his chest
muscles loosened. He rested on the step for ten minutes before
attempting to retrieve his hat.

He wouldn’t let his condition
beat him.

Albert reached the bottom but
had decided to abandon the regimented step and strolled casually
down, cursing as he realised his hat had missed the landing of the
lobby on the ground level and gone straight down into the basement
level. He descended the last flight of steps from the lobby area to
the locked basement door and crouched down steadily, scooping his
hat up. He brushed the dust from it and turned for the stairs, the
hat had landed flat on its top but didn’t seem to be damaged.

He was startled by the sudden
clunk-click noise of a chunky lock being turned.

From the corner of his
eye Albert saw the heavy metal door to the basement slowly opening.
He gulped his discomfort down, but the hairs on the nape of his
neck tingled and stood despite his attempted resolve. He turned to
the large half-open metal door.
The caretaker?
he reasoned, still unsure.
“Alec? Is that you?”
He moved towards the door, rationalising the situation with every
step.
Who – what else could it be!
He
laughed at himself as he went to open the door further.

The door ripped from his grip
and slammed against the wall. A blaze of green light burned from
within the doorframe. Albert’s brief scream reached the fifth floor
landing as his body was yanked into the basement and the door
crashed shut behind him with a deafening echo that rolled like
thunder.

Chapter
Four

Craig gathered his camera and
mobile phone before glancing at his reflection in the hallway
mirror and lazily tended his ruffled hair, leaving it between messy
and styled. Freshly shaven and with an air of CK In2U aftershave
around him he answered the door to Vicki.

“
Hiya, babe,” Vicki
greeted him cheerily. She looked him up and down, lingering on his
shirt and tie. “Hope you didn’t make that effort for me, sexy boy.”
She winked.

Didn’t she
find him attractive at all?
Craig had a realistic view
of his looks. He knew he wasn’t a stunner, but he knew what to wear
and brushed up reasonably well. He hadn’t had that much luck with
the girls to be cocky with them, but he had a good sense of humour
and if he felt relaxed he could really get a good rapport going.
With Vicki their whole time working together had been a
rollercoaster of playfulness, and at times it was like there really
could be potential, yet as soon as he thought seriously about his
prospects she suddenly seemed out of reach. He straightened his
tie. “You’re a bit up yourself! I’m trying to look presentable for
the interview.
Professional,
understand
?”
he explained,
making a show of eying her casual clothes.

He found himself rewarded
with a smile that broke across her fresh smooth face. “Oooh, excuse
me, ‘Mr Professional’. I just decided to go for the tight jeans and
slack jumper.” She did a twirl to model her vintage jeans and faded
rainbow-striped jumper. “It’s my respectful look, my sympathetic
look, my persistent look.” She put a pen to her lower lip and
beetled her brow as she acted out a mime of intense thought. “And
my suspicious-determined-reporter
look: it suits all
occasions.” She stopped and beamed again, flicking a stray clump of
crimped blonde from her eye.

He smiled appreciatively.
She neglected to mention the sexy-arse-in-those-jeans
look. “Yeah, well. Just leave the persistent and
suspicious-determined-reporter look here, okay?”

She held her hands up in mock
surrender. “Tact is my middle name.”

Craig closed his door. “That’s
funny, I thought it was ‘shit stirrer’.”

“
Ha-ha,” she returned
flatly. She clutched her chest theatrically. “You have wounded this
poor journalist.”

“
I’m so
sorry, I didn’t realise you had feelings under that hard
exterior.”
He laughed.

“
That’s it. Mock me.
Don’t know why I bother calling you...”

“
Yeah, well, you didn’t
have much choice. It would be well harsh using some other
photographer for a job two floors away from me,” he joked as they
headed to the lift.

“
As if
I would. You’re, my only photo boy: you’re
my
bitch.”

Craig was drawn into her
playfulness. It was these times that bemused him. “Yeah, just don’t
you forget it!”

The doors squealed shut behind
them and the lift jerked into life shuddering up to the next floor.
Craig watched Vicki stand close to the doors, aware of her
claustrophobia. As the lift slowed to a stop Vicki bobbed on her
toes impatiently and jumped into the safety of the corridor before
the doors had fully parted.

She quickly found her
confidence again and nodded down to his side. “Is that semen you
got in your hand?” She smirked.

He looked down to the
mobile phone she referred to and laughed. “
Siemens
,” he corrected. “Yes it is. I told you I
was getting this phone.”

“
And I told you I was
going to wind you up about it, so we are even. A word that is an
‘i’ away from being a reproductive fluid is a dodgy product
name.”

“
Yeah?
All this coming from the girl whose initials are
VD.
”

Vicki looked genuinely
shocked.
“Bitch!”

They reached the door to the
Chambers’ flat and Craig quickly pocketed his phone.

She prodded the doorbell.
“You’ll get brain cancer putting it down there.”

Craig cocked his head near to
Vicki’s ear while they both stood facing the door, waiting for it
to be answered. “Ha-ha. Don’t – my balls are like plums as it is.
Haven’t had it for ages.” Years actually. He wasn’t into one night
stands. He blushed at his own laddish posturing, he wasn’t like
that but he hoped she didn’t know just how unlucky he had been.

“
Ooh, big boy!” She
smirked.

“
Enough for a handful.”
He winked playfully, riding the yearning tension within him. He
arched an eyebrow tauntingly. “Want to test my theory?”

“
If that’s a pass, it’s
original.” She jumped back in before he could answer. “Anyway. I’m
every man’s dream.” She looked to him. “Small hands.” She held them
up and waved them in his frowning face. “Makes everything I hold
look bigger.”

Before Craig could pursue their
verbal foreplay the door was opened by a woman who appeared frail
for her probable thirty-odd years. Her bobbed brown hair was untidy
as if she had been asleep moments before their arrival. Her pink
cardigan sagged from her frame, like flesh that had been left
behind from a severe loss of weight, her white tee-shirt appeared
creased and lived in, tucked into her jeans to neaten her
appearance. Her eyes were young, but they stared out from lids
puffy from crying and a face gaunt and exhausted, a face that was a
mask that added years to her. It was hard to believe she was the
same woman he had photographed at the press conference.

“
Mrs Chambers.” Vicki
greeted. “Hello, again. It’s Vicki Day, we have been talking on the
phone. This is my photographer, Craig Digby. You called us the
other day?” Vicki’s voice was pleasant but professional.

“
Oh,” the woman exclaimed
as if it had slipped from her memory. “Please, come in. I keep
losing track of the days.” She let Craig and Vicki pass her and
then gave a cursory look of suspicion into the corridor before
shutting the door and joining them in the hall. She asked them to
call her Claire.

Craig looked about the hallway;
it opened into the kitchen on the left with the lounge ahead of
them. To the right the hall travelled down further to the second
bedroom and was capped with a bathroom door. The master bedroom was
off the lounge. It was tidy but the curtains were still drawn on
the large windows of the lounge leaving the room in a gloomy
yellowish haze and giving the flat a cramped stifled atmosphere. It
took him back to the oppressive days of the heat wave several weeks
earlier.