Heartman: A Missing Girl, A Broken Man, A Race Against Time (16 page)

“Yeah that’s right . . . The dog collar t’rew me fo’ a moment.”

“Oh, you’re not the first, my good man, happens all the time. People see the thing strapped to my neck and immediately become intimidated, I’m sure they think it gives me special powers over them or some other silly bloody mumbo jumbo . . . Now let’s get you out of that wet coat and I’ll take a look at what’s going on with that arm of yours. Come on through into the kitchen and sit yourself down.”

I followed the Reverend Southerington into his small kitchen, pulled off my drenched overcoat and jacket, dropped them on the floor, then sank down onto the wooden dining chair he’d pulled out in front of me and unbuttoned the cuff on my shirt. I rolled up the sleeve, revealing a nasty pair of puncture wounds from the dog’s bite that were still oozing out a steady flow of blood from them.

“Been playing ball with a dog have you, Joseph . . . and quite a big one from the looks of that bite?”

“Oh yeah . . . It was sizable, that’s fo’ sure.”

The reverend leaned to open a drawer by the side of him and pulled out a clean tea towel, then knelt down in front of me and placed it over my arm, applying pressure and making me wince in pain as he gently squeezed to stem the flow of blood.

“Only dog I know round about here that could inflict that kind if damage is back up on the Blanchard estate. It’s kept up there for a reason and that’s generally to keep people out . . . especially in the wee small hours.”

“I wouldn’t know where it came from. Damn ting jumped out at me back up the lane as I was taking a pee in the hedgerow,” I lied.

“Taking a pee, you say, then it’s a bloody good job it was only your arm he bit, don’t you think?”

The old vicar looked into my eyes, hoping for a reaction, then, seeing none, laughed again to himself at his witty remark to me.

“Here, put your hand over this cloth and hold it up while I go and get something to clean and bandage that arm with.”

I did as I was told and watched him walk out of the kitchen and open a cupboard door by the entrance to the kitchen and listened to him mumbling to himself as he rummaged around inside. The kitchen was plain, clean and homely with a wood-burning fire that was kicking out a fair amount of heat. He returned carrying in his hands a tin box rusting at its edges with Camp Coffee printed on its sides and lid. He placed it on the kitchen table, then went over to a Welsh dresser that stood on the back wall and opened the small right-hand hatch door and reached inside, pulling out a large bottle of Bell’s whisky.

“We’ll have a nip of this in a minute.”

He unscrewed the cap, placed it onto the kitchen table next to the tin box, then knelt down next to me again, lifted the cloth from my arm and poured the Scotch over it.

“Son of a bitch . . . !”

“Smarts a little, doesn’t it?” The reverend winked at me as he put the bottle back onto the table and lifted the tin box onto the floor, opening it to reveal neatly wrapped white bandages and other medical supplies.

“Smarts . . . Shit, that’s one word fo’ it.” I grimaced more from the fact that I had sworn in front of a man of the cloth than the stinging pain in my arm caused by the alcohol.

“Best thing to clear out infection, especially a dirty dog bite. Now let’s have a closer look.”

The old man took a swab of lint dressing, reached for the bottle and soaked it in Scotch, and dabbed in around the puncture holes.

“You’re a lucky chappie, these bites have just punctured the flesh. Dog like the one the Blanchard estate owns would have done its best at taking your whole arm right off if it had wanted to; this is just a flesh wound . . . I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“Oh yeah, so how come you’re a dog-bite specialist as well as a man of God?” I remarked, still feeling the burn from the neat alcohol he’d doused me with.

“I’ve seen what damage a big dog can really do, though not in this country . . . somewhere else, a long time ago.”

“Yeah . . . ? Where’d that be then?”

“Changi jail . . . I was held prisoner there after the fall of Singapore in 1942. The Japanese guards had a fondness for loosing the dogs off into the billets at night. Keep us on our toes, make us think twice in case we were thinking of escaping. Not that there was much chance of that. They starved the dogs nearly as much as they did us. I’ve seen them tear away the back of a man’s calf from his leg as he tried to run from them before now.”

The old man stopped cleaning at my arm for a moment and his stare remained locked momentarily upon my wound before returning to his story.

“The guards eventually stopped using their dogs to keep us in check. No need for them. Most of us were too weak to run anyway. The Japanese had a simple formula at Changi: if you worked you ate, if you didn’t you starved. By 1945, when food became almost non-existent, to keep us working they fed us the dogs. By the time we were liberated we were just skin and bones.”

“Jesus . . .” I muttered under my breath.

“Oh, I don’t think Jesus would have fared any better than the rest of us did out there. He did, however, give me the faith to keep going when things became intolerable. But I don’t think my faith’s what actually kept me alive.”

“Then what did, Reverend?”

“Luck, Joseph . . . it was pure bloody luck.”

The old man took a lint dressing, a large crêpe bandage and small scissors from the tin. He placed the lint over the wound, which had all but stopped bleeding, and began to wrap the bandage around my arm, then took the scissors and cut down the centre of the end of the dressing, making two strips so as to tie it securely around my arm.

“There, that should do it. You’ll need to keep it well cleaned and dressed over the next few days, but a young chap like you should heal up very quickly I should think. Now, let’s not waste any more of my Scotch. How about that drink?”

The reverend stood, picked up the Scotch bottle and walked back into his living room, returning with a pair of cut crystal tumbler-style whisky glasses, which he sat on the kitchen table. He poured two large measures of spirit into them before handing one over to me and raising his own glass in a toast.

“Down the hatch, Joseph.”

“Cheers, Reverend.”

I knocked back the amber malt in a single swig and let it tickle and burn the back of my throat; its warmth travelled through my insides and hit my belly like a slug of lead out of a fired gun. The reverend picked up the bottle and I lifted my glass towards it as the old man poured me another two fingers of Scotch. This time I took a single slow sip and savoured the flavours a little before cupping the glass in both hands, my body shuddering in the damp clothes I was still wearing, before returning the glass to my lips and sinking the rest of the malt so it could continue to warm my insides.

“Now, let me see if I can find you something to change into . . . You don’t want to be catching your death from cold now.”

The reverend returned a short while later with a pair of tan trousers, a plaid black and grey shirt, a brown Fair Isle jumper and a pair of brown wool socks, which he laid out on the back of one of two high-backed upholstered chairs that stood in front of the fire.

“I’ll go and find a bag for your wet clothes while you get into those. They’re not the height of modern fashion, and judging by your height the trousers are going to be a little short in the leg, but they’ll do you for tonight and get you home dry.” He smiled at me again, then left me alone to change.

When he returned around ten minutes later he had in his hand a Navy-style dark-blue duffle coat and army-style webbing rucksack. He threw the coat over to me, then bent down, picked up my wet clothing from the floor and stuffed it into the rucksack before placing the bag onto the kitchen table. He walked across to me, sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire.

“Joseph, grab that bottle and our glasses, will you, then come and sit yourself down and have another snifter with me and, if you will, tell me a little about yourself.”

Again, I did as I was told: collected the cut crystal and the Scotch, and joined the old fellow by the fire. I poured another two large measures into each of the glasses, handed one over to him and sat the bottle in the hearth of the fireplace before taking a hefty gulp of my drink.

“There’s not a lot to tell, Reverend.”

“Is that so . . . Well, I already know that you like a drink . . . Tell me, where are you from, Joseph?”

“Barbados . . . Been over here ’bout a year.”

“The Caribbean, very different from this green and pleasant land, I’d say. You must be finding it hard with this awful bloody weather, more used to the sun and blue skies I should think, hey?”

“Hard is an understatement, that’s fo’ sure . . . Never seen snow until less than a month ago. I seen pictures as a kid; never thought I’d feel it soaking through the soles of my feet, though.”

“Quite, quite . . . So what brought you to Great Britain, Joseph?”

“I was told the streets were paved with gold . . . Thought I’d take my chances, see if I could find me a stash of it.”

“And have you?”

“Oh yeah . . . I got me a back bedroom full o’ the stuff.”

“And you were panning for a little more of the glittering gilt out in the snow earlier tonight, were you?”

The pastor took a sip of his liquor and sat back in his chair, waiting for me to answer him. I remained tight-lipped, unsure if the conversation might take me into areas I didn’t want to go. But the old man wanted to continue with his questioning . . . only this time he was a little more to the point.

“So where are you living now and what are brings you out to Cricket Malherbie on a cold winter’s night?”

“St Pauls . . . I travelled down from Bristol earlier this evening . . . I was told I may find someting I was looking for in your village.”

“And did you find what you sought?”

“No . . . only a big dog with a bad temper.”

“Out at the Blanchard estate?”

“It coulda been . . . but I think that dog was most probably a stray. Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Does that happen to you a lot, Joseph?”

“Does what happen to me a lot, Reverend?”

“That you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“That seems to have been the case this last week or so.”

The padre changed tack, throwing a fast ball and knocking me off kilter with his new line of questioning.

“What did you do for a living back home . . . on Barbados?”

“I was a policeman.”

The reverend was still for a moment, thinking carefully about what I had just told him. He took another short sip of whisky before carrying on.

“A police officer . . . And did you retire from the force?”

“Not really . . . more pushed out.”

The whisky was starting to loosen my tongue.

“And you miss the force?”

“No . . . I miss the sun on my back and hearing the song of the Aruban birds early in the morning, but not being a copper.”

I suddenly fired a question back at the old man to get the spotlight off of me.

“Tell me, who lives up at this Blanchard estate you keep taking about?”

“Terrence Blanchard . . . He’s a silk, I believe.”

“Silk . . . What the hell’s a silk?”

“Queen’s Counsel, my dear fellow. Blanchard is a barrister. A very successful and expensive one, so I’m reliably informed.”

“That so . . . It would explain the big house and the even bigger dog,” I laughed to myself.

“And your difficulty in being able to enter it without an invite, I would imagine.”

I looked at the old man, I was puzzled by and anxious about the way our conversation was going. I watched as he put his glass down at his feet before he turned back to question me yet again, and this time his enquiry hit hard at the core of my heart.

“Are you married, Joseph?”

“No . . . I came to Britain alone.”

“And have you always been alone?”

“No . . . not always.”

“Family, loved ones?” the reverend persisted.

“Wife . . . I had a wife . . . She’s been dead nearly eighteen months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Joseph, never easy to lose a loved one. You must miss her greatly. I know a little of loss and how grief can eat at the insides of a man. I’ve seen how it can burrow into the soul and take the unkindest grip at a person’s very being. You know, I believe God doesn’t want us to feel that grief forever. He wants us to believe in the truth of the everlasting spirit and that our salvation is found in the all-encompassing truth of his word. He wants us to redeem ourselves in seeking out his love. What are we without faith, without redemption? It’s not part of his great plan for us to be alone, to be unredeemed, you see.”

“I don’t think God has any further plans fo’ me, Reverend, and if he has I suggest he keeps ’em to himself. I think it’s time I was on my way. I wanna thank you fo’ your kindness, Philip. I’m gonna bid you a good night.”

I stood up and took a final draught of the Scotch, then placed it onto the white cloth-covered table in front of me, picked up the duffle coat and pulled it on, then grabbed the rucksack filled with my wet clothes, slung it over my shoulder and made my way quietly out of the kitchen towards the front door.

“Whatever darkness you left back on that island is still eating at your heart, Joseph. I saw it in your eyes earlier, just like I saw it in the eyes of those poor souls dying of cholera and dysentery in Changi. Don’t allow anger and hate to destroy the decent man inside. You need to forg . . .”

I shut the front door and let his final words fall away silently, unheard to me as I dropped the latch into its holder and walked back along the path towards my car. But in truth, his last warning to my barren, faithless spirit had already begun to etch itself deep within my being and the old vicar’s closing sermon to me echoed inside my head like the final toll of a death knell.

The drive back to Bristol in the dead of night took forever. The roads were treacherous with fresh snow and black ice, my arm throbbed, and I had been left unsettled by the well-meaning reverend. He had touched upon locked-away feelings I didn’t even want to acknowledge, let alone discuss, and tonight I’d done as I always had since I was a young boy: I’d simply clammed up and walked away. My dead wife, Ellie, only ever came to me in my dreams and nightmares. I denied her memory entry to my waking world and refused my inner need to openly grieve her death. To function on a daily basis I shut her out, wiped the past out of my mind and never spoke openly of her past existence or the wonderful life we had once shared together.