Nothing to Lose (13 page)

He drove on slowly, still savouring the familiarity. The Crumpled Horn, Eddie Deebley’s Fish Bar, the Crow’s Nest Caff ... – everything was the same as it had been in his childhood, and probably as it would be in another fifty years. It was so good to be back.

Jesus! Pulling the car to a halt, Ewan slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Back where? Where the hell was he going? Peg’s, obviously eventually – but not at this time of night. Once Peg had removed the Doris Day persona, had a cup of Bournvita and two Thin Arrowroots, and a blast of ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’, there was no waking her until
Today
filtered through the radio alarm. He groaned. He’d have to park on the cliff top and sleep in the car.

He shrugged and drove on again. It would mean waking cold and cramped and with a mouth like burned sandpaper, but what other choice was there? Anyway, he’d slept in far worse places recently, and survived, hadn’t he? As usual, he’d planned to get to Ampney Crucis in daylight; as usual, his plans had gone slightly awry.

Of course, there was always Clara . . . He switched on the CD player again, the Moodies swamping the Citroen with mystic chords. No, not Clara. Not after the acrimonious break-up. He had bridges to build with Clara, and turning up in the middle of the night would definitely not be the best way to lay the foundations.

Would Jasmine still be awake? Probably, but he’d never liked her parents, and they’d always disapproved of him, so he couldn’t see them welcoming him with open arms at any time, and definitely not at gone midnight. Who did that leave? Andrew? He shook his head. Definitely not.

Driving across the scrunchy shale and bouncing over tussocks of coarse grass, Ewan pulled the Citroen on to the cliff top and switched off the engine. The music was low now, and the sea and sky both black and welded together like melted tar. The only outside sound was the rush and pull of the tide on the shingle, and the occasional desultory slap of a wave splashing over the groynes.

Ewan pushed the headrest back and leaned into it, stretching out his legs. He was dog-tired, longed for sleep, but didn’t want to close his eyes. When he closed his eyes the horrors rushed in from nowhere. He was hungry too. And thirsty. And most of all he needed a pee.

Sighing, he climbed from the car. There were no handily placed bushes, no privacy, and the public conveniences at the top of the cliff steps were always locked at sundown. He wandered to the edge of the gentle chalky fall. Several scrubby gorse bushes halfway down offered some minimal seclusion, but were at a precipitous angle . . . He grinned to himself: below him, their pointy roofs in zigzag relief against the darkness, stood his salvation. The beach huts.

Ewan started to scramble down the undulations, dislodging bits of stone and pebbles beneath his trainers. No one would know, would they? There was no one to see him. OK, it was hardly sanitary, but he really didn’t have a choice. Hopefully it’d rain in the night, or there’d be a heavy sea fret, and tomorrow’s beach-hut users would be none the wiser. He rattled down the last few feet, skidding over clumps of candytuft and crushing ferns, before landing in a slither behind the huts.

It was pitch-dark, silent, secluded. Everything he needed.

Oh, the relief!

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ An angry female voice and the blinding flash of a torch cut the relief pretty short. ‘Jesus! That’s disgusting!’

Mentally juggling with whether to stay and apologise, or run like hell, Ewan faltered for a minute. Christ! How embarrassing! And it was bound to be one of the Ampney Crucis blue-rinse brigade making sure her beach hut’s net curtains were up to scratch, or something. That was exactly the sort of thing they did in the small hours here. Skulked. Unless, of course, the village had moved on a bit and was now into Neighbourhood Watch. Jesus! That really didn’t bear thinking about – and hadn’t one of the Rolling Stones once been arrested for urinating in public? What chance would he have?

The torch light wavered a bit. The footsteps came a fraction closer. ‘Ewan?’

He screwed up his eyes, trying to see past the dazzle. Christ – not someone who knew him? Not one of Peg’s cronies? They’d have a field day in the Crumpled Horn retelling this one

‘Um . . . yes . . . Actually . . .’ He blinked. ‘Er – look, you seem to have the advantage. I can’t see a bloody thing with that light on.’

‘Ewan!’ The voice sounded amazed and quite happy. The torch’s beam dropped. ‘It’s me – Jasmine. You scared me to death.’

‘Jas?’ This was even more embarrassing. ‘What on earth are you doing here? It’s past midnight.’

‘I live here, silly.’ She’d moved closer still and was smiling at him. ‘Didn’t Peg tell you?’

Ewan shook his head wordlessly. He wasn’t sure whether Jasmine could see the denial or not. It didn’t matter. It was all so bizarre. Why the hell would Jasmine, whom he could now see was wearing some sort of nightshirt thing with kittens on it, be living on the seafront like a summer dropout?

She seemed to have regained her equilibrium far faster than he had. She still smiled expansively. ‘God – I’m sorry if I frightened you – but really, why were you having a pee behind my beach hut?’

‘
Your
beach hut? God Almighty, Jas – you don’t mean that you and Andrew are shacked up in that chalet, do you? What happened? Did his dealership go belly up or something?’

‘No, of course not.’ Her laughter rolled up the cliff path. ‘It’s a long story – and where the hell have you been, anyway? Peg said you were arriving weeks ago.’

‘Yeah,’ Ewan nodded. ‘I was supposed to be. And that’s an even longer story . . .’

The walnut carriage clock on the chiffonier said a quarter to three. Mind you, Ewan reckoned it had said quarter to three two hours ago. He stretched comfortably in his armchair, and drained his fourth bottle of Old Ampney. ‘Is that clock right? Or are we stuck in the Ampney Crucis time warp?’

‘It’s half-past two, almost. Do you want to go to bed?’ Jasmine pushed her dark hair away from her eyes, then wrinkled her nose. ‘Hey, pack it in! Don’t use your seduction look on me. It’s totally wasted. I simply meant, if you’re tired I’ll drag out the spare eiderdown for you.’

He grinned back at her, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m fine as long as you are. We can both sleep in in the morning and I wasn’t being seductive. I’ve lost the art.’

‘Bollocks,’ Jasmine said cheerfully. ‘You never found the art with me. I was always immune. Now, carry on with your story – you’ve heard all my news.’

He had. Looking round the crowded beach hut, which was now furnished exactly as he remembered Benny’s house from his childhood, he thought Jasmine had worked miracles with her life. He couldn’t wait to see her in action as Benny Clegg – the Punters’ Friend – and as for having the guts to leave the security of the house on the Chewton Estate, and shacking up here in the hut – his admiration knew no bounds.

‘I got a bit involved in a cause . . .’

Jasmine, tugging the kitten nightshirt firmly round her curves as she curled on the deeply cushioned sofa, stopped and leaned forward. ‘Really? Crikey. Peg said you’d joined some mercenaries or something. Like guerrilla warfare or gun-running, but we thought she’d got it wrong. What was it then?’

‘Greyhounds.’

‘Uh? Greyhound-running? Doesn’t sound like an undercover operation to me. We do it all the time here – Tuesday, Friday and Saturday nights, every week of the year. ’

‘Jasmine! This is serious. I’ve become involved in a rescue operation.’

She beamed at him then, looking exactly as she had in Ampney Crucis Junior Mixed. ‘That’s sweet of you, but there’s no need. The stadium is going to be OK. Didn’t Peg tell you? We’re – me and Peg and Allan and Roger –investing Grandpa’s money into making it – oh, almost as good as Bixford!’

‘Not the stadium, Jas. I’m rescuing greyhounds. Abandoned ones, ill-treated ones. Ones that have served their moneymaking purpose. You have no idea what happens to them when their racing life is over.’

‘Of course I have!’ Jasmine looked indignant. ‘There are all sorts of organisations that make sure they have long and happy retirements. The Greyhound Industry and the Greyhound Trust both work like crazy to ensure that the dogs are well looked after. And round here all the owners just keep them as pets when they’ve finished running, and weep buckets when they die and – ’

‘Not everyone is like that, though.’ Ewan gave an involuntary shudder. ‘That’s why I’ve been in Spain. So many greyhounds are sent out to the Continent to continue racing in appalling conditions and are treated unbelievably badly. God, Jas, you’ve no idea of some of the things I’ve seen . . . The Spanish boys have a great rescue mission going on. This particular group that I’ve joined is co-ordinated from there. We’ve been snatching dogs, getting them the right veterinary treatment, and finding them homes across Europe.’

‘Really? Wow!’ Jasmine untangled herself from the kitten nightshirt and stumbled across the obstacle course of furniture. Throwing her arms round his neck she kissed him. ‘You’re a star!’

Slightly winded by her exuberance, he pushed her to arm’s length. ‘Thanks, but Katrina didn’t think so.’

‘Why on earth not?’ Jasmine sat down again. ‘God, Ewan, I can’t think of anything better to be doing with your life. I’d have thought she’d be so proud.’

‘Not really. She thought it was stupid. She’s not an animal lover.’ And that, Ewan reckoned, was the biggest understatement so far. Katrina had been scathing in her contempt. Especially as the rescue operations
cost
money rather than made any.

‘Sod her, then.’ Jasmine carried on smiling. ‘So, is it all over now? This particular crusade? Or are you still involved?’

‘I’ll always be involved. Once you’ve witnessed that sort of horror – and been able to do something about it – you can’t give it up. I’ve left the European side of things now, but I’m going to be raising awareness over here, canvassing for people to take retired greyhounds as pets, that sort of thing.’

Jasmine nodded her approval. ‘Count us in, then. I mean, there’s no problems round here, but no doubt there are unscrupulous people hidden away all over the place.’

Ewan looked at her, plump and warm and kind. He couldn’t tell her just how unscrupulous some of the people he’d dealt with, duped, and double-crossed were. And how they would happily break his legs if they ever caught up with him again. Greyhounds meant big money to so many unregistered and unlicensed people. Greyhounds weren’t flesh and blood – just a means to a financial end.

‘Oh, and one more thing – it’s probably better not to mention any of this to Peg just yet. She’s no mug, and she’ll only panic if she thinks I’ve got embroiled in something nasty.’

‘Whatever.’ Jasmine yawned. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to go to bed. Do you want the eiderdown?’

Ewan grinned. ‘Please. And a good-night kiss.’

‘Think yourself lucky you’ve got the eiderdown.’ Jasmine hauled herself to her feet and poked out her tongue. ‘I don’t do extras.’

Less than twelve hours later, after having been given the full Prodigal treatment by Peg, Ewan was sitting in her office high above the deserted greyhound track. The windows were open to the summer sounds of the beach, and an ozone-loaded breeze rattled round the edges of faded posters from long-demolished cinemas called the Roxy or the Gaumont. Roger and Allan, leather-faced, and with their braces rakishly on show over their open-necked shirts in deference to the heat wave, were each gummily munching their way through one of Gilbert’s ‘whoppa’ hot dogs. Bunny, the hare boy, was adding ice, very slowly, to a jug of lemon barley, and Peg and Jasmine were totting up figures on the back of an old envelope. As board meetings went, it was very relaxed.

Peg stopped in her mathematical equations and adjusted her wig. It was a French pleat today, to go with a sheath dress and very unsuitable – Ewan considered – stiletto sandals. They didn’t sit well with the corn plasters.

‘Right, then. We’re all agreed. Jasmine will go and approach her damned father about the proposals for the Merry Orchard Shopping Plaza. Yes, I know it was put forward at the last meeting, but Jasmine wasn’t keen then, were you, pet?’

Jasmine shook her head.

‘Right, but now she is.’ Peg tapped along with the bass line of ‘Whatever Will Be Will Be’, her biro becoming quite agitated on the chorus. ‘And, anyway, now we’ve got our figures together – and we know what alterations we want to make – I’m going to tell Frobishers that the new Benny Clegg Stadium is getting ready to stage the Platinum Trophy.’

Roger dislodged a piece of caramelised onion from between his false teeth. ‘Won’t that mean they’ll have to come and inspect? What if we’re not up to speed by then?’

‘We’ll just show them the plans, of course.’ Peg frowned at this display of leaden-footedness. ‘They’re business people. They’ll understand. But according to the bumph, all tendering tracks have to be inspected by the end of August so we’ll have to get a shift on.’

‘But what if bloody Philip – sorry, Jasmine – says the place is definitely going to be demolished?’ Allan rolled his greasy paper napkin into a neat ball. ‘What then?’

Peg anchored the French pleat more firmly into place. ‘Good Lord! We won’t say anything about it! Have you never heard of subterfuge? No, we’ll welcome the Frobisher’s contingent with open arms, lie through our teeth, and we’ll tackle the planners this end. They’ll have to carry me out of here in chains before they demolish one inch, believe me.’

Ewan smiled to himself. She meant it. He could see it happening. But really ... he looked fondly at them all: Peg, Allan and Roger, all well past retirement; Jasmine, far too innocent for her own good; Gilbert, Ampney Crucis’s one-man answer to McDonald’s; and Bunny, the hare boy what chance would they have against the might of the planning committee? What chance, in God’s name, did they have of staging the biggest race in the greyhound calendar? Surely it would be kinder to disillusion them now, before it all went too far?

‘And you, pet,’ Peg zipped round and fixed Ewan with a beady stare, ‘you’ll have your part to play, of course.’