The Tied Man (20 page)

‘So, has our hard work earned us a visit to the pub?’ I asked.

Finn glanced at the small carrier bag that I hung off two fingers.  ‘Hard work?  And what the fuck have you done?’ 

‘Bought a pack of disposable razors, a box of tampons and an apple.’‘Wow. Knock yourself out, lady.’

He had finally relaxed a little. Henry was visibly relieved at Finn’s return to relative normality, and I wondered how many times this endless cycle of provocation and forgiveness had been played out.  ‘So.  Pub?’ I asked again.

‘Oh.  Um, well… I don’t know.’ Henry said, skittishly. 

‘Finn?’ I pleaded, like a naughty schoolgirl persuading the class swots to bunk off for the afternoon.

‘Henry, we’re doing fine for time.  C’mon, one small sherry won’t kill you.’

Henry pursed his lips, tempted.  Finally he gave a dramatic little sigh.  ‘Ooh, go on then.  Just the one, mind you.’

Finn grinned.  ‘Way to go, you rebel. Right, Ms Bresson – there are two pubs in the delightful village of Albermarle, but one’s for guests only so I’m barred, which means it’s going to have to be The Fox, just down the side street there – it’s where all the estate workers go for a pint, and closest thing Albermarle’s got to a dive.  Landlord’s an absolute shitehawk, but at least he’ll sell me beer.’ He began to lead the way, then paused.  ‘Oh, and you’re buying, on account of me not being allowed to carry cash.’

*****

According to the peeling enamel plaque that nestled into the luxuriant ivy on the wall, The Fox and Grapes had been a public house for over three hundred and fifty years, and was rumoured to have been the base for a plot against King Charles the Second.  It certainly provided enough low beams and shadowed nooks for any number of conspirators to conceal themselves, which matched my mood perfectly.

The perfume of stale beer and decades of cigarette smoke assailed us as we walked into the barroom.  A dilapidated jukebox stood against the wall, obscuring the last picture in a set that portrayed dogs playing snooker, and the carpet by the bar had worn away to nothing.  Definitely off the tourist trail.

Four of the youths from the lakeside now continued their observations from a pool table by the leaded window.  Dust-laden shafts of light illuminated their stares as they contemplated our little party, and I was desperate to find our own dark corner where we could hide.

The asinine sniggers began again as we stood at the bar.  At first I assumed that it was just another example of the attention Albermarle Hall’s permanent residents received whenever they dared venture into civilisation, but one ginger haired youth – whose bone structure suggested a particularly stagnant gene pool – was grinning inanely at Finn. ‘Must’ve been a good night, mate!’ he spluttered, and pointed his pool cue at Finn’s back.

‘Turn around,’ I ordered, and as Finn obeyed, Henry visibly paled. 

Finn’s thin t-shirt was turning
dark red
across the shoulders as blood seeped through the cloth.

I winced.  ‘Looks like you’ve reopened old wounds.’

‘Ah,
fuck
. Let’s go.’

‘Yeah, time to get back in your gimp mask,’ the mouthy red-haired kid added, to the great amusement of his friends.

‘We’re staying put.’ I strode over to the bar, where the landlord was pretending to rearrange a row of pint glasses so he could get a better view of the drama.

I hated the man the moment I set eyes on him.  Decades of sampling his own wares had given the man the gut of a sumo wrestler and the waxy complexion of a drowned corpse, and as I approached he gave me a stare that peeled away my vest top.  In any other circumstances I wouldn’t have ventured within a mile of the old letch.

‘Can I help you, love?’ he asked, his eyes fixed at chest height.

I supposed that his breast fixation at least reduced the risk of recognition. ‘Do you have a side room?’

‘Yeah.  Down the hall.’

‘And may we use it?’

‘Private parties only.  Sorry.’ He gave a leer that was far from apologetic.

I felt Finn’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Lili, c’mon, just leave it…’

I ignored him and picked up a dog-eared, beer-stained leaflet from the bar:
Fox and Grapes – Room Rate’s
.  I began to read.

‘You going to order or what, love?’

I let him wait for another minute, then reached into my pocket and pushed five carefully folded twenty pound notes across the bar. ‘There.  One private room for the rest of the day.’ I gave the corpulent man a frigid smile. ‘With waiter service, according to your classy, beautifully punctuated little brochure here.’  I picked up half of Finn’s load of bags. ‘So that’s a double vodka and tonic for me, a pint of
Stella
for him,’ I nodded at Finn, ‘and a large vodka martini for James Bond there.  Whenever you’re ready.’  I threw down another twenty.  ‘That should cover it.’

Before the landlord’s jaw had time to drop, I followed Finn and Henry out of the oppressive bar and into the hallowed ‘Private Room’ that was just a little larger than my Santa Marita bathroom. 

‘That was amazing!’ Henry exclaimed as the dark oak door thudded behind us.  ‘I’ve never seen that old goat lost for words before.’ He sat down on a worn red velour banquette and gave me an impish smile.  ‘Vodka martini indeed.  I shall be drunk in charge of a boat if I’m not careful.’

Finn gave me a wry glance. ‘Way to keep a low profile, Lilith. Shovin’ more money at the fat oaf than he takes all week.’

I dumped the bags by our table. ‘I know,
I know
. And that thing about ‘Don’t antagonise the natives’.  Sorry.’

Finn threw his own collection of bags on top of mine.  A feeble excuse for a log fire smouldered to its death in a soot-encrusted hearth and he gravitated towards it.  ‘Ah, what the fuck.  Suppose it was only the fellas that know to keep their mouths shut anyway.  When it gets back to
Blaine
I’ll just say old lard-arse behind the bar started it.’

‘It will get back then?’

‘Oh yes,’ Finn and Henry replied in unison.

I saw Finn gingerly touch his shoulders.  ‘Right, wait here for mein host.  I’ll be back in five minutes.’

‘Where on earth is she going?’ Henry asked.

I shrugged and winced in one move.  ‘Ow.  Fuck knows.’

‘She was rather impressive, wasn’t she?’

‘She carries on like that, she’s going to get her head kicked in, and I’d rather I wasn’t there to witness it.’

Henry tutted. ‘She was defending you, Finn.  And there’s a distinct paucity of individuals who still have the necessary courage to do that.’ He began to rearrange the bags that I’d thrown in a heap.  ‘Myself included, to my chagrin.’

‘That’s because you know how
Blaine
’s world works.  And if she’d have stayed put for more than ten seconds, I could have given her the bollocking she deserved.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’re not entirely forgiven for being a stupid twat last night, so don’t push it.’

Perhaps I should have been harder on her.  Re-emphasised the need to keep your head down and pretend you were invisible.  But back then it was too easy to believe that Lilith Bresson was immune to the sickness that Albermarle could cause, that she somehow held the secret of how a soul could pass through hell unscathed.  I know I was stupidly beginning to believe it myself.

‘What’s she then?  Some rich bitch who fancies slummin’ it?’ The landlord slammed down the tray with our drinks and lager slopped onto the table top.

‘Yeah, something like that.  S’why we came to this salubrious establishment.’

He gave a grunting laugh.  Funny.  You want me to make a quick call to Her Ladyship, lad?’

I remembered a time when it had shocked me that people whose names I didn’t even know would quite happily line me up for a battering.  ‘Not really.  You want
me
to tell
Blaine
that that’s how you were talking about one of her valued guests?’

‘Hmph.  Doesn’t look like anyone
I
recognise.  Thought they was meant to be famous before they was allowed to set foot in the hallowed halls,’ the landlord blustered, but I’d rattled him –  I wasn’t alone in my fear of
Blaine
’s wrath.  ‘Not that it’s any of my business.  People pay for their beer, they can drink where the fuck they like.  Now take these bloody glasses so I can have me tray back.’

He trudged out and I touched my glass to Henry’s.  ‘Cheers, little man.  To an interesting morning.’

In the end, it took me fifteen minutes to get what I needed, but that was due to the stupid woman in front of me at the chemist’s, who was brought to a grinding halt by the life-changing decision of which haemorrhoid cream to buy for her husband.  By the time I returned to the pub with two new carrier bags, Finn had half an inch of lager left in his glass.

‘We were just thinking you’d taken my advice and fucked off.’

‘Not without my vodka and tonic.  Right, let’s see the damage, then.’

‘Don’t be such a bossy wee cow,’ Finn grumbled.  ‘It’s fine now.’

‘Your t-shirt looks like the
Psycho
shower curtain and I will not let you walk back down the street like that just to provide the matinee performance for a tribe of village idiots.’

‘I really think you should let Lilith take a look, Finn.  It doesn’t look good at all,’ Henry added.

‘Pair of bloody old women.’ Finn reluctantly peeled his t-shirt off to reveal the full damage from the night before.

‘
Ohmygod
.’ Henry choked on a mouthful of martini.

‘Well, someone didn’t use their safe word,’ I observed.

‘Hah.  Safe word.  I wish.  Bad?’

‘Like someone’s fed your back into a paper shredder.’  I wished I’d slapped Laura Fenworth clean off her chair when I’d had the chance.  I pulled another twenty from my purse.  ‘Henry, be a love and go and get another round in, would you?  Same again, with a double bourbon as well.’

Henry nodded gratefully, happy to be out of sight of blood, and I tipped the chemist’s bag out onto the table.

‘You buy up the whole shop?’ Finn asked as he edged his way out of the blood-stained shirt.

‘Nearly.’  I tore open a pack of sterile dressings.  ‘I was denied the last of the pile cream, though.’ 

I took a closer look at the carnage.  A few of these latest welts had begun to crust over, but others continued to weep blood  where they had been rubbed open by the fabric of his t-shirt. 

‘I’ll be as gentle as I can, but this might hurt.  I’m sorry,’ I said, in between ripping off strips of surgical tape with my teeth.

Finn gave a soft laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I think you’re the first person to actually apologise for inflicting pain.  Usually it’s someone’s hobby.’ 

He fell silent for a while as I sprayed a fine mist of antiseptic over the raw skin.  It must have stung like hell.  ‘You know, you
are
allowed to express your discomfort at any point during this process,’ I assured him.

‘Nah, just give us a hand digging my fingernails out of the tabletop when you’re done.’

It took seven separate dressings to patch up Finn’s back, and I took care to position them so that he would be able to move freely without them tearing away.  I was glad of the focus: although there was no spare flesh on him, gardening had given Finn a tone and musculature that any gym-freak or model would envy – useful, I supposed, for someone who spent more time out of his clothes than in them.  It was the first time I had ever felt guilt at finding a man attractive.

I smoothed down the final piece of tape.  ‘There.  All done.’

Finn exhaled.  ‘Cheers for that,’ he said, just as Henry returned with the second round. 

I handed Finn the bourbon.  ‘There you go.  For being a brave little soldier.’

The whiskey was dispatched in one mouthful.  ‘S’better.  So what’s in the other bag?’ Finn asked.

‘A dilemma,’ Lilith said.

‘Really?  Didn’t know they sold them.’

‘Funny.  It’s just that I know what I’d do if someone did this to me, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to go for the radical approach.’

‘Do what? What the hell are you going on about?’ I asked.

‘This,’ Lilith replied, and picked up my t-shirt and threw it on the fire.

‘What the – for fuck’s sake, Lili!  I don’t have much of a bloody wardrobe to begin with!’  I watched in dismay as the thin fabric began to smoulder and catch.

‘You’d better wear this then.’  Lilith emptied the second bag out onto the table and handed me the contents: a smoke-grey cashmere sweater that I knew would fit me as if I had been there to try it on in the shop.  It was the most beautiful – and expensive – item of clothing I had ever been given, and there was no way I could accept it.

‘I can’t take this.’