The Woodcutter (23 page)

‘Oh aye? You’ll not get round Sneck that easy.’

Or me, was the implication.

Hollins opened the chews and tossed one to the dog, who caught it, nibbled it cautiously, then swallowed it whole.

‘How did you find him?’ he asked.

‘Didn’t. He found me. Takes a one to know a one.’

Meaning outcast, the vicar assumed.

‘Why Sneck?’

‘’Cos with a dog like him you don’t need one. If that hail storm hadn’t started when it did, I’d have turned him loose on those idiots who came up from the village the other night.’

A sneck, Hollins had discovered in his time here, was Cumbrian for a door- or gate-latch.

He tossed the dog another chew. A sop for Cerberus.

Hadda, who’d resumed putting the shopping away, said, ‘Make yourself useful then. Brew us a coffee.’

Hollins obeyed, careful to follow his host’s procedure on his previous visit as closely as possible.

When he’d filled the same two mugs as before and sat down at the table, Hadda pushed the sugar and cream towards him.

‘Care to try your gift?’ he said sardonically.

He drank his own black and unsweetened.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘A teaspoon short, I’d say.’

‘You’re very precise.’

‘One thing I missed inside. I think they used gravy browning. The other cons were mostly trying to get smack smuggled into the jail. With me it was coffee.’

‘Did you have a hard time? I’ve heard that people with your kind of conviction . . .’

‘At first, yeah. Fortunately, at least it seems that way now, I wasn’t registering all that much to start with, so it mostly bounced off me. When I began to take notice, I hit back. Didn’t matter who it was. Got me a lot of trouble, but eventually the message got round. They could have their fun but they’d always have to pay for it.’

‘Sounds a bit Old Testament,’ said Hollins.

‘You reckon? Well, that’s where all the best bits are, isn’t it? Including rules for survival in a primitive society.’

‘And you survived.’

‘I suppose so. Time helped. Good old Time. Either makes or breaks, even in prison. You stay inside long enough, you start getting treated for the way you are, not the reason you ended up there.’

Over the next few weeks, Hollins saw something of the same process taking place locally. The initial outrage faded and there were no more vigilante attacks. Perhaps the news that Sneck had adopted him helped. It turned out the dog was well known locally as an unapproachable renegade, more elusive than a fox, and as vicious a killer. He would have been shot long since if any of the local farmers had been able to get him in their sights. Hadda’s own comment of
takes a one to know a one
was often repeated.

It also helped that no one could complain that the returned and unforgiving prodigal was provocative. Hadda steered well clear of the village, though occasional reports of sightings of his solitary figure trudging round the countryside came in. No one cared to approach him. Even had they wanted to, Sneck and the fact that he often carried a lumber axe were considerable disincentives. Occasionally the noise of an axe at work in some remote piece of woodland cracked through the chill air.

‘Sounds more like a man attacking something he hates than just cutting down a tree,’ opined Joe Strudd, his nearest neighbour.

‘Does it not bother you, having him living so close to thy farm, Joe?’ enquired Len Brodie, the churchwarden.

Strudd, a pillar of the chapel who reckoned that Anglicans were papists in mufti, said, ‘God looks after his own, Len Brodie. Now if you were the bastard’s neighbour, then I’d be worried!’

If ever a note of sympathy did enter a reported sighting, contrasting the energetic athletic young man Hadda had once been with the shambling, stooped, scarred and limping figure he had become, it was quickly countered with the stern asseveration that this was no more than just payment for his foul sins.

‘Fifty years from now, mothers will be frightening their naughty kids with a bogeyman called The Hadda,’ forecast Hollins.

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t start frightening them a lot sooner than that,’ said his wife, Willa, sourly.

It was odd, thought the vicar. Willa, childless and, in the eyes of many of his flock, outrageously liberal in her views, was the most determinedly unrelenting in her attitude to Hadda. He sometimes got the disturbing impression that she’d almost welcome an attack on a young girl to prove how right she’d been.

Hollins’s grocery deliveries were of course common knowledge almost as soon as he started them. He soon realized that the price he was paying for the message of tolerance and understanding he preached was that he’d been elected Hadda’s keeper.

‘How’s he doing then, Vicar?’ he’d be asked – very few people actually spoke the name.

‘Going on steady,’ was the reassuring reply they wanted. ‘Very quiet, that’s the way he wants things.’

Only at the castle did he find this kind of bromidic response inadequate.

He could not believe it a coincidence that after he started his regular visits to Birkstane, lunch invitations to the castle became almost regular as well.

The first time he was summoned, Lady Kira ignored him till he was looking down at his plateful of steamed duff and custard. Lady Kira never touched it herself, but as a keen traditionalist, once she’d established this was as essential a part of the Sabbath to Sir Leon as Communion wine and wafers, she’d made it a permanent feature of the castle menu.

Hollins was aware that her attention had turned to him even though he wasn’t looking at her. She had that kind of presence. The years that had turned Sir Leon into a white-haired patriarch had been much kinder to her, and now the twenty-two-year gap between looked as if it might be twice as much. At sixty she was still a very attractive woman, if you liked your women lean and predatory. Occasionally Hollins had felt that penetrating gaze running up and down him as he ascended into the pulpit to deliver his Sunday sermon. His wife had laughed and said, ‘Wishful thinking’ when he told her that now he understood what women meant when they talked of some men stripping them with their eyes. But he knew what he meant.

Waiting till he was raising the first spoonful of duff to his mouth, she said, ‘So how is our resident monster, Mr Collins?’

Her determined Anglophilia had made her a keen fan of Jane Austen (Dickens, except on Christmas, being far too radical) and on the few occasions she addressed the vicar direct, she always called him Mr Collins. Sir Leon did this too, but in his case, it seemed possible it was a genuine mistake. Not in Lady Kira’s.

For a moment he thought of exacting a mild revenge by pretending not to know who she was talking about, but it hardly seemed worth it.

Lowering his spoon, he said in a measured tone, ‘While I wouldn’t call Mr Hadda a fit man, he seems determined to be independent. Apart from the loss of an eye and a few fingers, his upper body seems in good working order, and he certainly gets plenty of shoulder-muscle exercise by wielding an axe. But I regret to say that it appears as if his damaged leg still gives him considerable pain. Perhaps the cold weather doesn’t help.’

‘Considerable pain?’ echoed Lady Kira, visibly savouring the words. ‘Well, that’s something. And his state of mind, how do you judge his state of mind, Mr Collins?’

‘He seems to bear his lot with some equanimity, Lady Kira.’

‘Indeed. Well, that’s more than I’ve enjoyed since they permitted him to camp on our doorstep.’

‘The chap’s entitled to live in his own house, my dear,’ protested her husband.

‘There wouldn’t have been a house if you’d bulldozed it down while he was enjoying his incredibly short holiday in prison,’ spat Lady Kira. ‘And how is it that he has a house anyway when all his other properties had to be sold off to pay for his fraudulent transactions, virtually putting our daughter on the streets!’

‘Bit of an exaggeration there, I think, my dear,’ said Sir Leon, glancing apologetically at Hollins. ‘Point is, as I’ve explained before, by the time Fred died, the Woodcutter finances had all been sorted out so no one had a claim on Birkstane when Wolf inherited it. All above board and by the law.’

‘The law!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought the law banned these perverts from taking up residence anywhere near children. What about the village school?’

This was the first time she’d ever shown the slightest interest in the village school, despite Hollins’s efforts to get the castle involved in opposing the council’s education ‘rationalization’ policy which proposed closing Mireton Primary and bussing the couple of dozen local kids fifteen miles to a larger school.

He said, ‘Birkstane is seven miles from the village, Lady Kira. In any case, unless we can persuade the council to change their minds, the school will be closing next summer.’

Sir Leon shifted uneasily in his chair. Poor devil feels guilty he hasn’t done enough to support the campaign, guessed Hollins. But nobody in the county had any doubts who called the shots at the castle.

‘Lot of fuss about nothing, eh, Vicar? They’d hardly have let Wolf out before his time was up if he hadn’t been cured.’

‘Cured?’ cried Lady Kira. ‘You mean they took a pair of gelding shears to him?’

Hollins had a flashback to his first sighting of Hadda and restrained a smile as he said, ‘I don’t think any actual surgery was involved, Lady Kira, but I gather he was and probably still is under psychiatric care and supervision. I’m sure Sir Leon’s right, he wouldn’t have been released on licence unless he’d satisfied experts that he was no longer a menace.’

‘While he’s still a man, he’s a menace,’ said Lady Kira. ‘Where do these experts live, eh? Not round here, that’s for sure. Take that axe of his and cut it off, that’s the only way to guarantee we are safe.’

With that, she seemed to lose interest in both the topic and her guest, and with evident relief Sir Leon said, ‘Thought I might take a gun out in the Long Spinney this afternoon. Do you shoot, Collins?’

And Hollins, who’d been asked this question several times already, replied again, ‘No, Sir Leon,’ but he no longer added the word
sorry
.

5

Even nature seems occasionally nostalgic, and this year just when the English had become resigned to a future of dank wet winters, the season went retro with day after day and week after week of old-fashioned dazzling sunshine following nights of biting frost.

Not just in England either. This bracing weather stretched across the Channel and down the Bay of Biscay, till even the heliotropic ex-pats along the Spanish
costas
found they were given unwelcome reminders of what they thought they’d left behind. Tiled floors, so deliciously cool in summer, now felt icy beneath bare feet and stored luggage was ransacked in search of carpet slippers.

Arnie Medler drove carefully down from his mountain villa into Marbella. At least at this time of year, and in these conditions, there was no problem parking right outside the Hotel Gaviota, which for his money provided the most authentic Full English Breakfast to be had the length and breadth of the Costa del Sol. In the summer he was happy enough with cereal and fruit juice, but from time to time during the dark months he felt the need for cholesterol shock, and Tina, his wife, had made it clear that she hadn’t come to Spain to slave over a hot frying pan.

This winter had turned him into a regular customer and he was greeted by name as he entered the restaurant. He took his usual seat at a corner table by a window overlooking the hotel pool, deserted now. The restaurant was only half full. The hotel ticked over during the off-season by offering reduced rates, mainly taken up by UK pensioners keen to escape the latest flu bug. Medler amused himself by listening to their often surprisingly intimate conversations. Many things had changed in this twenty-first-century world, but the English still headed into Europe like eighteenth-century aristos, treating Johnny Foreigner as a kind of moving wallpaper, and after a decade here the sun had burnt his skin brown enough and his Spanish had become good enough for him to pass as a native to anyone who wasn’t a native.

This morning those nearest to him were couples who seemed to have said all they had to say to each other half a lifetime ago and he let his gaze wander round the room. A man was being shown to a table at the far end.

With a mild shock, more of surprise than alarm, Medler registered that his face looked familiar.

Better safe than sorry. Changing politics and economics meant that the costas were no longer the refuge of choice for British crooks, but there were still enough of them about to make a retired cop proceed with caution.

He raised his napkin to his lips and held it there till the man had been seated with his back towards him.

When he’d finished his meal, he left the restaurant by the kitchen entrance. The head waiter was in there and he looked at him in surprise.

‘Señor Medler,’ he said, ‘is there something wrong?’

He was proud of his English and Medler knew he would smile sympathetically and wrinkle his brow if he tried to reply in Spanish.

He said, ‘José, could you help me? There’s a gentleman by himself, over there . . .’

He pointed through the circular window of the kitchen door.

‘. . . I think I may know him. Could you find out who he is?’

He was known as a generous tipper and José had no problem in cooperating.

A couple of minutes later, by the reception desk, Medler learnt that the solitary man was his former colleague, David McLucky, that he was booked into a double room but he’d turned up alone, and that he was here for another five nights.

So, not a crook who might feel like banging him on the nose for old time’s sake.

But the question remained: of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, was it just coincidence he’d booked into this one, and alone?

‘Thanks,’ said Medler, peeling off a twenty-euro note.

‘Is he your friend, señor?’

‘We’ll see. No need to mention my interest, eh?’

Another note.

‘Of course not, Señor Medler. I hope we see you again soon.’