The writing on the wall
Dave Land’s largest John Deere tractor was parked in the forecourt of Hartley Castle House when we arrived home. Dave Land’s immense fist was banging on the front door. He heard the car, saw the car, turned and lurched across the yard to greet us brandishing a small rectangular piece of paper. Its size, shape and colour were unmistakably that of a cheque. Dave Land’s face was unmistakably that of an angry man.
My door was open before I could open it myself.
‘Mister Harland,’ he said looming large over my seated and seat-belted person. ‘I am not a violent man, I am a reasonable man. I trust you will be the same.’ He handed me the cheque. It was made out to me and was for eighteen thousand pounds. ‘I have calculated your rent up to the end of next week and refunded your advance rent accordingly. You have a week to clear the premises. I trust you will leave everything as you found it.’
God, news travels fast!
‘Dave,' I said fumbling at my seat belt while peering pleadingly up at him. 'This hasn’t got anything to do with you. It hasn’t even got anything to with me!’
He glowered down at me. Even then there was still a grin of sorts. The sort of grin I imagine Ted Bundy offered young girls asking for directions in the street. ‘Is that so?’ he said with palpable sarcasm.
‘Yes! Can I get out? This is—’
‘You stay where you are!’
Gabriel got out the other side and ran around to 'face' him. ‘Dave, we can explain. Bailey didn’t do any of it.’
‘Any of it?' he said frowning down at her. 'How many barns has this little vandal covered in graffiti?’
I thought it, Gabriel said it: 'Graffiti?'
***
‘I swear on my mother’s life. I didn’t do this.’
I’d been swearing on my mother’s life a lot lately. And there, standing next to one of two barns at the back of Dave Land’s house half a mile down the road from Hartley Castle House, I needed my mother like never before. Staring at the wall of that barn, I was confused, disorientated and angry. I was shaking and didn’t know what to do with my hands. Above all, I was scared.
Splashed across the wooden wall of Dave Land’s barn in great dollops of dripping red paint were the words: ‘U R DEAD MEAT U LAME BULL MURDERING CUNT!’
As you do in such situations, I went and hid in the castle for a while, knees pulled up to my chin, staring at walls and upwards at bits of ragged blue sky. Dave Land, after a heated two and fro had calmed down somewhat. I’d given him a brief précis of our trials with Gabriel’s family and Windy Dale Eggs, a story he had been keeping a quiet eye on in the papers. He hadn’t made the connection. He admitted he hadn’t committed Gabriel’s surname to memory.
Thankfully, my relating of this saga in exasperatedly plaintive terms gave him pause. I was either a good actor, liar and on the spot improviser of a bloody good story, or I was telling the truth. He gave me a week to provide proof I had not graffittied his barn wall with death threats. The chances of this happening were, of course, nil. I had no more idea who had defaced his barn than he did and he was now – after my pleading, placating speech – only ninety-nine percent sure it was me. I even suspected it was me. Why wouldn’t I? The graffiti had specifically referred to a very personal incident, an incident only he, Gabriel and I knew about. Gabriel, I should add, upon sighting the besmeared wall, had clutched her mouth, said ‘Oh my God, I’m going to be sick,’ and scurried off down the road.
Which I suppose was fair enough. It didn’t look good and, with all the evidence now available, even I was blaming me. And I knew I hadn’t done it.
Or did I? There’s an almost catatonic temporary insanity that befalls you in such circumstances. An all pervading sense of self doubt and mistrust of your own actions right down to questioning your own whereabouts for the last twenty four hours. Everyone and everything was ganging up on me and, right now, I was inclined to give myself the odd cuff as well, haul my own arm up my back and scream ‘Own up!’ My boundaries were blurred and so was my vision courtesy of the odd tear. Odd in the sense that I wasn’t normally a crier, mitigating in the sense that my world was now officially at war. The next phase in this mental process was self-destruction – the sudden, wallowing belief that the world really was against me and that my dream – whatever that dream was, it was hard to remember now – was never meant to be.
As if to reinforce this, I heard the Audi start up outside the castle walls and leave at great speed. Unlike the previous occasion Gabriel drove out of my life, I could muster neither the strength nor the angst to rush out and give her the finger. She was right to go. I knew how it looked.
Kurt appeared at my side moments later. This was good. It reminded me I wasn’t alone. After a bear hug that nearly broke his neck and would have added exponentially to my woes, I managed to raise myself off the damp grass – it was getting cold and I needed a jacket, beer and the iPod. If ever there was an occasion requiring a brooding soundtrack, this was it. Perhaps Prodigy, 'I’m a victim' on repeat.
Courtney was on her bed in the kitchen when I arrived inside, as usual more aware of the need for beauty sleep than family crisis. I knelt and kissed her on the head.
‘Hi ya, Courtney, love,’ I whispered. ‘Dad’s in a spot of bother.’
The coat I required was on the coat rack. The iPod was in the Court Room. The beer was in the fridge.
The note was on the table.
‘Dearest Monkey face,’ it said. ‘I hate to leave you like this, but if I told you where I was going you wouldn’t let me go. Trust me, we’ll be free of this by tomorrow! You’re innocent, monkey!’ There were four Xs and a heart.
There was a PS: ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I called her today.
Her mobile rang six times and cut to message. I waited for the prompts. ‘Gabriel? I’m no rocket scientist, but I think I know where you’ve gone. I just want to put it on record that I’m stunned, but not entirely surprised. I did say so, didn’t I? Anyway, I just want you to know that I would have let you go. I trust you implicitly. Maybe now, you’ll trust me. Take care, little girl and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Keep your wrist locked and aim for a point a foot behind the face. Take care. I love you. Bye.’
I hung up, turned to the kitchen bench and watched Gabriel’s mobile. After a few seconds, it cheeped, signalling a new voice message. I was tempted to listen to my own message, check it for flaws, delete it and perhaps redo it until I had the sentiments just right. I didn’t. I just left it be, wondering why she hadn’t taken it with her. The rush of getting away before I emerged from the castle? The hassle of a fretful boyfriend calling every five minutes while she visited an ex? I was jumping to conclusions, of course, but if this jump wasn’t flagged green by all judges, I’d be having a long, hard look at the plasticine.
