Authors: Jonathan Gash
Bray had built the shed twenty years before.
When Davey had come along it became a resort and Bray installed a dust extractor. Davey’s job was to switch it on. Davey had a toy toolkit of his own, graduating to a genuine miniature pin hammer, screwdriver and rulers. One of Bray’s proudest moments was hearing Davey repeat, “Block plane,” seeing the lad hand it up. Such brilliance!
The guiding incident was just before Davey’s bedtime one evening.
Reminiscence was all very well, unless it served a cunning purpose. It could easily become a placebo of the kind grievance-hunters wanted. Bray once heard an elderly woman tell how her family – her accent was Middle European – had been dispossessed of art treasures by “enemy forces” during World War Two. She had given up her campaign to recover the wealth by letters to the United Nations. Her account shocked Bray.
What was the balance between repossession, and the temptation to hark back? Had she got it right, and he, Bray determined to hunt alone for his stolen grandson, utterly wrong?
A lone hunt could be the road to lunacy.
“Think, Bray,” he said aloud in the shed. They had been his own father’s constant words.
“Against the hunt,” he said aloud to Buster, sprawling by the shed door where he could keep an eye on Bray. “America is huge; just look at the map, Buzz.”
The United States of America was vast. He’d never been there. Time was against him. The longer Davey was gone, the more he would blend in. Bray had never seen a theme park, didn’t even know what one was. His image was Blackpool funfairs and plastic cartoon monsters gambolling among fairy castles. And he didn’t know where Davey was.
Ignore that strange certitude in the candle hours when he lay awake and suddenly felt that Davey was still out there.
Had he enough money for a private eye? And how to choose a good one? What if he paid someone who simply pretended and did nothing?
Another factor: fifty-three was ageing. He knew nothing. Were kidnapped children spirited abroad, or kept brainwashed in that country?
He didn’t know.
There seemed to be as many police forces and security systems as there were policemen. A book from the local library,
Policing in USA,
he finished none the wiser.
A couple in the next avenue had lost a baby soon after its birth from illness. They blamed themselves. For a year they had gone to mediums, done table rapping, visited spiritualists. Neighbours funded trips to famed psychics. Nothing came of it. Maybe it was the same as Shirley was currently experiencing, unorthodox psychotherapy of folk origin? Bray didn’t know.
“We’ve factors against us, Buster,” he told the retriever. It gazed back.
For once, he lit his storm lantern. It was a small oil thing and had been Davey’s passion. (Correction:
is
Davey’s passion.) Angry, Bray reminded himself of those tenses. Present tense. He would find Davey. He would take those evil opponents on and win.
“What’s in my favour, Buzz?”
List them: Sound of mind, not barmy. And fifty-three wasn’t bad. Not as fit as he ought to be, so he must exercise from now on. Stay fit and healthy.
Other plus factors?
He was solvent. Emma had married her builder bloke, fine. Bray had investments. Geoff and Shirley needed no financial help now. Bray had made out a will in his family’s favour. When his bank account grew and incurred the bank’s attention, Bray simply told them to buy him some shares. The certificates went into a drawer. Dividends went into the bank account. That was it.
A couple of times he bought unit trusts, their names forgotten. He didn’t have a motor. He’d bought Geoff a saloon car when Davey was born, to enable Shirley to get about. He was surprised he’d afforded it so easily. He didn’t go out much, preferring to read and watch telly and take care of fair-haired Davey. In sum: Healthy, solvent, mentally fairly capable.
Skill? Joiner. This made him wince. It wasn’t much, though something flickered in his mind for an instant. Hope maybe? Except
maybe
also meant
maybe not
. He thought, let it mean whatever it bloody well wanted, for KV was there behind the shed’s end panel.
Bray opened the wooden leaves and stared in the lantern light at the images before him.
The words were Davey’s invention. He laughed at many new words as they registered. Purple was the colour of his KV landscape. Purple was Davey’s first hue. The land was peopled with armies that did nothing.
Maybe they were derived from games all children played. Who knew what they talked about in playgrounds?
He and Davey had painted the landscape on the shed’s end wall, using cheap acrylics from the corner shop. Soon after, Davey began calling the land KV.
The name was an enigma. Bray searched for it, even tackling the British Library at Kings Cross. The two words really did come from Davey.
“Hats!” Davey exclaimed, four years of age.
The people of KV thereafter wore hats, all various shapes. Some were spherical, some tall and rectangular, others conical and extravagantly brimmed. Shapes defined status. Of course Davey’s was the most important, for he too lived in the mythical land.
Bray carved Davey’s own figure out of American maple for his fifth birthday, a four-inch shape with a tall rectangular hat surmounting an enormous brim. Davey’s hat alone was purple. On the rectangle was Davey’s unique inverted pyramid, ball, crown. Bray had laughed at his grandson’s seriousness as the carving took shape. There was an immensely complex hierarchy of folk in Davey’s imaginary land. Bray never quite got the hang of them. When Bray carved the miniatures Davey always watched each statue take shape, swinging his legs as his grandfather worked life into the wood.
“Too fat, Grampa,” he’d say, or simply a condemnatory, “Wrong!”
Bray would comply. Rejects were stored in a box on a shelf. And Bray would start again, asking Davey what,
how, about a figurine.
Davey knew with amazing consistency.
Bray started keeping notes of each character and pencilling in the carving techniques Davey liked. He had a hard-backed book for the data, kept on an under-shelf because Geoff objected. Davey was spending too much time whittling wood, and not enough thinking of school.
“What the hell’s it for, Dad?” Geoff asked. “Davey’s got schoolwork.”
Bray felt helpless. “What can I do, Geoff? If Davey wants a carving done am I to say no?”
“Yes!” Shirley and Geoff had said together.
Davey must not be distracted. Play was all very well, but school meant ambition. The other was only minor value.
“You’re too indulgent, Dad,” Geoff decided.
“We must set a limit, Bray,” Shirley insisted. Then Davey reached six, when learning was assessed against a curriculum. But by then Davey had his own tool kit and could even carve. Nobody was prouder than Bray.
And the game began. KV had its own coins, the K, and the smaller V. One huge coin belonged only to Davey. Bray didn’t say the words, for they were Davey’s own.
The game, though, was real. Davey and Bray played it indoors while Geoff watched the financial news. It was always KV against Prussia. It was the only game on earth where two opposing players were on the same side against a mythical but determined opponent, and was played with a single balloon.
Bray and Davey defeated Prussia every night. Always a near thing, especially when Davey tried to score double or the fire suffered a faint back draught and the balloon strayed. Always the same victorious score,
twenty-nineteen
.
Counting the wooden figures on their narrow ledges in the painted landscape, Bray’s vision blurred. He blotted his eyes with a sleeve, and reached the correct total of 119. Another seven carvings stood on the window ledge, ready to take their places when finished.
He studied every one. Acrylic paints were safe, no toxicity, needing only water and easily painted over should Davey change his mind. The only problem had been the tramway signalman – Davey changed it back to blue stripes on yellow the following day.
Thirty wooden figures had names.
Bray heard Geoff approach, and quickly closed the panel. He was extinguishing the lantern when Geoff opened the door. Buster rose and wagged.
“Dad?” Geoff switched on the electric light and stepped inside. “Don’t you think you spend enough time in this old place?”
Geoff had been crying. Some psychiatrist had doubtless been at him.
“Maybe you’re right, son,” Bray said.
“The doctors think maybe Shirley’s going schizoid, Dad. Things can tip people over.”
They walked towards Geoff’s house, the retriever scouting ahead.
“You never used to lock it up, Dad. Why now?”
“Not sure, son. Maybe a weird compensation.” It was all Bray could think of to say. They said goodnight, as if they had miles to travel.
That night Bray sat up until three making sketches of the KV landscape. He checked his detailed drawings of the wooden figures, added notes as forgotten features came back.
Draw five a night, with luck he’d have them all done in
twenty-four days, say four weeks give or take. Then he could colour them, making sure each shade and hue was correct. He had to get on; urgency drove him. Unless Geoff lodged at the hospital with Shirley and left Bray free? He’d be quicker then. He’d get more paints and use better quality paper.
What, two months to transfer all Davey’s figures to paper? He decided to include the seven half-completed carvings. More difficult, but the harder the task the better. Aching muscles told an athlete he was training to the limit.
No word from Kylee.
The wharf was crowded. The greensward was now a picnic area beside the estuary. A new funfair was thronged with children. Distantly, the church’s ancient spire was now an extraordinary yellow. Paddling pools made him wince. He tried not to hear their squeals and excited shouts as he parked.
He bought a newspaper, discarded three or four sections into a waste bin, and sat in the café with a complicated sandwich and tea. Two families, three boatmen, and a uniformed attendant from the parish car park were having a meal among impatient children, their parents trying to make them eat. Bray read an article about computer hackers.
Two young Americans had seemingly hacked into the USA Pentagon computers. They had also, the report stated grimly, offended Harvard. The damage was costly. A defending lawyer claimed it was all in fun, paradoxically conferring benefit on the American military by exposing weaknesses, no hard feelings. What
was
hacking?
Bray thought of Kylee. Pornography chains were well publicised these days, computers a route for beasts who
preyed on the young. Further than this Bray couldn’t force himself to think. It might prove a blank, even after a
life-long
search. But what other option was there?
“Mr Charleston?”
The man seemed so unlikely. Ganglingly tall, there could never be another printer like him, with a shock of untidy hair, crumpled jacket and baggy trousers. Bray stumbled to his feet and they shook hands.
“Mr Corkhill? Would you have something?”
“I’ll get it.”
Corkhill bought three cheese rolls and tea into which he spooned sugar. Bray watched the man down the scaldingly hot tea and engulf a thick roll. In normal times he would have felt admiration for the performance.
“I’m sorry to bring you out on a Sunday.”
There too he had difficulty. How easy it must be, to be female. Women would be instantly into that overlapping chat of womankind. Men spoke in alternates, you speak and I listen, then here I come, and thus we speak turn and turn about, the only way a ponderous serial exchange.
“No harm done. I’ve had to take my daughter and her, erm, family to my sister’s.” The thin man smiled. “Glad to meet you. Never thought I’d have the honour. I’m only sad it’s under these circumstances.”
Honour? Bray waited as Corkhill swiftly finished his food. They talked of designs remembered in the woodcraft magazines. The printer shyly confessed that he was working on a toy carousel, with metal moving parts. Carving the roundabout’s horses was difficult. A wooden hippopotamus had proved strangely easy. He asked about maple variants.
“Give Rock Maple a try, but not the British variety. You’ll get it from Spitalfields.”
The printer gave a wry laugh. “Mr Charleston, you’re speaking to one who’s all thumbs!”
“Choosing your wood is half the battle. American Rock Maple – they call it Sugar Maple over there,
Acer saccharum
. It’s got a fawn tinge and is stiff, so your carving tool won’t wander. It works lovely, the grain close, compact.”
They were silent a moment, each with a difficulty. “I’ll show you the result. You won’t laugh?”
“Promise.” Bray’s moment had arrived. “I’d do it for you, in payment.”
Corkhill watched children enter, choose a table noisily and bargain with the mother for the wrong foods. She overruled them with spirit.
“Payment?”
“I need a printer.”
“I do most styles, jobs, typefaces. Come and see.”
“I want something to
have been
printed, Mr Corkhill.” Bray let a moment go by. “I want proof that a booklet, quite small, was published months since.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“Correct.” A balloon had floated from an infant’s hand and risen to the ceiling. Bray returned it to the staring child.
“How many copies?” Corkhill seemed to be holding out his hand for a handshake. Bray pondered, then realised he was being asked for the book.
“Every book has an ISBN, isn’t that so?”
The printer was obviously wondering what he’d got himself into. “The International Standard Book Number.”
“And a publication date?” Bray added helplessly, “Before the story begins?”
“Yes. Who has your volume?”
“Nobody.” Bray cleared a space on the Formica table, dishes to one side, condiments to the other, as if about to demonstrate. “I need one copy urgently. I need an invoice from an established printer who supplied, in the fictitious past, a number of copies. How many,” Bray quickly anticipated Corkhill, “I haven’t a clue.”
“Invoices,” the printer said doubtfully. “I can print you your book anytime. My cousin Teddy’s boy’s recently joined me. He’s a designer…” He petered out, drummed his fingers. “Your book’s no problem.”
“But invoices are?”
“Correct. We’d get in serious trouble defrauding Customs and Excise. They’re Value-Added-Tax.”
“They come to Gilson Mather.” Bray was leaning forward now, fingers linked, intent.
“There’s no way round them, Mr Charleston.”
“If I pay you as the customer, could you then?”
“Yes. But the full job is just as easy. One copy would cost the earth. Ten thousand copies cost virtually the same as nine thousand and the cost per copy becomes negligible.”
“Then I’ll set up as a printer.” Bray drew out a handwritten page. “Supposing I’m a printer. Ten months back, suppose I pretend I rented the use of your workshop, say three evenings a week, weekends, I don’t know. Here’s my supposition in writing. If I pay you,
then
could you give me an invoice?”
“Ye-e-es. I don’t see why not.”
“How much would it be?”
“Will you really want my printshop, Mr Charleston?”
Bray looked at the other with astonishment. “Good heavens, no! I haven’t the faintest idea how to print anything.”
Corkhill passed a hand across his brow.
“Then why do you…?” He paused, gauging Bray. “Simply to prove this booklet
was
printed?”
“That’s right.” Bray wasn’t sure he’d won the point. “It would convey the belief,” he said gently, “which is all I have. I want to make it a possible.”
“Am I to know the purpose, Mr Charleston?”
“The less you know the better. Every tax will be paid.”
“Then why do you need an actual book?”
Bray couldn’t blame the man. Authorities would come down hard if he transgressed.
“To prove there was an actual printing.”
When there wasn’t anything of the kind
. Bray saw the conclusion reach Corkhill’s eyes.
“And my invoices would prove what, exactly?”
“That in the past I rented your place and printed a book.”
Corkhill nodded. He’d got it. Bray essayed a smile. It didn’t work, but showed willing. “I’ll quite understand if you say no.”
The printer frowned. Bray’s heart sank. “Would it help your, er, plan?”
“It is essential.”
“Okay, Mr Charleston,” Corkhill said unexpectedly with false gravity. “But if you mix my Bembo and Sans Serif fonts the deal’s off. Agreed?”
Bray didn’t know what those were. It seemed some quip. He said fine.
“Now,” Corkhill said, businesslike. “Shall we walk, and work out details?”
“That would be…” Not fine or nice. He concluded, “Yes.”
They strolled to the wharf where fishing boats were
readying for sea. They stood watching first one then another cast off.
“As soon as you give me an idea of your size, colour, format, Mr Charleston, I’ll get the rent invoices off to you.”
Bray’s success unnerved him. He felt scared. “Send them as soon as you like, please.”
“It’s not a fake of a book written by someone else?”
“Of course not!”
“Sorry.” Corkhill smiled. “Since you’re now a master printer, you’d better drop in. At least learn where to find the light switches!”
“I suppose so.” Bray could see he might fall down on details. “I’m very grateful. I’ll see you don’t lose by it, Mr Corkhill.”
“Call me George,” the printer said. “Seeing we’re partners in – what’s the word, Mr Charleston?”
“Crime,” Bray said. Easiest word so far.