Someone Else's Conflict (7 page)

‘That's perfectly obvious, my boy.' His smile seemed forced. ‘Did she say why they'd moved?' Vinko sensed a reason behind the question, and chewed a mouthful of steak instead of replying. Novak stared at him for a moment. ‘Well? Did she mention any…change in their circumstances?'

‘Why should she? Why would she even know?'

His uncle nodded slowly. ‘I hope it's not too late.'

‘Too late?'

‘Vinko, lad, there's something I haven't been telling you. My mistake. I thought it best not to affect the way you were with them. But you're taking so long. What's the problem? Don't you want to see your family? Anyway, this changes it.'

‘What does?'

‘Someone I know, someone who knew your family, tells me there's some money of his that may have come their way. Money they shouldn't have. I'd like you to help me find out, and if it's true, help me get it back for my friend. You'd be rewarded.'

Vinko concentrated on his last few chips, then speared the final piece of meat. As he chewed he tried to settle his thoughts, knowing Novak was watching his every move. The dream was shattering, here, now, before he'd even met them.

‘How?' he said eventually. ‘What could I do? I haven't been near them yet.'

He took an inelegant gulp of red wine and listened as Novak suggested he find a way – how was entirely up to him – to lay his hands on the relevant bank account details, and he and his contacts would do the rest. Vinko would get a generous share. He remained noncommital. Apart from his uncle, whom he didn't particularly like despite his wining, dining and home entertainment system, they were the only family Vinko had. If he was to meet them, he wanted to get to know them properly, not start by stealing from them.

‘They're not the dream family you want them to be.' It was as if Novak could read his mind. ‘And anyway, they need never know your part in it.'

Vinko stared at his empty plate, fingers drumming on his thigh.

‘Don't you want a chance to earn some real money? Think of all the stuff you've done before. This is easy in comparison. You're not even stealing – this money isn't theirs.'

‘Why can't you do it?'

‘How thick
are
you?' His tone was low, in keeping with the surroundings, but menacing enough to make Vinko tense. ‘How many times do I have to say? They won't let me near.'

‘Sorry. But what if I don't want to get involved?'

Novak leaned back, composure restored. ‘Then you take your chance.'

The nature of the man's smile told Vinko that ‘chance' meant more than whether or not he got to know his grandparents, whether or not he eventually saw any share of the money. He wanted to leave.

Outside, he thanked his uncle for the meal but claimed tiredness after a sleepless night as an excuse for going straight home. They drove back in silence and it seemed an age before they came to Vinko's street.

‘Go and see your grandparents,' his uncle said as he pulled over to the kerb, ‘and let me know how you get on.'

Vinko had his hand on the door catch but Novak stopped him. ‘Check your phone for me, will you?'

Vinko got it out reluctantly.

‘Any messages?' His uncle gripped his arm, looked at the empty inbox. ‘I think you've made a mistake with your number, my boy.'

Vinko muttered an excuse as he gave him the correct one. He waited impatiently, fingers tapping restlessly, for the test call to come through.

‘No need to apologise,' said Novak cheerfully. ‘I like your thinking. You know, Vinko, I've enjoyed getting to know you. Now I'm looking forward to working with you.'

Chapter 6

Marilyn insisted they left the washing up until morning and they settled down in front of the living room fire. Jay produced a pipe and a tooled leather pouch.

‘Do you mind?' he asked.

‘What's in there?'

‘Just tobacco.'

She surprised herself by believing him. ‘Go ahead. I don't mind at all. Most of it'll go up the chimney anyway.'

She watched him intent on the job of filling the smooth wooden bowl, collecting up every crumb of spilt tobacco.

‘You don't see many of those these days. Surely cigs are easier?'

He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Commonplace. Anyway, you can't beat this.' He crumbled a flake of tobacco between his fingers and held it out for her to smell. ‘If you're going to do a job do it well, I say.'

He produced a Zippo from the pouch and disappeared momentarily in a cloud of fragrant smoke. She breathed in luxuriously, suppressing one of the rare moments of regret she'd felt since giving up. Something else she'd determined to change about her life when she and Matt split up.

‘If I ever did settle it would probably be somewhere like this,' said Jay out of the blue. ‘Woods, trees. A mighty forest. The kind of forest travellers get lost in. For days. Wandering round and round, trees looking the same, each clearing a relief until you realise there are more trees the other side of it… Until you come to one with a house. A house not unlike this one. Like the house the children came to.'

‘The children?'

‘In the story.'

Story? After a day in which her world, or the Stoneleigh part of it, had literally been turned upside down, not even the idea of listening to a man she hardly knew telling stories in her own living room seemed strange. It was good not to have to think for a while. Let him do the talking.

‘They'd been walking for days.' He waved the pipe in a gesture that encompassed days, weeks, months. ‘They'd lost everything – homes, friends, families – just the three of them left there were, two boys and a girl. They'd also lost their pursuers. Outrun them, outwitted them. Outraged them. And now they were free. They didn't want freedom; they wanted to go home. But their homes no longer existed, so freedom was their only choice. They had no food, it was cold. Then they came to a house in a clearing. They were afraid; they'd learned to fear everyone they didn't know. But where else could they go? The oldest boy knocked, and an old woman answered.

‘“Come in, I've been waiting for you.”

‘She invited them in to the warm fire and fed them with a hot, wholesome broth. As the younger two were falling asleep in the cosy cupboard bed at the side of the room, the oldest boy asked: “How did you know about us?”

‘“The forest told me. If you hadn't arrived I'd have come to find you.”

‘She led him to join the others under the warm blankets. As he drifted off to sleep he half-opened his eyes and thought he saw a huge raven circling the room before it flew out through the window. He called out to the old woman once in his fear but there was no answer and sleep soon overtook him.

‘The next day the children were allowed to rest, but after that the old woman had them working for her. The youngest boy swept the house, the girl gathered and prepared the food, the oldest boy tended the pigs and collected firewood. The old woman slept by day as they worked, but every afternoon she woke up, looked over the work they'd done and gave them a hearty meal from the ingredients the girl had prepared. Every night they ate the food she gave them and fell asleep straight away afterwards in the cosy bed, grateful for the new home she'd given them. Sometimes, the oldest boy thought he saw the raven leaving the room, or returning before dawn, but mostly he was too tired to give it a second thought, and by morning he'd forget. One day, the oldest boy looked at the girl as he fed the fire while she sat spinning.

‘“What were we sad about when we came here?”

‘“I don't remember.” She looked at the youngest boy who was polishing the old woman's shoes. “Do you remember feeling sad?”

‘The little boy shook his head. He couldn't remember a time they hadn't lived in the cottage in the woods. The girl realised she only had a few vague pictures in her head of her home, and after a few days those had gone too. They continued, strangely content. The oldest boy couldn't remain content for long. He wanted to know who he was. He tried and tried to remember why they were there, why they had been sad, but it was no use. The others began to get annoyed with him for fretting. He never dared ask the woman they had come to know as Grandmother.

‘One day, he was collecting firewood and he cut his hand on a thorn. He saw his own blood drip onto a leaf. He looked up and saw the black and white flash of a magpie watching him. The bird spoke and the boy nearly dropped his bundle of sticks in surprise.

‘“What's the matter, young man?”

‘“We're happy here, Grandmother looks after us, but I don't know who I am anymore.”

‘And the magpie said, “She wants children. She wants to keep you here as her own. She'll care for you, but she'll never let you remember in case you decide to leave.”

‘“I want to go back. I want to remember.”

‘“Your memories will bring you sadness. Are you sure?” said the magpie.

‘“I want to be myself,” said the boy.

‘The magpie told him not to eat the food the old woman gave him. He would have to leave that very night – he would have no choice, as the old woman would know. She was at her most dangerous in her raven-winged night, but if the boy waited until morning she would trap him.

‘The boy's cut began to scab over and as the blood dried the magpie's voice became a bird's screech as it flapped off. The boy ran back to the cottage and called the girl and the youngest boy to him. But to his dismay, he couldn't remember what the magpie had told him. Soon he had forgotten what kind of bird had spoken, if it had happened at all. The girl huffed and went back to her spinning, and the little boy went out to dig some potatoes for their meal, singing to himself. The older boy was sad; not the deep sadness they'd been running from, but regret that he couldn't remember something beautiful, and his friends wouldn't help him remember.

‘That evening he caught the cut on his hand as he was feeding the fire and he watched a bead of blood well up. He felt lightheaded.

‘“I don't want any supper tonight, thank you,” he told the old woman. “I'm not feeling well.”

‘She peered at him. “Did anything happen while you were out?”

‘“Nothing,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.

‘He went to bed and she brought him a bowl of steaming broth. “You must try and eat something to keep your strength up.”

‘He nodded and put the bowl to his lips, but only pretended to drink. “It's too hot. I'll drink it once it's cooled.”

‘The old woman bustled off to watch over the other two and he rolled over and tipped the contents between the bed and the wall. When she came back he feigned a wan smile. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

‘But he felt worse. He tried to sleep, but was plagued by images of houses burning, people he loved whom he knew were no longer there. He felt a deep sadness and had an urge to leave; he worried at the cut on his hand to keep himself awake. He tried to hold back his tears in case the old woman heard, and was grateful when the other two came to bed and he eventually heard the beating of wings that he feared but was waiting for.

‘When all was quiet he got up, pulled his coat around him, tiptoed to the door and went out, easing the door closed behind him. He heard a croak and the beating of wings. As a black raven bore down on him, he scratched at his cut and drew a drop of blood. In a flash of black-and-white, the magpie darted into the path of the raven. He watched, terrified, as the two birds tore into one another in a storm of feathers.

‘“Go!” screeched the magpie.

‘Back at the house, the youngest boy awoke with the dawn. He felt a small sticky patch on the blanket. He lifted his finger and saw in the pale light that it was blood. As he looked at the stain on his finger he heard snatches of wings beating, birds screeching, footsteps running. Somehow he knew it was his friend; he wanted desperately to go with him. He shook his sister awake and told her of the birds and the empty space beside them.

‘“Don't be stupid. Go back to sleep or Grandmother will hear you.”

‘He dozed for a while and by the time it was fully light he hardly remembered the dream of the birds. The old woman gave them their breakfast porridge by the fire and the two of them set about their chores. The younger boy went out to fetch firewood – hadn't that always been his job? Who else had ever been there to do it? – and as he reached the edge of the garden he saw a black-and-white shape motionless on the ground. He rubbed a red patch that had appeared on his finger overnight and as he reached out to touch the dead magpie he thought he caught a glimpse of a boy running through the trees. At the same time he felt a hand on his shoulder and started in fear.

‘“Come back to the house, little one,” said the old woman. “You need your coat or you'll catch your death of cold.”

‘By the time he went out again there was nothing there. The youngest boy never lost the red patch on his finger where the drop of blood had stained it. If he rubbed it he'd catch a glimpse of a magpie in another place that somehow felt like home, and see the face of a half-remembered friend in his mind's eye. He didn't understand these images, and they felt like the saddest things he knew, but he was glad he had that red patch on his finger.'