“I see,” said Paul, slowly. And then, unexpectedly, he smiled. “Well, I don't see. Not really. I know nothing about farmers. But thank you for trying to explain it to me. I probably have a lot to learn. I'm afraid you might have to be patient.”
Andrea nodded. As if something Craig hadn't heard had passed between them and she was satisfied with it.
“Good,” she said, and turned to him. “Now, do you still have the key to your house, Craig? Or will you need me to let you in?”
* * * *
With Andrea's spare key in his hand, he and Paul stood outside his old home. Andrea herself had turned down the chance to keep them company, and Craig wondered if she was being tactful about his return to where he used to live. He wouldn't have minded. The memories—such as they were—he held of that time weren't precious. At least not as far as his father was concerned. His mother ... best not to think of that though. He had to keep his wits about him.
Now it was funny how small everything looked. Even just from the outside. In Craig's head over the years, the dimensions of where he'd been brought up, where in the end he'd run from, had taken on almost mythic proportions. Now all he could see was a simple white exterior, black wooden windows scattered higgledy-piggedly across the frontage, and a not very well-kept roof. Some of the tiles were missing. He shook his head. Had his father let things go or had he been planning to mend them over Christmas? After all, they were only a couple of weeks or so away from the big event. Not that it meant that much to him. Not anymore. And it never would again.
Next to him, Paul hunkered down. He reached out and scrabbled for a second near the larger of the two rocks framing the threshold.
“What is it?” Craig asked.
Paul stood up, stretched out his hand, palm open, toward Craig. Something he was holding glittered in the last faint rays of the winter sun.
“Glass?” he said.
Paul nodded. “Broken too. Just a few fragments. I caught them in the corner of my eye.”
Craig shrugged. “My father probably dropped something. Didn't have time to clear it up.”
Paul didn't reply. So Craig smiled his bravest, most carefree smile at him to show he wasn't fazed by any of these events—that in fact going back to a home he'd run from and a life he'd abandoned several years ago was something he did every week, if not every day—and unlocked the door.
The hall smelled musty, as if someone had left a long time ago and never been back. It didn't feel as if there'd been anyone living here only recently. The moment he stepped inside, parts of his childhood came racing back. As if they'd been waiting for him for seven years.
His first day at school. The smell of burning stubble on the land. How frightened he was of next door's Labrador. And how cross that had made his father.
Let mankind rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.
How he'd always hated Labradors ever since. Then the long bus ride to secondary school. Playing football on the school pitch. How he'd pined over one of the boys in the class above him for months. What was his name? Oh yes, Gary. Gary Weston.
All these images came spinning through. Like so many jigsaw pieces Craig couldn't ever fit together or whose picture he couldn't begin to imagine. Over as soon as he'd thought it.
“Welcome to where I grew up,” he said to Paul, waving him in.
The first thing he saw was the sheer number of crosses, interspersed with religious texts, nailed to the walls on each side of the hallway. There were far more of them than he'd expected; he was sure there hadn't been quite so many when he left. What had happened to his father over the years? Surely he couldn't have got any more obsessive about his faith? Paul stopped and blinked, his gaze drifting across the scene.
“He's certainly a religious man, your father,” he said.
“Yes.” Craig's heart was beating fast. This was a topic he didn't much want to discuss, and he was glad when his boyfriend's next comment took them elsewhere.
“And you don't think of it as
home
?”
“No. I don't.”
“I can understand that. Mine isn't either.”
They were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Then, unsure what to do with the gift Paul seemed to be offering him, Craig took a deep breath.
“Come on,” he said. “Let's go and
search for clues
. My father can't be far away. It's just a matter of working out where he is. And then getting out.”
He led the way down the hall, past the crosses, trying not to look at them, and to the left. Best to get the worst over soonest. So, first stop: his father's office. Somewhere he'd tried his hardest to keep out of when he was living here. It had always been his father's private domain. He and his mother had stayed in the living room. They were happier there. Now he could see layers of dust on the desk, along with more religious artifacts, two bibles, a prayer book, some old buff files, and scattered paperwork.
Paul gestured at the files. “May I?”
“Go ahead. You're the professional. If you find out he's been fiddling his taxes and done a runner, let me know how much and let's ... spend it.”
Damn it. He'd been going to say
let's book a holiday
, but had had the sense to stop just in time. Gay Rule Number Seven:
Don't discuss holidays until at least after the first row; you'll both need one then
.
Luckily, Paul didn't seem to notice. He simply raised one eyebrow, sat down and began flicking through the papers. While he did so, Craig ran his hand along the bookshelves, finding more dust and the same old books and magazines there had always been:
Farmers’ Weekly
, the newest editions still in their wrapping; Agatha Christie paperbacks; a set of Rudyard Kipling novels. Some of them, he thought, were handed down from his grandfather. And, of course, row upon row of religious books and tracts. Again, memories pecked at his head.
“Your father isn't a great lover of admin, is he?” Paul's voice startled him and Craig almost knocked over a small photograph frame resting at the end of the shelf. When he picked it up, it showed his parents in front of the house.
“No. No, I suppose he isn't. But, to be honest, I never had much to do with the running of the farm. He gave up on me as son and heir in that respect a long time ago. Though I wasn't bad with the machinery.”
Paul grinned. “Bet you looked cute in your overalls under a tractor.”
“More than cute. Stunning. If you stick around long enough, you might be lucky and find out.”
Thinking he might have gone too far, Craig blushed, but Paul just laughed. “Can't wait. But in the meantime, tell me more about the farm. I'd thought it would be cows, sheep, that kind of thing, but it's not, is it?”
“Not on the whole. We did have a herd of cows when I was very young—on the land farther east of here. I can remember helping a cow to calf once or twice, though I don't think my father would have classed it as ‘helping.’ But it wasn't worth it. Not in the end. The land round here, round the house, is purely crops. Wheat; barley; rapeseed of course. That kind of thing. Oh, and there's one apple orchard. Put down to Cox's Orange Pippin and Russets, if you're interested.”
“Russets? An acquired taste, aren't they?”
“Yeah. Can't stand them myself, but I remember my mother used to love them.”
“Used to?”
“Yes. She left us. I was very young. I don't remember much about it. She probably got fed up of church three times a week and twice-daily prayers or something. Though of course she was religious too. That's where she met my father.”
Feeling the splinters of the past once more in his blood, Craig turned away. There was silence for a few moments before Paul spoke.
“I don't think there's anything too drastic in these accounts,” he said, his voice gentle. “But I'll need to have a thorough look through them to be sure. It's easy to miss something at first glance. I could do it now if you like, but it'll take a little time.”
Craig hesitated. He didn't know how much he wanted Paul to be here giving expert advice or here as support. Finally he nodded.
“Would you be okay with that?”
“Sure. Why don't we have a quick look round the rest of the house first, see if there's obviously anything out of place? I'm sure the police have already covered all the bases but there's no harm in checking. Then you can give me a hand with the accounts if you like. Or do you feel happier with searching the house more thoroughly?”
“Searching?”
“Yes.” Paul looked up at him and his expression was serious. “That
is
what we're doing here, Craig, isn't it? Looking for something, though neither of us is sure what it is?”
“Yes. No. I ... I suppose so. I hadn't thought of it like that.”
Paul continued to gaze at him for another moment or two before getting up. When he reached him, he ran his fingers down Craig's face before resting them on his shoulder. Craig could feel the edges of the shelf behind digging into his back.
“I can see this isn't easy for you,” Paul whispered. “I know I'm acting like an idiot. If you like, I can stop doing a job and simply be your friend instead.”
As he spoke Paul planted small kisses on his throat and neck and Craig could sense the heat rising between them. Even here.
“You are my friend,” he said after a while. “And I'm more than grateful for what you're trying to do, Paul. You're right though. Much as I want to ... you're right. We should have a look round the house, see if we can find out what my father's been up to.”
Holding hands, they walked out of the office. Craig decided the living room would be a sensible place to start. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered.
It was the same as it had always been. Except for the musty smell, as if it hadn't been used for a while, and one missing item, which he noticed at once. Not surprising, as it was the first place he'd looked after all. A habit which seven years away hadn't destroyed. Feeling his muscles tense up, Craig let go of Paul's hand and made a slow spin around the room. Everything looked the same. Of course it did. Why should he have thought it would be any different? His father had never been the redecorating kind. Not like Andrea. His attentions were fixed on the farm, his livelihood. But, most of all, on God. Anything beyond that had always been second best.
Here, now, he could see what he'd always seen: light orange-and-blue-patterned carpet, plain beige walls. A blue fabric sofa, two matching chairs. Somehow it seemed smaller. Was that what being away could do? Next to the small wooden cross and unlit candle, a scattering of local papers covered the coffee table and Craig picked one up, leafing through it. Same old news as there'd always been then. Nothing ever happened in Devon.
Paul wandered round the room, looking at the pictures. Not that there were that many of them. Just a couple of religious scenes on the wall opposite the window—one featuring St. Paul and one St. Andrew—and near the television an aerial view of the farm. Nothing here then. No great clues as to where the hell his father was and no goodbye notes either. Not that he'd expected any. Just as he was about to move on, Paul grunted and leaned over, behind one of the chairs.
“What is it?” Craig asked.
“I'm not sure. I.... Got it.” With a frown, he straightened up, holding something slim and curled in his fingers. “It's a photograph. Of you, I think? It's....”
He trailed off and something in his voice made Craig reach out and snatch the photograph from his hand. Staring down at it, he felt the muscles in his stomach clench. It was a picture of him when he was about twelve or thirteen, his blond hair brushed carefully back and his school uniform on. Nothing strange about that, except for the red pen marks which had been slashed and scribbled across his face.
Without thinking, he glanced toward the mantelpiece. Paul caught the movement at once.
“Is that where it used to be?” he asked, taking two or three strides until he reached the empty space above the sealed-in fireplace. “Your photograph?”
Craig nodded. “Yes. It used to be in a frame though. I don't know where that's gone.”
“Glass?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Might be part of the fragments we found on the doorstep then. Though it's hard to be sure.”
He swallowed and just stared at Paul. He stared back.
At last, Craig spoke. “I suppose we ought to continue our search then. See what else we can find.”
Which was what they did. Of course the kitchen and bathroom held no surprises, though he noticed that the old chair that used to lurk in the corner of the kitchen had disappeared. The one he'd always used. He wondered how long it had been after he'd left before his father had ditched it, and then shook the thought away. He had to stop thinking about his father as the devil incarnate. Sometimes it had seemed like it, however, especially when he had been
filled with the Spirit
and determined to make Craig see sense about some religious point or other. That side of him had definitely worsened in Craig's teenage years. The chair had needed to go; there was nothing more to it than that. Probably.
“Nothing odd here?” Paul asked.
“No. Let's go upstairs.”
The stairs from the living room took them onto the landing that again seemed smaller than Craig remembered it. The first room on the right was his old room. When he switched on the light, he took a sharp intake of breath.
“Bloody hell.”
“What is it? What's wrong?” Paul pushed past him and stared around the room as if poised to fend off any attacker he might find there. If he'd been feeling more normal—or if today had been a normal day at all so far—Craig might even have laughed, but he couldn't summon the will for it.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing's wrong. It's just that....”
“What?”
“It looks just how it did when I left it. I think. Nothing's changed.”
It was true. His A-level notes were still spread out across the end of his unmade bed, his old trainers abandoned next to the window, with a couple of old school shirts hanging over the chair.