The Straw Men 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead, Blood of Angels. Michael Marshall
of any flavour, had ever been born in Hunter’s Rock. I talked to a nice young lady behind a desk, who said she’d see if she could find any other information. I couldn’t see what else would be helpful, and it soon became apparent that she couldn’t either but was trying to help out of a combination of compassion and boredom. I gave her my number and left.
Bobby was standing on the pavement outside, talking on his phone. I looked dumbly up and down the street until he was finished. Even though I’d known it was coming, I felt dispossessed. It was like being sat down and told that you hadn’t come out of your mother’s tummy after all, but really had been deposited under a bush by a stork. I’d had my tonsils removed in that little hospital, visited it to get two separate sets of stitches in youthful knees. On each occasion I’d believed that I had been revisiting the place where I’d been born.
‘Well, my friend,’ Bobby said eventually. ‘The upstanding men and women of the Dyersburg police department would surely like to know where you are. You’ll be gratified to hear that this appears to be out of a concern for your well-being. At the moment.’
‘And the house?’
‘Extensive damage to living room and hallway, chunk of lower stairway destroyed. But not burned to the ground.’
‘So what now?’
‘Show me your old house,’ he said.
I looked at him. ‘Why?’
‘Well, honey, because you’re big and blond and gorgeous and I want to know everything about you.’
‘Fuck off,’ I suggested, supporting the notion with a weary hand gesture. ‘It’s a dumb and pointless idea.’
‘You got any better suggestions? This doesn’t look like a town with limitless entertainment options.’
I took us out along the main street. I couldn’t work out whether it was the new or the old stuff that looked most unfamiliar. The most noticeable thing was that the old Jane’s Market had been knocked down, replaced by a small Holiday Inn with one of the new-style boxy little signs. I miss the big old googie ones. I really do. I don’t understand why rectangles are supposed to be better.
When we were nearly there I drove more slowly, and finally pulled over on the opposite side. It had been ten years since I’d last looked at the house, maybe more. It looked pretty much the same – though it had been repainted in the intervening time and the trees and shrubs around it had changed. A family vehicle of Far Eastern provenance was parked in the drive, and three bikes were stowed neatly around the side.
After a minute I saw a shape passing behind the front window and then disappearing from sight. Just a nondescript suburban dwelling, but it looked like a gingerbread house in a fairy tale. Its reality was too strong, too compelling, as if overloaded with MSG. I tried to remember exactly when I’d last been inside. It seemed inconceivable that I hadn’t wanted to visit again before it passed into someone else’s hands. Had I really been so bad at seeing how things might one day be different?
‘Are you ready for this?’
I realized that my hands were shaking a little. I turned to him. ‘Ready for what?’
‘Going inside.’
‘I’m not going inside.’
‘Yes you are,’ he said, patiently.
‘Bobby – have you lost your mind? Somebody else lives there now. There’s no way I’m going in that house.’
‘Listen to me. Couple of years ago my old man died. Didn’t matter much to me – we got on like shit. But my mother called, asked me home for the burial. I was busy. Didn’t make it. Six months later I realized I was acting kind of weird. Nothing you’d put your finger on. Things were just stressing me out. All the time. Getting anxious when there was nothing specific to make me that way. A panic attack kind of thing, I guess. Holes kept opening in front of me.’
I didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t looking in my direction, but staring straight out of the windshield.
‘In the end some work brought me close to home, so I went to see my mother in Rochford. It’s not like she and I were best pals either. But it was good to see her. Maybe “good” isn’t the right word. Useful. She looked different. Smaller. And on the way out of town I stopped by the graveyard, stood by the old man’s plot for a while. It was a sunny afternoon and there was no one else around. And his ghost, his ghost came right up out of the soil in front of me and said, “Listen, Bobby, chill.”’
I stared at him. He laughed quietly. ‘Of course not. I didn’t feel his presence, or become any more reconciled to the way he’d been. But since then I don’t feel so anxious. I think about death sometimes, and I’m more careful in what I do and I’m more open to the idea of settling down one of these years. But the weird thing went away. I found the ground again.’ He looked at me. ‘Loose ends are the death of people, Ward. You think you’re protecting yourself but all you’re doing is opening little cracks. You let too many open up at once, the whole thing is going to fall to dust and you’ll find yourself like a starving dog wandering the streets in the night. And you, my friend, have got a whole lot of cracks appearing at this time.’
I opened the door and got out of the car.
‘If they’ll let me.’
‘They’ll let you,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
I stopped. I guess I thought he’d be coming with me. ‘It’s your house,’ he said. ‘And we knock on that door together, whoever opens it is going to think they’re going to be starring in the mortuary end of an episode of Forensic Detectives.’
I walked up the driveway, and knocked on the door. The porch was tidy and well-swept.
A woman appeared, smiled. ‘Mr Hopkins?’ she said.
After a beat I got it, and simultaneously cursed and glorified Bobby’s name. He’d called ahead, pretended to be me, and laid the groundwork. I wondered what he’d’ve done if I’d refused.
‘That’s right,’ I said, coming up to speed. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She stood aside to usher me in. ‘You were lucky to catch me earlier. I’m afraid I have to go out again soon though.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just a few minutes would be great.’
The woman, who was in middle age and pretty and nice enough to be someone’s mother on television, asked if I wanted coffee. I said no but there was some already made and in the end it was easier to accept. While she fetched it I stood in the hallway and looked around. Everything had changed. The woman, whatever her name was (I couldn’t ask, as in theory I’d spoken to her earlier), was not unfamiliar with the stenciller’s art. In a Pottery Barn kind of way it looked rather better than when we’d lived there.
Then we walked around. The woman didn’t need to explain why she accompanied me. I thought it pretty unusual that she would let a man into her house just on the basis of a phone call: a desire to keep half an eye on her belongings was entirely natural. I was soon able to make sufficient comment on the way things had been when she moved in that even this mild guardedness disappeared, and she busied herself with stuff in the background. I wandered through each of the rooms, and then up the stairs. I took a brief look in what had been my parents’ room and the spare room, both of which had been largely alien territory to me. Then I girded myself for the final area.
When the door to my old room was open, I swallowed involuntarily. I took a couple of paces in, then stopped. Green walls, brown carpet. A few boxes and some old chairs, a broken fan and most of a child’s bike.
I discovered that the woman was standing behind me.
‘Haven’t changed a thing,’ she admitted. ‘View’s better from the other room, so my daughter sleeps in there even though it’s a little smaller. We just store a few things here.