Heads I Win Tails You Lose. Lynne Fox
not a simple case of merely asking to view the file, she’ll undoubtedly demand a detailed explanation of why. Somehow, she must be distracted and removed from the office.
Walking from the college car park the following day I notice some lads hanging about the bicycle sheds and have a ‘light bulb’ moment. Going straight to Janet’s office I inflect genuine concern into my voice.
‘Janet, did you come on your bike this morning?’ I know that she did, she always does.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Well, I don’t want to worry you but I think some lads are doing something to your bike.’
‘What! The little shits!’ Thrusting back her chair Janet moves with surprising speed considering her immense bulk, such that I have to press myself against the wall to avoid being knocked over as she storms out the door.
Quickly, I open the cabinet drawer. Janet is meticulous in her filing and labelling so locating Barry’s file only takes a few seconds. I scan its contents; the most interesting entry being that against Next of Kin where is entered ‘Foster Parents’. I quickly scribble a note of their address and Barry’s current address and mobile number. There’s no time for anything else, I can hear Janet puffing back down the corridor and hastily make my exit before she returns.
I’m fortunate that today is my slack day for teaching and I’ve the whole of the afternoon free. I spend some time in a quiet corner of the college library with my laptop, devising a brief questionnaire and flyer.
Returning home I study my wardrobe. As a child I always enjoyed dressing up, pretending to be someone else, creating an imaginary world over which I had control. Now, as an adult, I find the skills I practised back then pay dividends. I eventually choose a smart business suit and low heels. The blonde wig and specs complete the picture. Inclining my head in greeting I admire my reflection. It always astonishes me how so little can create such a transformation.
Barry’s address is on the outskirts of town, a little way out in the countryside. I hate this kind of rural driving, finding that I’m holding my breath every time I negotiate a blind bend. I just know that at some point I’m going to encounter a tractor taking up the whole road and will have to back up for miles.
I don’t know what I expect to find but it isn’t the rough looking smallholding in front of me. I can see a few goats, hens and a couple of pigs milling about a large enclosure. The house is a two up, two down farm cottage but without the proverbial roses around the door, chocolate box image. Glancing up, the roof tiles are moss covered and in places, clumps of grasses poke their heads above the guttering. Heavy rains must cascade over the side, my assumption evidenced by a three feet wide shadow of damp running down the wall to the left of the front door.
The windows, small paned and sash, are blind with grime; it must be like looking out through cataracts, images clouded and indistinct. Wreathed in an air of neglect the cottage strikes me as a shelter of necessity rather than a home. Just looking at it makes me feel depressed.
I coast past in my car a couple of times; there doesn’t seem to be anyone about and the lane is equally deserted; the house standing beside the one straight piece of road in an otherwise tortuous and narrow country lane. What shall I do? I can’t keep driving backwards and forwards like this, it’s ridiculous; oh, but all that muck! I grit my teeth and on the third pass I will myself to turn in at the gate. The car tyres squelch in the cloying mud. For god’s sake, I only had this cleaned yesterday!
Pulling up as close to the front door as I’m able in an attempt to walk as short a distance as possible I open the car door and gingerly start to step out when the sound of bird song is shattered by vicious snarls and barks. Two Doberman hurtle toward me from around the side of the building. Christ! I throw myself back into the car as a waft of rancid, warm breath caresses my face just as I slam the door. Jumping up, teeth bared and slobbering on the glass, their attack instinct borders on insanity.
Oh God, where are my keys? I duck down and rummage in the footwell. I can’t see or feel them anywhere and then I realise, I must have dropped them outside. The dogs are still frantically jumping up and clawing at the door. I’d like to smash their heads in.
The cottage door opens and a man in his mid-fifties, swarthy and solid-framed, steps out, carrying hunks of raw meat. ‘Hitler! Goering!’ He slings the meat over towards the shed and the two dogs vanish as swiftly as they’d arrived.
As he saunters over my skin creeps as though a thousand tiny insects are running over me. He leans down, one hand supporting himself on the roof of my car and motions me to lower the window. I give the briefest shake of my head as I stare wide-eyed into his unrelenting gaze. He dips slightly, reaching down and comes up dangling my keys at the glass. ‘If you want to drive out of here, you’d better open the window, luv.’ His mouth creases into a sarcastic smirk as his gravelly voice vibrates through the car.
Reluctantly I lower the window a couple of inches and put my hand up for the keys. The man dangles them just beyond my reach, his hand carrying the smell of dead meat, bringing bile up into my throat. ‘Not until you tell me why you’re here.’
I make a huge effort to swallow and give what I desperately hope is an appealing and conciliatory smile. ‘Is this where Barry lives?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m from West Park College. He has this address on his personnel file.’
‘Then I should think it’s a fair bet that this is where he lives, wouldn’t you, luv?’
My hackles rise at his sarcasm but I bite my lip.
The man lets out an exasperated sigh, ‘Look, luv, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Why don’t you just step out of the car? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. The dogs won’t bother you while I’m here and my bark is definitely worse than my bite.’ His face creases into a grin that is mirrored in the crinkles of his eyes; a deceptive yet enticing transformation. He takes a couple of steps back from my car door and holds out his hands in a beckoning stance.
My mind is racing. I can’t drive off as he still has my keys and, in any case, to leave having learnt nothing would make the whole escapade futile. Taking a deep breath I treat him to my most winning smile and, opening the door, gingerly step out, trying my best to avoid the mud. In very gentlemanly fashion he takes my hand to steady me as I attempt to negotiate a large puddle just beside the car’s front wheels. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘forgot my cloak.’ His grin widens. Smart arse! I’d like to wipe that smirk off his face.
Inside the cottage the kitchen initially seems surprisingly clean and cheerful yet a quick scan reveals that this is merely surface gloss. The tea towel hanging on the cooker could do with a good wash and the dishcloth on the draining board is so grey it should have been condemned to the waste bin weeks ago. The floor is grimed and the tiled splash back to the cooker is speckled with grease spatters. That and a blackened pan on the top of the stove suggest that fry-ups are the main culinary skill of this household.
The man motions me to a chair at the table where I sit and remove my laptop from its case, setting it on the table in business-like manner.
‘Tea?’ He has the kettle in his hand and I note that he makes his way quite slowly across the kitchen to the sink taking in my appearance as he moves. I can tell he approves of what he sees.
‘That would be lovely, thank you. Perhaps I might explain why I’m here.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘As I mentioned, I’m from West Park College and Barry has been nominated for an award – he’s one of our brightest students – and I’m gathering some information on him ready for an article should he win. I’m visiting all the nominees. I wonder if you could tell me a little about Barry’s background.’
I shuffle a little on my seat, placing my fingers lightly on the keyboard in readiness to type his response.
‘No.’
I’m not adept at dealing with such rudeness. I press