Rhory is visiting his great aunt's house, to check on her cat. She is ill, in hospital. His father is parking the car further down the road. In the distance music from a party drifts by ....
The Boy in Quickly Lane
I walked up the road and found the right number. I hovered
by the garden gate, appreciating the music. It sounded African,
perhaps West African. I love the music from that part of the
world, especially the rhythms of the drums. I couldn’t tell if the
music was live, but I jiggled my fingers in time to the rippling
beats. I can always remember beats once I’ve heard them.
Bridget’s front garden, just into March, had a lot of colour. A
boy nestled between two bushes gave me a start. He’d a grey
face, hair and arms, and held a basin full of water. I smiled at my
jumpiness when I remembered the birds taking a bath in his
basin in the summer.
The key turned and the front door glided open easier than
ours did at home. I fixed the latch so Dad could slip in, and put
the house keys on the hall table. The door to Auntie’s sitting room
stood ajar, and I could see the Toby Jug on top of the piano.
Beyond the piano, in the corner of the room, stood the cylindrical
wooden drinks cabinet. Amazing what you can do with a
commode. Bridget had shown me on my last visit where a secret
drawer held our ancestor’s journal. I’d collect that later. She’d
tucked the key to the small lock in the Toby Jug.
I walked past the stairs and down the dim passageway to the
kitchen at the back of the house. I scanned the room for Jiminy,
Auntie’s ginger and white longhaired cat. His food and water
bowls both had food and water. He wasn’t going to starve.
Outside, in the back garden, the music pounded away. The
leaden sky lent a dull greyness to everything. I wandered along
the central path, between flowerbeds full of tall blooms, calling
for Jiminy. The huge tree at the back part of the garden swayed in
the wind; I’d always enjoyed climbing trees, and this great spruce
or whatever it was gave a grand view over the adjoining gardens.
Auntie had screwed a metal rod about half a metre up the main
trunk. It meant I could hoist myself to the lowest branch without
too much difficulty. I would climb up, see if I could spot the cat,
and wait for Dad.
In the middle of the tree, storm damage had thinned the main
limbs. I had to stretch to climb and trust my weight on some
pencil-thin minor branches. I positioned myself near the top and
waited, enjoying the dusty resin-like smell. I’d climbed quite a bit
higher than the window of the main bedroom and could almost
see right into the loft window set into the roof. Dad walked past
that window, so he must have parked really quickly. I hollered to
him.
The figure moved back. It wasn’t Dad at all. Someone else had
entered the house: perhaps a burglar. The man approached the
window, keeping to the side. He looked down into the garden
and moments later, straight across at me. I’d seen him before. But
where? He stepped back and vanished.
My heart pounded and I found it hard to breathe. I gripped a
branch and reached into my inside pocket for my mobile. I
struggled to switch it on, using just one hand. My fingers made
sweaty marks on the screen. I looped my arm around the branch
enabling me, just about, to use both hands on the phone. It
slipped and fell. I kicked out with my foot and trapped the
phone between my shoe and the trunk. I could feel it edging
downwards. Freeing both hands I wobbled on the branch and
squatted down, pinning the phone with my fingers. Bile stung
my mouth as I punched 999.
“Hello,” said a calm female voice, “what service do you
require?”
“Police, I need the police, there is—”
“Just a moment I’ll connect you.”
A click and a long pause with no stupid music, and then a
man asked, “What’s your name and what address are you calling
from?”
I gave both and explained that a burglar was actually in my
aunt’s house, robbing it as I spoke and could he please send a
policeman, or maybe two, as the man was big.
“Yes, sir, there is a squad car on its way now. Where exactly
are you, sir?”
I repeated the address.
“Yes, sir, I understand that, but where are you in the house?
Can you lock the door?”
“I’m up a tree, the big tree in the back garden.”
“This is not a joke is it, young man? There will be a lot of
trouble for me and you if it’s a joke, but, frankly, more trouble for
you as we have your mobile number on our screen.”
“No, it’s not a joke. I’m up a tree looking for my auntie’s cat.
She’s in hospital and we, that’s my dad and me, we—”
“Okay, son, I believe you, no one could make all that up. You
and your dad just remain calm and the police will be with you in
a jiffy.”
At that point either he hung up or I lost the connection. The
back door opened wider and the man stepped out. Only I recognised
him now. I’d seen him when Juliette and I were examining
the well in Hammerford Park. What on earth was he up to in
Auntie’s house?
He wore dark jeans and a dark-green coat with military-style
shoulder thingies. He had a beret on his head angled over his
cropped hair. He strode up the garden path towards the tree. He
didn’t look up at me, but fiddled with something dark. He
stopped and his hands made a sliding motion. Oh Jeez, oh God,
he’s got a gun …
The branches of the tree gave me cover, though probably not
from a bullet. I sat on a stout limb and pressed myself against the
trunk. The man moved forward, looking up through the foliage.
My brown leather jacket matched the dark-brown of the bark,
and within the canopy of the fir tree I sat in relative dimness.
Perhaps he wouldn’t find me. In the distance I heard a police
siren.
The man ducked under the lowest branches looking up, his
face an indistinct blur. Then he fiddled with the gun as though
screwing something onto it.
I walked up the road and found the right number. I hovered
by the garden gate, appreciating the music. It sounded African,
perhaps West African. I love the music from that part of the
world, especially the rhythms of the drums. I couldn’t tell if the
music was live, but I jiggled my fingers in time to the rippling
beats. I can always remember beats once I’ve heard them.
Bridget’s front garden, just into March, had a lot of colour. A
boy nestled between two bushes gave me a start. He’d a grey
face, hair and arms, and held a basin full of water. I smiled at my
jumpiness when I remembered the birds taking a bath in his
basin in the summer.
The key turned and the front door glided open easier than
ours did at home. I fixed the latch so Dad could slip in, and put
the house keys on the hall table. The door to Auntie’s sitting room
stood ajar, and I could see the Toby Jug on top of the piano.
Beyond the piano, in the corner of the room, stood the cylindrical
wooden drinks cabinet. Amazing what you can do with a
commode. Bridget had shown me on my last visit where a secret
drawer held our ancestor’s journal. I’d collect that later. She’d
tucked the key to the small lock in the Toby Jug.
I walked past the stairs and down the dim passageway to the
kitchen at the back of the house. I scanned the room for Jiminy,
Auntie’s ginger and white longhaired cat. His food and water
bowls both had food and water. He wasn’t going to starve.
Outside, in the back garden, the music pounded away. The
leaden sky lent a dull greyness to everything. I wandered along
the central path, between flowerbeds full of tall blooms, calling
for Jiminy. The huge tree at the back part of the garden swayed in
the wind; I’d always enjoyed climbing trees, and this great spruce
or whatever it was gave a grand view over the adjoining gardens.
Auntie had screwed a metal rod about half a metre up the main
trunk. It meant I could hoist myself to the lowest branch without
too much difficulty. I would climb up, see if I could spot the cat,
and wait for Dad.
In the middle of the tree, storm damage had thinned the main
limbs. I had to stretch to climb and trust my weight on some
pencil-thin minor branches. I positioned myself near the top and
waited, enjoying the dusty resin-like smell. I’d climbed quite a bit
higher than the window of the main bedroom and could almost
see right into the loft window set into the roof. Dad walked past
that window, so he must have parked really quickly. I hollered to
him.
The figure moved back. It wasn’t Dad at all. Someone else had
entered the house: perhaps a burglar. The man approached the
window, keeping to the side. He looked down into the garden
and moments later, straight across at me. I’d seen him before. But
where? He stepped back and vanished.
My heart pounded and I found it hard to breathe. I gripped a
branch and reached into my inside pocket for my mobile. I
struggled to switch it on, using just one hand. My fingers made
sweaty marks on the screen. I looped my arm around the branch
enabling me, just about, to use both hands on the phone. It
slipped and fell. I kicked out with my foot and trapped the
phone between my shoe and the trunk. I could feel it edging
downwards. Freeing both hands I wobbled on the branch and
squatted down, pinning the phone with my fingers. Bile stung
my mouth as I punched 999.
“Hello,” said a calm female voice, “what service do you
require?”
“Police, I need the police, there is—”
“Just a moment I’ll connect you.”
A click and a long pause with no stupid music, and then a
man asked, “What’s your name and what address are you calling
from?”
I gave both and explained that a burglar was actually in my
aunt’s house, robbing it as I spoke and could he please send a
policeman, or maybe two, as the man was big.
“Yes, sir, there is a squad car on its way now. Where exactly
are you, sir?”
I repeated the address.
“Yes, sir, I understand that, but where are you in the house?
Can you lock the door?”
“I’m up a tree, the big tree in the back garden.”
“This is not a joke is it, young man? There will be a lot of
trouble for me and you if it’s a joke, but, frankly, more trouble for
you as we have your mobile number on our screen.”
“No, it’s not a joke. I’m up a tree looking for my auntie’s cat.
She’s in hospital and we, that’s my dad and me, we—”
“Okay, son, I believe you, no one could make all that up. You
and your dad just remain calm and the police will be with you in
a jiffy.”
At that point either he hung up or I lost the connection. The
back door opened wider and the man stepped out. Only I recognised
him now. I’d seen him when Juliette and I were examining
the well in Hammerford Park. What on earth was he up to in
Auntie’s house?
He wore dark jeans and a dark-green coat with military-style
shoulder thingies. He had a beret on his head angled over his
cropped hair. He strode up the garden path towards the tree. He
didn’t look up at me, but fiddled with something dark. He
stopped and his hands made a sliding motion. Oh Jeez, oh God,
he’s got a gun …
The branches of the tree gave me cover, though probably not
from a bullet. I sat on a stout limb and pressed myself against the
trunk. The man moved forward, looking up through the foliage.
My brown leather jacket matched the dark-brown of the bark,
and within the canopy of the fir tree I sat in relative dimness.
Perhaps he wouldn’t find me. In the distance I heard a police
siren.
The man ducked under the lowest branches looking up, his
face an indistinct blur. Then he fiddled with the gun as though
screwing something onto it.
