Faerie Lord

Two

‘You did what?’ Charlie exclaimed, grinning delightedly.

‘I let him out,’ Henry said. ‘There was a kitchen window open and we haven’t seen him since. I think he knew what they were going to do to him.’

They were sitting side by side on a park bench. The sole of Charlie’s left trainer was starting to come away and she was fiddling with it ineffectively. Henry thought she looked very nice in a cuddly sort of way now she’d started to put on a bit of weight. She left the shoe alone suddenly and asked, ‘Why didn’t you want him fixed?’

‘I’m not having Hodge fixed,’ Henry said. ‘Apart from anything else, he’s not really my cat.’

‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s Mr Fogarty’s cat. You still haven’t heard from him?’

‘Mr Fogarty? No. No, I haven’t.’

Charlie said casually, ‘It’s been eighteen months.’

Actually it had been more than two years, but Henry had to be careful. The story was that Mr Fogarty had gone to see his daughter in New Zealand, leaving Henry to look after his house and his cat… a story that was getting thinner every month. Charlie hadn’t brought it up before, but Henry’s mother went on endlessly about the arrangement. It was only the regular cheques that stopped her pushing it too far. They were simply signed ‘A. Fogarty’ and she assumed the A stood for ‘Alan.’

‘You know what old people are like.’ Henry shrugged vaguely.

Charlie stared out across the ornamental lake, watching two swans glide gracefully towards the shore. ‘I was just wondering what you were going to do next year, when you go to uni.’

‘Who says I’m going to uni?’ Henry asked. ‘I mightn’t make the grades.’

‘Oh, you’ll make the grades all right,’ Charlie said. ‘And then you’ll be off. Where are you going to apply Oxford? Cambridge?’

‘No chance,’ Henry said. ‘I’m not that bright.’

This time Charlie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Wherever you pick it’ll mean moving away – there’s nothing locally. And if you move away, you won’t be looking after Mr Fogarty’s house or saving Hodge from a fate worse than death or seeing me or anything.’

Henry picked up the real worry at once. ‘Oh, I’ll be seeing you all right. I can come home at weekends.’

‘Not every weekend.’

‘No, maybe not. But, you know… some.’

‘Some?’

‘Yes,’ Henry said. ‘Some.’

‘Did you know swans mate for life?’ Charlie asked suddenly.

‘I think I read it somewhere.’

‘If one dies, the other one won’t mate again,’ she said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Not ever.’ She turned her head to look at him and licked her lips lightly. ‘Henry, I think we should stop.’

‘Stop what?’ Henry asked stupidly.

‘Going out together,’ Charlie said.

For once Henry had the house to himself when he got home. He found some yoghurt in the fridge, took it up to his room and sat down to write a letter.

Dear Mrs Barenbohm, he wrote, then paused.

It was getting complicated already. Angela Fogarty, Mr Fogarty’s daughter, had married an American industrialist called Clarence Barenbohm, then emigrated to New Zealand with a great deal of his money after the divorce. She insisted on using the Barenbohm name for everything except financial transactions, which she conducted under her maiden name.

Henry’s pen lurched into action again and wrote, I write to tell you that I do my A Levels this year and next year I hope to go to university. I don’t know where it will be (the university)

He paused again. He wasn’t even sure he would be going to university. Despite what he’d said to Charlie, he thought he’d probably get the grades all right, but when he tried to discuss his future with his mother, she got evasive, which was a bad sign. Part of him suspected there might be money worries, but she wouldn’t come clean and tell him. Anais claimed she didn’t know.

He shrugged. It didn’t matter. Even if he never went to uni, he wasn’t hanging around here when he left school. but there are no suitable educational establishments locally, he went on. This means that soon I will be unable to look after your father’s house and cat (Hodge), as I have done in the past, for very much longer.

I appreciate the money you sent – He crossed out sent and inserted have been sending, then stared at the page wondering if he should write it all out again. After a moment he decided it wasn’t a school essay and went on, but I very much regret I will be unable to keep on with our arrangement as it has been to date. I am writing to tell you this now while there is still time for you to make other arrangements or otherwise sell the house (Angela thought her father was dead and the house hers under the terms of his will; only Henry knew differently) or whatever it is you would want to do. Please write back to me marking the envelope ‘Personal’ and let me know what you decide to do and if I can help you further in any way apart from continuing our present arrangement beyond the New Year.

He signed the letter Henry Atherton, then immediately wrote a PS:

PS Some children broke a downstairs window, but I had it repaired with money from the Contingency Fund. He knew he should leave it at that, but somehow could not stop his hand writing: PPS I might be able to continue to look after Hodge (the cat) even after I stop looking after the house or even after I go to university. I wouldn’t want him put down or anything.

He sat staring at the words for a long time. Best not to mention the current little problem with Hodge or the fact that Henry had no idea where he was at the moment. Hodge was bound to come back – he was too old and fat and lazy to make his own way in the world any more. The trick would be to make sure Henry’s mother never got her hands on him.

… even after I go to university. How on earth would he look after a tomcat while he was attending university? But he’d think of something. He owed that much to Mr Fogarty. And to Hodge. His hands were trembling slightly as he folded the letter.

Since there was still nobody downstairs, he stole a stamp and an airmail sticker from his mother’s desk, then pulled his coat back on again; the sooner he posted this off the better. When he opened the front door, Hodge was waiting for him on the doorstep.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Henry.

Against Hodge’s furious protests, Henry bundled him into the cat-carrier. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he hissed, sucking one thumb where the brute had drawn blood. ‘You really don’t want to hang around here.’ It was going to be a pain racing off to Mr Fogarty’s house to feed Hodge in the middle of exams, but he couldn’t see any alternative. He knew his mother.

As he waited for the bus, Henry thought about Charlie and what she’d said about not going out together any more. He was surprised how little upset he felt. He’d been close friends with Charlie ever since they were little kids, but the romantic interest had started less than a year ago and to be absolutely honest, Charlie had been keener about that than he was.

The bus journey was a nightmare. Hodge wailed all the way and several passengers took to staring at Henry as if he was committing murder. But he settled once they left the bus, and by the time Henry was carrying him along Mr Fogarty’s cul-de-sac he was looking around through the mesh of the carrier as if he recognised the place.

Mr Fogarty’s house, the last one on the street, was looking distinctly the worse for wear despite Henry’s best efforts. Most of the trouble dated back to the days of Mr Fogarty’s own occupancy – he’d pasted brown paper on the bottom panes of the downstairs windows to stop people looking in, seldom bothered with minor repairs and had a habit of leaving half-eaten hamburgers to rot down the side of his sofa. Now it was unoccupied, the process of decay was visibly accelerating. Even if Henry hadn’t been planning to leave, it would make sense to sell the place before it fell down.

He carried the caged Hodge to the front door and let himself in – he had his own set of keys. Then he walked through to the kitchen, set the carrier on the floor and unlatched the side. Hodge stretched, looked around suspiciously, then walked out slowly.

‘Do you want your Whiskas now or would you prefer to go out the back and kill everything that moves?’ Henry asked him conversationally. Hodge walked to the back door and sat down facing it. He waited patiently. ‘So it’s the killing fields, is it?’ Henry said. He walked over, shot the bolt, then unlocked the back door.

Two strangers were standing on the lawn outside.

Henry frowned. He wasn’t anything like as paranoid as Mr Fogarty, but the back garden was private property and he couldn’t see any reason for these two to be poking around.

The man was in his mid-thirties, stockily built with a shock of red hair that was turning prematurely grey. He had on a sharp green suit and suede shoes. The girl seemed a lot younger. She might have been his daughter, except she was dressed in a blouse, skirt and coat that looked as if they’d come from Oxfam.

‘Can I help you?’ Henry asked coolly.

It was like one of those scenes from a movie where everything goes into slow motion and movement seems to leave trails. The man turned (slowly) towards him. ‘Henry…?’ he said.

The girl turned towards him just as slowly. ‘Henry!’ she exclaimed. He watched the smile begin to spread like a pouring of honey, illuminating her face, transforming her into a radiant beauty.

They stared at him expectantly. Henry felt a curious emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He stared back at them blankly. Now he could see her face, he knew the girl, of course. ‘Nymph?’ he whispered.

‘Henry!’ the man said again. He began to grin and the grin told Henry at once who he was, although it was impossible.

Henry felt his jaw begin to drop and stared and stared until eventually he said what he had to say, what he knew to be true even though it wasn’t true, couldn’t possibly be true.

‘Pyrgus?’ Henry said.