I Am Watching You(33)

‘Dad said it was a good idea. With these stupid postcards someone’s sending.’

‘I thought the police said it was probably some random saddo.’

‘They did. And it probably is. But we just want to be a bit careful. You know, just to be on the safe side. How’s your headache?’

‘Gone. So – will you have to see them again? The police?’ He looks worried, and I wish I had not said so much.

‘Don’t know. Probably not. It will all settle down again, I’m sure.’

‘Well, if I find out who sent those postcards, I’ll sort them out.’

‘Don’t say that, Luke. That’s no help – to say things like that. We need to let the police handle it now. Not us.’

‘That’s not what Dad said.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks sheepish. ‘So you want another coffee, Mum? I’m starving, by the way. Got any food?’





CHAPTER 20


THE FATHER

Henry first held a gun in his hand when he was nine.

His father made him promise not to tell his mother. His uncle George was also there that day. They took him down to one of the lower fields, down by the river, to shoot rabbits.

Vermin, his father explained. Seven rabbits could apparently eat as much as a sheep. Hence they were a nightmare for the crops – also the vegetable garden. And their digging caused terrible problems for the livestock, too. Henry’s father said that as a child himself he had once seen a calf with a terrible twisted leg after it lost its footing in a rabbit hole. It had to be shot, of course, but it had suffered horribly, crying out in pain, until the gun could be fetched from the locked cabinet. Wretched rabbits . . .

Much was made, that first shooting lesson, about the rules and about safety. The licence and the law. Henry was told that he would be allowed to have a shotgun himself when he was a lot bigger, but only when he had proved that he could take responsibility and follow every single rule to the letter. It was both within the law and essential to keep the rabbits under control, but they were not allowed to shoot badgers so it was terribly important to be careful.

His dad and his uncle explained the safety sequence. No livestock. No public access. Only in daylight. Always check that there are no other shooters ahead of you. Make absolutely sure you know where everyone in the party is before you fire.

Lying in the grass, his father set up the gun for him and taught him how it should be fired. He was warned that it would kick back a bit into his shoulder and he should brace himself for that. But he would soon get used to it. They would take him to a shooting range and to clay pigeon shooting, too, to help improve his aim.

First shot and Henry was absolutely horrified. Complete fluke. Instant hit. The shock of seeing the rabbit sort of leap, then fall. His father’s amazement and immediate cock-a-hoop celebration were at complete odds with the feeling in Henry’s own stomach. He didn’t like to say, but a little bit of sick was suddenly in his mouth and he thought he might have to retch.

Well done, son. Seriously well done. A natural. My God, George. You see that? He has a natural eye.

These days the gun cabinet is in the small office alongside the boot room. It meets all the regulations, though Henry wishes he had opted for the model with a combination lock. His basic steel version has a key that he has to store separately. Technically he is not supposed to tell anyone where this is and he is supposed to change its location regularly. In practice, he has more than once forgotten its ‘new’ secret location, storming around the house and cursing at Barbara and the girls. So his current routine is to keep it in his sock drawer, inside an old pair of red rugby socks he never wears. Henry finds this easy to remember and tells himself a thief is unlikely to rummage through his socks.

Just occasionally there is some drama on the news about a child getting hold of a gun and Henry gets himself in a panic, checking the red socks.

Today, Henry rises early in the sparse sadness of the spare bedroom. Barbara insisted he moved out of their shared room the moment he got back from the police station. There was no formal arrest and the police are still checking out his new story, but with Barbara urging him to move out completely, Henry realises that he has made things worse, not better.

So what did they say, the police? Why was your car near the railway station? I thought you said you were drunk. Slept in the pub car park? Why the hell won’t you tell me what’s going on, Henry . . .

He looks at his watch. 5.30 a.m. He checks the bedside table drawer for the key, which he took from the socks last night while Barbara was making supper. He throws on the same clothes from yesterday, discarded on a chair, and puts the key in his right pocket. Then he draws the curtains, wincing at a sky much too beautiful for this day. This mood. This plan.

Henry listens to his breathing for a little while, staring out at the patterning of the clouds. Cirrostratus. His father taught him about clouds, too. Essential for a farmer to be able to read the clouds. Cirrostratus clouds are like thin, almost transparent sheets on a washing line. They mean rain is on its way, and he feels the familiar, involuntary pull inside. The need to crack on. Get going.

Henry heads downstairs, being careful to be as quiet as possible, avoiding the third step from the bottom, which creaks the loudest. He walks through the kitchen to the boot room, where Sammy is all bright-eyed enthusiasm, wagging his tail.