Mr. Flood's Last Resort(51)

I sit down opposite Sam with the late-afternoon sun behind me, feeling like a backlit Deborah Kerr but without the wimple.

The café is empty apart from me and Sam, and the saints squabbling into nearby seats, elbowing each other and hissing in a bid to appear unobtrusive.

St. Valentine settles in the seat next to me. “Steady, Twinkle,” he says. “I’ve got your back.”

St. Rita and St. George take seats at the table opposite. St. Monica, liverish in cream, arranges her robes sourly in a corner. St. Dymphna is nowhere to be seen. Small mercies.

I smile at Sam and Sam smiles at me.

“For the love of God,” barks St. Valentine. “Will you stop grinning or he’ll think you’re unraveled in the head. Ask him a question. Start a conversation.”

“So you were in the neighborhood, just passing by?” I ask.

St. Valentine rolls his eyes. “Smooth.”

Sam nods. “I was.”

St. Valentine studies Sam closely. “He’s been in the neighborhood a lot lately. Let’s think about that for a moment, Twinkle.” The saint turns to me. “Now, didn’t you catch sight of a good-looking face peering in through the hedge at Bridlemere the other day? And what about that feeling you had that a handsome, well-put-together fella has been following you to the bus stop?”

I try to ignore him.

“And you’re always smelling cigarettes in that garden. You’ve seen those bushes smoking more than once, haven’t you?” He nods at Sam. “This lad has been keeping an eye on you.”

I glower at St. Valentine. I don’t believe a word of it.

He leans back in his chair, addressing the saints at the next table. “Sam doesn’t like her being up at the house. He fears for her safety. He’s said as much.”

The saints make sounds of agreement. St. George growls something about hurling sticks before snapping his visor shut.

The waiter comes over with a look of high begrudgement on his face. Undeterred, Sam orders coffee and an all-day breakfast sandwich. The waiter departs and Sam watches me, his manly fingers playing with the lid of the ketchup bottle.

St. Valentine grimaces. “Get in there, say something suggestive, sexy voice, play with your hair, bite your lip, stick out the chest. Every second counts.”

Sam glances out of the window as a black car passes by.

“He’s losing interest,” says St. Valentine.

I glare at him. Haven’t I enough on my hands with looking like Deborah Kerr?

Then Sam, his eyes fixed on an old man struggling past with shopping bags, asks, “How’s Mr. Flood?”

“He’s grand.”

“Any more mad crazy stuff up at the house?”

Only the poltergeist in the kitchen. “No. Not really.”

Sam nods. “You’re too sensible to be swayed by it anyway.”

St. Valentine winces. “Ah Jesus, sensible is it? Hit back, Twinkle—”

“I’m not in the least bit sensible.”

Sam smiles. “Pragmatic, then?”

“Not at all.”

“Practical?”

I frown.

“Rational?” Sam ventures.

“I’ll take that.”

Sam laughs.

St. Valentine breathes out.

The waiter brings the drinks.

Sam smiles at me. “Just a coffee, that’s right?”

I smile and nod and poke the froth on the top of the cup with the teaspoon.

“Any sign of Gabriel?” asks Sam in a low voice when the waiter has himself anchored back behind the counter.

“None whatsoever.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” He takes a taste of his coffee. “Although, that was a great plan of his: getting the old man out of the house. With a clear day to sift through the rubbish, God knows what someone might find.”

“So there we have it, Twinkle,” announces St. Valentine. “This here fella wants to get into the house and not your knickers. That’s what he’s after.”

I scowl at him.

St. Valentine winks back. “Although, all is not lost, of course, if he’s planning to get into the house via your knickers.”

At the next table St. Rita shakes her head and St. George sniggers behind his visor. I hear it; it comes with a metallic echo. St. Monica in the corner throws him a sullen look.

St. Valentine holds up his hands. “Wha’? I’m only saying what you’re all thinking.”

“I’m not going to suggest again that you let anyone in the house—me or Gabriel. You’ve made your position clear, Maud, and I respect you for that.”

“Sure he does,” says St. Valentine. “Look at him, isn’t he full of respect?”

I look at Sam lounging on his chair with his gray eyes shining. The waiter brings the food order. Sam watches him walk away and then he turns to me with a wide, rakish grin.

“Of course, if you do change your mind I’d be more than happy to have a root around.”

St. Valentine laughs gleefully.

I ignore the lot of them as I measure three sugars into my coffee and stir it. I don’t take sugar but I like the whole routine of it. It’s calming. I stir until I find myself equipped to change the subject.

“So I expect you’ll be heading back up north soon, Sam?”