He took a large Tupperware bowl of kale and chopped apple from the fridge, opened the lid, and treated the snack to a light dusting of calcium powder. Tortilla’s breakfast. As he was about to go outside, the doorbell rang. Thinking his mother had forgotten something, he put the plastic bowl down on the table, rushed into the hall and opened the door.
Mathew’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t his mother. It was Jim Bentley.
‘Hello, Mathew.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just a chat.’
‘How do you know where I live?’
‘Google knows everything. Especially when it comes to retards.’
‘I’m not a retard. Anyway, I can’t talk to you. I’ve got a bad head and I’m going back to bed as soon as I’ve fed Tortilla.’
‘Who the fuck’s “Tortilla”?’
‘My tortoise.’
Bentley laughed. ‘Trust you to pick a pet as slow as your wits.’
Mathew started to close the door.
Bentley jammed his foot in the way. ‘Whoa there, Mr Slow Boat. We need to talk.’
‘Why?’
‘Ain’t you gonna ask me in and make me a nice cup of tea?’
Mathew’s heart thumped. ‘No.’
‘Don’t you know how to make tea?’
‘My mum’s here.’
‘Don’t tell porkies. I just watched her drive off in her car. That’s the big metal shiny thing with headlights, in case you’re wondering.’
‘She’s only going to the garage to get petrol, then she’s coming back.’
Bentley didn’t look so sure of himself. ‘All right. I’ll keep it simple. I want you to go to the coppers and tell them that you killed that kid.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘I think you did.’
‘You were the one who followed her along St John’s Road.’
‘I went back to my flat. Where did you go?’
Mathew didn’t answer. There was no way he could tell Bentley he went along the Bunky Line.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘I went for a walk.’
‘Bollocks. You took that kid somewhere and murdered her, didn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do to her, pervert?’
Beads of sweat hatched on Mathew’s forehead. ‘Nothing. I—’
‘Can’t get a girlfriend, so you pick on a little kid who can’t fight back?’
‘I never touched her.’
‘Is she still alive?’
Mathew’s head felt as if it was about to explode. ‘Go away.’
‘They ought to castrate perverts like you at birth.’
Mathew pushed against the door. ‘If you don’t go away, I’m gonna call the police.’
‘When you do, make sure you tell ’em what you’ve done.’
‘I haven’t done nothing.’
‘If you don’t admit it, I’m gonna set that fucking stupid bookshop on fire and kill your mummy. Is that clear?’
‘Go away!’
Maybe it was something in Mathew’s eyes that finally persuaded Bentley to remove his foot from the jamb, but when he did, the door slammed shut with enough force to shake the glass panel in its frame.
Mathew slid a large brass bolt across the top of the door. His legs felt wobbly enough to tip him over. He sat on the stairs and rested his head on his knees.
Are you sure you didn’t have one of your fugues again? a voice whispered amongst the gathering storm in his head. Didn’t take that little girl along the Bunky Line and hide her in the farmhouse?
Mathew didn’t have an answer to that.
Chapter Fifteen
Mathew pulled himself up off the stairs using the banister rail to support his weight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. It was probably just before Gareth had left home and moved into his flat eight years ago.
Mathew, twelve at the time, had held his emotions in check throughout dinner that evening. He’d just sat there fiddling with his food while his mother bombarded Gareth with a million questions. But Gareth had answered every one with his usual calm assurance. He was doing well at the estate agent’s. Decent salary. The rent on the basement flat was cheap enough for him to afford. Yes, it needed a bit of work, but he’d never been afraid to get his hands dirty. Anyway, he knew a few people who could help him get things done. No, he didn’t have a girlfriend. His only ambition was to make his way up the ladder at Lassiter’s and complete the work on the flat before he went looking to share his life with someone else.
But after dinner, as Mathew had sat in his room staring at the fading light outside the window, Gareth had knocked on the door and asked to come in.
‘What do you want?’ Mathew had asked, terrified that his brother was about to deliver even more terrible news.
‘Just to have a chat.’
‘What about?’
‘Are you mad with me, Mattie?’
‘No.’ The truth. He could never be mad with Gareth. He was the best brother in the world. He was just scared by the prospect of living at Bluebell Cottage without him.
‘Can I come in, then?’
‘I suppose.’
Gareth sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You okay?’
‘Not really.’
‘Is it because I’m moving out?’
‘I just don’t want you to go.’
‘I’m only moving into a flat in Feelham. I’m not going to Australia.’
‘But you’re the only one who listens to me. Mum’s always busy at the bookshop, and I don’t like Karen.’
‘Karen’s all right. Anyway, she only picks you up from school and looks after you until Mum comes home.’
‘But I like to tell you about her. Especially the stuff like her smelly armpits and the daft things she says.’
‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘What?’
‘Why don’t you write it all down in a diary, then, say, every couple of weeks you can come round to my flat and read it to me.’
Mathew brightened. ‘Promise?’
‘Cross my tummy and hope to eat pie.’
Mathew giggled. ‘I like your rhymes.’
Gareth saluted. ‘Why, thank you, sir.’
‘Can I visit you loads?’
‘Course. You’re my best brother ever.’
‘I’m your only brother.’
‘Oh yeah, silly me. You can even come to dinner once I’ve learned how to cook.’
‘Can we have sausages and mash? It’s my favourite.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘But I don’t like the beef ones.’
Gareth screwed up his face. ‘Me neither. They smell like cow dung.’
‘Taste like it, too.’
‘You ever tasted cow dung?’
Mathew’s stomach flipped over. ‘That’s gross.’
‘Dung burgers, fresh from the field.’
Despite feeling sick, Mathew giggled. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’
‘Me, too. But I’m only gonna be half a mile away. And, we’re gonna have a lot more to talk about when we don’t see each other every day, aren’t we?’