38

Calum was looking out of Bethany’s window when he spotted the neighbour next door, waving to Mrs Careen. He was much smaller than Mr Armitage, though that didn’t make him short. He had round glasses. Barefoot. His hair was wispy and scraped back across his head. He looked younger than Calum had anticipated, but not well. Preserved, perhaps. He could hear Mr Armitage downstairs; he hadn’t yet mastered the art of knowing from the creaks and shuffles where he was exactly, though he suspected it wouldn’t be long before he could. He supposed he was exactly where he wished he wasn’t - in the chair by his little bookcase - looking out on the sisters' field. He didn’t have long. The neighbour was likely to turn around at any moment; he was making a play of looking relaxed, but Calum could see his terror all over him. His feet were tapping, though Calum doubted it was from the cold, and his left hand was pulling at the cord that wrapped around his gown, the pale hand squeezed so tight that Calum could see all the blood in his veins.

He went downstairs, coat on, and nodded to Mr Armitage as he quickly moved to the low back door.

“Little fresh air,” he said - moving speedily.

“Great idea!” Replied the great man, heaving himself forwards and reaching for his wax jacket.

“No, no, I think I’d like to be alone for a short while,” said the boy.

Mr Armitage slowly let go of his wax jacket, eyeing the boy warily.

Don’t look away - thought Calum.

The lad did a dreadful job of looking calm and collected, as he had planned to. His eyes were wider than usual, and he was unblinking as he stared at Mr Armitage, who resigned himself to the fact that the boy had lost all capacity for a baseline from which to compare any of his behaviours. The recalibration would be ongoing.

“As you were, lad,” he said eventually.

Calum turned and walked out the door. He hoped the neighbour would still be where he’d left him. He walked down the garden, refusing to look back at the hulk in the corner of the low cottage windows. He also knew the hedge hole to Number Seven was out of bounds if he wanted to pass through without hindrance. If he walked through it after the conversation they’d had a couple of hours prior at breakfast, Mr Armitage would be up and chasing him down the garden before he’d make it to the neighbour's patio.

He moved straight out of the garden, through the gate that led to the sister's field and veered right as though he were heading to his oak. Once he was out of sight of Mr Armitage, he turned back. The fence at the back of the garden leading to Number Seven had plenty of spaces to crawl through. The wood was rotten, and if you were willing to crawl through the brush, you could make it in relatively easily. He opted for a partially missing fencepost, ringed by some brambles nearer to Mrs Careen's hedge and gradually made his way through, a couple nicks in his trousers and a right hand grazing some stinging nettles, and he was in. He hadn’t wanted her to see him and sound any alarm either. Standing up, he began to make his way nearer the house. He regretted his choice almost immediately but felt a duty to himself to finish what he started, knowing that if Conor were here, he would not allow anything to turn him back.

Help me, Con.

He moved slowly, finding plenty of debris to hide himself behind as he moved nearer, aiming to be seen only when he was ready. It was most likely for nothing, he reckoned - assuming the neighbour, quivering as he was, had moved back inside as soon as Calum had moved away from his window. Midway down the garden, he moved his head slightly from behind a stack of glass, metal and terracotta shards he assumed were the remnants of a torn-down greenhouse. He looked up and met the eyes of the gowned man, ten metres away, stood pulling hard on either side of the knot at the belt with both hands. He saw his wounded chin. It would definitely need stitches.

He held his eye on the lad for a moment before turning and stepping over the threshold through the red door. It stayed open.