Kissing the Dragon - 14. Previous Engagement

Eight o’clock that evening I climb the springy wooden steps to the brightly lit threshold of the Croxburgh Rugby Club pavilion, my engagement present tucked in my pocket. Eventually I came alone. Radio silence from Kit since his morning text message, and Martin phoning in the afternoon to say he would be late back from the retirement home where his mother is living out her days.

Situated at the south end of the grounds, the timber pavilion is a basic rectangular structure with a raised timber base elevating the hut three feet off the ground. Wide timber steps, worn in the centre with age and use, ascend to the double doors leading inside. Apart from the sizeable but spartan communal area, and pair of small rest rooms tucked in one corner, the hall comes with basic kitchen facilities behind a large open serving hatch. Locals and people they know book the space for small scale private events. Even I have been here on a couple of occasions, the peppery wooden odour at once familiar. Still in an amateur rugby league, the owners take great pains in showcasing its long and somewhat uninspiring history from the mid nineteenth century. Monochrome prints fixed in chronological order fill two of the walls. Tonight, taking my first tentative step through the doorway, I spot many of these mementoes adorned in ignorant irreverence with heart shaped balloons in pink and pearl. Stark neon strip lights still burn overhead and innocuous tunes are being played in the background indicating the early stages of festivity. A gathering of some twenty, mostly familiar, faces and a gurgle of amiable chatter fills the space. Strangely enough, I feel nervous meeting with the same colleagues who provide order and camaraderie in my working day. Kit is nowhere to be seen, but then if the midday weather reports showing snow blizzards in the north are correct he has probably had difficulty getting back. I am about to skulk away to a quiet corner of the pavilion when tactless Phil Willoughby rubbernecks around another guest and loudly announces my arrival.

“Colin McCann! What the hell have you been up to? Talk about man of mystery!” calls his chastising voice, as he waddles over to me. His melodramatic greeting causes all other faces to turn my way and conversations to derail. Tonight he has chosen to go for his version of casual, wearing a pink and white striped shirt, burnt orange bow tie, beige chinos and white tennis shoes. He has the good sense to drag me over to the relative quiet of the serving hatch where an array of uninspiring shrink-wrapped party food has been laid out. Thank goodness I managed to eat before I left home.

“Humphreys told us not to contact you under any circumstances,” he says, using what he thinks are hushed tones, but I am sure everyone in the hut can hear. “Subtle? I think not. And then the news report about that poor man. So come one, let’s hear it from the horse’s mouth. What in God’s name happened?”

“If you’ve read the newspaper, you’ll already know everything.”

“So Harrison was an ex-boyfriend?”

“Okay, so that part’s not true.”

“But you two did have a punch up outside the pub before Christmas. I remember that part.”

“We didn’t have a punch up. We argued, nothing more.”

“They’re saying that’s the reason you’re most likely the one who killed him?”

“Wait, what? Which paper claimed I killed him?”

“Did you read any of them, Colin? It was certainly implied, if not stated outright.”

Even though I am sick of repeating myself, for the sake of clarity I give him the full official story, filling in some of the more innocent gaps to keep him happy. He appears satisfied with the download and I deflect by asking him about his week.

“While you’ve been swanning around at home, we’ve had some delicious excitement of our own. Journalists camping out in the staff car park. Poor Humphreys being followed home and accosted at her front door. Poor dear, I think she’s almost at breaking point. You probably haven’t heard yet, but the headmaster has been signed off for another month.”

“Can’t they organise a supply teacher? To cover some of her duties?”

“If they’d known he was going to be out for so long they probably would have. But that’s a decision between Humphreys and the board, and you know what a stubborn so-and-so she is.”

“Is she coming tonight? I wouldn’t mind catching up with her.”

Most importantly, I am hoping she has positive news about my return to work. At the very least, I need to warn her about my application for the Buenos Aires teaching post before cogs begin turning.

“No idea. She’s certainly not here yet.”

“Okay,” I say, steeling myself. “Then maybe it’s time to mingle and face the music.”

Which is exactly what I do for the next hour and and a half, and as the evening slips by the pavilion begins to fill up nicely. Taking my opportunity, I make a point of thanking Barnie and Jennifer for the invite. Rather than let them guess, I quickly explain my simple present to them and they seem to be grateful not to have been given more toast holders or candles. Of all the people I speak to that night—and with some relief—they are the only ones who mention nothing about my time away from school and are instead full of plans for their summer wedding in late August. While I am toasting them both with a plastic flute of sparkling white wine, a familiar voice issues from behind me.

“Glad you could make it, Colin. Been having as much fun as the rest of us?”

I turn into Dorothy Humphreys level gaze. Phil is right. Liberal amounts of makeup can do nothing to mask her tiredness. Uncharacteristically, she dresses casually in jeans and a flowery blouse, not her usually formal pearl and twin set. Part of me is surprised she looks so good in casual wear but then the realisation dawns on me that Dorothy is one of those people who makes a point of dressing older then her age, probably in an effort to justify her lofty position at the school. Strange the lengths people will go to just to make themselves fit into a role. About to respond, I wonder if her comment about having fun relates to my time at home or to the engagement party. I decide to run with the former.

“It’s been a—um—challenging week, to say the least. But I hear you’ve been having trials of your own.”

Dorothy lets out a heavy sigh and, after nodding hello to the newly-engaged couple, pulls me aside away from the noisy chatter of guests.

“Finally the madness seems to be dying down. But the paparazzi have been relentless. Anything to get a story and to dig up some dirt on the school along the way. I can only imagine what you’ve been going through.”

“To be honest, I’ve stuck to your advice and told them very little. Of course, that doesn’t stop them fabricating or embellishing facts.”

“Got to keep the reader happy. But I knew you’d be better off at home this week. You would have been pecked to death if you’d come to school. How about the police? Any more visits from the delightful duo?”

Having met both Chaudhary and Whitehead, she knows their tactics and even threatened to get legal help when she thought they had pushed me too far. I suppose my expression must say everything because she chuckles softly.

“They still don’t have anyone, Dorothy. And between you and me, the case is not clear cut. Which is probably why I’m still being pestered. But at least I’m no longer being viewed as a suspect.”

“The woman in the Chinese restaurant? She remembered you?”

“More than that, she recalled a neighbour across the street from me picking up a takeaway at the same time. He basically shadowed me all the way home. Even saw me go inside my house.”

“Thank heavens. So why are they still pestering you?”

Of all people, I can confide in Dorothy about the tentative connection between Denny’s and Tony’s death. The problem is everything is still speculation which is why I have agreed to help by giving up my evening on Monday to accompany DC Whitehead to a dubious gay night club. Rather than pour out my suspicions, I go with a plain but honest reason.

“I’m still the only witness,” I say, with a shrug. “And I think they’re hoping some tiny detail will come back to me and unravel the case.”

“Well, look after yourself and don’t let them wear you down. You know I’m at the end of a telephone line, if you need to talk.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And I’m sure I should not be sharing this, but I had a long distance call at school yesterday. Principal Marco Miletti, the head of St. Matthews college in Buenos Aires. Informally wanting to know about you.”

My expression, which I am sure has drained of colour, must give me away. I had naturally given Dorothy’s name as a reference but did not expect them to follow up before an interview had even been offered.

“I’m so sorry. It all happened last Friday along with everything else. What with one thing and another, the application slipped my mind. I should have spoken to you, prepared you.”

I go on to explain my longstanding friendship with Alan Redfern and him encouraging me to apply for the position.

“Well, I can’t say we wouldn’t miss you. It’s almost impossible these days to find someone liked equally by the teaching staff, the boys and their parents. Your going would leave a huge gap in the teaching staff.”

“Steady on, Dorothy. Don’t start advertising my job just yet. I haven’t even been offered an interview. And what with my very public involvement in recent events, I wonder if I even will.”

“Nonsense. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. That should have no bearing on your application whatsoever. And if it does, then they are fools who don’t deserve you anyway.”

“Thanks, Dorothy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“It’s fine. You’ve been shouldering more than your fair share of problems of late.”

“Taking of which, how are things for you? I understand you’re still covering for Simon?”

“Who’d be a head teacher?” she asks, with a world weary sigh. “I thought he’d be back Monday. But his surgery didn’t go as well as planned so they’re keeping him in for observation.”

We chat about her problems for a while and I let her unburden her woes on me. When I ask whether she has considered asking for help, her expression of exasperation tells me I am not the first person to ask this question, so after her brief response I change the subject.

“Do you know if Kim’s coming?”

“I believe so,” says Dorothy, peering over my shoulder. “Perfect timing. Here she is now.”

When I turn to follow her gaze I cannot help but smirk as Kimberly rises the steps into the pavilion like an A-list celebrity. Stylish as ever, she sports a short spangly cocktail number, black and low cut, showing off her many assets. As soon as she spots me, she smiles a welcome and raises her matching clutch bag in the air. The moment of pleasure at spying her is short-lived when my throat dries on spotting the tall American figure with a familiar blonde thatch escorting her. Despite my disappointment I cannot deny what a handsome couple they make. When she turns and they laugh at a shared joke, I notice he is carrying her scarlet jacket over one arm and heads immediately towards the cloakroom. On her way over to us, Kimberley stops briefly to say hello to a couple of people before hunting us down. She gives Dorothy a quick peck on the cheek and then pulls me into a fierce hug.

“My God, Colin,” she says, letting me go. “You poor thing.”

I grimace and put on my best hard-done-by expression. Before she has a chance to ask, I start to fill her in, pre-empting any questions. Before I get in too deep, I turn to Dorothy and apologise, because she has heard this all before.

“In which case, I’ll leave you two to catch up while I go and mingle,” says Humphreys, before turning to me and putting her hand on my shoulder. “Colin, verbally at least, I gave you a long and glowing reference. They’re bound to be in touch soon. Just keep me in the loop with whatever transpires. I’ve managed to get cover for you next week so we’ll hope to see you back the week after next.”

As soon as Dorothy leaves, Kimberley relaxes and as soon as I finish my story, she leans in conspiratorially.

“God, I’ve missed you this week, Colin. Everyone is so bloody serious here. We’ve been drilled over and over. If you meet with any parents, don’t talk about this, don’t talk about that. Keep well away from the press. And make sure the boys are kept away, too. But, of course, business as usual so just act normally.”

“Can only imagine. How is everyone coping?”

“Jeremy’s not so good. But then you won’t have seen his wife’s hair?”

“No!” I say, spinning around. “Is she here?”

“Yes, but she’s wearing a turban tonight,” she says, with a sly smile. “New hairdresser, apparently. But flaming pink is definitely not her colour. If it was me, I would have sued.”

“I can trump that. Wait until you see what Barnie’s wearing tonight.”

“Oh, my God,” she says, giving me her full attention. “Spill.”

“All I’ll say is, whatever you do, don’t ask him for a ninety-nine with a flake and raspberry syrup.”

She tips back her head and laughs, an infectious sound which has people around us laughing too.

“Colin,” says Kit, who has appeared without either of us noticing. He seems calm and happy, handing Kimberley a glass of white wine. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice upbeat, but actually coming off sounding curt. I try to regain my composure by asking a few questions. “How were things ‘up north’? Any problems communicating with the locals?”

“Nope. All good,” he replies, his eyebrows twitching together and his eyes narrowing on me.

“Helps that he had me along to translate,” says Kimberley.

“You—went together?”

I know the twist of jealousy in my gut is unwarranted—my head has already established that he is straight and a free agent—but my heart is still holding out hope. Moreover, I wonder why he never told me Kimberley would be joining him. What is it about me that makes people hold things back and avoid telling plain truths? While Kimberley keeps talking enthusiastically, I have a sudden urge to get away from this hot, crowded hall.

“We did. Gave me a chance to do some shopping and sightseeing while Kit went about his reporting business,” she says, smiling endearingly at Kit. “Colin here’s been filling me in on his eventful week. So what did Dorothy mean about giving you a reference?”

“Head of department job,” I reply plainly, as the phone in my inside pocket begins to ring. “In Argentina. Early days yet.”

“Buenos Aires?” says Kit flatly.

“Uh, yes,” I respond, and have no idea why I should feel rattled by his tone.

“Colin? You’re not leaving us?” says Kimberley, horrified.

“Come on, Kim. I don’t know yet,” I reply, pulling the phone from my pocket and feeling relieved to see Martin’s name on the display. “I haven’t even been offered an interview. Sorry, I need to take this.”

As I turn to go I notice Kit’s smile has slipped, in fact he appears almost angry, glaring directly at me. Outside, the night air is bracing and I take a deep lungful before answering the call.

“Martin,” I say, in mock seriousness. “Where the hell are you?”

“Party that good?” he says, chuckling.

“Plastic wine glasses, cheap plonk, pineapple and cheese on sticks. Combine that with eighties disco music. What’s not to like?”

Martin has a nice laugh and I am instantly cheered.

“I’m serious. Where are you? I could use the company.”

“Not going to make the party, Colin. I’m calling from a service station on the motorway, about an hour and a half from home—traffic willing.”

When I fall quiet, he fills in the silence.

“You alright, old man?”

“Right as ninepence, thanks. It’s getting on for ten so I’m going to head home too. Parties are not my thing. And I live a stone’s throw from here.”

“Happy to swing by and give you a lift, if you don’t mind hanging around.”

“Thanks, Martin. But I’ve been banged up all week. A brisk walk home will do me good.”

“And a nice night for it, if the weather down there is anything like here,” he says, and I peer up at a tiny cluster of stars as a passing cloud shows a patch of clear sky. After a brief glance over my shoulder at the indistinct shape of people inside the hut, loud conversations trying to compete with the heavy bass music, I begin moving across the car park towards the rugby field. I ought to say goodbye to a few people, but the party is in full swing and my good mood has evaporated.

“I thought you’d been having heavy snow up there.”

“Far north. Not made its way down to the midlands yet.”

“I see. How’s your mother?”

“Still frail. She remembered who I am today. Took her out in the wheelchair around the grounds, which seemed to cheer her up. So then I stayed on for dinner, which is why I’m running late. Hey, weren’t you playing the American at tennis this week?” he asks, and I chuckle at his timing.

“I did, and it was very pleasant. And mystery solved. He just walked into the party with Kimberley clamped to his arm. Been to Yorkshire together for the past few days.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, his voice faltering. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin. Just another hope not to hang my hat on.”

“Any news from the Argentine?”

“Good lord, you’re psychic powers are strong tonight. Dorothy just spilled the beans in front of Kimberley, so you’ll probably get the download Monday. But someone phoned her long distance for a verbal reference. Early days, though. Don’t want to count my chickens.”

“Good for you. Well, take care, old man. I’ll be home all day tomorrow so call me if you need anything.”

“Will do. Drive safely, Martin.”

From my days of playing around the streets of Croxburgh as a child, I know the network of shortcuts intimately—dirt tracks, paths and alleyways—hidden behind or between residential roads and streets. Little has changed since those days apart from the new estate that ate into one of the playing fields boarding Benson and Littleton Roads. Back in the day, my neighbourhood pals and I could get from our homes on Monmouth Road in West Croxburgh to the local park without once emerging onto a public road. We learnt the meaning of stealth and invisibility during one summer break, our weapons against nosy neighbours or the possibility of running into family members.

Stepping onto the rugby field, I know if I cross diagonally to the far corner of the pitch, there is a gap in the wire fence where I can join a narrow tree-lined pathway that leads the way homeward. If I had been more together, I would have recalled the last time I took a shortcut home in the company of Denny Harrison. As I am halfway across the field, staring ahead trying to discern light in the darkness, I am sure a dark shape moves in front of a nearby white painted rugby post. Convinced I am imagining things, I shake my head and continue forward. Something about the earthen odour, dusty silhouettes of bushes and trees, combined with the oppressive blackness of a starless sky all seep into my id, sending a cold, primal shiver through me. Instinctively my heartbeat and my pace quicken, but when I train my eyes on the indistinct spot across the field, I notice with dismay that the usual lamppost light is out. A nearby but distinct rustle of clothing has me turning wildly around before hurtling ahead into the darkness.

Relieved and impressed by my sense of direction, I grab for the hole in the fence and scramble through. Once on the small pathway, I head north, moving swiftly without running. Distant lamplight along the narrow lane spurs me on. Behind me branches unsettled by gusts of wind have me craning around but everything remains in darkness. When an elderly couple with their dog turns into the same alleyway and heads my way, I slow to a brisk walk, not wanting to appear scared or deranged. Within minutes I am on Cyder Drive, my road, out on the well lit pavement and feeling slightly foolish at having been spooked. After checking to see if the Lexus driver is anywhere, but finding only empty spaces along the road, I enter my front gate just as a messages pings from my mobile phone. Once I have stepped over the threshold, disabling the alarm and locking the front door, I head into the living room. The message is from Kit.

- Where are you?

I huff out a sigh and am in two minds whether to type an answer. While I am considering, Mr Waldorf enters the room, jumps onto the arm of the settee and miaows loudly at me.

Home.

A message comes back almost instantly.

- You okay? You left early.

Fine. Tired.

- We still on for Dorset?

He obviously knows I am not alright otherwise he would not ask. To be honest, I do not want to think about Dorset and whether I even want to go. If Derek calls, I’ll make up my mind then.

Not sure. Not had the call yet.

- Sure you’re okay?

I’m fine. Have fun with Kimberley.

- She’s just a friend, Colin. Like you.

Then go and have fun with your friend. Goodnight.

- Night, handsome.

Okay, enough. Next time I speak to him, I am going to ask him to stop using that kind of endearment.