A wind whips across the eastern flat lands. Tall pink flowers sway on the roadside verge. Petra wonders to herself what they might be called. Sticks keeps his eyes on the road, baseball cap pulled down as low as it will go and still allow him to see.
It’s a quiet road. Sticks likes it that way.
“Shouldn’t be facial recognition cameras on this stretch,” he says cheerfully, “that’s the good thing about this part of England – it feels exposed but actually it’s easier to hide or pass unnoticed. People are better at distrusting authority than in Oxford, so they just keep their mouths shut, and there’s definitely fewer cameras. But keep your hat on anyway, thank you.”
Petra traces a finger along the brim of her straw sun hat, a gift from Sticks, and muses, “I think this area was one of the last to submit to William the Conqueror. Hereward the Wake led the resistance. But somebody betrayed him to the Normans. Bribed. Selfish git. Bloody Normans.”
She chews some thoughts over in her mind, teeth grinding as she does so, “I have heard some say that England was no longer English after 1066. We’ve all been living in a foreign country ever since.”
“Well, in that case, let us return to merrie old England,” laughs Sticks, “death to conquerors, long life and happiness to the good guys.”
“Can we stop at Stamford Bridge?” asks Petra hopefully and adds, “it’s somewhere near York.”
Sticks smiles, “sounds good to me, we’re heading in that direction anyway. We can stop there for a bite to eat. All this driving makes me hungry for some reason. It can’t be healthy can it? Sitting still but getting hungry. But it’s just for today.
“Once we’re there, the old truck won’t be getting out much. Not until it’s had a good makeover and, well, an identity update.”
—
The old stones stand like guards either side of the path winding its way to the door of the church. Matchbox continues his pacing off the path and round the side of the building, the air dank in the shadow of the high wall, trudging steadily through clumps of pale grass.
His eyes are to the ground. He adjusts his stride and weaves around a stone directly in his way. It is flaky, pale patches revealed beneath a grimy veneer, a smattering of rough yellow lichen obscuring any names or words that might once have been read.
“Where is she?” Matchbox mutters to the ground, “what have you done with her? Is she hiding? She’s hiding, I know it. You’re hiding her, aren’t you?”
He turns round, retraces his steps to the door of the church and paces round the other side. There are more, newer stones, closer together on this side. Some still reflect the sunlight, slabs of granite and seams of gold.
Matchbox doesn’t look at the stones, only at the ground, but he is aware of them and avoids them as he walks.
“Have you found her?” his voice rises but then falls, “has she escaped? She walked out. She did, you know. He took her. Did you see her?”
One of his trainers, its sole coming away at the toes, catches a jam jar of withered flowers, sending it tumbling against a stone. It clanks, barely audibly, and rolls over the tightly mown grass above the grave plot, distributing its offering of stringy brown stems and dried out, shrivelled petals.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. Did I do that? Why did I do it? What’s happened now, my love? Why? Gotta go, gotta go before they find me too.”
And Matchbox runs, stumbling on the uneven ground, arms out for balance and to keep the stones away. And he runs, runs, runs along the path, his trainer’s sole flapping a frantic rhythm against the asphalt, and through the gate onto the street. And he keeps running until he finds another place to look.
—
Robbo walks across the fields he had cycled through with Jak. It’s further than he remembers. A flock of rooks, disturbed from their morning feeding ground, take off in front of him, circle round and land behind him.
He rehearses what he’ll say to Sticks in his head as he walks: ‘Give the bike, it’s mine. You nicked bike, give it. Alright thief, where’s the bike. Just give me the bike back, that’s all.’
He picks up a stone from the field edge and stuffs it into his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. And keeps one hand on it, fingering a hard edge and getting loose soil under his nails.
As Robbo follows the path through the trees at the back of Clumps View, he hears voices up ahead. American voices. They’re not happy.
“Suspect has absconded, repeat, suspect has absconded. Awaiting further instructions… no, property is unoccupied… aye aye, sir.”
Robbo pauses and steps off the path to get a better view of what’s ahead. He presses himself against a tree trunk and peers round. Two large unmarked SUVs, windows blacked out, are blocking the street. One man, in a padded jacket, is speaking into a wire attached to his cheek and nervously touching a gun in a holster at his side. Sticks’ front door is wide open, with a large dent in it.
He grips the stone in his pocket. But stares at the gun.
‘Fucking hell, Pauly Po. Looks like someone got here first.’
Robbo scans the street, what he can see of it, just in case his bike was left outside. No sign of it. Or anything else. The other houses show no signs of life – curtains drawn, lights off.
‘Go home Pauly Po, while you still can. You can get another bike.’
—
“…she lives in Littlemore but isn’t at home. I tried her door. She didn’t answer. So I wondered, miss, if she might’ve come here?”
The nurse frowns at Matchbox, “as a patient? Or as a visitor?”
“A patient. This is where we met. Maybe she was hoping to meet up with me?”
“Um, okay. What did you say her name was?”
“Petra,” Matchbox speaks slowly and deliberately so the nurse can’t possibly mishear him, “Margaret, Mark.”
“Sorry, ‘Mark’?”
“Yes, ‘Mark’.”
“Is that her surname?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, bear with me one sec, I’ll just go check.”
“Okay.”
Matchbox waits. The room, an entrance foyer with a corridor leading off in either direction, smells of something. Something sweet. Ice-cream? Orange squash? Jellybabies? He leans on the reception desk watching a woman typing into a computer. What is she doing?
“What are you doing?”
“My job,” replies the woman curtly.
“Oh, I see. Okay.”
He looks around. It’s familiar yet strange. If Petra was here, where would she be? Why is she here? Did someone bring her here? Did they make her come here? Have they locked her up?
“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse returns, “there’s no patient by the name of Petra Mark here.”
“Where is she?” demands Matchbox.
“Um, she’s not here, sir. Not in this hospital.”
“Where are you hiding her?”
“Sir, she’s not here. Not here at all.”
“Did that man bring her? Did he say ‘hello’?”
“She’s not here, sir. I think, if you want to maybe look for her somewhere else. Does she have family nearby? Any children perhaps?”
Matchbox can feel his hands twitching, fingers trying to grip an invisible handle and brush off an invisible wasp. It keeps coming back, buzzing and buzzing round and round. So close, he can smell the bitter acidic poison in its sting. He can’t avoid it. He can’t move anymore.
“Sit down here, sir, nice and gentle now.”
—
Jak smells frying onions as soon as she opens the front door. Before she can dash upstairs, Sylvie comes out of the kitchen, apron on and a potato peeler in her hand.
“Come and help me cook, babe. Sausage and mash. Onion gravy. Peas. That was your favourite when you were just a little pea yourself.”
“Um, mum, I just want to…”
“Come on, babe. I do have something to say as well.”
“Okay, but can I just go to the toilet?”
“Yes, yes of course, babe,” Sylvie laughs.
When Jak comes back down, Sylvie is sat in the living room.
“You said you had something to say?” Jak stands in the doorway.
“Yes, Could you sit beside me, babe? On the sofa please?”
Jak reluctantly, slightly nervously, perches on the edge of the sofa.
“So, you know how I said I couldn’t come with you to the Pride Parade?” Sylvie speaks cautiously.
“Yes,” Jak turns to her mum, eyes wide and expectant.
“Um, sorry, well I still can’t,” Sylvie struggles, sensing her daughter’s rising hope, “you see, I’ve got a date. From Better Halves. And it’s on Saturday lunchtime.”
“Oh mum! Why didn’t you just say that when I asked you?” Jak can’t quite hide her annoyance but tries her best to be supportive, “instead of all that ‘I won’t fit in, not for the likes of me’ nonsense.”
“Well, I didn’t want to tell you about my date, babe, not until afterwards anyway. It might not go well. It’s my first for I don’t know how long. And I didn’t know how you’d react…”
“I’m fine with it, mum. Hope it goes well.”
“Thanks babe. I hope you enjoy your parade.”
Itchycoo shouts a quick ‘miaow’ to announce his entry into the living room, has a quick sniff of the carpet and jumps up onto Jak’s lap. From there he carefully steps across onto Sylvie’s lap, paws at the material of her dress, trying to ruck it up to form a sort of nest around him, and then settles down, purring softly.
Sylvie strokes the top of his head and tickles his ears, “can I get a selfie of the two of us with Coo-Coo?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jak replies dutifully, “where’s your phone?”
“Probably in the kitchen, could you take it on yours and share it, babe?”
“Sure.”
Jak gets out her phone, leans into her mum, and lines up the shot just as Sylvie lifts Itchycoo, wriggling with token resistance, up next to their faces. Jak adjusts the angle of the phone slightly and takes the photo. Adjusts the angle again, arm outstretched to get as much of them in as possible, and takes another.
She stares at the image, Sylvie smiling, a few wrinkles around her bright, wide eyes, Itchycoo trying to lick her hand, and Jak herself, with heavy eyelids half-shut. And shrugs, “you want this?”
“Oh yes please, babe. Thank you, it’s lovely. You can see all the different shades of brown in Coo-Coo’s fur. Great picture, babe!”
“It’s okay, I suppose,” concedes Jak, picking up Itchycoo from her mum’s lap, “can we get on with doing the mash now? Are there any spring onions?”
—
Matchbox spits out a mouthful of sweet, milky tea and stands up to go. A woman walks through the automatic doors.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he calmly informs her, “I’m not wanted here. And I certainly don’t want to be here.”
The woman smiles, “well just go then. Look, the door is holding itself open for you.”
He strides out. And then breaks into a run, across the hospital car park and out the wide open front gate. He keeps running across the road, up the incline to the bridge over the railway line, where he has never seen a train, and on towards the bench by the gate to the churchyard.
Two men, one young, one old, are sat on the bench. Matchbox stands and looks at them. The young man looks back at him but quickly turns away. The old man stares at Matchbox’s damaged trainer and then at his own cement-splattered boots, breathes out a cloud of pungent smoke, and passes a lit joint to the young man.
Matchbox paces down the street, announcing to the world in general, “that man has abducted my girlfriend to do experiments. It shouldn’t be allowed. But of course it is. So what am I to do? What am I supposed to do about it? Tell me! You don’t know, do you? You’re just as bad as they are!”
Matchbox turns and paces back to the bench with the men, where he turns again down the street. Pacing, muttering, “you’re fucking rubbish Matchbox, matey boy, fucking useless!”
He keeps pacing, keeps accusing.
Tudor is walking towards him. His hair is combed and his striped shirt is tucked into his chinos. The man with him is even smarter – dinner suit and bow tie.
“Tudor, Tudor,” Matchbox demands his attention, “you need to give a message to Petra. She’s waiting for me.”
The man in the dinner suit glares at Matchbox, rolls a sleeve up and quickens his pace towards him.
Tudor tugs at his jacket, “leave him, Dagz, he’s harmless. Now, Matchbox, what’re you talking about?”
“Give this message to Petra. Please. It’s important.”
Dugz taps his foot impatiently. Tudor puts his face a centimetre from Matchbox, “what’re you talking about?”
“Now Tudor, now. Give Petra this message,” Matchbox starts writing, or maybe drawing – it is not clear to anyone – with his finger in the air. And waits for an answer.
Tudor shakes his head, “not now, Matchbox. I’m busy. C’mon Dugz, let’s go.”
“But Tudes,” wails Matchbox.
Tudor, briefly turns to call back, “we’ll get some tins together later, alright? Celebrate the weekend, make plans for the parade.”
“No parade!” yells a distraught Matchbox, “you’ve locked my love away and now you want me to go on parade? No parade!”
Tudor doesn’t turn back again.
The two men on the bench stand up. The old man beckons Matchbox to sit himself down but they don’t wait for him to do so before heading off up the road in the opposite direction from Tudor and Dugz.
Matchbox stares silently at the empty bench.