13

  He hadn’t gone out then, after all.

  He’d definitely said he was going to, as he was putting his belt back on. But Humphrey could see the familiar red glow of his cigarette, apparently hovering in mid-air, in the darkness beneath the apple tree.

  This was truly momentous. What a day!

  A birthday not to be forgotten.

  Was it really possible that his father might actually be thinking about him, right now? And if he was, what was he thinking: was he sorry?

  Could Humphrey actually have found a way of getting his attention, whenever and however he wanted?

  The pain from their earlier encounter throbbed right through him, drawing attention to the most obvious flaw in that little plan. He might have control over the ‘whenever’ but the ‘however’ looked far from ideal.

  He lay, face down, on his bed, giving the various images of Sara, Keren and Siobhan a, doubtless rather unwelcome, view of his thoroughly beaten backside.

  Why hadn’t he cried, earlier on?

  The experience had hurt, there was no question about that.

  But tears would’ve been a sign of weakness.

  Or, at least, Michael would certainly have thought so. In which case, he’d have been disgusted with him and would, probably, have chucked him out.

  Was that why the attack had been so brutal?

  Somehow, it seemed unlikely.

  Michael had been in such a frenzy of self-indulgence that Humphrey began to question whether his father had even realised he’d been in that room with him at all.

  Wasn’t that just marvellous?

  Even alone with him, being relentlessly belted by him, Humphrey still couldn’t muscle his way into the great man’s thoughts.

  Worse, he had the feeling he’d simply been a convenient excuse.

  And he didn’t much care for that.

  At least he’d managed to retrieve those silk panties from the scene of their collective humiliation. He fully intended putting those on again. Maybe not just yet though, not while his lower regions were throbbing like that. He might need to invest in a salve of some description, especially if this was going to be a regular occurrence.

  Except that wouldn’t alleviate all of the throbbing.

  With some degree of difficulty he rolled over, on to his side, apologised to Siobhan Fahey in advance, and reached one hand down towards his groin.

  This wasn’t going to take long.

  Not long at all.

  Michael took one last drag on his cigarette and then extinguished it, angrily, against the apple tree.

  He shouldn’t have hit him.

  He should not have hit him.

  He was better than that.

  He could argue his way out of anything, could he not?   Words were supposed to be his weapons, not temper.

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  Violence was a thing he’d left far behind him, it had no place in his life.

  And yet, that boy had – deliberately – provoked him. No judge in the world could possibly have found Michael to be guilty of any wrong-doing.

  With the possible exception of his own conscience that was.

  Should he go and talk to him?

  Even now, all he had to do was go upstairs and talk to the boy.

  To apologise to him.

  No, he couldn’t do that.

  How could he do that?

  He would just seem weak; there would be nothing to gain from that.

  Humphrey was probably crying his eyes out anyway, listening to Elaine Paige droning on about her Memories.

  Michael couldn’t have handled any of that.

  Actually it was probably more likely to be something from ‘La Cage Aux Folles’, based on the evidence of his son’s recent forays into the world of female fashions.

  There was no need for apologies.

  Humphrey would understand that.

  Besides, this had been a one-off occurrence. He’d been provoked and he’d lost his temper, that was all.

  It wasn’t really an acceptable excuse but at least it would not ever happen again.

  Oh, the provocation would, undoubtedly, occur again. But he would just have to make sure he reacted in a far more dignified manner, next time.

  He could do that.

  He’d only been trying to argue with her, that was all!

  The daft bugger.

  ‘How is a person supposed to find anything in here, just tell me that. It’s impossible!’

  Anthea made an elaborate show of looking around her for the piece of rubbish the fool had clearly been addressing. It obviously hadn’t been her. There’d been no manners whatsoever and he hadn’t even looked at her.

  She’d unsettle him, that’s what she’d do.

  She’d be polite and charming, that would soon fix him.

  He’d never know what had hit him.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what it is you’re looking for?’

  She attempted to smile but the muscles that had – historically – been given responsibility for such a thing were totally out of practice and too preoccupied in the search for their instruction manual to be able to actually put the plan into action. They settled for their default scowl expression, which was there to greet her customer with both, fully laden, barrels when he did finally manage to glance at her face.

  There he’d been, with the wind in his sails… the same wind he’d obviously decided to throw all caution to when he first set out to round the ‘Cape of Anthea’.

  And now here she was, having him towed, well and truly, into the doldrums.

  ‘Well, nothing really.’

  He was spluttering now, fearfully eyeing the door.

  Quick as a flash, she intercepted the only escape route available to him that didn’t involve either a silver bullet or a cyanide capsule. She spoke to him slowly, softly and with definite menace.

  ‘Right then, so perhaps you would like to tell me, what the hell difference it makes?’

  Now she’d see what he was made of.

  She had just hit him with a rhetorical question. If he had his wits about him at all, he would back down without further comment, buy himself a second-hand pair of flared trousers and be gone.

  ‘Do you really call this “customer service”?’

  The customer spoke with a bluster that diminished with every syllable he uttered, presumably as he realised he was uttering it.

  Anthea moved in for the kill.

  ‘No. Why, do you? Listen mate, you decided to come in here and rifle through my Alistair MacLeans. I didn’t ask you to, did I? And your presence here will certainly not have me cartwheeling down the street in celebration. So you can get yourself thoroughly stuffed.’

  Her customer was actually quite impressed by this sincerity.

  He’d already spent the afternoon being fawned over in several, more conventional, trading establishments. He’d been blatantly lied to in the barber’s, where the man cutting his hair had told him he looked wonderful.

  ‘Wonderful’?

  Please! He’d had the same haircut for the past thirty-five years. The amount of hair participating in the display may have diminished somewhat but the principle remained the same. The bloke had been after a tip, that was all that was.

  All the same, he felt some disappointment that this woman would not be ‘cartwheeling down the street’ because of him. Because, had she performed any of those sorts of gymnastics, he might well have been able to make his escape in the other direction.

  He looked at her more closely.

  Actually, when he came to think about it, he realised he would’ve emptied the contents of his wallet right there and then for the chance to see her cartwheeling anywhere.

  Which, when he came to think about it, probably made her a rather good saleswoman after all.

  ‘Can you tell me what charity it is that you support? It’s not altogether clear on your sign there.’

  ‘No, well it wouldn’t be. It’s a secret.’

  ‘What if I don’t happen to support whatever it is?’

  If ever there was a textbook example of a look of total and utter disinterest, he was certainly looking at it now.

  ‘But you don’t know what it is, do you? Only I know that.’

  This was no ordinary charity shop.

  Hers had an extra dynamic.

  It made it so much more interesting to be involved with.

  Besides, she’d never seen the wisdom of committing herself to just the one charitable cause. She’d had more than enough of that when she was married.