Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“Let’s have a vote, then,” said Derek, looking at his watch. “All those in favour of an age limit?”

Only Hazel raised her hand.

“Right, that’s carried. Thanks everybody. Next meeting we’re walking the course first, then coming in for business. I shall have a list of points for us to check, including the other entertainments. All going well there, Hazel? Right, I close the meeting for this evening.”

GAVIN WENT ALONG WITH THE OTHERS TO THE PUB, CONFIRMED that he could do the trial run in the pub’s Speedy Willie , and then said he had to go home. “Kate’s got a migraine,” he said, “so I promised to go straight home to be there if Cecilia wakes.”

The others chorused good wishes for Kate’s recovery, and got down to the serious business of ordering.

As Gavin walked back along the High Street, he tried to imagine it on race day. Straw bales would line the road, with a gang of the biggest lads from the Youth Club making sure people didn’t stray off the pavements. Loudspeakers were to be placed along the course, and Derek had agreed to do the commentary. He’d been practising in the bath, and although Lois said he sounded like a man in severe pain, he had assured a doubtful Gavin he could be mistaken for Murray Walker anytime.

Then the soap boxes, careering down the street, hopefully gathering momentum from the sloping length of it. The ramp would give them a good start, and the better they were built, the faster they would go. At least, he thought that was how it would be. Lightest or heaviest? He had no idea, but some of the technical chaps would know. It would be a day to remember, he said to himself as he turned into his lane.

And saw a white van pull away from the pavement next to his cottage, increase speed and disappear round the corner towards the church.

He broke into a run, but couldn’t catch it. He turned into his gate and rushed up the path. The house was in darkness, not even a soft light coming from Cecilia’s room. He opened the front door and panicked. There were toys everywhere, and story books had been ripped from their covers. He rushed upstairs and as he reached the landing he stopped. A small cry from Cecilia. “Christ!” he said aloud. “Thank Christ.” He sank on to his haunches with his head in his hands. Then he stood up slowly and went in to check his small daughter. She had cried in her sleep, and was lying peacefully on her back, thumb firmly in her mouth.

Kate! He went quickly into their bedroom, as quietly as he could. “Gavin? Is that you? Oh my God, thank heavens you’re back.” And then there were loud sobs.

He wrapped her in his big dressing gown and helped her down to the sitting room. “You sit there, and I’ll get us a cup of tea before I tidy up this lot,” he said. “And don’t try to tell me what happened until you’re ready.”

When she had downed the hot, sweet tea, Kate held Gavin’s hand and began. “It was after you’d gone,” she said. “Cecilia was asleep, and I was picking up toys and things before going to bed myself. I was feeling sick, like I usually do with a migraine,” she said, “and when the doorbell went I just ignored it. I could see a white van parked outside and reckoned it was somebody trying to sell something. I could see out of the window the man at the door. He wouldn’t stop ringing the bell. He just kept his finger on it, and I was worried he’d wake Cecilia. So I went and opened it.”

“Was it Froot?” said Gavin hoarsely.

“No, thank God. But it was one of his henchmen. He pushed his way in and made me sit down. Then he said he had a message from Mr. Froot for me. I was to meet him in the Café Jaune in Tresham. On my own. On Saturday. I should make up some story to tell you, and be there prompt at one o’clock. Or else. He said that several times… or else.” She began to cry again, and Gavin hugged her tight.

“What happened to the toys and books?” he said, when she calmed down.

“I said he could tell Tim Froot to go to hell, and he started picking them up, one after another, breaking the legs off the dolls and tearing up the books. I couldn’t bear it, Gavin. All Cecilia’s precious dolls! So I said if he’d stop I’d make sure I would be there on Saturday. Then he went. Next time, he said as he was leaving, it wouldn’t be just the doll’s legs that would get broken. As soon as he’d gone out of the door, I put off all the lights and hid under the bedclothes. And then straightaway you were home. Thank goodness, Cecilia slept through the whole thing. Oh, Gavin,” she said, weeping again. “What are we going to do?”

“What was he like, this villain?”

“Tall, thin, in his thirties or forties. Shaky hands. Funny look in his eyes. That’s about it.”

“Don’t worry, Katie,” Gavin said, quietly. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it for good.”

THE CHURCH CHOIR WAS ASSEMBLING IN DRIBS AND DRABS and Father Rodney greeted them at the door. Much to their relief, he had announced early on that he would not be joining them, but would give them every support. “Evening, Tony,” he said. “Did you have any luck with young Hickson?”

“Don’t know yet, Vicar,” he said. “We shall see if he turns up. Irene had a word with his mother, and she was all for it. Promised not to tell anyone. The lad was worried about what the thugs on the bus would do to him if they found out.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” said the vicar vigorously. “But I do understand. Young people today are so obsessed with being cool, and sadly anything to do with church seems to be about as uncool as they could imagine.”

“Not all, Father Rodney. A lot depends on the church.”

Father Rodney frowned. Was there a criticism there? He would have to give it some thought. Anthea had been the one most in touch with the new, edgy generation, and would gently guide him into the best way to handle them, if he ever got the chance. For the first time, he wondered whether he should perhaps think about another partner to share his thoughts.

“Right,” said Tony, “are we all here?”

“No need to keep looking at the door, Tony. All present and correct,” said the lead soprano, an upright, chilly figure with a loud voice and deaf ear, so that every hymn or anthem was for her an opportunity for a solo performance.

Tony looked anxiously at his watch. Irene, sitting in her chair at the end of one of the choir stalls, beckoned to him. “He’s not coming, I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Better get started.”

“Right, everybody,” Tony said, looking sadly at the assorted group. You couldn’t blame the lad. Who’d want to be numbered amongst this little lot? Certainly not a scared boy of thirteen. It was possible he might come along late, but he doubted it.

Choir practise was scheduled to last an hour, and although Tony added another hymn for them to go through, Jack Jr. did not appear. Then only Tony and Irene remained in the church, and he asked her if she minded waiting a short while longer. “These books are in a terrible state,” he said. “I could just sort them out, so it’d be easier to find them next time.”

Irene said that was fine, and thought to herself that poor old Tony was still hoping the boy might turn up with a good excuse. Finally they locked up the church and started on their way home. Halfway down the street, just as they were about to turn into their lane, Tony saw a figure hurrying towards them. It was not Jack, but his mother, and she hailed them without pleasantries.

“Where’s my Jack?” she said baldly.

“We’ve not seen him, Mrs. Hickson,” said Irene.