Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

Maggie looked round at the dogs in wonder as she carefully sloshed through the mud. “How’d you do that? Nick!”

He took her hand. “It’s only dogs, Mag.”

The old stone barn was a section of one elongated building, and it stood across the yard from the house. It directly abutted a narrow cottage on whose fi rst floor a curtained window was lit. This had probably been the original farm building, a granary with a cart-shed beneath it. The granary had been converted sometime in the past to house a worker and his family, and its living quarters were gained by means of a stairway that led up to a cracked red door above which a sole bulb was now glowing. Beneath, lay the cart-shed with its single unglazed window and its gaping arch of a door.

Nick looked from the cart-shed to the barn. The latter was enormous, an ancient cow-house that was falling into disuse. Moonlight illumined its sagging roofline, its uneven row of pitching eyes on the upper storey, and its large wooden doors with their gaps and their warping. As the dogs sniffed round their shoes and as Maggie hugged herself against the cold and waited for him to lead her onward, Nick appeared to evaluate the possibilities and finally slogged through a heavier patch of muck towards the cart-shed.

“Aren’t there people up there?” Maggie whispered, pointing to the quarters above it.

“I s’pose. We’ll just have to be real quiet. It’ll be warmer in here. The barn’s too big and it’s facing the wind. Come on.”

He led her beneath the stairway where the arched door gave entrance into the cart-shed. Inside, the light from above the labourer’s front door at the top of the stairs provided a meagre, match-strength illumination through the cart-shed’s single window. The dogs followed them, milling about what was apparently their sleeping quarters, for several chewed-up blankets lay in a corner on the stone fl oor and the dogs went there eventually, where they sniffed, pawed, and sank into the pungent wool.

The cold outside seemed to magnify in the stone walls and floor of the shed. Maggie tried to comfort herself with the thought that it was just like where the baby Jesus was born— except there hadn’t been any dogs there as far as she could recall from her limited knowledge of Christmas stories — but odd squeakings and rustlings from the deep pockets of darkness in the corners of the shed made her uneasy.

She could see that the shed was used for storage. There were big burlap sacks piled along one wall, dirty buckets, tools she couldn’t have named, a bicycle, a wooden rocking chair with its wicker seat missing, and a toilet lying on its side. Against the far wall stood a dusty chest of drawers, and Nick went to this. He shimmied open the top drawer and said, with some excitement in his voice, “Hey, look at this, Mag. We’ve had ourselves some luck.”

She picked her way through the debris on the floor. Out of the drawer he was taking a blanket. And then another. They were both large and fluffy. They seemed perfectly clean. Nick shoved the drawer partially closed. The wood howled. The dogs lifted their heads. Maggie held her breath and listened for a betraying movement in the labourer’s quarters above them. Dimly, she could hear someone talking — a man, then a woman, followed by dramatic music and the sound of gunfi re — but no one came in search of them.

“The telly,” Nick said. “We’re safe.”

He cleared a space on the floor, spread the first blanket down, doubling it up to serve as both cushion against the stones and insulation against the cold, and beckoned her to join him. The second he wrapped round them, saying, “This’ll work for now. Feel warmer, Mag?” and drew her close.

She did feel warmer at once, although she fingered the blanket and smelled the fresh lavender scent of it with a twinge of doubt. She said, “Why do they keep their blankets out here? They’ll get messed up, won’t they? Won’t they get rotten or something?”

“Who cares? It’s our luck and their loss, isn’t it? Here. Lie down. Nice, that, isn’t it? Warmer, Mag?”

The rustlings along the wall seemed louder now that she was at the level of the fl oor. They also seemed accompanied by an occasional squeak. She burrowed closer to Nick and said, “What’s that noise, then?”

“I said. The telly.”

“I mean the other…that…there, did you hear it?”

“Oh, that. Barn rats, I expect.”

She flew up. “Rats! Nick, no! I can’t… please…I’m afraid of…Nick!”

“Shh. They won’t bother you. Come on. Lie down.”

“But rats! If they bite you, you die! And I—”

“We’re bigger than they are. They’re lots more scared. They won’t even come out.”

“But my hair…I read once where they like to collect hair to make up their nests.”

“I’ll keep them away from you.” He urged her down next to him and lay on his side. “Use my arm for a pillow,” he said. “They won’t climb up my arm to get you. Jeez, Mag, you’re shaking. Here. Get close. You’ll be

okay.”

“We won’t stay here long?”

“Just for a rest.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise. Come on. It’s cold.” He unzipped his bomber jacket and held it open. “Here. Double warmth.”

With a fearful glance in the direction of the deepest pool of darkness where the barn rats skittered among the burlap sacks, she lowered herself onto the blanket, into the confi nes of Nick’s bomber jacket. She felt stiff with both the cold and her fear, uneasy with their proximity to people. The dogs hadn’t roused anyone, that was true, but if the farmer made a final round of the yard prior to going to bed, they’d likely be found.

Nick kissed her head. “Okay?” he said. “It’s just for a while. Just for a rest.”

“Okay.”

She slipped her arms round him and let her body warm from his and from the blanket that covered them. She kept her thoughts away from the rats and instead pretended that they were in their very fi rst flat together, she and Nick. It was their offi cial first night, like a honeymoon. The room was small but the moonlight gleamed against the walls’ pretty rosebud paper. There were prints hanging on them, watercolours of frolicking dogs and cats, and Punkin lay at the foot of the bed.

She moved closer to Nick. She was wearing a beautiful full-length gown of pale pink satin with lace on the straps and along the bodice. Her hair flowed round her, and perfume rose from the hollow of her throat and behind her ears and between her breasts. He was wearing dark blue pyjamas of silk, and she could feel his bones, his muscles, and the strength of him along the length of her body. He would want to do it, of course — he would always want to do it — and she would always want to do it as well. Because it was so close and so nice.

“Mag,” Nick said, “lie still. Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are.”

“I’m just getting closer. It’s cold. You said—”

“We can’t. Not here. Okay?”

She pressed against him. She could feel It in his trousers, despite his words. It was already hard. She slithered her hand between their bodies.

“Mag!”

“It’s nothing but warmness,” she whispered and rubbed It just the way he’d taught her.

“Mag, I said no!” His answering whisper was fi erce.

“But you like it, don’t you?” She squeezed It, released It.

“Mag! Get off!”

She ran her hand Its length.

“No! Damn! Mag, leave it be!”

She recoiled when he knocked her hand away and felt quick tears come in answer. “I only…” She ached when she breathed. “It was nice, wasn’t it? I wanted to be nice.”

In the dim light, he looked like something was hurting inside him. He said, “It is nice. You’re nice. But that makes me want to and we can’t right now. We can’t . Okay. Here. Lie down.”