Peter James - Perfect People

Neither of them said anything.

‘Is that what you think about your mummy and I? That we’re going to abuse you? Because it’s not a very funny joke.’

Both of them stood up and walked out of the room.

‘Luke! Phoebe!’ John said, barely controlling his anger. ‘Come back, I’m talking to you!’

He burst out of the door after them and yelled at them. ‘LUKE! PHOEBE! COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!’

Continuing to ignore him, they went downstairs.

He started after them, then stopped. How was he supposed to deal with this? It was like dealing with moody teenagers. Is that what they were?

He was really trembling badly now, his brain misty with anger. He just wanted to grab hold of them, shake them, shake the little bastards until the truth fell out of them. But Sheila Michaelides had told them that confrontation with the twins would just drive them further into their shells – exactly like teenagers, he thought.

Oh sure, easy to say, Dr Michaelides – but how the hell are we supposed to avoid getting angry when they say something like this?

Remembering for a moment his reason for coming upstairs, he went into his bedroom, took the two keys that were hidden underneath his handkerchiefs, then opened his wardrobe, pushed his suits and shirts over to one side, the hangers clacking, to reveal the steel gun cabinet he’d had fixed into the wall. Then he unlocked the door and lifted out the heavy shotgun that nestled inside.

It was a Russian-made twelve-bore, which he had bought, second-hand, after a three-month wait for the licence, at the same time as they had put in the other security measures here. He had never used the gun, and Naomi had disapproved strongly at the time. Nonetheless, he had always felt better at night for knowing it was there.

It seemed heavier than he had remembered; the stock was warm, the barrels as cold as ice. He broke it open, admiring for an instant the finely engineered movement, and squinted down the shiny insides of the barrels. As he closed it again, he heard the reassuring click. Then, raising the gun, peering across the pinhead sight and down the top of the barrels, he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Safety catch! he remembered. He slid it off, pointed the gun at the window, gripped tightly and squeezed first the right trigger, then the left one, hearing the sharp click each time.

Kneeling, he pushed the gun under the bed, far enough in so that it was out of sight. Next he took the box of ammunition from the cabinet, broke it open and put four cartridges in the drawer in his bedside table. Then he put the box back in the cabinet, locked it, and put the keys back in place beneath his handkerchiefs.

He sat on the bed for some moments, thinking what else he could do, what other precautions he could take, and all the time hoping to hell he was just overreacting, that this American had been innocent. In all likelihood they were worrying about nothing. Hell, his mother-in-law had never been to the States, she didn’t like to fly, so she could have mistaken his accent.

He went downstairs to the kitchen where Naomi was making a late snack lunch for them all and Luke and Phoebe were sitting at the kitchen table

Leaning against the Aga for warmth, he said to his mother-in-law, ‘Anne, this man who came to the door – he was definitely American?’

‘Very definitely.’ She was emphatic.

John thought for a moment. ‘You said he was looking for an address – he was lost or something?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘John, it is pretty confusing around here, first time you come. I got lost, too. You’re not very well signposted.’

‘I don’t think he was lost,’ Phoebe said sharply, without looking away from the television.

There was a brief silence. ‘Did you see this man, Phoebe?’ Naomi asked.

‘You don’t have to see someone to know they’re not lost,’ Phoebe said scornfully.

‘So why do you think he wasn’t lost, Phoebe?’ John asked.

Still without moving her eyes from the television, Phoebe flapped away his question with her hand. ‘We’re watching the show, please stop interrupting.’

John and Naomi exchanged a glance. He saw his mother-in-law smiling at her impertinence.

Insolence.

He should have slapped Phoebe down for it, so should Naomi, but it was still a major achievement to get the children to speak at all, still a novelty to hear them.

‘It was a farm he was looking for?’ John said.

‘I think that’s what he said. And – oh yes – feed!’

‘Feed?’

‘Agricultural feed – he was selling agricultural feed!’ Then her brow furrowed. ‘Although I have to say he really didn’t look a terribly rural type.’

John went to his study and phoned, in turn, each of the five local farming families around them whom he had met. Three of them answered and confirmed they’d not had any visitor fitting that description. They each promised to call him if the American did turn up. At the other two numbers, he got the voice mail, and left messages.

John then tried to turn his attention to his book and make use of this sudden extra time away from work. But it was hopeless, he couldn’t concentrate; he was too worried about this American with his crucifix.

Naomi called him back down for his lunch. After he had eaten he put on his Barbour, a rain hat and wellington boots, and went out for a walk across the fields, circumnavigating the house, keeping close enough to be able to beat any car coming up the drive back to it.

A thought was going round and round in his mind:

What if they had been in when the American had come?

Later in the afternoon, there was a reply from his email to Kalle. It was an automated response, telling him that Kalle was away from the office for the next ten days. A short while later the two remaining farmers returned his calls. Neither of them had had any visitors today.

At half past five in the afternoon, John’s mother-in-law set off for her drive back home to Bath. It was already pitch dark outside, and the rain was still tipping down. John put on his Barbour and wellingtons and, carrying a golfing umbrella, escorted her out to her car. He kissed her goodbye, then stood in the porch with Naomi until the tail lights had disappeared down the drive.

Although he got on fine with her, he normally felt a sense of relief when she had departed. It was good to have the house back to themselves.

Normally.

But this afternoon he felt a deep sense of anxiety, and wished she could have stayed longer. With a torch, he made a circuit of the house, checking that the sensors for all the outside lights were working properly, comforted a little by the sudden flood of brilliant light as each one came on.

In the living room, Naomi flopped down on a sofa, grateful for the chance of a few minutes to look at the paper. She had a headache that was getting worse by the minute. Luke and Phoebe were lounging back on the other sofa, engrossed in watching an old pop video of the group The Corrs on MTV.

‘ Thunder only happens when it’s raining,’ they were singing.

Suddenly Phoebe grabbed the remote and turned the volume down.

‘That’s not true!’ Phoebe said. ‘Thunder does not only happen when it’s raining. Why are they saying that? Mummy? Why are they saying that?’

Naomi lowered the paper, pleasantly surprised that Phoebe was addressing her. ‘Saying what, darling?’

‘That thunder only happens when it’s raining. Everybody knows that a thunderstorm is a storm with visible lightning and audible thunder. The arrangement of storms within any spectrum is determined by the updraught strength, relative frequency of the updraught strength, depending on category, and relative threats of the updraught categories. I mean, are they talking about single-cell storms, multicell storm lines or supercells? They’re the kinds that produce severe weather elements, right? But that’s only talking about a fraction of the bigger picture. There are forty thousand thunderstorms a day in the world, which is like a quarter of a million flashes every minute. So what the fuck do they know?’