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“What thorn?”
“The legend is that Joseph of Arimathea visited Glastonbury, stuck his staff in the ground, and it took root and flowered. The odd thing about this one is that it flowers twice every year instead of the usual hawthorn that only flowers once.”
“Sounds a bit crappy, looking at an old bush.”
“That’s why I suggested you stay on at the pub.”
But Sam wasn’t as dim as that. “And what if Virginia sees you on your ownsome? I’ll get bollocked rigid.”
“Okay,” I said as if I couldn’t care less if he stayed or came with me. “But I must have a slash. Where’s the bog?”
He pointed to a sign saying Gents. “Strictly speaking I’m supposed to come with you.”
“What? And hold my willy? You know I might enjoy that!”
A blush spread from somewhere below his collar and suffused his whole face. “You know I didn’t mean that, you pervert.”
“I’ll tell Virginia you called me that.”
I felt mean, but he just buried his head in his pint glass, and I walked past the sign, past the door marked Gents, and into the great outdoors. I figured the bank would be somewhere in the center of town, and I saw it as I reached the great Market Cross, a finger of finely carved stone pointing skywards. I was right, and the ATM was in the wall outside. Praying that the police or whoever had done their job correctly, I pushed in the card, specified £250 (the limit per day), and waited. The machine seemed to hesitate as if it was considering the validity of the withdrawal, and then five £50 notes emerged. Next I needed a computer shop. These days they aren’t easy to find, as most computing gear is purchased online or from big national computer stores, but I asked a local, and he pointed down a side road where I found a shop. The range wasn’t great, but I found a Nokia that had been reduced, presumably an old model, and bought it. I paid for it in cash, which made the shopkeeper raise his eyebrows a bit (pity I couldn’t), but purchases by credit card can be traced.
Then I shot back to the pub, outside of which Sam, looking distinctly uneasy, was peering up and down the road.
“Went on my own,” I said, “I guess we better not tell Virginia, eh, Sam?”
He looked at me suspiciously, then laughed, “Fucking long slash, and not even in the Gents. Did you go to the Ladies?” He thought this was hilarious, and I let him laugh.
After this, though, we returned to the safe house, where I shut myself in my bedroom, then charged the phone and RTFM. While I was waiting, I suddenly felt a buzzing in my jeans pocket. This was the first call I’d received on my “old” phone, and probably the last.
It was my mother.
“Hello, darling, how are you?”
“Progressing, I think the eyebrows are growing back, and they don’t think I’ll have to have a skin graft on my side.”
“We miss you so, and it’s your birthday on Tuesday and we’ve nowhere to send even a card to.”
I knew how important these insignificant things were to my parents so I made a decision.
“The grand old age of twenty-two. Tell you what, I’ll probably get into awful trouble over this, but as long as you don’t tell anyone, except Dad of course, I’ll give you my address. I’ll get up early on Tuesday, hang around until I see the postman, and waylay him before he gets to the front door. They don’t mind me going into the garden alone.”
“Wait until I get a pen.” A pause, then she picked up the receiver again.
“It’s Wells Road, number 43, and don’t forget to address it to John Appleseed BA (Hons). Okay, love, I do hope I can see you soon, but until they catch the blighter who set fire to Lex’s flat, I’ve got to stay incommunicado. Love you. Remember not a word to anyone outside the family.”
“Promise, dear. Take care, bye.”
For the next few days, I watched and timed the arrival, or at least the passing, of the postman. We never received letters. I guess instructions were either passed verbally or by some form of electronic communication. He was quite predictable, 8:20 a.m. and I’d see him go by with his cap and bag.
I also tried to contact Lex, though I knew it was useless. He seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Questions to Sam and even Virginia were either met with incomprehension (the former) or “I’m sorry, but according to the high-ups, he’s a nonperson.”
“He’s my lover,” I wanted to shriek but, of course, didn’t.
For the next two days, come rain or shine, I went into the back garden unaccompanied “for a bit of fresh air” (which was permitted) and wandered around, looking at the docks and nettles, which grew in superabundance. A hopeful little plant, which I thought looked promising, (I’m no horticulturist so I’d no idea what it was called) but I cleared a patch so that at least it stood a chance.
On the day of my birthday, I did the same, going out at about 8:10 a.m., but this time scooting round the side of the house, from which position I could see the road. Promptly at 8:20 a.m., preceded by a tuneless whistle, “Postman Pat” appeared and I was at the front gate.
“Anything for 43?”
