The Little Country by Charles de Lint
Janey’s spirits lifted slightly. The American would be staying in a hotel.
She made a U-turn and started east again on the Promenade.
A hotel. Of course. Then her spirits sagged again. Only which one?
She got lucky at the third hotel she tried. Ron Hollinshead, an old schoolmate of hers, was behind the counter. He looked up from the magazine he was reading as she came in. Pushing back his dark hair from his brow, he stood up, a smile crinkling his features. On his feet he only topped Janey by a few inches.
“Hello there, Janey,” he said, peering past her to where her car was pulled up to the curb. “Car giving you a bit of agro?”
“Don’t talk to me about that car.”
Ron came around the counter. “Want me to take a look at it?”
“No. It’s not that. I just—do you have an American woman staying here? All I know is her first name: Lena.”
Ron nodded. “Lena Grant. She’s been here a few days. Thinks she’s a bloody princess. What do you want with her?”
“Has she had any visitors this evening?” Janey asked.
“About a half hour or so ago—rough-looking bloke. Looked like he’d been swimming in the bay.”
“Did he have any baggage?”
“A duffel and a case of some sort. What’s this all about, Janey?”
“What room’s she in?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“It’s important.”
Ron looked uncomfortable. “But it’s privileged information. I could lose my job if I let people go about bothering the guests. Be fair, Janey.”
“I’m not going to bother anyone,” Janey said. “Honestly. I just want to talk to the fellow who’s visiting her.”
“I don’t think so,” Ron said. “This time of night, there’s not much guesswork needed to know what they’re up to.”
Janey did an admirable job of keeping down the sudden flare of anger that rose up in her.
I sent him away, she told herself. If he’s in bed with her, it’s my fault. I’m going to stay calm. I’m just going to talk to him. And maybe tear out all of her bloody hair. . . .
“I’m sorry, Janey,” Ron said. “But there’s rules and I’ve got to stick to them.”
Janey sighed. “You won’t tell me?”
“Not won’t—can’t.”
“Then I’ll just have to find out for myself.”
Ron caught her arm as she started for the stairs. “For Christ’s sake, Janey. Don’t cause a scene.”
“I won’t. Just tell me what room they’re in.” She found a disarming smile to charm him with. “Come on, Ron. It’s really very important.”
“Bloody hell.”
“No one has to know who told me,” she assured him.
“You won’t start shouting and carrying on?”
“Promise,” she said and crossed her heart.
I’ll kill her quietly, she added to herself.
“If I lose my job . . .”
“You won’t, Ron. I’ll be up to have a quick bit of a chat and out again, quiet as a mouse. No one’ll even know I was here.”
He sighed heavily and looked around the lobby as though expecting to find his employer lurking about, just waiting for him to break the rules before she booted him out and then he’d be on the dole again.
“All right,” he said. “Room five—top of the stairs on your right. But mind you don’t—”
Janey nodded. “I’ll be quiet as a ghost.”
A ghost of retribution, she thought, then forced that thought away. She was going to stay calm—no matter what she found in the bloody woman’s room. She was not going to cause a scene.
“Thanks, Ron,” she said.
She gave his arm a quick squeeze, then hurried up the stairs before he could change his mind. She looked back down when she reached the first landing to find him staring up at her, obviously still distressed. She put a finger to her lips and tiptoed exaggeratedly on up until she was out of his sight.
I’m going to be calm, she reminded herself as she reached the door with the brass plate that read “Number Five.”
Easy to say. Her pulse was drumming wildly as she reached up to rap on the door with her knuckles and the last thing she felt was calm. She paused before knocking and put her ear to the wood paneling. She could hear an odd sound, but the thickness of the door made it impossible to identify.
Maybe they were asleep. Together in the same bed. Exhausted after a frenzied bout of lovemaking. . . .
She was going to kill that woman. She was going to tear out her—
Calm, she warned herself. Be calm.
She knocked, and got no response. But she could sense that they were in there. Empty rooms had a different feel about them. And there was that faint, rhythmical sound.
She knocked a second time, then tried the handle when there was still no answer. It turned easily under her hand. She flung the door open and stepped into the room where her worst fears were realized.
A naked woman was astride Felix on the bed, riding him as though he was some thoroughbred stallion, hands on his shoulders, breasts bobbing as her hips went up and down. She turned wide, startled eyes to Janey, pausing in midmotion with Felix’s penis still halfway inside her. Felix never moved, never turned.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the woman demanded.
Janey looked around the room for the nearest thing with which to hit her.
4.
Davie Rowe buttoned his shirt across his broad chest and stepped into his trousers, right leg first.
Two bloody hundred quid, he thought as he tucked in his shirttails and then zipped up his trousers. And for doing something legal in the bargain. Wasn’t that just something.
“Is that you, Davie?”
Davie glanced at the wall separating his bedroom from his mother’s.
“Yes, Mum.”
“Who was that on the phone, then?”
Her voice was closer now.
Oh, do stay in bed, Davie thought. But there wasn’t much chance of that.
“Just a mate,” he said.
His mother appeared in his doorway, a worn, old flowered housecoat wrapped around her thin body.
“Not that Willie Keel, was it?”
Davie shook his head. “It was Darren Spencer. He got himself a flat up by the quarry and needs a hand.”
“Because I don’t like that Keel chap,” his mother went on as though she hadn’t heard him. “He’s the one what got you in trouble before and he’ll do it again, give him half a chance. You mark my words, Davie, he’s a bad sort and—”
Davie cut her off with a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I really must go, Mum. Darren’s waiting.”
“Yes, well. It’s important to stand by your friends,” his mother said. “Not that I saw Darren stand by you when you went to prison. Where was he then, I ask you? But now, when he needs himself a spot of help at—what time is it?”
“Time for me to go. You get back to bed, Mum. I won’t be long.”
His mother nodded. “Mind you take a coat and hat, now. It’s a proper flood out there tonight.”
“I will.”
He found his boots by the door where he’d dropped them when he came in earlier and quickly laced them up. His mother continued to prattle as he shrugged into a thick raincoat and pushed a fisherman’s cap down over his unruly brown curls.
“A big lad like you,” his mother said as he opened the front door, “can still catch his death of cold.”
“I’ll be careful, Mum.”
He closed the door and stepped gratefully into the street, preferring the physical discomfort of the rain to his mother’s nagging. She meant well, he knew, but her incessant nattering got on his nerves something fierce. Of course it was his own fault, wasn’t it? Almost thirty and still living at home with his mum. And didn’t that give Willie a laugh, just? Still, what else could he do? He couldn’t afford his own lodging
A fine how-do it was when the only Rowes left in Mousehole were a grumbling old woman and her half-arsed crook of a son. Such times. Things were better when Dad was alive, bringing in the odd bit of contraband to augment the family’s poor fishing income. And in his grandfather’s day . . . time was the Rowes were the best smugglers this side of up country.
But that was in days long past, when the pilchard still ran and men used the wind, not motors, to propel their ships. This was now. At the moment his only concern was the two hundred quid he had riding on finding Clare Mabley and keeping her alive.
Two hundred quid!
As he hurried across the village through the rain to Raginnis Hill, Davie wondered how much Willie was keeping for himself. And he wondered as well about who would want to hurt Clare. He’d done some bad things in his own time, and would undoubtedly do more, but he could honestly say that he’d [n]ever hurt a disabled person, nor stolen from one either.
He couldn’t understand a man who would.
Because of the heavy rain, Davie was almost upon the two figures before he saw them. Clare was hobbling painfully up the hill without her cane, while the man with her kept shoving her when she slowed down.
“Here!” Davie cried. “Lay off her, you!”
The man turned. His left hand dipped into the pocket of his overcoat and came back with a knife. Davie took in the man’s odd muffled appearance and the knife with a touch of uneasiness. Bugger was decked out like the villain in some bad American movie, he thought. But the knife was no joke. Nor the assured way the man held it, cutting edge up.
Davie couldn’t help but picture that blade plunging into his belly and then tearing up his chest until it was stopped by his breastbone. . . .
Still he held his ground.
Two hundred quid, he thought.
And besides, he rather liked Clare.
“Got yourself a knife, have you?” he said. “Makes you feel grandly brave, I’ll wager.”
The man’s only reply was a sudden lunge forward. The knife cut through Davie’s coat, but missed the skin as Davie side-stepped the attack. Before the man could swing about, Davie struck him squarely in the side of the head with one meaty fist and dropped his attacker in his tracks.
Those knuckles were going to hurt come morning, Davie thought as he moved in to make sure the man stayed down.
Shaking his head, the man made it to his feet before Davie could reach him. He held the knife between them, effectively keeping Davie at bay. Then Davie spied Clare’s cane lying where it had fallen on the wet pavement earlier.
Right, he thought. We’ll end this quickly now.
He feinted towards the man, dodged the sweeping blow of the knife, and kicked the man’s feet from under him. As Clare’s attacker went tumbling to the pavement, Davie stepped quickly over to where the cane lay. He turned with it in hand, just as the man was rising.
“Fun’s over, mate,” Davie said. “Why don’t you bugger off before you get seriously hurt.”
The man roared inarticulately and charged. Davie swung the cane twice. One blow knocked the knife from the man’s hand. Sidestepping out of the way, Davie delivered the second blow to the man’s shoulder as he went by. The man stumbled against a low garden wall, turning quickly. His right arm now hung loosely at his side.
Broken, Davie thought. Or maybe the nerves had simply been struck numb. Either way, the man was in no shape to continue the fight.
Davie raised the cane again.
“I’m serious, mate,” he said. “Bugger off or there’ll be some real pain.”
He could feel the man’s hatred burning from the eyes hidden behind those odd goggles. It was a venomous rage that had no need for words to express itself. Davie had lost his cap in their brief struggle and the rain was plastering his curls to his head, running into his eyes. But he didn’t move, didn’t even blink, until the figure by the wall slowly sidled towards the left, then fled off down the hill.
Davie bent down and retrieved the man’s knife, which he pitched off into the darkness behind the nearest house below the road. He collected his sodden hat and shoved it into his pocket, then went to where Clare was crouching wide-eyed on the road.
“Oh, God, Davie,” she said as he came near. “He was going to kill me.”
Davie didn’t quite know what to do now. He helped Clare to her feet, feeling stupid and awkward once she was standing on her own, holding her cane again.
“Yes, well . . .” he started, then he ran out of words.
“You saved my life, Davie.”
“It’s just, uh, lucky I happened by when I, uh, did.”
Clare stepped a little closer and leaned against his arm. He could feel her trembling.
“I’ve never been so frightened before in all my life,” she said.
“Well, he’s, uh, gone now.”
A new tremor went through Clare. “What if he comes back?”
“I doubt that.”
It was getting a little easier to talk to her now.
“But if he does?” she asked. “We’d better call the police.”
“No police,” Davie said.
“But. . .” Clare turned to look up into his face. She blinked away rain, and then nodded. “Of course,” she said. “You don’t exactly get along with them, do you?”
Davie sucked on his bruised knuckles. “Not exactly. Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m just a little shaken still—that’s all.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Davie said.
“This is very kind of you.”
“You could call the police from your house,” Davie went on. “Just don’t mention me, that’s all.”
Clare nodded, letting herself be led on up the hill, past the bird hospital, to her front door.
“What could they do anyway?” she asked. “He’s long gone now.”
“Long gone,” Davie agreed.
“But I should report it all the same, just so he doesn’t attack someone else. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Unless what?” Davie asked.
Clare shivered. Her fingers shook as she tried to fit her key to its lock. Davie took it from her and unlocked the door for her.
“I had the oddest feeling that he was after me in particular.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt you?” Davie asked.
But he was thinking about two hundred quid as he spoke, and of Willie Keel. Someone had told Willie that this attack was going to happen. Someone who was willing to pay at least two hundred quid—probably double that when you took in Willie’s share—to make sure that it didn’t happen.
The only person Davie could think that would fit that bill was the American woman who was staying in Penzance. But why? And why Clare?
“I don’t know,” Clare said. “But someone does.”
She stepped inside, then looked back at him.
“Will you come in for a bit?” she asked. “You’ve gotten all drenched. I could put on some tea.”
“I suppose I could,” Davie said. “Just so long as you don’t phone the police while I’m here.”
She gave him an odd look. “What’ve you been up to, Davie?”
“Nothing. I swear. I was just out walking, that’s all. But if I’m here when the police come, they’ll take me in all the same.”
“Well, I can’t have that happen,” Clare said. “Not after you’ve helped me. But walking in the rain?”
“It helps clear my mind.”
“There’s a lot of that needed around here,” Clare said.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Would you like that tea?”
“Please.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
She hung up her coat by the door and started off down the hall to the kitchen. Davie hung up his own gear, then stood awkwardly by
“I feel better with you here,” she said. “Safer. Did you see his face?”
“Not much to see, what with the goggles and scarf and all.”
“That’s just it. It fairly gives me the creeps just thinking about him.”
Davie nodded and took a seat at the kitchen table. It had been creepy. And hurt or not, the man was still out there. He could come back. If he did, and Davie wasn’t there to stop him, then Davie knew he could just kiss away his two hundred quid. Not to mention that Clare would be dead. . . .
“Do you have a phone I could use?” he asked.
Clare raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to phone the police now?”
“Not likely. I just wanted to call a mate I was supposed to be seeing to tell him I won’t be by.” The questioning look remained in her eyes. “I thought I should, uh, stay a bit,” he added. “In case the bloke who attacked you decides to come back. The police wouldn’t leave a man here with you, you see.”
“That’s a kind thought.”
“Unless you’d rather I went. . . ?”
“No. I could make up a bed for you on the couch, if you like.”
“I don’t need much.” He paused, then added, “The phone?”
“It’s in the study,” she said, pointing the way.
“Thanks.”
As soon as he got to the telephone, Davie rang up Willie’s number.
“You were spot on the money about that attack,” he said when Willie answered.
“You had no trouble?”
“None to speak of. Do you know who he was?”
“No.”
“Do you think he’ll be back?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Willie said. “Is there a place nearby where you can watch Mabley’s house?” He was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking, then added before Davie could speak, “Of course there’s this bloody weather, isn’t there?”
“It’s all right,” Davie said. “I’m in Clare’s house at the moment. She invited me in when I rescued her.”
“Can you stay?”
“That’s not a problem. What I want to know, Willie, is, what’s this all about?”