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15 2017 . [email protected], .
: (8-391) 2-27-63-82 10.00 16.00.
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The Attraction
by John Riley
The attraction of well-washed hands and young words.
Hands, eyes, emotions in confined spaces.
The hill seems clean, the houses on top of it we ignore.
Smoke in the valley too proclaims a settlement.
Even the glances of the very poor at the moderately rich
Are timid. Always with us. Settled in.
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Those men conferring on the river bank
Are they going to shoot something? They are
Planning to build a city. Some trees are spared.
A birds nest holds itself in a winter tree.
Forgive us our clothes our houses our bridges, they are misleading.
I go to my love. She lives by a stream.
Forgive us our morals forgive us our practices, they are inhuman.
The end of love as the end of a journey
Is that two things should be one.
Beauty enough en route is what no man can be sure of
And yet in mimic motion he can be surer of nothing else.
There is still some snow about. My love lives by a stream
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Believing the Lie (by Elizabeth George)
ARNSIDE
CUMBRIA
He knew nothing about fishing, but that was hardly the point. Zed Benjamin understood that the point was not to catch fish or even hope to catch fish but rather to look like he was fishing. So hed borrowed a rod from the tottering owner of his B & B, who gave him chapter and verse on her late husband and the wasted hours hed spent with his fishing line in the waters of this lake, that stream, or whatever bay. She handed over a tackle basket, as well, along with a slicker that fit Zeds arm but nothing else and a pair of Wellingtons that were altogether useless to him. She pressed a folding stool upon him and wished him luck. Her husband, she told him, had had virtually none. According to her, the man had caught fifteen fish in twenty-five years. He could see the record if he wanted to because shed kept it, every time the bloody man left the house and returned empty-handed. Could be hed been having an affair, she said, because when one really put ones head to the matter
Zed had thanked her hastily and had driven to Arnside, where he found, with thanks to God, that the tide was in. Hed established himself on the seawall path, just beneath Nicholas Faircloughs house, and there hed cast his line into the water. The line was baitless. The last thing he wanted was actually to catch a fish and have to do something with it. Like touch it.
Now that Scotland Yard knew that he was in the vicinity, he had to take care. Once they clocked him whoever they were his job was going to be even more difficult. He needed to know exactly who they were assuming it was a they, because didnt they work in teams like on the telly? because if he could suss them out before they sussed him out, his position to strike a deal was going to be a hell of a lot stronger. For if they were here on the sly, then the last thing they would want was to have their mugs printed on the front page of The Source, alerting Nicholas Fairclough to their presence, not to mention to their intentions. Zed had reckoned theyd turn up at Arnside House eventually. He was there to take note when that occurred. The stool had been an excellent idea. After he took up his position along the seawall, he alternated between standing and taking a load off as the hours passed. But nothing of a suspicious nature or any nature at all happened across the lawn at Arnside House, and he was growing rather desperate to learn something anything useful to his story when Alatea Fairclough finally came outside.
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She walked straight towards him and his thought was Bloody, bloody, double bloody hell. He was about to be discovered before hed learned a damn thing useful, and wasnt that just how his luck was running these days? But she stopped far short of the seawall and stood looking out at the endlessly undulating mass of the bay. Her expression was sombre. Zed reckoned she was thinking about all the people whod met an untimely end in this area, like those poor Chinese sods more than fifty of them caught in the darkness in the incoming tide and phoning home like E.T., desperate for rescue that did not come. Or the bloke and his son caught by the tide and a sudden fog bank and disoriented round by foghorns that seemed to come from everywhere. Considering this, Zed reckoned the edge of Morecambe Bay was a perishing depressing place to live, and Alatea Fairclough looked about as perishing depressed as one could get.
Hell, he thought, was she considering the possibilities of offing herself out there in the treacherous waters? He hoped not. Hed be meant to rescue her, and theyd both likely die if it came to that. He was too far to hear its ringing, but Alateas mobile phone seemed to go off, because she took it from the jacket she was wearing and flipped it open. She spoke to someone. She began to pace. Ultimately, she looked at her watch, which glittered on her wrist even at this distance. She glanced round as if worried she might be observed and Zed ducked his head.
God, she was a beautiful woman, he thought. He couldnt understand how she had ended up here, in the back of beyond, when a woman like her belonged on a catwalk or at least in a catalogue wearing skimpy knickers like those Agent Provocateur models with their sumptuous bosoms bursting out of brassieres and the brassieres always matching their knickers and the knickers themselves showing lots and lots of firm and delicious thigh so that one could so easily imagine all the delights of
Zed brought himself up short. What the hell was going on with him? He was being completely unfair to womankind, thinking like this. He was particularly being unfair to Yaffa, who was back in London working on his behalf and helping out with the insanity of his mother and But what was the point of thinking about Yaffa since Micah was on the back burner of her life, studying medicine in Tel Aviv like the good son of a mother, which Zed himself was not?
He bashed his forehead with the heel of his palm. He took a chance and cast a look back at Alatea Fairclough. She was heading back towards the house now, her phone call finished.
For a time, that appeared to be the highlight of Zeds day. Wonderful, he thought. Another nought to add to the noughts of his accomplishments in Cumbria. He spent another two hours pretending to fish before he began to pack it in and consider what to do next.
Things changed, however, as he was trudging back in the direction of the Promenade and his car, which hed left in Arnside village. Hed just reached the end of the seawall that defined the boundary of Arnside House when a car approached and made the turn into the driveway.
It was driven by a woman. She looked as if she knew where she was going. She pulled up to the front of the house and got out, and Zed crept as well as a man six feet eight inches tall can actually creep back the way hed come.
Like him, she was a redhead. She was casually dressed in jeans, boots, and a thick wool sweater the colour of moss. He expected her to walk directly to the front door, some friend of Alateas come to call, he reckoned. But she did not do so. Instead, she began to prowl round the house like a third-rate burglar. Moreover, she took out a digital camera from her shoulder bag and started taking pictures.
Ultimately, she approached the front door and rang the bell. She waited, looking round her as if to see if anyone like Zed himself might be lurking in the shrubbery. While she waited, she took out her mobile and seemed to check it for text messages or something. Then the front door opened and without an exchange of more than ten words, Alatea Fairclough let her into the house.
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But she sure as bloody hell did not look happy about having to do so, Zed realized. He also realized with a surge of pure joy that his wait had paid off. He had the scoop he needed. He had the sex in the story. He had the identity of the detective sent up from London from New Scotland Yard.
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