Four #2
Ivy’s stomach knotted and her fingers flew to the cross at her neck.
Outside his cottage, Fred stood rigid, ushering men inside like a reluctant Moses parting the Red Sea, but wishing it would close again before the Israelites had crossed.
Muttering a prayer that the vigilantes hadn’t already searched her garden, she jogged the last few yards, slipped into the crowd and followed them into Fred’s back garden.
Fred took up guard by his shed, arms crossed, eyes dark with irritation. Peeking inside, Ivy watched two men pushing aside gardening paraphernalia, messing up the pristine shed.
‘Watch your step,’ snapped Fred. ‘Those dahlias are worth more than the lot of you put together.’
One man smirked but made a show of stepping away from the pots lined up in regimental fashion against a wall.
‘We’ll be checking everyone’s outhouses,’ added the other man forcefully. ‘You’ve got to do it all yourself now. Police are too busy. You never know who might be harbouring one of them.’ His gaze focussed on Ivy, a little too intently. ‘You’re next.’
She cringed. They were coming toher shed. For Omar.
She could refuse, but that would only draw attention. Gripping her bag more tightly, she forced a laugh. ‘I doubt you’ll find anything as useful in mine as in Fred’s – maybe a decent bunch of spiders.’
‘Won’t take long to check,’ one of them said smoothly.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She willed her voice to stay light. ‘If you like the scent of damp, be my guest.’
‘We’ll finish Fred’s place first. Need to do a proper job,’ he said airily, which made Ivy realize she had only minutes to protect Omar from this band of vigilantes.
Using her shopping as an excuse, Ivy dashed off and let herself into her own cottage.
Jez gave a welcoming yowl, jumping up and rattling the sides of his cage.
She released him, dumped her bag on the kitchen table and unlocked the back door.
The rain had started up again, spattering on the path.
The little dog scampered between her legs and shot off towards the shed.
Oblivious to the rain, Ivy ran after him, smiling at the back half of the pup’s body swinging sideways, making it look more like he was running in a haphazard zigzag rather than a straight line.
Ivy yanked open the shed door and the puppy slithered between her legs as she stepped inside, shutting out the rain behind her.
The scent was familiar, dank but pleasant, yet the space looked completelydifferent .
The mess – the scattered tools, the toppling stacks – was gone.
A strip of wood, seemingly carefully chiselled, replaced the handle of her broken spade – the one she’d been meaning to mend for months.
Omar sat in the corner, legs stretched out, dishevelled despite the surrounding order.
Mud still clung to his clothes; dirt smudged his cheek.
His dark hair fell over his forehead and his beard looked slightly more bedraggled.
But beneath the exhaustion was that same determination – the sharp tilt of his jaw, the deep-set eyes that locked onto hers.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered. ‘There’s—’
He scowled. ‘Where should I go?’ His voice was hoarse, weary.
On the other side of the fence, she could hear footsteps clattering on Fred’s path.
Her breath came fast. Sheshould tell him to go, she had done enough to salve her conscience, it was time to focus on finding a job, on scraping her life back together.
But he had fixed her spade. He hadtidied her shed. Two small acts of care.
Ivy held out a hand. ‘They’re looking for you. Come with me. Now.’
Omar hesitated only a moment before rising and reaching for his duffle bag.
They burst through the back door, soaked from the rain.
Their footsteps slapped wetly against the floor, water pooling around their shoes.
The house exhaled a comforting milky sweet smell of puppy, as if welcoming them.
A shadow moved past the window. The vigilantes were about to check her shed.
They would find nothing untoward other than the crocheted blanket.
As she pushed Omar away from the window, her breath shuddered.
She hadn’t thought this through. She was committed now.
She knew next to nothing about this man.
How much danger had she just placed herself in?
They stood, dripping, an awkward silence swelling between them.
Ivy became conscious of the soft tick of the mantel clock, the press of Jez’s damp body against her leg and the puppy’s gentle panting as he caught his breath.
Omar looked around, shivering slightly, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
Ivy’s eyes flicked to his soaked clothes: mud-streaked jeans, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame.
What now?
She wrapped her arms around herself, heart thudding. She asked herself what the vigilantes outside feared. Omar hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t even raised his voice.
‘Go upstairs,’ she said. Her voice felt foreign in her throat, brittle. ‘Use the shower. I’ll ... I’ll wash your clothes.’
Omar blinked, unsure at first, but then nodded.
As he disappeared up the stairs, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, Ivy grabbed the spare towels from the linen cupboard.
Her hands trembled as she picked up his clothes from where he’d peeled them off by the staircase, the fabric heavy and sodden giving off a whiff of exotic spices.
She loaded the washing machine with shaking hands.
The hum of it starting up seemed too loud, too obvious.
Ivy wiped her palms on her jumper and stepped towards the kitchen window.
Peering out through the lace curtains, she saw flashlights bobbing among the hedges.
Someone called her name, casual, almost friendly, but there was an edge beneath it.
A knock at the back door made her jump.
She opened it a crack. Rain misted in. A man stood there, his boots caked in mud, his waterproof jacket glistening. Behind him, others lingered at the edge of the garden.
‘Afternoon, Vicar,’ he said, his breath steaming in the cold air. ‘Mind if we have a quick look? We’re making sure no one’s slipped through.’
Ivy smiled too widely. ‘Of course. Just the garden though.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You leave the shower on upstairs?’
Ivy’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh! I ... I wanted to clean the puppy’s paws. I run the water first to warm it up.’ She forced a laugh.
There was a pause.
The man glanced past her, his eyes swivelling upwards as if he could see through the ceiling. Then he shrugged. ‘Right. Fair enough. I’ll give the shed a thorough check for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly, closing the door.
He retreated towards the shed, his boots clomping on the stone pathway. Ivy’s heart was pounding so hard it drowned out everything else: the rain, the washing machine, the hum of the shower pump.
Ivy caught a hint of detergent and stared at the swirling tangle of Omar’s clothes behind the glass front of the washing machine.
A domestic comfort amid the tension. She turned away and watched the self-appointed Neighbourhood Watch prowl around her garden, not moving until the last flashlight blinked out of sight.
Alerted by a noise, Ivy dropped the curtain, her eyes flicking upwards towards the sound.
She stepped away from the window and called up the stairs, keeping her voice low.
‘They’re gone. Coast’s clear.’
Omar padded down the stairs, wrapped awkwardly in her old dressing gown that hung above his knees, giving the impression that he wore a tartan mini skirt. Jez lunged for the belt.
‘Your dog needs discipline,’ Omar muttered.
She grinned. ‘I’ve only had him a couple of weeks. He’s still settling in.’
‘It’s your house, your rules, but the sooner you start the sooner he’ll learn.’ said Omar, pushing the dog away with a bare foot. It was a firm but gentle nudge – he didn’t kick the puppy.
‘He’s still learning,’ Ivy said defensively, although privately she agreed. ‘Rather like someone else who could use a bit of taming.’ She eyed his tangled beard. ‘You’re wasting good looks under all that hair.’
He grunted at her dismissively. ‘Keeps me warm.’
Ivy knew all about struggling to keep warm with heating bills the way they were. Thinking of her niece’s empty bedroom, and powered by Christian charity, she said, a little nervously. ‘There’s a spare bedroom you could use ...’
As if sensing her uncertainty, he spoke gently, ‘No. I’m happy in the shed.’
The back door banged open, letting in a swirl of freezing air, followed by Fred with his tie over a shoulder, his chest puffed out like an elderly rooster.
‘Ivy! Stand back!’ he ordered as he rushed past, nearly tripping over Jez.
He positioned himself between her and Omar, his arms wide as if holding back an unruly crowd.
‘Have you called the police?’ he hissed.
Ivy sighed. ‘Of course not. He’s a guest, Fred. Why do you think he’s wearing my spare dressing gown.’
Fred spun around, his eyes large and questioning. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Omar, and he’s doing odd jobs for me.’
‘Odd jobs?’ Fred scoffed, straightening his tie. ‘Is he now? Well, I can do those! This young vagrant can push off and find someone else to prey on.’
‘I am not a vagrant. And I’m not young. I’m thirty.’
‘Thirsty? Ivy, get this man some water before he leaves!’ said Fred, fumbling with his hearing aid.
‘Oh, pipe down, Fred. I don’t need rescuing. Omar is staying with me, in my shed, for a few days.’
Realization crossed Fred’s face. He jabbed a finger at Omar. ‘You were on that boat, weren’t you. How many of you are there?’ He swung round to Ivy, giving her the sort of look she suspected he frequently used to give misbehaving pupils. ‘This is dangerous. You don’t know anything about this man.’
Fred glowered at Omar, who met his gaze with aristocratic indifference.
Ivy watched them, noting Omar’s perfect posture, his unconsciously elegant gestures.
She wondered again about his prickly ingratitude, his reluctance to talk about how he got here.
Why was he so wary? What was he afraid of?
And, more importantly, what was he hiding?