between boy and man, and his face had begun to grow from the soft lines of childhood into adult planes.
âWhatâve you been up to, young Vic?â his mother asked, and to me she said, âItâs bloody cold out here. Want to come in?â
âEr,â I said. I was suffering more from the unexpected than the cold, but she waited for no answer and walked back past the boy until she was out of sight. I pulled the envelope sent to Martin out of a pocket and immediately set the alarm racing above the curiosity in young Victor.
âYou werenât supposed to find me,â he exclaimed, âand in any case, youâre dead.â
âIâm not Martin Stukely,â I said.
âOh.â His face went blank. âNo, of course, you arenât.â Puzzlement set in. âI mean, what do you want?â
âFirst of all,â I said plainly, âIâd like to accept your motherâs invitation.â
âHuh?â
âTo be warm.â
âOh! I get you. The kitchen is warmest.â
âLead on, then.â
He shrugged and stretched to close the door behind me, and then led the way down beside the staircase to the heart of all such terrace houses, the space where life was lived. There was a central table covered with a patterned plastic cloth, four attendant unmatched upright chairs and a sideboard deep in clutter. A television set stood aslant on a draining board otherwise stacked with unwashed dishes, and checked vinyl tiles covered the floor.
In spite of the disorganization there was bright new paint and nothing disturbingly sordid. I had an overall impression of yellow.
Mrs. Verity sat in one of the chairs, rocking on its back legs and gulping smoke as if she lived on it.
She said pleasantly enough, âWe get all sorts of people here, what with Vic and his wretched Internet. Weâll get a full-sized genie one of these days, I shouldnât wonder.â She gestured vaguely to one of the chairs, and I sat on it.
âI was a friend of Martin Stukely,â I explained, and I asked Vic what was on the videotape that he had sent or given to Martin at Cheltenham.
âYes, well, there wasnât a tape,â he said briefly. âI didnât go to Cheltenham.â
I pulled his letter to Martin out of the envelope and gave it to him to read.
He shrugged again and handed it back when heâd reached the end.
âIt was just a game. I made up the tape.â He was nervous, all the same.
âWhat knowledge was it that was dynamite?â
âLook, none.â He grew impatient. âI told you. I made it up.â
âWhy did you send it to Martin Stukely?â
I was careful not to let the questions sound too aggressive, but in some way that I didnât understand, they raised all his defenses and colored his cheeks red.
His mother said to me, âWhatâs all this about a tape? Do you mean a videotape? Vic hasnât got any videotapes. Weâre going to get a new video machine any day now, then it will be different.â
I explained apologetically. âSomeone did give Martin a videotape at Cheltenham races. Martin gave it to Ed Payne, his valet, to keep safe, and Ed gave it to me, but it was stolen before I could see what was on it. Then all the videotapes in Martin Stukelyâs house and all the videotapes in my own house were stolen too.â
âI hope youâre not suggesting that Vic stole anything, because I can promise you he wouldnât.â Mrs Verity had grasped one suggestion wrongly and hadnât listened clearly to the rest, so she too advanced to the edge of anger, and I did my best to retreat and placate, but her natural good humor had been dented, and her welcome had evaporated. She stubbed out a cigarette instead of lighting another from it, and stood up as a decisive signal that it was time I left.
I said amiably to young Victor, âCall me,â and although he shook his
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