‘And what killed the security man? His body drained of blood, but only that one wound?
She shook her head, not answering. Over by the house he saw the tough being helped out by a couple of the pest-control men. It was a stupid thing to do, breathing in all that insecticide, but he could not help feeling a lot of sympathy for the man. No normal person could merely stand by and watch his home being desti yed by a handful of beetles.
Christ, of all things — beetles!
9
Guy did not drive directly home but went first to the nearest hardware store, prepared to buy up all the insecticide they had in stock. A man in a grey overall coat was already bolting the first of its two sets of double doors as he arrived.
‘Seems I’m just in time,’ Guy greeted him breezily, going in. ‘I’m looking for insecticide. Quite a lot of it.’ ‘Too late then, aren’t you?’ The man had a round, babyish face, which gave him a mild, friendly air; however, he turned out to be stubborn and unyielding. ‘Should’ve come earlier.’
‘You’re sold out?’ Guy guessed.
‘Oh, we’ve plenty if you come back tomorrow. See this notice on the door? Says Closed, dunnit?’
‘Your door is still open. You’re still here.’
‘Now don’t try that on. You saw me locking up. Five o’clock we shut, an’ five o’clock it is now. It’s all written up there on the door: opening times… closing times… If you come too late that’s your look-out.’
Guy tried persuasion. ‘Look, it’s an important job I’m doing and I need the insecticide urgently. I can promise no argument over the price.’
‘There’ll be no argument, mate, over anything. You’re stepping outside an’ I’m going to lock up. Some of us have homes to go to. Anything you want to buy, you come back tomorrow.’
Guy held his temper under control, though with difficulty. The benign look on the man’s face had not changed despite his words. Grimly, Guy began to wish he’d brought a couple of live beetles with him to demonstrate the urgency of the matter with a nip or two from their claws.
Going out to the street again, resigned, he asked: ‘Any other shops round here sell insecticide?’
The man paused long enough to answer him. ‘We’re open at eight in the morning,’ he said. ‘Drop by then.’ With the traffic building up on the main road, Guy decided on a tactic of weaving through the back streets to reach his own house, but it was no quicker. Rows of parked cars adhered to the kerbsides like cholesterol to the arteries, obstructing the flow. He was already regretting the derision and hoping to find a way back into Worth Road when he spotted an Asian-run do-it-yourself shop on a comer.
He forced his two nearside wheels on to the high pavement and stopped immediately opposite the shop door. A small selection of dustbins, fence-sections, step-ladders, cut timber lengths, wire netting and oil heaters had to be manoeuvred before he could enter, but once inside, a tall, gaunt Sikh who appeared to be the owner willingly sold him his entire stock of insecticide — several gallons of the stuff — together with spraying equipment. He also called his son from the back to help Guy to load it into the car.
‘You’d better order fresh supplies right away,’ Guy advised him as he wrote out a cheque to cover it. ‘From what I hear there’s likely to be quite a demand.’
‘I can get more this evening,’ the Sikh assured him. ‘As much as you need.’
Arriving home turned out to be something of an anticlimax. The house was empty and unwelcoming. Last night’s paint cans were still in the hall, the step-ladder stood in the centre of the uncarpeted front room, where the naked light bulb was now splashed with colour, and
Kath’s schoolbag had been dumped on the stairs. No other sign of life.
‘Kath?’ he called out.
But no reply came. He picked up her bag and took it up to her room. Some of her clothes lay scattered about on the unmade bed, indicating that she must have been in a tearing hurry when she changed. It was only then that he realised what day of the week it was. She’d be at her ballet class.
Dorothea was probably held up at her new job; temping was always unpredictable. Sometimes she phoned if she was going to be very late. No message on the machine. He checked the bedroom, but it was just as he left it,
‘Hell, what now?’ he thought aloud.
She always laid such emphasis on this being her home and not his that he hestitated to start any work without her agreement. And she might object: there was always that possibility. No, he was wrong there. He knew damned well she would object and that had to be faced.
Changing into an old blue denim suit and pulling on boots to protect his feet, he went down to unload the car and carry everything into the house. Probably he’d bought far more than he needed, but that was preferable to running short. At one point, stopping to count how many gallon cans he had altogether, he noticed his hand was shaking. The incident with the beetles that afternoon — his first real encounter with them since the old school— had left his nerves tingling. His mouth was dry too, but that was probably the result of having drunk too much vintage claret, Christ, was it only a few hours ago that he’d been feeling on top of the world at having clinched that important new deal?
Against all the rules of common sense he poured himself a whisky and soda before starting. He had hoped Dorothea would be back by now, but she wasn’t. Pinned up by the hall mirror were various scraps of paper on which she’d scribbled any phone numbers she wanted to keep handy, including one for the Plough. Putting his glass down on the stairs he dialled it.
‘Plough public house,’ came the pansy voice at the other end. ‘This is Brian speaking.’
Guy asked drily if Dorothea was by any chance there. He’d have enjoyed conducting Brian through an Army assault course for a few weeks to shake the shit out of him. Not only did he dislike the man; he also felt that camp voice was merely a cover hiding something much more vicious.
‘Guy, is it? I’ve not seen her today, sweetie. Should I tell her you’ve called?’
if she comes in, ask her to ring home, would you?’ Guy said, restraining himself.
‘All right, sweetie.’
His temper broke through. ‘Next time we meet, try calling me “sweetie” to my face. You’ll see what happens.’
He slammed the receiver down, not waiting to hear the inevitable protestations. How Dorothea could spend so much time with that kind was beyond him. In their Army days she’d always been one of the first to spot anything phony.
For the next five minutes he wandered through the house, glass in hand, trying to make up his mind where to start. Squatting down, he surveyed the skirting and any exposed floorboards for flight holes, but found none. That in itself didn’t mean a great deal. They wouldn’t bore through paint; and in fact their most likely breeding ground was in the beams and joists which were not immediately visible. If only Dorothea were at home to talk it over before he risked causing any damage…
He reached a decision. The young foreman had suggested that woodworm infestations usually began under the roof, and that was where he should start his first detailed inspection. He finished his drink and took the glass into the kitchen where a sudden impulse caused him to open all the lower cupboards one after the next and peer inside, just in case, but they all seemed quite normal.
Right, he thought. The loft.
The spraying equipment went upstairs first; then he returned for the step-ladder. When he set it up, he found it took most of the space on that top narrow landing, leaving little room for a quick escape. As a precaudon, he donned the face-mask and safety goggles he’d bought at the DIY shop, crowning them with his old Army cap: not ideal — it left his ears exposed — but the best he could do for the time being.