"It's hardly taking cover. Think of it more as a weapon."
"I can't. White paper. White flag. It smacks of surrender." He waved the lawyer toward the hall. "Go and give them a tongue-lashing. They're all under twelve," he said with a small smile, "but it'll make you feel better to see them run away with their tails between their legs. Satisfaction, I find, has nothing to do with the caliber of the opponent, merely the routing of him."
He steepled his fingers under his chin and listened to Mark's footsteps cross the flagged stone floor of the hall. He heard the bolts being drawn and caught the sound of voices before the black depression, his constant companion these days, briefly in abeyance because of Mark's presence in the house, struck without warning and flooded his eyes with shameful tears. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to force them into retreat. Not now, he told himself in desperation. Not in front of Mark. Not when the young man had come so far to help him through his first Christmas alone.
8
Wolfie was curled under a blanket in a corner of the bus, cradling a fox's brush against his mouth. It was soft, like a teddy bear's fur, and he sucked his thumb surreptitiously behind it. He was so hungry. His dreams were always about food. Fox had been ignoring him since his mother and brother had vanished. That was a long time ago-weeks maybe-and Wolfie still didn't know where they were or why they'd gone. Once in a while a lingering terror at the back of his mind told him he did know, but he avoided visiting it. It had something to do with Fox razoring off his dreadlocks, he thought.
He had cried for days, beseeching Fox to let him go, too, till Fox threatened him with the razor. After that, he'd hidden under the blanket and kept his mouth shut while he made fantasy plans about running away. As yet, he hadn't found the courage-his fear of Fox, the police, and social workers, his fear of everything-was too ingrained, but he'd leave one day, he promised himself.
Half the time his father forgot he was there. Like now. Fox had brought some of the others from the camp into the bus, and they were drawing up a twenty-four-hour rota to guard the entrance to the site. Wolfie, lying as still as a terrified mouse, thought his father sounded like a general instructing his troops. Do this. Do that. I'm the boss. But Wolfie was worried because the people kept contradicting him. Did they know about the razor, he wondered?
"Whichever way you look at it, we've got seven days before anyone takes action," said Fox, "and by then we'll have turned this place into a fortress."
"Yeah, well, you'd better be right about there being no owner," came a woman's voice, '"coz I sure as hell don't fancy breaking my back to build a stockade just to have bulldozers break it down the day after it's finished. Plus, it's fucking freezing out there, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I am right, Bella. I know this place. Dick Weldon had a try at enclosing it three years ago but gave up because he wasn't prepared to pay a fortune in legal fees with no guarantee that he'd win. The same'll happen now. Even if the rest of the village agrees to let him stake a claim to this land, he'll still have to pay a solicitor to force us out and he's not that altruistic."
"What if they all gang up together?"
"They won't. Not in the short term, anyway. There are too many conflicting interests."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
There was a short silence.
"Come on, Fox, give," said a man. "What's your connection with Shenstead? Did you live here? What do you know that the rest of us don't?"
"None of your business,"
"Sure it's our business," said the other man, his voice rising angrily. "We're taking a hell of a lot on trust here. Who's to say the filth won't come in and arrest us for trespass? First you want us to rope the place off… then turn it into a fortress… And all for what? A million-to-one gamble that in twelve years anything we've built on it will be ours? The odds suck. When you put it to us back in August, you said it was open countryside… land for the taking. There was no mention of a fucking village rammed up against it."
"Shut up, Ivo," said another woman. "It's a short-arse Welsh thing," she added for the benefit of the rest. "He's always picking fights."
"I'll pick one with you if you're not careful, Zadie," said Ivo furiously.
"Enough. The odds are good." There was a steely edge to Fox's voice that sent shivers up Wolfie's spine. If the other bloke didn't shut up, his dad would bring out his razor. "There are only four houses permanently occupied in this village-the Manor, Shenstead House, Manor Lodge, and Paddock View. Otherwise it's weekenders or rentals… and they won't get exercised till women come down for extended breaks in the summer and start complaining to their husbands about their kids consorting with the trash at the Copse."
"What about the farms?" asked Bella.
"The only one that matters is Dick Weldon's. His land makes up most of the boundary, but I know for a fact there aren't any documents to prove Shenstead Farm ever owned it."
"How?"
"Not your business. Just accept that I do."
"What about that house we can see through the trees?"
"The Manor. There's an old man living there on his own. He won't be giving us any trouble."
"How do you know?" It was Ivo's voice again.
"I just do."
"Jesus Christ!" There was the sound of a fist thumping on the table. "Can't you say anything else?" Ivo fell into mimicry of Fox's more educated tones. '"I just do… not your business… accept it.' What's the deal, man? Because I'm telling you now, I'm not hanging around listening to you spout crap without some fucking explanations. For starters, why won't this old guy give us any trouble? I sure as hell would if I lived in a manor and some New Agers moved onto my turf."
Fox didn't answer immediately and Wolfie closed his eyes in fright, picturing him slicing at the other man's face. But the expected screams didn't come. "He knows this land doesn't belong to him," said Fox calmly. "He had his solicitors look into it when Weldon tried to take it, but there are no documents supporting his claim either. The reason we're here now is because he's the only person with enough money to foot the bill for the rest of them… and he won't do it. Might have done a year ago. Not now."
"Why not?"
Another short silence. "I suppose you'll hear soon enough. The rest think he murdered his wife and they're trying to have him arrested. He's a recluse, doesn't go out anymore, doesn't see anyone… his food's delivered to the door. He's not going to bother us… not with the problems he's got."
"Shit!" said Bella in astonishment. "Did he do it?"
"Who cares?" said Fox indifferently.
"Maybe I do. Maybe he's dangerous. What about the kids?"
"If you're worried, tell them to steer clear of that side of the wood. He only ever comes out at night."
"Shit!" she said again. "He sounds like some sort of weirdo. Why isn't he in a loony bin?"
"There aren't any left," said Fox dismissively.
"How old is he?"
"Eighty-odd."
"What's his name?"
"What the hell does it matter what his name is?" snapped Fox. "You won't be talking to him."
"So? Maybe I want to know who he is when he's talked about. It's not a secret, is it?" She paused. "Well, well… perhaps it is at that. Know him from before, do you, Fox? He the one give you all this information?"
"I've never met him in my life… I just know a hell of a lot about him. How is none of your business."