Eventually we tumbled out of the cubicle with the firm intention of getting into bed but didn’t quite make it and somehow ended up on the carpet. Annis managed to scrabble the duvet down on us from the bed while I was otherwise engaged.
‘I do love you, Annis,’ I panted. And meant it.
‘Doesn’t count.’
‘Eh?’
‘Things men say when they’re shagging. Blokes say all sorts of stuff. Means nothing.’
‘Doesn’t, huh?’ I didn’t really have the breath to argue with the woman. The house phone rang for a while, the old 1940s dialler by the bed making a right racket. We ignored it.
‘I love you too, Honeypot. Turn sideways, hon, something’s digging into my back.’
‘Meaningless drivel. You were lying on my mobile.’ I picked it up and threw it on to the bed. It started to ring. Tough.
I pulled the duvet off us again and imagined I could see steam rising from her shimmering, shuddering flanks. Annis’s eyes flickered and tilted, always a happy sign, then she buried her face in my shoulder and held tight.
The phone stopped chiming at last. The cat came padding up the duvet and sniffed, then put a possessive paw on Annis’s trembling thigh.
‘I’m hungry. We could call him Bhaji,’ she said, propping herself on one elbow and scratching him under his chin.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said and slipped away.
When I emerged from my third shower of the day Annis had moved to the bed. So had the cat. Both of them were asleep. I turfed out the cat. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I informed him. He gave a complaining meow, padded to a pile of Annis’s discarded clothes and started nesting procedures there. I turned off my mobile, pulled the plug on the dialler phone and slid under the cover.
When I woke again to the distant ringing of the house phone downstairs I noticed the light had changed. I turned on my mobile and checked the time. Ten to six. Annis turned out to be awake too. ‘I’m not moving until I can smell supper, I am famished. Go cook,’ she said and pushed me out of bed. I reconnected the dialler phone but the caller had hung up. Tough.
In the kitchen I started with the horseradish. I peeled and grated the knobbly root until I went blind with tears. The entire kitchen had filled with the sharp, energizing smell. Even mixed with thick cream and seasoned it was still strong enough to make your scalp tingle.
To make the red onion gravy I sliced them finely and then chucked them in a pan with oil and butter and sautéed them on the lowest possible heat for what seemed like forever. Long enough, anyway, to stir them absentmindedly, stare through the window into the rain and wonder how we might get into the museum, how we might get away with the Rodin and how I could make sure that I got Louis in exchange for it. So far I had only vague notions of ‘breaking in’, ‘getting away’ and then ‘not giving it to them until I had the boy’. It hardly amounted to anything resembling a plan.
I added a spoonful of redcurrant jelly to the pan and once it had dissolved deglazed with a generous slug of port and kept stirring.
Having recently lost my only shotgun to a gangster and having had my handgun confiscated by the fuzz I also felt quite under-equipped in the violence department. Shotguns and kidnapped boys didn’t really mix, I quickly told myself, since they were hardly precision weapons, and the Webley.38, while satisfyingly noisy, was about as reliable as everything else made in the 1930s.
My mobile gurgled: text message. U there? Open door. From Tim. What was wrong with the bell pull? Nothing, as far as I could see when I got to the hall. I yanked open the door. More rain.
Tim’s TT was parked next to the Landy. The Norton was lying in the mud, on its side. Tim was lying in a puddle next to it, also on his side, clutching his mobile. I squelched over to help him up.
‘What are you doing down there? Want a hand up?’
‘I can’t get up, my back’s gone,’ he said in a pathetic voice I’d never heard him use before.
I knelt down next to him. ‘What happened, Bigfoot?’
‘Your bloody bike must have slipped off its stand in the mud. I tried to bloody lift it and halfway up my bloody back went bang. And I mean: bang, I think I heard it go. Don’t touch me, I think I’d scream. How often have I told you the bloody yard needs recobbling or tarmacking or something. It would never have happened if you hadn’t neglected this damn place for God knows how many years.’
‘You’re so right, Tim. And it was very kind of you to try and pick up the Norton but also very stupid, it weighs an absolute ton.’ It was raining hard now and even I was getting soaked. ‘Can you move at all?’
‘It hurts so much when I do, I think I’d rather not, thanks.’
‘Okay. In that case, can I bring you out a cup of coffee or something?’
‘Ha-bloody-ha. Got any better ideas?’
‘No, but Annis might. I’ll go and fetch her. We’ll find a solution somehow. Back in a tick. Honest.’ I ran inside, shouted Annis awake, grabbed my raincoat and an umbrella and ran back out. I laid the coat over him and arranged the brolly so it covered his head.
‘This is your solution? Cosy. Please don’t bring me a bowl of chicken broth, Chris.’
‘The thought never crossed my mind,’ I lied. Ungrateful sod.
He groaned, shivering. Half of his face was caked with mud and he was as wet as though he had come down the mill race. At last Annis splashed over. I left Tim to explain while I followed a sudden inspiration and rummaged in a shed until I found a strong plank of wood, about five foot long and twelve inches wide. Together and on the count of three we managed to pull him on to it. It looked precarious but with much groaning, grumbling and several very bad words we managed to carry him inside and deposit him on the carpet between the sofas and the fireplace.
I lit the fire while Annis carefully stripped the wet clothes off him despite his howls of pain. We got him on to some folded blankets and under a duvet at last. Then I called Dr Marland, one of the few practitioners I knew who still did house calls, though she travelled with a minder after dark and charged accordingly.
‘Where’s the pain?’ she wanted to know.
‘Where exactly does it hurt?’ I asked Tim.
‘Lower back. And my left leg, behind the knee. I think I must have torn something there.’ I relayed all that.
‘Sounds very much like a prolapsed disc. Keep him where he is, in a position most comfortable to him, try it on the side with a cushion between his knees. Give him some painkillers and put a hot water bottle against his lumbar region.’
‘Okay. How long will you be?’
‘How long will I be? I’m not coming out for something like that and anyway, he’s not one of my patients! Get him to his own doctor when he gets some movement back. But he’ll need a physio more than a doctor.’
‘Why does his leg hurt though?’
‘That happens when the prolapse is to the back and the side, it presses on a nerve root. Okay? Bye.’
‘Wait! Just one more question: how long before he’s okay again?’
‘Hard to say. Couple of weeks’ rest, then a programme of exercises to strengthen the lower back. His back will be vulnerable for a few months. But the physio will explain all that. Goodbye, Mr Honeysett.’
And that, as they say, was that. I might not have had much of a plan for getting at the Rodin but the little I did have was lying groaning on my sitting-room floor with a slipped disc and would probably remain there for quite a while. I must have looked at Tim with a less than charitable expression because he started to protest.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Honeypot, but I didn’t exactly do it on purpose. And it happened while I was trying to rescue the Norton from the mud, so you can stop scowling at me. I think those guys have stopped following me, I didn’t notice anything suspicious today. But better hide the TT somewhere in your outbuildings just in case. Don’t want it scratched though. What’s that weird smell all of a sudden?’