Chapter Four: Simon


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Julia stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the utility room watching the stranger's dark shape on the floor illuminated only by the lights on the appliances.

Unsettled by her dream and unable to get back to sleep, she had come downstairs in the early hours of the morning and found him so silent and motionless, she had thought for a horrible few minutes that he was dead. She should have called an ambulance the night before. Or the police. They would ask questions. They would want to know why she had waited so long, and she wouldn't have a convincing answer. But to her tremendous relief, he had taken an audible breath and the blanket had moved. He was still alive at least.

Gingerly she tiptoed over and put the back of her hand on his dirty forehead. It was cool and dry.

.

As soon as she thought it was reasonable to do so, she rang Heather.

"Jules? Do you know what time it is? It's still dark! Whatever's wrong?"

"Sorry. I didn't get you up, did I?"

"Of course not," said Heather. "You know how ridiculously early we rise here."

"Listen," Julia paused and considered what to say. "I've got a bit of a . . . situation. I could do with some professional advice. Is there any chance you could call by later? Well, sooner than that if you can."

"Give me half an hour."

"Thanks, Heather, I owe you."

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While she waited, Julia brewed a pot of tea and made a bowl of porridge the way she liked it, with a splash of cream and sweetened with lumps of dark, soft sugar. She carried into the utility room, switched on the light, shooed Albie out into the garden and nudged the stranger awake. He woke with a start, blinking and confused, and scrambled to his feet. Then he sank down on to his haunches and tried to shrink away into the corner of the room.

"It's all right," Julia said. "Don't be afraid. I've brought you some porridge and some tea. Here." She held out the bowl. He did not move but watched her as if mystified. She put the bowl down on the floor beside him and stepped back but was shocked when instead of picking the bowl up, he leaned down and started to lap at the porridge as if he was an animal.

"No, no, stop! Don't do that!" She pushed him away, picked the bowl up again, stirred the porridge and mimed putting the spoon to her own lips, then held it out to him again. this time he took it and held it under his nose, closing his eyes and sniffing deeply. Then he opened his mouth and upended the bowl, slurping loudly. When it was empty he licked it clean. Julia was revolted but gave him the mug she was still holding then went to find a damp cloth.

She pretended to wipe her own mouth then handed him the cloth. Without taking his wary gaze off her, he wiped his face. The cloth came away filthy.

She looked at him more closely, trying to make out his features. Dirt was ingrained into every line, and much of his face was obscured by straggly whiskers. His hair was long; so filthy and matted, she could not even tell what colour it was.

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Albie pushed in past Heather as she let herself in without knocking. Her eyes widened. "Jules!" she hissed, dragging Julia into the kitchen and shutting the door behind them. "Are you insane? What were you thinking to let him in? A single woman living alone! He's probably mentally ill or alcoholic. Or both!"

"I know," said Julia uneasily. "I know, Heather, but"—she opened the door again—"look at Albie."

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The dog lay with his head on the man's lap, watching the two women carefully. The man's long, dirty fingers moved slowly and repetitively in Albie's coat.

"Weird," said Heather. "Hey, Albie." She crouched down and beckoned. "Come over here, mate." The dog wagged his tail but didn't move. "Well." She straightened up. "That dog's always been a rare judge of character, but still . . . strange behaviour."

"I know," said Julia. "The only times I have seen him behave like that before is on the odd couple of occasions when Megan was ill. He was exactly the same then. Wouldn't leave her side for more than a minute or two."

"Weird," repeated Heather. "What did you want me to help with?"

Julia knelt down beside the man and motioned for him to lean forward. She pulled the blanket back. "He's got an injury on his side. I think it needs some medical attention, and it definitely needs cleaning up. But there's no way I could get him in my car and if I call an ambulance I think he might run away. Will you take a look? His shirt is all stuck in it. I think it wants cutting off."

Heather peered over Julia's shoulder. "Yep," she agreed. "Let's get rid of that first, and then we can see properly." Her voice became brisk and commanding. "Keep still, dear."

Between them, they peeled the rag away, cutting it apart with scissors where it was stuck into the dried blood. His ribs and spine were obvious under his skin.

"He looks starved!" exclaimed Julia. "He's positively emaciated. How can that happen in this day and age?"

Heather shrugged. "Sometimes people's lives just . . . go wrong. There, but for the grace of God, you know. Come on, this looks nasty. I'll have to clean it properly, then I'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with. Can you get a better light please, Jules. That anglepoise from your desk will do nicely. And a bowl of warm water too. And a couple of clean towels."

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"Will it hurt?" asked Julia plugging in the lamp and switching it on.

"I imagine so," said Heather, laying out the towels and testing the temperature of the water in Julia's washing-up bowl. "But unless we take him to hospital—do you want to go to hospital?" she asked the man, who seemed to be half asleep again and did not respond, "it can't be helped." She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started squeezing clean water over the wound, picking out fragments of cloth and pieces of thread with a pair of tweezers. "He's absolutely black with dirt. I've never seen anything this bad. It's almost as if he's been underground." She swabbed the wound with antiseptic and the man sucked in his breath. "This really should have a proper local anaesthetic. Are you quite sure you wouldn't rather go to hospital?"

Still there was no response.

Julia and Heather exchanged glances. "I suppose that's a 'no' then," said Heather.

The man was silent, though he tensed as the tender wound was prodded and Heather poked about at it. "This is really nasty, but astonishingly, it's not infected. It should have been treated days ago, but there's not much point even putting a dressing on it now. It's already started to heal. Oh, what's . . . oh!" She looked more closely. "There's something in there."

On impulse, Julia took the stranger's hand, noticing hard calluses on his palm. He returned her grip tightly, his eyes screwed shut. Several times he exhaled hard between clenched teeth, and he did not let go of her hand until Heather had finished.

"Look." Heather held several small black objects.

Julia was horrified. "Shotgun pellets! Who would do a thing like that? The only villain round here is Jack Hargreaves and he's only ten."

Heather shook her head. "He'll have a nasty scar. Another one, I should say. It might be worth putting some antiseptic on from time to time, but otherwise just keep it clean and dry. If he's still here in a few days, perhaps you can persuade him to have a shower and get cleaned up a bit. But if I were you I'd give Social Services a call. This really isn't your responsibility, Jules. He's severely malnourished."

"Well, that's something I can deal with. But you're right, I know. I will give them a ring."

"And another thing," said Heather. "I don't think he's as old as he looks."

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Social Services, predictably enough, were not interested. Overstretched and underfunded, their advice was vague to the point of nonexistence and consisted mainly of the address of a hostel for homeless men some ten miles away. Thirty minutes later, Julia tersely ended the conversation and hung up.

When she went back into her utility room, the man was asleep again, lying on his stomach.

"Well then," she said to his unconscious back. "For the time being, it's just us I suppose." She pulled the blanket up over his bony shoulder.

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And that, more or less, was how it was for the next few days. Every two or three hours, Julia would leave a drink and some food by his side, give him little nudge and leave. And several times a day, she would take the empty plate away and bring more food. She barely saw him stir. On the third day, Heather called by to take a look at the wound as he slept, and pronounced herself satisfied with progress. Albie started to relax and allowed Julia to take him for short walks again, although he did start to fret after an hour or so.

On the seventh day of the tramp's stay, Julia was due at Laybrook Court. She considered crying off, but surveying his unresponsive form, she saw no point in staying at home; the old people at the Court would appreciate her much more. So she deposited a bag of sandwiches by his side, left Albie in charge and went about her normal business.

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When Julia went in to collect his plate in the middle of the morning of the eighth day, he was sitting up on the mattress with a blanket pulled round his thin shoulders.

"You're awake at last!" She knelt on the floor beside him. "Can you talk?"

He worked his mouth as if he was trying to remember how and made a few croaky noises until eventually there was a hoarse, "Y-yes. Yes. I . . . can talk."

"So you can!" There was no reason why Julia should have been quite as pleased as she was. "Take your time." She got to her feet. "I'll make some tea and we'll try a bit more."

She poured two cups, and went in to him, taking a kitchen chair with her. She sat down on it, and looked down at him thoughtfully. "What's your name?"

"I . . . er—I don't know. S . . . S . . . I don't know," he repeated. "I don't know."

"Do you think your name begins with 'S'?"

"I . . . think so. Maybe."

"Stephen? Stuart? Samuel? Simon?"

He looked blank and gave his head a little shake.

"I've got to call you something," she said. "Shall I call you Simon for now?"

He shrugged. "Yes. Simon. You," he said. "What's your name?"

"Oh, I'm Julia."

"Ju-lia," he said. "Julia. Thank you, Julia."

She felt oddly pleased. "Drink your tea," she said. "Now I can ask if you take sugar?"

He took a mouthful from his mug. "I do now," he said. Julia laughed and he smiled up at her. She felt as if someone had dropped an ice cube down her collar.

"When is it?"he asked.

"What do you mean, when is it?" She was taken aback. "Do you mean, what's the date? It's the twelfth of November."

"Twelfth of November, when?"

"When? You mean what year?"

"Er, I think so. Maybe."

"It's two thousand and eight."

"Two thousand and eight," he repeated.

"Helpful?"

He shook his head and looked miserable.

The conversation stalled. "Would you like to get up and go into the garden for a few minutes?" said Julia. "The weather is quite mild and the fresh air might do you good."

He brightened.

"Do you need a hand up?"

"No." He got to his feet with an unexpectedly graceful movement, holding the grubby blanket around him. Julia had expected him to be stiff and unsteady, but he did not appear to be either.

"Goodness!" she said, "aren't you tall! And you haven't any shoes, I'd forgotten!"

He looked at his feet. "Shoes? He shook his head and gave a crooked half-smile that made her feel strange again. She opened the back door for him.

He walked barefoot over the wet grass, Albie at his heels. Julia stood in the doorway and watched him. It was a breezy day and the trees were losing the last of their leaves. They collected in bright drifts in the corners of the flower beds. The sun beamed in irregular bursts from behind scurrying clouds. After a few minutes she noticed he was shivering.

"Back now," she said firmly. "That's enough for today."

He seemed reluctant to go back inside, but she was insistent. "The garden will still be here tomorrow." She warmed a tin of soup and buttered several slices of bread for him, then rang Heather.

"I Thought you'd want to know he's woken up. Can you spare a minute to come over this afternoon?"

When Heather arrived an hour later she was lugging a plastic bin liner full of clothes. "Here," she said ungraciously, dumping the bag on Julia's kitchen floor. "I still think you're crazy, but I was taking these to the recycling centre and then I thought you might be able to make use of them. Shall I take another look at him?"

"Would you? I'd be very grateful," said Julia.

"Has he spoken to you yet?"

"Yes, a bit," said Julia. "It was very strange at first, as if he couldn't remember how, but once he got started—well, he can speak perfectly—and he doesn't have an accent. In fact he's really well-spoken. Really well-spoken. Public school well-spoken."

"You're kidding? Well, it just goes to show. Who is he?"

"He doesn't seem to know anything. Some sort of amnesia, I think. He's not even sure of his own name, but it starts with 'S'. I think it might be Simon. That's what I'm calling him anyway." Julia opened the utility room door. "What do you think?"

Heather poked her head through. "He looks better. You've been feeding him."

"It's nice to have someone to feed."

"You miss Megan, don't you?"

"Terribly," admitted Julia. "I needed a project, and this seems to fit the bill."

Heather folded her arms and looked disapproving. "I don't know why you wanted to send her so far away to that swanky school."

"It's not a swanky school," protested Julia. "It's for children with special . . . gifts. She wanted to go so much, I couldn't deny her that."

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Heather looked at the wound on the tramp's side. "This has come on really well," she said. "There's no reason not to get cleaned up now. Hey, fella? Okay?

He nodded mutely.

"Good," said Heather, patting his shoulder. "I'll pop by again at some point, Jules. Any problems, any worries—anything at all. Call me."

"Thank you, Heather. You're a real friend."

"It works both ways," said the other woman affectionately. "You owe me cake."

"It's a deal. I'll make you a Christmas cake, will that do?" Impulsively, Julia gave her a hug.

"Don't be so soft. Just look after yourself. And get baking."

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Julia saw Heather out then went back to Simon. "Heather's right," she said. "You'll feel better after a shower and a change of clothes." She had the feeling the man didn't know what she was talking about.

She sorted through the things in the bag. Unless Heather had been planning on sending some of Joe's perfectly serviceable underwear to recycling too, she hadn't been telling the whole truth and Julia was touched. She selected some clothes, found a new toothbrush, and pushed Simon into the small bathroom. She could feel his ribs under his warm skin; he was still painfully thin.

"You can have a shower now. That'll be nice won't it?" His expression was uncomprehending. "You know what a shower is?"

"Shower," he said. "Rain."

"It's a different sort of shower. Press this button to turn it on." Julia demonstrated, pulling up her sleeve and holding her hand under the running water.

Simon copied her. "It is like rain."

"It's much nicer than rain."

Simon picked a bar of yellow soap up from the washbasin. "Soap," he said sniffing it. He fiddled with the taps, turning them on and off.

"You know what soap is, and you can turn a tap on, but you've never seen a shower? Where on earth have you been?"

"I don't know, do I?" He sounded irritable.

"Do you know what a bath is?"

"Of course I know what a bath is."

Julia contemplated the large, pristine and wildly expensive claw footed bath she'd had installed upstairs and then imagined what it would look like if she let Simon use it. "Well you're not using mine. You'll have to have a shower. This knob turns the temperature up and down. And this button will turn it off when you've finished. That's all there is to it, honestly! You'll have to do this by yourself. I'm afraid we really aren't well enough acquainted for me to wash you." One side of his mouth quirked into a smile that gave her another sudden chill.

When she heard the shower running, she surveyed the filthy mattress and blankets and contemplated trying to make him more comfortable. Instead she reminded herself that he was an unwelcome and troublesome nuisance, and the sooner he was on his way, the better. She compromised by turning the filthy mattress over, putting a sheet on it, and finding a couple of clean blankets and another pillow.

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When she had done that, she went up to Megan's bedroom which was untidy, just as it had been left on the morning of the 1st of September. Her daughter's absence had left Julia so tender, she had been reluctant to even go into the room.

Hidden under the mattress was the tattered photograph of a man who looked out with eyes very much like her daughter's thoughtful grey ones. Julia knew it was there, though she could not bear to look at it. It felt like prodding at an open wound and made her head ache. She was careful not to disturb it as she stripped the sheet and pillowcases. She had loved him and he was dead. That much she understood, but everything else was lost in a fog.

One of Megan's books lay on the floor under the bed. Julia picked it up and dusted it with her sleeve. The Young Person's Guide to Practical Astronomy. There was a bookmark in it, and Julia opened it to the page which showed a simplified diagram of the constellation of Canis Major. She blinked and shook her head in bemusement, then put the book up on a shelf.

The Young Person's Guide to Practical Astronomy had been hiding another book on the floor underneath it. A slim volume, the leather cover untitled but tooled with an intricate pattern. Julia squeezed her eyes shut against a sharp ache then opened them again. How had she forgotten this?

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In Flourish and Blotts, Megan had been businesslike, working through the list of books she needed. But Julia had been drawn to a shelf which displayed a few copies of a slim, inconspicuous volume with a tooled olive green leather cover that no one else seemed to be interested in. Although the title was not written on the outside, Julia knew that on the first page, in an archaic script, would be printed: Majicke in ye Tyme of Plesance. It was a new book but the design had not been changed in over four hundred years. She had picked it up, ignoring another spasm of pain behind her eyes.

"I don't need that until third year, Mum," Megan had said, consulting her list. But Julia had added it to the pile anyway.

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Megan must have taken it up to her room with her other purchases when they got home. And Julia had completely forgotten about it.

She slipped it into the bookcase and went to look for a painkiller in the bathroom cabinet but before she opened it a smear on the mirrored door caught her attention. When she had polished it clean with a piece of tissue, she went downstairs to prepare a meal.

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Later on she went into the utility room to see Simon and found him dozing, eyes half shut, sitting on the mattress and leaning against the wall. Now he was clean, she saw that his still-matted hair and straggly beard was grey but with streaks of black. Once it must have been very dark. He opened his eyes at her entrance and smiled.

Momentarily she forgot what she had been about to say and stood staring like an idiot. "Come in here," she said at last, beckoning from the kitchen door. "You can eat at the table like a civilised human being."

The man climbed to his feet, looking particularly anxious. "Eat at the table?" His gaze kept drifting to the back door as if he was contemplating making a run for it.

"You don't have to," Julia assured him though she was a little hurt. "If you'd rather eat on your own—"

He shook his head and smiled at her again. She felt herself blushing.

.

"I like this," he said. "It's . . . what's the word, dammit . . . cosy." He ran his hands along the dark oak beam above the alcove that had once held an old cooking range. It was now fitted with a modern cooker and extractor fan, though Julia had preserved the bread oven in the wall which she used for storing dishcloths. He traced the strange lines that had been scratched into the beam. "Is that a name?"

"What makes you think that? Isaac said it's a rune, but I think he knows more than he lets on. Perhaps it's a charm. Or a curse." Julia laughed. "Sit down." She put some cutlery and plates on the table.

Stiffly, Simon sat and fiddled nervously with his knife and fork.

"You look better," said Julia putting a bubbling dish on the table. "Do you feel better?"

"I do," he said. "Much. Thank you, Julia."

"Don't thank me." She took the chair opposite him. "Anyone else would do the same."

Simon looked doubtful. "I don't think so."

Julia spooned food on to the plates. "It's hot, be careful. Help yourself to salad."

"Salad?"

"This, here." Julia tapped a glass bowl.

"Green things. Lettuce!"

"Well done."

Simon grinned at her.

They began to eat and Julia watched him curiously. "You've used a knife and fork before."

He paused, mid-forkful. "I have, haven't I?" he said, looking pleased. "Can I have some more? What is it?"

She laughed. "It's lasagne."

"It's very good."

"Thank you," she said, amused, and pushed the dish towards him. "You might as well finish it."

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