Savage Awakening(4)

In consequence, Amy had missed him almost as much as Fliss when he'd  suddenly been taken into hospital. She hadn't understood why she  couldn't go to visit him and, although Fliss had explained the  circumstances of his illness, she suspected the child still regarded the  Old Coaching House as his home.

When he died the house had been inherited by a distant cousin, who had  apparently lost no time in putting it on the market, Fliss thought  wryly. No one in the village had known anything about it or she was sure  her father would have picked up the news on the grapevine.

Now she got up from the table, carrying her empty cup across to the  sink. The overgrown lawn at the back of the cottage reminded her that  she had other jobs she'd promised herself she'd do today. Dammit, if  only Amy had let the rabbit go to the shelter and been done with it.

'So what's the new owner like?' asked her father, getting up from the  table to bring his own dishes to be washed. Then he opened the door to  let the dog out, stepping outside for a moment and taking a deep breath  of the warm, flower-scented air. 'Mmm, those roses have never smelt  better,' he added. 'I don't know why you don't bring some of them into  the house.'

Because I don't have the time, thought Fliss grimly, fighting a brief  spurt of irritation. But it would never have occurred to her father to  do something like that himself. No more than it occurred to him to wash  his own dishes or make his own bed in the mornings. She filled the  washing-up bowl with soapy water and dropped his cup, saucer and plate  into the hot suds. She sighed. She mustn't let her annoyance over the  rabbit influence her attitude towards her father. He was the way he was,  and there was nothing she could do about it.

But despite his admiration for the roses, he hadn't forgotten his  original question. 'Who is he?' he asked, coming back into the kitchen.  'The man you spoke to at the big house? Did he tell you his name?'                       
       
           



       

Deciding there was no point in prevaricating, Fliss shrugged. 'I think  he said his name was Quinn,' she replied carelessly. She finished drying  the dishes and hung the tea towel over the rail to dry. 'I might as  well go and get Buttons now. You never know, he may have gone out. Do  you think it would be all right if I took the rabbit without his  say-so?'

'Why not?' asked her father, but he was looking pensive. 'Quinn,' he  said ruminatively. 'Quinn.' He frowned. 'Where have I heard that name  before?'

'The Mighty Quinn?' suggested Fliss, giving her reflection a quick once-over in the mirror beside the hall door.

She looked unusually flushed, she thought ruefully, and she hadn't even  set out on her mission yet. Pale skin, that never tanned no matter how  long she stayed out in the sun, had the hectic blush of colour, vying  with the vivid tangle of her hair. Blue eyes-her father insisted they  were violet-stared back with a mixture of excitement and apprehension,  and she felt a frustrated surge of impatience. She wasn't going on a  date! She was going to rescue a rabbit, for pity's sake.

'I know!' Her father's sudden exclamation had her swinging round in  surprise to find him balling a fist into his palm. 'That name, Quinn. I  knew I'd heard it recently. That's the name of that man-that  journalist-who spent about eighteen months as a prisoner of the rebels  in Abuqara. You remember, don't you? They did a documentary about it on  television recently. He escaped. Yes, that's right, he escaped. But not  before he'd suffered God knows what treatment at the enemy's hands.'

Fliss swallowed with difficulty. Her breath suddenly seemed constricted  somewhere down in her throat. 'I-don't remember,' she said faintly.

But she did. Now that her father had reminded her of it, she remembered  the documentary very well. Not that Matthew Quinn himself had appeared  in it. It had simply been an examination of the situation in Abuqara,  with Matthew Quinn's imprisonment used to illustrate the violence meted  out to foreigners who got caught up in the country's civil war.

'Not that I'm suggesting that your Mr Quinn is the same man,' her father  was going on, unaware of his daughter's reaction. 'That would be a bit  of a coincidence, don't you think? What with his aversion to the media  and me being a part-time hack myself.'

'Y-e-s.' Fliss let the word string out, not sure why she didn't just  admit what she was thinking there and then. But the memory of Matthew  Quinn's dark, haunted face was still sharply etched in her mind, and, if  he was who she thought he was, she couldn't betray him. Not even to her  own father. 'Um-I ought to get going. I'll take the car. I can easily  dump the hutch in the back.'

'Right.' But her father was still looking thoughtful and her nerves  tightened. 'Perhaps I ought to come with you. Introduce myself, welcome  him to the village, show him we're a friendly lot. What do you think?'

'I-no.' Fliss realised he might take umbrage at the sharpness of her  tone and hurried to justify herself. 'I mean-I don't think this is a  good time, Dad. What with the trouble over the rabbit and all. Let's let  the dust settle, hmm? We don't want-the family-to think we're pushy.'

'Well, you could be right.' He looked downcast. 'It's a pity, though. It  would have been a good opportunity to get to know them.'

'Later,' said Fliss fervently, picking up the car keys. 'See you soon.'

'Wait.' As she was about to leave, her father came after her. 'How are  you going to lift the hutch into the car? It's heavy, you know. It was  all Amy could do to push it on the wheelbarrow.'

'I'll manage.' Fliss thought she'd do anything rather than have her  father discover who the new occupant of the Old Coaching House was  because of her. As he'd said, he took his journalism seriously, and he  wouldn't be able to resist talking about a scoop like this. 'Bye.'                       
       
           



       

It was only a few minutes' drive from the cottage to the Old Coaching  House. Their cottage adjoined the grounds of the church on one side and  the Old Coaching House adjoined them on the other.

But there the similarity ended. Cherry Tree Cottage was set in a modest  garden whereas the Old Coaching House had extensive grounds, with lawns  and flowerbeds and an apple orchard, as well as a tennis court at the  back of the house.

As she drove, Fliss had to concede that Amy had done well to wheel the  rabbit this far. Of course, when Fliss was working for Colonel Phillips,  they had taken the short cut around the back of the church, but it was  still some distance. She gave a rueful smile. Amy had obviously been  determined to keep the pet that one of her school friends had given her.

The front of the old house was still impressive, despite its air of  faded grandeur. Stone gateposts, with rusting iron gates that hung  rather optimistically from them, gave access to a drive that definitely  required some maintenance. Fliss's father's elderly hatchback bumped  rather resentfully over the holes in the tarmac, and Fliss realised she  would have to make sure the rabbit hutch didn't bounce out again as she  was driving home.

Tall poplars lined the drive, framing the house with greenery. The  rhododendron bushes that flanked them had been a mass of colour a couple  of weeks ago, but now they were shedding their brilliant petals onto  the grass verge. They made Fliss feel sad. Colonel Phillips had loved  those rhododendrons.

There was a car parked at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to  the terrace, one of those expensive off-roaders, much favoured by people  who wanted to make a statement about their financial status. It was not  the sort of car Fliss would have expected Matthew Quinn to drive-if he  was the Matthew Quinn her father had been talking about-but what did she  know? She was a humble single mother who had to serve bar meals and  clean other people's houses just to make ends meet.

And how pathetic did that sound?

Parking the Ford beside the BMW, Fliss turned off the engine and opened  her door. Sliding her legs out of the car, she wished she'd taken the  time to change before coming back. Her sleeveless vest and canvas shorts  were all very well for taking Amy to school, but they hardly created an  impression of responsible motherhood. But then, she reflected, if she  had changed, her father might have wondered why and that might have  opened another can of worms.

Taking a deep breath, she rounded the car and mounted the steps to the  heavy oak door. She couldn't help noticing that no one had polished the  brass work recently, or swept the terrace, and she pulled a wry face. It  was true. She was developing a servant's mentality. Go figure!

Dismissing such thoughts, she lifted the knocker and let it fall,  wincing as it echoed around the building. There was no way anyone could  ignore that.

There was silence for a few moments and Fliss was just considering  knocking again, when she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall.  They didn't sound like a man's footsteps, however, and she steeled  herself for the ordeal of identifying herself to Matthew Quinn's wife.  She just hoped he'd clued her in to what had happened. She was going to  feel such a fool if he hadn't.