Chapter Twenty-Five: Monday
“M.P. Paul Tyler organised a conference on the subject of the Beast of Bodmin in August 1994. The conference was attended by police, local landowners, M.P.s and representatives from the National Farmers Union and the Ministry of Agriculture, and as a result of the conference findings an official government investigation into A.B.C. sightings was launched. The ultimate findings of the investigation were dismissed as being ‘spectacularly inconclusive’.”
In the way that the evening before had ended with a telephone call, so the next day began with another one.
Art was surprised to hear the voice of his wife at the other end of the phone line. At first he did not recognize her: what was it about her voice that was so strange? Was there a slight transatlantic twang in her accent, or was it the unsure, hesitant manner, that was so unlike the Amanda he knew? In his temporary confusion, Art nearly answered “Who?” to the caller’s introductory “Hello Art, it’s Amanda” but he managed to compose himself sufficiently to reply instead, “Hello. This is a surprise.”
“How are you?”
Art was feeling baffled: this did not sound like the words of the same woman who had requested that all further communication between them should henceforth be made via her solicitor. Art answered cagily, announcing his words slowly and clearly, adopting the clinical tone of voice he normally associated with his doctor, “I’m fine. How are you? You sound like you’ve got a cold.”
“Really? No, just slight catarrh, perhaps. I’m fine.” There was a pause, then, “Art?”
“This may sound a bit odd...”
“Yes?”
“If you receive a letter addressed from me in the next couple of days...”
“Yes?”
“I want you to tear it up.”
“Tear it up?”
“Yes, don’t open it. Just tear it up, or better still, send it back to me. Yes, that’s it, send it back. I sent it to you by mistake. It’s not meant for you.”
Art did not allow Amanda to continue her deceit. “You mean the one telling me about you and Sheridan.”
There was silence, then, “Oh, it’s already arrived.”
“Several days ago. The New York postal service is better than you realized.”
“Oh, Art, I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool. I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote that.” Art was silent so Amanda carried on, “I’ve been under stress. You can’t imagine what it’s like over here. It’s mad. I think I went a bit crazy for a while.”
Finally Art asked, “So, it’s all over between you and Sheridan then?”
“It was never really on,” said Amanda, “I don’t know what I was thinking. I was carried away with everything. The lifestyle, the money. You should see the houses here. Unbelievable. I think I just wanted a little taste of... I don’t know what? How the other half live perhaps? Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
Art considered his own past year: certainly there were times when he too had wished himself in another place, anywhere other than in the cycle of domestic routine that had become so familiar to him. He too had dreams. He could afford to show a degree of generosity in his comprehension of his wife’s position. At the same time, though, he was not going to allow her to escape without some expression of conciliation, “You haven’t asked about Luke,” he said, mercilessly changing the subject.
“Luke. Of course, I meant to. I just wanted to... you know, explain first. Luke, how is he?”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he walking now?”
“A few steps.”
“And much bigger?”
“Quite a bit.”
“And...”
Art interrupted her, cutting in swiftly, “So did you leave Sheridan, or did Sheridan leave you?”
“Um,” Amanda sounded hesitant, “He...” She suddenly said, more decisively, as though having made up her mind to make a clean breast of everything, “He left me. He got offered a new job. Out of the country.”
“Rather ironic,” said Art.
“What?” Amanda was slow to pick up on what her husband meant, “Oh yes, I see. Yes. Especially since he is going to London.”
“Who knows,” said Art bitterly, “Perhaps I’ll meet up with him for a few beers.”
“I don’t think that you would like him,” said Amanda.
“Oh?” Art didn’t doubt the fact, but he was intrigued as to why Amanda would think the same.
“He’s... Well, he’s not much like you.”
“He’s successful, you mean.”
“Yes. No. Well, that’s not what I mean.” The conversation was not going the way that Amanda had intended. “I’m sorry Art. I’ve been stupid. What else can I say? Do you think...? I mean, can we...? What I want, Art, is to put all this behind us. Can we go back to the way we were before?”
“What? Always squabbling?”
“No. How we used to be. I’d like us to try again. What do you think?”
Art was silent. The phone call had caught him totally unprepared. He thought back over some of the events of the past couple of weeks. Amanda did not know about the big cat hunt; had not shared his dreams and expectations. She did not know that he had been in hospital; that he had been knocked unconscious. She did not know that he had met Rupa. Art remembered the concerned, caring expression on the face of the young Indian woman; the first thing he had seen when he had woken in his hospital bed.
The silence was broken by Amanda’s voice, “Art? Art, are you still there?”
“Yes,” Art quietly answered, “I’m still here.”
•••
Later, when the phone went again, Art expected it to be Amanda ringing back, instead it was a voice he did not recognize.
“Arthur Madison? Is that Arthur Madison?”
There seemed little point denying the fact, particularly when the voice at the other end of the line was so decisive: Art was doubtful that a denial would have been accepted, “Yes, this is Art. Who’s that?”
“My name is Waterhouse. Gavin Waterhouse. I think you know my son.”
The name, if not the very most uppermost in Art’s mind, was at least still hovering fairly high up there, “Robert. Yes, of course. How is he?”
“Not too bad, mainly thanks to you. A few broken ribs but nothing too catastrophic. Nothing that won’t heal with time.”
“Not too traumatized, I hope?”
“Traumatized!” Gavin Waterhouse barked out the word like a parade ground sergeant. Art suspected that anything other than verifiable physical injury was not something that was acknowledged by the formidable father. “Traumatized,” he repeated, “Certainly not.”
The dramatic outburst was followed by a silence and so Art felt compelled to enquire, “Well, what can I do for you?”
“I think it is more what I can do for you.”
“Oh?”
“As I am sure you know, I announced in the press that I was prepared to offer a reward to anyone coming forward with information which led to the return of my son.”
In the excitement of the actual discovery of Robert and his exultation of at last being proved correct in his hunch about something, Art had forgotten all about the reward money. It didn’t take him long to adjust to the idea though, “I do seem to recall reading something,” he said, cagily.
“Ten thousand pounds was the sum, I mentioned.”
“Oh yes,” said Art suspiciously, already anticipating the caller’s next sentence; expecting Waterhouse Senior to give a reason why the money was no longer on offer, or explain that because of some obscure technicality Art did not qualify for the reward. He should not have been so distrustful.
“And I can think of no one better than yourself who deserves that amount. From what Rob has told me, and from what the police have said, I doubt very much whether Rob would be alive today if you hadn’t come forward with your informa
tion.”
Art answered modestly, although also truthfully, “It was nothing really, just chance that I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Nevertheless,” Gavin Waterhouse continued, “I am very grateful to you.” He suddenly became very business-like, “Is a cheque okay? I can give you cash if you prefer?”
“No, a cheque is fine. I don’t know what to say,” Art mumbled.
“No need to say anything. Let me know your address and I’ll have it in the post to you tonight. I’m good for it, you don’t need to worry.”
“Oh, I didn’t doubt it for a minute,” said Art, embarrassed, adding, “I’m just pleased to have been able to help. I have a son myself. I can imagine what it must have been like for you.”
“Yes,” replied Gavin, thoughtfully, “I’m sure you can. When Rob is fully recovered I am sure that he will want to thank you personally. Would you mind if he called on you?”
“There’s really no need,” said Art, already mentally conjuring up a picture of the awkward encounter: the cajoled youth, having to display gratitude while wishing that he could be anywhere else, and Art himself embarrassed, feeling a fraud for being treated as a hero. “I mean, unless he really wants to.”
“Of course he will want to.” The drill sergeant resurfaced again. “It’s the very least he can do. I’ll ring to fix up a mutually convenient time.”
Art found himself saying thank you, although not really knowing what he was grateful for.
Unable to be entirely the disinterested philanthropist, Gavin Waterhouse could not resist asking, “So, what do you think you will do with the money?”
Art thought about the sum entering into his bank account. Ten thousand pounds. It would be a pleasant figure to see on his next statement. He thought that he would probably quite enjoy just admiring it for a while: it would certainly make for better reading than the small negative overdraft figures which normally littered any correspondence he received from his bank. “I don’t know,” he finally replied, “I think I’ll just save it for a rainy day.” He looked outside of his window as he said his farewells and replaced the receiver on the phone. He was glad that he was in his warm house and not in the woods: it was raining cats and dogs outside.