Once they were fully furnished with mugs of tea and Radio 2, she crept up to the attic, expecting to find Jason there. He wasn’t, and his cat was less than pleased with the situation, miaowing loudly from his corner bed of old dust sheets and the abandoned tracksuit.
‘Why didn’t you come downstairs, silly?’ scolded Jenna. ‘The door was open.’
But Bowyer retained stubborn loyalty to his dwelling, it seemed, and Jenna had to go back downstairs for a tin of tuna before he would be pacified.
‘Where’s your dad, then, eh?’ muttered Jenna, watching him dive nose-first into the compacted fish. ‘Lazy so-and-so. Bet he sleeps all morning.’
She looked around her at the surrounding frieze, now depicting the town’s history right up to the middle of the last century. A happy era of 1960s full employment was the latest panel: the workers enjoying their leisure time in the music clubs and coffee bars that had opened in the town. The swinging, Bohemian element of that decade had passed Bledburn by, but Beatle moptops and huge beehives could be seen on the little figures darting up and down the prosperous high street.
On the hill, this very house, Harville Hall, stood, decked out with bunting, hosting the annual gala. She had forgotten about that but now childhood memories came back: listening to the colliery band in tears because her balloon had flown out of her hand. It had all ended when she was about five, after the strike, though. Jason was too young to have ever attended one. Perhaps he had learned about them from his mother.
Bowyer, the tuna can empty, sauntered away from his bed to the attic stairs, intent, it seemed, on stretching his legs outside. Jenna bent down to pick up the tin, noticing as she did so that the old tracksuit comprising Bowyer’s bed rested on top of a big threadbare canvas backpack.
All of Jason’s worldly goods.
She cast a s
wift, nervous glance at the trapdoor. There was no sound but the clanking and banging of the kitchen fitters. Jason was apparently still glued to the mattress.
She knelt and unclipped the front flap of the bag. In the smallest pocket was a provisional driving licence with a photograph of him looking very young and very cocky, staring the photobooth camera in the eye as if challenging it to a fight. A number of old birthday and Christmas cards were held together with an elastic band, but Jenna didn’t investigate those any further. She was more interested in the little square notebook full of sketches.
In the main body of the bag she found more pads, large ones, filled with watercolour paintings of different local landscapes and people.
She held her breath, her heart thumping. Was he really this good? She had the feeling she was looking at an urban Constable, his bucolic scenes replaced by blackened bricks and boarded-up shops. There was an urgent quality to the pictures that prevented her looking away, once seen. They demanded close examination, and they evoked emotion. Unexpectedly, she found herself on the verge of tears, looking at a picture of an overgrown front garden with an armless doll and a broken pushchair lying in it. On the page after this still life was a picture that could only have come from Jason’s imagination, with grotesque demonic figures grouping beneath a huge chimney for some kind of ritual. Some of it was teen experimentation, but a lot of it was far more than that.
It was inconceivable that this wealth of incredible work should remain invisible. Without thinking, Jenna took the pictures from the backpack and slipped back down the ladder with them, hiding them in one of the upstairs bedroom cupboards. As soon as she could, she would take them to London to show Tabitha. This week, if possible.
She flitted back up to the attic, shoved the backpack under the old tracksuit again and took Jason’s water jar down for replenishment in the bathroom.
While she swilled it out under the tap he shambled in, half-naked and yawning.
‘Ta for that,’ he said, quirking an eyebrow at the jar.
‘Did they see you?’ she asked, trying not to be too winded by the sight of him in his masculine, unshaven glory, still warm and dishevelled from sleep.
‘The fuck do you take me for? Of course not.’ He reached for his toothbrush, now kept by the sink despite his misgivings. (‘What if someone sees it?’ ‘I’m not about to invite anyone into my private bathroom.’) ‘Where’s Bowyer?’
‘I’ve fed him. He’s outside.’
Jason brushed his teeth while Jenna watched his broad back bend and flex over the sink. The hollow in it, just above the belt of his jeans, cried out to be touched, but she kept off, mindful of her sore and overused condition.
‘What are you up to today then?’ he asked. ‘More detective work?’
‘No,’ she said, feeling a little guilty for in fact she was thinking of trying to smoke Mia out of hiding.
‘I hope not. The quicker people forget about me, the better. Don’t mention my name, whatever you do.’
‘I wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m only going shopping for technology. Need a decent computer. It’s killing me, only having my phone.’
‘Poor princess,’ he said, making a comedy sad face at the mirror.
‘Oh, come on. The information age has made it as far as Bledburn, surely.’
‘Yeah. But, you know, people have to choose between broadband and breakfast round here.’
‘Not this person,’ said Jenna briskly. She stepped forward and kissed his bristly cheek. ‘Shave and hide yourself. I’m off to Web World. See you later.’
But Web World was only reached after a diversion to the estate, specifically the low, flat-roofed, extravagantly graffitied building that hosted the local youth club. These days it was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, and accessible only through a triple-padlocked gate. It looked as forlorn as Jenna felt, and she was about to turn away, when a youngish woman in a parka hurried across the car park of the neighbouring pub, waving to her.