Then she heard the engine of a car coming through their road gate and into the gravelled parking area that Humphrey had created as a matter of priority. She got up, baby attached, and looked out of the big new window from the kitchen. It was Christopher’s car; he and another man emerged from it.
She thought she knew who it was, even before they came in and Christopher performed introductions, blithely ignoring his wife’s naked breast. ‘This is Fabian, also known as Crickers,’ he said. ‘I found him down at the junction with the main road, looking lost.’
The man nodded at Simmy with a grin. He was thin, wearing a sleeveless fleece and muddy trainers. His hair was short and flecked with grey. He had poor skin and twitched constantly. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘Sorry if I alarmed you yesterday.’
‘You did, a bit,’ she admitted. ‘Excuse me a minute, while I go and sort the baby out. I won’t be long.’ She pulled at her shirt, trying to cover herself. There was nothing noticeably salacious in the man’s expression, not even any embarrassment, and yet she disliked exposing herself to him.
Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I spent years in Africa, where the female torso is naked as often as not. It’s a thing of beauty, after all.’
‘Right,’ said Simmy vaguely, and headed up the new staircase.
‘I should start something cooking,’ Christopher called after her. ‘Is it okay if Fabian stays?’
‘Fine,’ she said, thinking it really wasn’t fine at all.
‘I was in hospital for six months,’ Crickers told them, over the pasta that Christopher had produced. He spoke slowly, as if every word had to be tracked down inside his head before it could be uttered. ‘They took me down to Cape Town eventually and bombarded me with every medicine in the book. It was touch-and-go, I can tell you. Since then, I’ve had to have spinal taps every year to see if there’s any sign of it coming back. Well – that stopped a couple of years ago, and they said I was clear. All that from one little bastard of a fly that had probably bitten me months before.’
‘We all thought you were beyond help,’ said Christopher. ‘You couldn’t even stand up and you had those lumps on your neck. Not to mention the rash all over you. Like a plague victim, you were.’
‘Which is why you thought it was safe to promise me anything I asked,’ the man nodded. ‘I get it.’
‘Really?’ Christopher looked uncertain. ‘That’s very forgiving of you.’
Fabian Crick’s expression hardened. ‘It’s not though,’ he said. ‘You cost me that house, if you want the honest truth. She would have left it to me if you’d done as you promised.’
‘What?’ Christopher went pale. ‘That can’t be true. Didn’t you have time to put it right with her?’
‘I thought everything was all right between us. I gave you that message because it was important to keep her sweet and I trusted you to deliver it. Then I forgot all about it. I was incredibly sick for a while. Couldn’t think, had seizures like the worst epileptic fits, and as you see, I’ve still got this twitch. Damage to the central nervous system – never going to get better, apparently.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Christopher assured him.
‘Bad enough, but better than being dead. Anyway, that’s the short version of the trypanosomiasis story. Great word, don’t you think?’ He said it again slowly. ‘Tree-pano-somiasis. It’s like a little poem, with all those syllables. It took me ages to get it right.’
‘I would never have recognised you,’ said Christopher, when they’d finished eating, but remained sitting at the table. ‘You’ve lost so much weight.’
‘Not to mention going grey and losing most of who I was. They say personalities change when you have this disease – it’s probably true. It’s a weird feeling, knowing you should really be dead. I’m a medical miracle.’
Simmy was paying close attention, acknowledging to herself that she felt decidedly uncomfortable in the man’s company. He looked like a survivor from some extreme trauma – which he was, of course. The constant twitching was unsettling, and the story itself seemed to be a preamble to something more current – and more sinister. She could still hear his voice on the phone, the day before. She had taken an instant dislike to him from that brief conversation and was failing utterly to modify her response. Her resolve to keep life peaceful for at least the first year of Robin’s life was already being tested. She could feel the advance of dark forces in the wake of this disagreeable man and was far from pleased with Christopher for so readily admitting him into their home.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked, rather too directly. ‘Did you come in a car?’
‘I’m in Glenridding for now. They won’t let me drive, on account of the blackouts. I’ve got a mobility scooter. I followed Chris down from the main road and left it out there.’ He waved vaguely towards the lane. ‘It’ll just about get me back. Three miles, mostly uphill.’
‘Blackouts,’ Simmy repeated, in a tone that said Why doesn’t that surprise me?
‘I told you – I’m a wreck,’ said the man, with a hint of satisfaction.
‘Why didn’t you go straight to your aunt after you recovered?’ Simmy asked, trying to stay with the central point. The accusation against Christopher was rankling.
‘One thing after another,’ he said vaguely. ‘I wrote to her, sent cards. Kept promising to visit.’
‘Did she reply?’
‘Oh, yes. She sent me newspaper cuttings about Africa mostly. Said my cousin was writing her life story and would probably make a small fortune
