Decay Inevitable

Plot number twenty-seven was a tidy strip of land tucked into the centre of the allotments, an exception to the utilitarian rule. The soil here had been cared for; it had been raked over and sieved for stones. Trimmed lengths from black binbags had been weighed down with bricks to protect something growing in one corner. A metal box contained non-biodegradable waste: packaging for organic slug pellets, tomato fertiliser, discarded seed trays, emptied cartons of Murphy’s tumble bug.

The shed was brightly painted and its window possessed a pair of curtains. A weathervane in the shape of a chicken rotated slowly on the roof. From within came a cough, a painful, damaged sound.

Sean called out. “Kev?” The name was brittle in the cold, a non-name, a pointless sound. Nevertheless, it drew a figure from the shed. Clad in a heavy blue greatcoat, a man of around sixty emerged, the bottom half of his cadaverous face swathed in a thick, bottle-green scarf. He looked at Sean first, then Emma, before casting a look further afield, at the allotment that was deserted but for the refugees from fracturing, loveless homes. The eyes came back to them, shadowed and hangdog.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice little more than a shifting of tortured air over dead or mangled vocal cords.

“I’m Sean Redman. This is Emma Lavery. Are you Kev?”

“Yes.”

Sean stepped a little closer. “It’s just that I was expecting someone younger.”

Kev allowed himself a dry little chuckle. “I was younger,” he said.

Sean said, “We wondered if we could talk to you.”

“About?”

Sean was about to answer when Emma stepped in front of him. “Is that a bird’s nest up there, mister...?”

“Blackbird,” Kev rasped.

“Mister Blackbird?”

Sean thought he saw a slight crinkling of the other man’s eyes, but if there was any humour there, it wasn’t reflected in his voice. “Mister Lovesey,” he corrected, briskly. “That is a blackbird’s nest.”

“I see,” Emma said. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. Now, what is it you want? How did you know I was Kev?”

“A friend of yours told me about you. Guy called Preece. Nicky Preece.”

“Nicky. Oh yes?” None of the suspicion was leaving his words, or his posture. He hovered at the doorway to the shed, cupping a plantpot in his hands. “What else did he tell you?”

“He told me how you used to work for Vernon Lord.”

The mention of the name made Kev step back into the shadow of the shed door, which obscured Sean’s view of him. “Oh? What of it?”

Emma touched Sean’s arm. “Mr. Lovesey, can we buy you breakfast? We understand you’re a bit of a connoisseur of English breakfasts.”

Kev moved out of the shadow of the door once more. He appeared even more pale and diminished. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t eat much these days. No doubt you know why.” He moved the scarf around his neck, so that it sat more comfortably. “You’d better come in,” he said, “seeing as you’ve come all this way to talk to me.”

Sean and Emma stepped over the corrugated iron fence into the well-manicured plot. They followed Kev into the shed, which was frugally furnished: a wooden stool, a fold-away table, a camping stove. The remains of a game of patience were spread out on the table. Garden tools made a homely jumble in the corner, a fresh, edaphic aroma rising off them. A sleeping bag was tightly rolled up and stored on a shelf over the door. A broken shotgun hung from a large hook beneath the window. A box of shells sat on the sill, open, ready.

“Sorry I don’t have more chairs,” Kev said, in a voice that was anything but. “The floor’s clean though, if you want to park yourselves.”

Kev went on with his game of cards. At close quarters, they could hear the wheeze of air in his throat as he took breaths.

Emma said, “How come you don’t have a scarecrow, Mr. Lovesey? Aren’t you worried the birds will take your crops?”

“None of us here has a scarecrow. Bloody worthless things. And it’s not crop-sowing time anyway. Nothing to take.”

“But there’s a scarecrow out there. Someone’s stealing a march on you.”

Kev grunted and shook his head. “No scarecrows here.”

Emma stepped outside and pointed. As soon as her arm was outstretched, she dropped it. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sure I saw one in that plot over there.”

“Nicky was fond of you,” Sean said, giving Emma an irritated look. “I think all of the lads were.”

“How do you know ’em?”

Sean spoke of the softstripping contract and the time he had spent with the crew. He stopped short of divulging that his relationship with the others had ceased, that any friends he had made during his time there were enemies now.

“And Lord?” Kev asked, his hands now still on the deck of cards.

“I went with Vernon on a few jobs,” Sean explained.

“A few jobs,” Kev said, and this time his blasted voice managed to carry a trace of sarcasm.

“You know what I’m here for,” Sean said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“People are dying. You were nearly killed for what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”