Where Peacocks Scream Read online

  At the end of the summer term, Joshua had to catch a plane to New York, where his parents lived and worked.

  “Next summer, you must come with me,” he said to Daniel the night before he left. “Or even this Christmas. How’s that for a plan?”

  “I’ve never flown anywhere.” Daniel’s stomach felt tight. “Mum and Dad are always too busy working to catch planes. We’ve never been on holiday together.”

  “So I’ll ask my folks. Every vacation they tell me to bring a friend. They’ve just bought a holiday home by the lake in Connecticut. My dad says you can swim in it, fish in it, take a boat out, everything. You’ll love it.”

  “Are there any rivers in New York?” Hot with envy, Daniel watched Joshua cramming too many clothes and a pair of expensive trainers into his bag.

  “There’s the Hudson River… Remember that pilot who landed his plane on it after a flock of geese had wrecked both his engines? Was he brilliant or what?”

  “Heroic… All those people balancing on the wings, floating in the water.”

  “That’s the one. But the Hudson’s not the same as the Thames.” Joshua punched his arm. “There’s nothing quite like your marvellous old Thames, is there, Williams?”

  “Nope.” Daniel punched him back. What did he want in New York anyway, when the English summer beckoned and he could see Chloe every day? “Nothing in the whole wide world.”

  A Cold Wind Blowing

  Daniel spent the summer by the river, in the boatyard next to The Riverside, helping.

  There was always loads to do. The gardens to sweep and tidy. Errands to run. Boats to clean, mend and varnish. Sometimes Chloe helped. More often, she sat reading under a tree, or practised her violin indoors, filling the boatyard with marvellous sounds that echoed through the trees and over the water.

  If Daniel was lucky, he could take his scull out on the river. Not that he was ever allowed to do that on his own. Philip the Boatman kept an eagle eye.

  “Dangerous stuff, water,” Phil always reminded him. “Even if you can swim. Especially if you can swim. The sea has waves that warn you off. Canals are narrow and controlled. But rivers have silent currents, lives of their own. You have to watch them for years before you really understand what they’re telling you.”

  One morning at the beginning of August Daniel took his fishing rod and tackle out to the edge of the river. Dad taught him to fish three years ago, during a cold, wet summer before The Riverside was refurbished, when it was less popular, there were fewer customers to feed, and Dad had more time to spend doing things other than work. They’d spent wonderful long hours sitting in the rain in their hooded anoraks, watching the water spit and dance, talking quietly, eating damp egg-and-cress sandwiches.

  Now, Daniel walked to the place where they’d sat together, where the river bent two ways: one back into Wolvercote, the other out towards Oxford’s railway station and the centre of the city.

  July had blistered everyone’s skin in an unbroken heatwave. The river’s waterline had sunk lower than Daniel had ever seen it before. But he could still spot the fish flashing beneath the water: pike, bream, the swift dark bodies of chub.

  He’d been sitting for an hour – quiet, patient, in a real fisherman’s trance – the sun blazing onto his head and shoulders.

  And then suddenly he felt something weird, like a cold wind blowing across his forehead, as if someone’s eyes were scanning him.

  He was being watched.

  Holding the rod steady, Daniel glanced up and across at Port Meadow.

  A woman with two black labradors marched towards Wolvercote. A clock in a distant tower chimed twelve. The silhouette of Oxford’s skyline shimmered at him through the heat. And a tall man wearing dark sunglasses and a white cap stood with his legs planted firmly apart, still as a post, looking directly across at him.

  Daniel checked over his shoulder. There was no one else the man could be staring at. He lowered his gaze and stared at the water, feeling embarrassed and distinctly uncomfortable. He sat like a stone, not moving an inch, hardly breathing.

  When he squinted up again, the man had gone.

  Daniel shrugged his shoulders, licked his lips and crinkled his forehead to stop the cold wind blowing.

  As he did so, a fish snapped at the bait. He’d caught a chub. It writhed and slithered in his hands, its eyes bright and watchful. Carefully, Daniel removed it from the line and slid it back into the cool water. It slipped rapidly away.

  Chloe started to play her violin. Daniel paused to listen, first with a flush of pleasure, then with a stab of alarm. Something was wrong: the notes rang out over the river calling to him, as if they were in pain. As if the tall man in the white cap had appeared as a herald of bad tidings.

  Daniel heard a car revving up and speeding along the driveway. He knew without looking it belonged to Chloe’s mum. She worked in an art gallery in Oxford and always answered the telephone in a deep voice with a grand flourish: “Olivia Manning speaking.” She was a tall, bony woman with flamboyant clothes, a glossy mouth and a frosty stare. She made Daniel feel small and uncomfortable, as if he’d just come last in a competition.

  He often wondered why gentle, patient, warm-hearted Phil had chosen to marry her. Mum had once said, “There’s no accounting for taste.” Maybe she was right.

  Chloe’s violin stopped abruptly in mid-phrase. That had never happened before. She always finished a piece, however badly it was going. Daniel hunched over his rod, willing her to come and find him. He knew that if she looked out of her bedroom window, she’d see him by the river.

  He muttered a silent prayer: “Please let her come.”

  Minutes later he heard footsteps and the soft swish of her long denim skirt.

  He looked up at her, into the marvellous blue eyes.

  She said quietly, “Don’t stop fishing.” She flopped down beside him. “Big trouble this time, Dan… Bigger than before. Probably bigger than I can do anything about.”

  Daniel turned to stare at the water, not daring to look at Chloe’s face, not daring to ask.

  “It’s my mum,” Chloe said.“She’s fallen in love with Stephen. He’s the guy who owns the art gallery where she works. She says she’s going to live with him.”

  Daniel swallowed back the choke in his throat.

  “But there’s worse… I’ve got to go with her.”

  “Your mum can’t just put you in her car and haul you off as if you were a suitcase and she’s on holiday.”

  Burning with anger, Daniel had stopped fishing. He and Chloe wandered into The Riverside’s gardens. They sat on the terrace in close-together chairs, their Coca Colas fizzing under the sun.

  Chloe said miserably, “She says I can come back to live with Dad at weekends and in the holidays.”

  “And what does your dad say?”

  “What can he say? He’s tried everything. Begging, pleading, tears, even shouting. Nothing’s going to work. Mum and Stephen have been seeing each other for more than a year. This morning, Dad said he couldn’t stand it any longer. She must either stop working in the gallery altogether, or decide between them… Mum’s chosen Stephen. She’s rushed off to tell him.”

  “She’s crazy… Phil’s a lovely guy.”

  “Mum doesn’t know how lucky she is. I’ve met Stephen at the gallery. He’s younger than Mum, and vain and silly. Whenever he walks past a mirror, he stands there looking at himself, patting his hair… I know it won’t last. He’ll live with her for a bit, then he’ll chuck her out and find someone else. Just you wait and see… ”

  Shards of glass sliced through Daniel’s heart. “Where does he live, this Stephen fellow? Where will you have to go?”

  “He’s got a massive modern house on Boars Hill. It’s ten times the size of our bungalow, with an outdoor pool.”

  Dani
el’s Cola fizzed up his nose. “So your mum’s fallen for a big house with all the posh trimmings… ” He clenched his fists. “I’d like to tell her exactly what I think of her.”

  “She’d only sneer and tell you to mind your own business. She’s smitten. It’s like a disease that’s eating away at her.” Chloe put down her glass. “I’d better try to talk to Dad. He’s shut himself in the boathouse, hoping he can sort everything out by scrubbing at a boat. Trying to pretend that nothing’s happened.” She stood up. “But it has.”

  Daniel watched Chloe walk away. The sun shimmered over the river. Percy strutted past him, triumphantly holding a piece of brown bread, getting away from Toby and Frederick before they challenged him.

  Daniel remembered the man in the white cap and the cold wind blowing.

  Desolation closed in around him.

  The White Cap

  Daniel filled the old watering can to its dented rim. He staggered towards The Python, one of the school’s newest sculls. Streamlined, expertly crafted, it hung upside-down on a hangar near the boathouse closest to the river. He tipped the cool water over its frame and started to scrub.

  “You’re very quiet today,” Phil said.

  Daniel straightened his back. “Am I?”

  “Come to think of it, you’ve been pretty quiet all week… What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Daniel turned his head away. “That is… I miss Chloe like hell.”

  “I miss her more as each day goes by… But with you, there’s something else, isn’t there? I’ve known you for five years. I know when you’re not your usual cheerful self… You can talk to me, you know, any time. About whatever takes your fancy.”

  “Yeah.” Daniel wished Joshua wasn’t such a great big heap of sky away on some stupid lake in Connecticut, or climbing a giant New York skyscraper with a bunch of trendy American guys chewing pale pink gum, or watching Spider Man.

  “You know, if there’s anything on your mind.” Phil scrabbled at a lock he was repairing on the boathouse door.

  “Thanks… It’s nothing.” Daniel remembered the chill wind blowing. He’d almost told Dad last night, but there’d been pandemonium in the kitchen with Chef off sick.

  Dad said, “Tomorrow, Danny… Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  He always said that. But these days when tomorrow came, he never remembered. There’d be a crisis in the office, a delivery he had to chase, a problem with one of the staff. Phil may be grieving for his daughter, but at least he was here and listening.

  Reluctantly, Daniel said, “You’ll probably think I’m making it up.”

  “Making what up?” Phil looked across at him.

  Daniel said the words fast, before he had time to bite his tongue and think twice. “I think I’m being watched.”

  Phil gave a snort of laughter.

  Daniel flushed. “I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

  “Sorry, Dan… I didn’t mean… Who’s watching you?”

  Daniel scrubbed at a spotless patch on the scull. “This guy with a white cap.”

  Phil dropped his screwdriver. “Where have you seen him?”

  “On Port Meadow. He stands over there… ” Daniel waved an arm. “Directly on the bend in the river. Staring at me.”

  “How many times—”

  “Can’t remember.” Daniel frowned. “Five, maybe six. First when I was fishing. Then he disappeared for two days, but he came back. He’s always in the same place, on the same spot, watching me.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Tall. Long legs. He wears a blue jacket and heavy sunglasses. And a white cap. The thing that’s odd about him—” Daniel chewed his lip. “The thing that’s really odd is he’s never going anywhere. Other people walk or run. They have dogs. They throw balls. They shout to each other. This guy just stands there on his own, staring straight at me.”

  Phil walked across the yard towards him, his T-shirt stained with oil and paint, his blond hair gleaming in the sun. “When you see him again, will you give me a shout?”

  “Sure.” Daniel breathed more easily. “I’m not imagining things, am I?”

  “Course not. Maybe he’s looking for me. I might recognise him. I know pretty much everyone around here. Maybe I can tell you who he is.”

  But the next day, when it happened again, they were too late.

  Daniel had slipped off his trainers. He was taking a scull out on his own, with Phil driving one of the launches to keep an eye. He’d just climbed into the scull when he spotted the white cap, deadly still. The man wearing it stared at him over the water. Then he raised a small camera and pointed the lens.

  Daniel panicked. He leaped out of the scull and sped in his socks across the gravel to the boathouse, the stones biting his feet.

  “What’s up?” Phil stood in the doorway, locking his life-jacket around his chest.

  “The white cap.” Daniel jabbed a thumb. “He’s over there, with a camera. He’s never used one before. Quick.”

  They raced towards the river. Port Meadow baked under the sun. A flock of geese preened and gabbled in the grass.

  Phil touched Daniel’s shoulder. “Never mind, Dan. We’ll get him next time.”

  “How does he do it?” The heel of Daniel’s left foot had begun to bleed. “How can he just vanish into thin air?”

  “I don’t know,” Phil said grimly. “But I promise we’ll find out.”

  Chasing a Shadow

  Daniel and Phil started to keep watch.

  Not that anything was said. Nothing official, that disturbed or interrupted what they were doing from day to day. The washing and scrubbing, the repairing, the sweeping, the mixing of glues, the varnishing, the painting. The daily chores continued. But every now and then, at regular intervals, one of them raised their head to look over Port Meadow.

  Once, mending a wooden rowing-boat they’d hoisted onto the gravel, they raised their heads at exactly the same moment, looked out across an empty meadow, then at each other. They grinned sheepishly.

  Daniel took to fishing with one eye on the water and one on the meadow. Whatever he caught, he examined carefully and put back. He dragged out his favourite scull whenever Phil could spare the time to follow him in the launch. In the early morning, he fed the peacocks with leftovers from the kitchen. Then he scurried around his island, checking that nobody had trampled the undergrowth ahead of him.

  Cora’s grave remained undisturbed.

  Often Daniel stood on the far edge of the island, nearest to the river, looking out towards the Oxford skyline, watching. Or he waited on the bridge as the seagulls flapped for food.

  Once, sculling on the river, the current fierce and swirling in the sharp wind, he thought he saw a man in a white cap leaving one of the bank-side houses. He nearly lost the blade as he looked.

  Once, when a gust of rain suddenly bubbled up and caught them out mid-river near the railway station, he thought he saw a white cap disappearing into a narrowboat moored on the reedy bank.

  But he could never be sure. He felt as if he were chasing a pale shadow on a foggy day.

  Sometimes he even checked for the white cap among the guests at The Riverside as they ate lunch. He worked out what he’d say if he spotted it.

  “Excuse me, but have you been watching me? My name, in case you wanted to know, is Williams. Daniel Williams. I’m twelve. I live here. The Riverside is a famous Oxford pub. We’ve been here for five years. Before that we lived in London. My parents ran another pub in Regent’s Park Road. They did it so well they were offered this place. The brewery think my parents are the best managers The Riverside has ever had. That’s why the brewery paid for all the renovations two years ago, mended the bridge to the island. We make loads of money for them. Is there anything else you’d like to know? Would you like to take another p
hotograph?”

  His heart thumped as he imagined the scene.

  “Of course,” Phil joked one afternoon, “the white cap might be your long-lost uncle, come to bring you the small fortune he made overseas in organic spices and green tea.”

  “He can keep his fortune.” Daniel refused to make light of it. “The guy’s beginning to haunt me.”

  Phil frowned. “On the meadow or off it?”

  “Both. Last night I dreamed he was on the river, in a rowing-boat, moving fast through the water. He came right up to the weir. Then he stood up in the boat and started shouting my name.” Sweat trickled down Daniel’s back. “But I’ve never even met him, so how the hell does he know who I am?… I just want you to see him too, to prove I haven’t invented the whole thing.”

  August pushed rapidly into September and an early start to the new term.

  Taller, sunburned, wearing a new blue-checked shirt and flared jeans, Joshua returned to Wolvercote.

  “If you think I’ve had a glorious vacation,” he told Daniel as they pushed together through the island’s undergrowth, “you’d be wrong. We had a horrible time. In Connecticut, my dad caught Lyme disease.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s caused by a flea that lives in the lake. It lands on your skin and burrows its way into your flesh. At first you think you’ve got an ordinary insect bite, but it’s much worse. It infects everything inside you if you give it half a chance. You have to knock it on the head with antibiotics and stuff. We all had to be tested for the disease and Mom went stir-crazy worrying.”