Chapter 2

I was up first, groggy from my disturbed, unsatisfying night. The cheap phone I'd bought for Denise was fully charged and ready for use – I put it on the kitchen table. Coffee, cereal and toast, orange juice; my usual breakfast when at home. The radio on – rather quieter than usual in deference to my house-guest. The laptop open for me to check emails, not that there was anything more than spam in my inbox, but there were my favourite porn sites and literature, both free and paid for.

Denise shambled in rather later, as I was on my second cup.

I stood. "Good morning," I greeted her quietly. "Breakfast?"

She cleared her throat. "Coffee first. Please."

I poured a cup, put it in front of her with milk and sugar if she wanted them – she added a little milk – and started another pot. She sipped her way through the first cup in silence before asking quietly for some toast. That I could do.

"Joe..." having swallowed the last mouthful of toast, "would you mind if I went to church?"

I shrugged. "Not at all. You're a guest, not a prisoner! But I don't know what's available." I pushed the laptop over to her. "Take a look, see what you can find."

We ended up ... yes, we, including me, who hadn't been inside a church of any description for years ... at an Elim Pentecostal church. Apparently, that was what Denise had been used to. I was one of a handful of white faces in an exuberant sea of dark ones. My main impression was a sort of chaotic enthusiasm. Great singing, energetic preaching interspersed with 'Hallelujahs' and 'Amens'. Prayers, which seemed to consist of everyone talking out loud (and I mean loud) at once.

It was an experience.

There was an altar call (I gather that's pretty routine, but not something that's part of anything I'd been used to). Denise got up and went forward. I stayed where I was and tried to be inconspicuous. She was kneeling at the rail, and someone went to her; stooped and laid a hand on her shoulder. As I watched, that person looked around and beckoned and two others went over. Denise's shoulders were shaking. They seemed to be with her a long time. Finally, she looked up, nodded, said something, and rose to return to me, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

Most of the congregation had left the sanctuary to mingle over tea or coffee and the rest were in small clumps clearly uninterested in anything outside their own little circle.

I stood as Denise drew closer, and stepped out into the aisle. I wasn't expecting what happened next; she came to me and embraced me, holding her whole body against me, her head against my jaw, the scent of her in my nostrils. I could feel myself begin to harden, and was going to pull away, but she broke the clinch before matters became embarrassing.

The lack of a bus service on Sundays is not usually a problem. I ride a motorbike, or the cycle. However, it meant a roughly three mile walk each way for the church, as we agreed a motorcycle was not perhaps the most suitable mode of transport if you wish to arrive at church relatively unruffled. I did suggest a taxi, but that was refused pointedly. As it was, we stopped for lunch at a pub on the way home, and had roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, veg and gravy. Denise was quiet and thoughtful throughout the meal. Afterwards, as we trudged up Bishops Hill she took hold of my elbow and stopped me.

"Joe, are you sure you don't mind me staying with you?"

I smiled at her. "Yeah, o' course. As long as you like."

We got home after three o'clock, only to see the light blinking on the answering machine.

"Jeff? Bob Jackson." (Sailing club Secretary). "I need you to ring me back as soon as you can, please."

"Hey, Bob? What's the problem? I've only just got in."

"Oh, Joe! We've had an intruder in the compound. Jack Barlow challenged him, and is in hospital. Several of the boats are damaged. Joe ... I'm sorry, but Joy is burnt to the waterline. The keels might be salvageable, but even the spars are scrap."

It took several moments to penetrate; I stared at Denise, or, rather, stared through her. "Is Jack going to be okay, Bob?"

"We think so. He's badly bruised, and concussed, but they don't think there's any internal damage or broken bones. They're keeping him in for observation."

"Well, that's something. The most important thing, really. Shit! I'll miss that little boat. I don't suppose the insurance will cover half the cost of replacement."

"You're probably right. Do you want us to keep an eye out for a replacement?"

"If you don't mind. Something similar, perhaps a bit bigger. I don't suppose there'll be much about until spring, though."

"Okay, then, we'll do that. Have you got a pen and paper? I've got the incident number from the Police."

I jotted that down and replaced the handset.

"What's happened, Joe?" Denise sounded worried – even frightened.

"Seems someone has it in for my boat," I said. "More to the point, one of the club members was hurt when he challenged the guy who was messing with the boats in the compound."

"Oh, Joe ... this is my fault, isn't it?"

"No, Denise! No, it is not your fault. It's the fault of a ... a ... subhuman ... who wants to dominate everyone round him, who wants to profit by ruining lives, and who takes pleasure in hurting others." I strode over and wrapped her in my arms, the first time I'd taken the initiative like that, but she didn't protest or resist and sagged against me.

The phone rang. Number withheld. I picked up. "Hello?"

"Mister Joseph Quenton?"

"Speaking."

"PC Jones, Essex Constabulary. You had a problem yesterday."

"I did."

"The ... gentleman ... involved was bailed. Unfortunately he has broken his bail conditions."

"I see. And would he be the person who assaulted one of the sailing club members and set fire to my boat?"

"That's likely, even probable. Would you happen to know the whereabouts of Miss Denise DeFreitas?"

"I think I can get a message to her," I prevaricated.

"We suspect she ... and you ... might be at risk. We're hoping he'll lay low and keep out of sight, but we wanted to let you know he's loose."

"I see. I'll drop Miss DeFreitas a line and warn her to be careful."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's Leon, isn't it?"

"Yes. He's loose, and on the run. It'd probably be best if we weren't seen together. I'll need to go to work tomorrow, but you'd best stay out of sight."

"I need to ... well, I need to go a couple of places."

"Just be careful."

There wasn't much I could do about any of it straight away, so we just relaxed as best we could. Denise wasn't much impressed with my limited selection of DVDs, but between the t/v and my bookshelves we didn't do too badly. I was relieved she liked the History and Discovery channels. I was more careful than usual to check all the windows and doors were locked before we went to bed.

I was tired enough I slept better, but Denise looked weary when she appeared in the morning. I gave her a spare key, wondering as I did so why I trusted her so far, but without coming up with an answer.

With less than four weeks to go before breaking for Christmas, the kids were less attentive and more restive than usual. I was preoccupied, too, which didn't help, but I got through, helped by sheer routine. I had, after all, been doing the job for near enough thirty years.

Denise told me she'd sorted out her bank accounts; they'd allowed her to withdraw enough money to buy some clothes she needed and would send cards to my house. She skated over what else she'd been doing.

The week passed like that. I reported the loss of my boat to the insurance company, along with various details like the Police incident number. They said I would be awarded an amount equivalent to the average of the sale price of comparable boats. At least, they would once they'd got a report from the club and the Police. It wasn't the best I could hope for, but not the worst by far. Denise and I seemed to rub along remarkably smoothly. She spent most of the time in the house which rapidly became much cleaner and tidier than it had been. My bookshelves, CDs and DVDs were all sorted and rearranged by categories, titles or author as appropriate, and she cooked for both of us. If her abilities as a cook left a little to be desired, I was not about to complain.