Ann wondered why Harrison behaved like that From a project she dimly remembered doing at school, she knew the whole estate had once been lands belonging to Hexwood Farm. The farm stretched north as far as the chemical works and east beyond the motel. Banners Wood, in the middle, had once been huge, though it was hardly even a wood these days. You could see through it to the houses on the other side. It was just trees round a small muddy stream, and all the children played there. Ann knew every crisp packet under every tree root and almost every Coke ring embedded in its muddy paths.
But perhaps Harrison has inherited the farm and thinks he still owns it all, she thought. He did behave that way.
In fact, Anns real theory was quite different and much more interesting. That old farm was so secretive and yet so easy to get to from London that she was convinced it was really a hideout for gangsters. She was sure there was gold bullion or sacks and sacks of drugs or both stored in its cellar with young Harrison to guard it. Harrisons airs were because the drug barons paid him so much to guard their secrets.
What do you think about that? she asked her four imaginary people.
The Slave, as so often, was faint and far off. His masters overworked him terribly. He thought the theory very likely. Young Harrison was a menial giving himself airs he knew the type.
The Prisoner considered. If Ann was right, he said, then young Harrison was behaving very stupidly, drawing attention to himself like this. Her first theory was better.
But I only thought of that to be fair-minded! Ann protested. What do you think, King?
Either could be right, said the King. Or both.
The Boy, when Ann consulted him, chose the gangster theory, because it was the most exciting.
Ann grinned. The Boy would think that. He was stuck on the edge of nowhere, being a sort of assistant to a man who had lived so long ago that people thought of him as a god. He felt out of things, born in the wrong time and place. He always wanted excitement. He said he could only get it through talking to Ann.
Ann was slightly worried about the Boys opinions. The Boy was always behaving
as if he were real, instead of just an invention of Anns. She was a little ashamed of inventing these four people. They had come into her head from goodness knew where when she was quite small and she used to hold long conversations with them. These days she did not speak to them so often. In fact, she was quite worried that she might be mad, talking to invented people, particularly when they took on ideas of their own, like the Boy did. And she did wonder what it said about her Ann that all four of her inventions were unhappy in different ways. The Prisoner was always in jail, and he had been put there many centuries ago, so there was no chance of Ann helping him escape. The Slave would be put to death if he tried to escape. One of his fellow-slaves had tried it once. The Slave wouldnt tell Ann quite what had happened to that slave, but she knew he had died of it. As for the King, he also lived in a far-off time and place, and spent a lot of his time having to do things that were quite intensely boring. Ann was so sorry for all of them that she had often to console herself by keeping firmly in mind the fact that they were not real.
The King spoke to Ann again. He had been thinking, he said, that while Ann was lying in bed she had an ideal opportunity to observe young Harrisons comings and goings. She might find out something to support her theory. Can you see Hexwood Farm from where you are? he asked.
No, its down the street the other way, Ann explained. Id have to turn my bed round, and I havent the strength just now.
No need, said the King. He knew all about spying. All you have to do is to put a mirror where you can see it from your bed, and turn it so it reflects the street and the farm. Its a trick my own spies often use.
It really was an excellent idea. Ann got out of bed at once and tried to arrange her bedroom mirror. Of course it was wrong the first time, and the second. She lost count of the weak, grey, tottering journeys she made to give that mirror a turn, or a push, or a tip upwards. Then all she saw was ceiling. So off she tottered again. But after twenty minutes of what seemed desperately hard work, she collapsed on her pillows to see a perfect back-to-front view of the end of Wood Street and the decrepit black gate of Hexwood Farm. And there was young Harrison, with his tuft of orange hair, sauntering arrogantly back to the gate carrying his morning paper and his milk. No doubt he had been rude to Mrs Price again. He looked so satisfied.
Thank you! Aim said to the King.
Youre welcome, Girl Child, he said. He always called her Girl Child. All four of her people did.
For a while, there was nothing to watch in the mirror except other people coming and going to the shops, and cars parking in the bay where their owners hauled out bags of washing and took them to the launderette, but even this was far more interesting than just lying there. Ann was truly grateful to the King.