Free Tick Tick Tick by G. M. Clark Page B

– he loves being out of the city noise. A large, old, washed-out white house with good sized gardens, both front and back, now covered with various toys for the grandchildren. Mature trees and shrubs of all shapes and sizes are neatly pruned, and by Mack – crazy I know, I had never figured him for a gardener. Just shows you what you’ll do for the love of a good woman. And they don’t come much sweeter than Betty. She greets us as soon as we pull in. I apologise for being late, but I don’t really mean it; that extra half hour was pleasure sublime. Inside, the house is homely and full of knick-knacks; photographs of the children line every wall, comfy, worn antique gold sofas and an enormous kitchen/diner with black granite tops that have been recently installed to Betty’s bespoke design. As soon as my feet are in the door, a little body rams right into the back of my legs, almost buckling me over. Just as well I’ve already handed over the bottles of wine.
    ‘Uncle Rob, Uncle Rob!’ squeals Garrett in delight. He’s Mack’s only grandson, and a chip off the old block. He’s also the only person I know that calls me Rob; everyone else just uses my last name. He’s a sharp kid, bright as a button. His straw coloured hair falls in wisps, sea-blue eyes of an angel that hide a deep mischievousness. I love this kid, the sheer exuberance that he has for life, where everything is interesting, exciting, everything and everyone holds a purpose for him. If I had a son, I would want one just like Garrett. I glance across at Connie who’s already helping Betty set the table and chatting nineteen to the dozen. Who am I kidding? At forty one I’m too old to start a family now. Aren’t I?
    ‘Come outside, come outside,’ yells Garrett, jumping up and down. Mack laughs as I’m dragged outside, his little hands pulling me with all their might.
    ‘Come and see the butterflies.’ Butterflies in January , I think?
    Outside, hanging between the two large oak trees, Garrett has made a string of paper butterflies; shiny, metallic, deep greens splashed with purple and reds, even purple tissue ones with every tiny little detail included. They swing in the breeze and lift high into the trees, the sunlight catching the sparkling paper, each thread glistening like a newly-spun crystal cobweb. He dances around and around them.
    ‘We’re studying their life cycle in school; do you think mine look like real butterflies?’ he asks, his little eyes shining up at me.
    ‘Definitely, they look real to me.’
    ‘Honest?’ he asks.
    I laugh. ‘Honest!’
    ‘Have I done a good job?’ he says. ‘Do they fly?’
    ‘These are going to fly all the way to the moon,’ I chuckle. ‘You always do a great job Garrett,’ I reply, stroking his head.
    ‘Copy,’ his little voice laughs, as he races around.
    Lunch is called and we sit down to huge helpings of Betty’s meat pie, with creamed butter mash and an assortment of glorious steamed vegetables, although I notice that Mack concentrates mainly on the meat pie. Beers and wine flow and the famous home-made apple pie follows. You can’t beat Betty’s apple pie, no one anywhere even gets close, and believe me I’ve tasted quite a few. We move into the garden room and watch the kids play outside; how I wish I had half of their energy. Talk soon drifts around to work, and Betty just ignores us. It’s always the same; she simply doesn’t like work being brought home. Home was meant to be a sanctuary, so I feel a little uneasy when Mack starts up his conversation.
    ‘So,’ says Mack, popping open another beer, froth floating to the surface. ‘Tell me Connie, what do you think of the latest cases? Any thoughts?’
    Connie sips her coffee slowly, mulling over the question.
    ‘I have a hunch, but you’re sadly lacking in any evidence.’
    ‘Could it be a serial? Or a spree killer?’ Mack asks her but looks directly at me. I avoid his eyes.
    ‘Probably, but too early to tell.