Brodmaw Bay (22 page)

‘That’s nice and cosy for them.’

‘One of them has mental health issues. The other two, the twins who are his cousins, are apparently well balanced mentally.’

‘Well balanced, when they’re prepared to beat someone half to death for a mobile phone?’

‘Everything is relative, Mrs Greer.’

‘What’s the substance of the dream?’

‘A little girl appears in it and threatens them.’

‘I cannot see what possible relevance that has to us.’

‘The little girl is white. And she is quite emphatic on the reason for the threat. She is very specific about what happened to Jack.’

‘The poor darlings, my heart bleeds for them.’

‘Sarcasm seems to be your default mode.’

Lillian bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant. It isn’t usually. I’m under a bit of strain. I have a domestic issue. Actually it’s truer to say that we have a domestic issue, my husband and me. It will have to be resolved after he gets back, tonight.’

McCabe sipped tea. It was his turn to look at the floor. ‘They do say honesty is the best policy,’ he said.

‘You are very perceptive.’

‘Not always a blessing.’

‘Why do we need to know? About the dreams these boys claim to be having, I mean?’

‘If the case comes to trial, I don’t want you surprised by any tack their defence counsel might take.’

‘We’ve got no influence over their dreams, for God’s sake.’

‘But they think you have, apparently. They think they’re the victims of witchcraft.’

James got back to London in a buoyant mood. He did not honestly think that his trip to Brodmaw Bay could have gone any better. He had been warmly welcomed. The place was every bit as unspoiled and authentic as it had promised to be in Lillian’s book illustrations. Topper’s Reach was the perfect property to fashion into a wonderful home for the four of them. He had checked out the schools quickly in his room on his laptop while he did his bit of packing before departure and discovered that Philip Teal had been telling only the truth the previous evening in the Leeward. The Schools Inspectorate had picked out both the Mount and St Paul’s Primary for particular praise.

He had been obliged to pull into a lay-by to answer his mobile on the return drive to hear more positive news. Lee Marsden, his media agent, had just received a preliminary offer for his game from the people in Colorado. They had outlined a global sales strategy and come up with a provisional bid offer that was more money than James had earned in his entire professional career. There were also generous points on net profit percentage from retail sales down the line.

‘They are anxious to fix some face time, Jimmy.’

James did not like being called Jimmy. In the circumstances, he was prepared to tolerate it though. ‘Speak English to me, Lee.’

‘They want to meet you in person. They have ideas for multiple platform integration and brand extension and package visuals they want to put in front of you.’

‘Shouldn’t it be me making the pitch?’

‘We’re way beyond the need to pitch. They’re sold, brother. They’re totally sold.’

After this short conversation, James took a moment to think about what the news he had just heard might mean for his future and that of his family. He sat at the wheel at the roadside with the engine switched off and his mobile on the seat beside him and gave in to the temptation to speculate on what it would be like, finally to achieve the success he had striven for during a stop-start career marked mostly by mediocrity, anticlimax and disappointment.

His children would be proud of him. They would take pride in his achievement and they would enjoy its material consequences in lives that would be financially secure. Their peers would buy and play his game. They would queue to see the movies spun off from it. They would covet and then own the action figures based on characters he had created. His success would be tangible. And success bred success. The money would give him the time to create something even better.

It would change the dynamic of his relationship with his wife. She had always earned more than he had and that fact had to some extent inevitably shaped the way that they lived. Prior to his trip to Brodmaw, she had made every major decision affecting their lives together. Now it would be different. They would be equals. She would have more respect for him and, crucially, he would have a great deal more respect for himself.

It was tempting to credit Brodmaw itself with this sudden change in his fortunes and its potential effect on his status. It was just a coincidence of course that he had been there when the Colorado breakthrough came. But it did not really feel like one. What it actually felt like, to James, was that in finally making the decision to do something about their long-held fantasy of relocation, he had somehow qualified his family for an altogether improved fate. It was said that you made your own luck. He felt the strong conviction that an idyllic little village on the southern coast of Cornwall was going to be a lucky place for them indeed. It had started already and they hadn’t even moved there yet.

He looked up. His mind cleared itself of speculation and his eyes focused on what lay beyond the windscreen. In the distance, on the parched plain to the left of where the road gently descended, he could see Stonehenge. In a humbler mood, the sight of the great megalithic enigma would have chastised him, making him feel trivial and his ambitions shallow. The indifferent might of the sea could do that to him, or the vaulting arches of an old cathedral. But he was not in a humble mood. In fact, he felt exultant.

The children were ecstatic to see him. He told them about his adventures in the west. He showed them the pictures he had taken of Topper’s Reach on his phone and described the stone circle above the village and said that he had been swimming in the sea and that soon they would all be doing that. They seemed interested. They even seemed interested in his description of Lord Byron’s letters sent to the old bare-knuckle boxing champion. But he thought Lillian subdued. He wondered if she was having second thoughts about the whole matter of moving before she had even seen their intended destination.

If she was, he was confident he could bring her round. All she had to do was to agree to a short visit without any commitment at all. He thought that as soon as she saw the bay from the plateau above it, she would be sold. She would remember the quaint details, all of them intact, that she had made the subject of those lovely student illustrations in the book. The house would seduce her. Dinner followed by a summer night of music at the Leeward would charm her completely. He knew his wife. The bay would prove irresistible to her if she just gave it a chance over one sunny weekend.

Jack went to bed at nine thirty. When he did so, Lillian was in the sitting room and James in the study, talking to Lee Marsden on the phone about Colorado. It occurred to James as he completed the call that the time difference between the two countries meant the Americans were just becoming animated about business when the British were readying themselves for a late drink in the pub, or for an early night in bed. He did not mind. The inconvenience was a small price to pay. He walked back into the sitting room, resuming the story he had been telling Lillian about Elizabeth Penmarrick’s concert performance of the previous evening.

‘. . . it’s just unbelievable that someone can turn a lungful of air into the sounds that were emerging from her mouth. I promise you, Lily, to believe it, you’d have to witness it in the flesh.’

‘Who was that on the phone?’

‘Lee. Lee Marsden called. There’s interest in the game, from America.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It sounds very promising.’

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘It’s a Colorado-based boutique tech company with deep pockets.’

‘There’s something I need to tell you, James.’

And something in the tone of her voice made him look directly into his wife’s face. And he knew. He did not want to know, but James knew anyway. A whole variety of small details that had not seemed quite right suddenly resolved themselves into a clear picture. He sat down. He sat down heavily, his legs weakened suddenly, his body an impossible weight to sustain, feeling as hopeless and weak and overwhelmed as the realisation of his wife’s deceit had just rendered him. He tried to remember how to breathe and a sob broke out of him. He put his hand to his eyes and began to descend in his mind into some dark abyss and to weep with grief for his marriage.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She took a step towards where he sat.

He held out a hand to stop her. He was hurt beyond endurance. Only one person in the world could comfort him. And he craved her comfort, but it was impossible, because she was the person inflicting this unbearable pain.

‘I’m going out,’ he said, levering himself to his feet, his legs still unsteady and his vision blurred by tears.

‘Will you come back?’ Her self-possession failed her on the question, her voice cracking with emotion and something that sounded not far removed from fear. ‘Will you?’

‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘This is my home.’ He paused. ‘Oh, Lily,’ he said. And then he turned and went to walk out of the house, swiftly, because he could not bear the thought of her seeing her husband reduced to what she had made of him.

She caught him before he got to their door. She held him in her arms. He was aware of the familiar touch and scent and warmth of her, qualities all different now, like wealth he had once possessed, debased.

‘Please, James,’ she said. ‘Please, please listen to me. I made a mistake and I am sorry. I need to tell you about it and you need to listen to me. This is about more than the two of us. You need to be mature about this, for the sake of the two people upstairs. They can’t be mature because they are children. You are their father and they rely upon you.’

‘That’s a very nice speech.’

‘Don’t point-score, James. You’ve got all the points. I’m disgusted with myself, if you want to know the truth. The high ground is all yours. But we have to talk. We have to.’

They went into the study. It was the quietest room in the house, the room from which they would not be heard by one of their children lying woken by the human commotion at the door. Olivia, at eight, probably slept soundly and untroubled. But Jack, at thirteen, was easier stirred and upset already because he knew about his mother’s infidelity.

James looked out of the window, at where he thought he had seen that watching apparition a week ago. It was fully dark now. He thought that nothing would ever frighten him again after this. Nothing could possibly hurt him more than the mundane catastrophe of his wife’s betrayal.

‘Jack knows, James.’

‘You ended it because Jack found out?’

‘No. Jack found out because I ended it.’

‘Do I know your lover?’

‘You might have heard of him. His name is Robert O’Brien.’

‘O’Brien the writer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. Jack reads his books.’

‘I don’t expect he will be reading any more of them. I don’t expect my son will ever forgive me.’

‘He’s our son, Lily. They’re our children. It’s our family. Don’t speak as though I was dead.’

‘I’ve ended it. It’s over. If you can find it in your heart to live with what I’ve done I want nothing more than this shot at a new life that’s had you so focused and energised. You came back this afternoon filled with confidence and optimism and when I saw you I realised how much and for how long I have missed those qualities in you. I have made a dreadful mistake. But it was a mistake and I want to move on from it. I don’t want to lose you, James. I don’t want our family fragmented and destroyed. We can move on, literally. But you have to give me the chance if that’s to happen.’

James thought about this. Then he said, ‘Tell me everything, Lily. Tell me what you did with him and tell me why you did it. Tell me all of it. Leave nothing out.’

He was not masochistic by nature. He did not relish hearing the detail. He was not sadistic either and did not want to punish his wife through the humiliation of making her relive her marital crime.

He suspected, under the shock and pain that had been his first, reeling reaction to her adultery, that he had provoked it. He thought that it would be easier to forgive if she confirmed this. His withdrawal into despondency had made her lonely and probably bored. He had not driven her into O’Brien’s arms, but he had failed her in the matter of love. Over the past year or so, he had not cherished his wife.