Burial (23 page)

Nathan said, 'Bob, what you have -- what we both have - is a burden of guilt. All right? You've got to face that. You've got to face it head-on, and you've got to deal with it. You've got to get through it.'

'I don't feel guilty. Why should I?'

'Because we both fucked a nineteen-year-old girl who died. And we buried her in secret. We buried her naked and face down in the fucking woods with our come still dripping down her legs, and nobody ever found her.'

Bob shrugged again.

'Guilt isn't the problem.'

Nathan stood. 'This is going nowhere.'

We have to bury her. No choice.'

'I have to get back to work. So let me think about this. Don't make any rash decisions. We'll work this out. Okay?'

'Fine.' Bob stood too, massive hands buried deep in the pockets of his blue-grey overcoat.

'Okay,' said Nathan.

They walked away in different directions.

Even before reaching the park gates, Nathan had called Justin's mobile. They agreed to meet in the Cricketer's in half an hour. By the time Nathan arrived, Justin was on his second pint. He stood, shaking Nathan's hand. He and Justin were always shaking hands; they shook hands half a dozen times a day. It was a ritual they had fallen into, long ago.

There were drinks waiting for him: a double whisky and a pint of lager. Nathan had downed the whisky before unbuttoning his coat.

Justin asked, 'To what do I owe the privilege this time?'

Nathan removed his coat and laid it over the empty stool. His phone rang. He turned it off. He sipped lager.

Justin said, 'I wish you'd tell me what was wrong.'

'Nothing's wrong. Except that, of all the possible best friends in the world, I end up with you.'

'It's not so bad.'

'Nah,' said Nathan. 'It's not so bad.'

He was late home. Holly was waiting. She was pretending to watch television. 'Where have you been?'

'With Justin. Having a beer.'

'Then why did Justin's secretary call to ask where you were?

Apparently there was some kind of presentation. Someone called Steve Jackson had to do it for you. There's been a bit of a fuss around the office.'

Nathan slumped in the chair.

'Fuck. I forgot.'

'Where were you?'

'With Justin.'

'Well. That's what I said to Miriam: "He's probably with Justin." But she told me Justin was in a meeting.'

'It's her job to say that. She says it a hundred and fifty times a day. It's never true.'

'I've got no reason to disbelieve her.'

'You have every reason to disbelieve her. She's Justin's PA. Her job is to l
ie.
'

'Apparently you had your phone turned off 'That's true enough.'

'That's not like you.'

'No.'

'Are you seeing someone?'

'Excuse me?'

'Are you having an affair?'

He wanted to stand in indignation, but he was far, far too tired.

'You should know better than to ask that.'

'What am I supposed to think? You're like a different person.'

'I'm sorry.'

'If you're not seeing someone, then what is it?'

'I can't explain.'

'Is it Bob?'

'No. Why?'

'Because you haven't been yourself from the minute he came round that night. Right from the minute.'

What could he say? She was right.

She said, 'I'm going to bed.' "Me, too.'

'Whatever.'

He followed at her heel. Trying to minimize at least the physical distance between them.

32

In the morning, having gone to some effort to look and act less hungover than he felt, he told Holly, 'I'm going to see Brian.'

Brian was their family doctor; he was one of Graham's domino playing cronies.

She said, 'Good.'

Nathan knew Brian socially - they'd spoken at various fetes and barbecues and New Year's Eve parties. It was to Brian that Nathan and Holly had gone, when first trying to conceive. So he was able to book an appointment for that afternoon.

Brian was petite and aquiline and dapper -- sixty-three and unmarried.

Nathan

liked Brian - they often gravitated to one another at parties.

Nathan thought they recognized a secret in each other --although Nathan supposed his secret was not what Brian imagined.

Now Nathan described to Brian his anxiety, his inability to sleep.

'But I don't want anti-depressants. They don't work. I'll get through it without them. All I need is sleep. Just a few good nights'

sleep, and it'll be okay.'

Brian wrote Nathan a prescription for three months' supply of temazepam, telling him: 'Everyone has their ups and downs. You've probably been working too hard. I've seen it all before, more times than I can count. You need to slow down, take some time out.

Graham and June are always telling me how hard you're working.'

'You're probably right.'

'Come back and see me, if you need to.'

'I will. I will. But I'm sure I'll be fine.'

He stood outside Oakley's the Chemist while the pharmacist prepared his prescription. Wandering up and down the pavement like a polar bear in a zoo enclosure, he called Bob. Who said, 'How are you?'

'Tired. We need to talk again. Can we meet tonight? In the Plough?'

'I can be there at eight?'

'I'll see you then.'

Nathan pocketed the phone, went in to Oakley's to collect his prescription, then drove back to work. On the way, he stopped off at Travis Perkins, building suppliers, where he bought a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters.

The man behind the counter looked at Nathan in his suit and his good tie and his haircut, buying bolt cutters. Nathan smiled tightly and walked out, dangling the bolt cutters in his fist by one long handle.

He called Holly from the office. She said, 'How are you?'

'Tired.'

'How did it go with Brian?'

'Good. He says I've been working too hard.'

'Well, we know that's true.'

'He offered me something. To help me sleep.'

'What?'

'Temazepam. But I've kept the prescription. I don't think I need it.'

'That's good. It's good to hear you say that.'

'I'm going to be fine.'

'I know.'

'And so are we.'

'I know.'

He took a breath and said, 'I'll be late tonight.'

A moment of silence on the line. 'Where will you be?'

'Look. You're right. Part of it is this bloke, Bob. He's been on my back. He's unhappy, he's got no friends. He's really needy. You know what I mean.'

She said nothing, which meant she did.

'Well, it's too much,' said Nathan. 'I feel sorry for him and every thing, but I'm sick of it. I hardly even know him. So tonight, I'm going to tell him: I've got my own problems, leave me alone.'

Now he could hear her smiling as she said, 'Okay.'

'I'll see you later,' he said. 'Don't wait up.'

At 7.45, he called Bob.

'Hello?'said Bob. 'Where are you ?'

'Why?'

'Noise in the background.'

'I'm in the pub.'

'Okay. Good. Look, I've got an issue at work. I'm stuck in the office. I'll be fifteen, twenty minutes late. Is that a problem?'

'No problem.'

'Then I'll see you about quarter past.'

He terminated the call and turned off the phone, placing it in the glove compartment.

He wasn't really at work. He was parked outside Bob's lock-up garage.

He waited until the street was empty, then got out of the car -- his coat slung over his forearm -- and went to the boot. He took out the bolt cutters and slipped them under the coat, then slammed the boot closed. He walked to the garage door. He looked left and right, then applied the cold beak of the bolt cutters to the padlock chain. He gripped the long handles in his fists and leaned into them with all his weight.

It was harder than he expected, much harder than they made it look on television. He was sweating when the chain finally gave, and there was a band of pain across his chest and under his armpit and across his guts.

He edged into the garage and turned on the lights. He closed the door behind him and slid the bolts closed. The Audi wasn't there: Bob had sold it. He'd yet to buy another car and the garage was weirdly empty, except for the old Workmate and the utilitarian shelving and the rusty, humming freezer. It smelled of damp concrete and spilled oil and old exhaust.

He examined the freezer. At the rear, it was connected to the r

breeze-block wall by thick, dusty cobwebs. Nathan took a moment, then employed the bolt cutters to the small padlock on the freezer lid: they took it apart with comparative ease.

Nathan lifted the freezer lid. Its cold exhalation chilled the sweat on his face and the front of his shirt. He lifted aside the baskets of frozen peas and sweetcorn, setting them carefully on the floor.

He wondered if there was time to burn Elise's clothing before his meeting with Bob. The bones he could pulverize, then soak in quicklime: it was the semen-steeped clothing, those fungal rags, that presented the biggest threat.

Nathan leaned deep into the freezer.

But the taped-up plastic parcel was not there.

The bones and the clothes had gone. Bob had moved them.

33

He left the garage door hanging open like a broken limb; perhaps Bob would suspect local kids of breaking in. He threw the bolt cutters into the thick bushes and walked back to the car. He started the engine then spun the wheels up to 60 miles an hour, screeching to a halt at the lights.

He tapped the steering wheel, waiting for people to cross the road.

Pulling away, he drove less aggressively. He didn't want to get arrested. He drove around the corner to Bob's flat and parked outside, across the road. Then he walked to the pub.

Outside, he paused to straighten his t
ie.
Then he walked into its familiar fug, convincingly flustered and breathless.

Bob was hunched over a table, reading The Times.

Nathan sat down, saying, 'Blimey.'

He loosened his t
ie.

'Fuck have you been?'

'I've got a life, Bob. I've got a mortgage to pay.'

Bob nodded at a pint of lager sitting on the table opposite him. 'I got them in.'

Nathan watched bubbles unlatch themselves from the base of the lager glass, leaping for the unknown surface. He took a sip. He wanted to smash the pint glass on the edge of the table and grind the remains into Bob's face.

He said, 'Look. We can't talk here. Let's go back to your place.'

'I thought my place scared you.'

'Not at all.'

Bob grinned, knowing the l
ie.

'Shall we finish these?'

'Fine,' said Nathan, and downed his pint in seven or eight gulps.

Bob watched him, then raised his glass.

'One more. Same again. Your round.'

So Nathan got them in.

After the pub, they stopped off at an off-licence. Nathan bought a bottle of whisky, eight cans of Guinness, cigarettes. Then he and Bob trudged home.

They paused in the stone doorway of the Victorian mansion block, overgrown with weeds and wet, black trees. Bob dangled his house keys from an index finger: made them dance.

'Are you sure?'

'About what?'

'Going inside.'

Nathan tutted and followed Bob into the mouldy, darkened hallway.

The light was on a timer; halfway down to Bob's flat, it turned off. Nathan and Bob stood while their eyes adapted to the sudden dark. Sounds of their breathing, the clinking of the whisky bottle in the carrier bags.

Bob went down. He found his keys and opened the door. Pale light sneaked into the stairwell. Nathan went down, into the bedsit.

He walked straight to the kitchenette and broke the seal on the bottle of Macallans.

Bob told him, 'Use water. I finished the ice.'

So Nathan poured whisky into two cloudy tumblers. Topped them up with a dash of water from the tap.

They sat down.

Bob nursed his glass. 'Can you feel her?'

Nathan said, 'No.' Swirling the whisky, he said: 'For years after it happened, I thought she was there. But she wasn't, Bob.'

Bob drained his drink and stumbled to the kitchenette to pour himself another, no water. He wandered back to his seat, clutching the bottle. He looked blue-jowled and exhausted.

Nathan glanced at the reel-to-reel tape recorder and said, 'You're going through exactly what I went through. You're just going through it a bit later, that's all. You were able to cope with . . .'

His voice fell. He was too aware of the way it echoed from the low ceiling.

'.. . you were able to cope with it first time round. I don't know the proper word for it, the doctor's word for it. But you buried it. Do you know what I mean? You buried it. And now it's all bubbling to the surface.'

'To haunt me.'

'Yeah.'

'So, it's all in my mind?'

'It's all in your mind.'

Nathan watched Bob struggling to light a cigarette, then went to examine the books, as if it were a CD collection. Breakthrough! Life After Death: the Truth. Whispers From Beyond. Grave Secrets.

'I thought you'd've given this stuff up years ago.'

Bob grinned secretly into his glass.

'No.'

Someone whispered into Nathan's ear.

He stepped away from the bookshelves, away from the reel-to-reel recording machine.

'What does that mean - no ?'

Bob's smile widened into a grin, and the grin widened into a leer.

'Come on.'

Nathan had a feeling in his stomach.

'What?'

'The dark woods,' said Bob. 'The running water. Lovers' lane.'

'Bob, I'm not sure what you're telling me here.'

'The thing about ghosts; you go looking for one, you're already contaminating the data - by looking here and not there, choosing this site over that one. You're not being objective.'

'Ghosts aren't real, Bob. They don't exist.'

'One of your most common forms of haunting, it's actually the roadside ghost. In England, anyway. Usually it's the shade of a young woman. She died violently, after sex. She's been buried on unhallowed ground. Usually between a road and a river.'