Burial (26 page)

Nathan couldn't phone Jacki much later than 8.30. She knew him to be a punctual man. It was his salesman's training.

He said 'Fuck' and laid an ear against Bob's chest. It rose and fell, like low tide lapping at a sea wall. Nathan wished he'd done some proper research. Winging it like Justin just wasn't his way.

He held his breath, like a man about to dive, and slipped his hand into Bob's greasy pocket. He fished round. He could feel the soft, firm Badulations of Bob's cock and balls.

The keys weren't there. He looked at his watch. He went to the sink and poured a glass of water. He tried not to panic. He counted down from twenty. Then he went to Bob's overcoat, hung behind the door, and searched its pockets. The keys were not there either.

He began to search the flat. In minutes, his determination to be methodical had dissolved. He raced up and down, looking behind chairs, in kitchen drawers, under the bed. He searched beneath corner keyboards. He searched in the bathroom, in the cistern, the medicine cabinet. He checked the back of the sofas and between the sofa cushions. He re-checked the places he'd already checked. He stopped, infuriated. He looked at his watch.

It was 9.05.

Then he noticed the corner of Bob's briefcase. It was half-hidden by the hastily rolled-up, torn underlay that had been stuffed beneath the lowest bookshelf, the one that ran the length of the longest wall, next to the greying, disordered bed. Nathan ran to it. He waited, made himself calm; it would do him no good to empty the briefcase in haste. He went slowly. There were papers in there; Bic pens and two broken halves of a safety ruler. A pair of leather gloves. Buried in one corner were Bob's keys. The key to the safe, bigger and heavier, hung upon it.

Nathan went to Bob.

Bob wasn't breathing.

Nathan looked at his watch. Then he speed-dialled Jacki's number.

The line rang.

'Nathan?'

'Jacki, something's happened.'

He heard her standing up. She was at home. The television was on in the background.

'Where are you? Are you okay?'

He spoke too fast. He had to pause to catch his breath. He stopped and started again. He looked at his watch.

'I got here. I was late. I just got here. And Bob . . . I think he's done something stupid.'

The sound of a door being closed. Jacki, at home, moving into the hallway. Her husband was called Martin. Nathan had met him once or twice.

'Nathan, now be calm. This is very important. Be calm. What do you mean?'

'I don't think he's breathing. I think he took something.'

'Do you know what he took?'

'No.'

'Are you able to induce vomiting?'

'I think he's dead.'

'Do you know CPR?'

'A bit. I'm the sales floor first-aid supervisor.'

'Then keep calm and remember what you were taught. I'll have an ambulance there as quickly as possible.'

'Okay.' Nathan gave her the address and hung up.

He walked to the safe. He squatted, put the key in the lock.

On the sofa, Bob snorted.

Nathan nearly pissed himself.

He hurried over to the sofa. He looked into the cold, far corner, where the shadows were deepest. Then he took a greasy pillow and pressed it down on Bob's mouth and nose. There was no struggle. But -. Nathan pressed down until he could be sure.

His mind drifted.

He was awoken from this stupor by the distant wail of an ambulence.

He wiped the slobber-wet cushion on Bob's chest, propped it behind his heavy head, then hurried to the safe.

He stooped. He turned the key. The door was three inches thick, It was constructed of cold, solid metal. It swung open with satisfying weight. Inside the safe was the plastic-wrapped parcel, of the plastic, Elise's skull showed its teeth to him, missing the lower mandible. Bob had snapped the long bones to make them fit.

Nathan took out the parcel. The safe was empty. He examined the parcel from all angles, rapidly, rotating it in his hands like a basketball.

But

nowhere did he find the wrapped-up old carrier bag that contained Elise's rotted clothing, and his rotted DNA.

The sirens were appreciably closer now. Two or three of them. A chorus of emergency.

He stuffed the parcel back into the safe. He locked it. He put the keys in Bob's trouser pocket. He looked round the flat. He remembered that he had searched the bedsit once already. The clothes would not be where he had already looked.

A vehicle drew to the kerb outside. The flashing lights drew patterns on the ceiling. He heard car doors opening, hasty footsteps.

He said, 'Fuck.'

The doorbell rang.

He wondered how long it would be, before they broke down the door.

He called out, 'I'm coming!'

He looked at his drink, on the work surface of the kitchenette.

No ice, Bob had said.

Bob always had ice.

Until Nathan broke into the garage.

He ran to the fridge. He had to force back the rolled-up carpet to open the door, revealing the linoleum beneath, a layer of grease and crumbs. He went to the little freezer compartment. It was frozen shut. He forced it. It opened with a sharp crack. Fragments of dirty ice fell to the floor. He kicked the biggest of them beneath the fridge.

The remnants of Elise's clothing were inside the freezer compartment, still stuffed into a brittle, frozen Sainsbury's carrier bag, itself forced into a Ziploc freezer bag.

He ripped the bag free and forced it into a ball. It crackled like a campfire. He shoved the balled-up bag into the pocket of his raincoat.

The bag was cold and wet against his thigh, and it made a bulge in the lining of his coat. Already it was beginning to melt. He looked down at it.

There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. Somebody must have opened the front door, or the police had forced it.

Nathan ran to Bob's side, removing the latex gloves, bundling them up and shoving them, too, into his pocket. He dragged Bob off the sofa - the fall punching the final breath from his lungs.

Nathan climbed on top of him and began to administer what looked like CPR.

The door exploded in its frame. He looked up and over his shoulder Three paramedics were running in. They carried heavy shoulder bags, a portable defibrillator.

He shouted to them.

'I think I got him breathing'

He was told to stand back. He stood back. He retreated to the far wall and stood there. He said, 'I'm sorry,' and kept repeating it, though he wasn't sure if the paramedics could hear.

But they must have, because one of them directed him to the kitchenette, safely out of the way.

37

Into the bedsit came two uniformed police officers. They were followed by Jacki Hadley. She was in plain clothes.

Nathan had the whisky bottle in his hand. Pretending to ruminate, he was using his thumbnail to pick the tiny bits of solder from the bottom of the cap. He'd almost forgotten about that.

Jacki noticed the wet patch on Nathan's leg - water from the melting carrier bag.

Nathan followed her gaze and half-grinned, sheepish.

'It's the shock,' said Jacki. 'It happens.'

'It happens.'

Nathan set down the whisky bottle and began deliberately to button his raincoat to cover the wet patch.

Jacki led him by the elbow to the far corner of the room. She said, 'Look, Nathan. I know this is a terrible shock. But I need to speak to you before you can go. Just quickly. We'll talk some more in the morning.'

Nathan nodded. 'Appreciate it.'

'The first thing I need to ask is -- how did you get in tonight?'

'He left the front door on the latch. I think he wanted me to find him.'

Jacki's face softened. 'He's a troubled man,' she said. 'Don't blame yourself

'I'll try not to,' said Nathan.

He looked over Jacki's shoulder at the paramedics, two men and a woman, who were working so industriously to save Bob Morrow's !r life.

More police had arrived by the time they let Nathan go.

By then, Bob had been taken away. The police would be photographing the place, Nathan supposed; the ranks of books on the supernatural, the chalk circle on the floor. He wondered how long it would be before they found Elise. He was sure it would be tonight.

Not too soon, he hoped. He didn't want to be there when it happened.

Jacki

walked upstairs with him. She stopped on the threshold, in earshot of the curious neighbours who'd gathered in the hallway and , front garden. She hugged him.

'You did well. You should be proud of yourself Tears came to his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. He could smell the latex and talcum. 'Thank you.'

She squeezed his hand.

He told her, 'All I have to do now is face Holly.'

She'll understand.'

- I hope so.'

Nathan gave her a brave soldier smile.

, On his way home, he pulled into the kerb. From his pocket he fished out the now-limp freezer bag containing the balled-up vestiges of Elise's clothing. He examined it. They seemed such trivial scraps.

What little evidence was on them had surely been destroyed by all those years in the soil.

Now he was alone, and now Bob was gone, that seemed obvious.

He thought about burning the rags somewhere. But that seemed an odd thing to risk being caught doing. So he got out of the car and lit a cigarette. He stood over a drain. He ripped open the bag and stooped down, stuffing the remnants between the rungs. Bits of rotten cloth clung to the wet metal. He eased them away with his fingertips.

He poked down what was recognizably the toe shell of an Adidas trainer, perished and withered like a burst balloon.

He didn't think anybody saw him, but didn't think it mattered.

For all they could see, he might be looking for something: dropped keys, perhaps. He stuffed the rolled-up gloves down there, helping them with the tip of his pen. The ripped-apart freezer bag followed, and the remains of the Sainsbury's carrier too.

That was it. All gone.

He smoked the cigarette and dropped that down the drain. Then he got behind the wheel of the car, and put the radio on.

38

When Nathan arrived, Holly was sitting in the living room, in darkness.

He

stood in the doorway.

She said, 'They found her.'

He went to her. Kneeling, brushing the hair back from her face.

He wanted to look at her.

She did not want to look at him. She turned her head away.

He withdrew, standing.

He said, 'Will you call June and Graham?'

'In the morning. Let them sleep. Just one more night.'

He followed her to the kitchen.

There was too much to explain.

He said, 'We don't know it's her. Not yet.'

It's her. You know it's her.'

She frowned, knuckling a knot between her eyes. She said, 'You know.'

'If you hadn't. If you hadn't lied, we might have been spared . . .'

All this.

Holly said, 'Every word. Every word you ever spoke. All of it.

Based on a l
ie.
'

She lit one of his cigarettes. Her first for years.

'How could I tell you?'

'How could you not?'

'Because I didn't want this to happen.'

'Well, it's happening.'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

He searched for better words. But they'd passed into a territory where words had no function. So he just said, 'I'm sorry.'

They sat at the table and talked in slow circles until morning.

There was a dawn chorus. Sunrise through the condensation cast pearly drops on their skin.

In the wan light, she went to stare at the photos ofElise. Then she came back into the kitchen to light another of his cigarettes. She ran her hands through her hair. It was frizzy and dry: it needed washing.

Her lips were cracked.

She said, 'I can't have you around me.'

'Okay.'

'You should never have lied. You should just never have lied.'

'I know.'

She grabbed his face. Her nails dug into his flesh. Her eyes fluoresced with hatred. And then her eyes welled with tears and she let him go.

At 6.30, she rang her parents. There were long silences at either end of the line. There were no tears. It was like the mumbled declaration of illness. Finding Elise was almost a disappointment. Having her back would change their lives again. Already she was coming between them, breaking up the close unit they had formed.

Holly was sad when she put down the phone. Something was found, something was lost.

He could see into her. She was wondering if it was worth it, and hating herself for thinking that.

Nathan had a headache. All that coffee and all those cigarettes.

And no sleep. He was weary beyond measure.

Holly poured herself a glass of water from the tap. She drank it.

She looked at him, the empty glass in her hand. Her eyes were puffy and sore. She looked exhausted and old.

She said, 'When I get home, you need to be gone.'

He drew a long breath. He was so tired. He was almost glad.

'Whatever you think is best.'

She went upstairs and packed her bags. She wasn't very methodical about it. Later, he found the drawers still open: clothes ripped from them apparently at random. She left behind her favourite toiletries, her toothbrush, the book she was reading. She came downstairs lugging a big suitcase in two hands. It was the suitcase she'd taken on honeymoon.

He stood in the hallway, leaning against the stairwell. He rubbed at his bristling jaw.

He said it again: 'I'm sorry.'

She couldn't answer. She looked at him, then hoisted the suitcase and headed for the door, leaning away from the weight of it. She stuffed the suitcase into the boot of her car. She sat at the wheel. She stayed there for a while, looking at her lap. He watched her from the window Then she started the engine and drove away.

He thought of her, speeding past the empty grave, the trees that would soon be uprooted.

Then he went inside their home. He went upstairs, to bed, and curled in a circle and slept. The bedclothes smelled of her.