Escaping Life (30 page)

“Yeah.  Part of
the M6, up north.  It splits, north bound lanes are high, southbound low.  Car
went straight over, through the northbound barrier.  Almost cleared the lanes below,
crashed right at the far edge of the road.  Nearly went all the way over.  Burst
straight through the barriers.  Must have been doing at least a tonne.”

“Didn’t just
sort of roll off?  The barrier didn’t break the speed of the car?”

“No.  Smashed
straight through.”

Jack leafed
through the papers.  He found the name at the end of the report.  ‘Quinn Myers’. 
He picked up the phone, and dialled zero.  He got the front desk, and in the background
it sounded like chaos.  “Put me through to Wellbeck - Quinn Myers”.

When Quinn
Myers picked up the phone, he grunted a cursory ‘Myers’, in a scratchy Irish
accent.  It wasn’t the soft, slow drawl of the southern Irish cities.  It was
the hard-edged vernacular voice of a northerner.  It was the kind of voice that
barks, rather than speaks at you.

“Detective
Myers, Fraser here from Chesterwood.  I would like to talk to you about a
previous case of yours.”  He could hear the sigh in the background.  Either
that or Myers was smoking at his desk.

“What case? 
What yis wanna know?

“Think back
four years, Myers.  Case of Rebecca Jackson.”

“Aye.”  He was
speaking slower now, his interest sparked.  Jack hadn’t expected him to
remember that quickly.  “What is yis up to dredging up that past?”

“You remember
the case?”

“I do, aye.”  Jack
was convinced that Myers was smoking now, and he waited whilst he took in what
seemed a long drag of tobacco.  “Young blade like that I’m not goni forget, am
I?  Beautiful she was.”

“True.  She’s
also dead.  But not four years ago.  Turned up on one of my beaches, and she
sure as hell ain’t been there for four years.”

“What a banjax!” 
Jack had no idea of what that meant, but he could hear the surprise in Myers’
voice.  “I’m not surprised, I’m not.”

“You’re not
surprised?  I just read your report.  The case was settled with an insurance
payout.”

“Well, if yis
read the report, yis’ll know what I said.  Yis think that there car flew over
the edge out of control?  Not a fecking chance.   That metal barrier was broke
all along, it was.” 

“I’m
listening.”  Jack invited him to keep talking.

“Tyre tracks be
damned all the way down the glen. No damage except to the car and the bottom of
the glen.  No broken trees.  No tyre left on the road.  No body. 
Open door. 
Yis got nobody in that car
when it went over the edge.”

“So why did the
insurers pay out?”

“Jackson’s got
the nicker, they do.  Got some young hallion lawyer, they did.”

“What?”  Jack
couldn’t make sense of what Myers was saying.  “I don’t understand.”

“They’s got the
cash.  Lawyer told a right tall tale.  Made it look like we fecked up.  Contaminated
the evidence.  They said the investigators messed up the scene so much so that
it couldn’t be proven what had really happened.  So.....” his voice sounded as
if he was about to deliver the verdict, a synopsis of everything that had gone
before.  “She was dead.  Gone in that car.  But I never believed that she was.”

“Think she had
help?”  His mind was already starting to race with wild theories. 

“No evidence to
suggest it, there wasn’t.  Only a little Fiesta.  She could’ve knocked that
ting over the edge herself.”

“And the
reason.  Why would she do it?” 

“Yous think I
know.  There was talk, alright.  About the mother.  You know how she died?”

“Yeah, it
sounded pretty horrific, to find her like that.”

“Aye, to be
sure.  But,” he said, as he sounded as if he was about to deliver the punch
line to a joke.  Jack couldn’t think of anything funny.  “What if she didn’t
find her?  What if she was there all along?”

“You mean that
she saw it happen?”

“I’m not saying
that, I’m not.  But there was talk.  Before we could interview her, she was
gone.  I saw her before she left.  All she wanted was her sister.  Wouldn’t
talk to us ‘bout anything else.  She had the bejesus scared out of her, by
something.”

After hanging
up the phone and finishing the coffee, Jack picked up the image that Gibb had
slipped onto his desk.  Rebecca’s sparkling face and unusual beauty were near
perfect; the creation of a sculptor no more pleasing or admirable.  But the
life in this picture had been ripped apart, torn away from her.  The face that
he now saw before him in this image was not the one that had run away and faked
her death.  Her old carefree beauty had been replaced by the face that
Elizabeth had found clinging to the wall in the kitchen.  It was the face she
had slapped the night she disappeared and been haunted by ever since.  It was
the face of self-imposed absence and isolation.  Now it was time to find that
face in the world.

The days
leading up to the weekend in Haven were impossibly long.  The sun was rising in
the sky by five-thirty, and as soon as it was up, so was Elizabeth.  She had
tried to fashion an old curtain up against the window in order to block the
light, but it was of little use.  The first night it had fallen down completely
and the second, it had dropped sufficiently to expose the bedroom to the first
glimpse of the morning sun and had let in enough light to wake her up again. 
She had decided that if she was awake so early that she would take an early
shower.  Both mornings her face appeared tired and aged as it looked back at
her from the huge bathroom mirror.  She spent the early hours of the day before
the rest of the world was awake sipping on hot tea and feeling the freshness of
the breeze as it rose up and danced over the cliff face from the village
below.  This time in the garden was refreshing:  it was before the heat from
the sun could be felt, and the breeze was still carrying with it the chill of
the open ocean from the night before.  When she had first arrived in Haven, three
years before, those first few days, when the boxes were still stacked up high
and there was a constant stream of dust floating through the cottage, it had
been the garden that had drawn her.  It was mid-April, and the weather was
still mild, summer far off with the village still resting on its laurels of
independence from the tourists who wouldn’t arrive for another month or so.  As
she stood at the edge of the cliff not yet protected by fencing, the view of
the bay before her and the only sound that of the waves as they battered the
rocks and stirred up the driftwood, she thought it could have been the first
time that she had really felt the earth beneath her.  Before, living in the city,
the only sensations were manmade:  the glass of her desk, the smell of the
coffee, the light of the streetlamps harsh and cold as they lit the deep
valleys created by towers of concrete and steel.  Here, in her own cliff top
garden, for the first time she could feel nothing but the earth, its natural
rhythm and its ability to make every day feel like a new beginning.  To see the
sun rising from low in the sky and suspended just above the water on the
horizon, or setting over the cliff tops that sheltered Haven from the rest of
the world, brought with it a sense of renewal.  It was this that she clung to
every one of those first days, and it was that same feeling she looked for now,
as she gazed out across the ocean wide. 

She had seen
Jack’s press conference on the television.  It had made the news in Haven too,
the same paper that had printed those initial letters now running images of
Rebecca.  There were a few journalists hanging around, trying to blend in to
sneak out droplets of information from unsuspecting locals.  There had been a
small town meeting, which Elizabeth had decided not to attend, regarding the
interest in the case.  Graham had attended the meeting, believing that it was always
better to be informed than out of the loop.  Mrs. Lyons had organised the
meeting in the town hall, which backed onto her tea rooms.  Graham hadn’t known
what to expect, and he had, it seemed, become an unwilling and rather
conspicuous celebrity in Haven after the story had gone out nationally.  It was
at meetings such as these that the true heart of Haven was evident; the meeting
was not about how to avoid ‘this terrible crime’, as it was being called, but more
about how the village might be able to close ranks against the outsiders,
uniting together for the protection of two people whom the village folk now
considered their own.  Mrs. Lyons had provided light refreshments in the form
of tea and sandwiches and the left over scones from the day.  There were just
about enough to go around, but not twice over, and as the meeting had drawn to
a close, all eyes had been on Mrs. Irvine, who had already eaten three scones
and was taking a fourth for Mr. Irvine who hadn’t even bothered to attend.  That
kind of thing wouldn’t be forgotten too quickly.  Mr. Truman had made a short
presentation based on his experience with the Neighbourhood Watch programme
about how to spot a journalist.  He had detailed how they would likely be dressed
in city style clothes, high heels and shirts.  ‘Look for expensive jewellery
and watches’.  Graham had even been used as a good example.  It had been
unanimously decided that there was to be no communication with the journalists
on their behalf.  They had also agreed that Mr. Madden, who ran the local convenience
store, would deliver a daily ration of milk, bread, and anything else that
Elizabeth might care for, knowing full well that she didn’t wish to leave the house
at the moment.  It had all the potential to feel stifling and suffocating, but
in the end didn’t feel like anything other than the most wonderful spirit of
community support.  Graham knew why Elizabeth liked it here; he had grown to
love the different pace and the value of life and friendship.

Graham awoke to
find Elizabeth standing at the side of the bed, looking out across the window
towards the open ocean.  It was Saturday morning, six o’clock.  The sun was up
high, and she was holding her cup of tea.

“Hey,” he said
as he pushed himself up in the bed.  “How long have you been awake?”  He could
see her tired un-rested eyes staring back at him the moment that he put his
glasses on.  He wore dark-rimmed frames that reminded Elizabeth of eye glasses issued
many years ago by the National Health Service, once worn by many people and
that now were somehow and inexplicably fashionable again.  She turned and sat
on the edge of the bed.

“About an
hour.  Daddy’s coming today, remember?”  He hadn’t forgotten.  He knew that
Elizabeth was anxious about it, and that it had the potential to be difficult
for her.  They hadn’t been close for years now, since they had moved to Haven. 
He could only recall a handful of times that her father had visited, and never
with the intention of staying the night, let alone the week.

“Yeah, of
course.”  He picked up the cup of tea that Elizabeth had placed at the side of
the bed for him.  It wasn’t hot, but it was still warm enough to taste good.  It
was hot in the bedroom and his legs felt damp from his sweat.  He flicked the
sheets away from his body.  “Are you feeling OK about him coming?”

“He’s the one
that wants to come.  Wants to be in the loop.”  Her words were straightforward
and to the point.  Elizabeth’s attitude had changed somewhat in the last few
days.  Since she’d returned from Chesterwood and had had the row on the
telephone with her father, Graham had sensed a fragment of the old Elizabeth,
the confident sure-of-herself woman that he had fallen for back in that coffee
shop.  He’d always known that she had a vulnerable side, but it was so long
since he had seen the streak of determination and all-out readiness to fight
for her rights, that he had almost forgotten that it existed.  She added, with
more softness in her voice, “It’ll be good to see him though.”

They sat
propped up in bed for a while, drinking their tea and summarising their week. 
This time last week they had been looking forward to having David and Helen
coming to stay for the weekend and had virtually managed to convince themselves
that there had been no truth in the crazy thoughts that had consumed their
minds throughout the preceding week.  Then, out of the blue, Jack Fraser had
turned up on the doorstep telling them that they weren’t crazy after all.  She
had been thinking all week about the conversation that they had had on the
beach.  She had been dreaming about it too.  Her dreams had become a mixture of
her own story and of his.  It had begun with her walking into her mother’s
house.  Her mother was seated on the floor, upright and talking and yet somehow,
Elizabeth still knew that she was dead.  She pointed at the corner of the room,
but it wasn’t Rebecca there.  Instead, in her place, with his hands gripped
against the wall was Jack.  He was whimpering and she crouched down next to him
and took his arm.  She guided him to his feet, and they found themselves on a
road.  It was a long winding road, shrouded in trees which swayed fitfully in
the wind.  The road was black
as
a raven
from
the rain that had been falling.  She pulled against his reluctance, dragging
him gently up the road, forcing him to look over the ravine.  She kept telling
him that he would find his son there, that he would find his wife, but as they
looked over the edge of the cliff towards the smouldering car, the dust of
white rising into the air as it was whipped up on the breeze, it was not his
family that he saw, but Elizabeth herself, her hands raised up out of the
window, stretching up and mumbling ‘help her!’ over and over.