Head Injuries (24 page)

    'I wish I knew what he was looking for,' I said, shading, without any great conviction, the dark areas beneath the dog's body.

    'Come on then,' Eve said, pushing me away. 'Let's find out. Come on.'

    I followed her down to the sand where she was trotting towards the figure. The dog stopped panting and watched, its body suddenly becoming more poised, as though scenting prey.

    When I caught up with her, she was finishing off a question. '- well known for that then?' was all I heard.

    He shrugged. Guiltily regarding the worn handle of his metal detector, he stuck out a hand and I shook it. The skin was very cold and smooth as soap.

    'David,' said Eve, 'this is Grainne Chawney. He's an archaeologist.'

    'An archaeologist? In Morecambe? What are you expecting to find? Fossilised chip forks? Prehistoric Screwball cartons?'

    'No, he's looking for bodies.'

    'Fascinating,' I said, feeling a jolt as I wondered what might be under the sand. It sucked at my feet here, where it was gluey with water. I thought of the photograph Seamus had shown me of Dale Paris, taken just a matter of hours before his death. He had no clue, as he smiled into the lens, of what was to befall him. Or was there some kind of sign after all, some omen that one noticed but thought nothing of? Were dreams different, in the final, breathing sleep? Did animals shy away, smelling death? Dale Paris would be dressed as he was in that photograph still, but he'd be bones now.

    'What's the range?' I asked, reaching for the detector, which he passed to me.

    'Not great,' he said. He had a gentle American accent. 'Six, maybe eight feet.'

    'Shallow graves,' I said. 'I wouldn't have thought that Morecambe Bay was a tipping site for corpses.'

    'I'm here because of the chapel, really. There's a lot of stuff emerging in the cliff as the sea erodes it. We found a bone comb last week. Twelfth century'

    'Jesus, really?' I said. And then the detector went off.

    I'd been ranging it around the sand by my feet. 'It must be one of the eyes in my boot,' I suggested.

    Chawney's tongue spun around the tight O of his mouth.

    'Ooh, exciting,' said Eve. 'Let's dig it up. Could be a fortune.'

    'Could be a barrel of nuclear waste,' I said, cheerily.

    Chawney took out a trowel and hacked at the sand. 'I've been up and down this beach for hours,' he spat, 'and you come along and hit pay dirt straight off.'

    'Sorry,' I said, happy to leave him and his rusty old tins in peace.

    'You never know what you'll find. There could be horses and carts down here. Lots of places in this bay where the sand is unstable. Suck you down quick as you like. I know-ah, shit. What's this?'

    He surfaced, sand coating his knees and the cuffs of his shirt. He held a curved black mass in his hand; it was about the same size as his palm. He started scrubbing at it with an old toothbrush from his jacket pocket.

    'Looks like a soap dish,' Eve said.

    'I'm going to get this back to my room,' Chawney said. 'Got some stuff to clean it with there. Want to come? I can show you some of the other things I've found.'

    I handed his detector back. I was going to decline but Eve was already pulling me after him. His dog, which he introduced as IQ, followed at a distance.

    Chawney lived in a flat above the Gingham Cafe, on the seafront road amid dozens of guest houses, cheap markets and amusement arcades. His living room was bare but for a low table covered with audio tapes.
Vincent Price reads Edgar Allen Poe,
I saw. There was also a box of cheap paperbacks in a corner and a lurching futon, covered with a throw that looked as if it had done some time as a shroud. IQ sensibly ignored it and flopped down by the books. A plastic tray of cress on the windowsill wasn't up to much. Neither was Chawney, who was looking out at the sea.

    'Would either of you like a drink? I've got banana Nesquik or Cup-a-Soup. Leek that is. With croutons.'

    'Coffee please, doctor,' said Eve, falling into the futon and trading places with about ten pounds of dust.

    'No coffee, I'm afraid. Ditto tea. I can't stand the stuff. And it's professor. But you can call me Grainne.' He was rotating the artefact in his hands, turning it this way and that in the

    light. 'You know, I think I know what this is. Won't be a mo'.' He stepped through a door and pulled it behind him. The door failed to snick shut and swung back slightly into the living room. Blue and white floor tiles, smeared with grime. The end section of a melamine wall unit. A dried-up plant in a pot on the floor.

    I heard water rushing into a steel sink.

    'Let's go, Eve,' I said. This bloke's a nutter. He doesn't like tea.'

    Eve pressed a finger to her lips and, glancing once at the kitchen door, hitched up her skirt. She wasn't wearing any knickers. She yawned wetly at me as she spread her legs. Using the finger she'd hushed me with, she rubbed at herself until she was red and my throat was dry. Even the dog's ears pricked up.

    'As I thought,' came Chawney's voice. 'I had to give it a bit of a seeing-to but it's come up nice and clean now.'

    Eve raised her eyebrows and I brayed laughter. She repositioned her skirt. As Chawney returned to the room, she began sucking the tip of her finger. I found it difficult to sit down.

    'It's a palate,' he said. 'A human one, still attached to part of the jawbone. Over thirty years old. Look, you can see some of the teeth contain fillings.'

    'Well,' I said. 'Shouldn't that go to the police?'

    'I'm sure it should. But it isn't going anywhere. I'm having it. Come and have a look at the rest of my stash. Most of this is from Heysham-' he'd disappeared into the kitchen again '- some pretty rich pickings in Heysham. But you've got to watch out for the shit they pump into the sea from that damned power station. You'll see me in waders most of the time. And a mask. I'm not stupid.'

    I followed him into the kitchen. There was an ironing board set up in the corner with a heap of grey clothing on it. He was digging around in a wicker basket, holding up trinkets that I couldn't identify. 'Bracelet, bronze. Bone comb I was telling you about. Coins, last century. Pen inscribed
Willy loves Edna.
Must be seventy years old at least. Bet I could get it working again.'

    'Shouldn't all this stuff go to a museum?' I asked, not really caring one jot because I could now see that the clothing on the ironing board wasn't clothing after all. It was a great heap of skin, divested of bulk and bone, oily with some kind of moisturising unguent.

    'I'm sure it should. But it isn't going anywhere. I'm having it,' he repeated.

    I could see the shape of the arm, the hairs standing out on it. The hand was like an empty Marigold. A pale band indicated where a wedding ring had been. The light dimmed. I felt a hot flush at the base of my neck. Neither Eve nor Chawney were speaking. One of the fingers moved. I turned slightly and looked up through a sudden prickle of sweat. Eve was moving silently around the back of Chawney, who had become thinner, as though he was losing his substance to the heat of the room. Pain rippled into the centre of my skull and I retched. I didn't feel at all well.

    'Okay?' asked Chawney, his head folding towards me.

    Eve appeared through him, as he finally lost his solidity and I lurched towards the door which had somehow become just another section of wall.

    'Watch out!' Eve yelled, scooping an arm beneath one of my flailing limbs.

    Somehow I staggered outside without falling over. The sodden air revived me a little as I set off down the promenade, fearful of a return to my own room; it was too much like being in a cell and anyway, despite the cleaning-up that had been done, I was certain I could still smell the sour reek of fear and shit whenever I passed Duncan's door. I heard Eve behind me, and as her hand dropped on my arm there was a squeal of tyres as someone slammed on the brakes. I turned in time to see a small boy nudged slightly by a severely dipping Sierra at the pedestrian crossing. It tipped him over and the bag of aniseed balls he was holding scattered across the road.

    'God-' I began.

    'He's all right,' said Eve, tightening her grip although she hadn't bothered to look.

    I allowed her to steer me back on course and we walked in silence while my body tingled with an unbearable itch. I felt that my surroundings-the people, the buildings, the seagulls-were stamped with some kind of mark, a potential. That at any moment they would reveal their true purpose instead of simply carrying on as they had been for however long their existence had lasted. It felt like the one time I had tried MDMA. Suddenly, the skin of everything around me had seemed transparent. I'd been afraid to look down at the ground in case I saw its hidden secrets.

    'He's got his socket spanners,' I said.

    'What?' she laughed.

    'Duncan… when Duncan went off to that great Do-It-All in the sky, Terry the landlord was in there, pocketing his socket spanners. High-level wanker that he is. I'll spanner his fucking arse for him if he comes near me.'

    'Come on,' she said, steering me into the unwelcoming dark of Davy Jones's Locker, a subterranean pub with a pool table and a constantly changing chalkboard menu of real ale. Witch's Biff was on sale today. 7.2 per cent. When Eve asked me what I was having I pointed at the menu.

    'What is a biff, exactly?' I asked the barman. He shook his head.

    'We took our drinks to the window which afforded a view of the little gulley by the access stairway and occasional shins. I put a song on the juke box-'Seaweed' by Tindersticks.

    'Cheery,' Eve said.

    'Yeah. I was going to put on Nirvana's "Rape Me" but that would have been just too darned positive.'

    'Are you okay now?' she soothed, rubbing the back of my hand with her fingers.

    'I'm fine,' I said, a little too stridently. 'But that Chawney bloke? Jesus… he needs some attention…'

    Eve pouted. 'He was interesting. He only wanted to show us what he was working on. Probably lonely.'

    'He's a grave-robber. There must be laws against what he's doing. He's got a bloody morgue in his room. Above the Gingham Cafe, for God's sake. Bloody Ed Gein living above the Gingham Cafe! Papers'd have a field day.'

    'Okay,' Eve said, holding up her hand to calm me. The barman looked over then went back to cultivating the smears on his beer glasses.

    She said: 'I'm worried about you. There are things troubling you that should be out in the open. I can help you, David. You've such a sadness in you.'

    'Stop it,' I barked, sloshing biff all over my T-shirt. 'I'm going to have another drink. Want one?'

    She didn't give up on me but I couldn't work out what she was trying to do. It seemed she was trying to reach inside me with her words and dredge something from the silt of my past. I felt empty and cold, even though she was getting closer, sliding a leg over mine, pressing her lips to my throat as she spoke, as she worked at me.

    I was drunk before long, but she continued to talk. When I was able, I concentrated on her mouth but I couldn't identify anything in the burble of her speech. Her rhythms and patterns meandered through my brain like a drug, pulling at my base emotions while a part of me was cold and distant, unable to key into their code.

    'We've all got a skeleton to rattle,' she said, the first sentence I'd cottoned on to for a while.

    It wasn't that she was being intrusive, like a partner who feels they have a claim over their lover's past and feels betrayed if the extent of their own disclosure isn't matched. She didn't dig for secrets like a pig rooting for truffles, unmoved by the hurt it might cause me. It was like being subtly frisked by a hand that would only go further if I subconsciously allowed it.

    She said: 'It will kill you in the end.'

    I pushed away from her and went to the gents. In the raw striplight above the mirror, I travelled the blasted salt plains of my own face. The twin suns of my eyes, raging red and swollen, were sinking fast into a dusk I didn't want to rise from.

    Eve barrelled in through the door and I caught her reflection a moment before I turned round.
It's because I'm pissed,
I thought as she slung an arm around me and manoeuvred me outside.
It's because I'm pissed that she appears not to have a head…

    

    

    'How far is it?' I wailed, trying to keep the border between the sea and the sky roughly horizontal. If we didn't get back to Eve's caravan soon, she was going to be wearing four pints of chunky biff.

    'I've come to a decision about "biff",' I announced. 'It must be another word for "piss". Not that I've ever drunk piss, I hasten to add. And certainly not the witch variety. As undoubtedly that would possess magical qualities and would probably turn me into a badger. Or a small piece of earthenware pottery.'

    'Are you going to shut up?' hissed Eve, buckling under the strain.

    That thing on his ironing board,' I said, to break the alcohol's spell, knowing exhaustedly that I was invoking another. 'That thing…'

    'It was a pile of washing,' Eve said. 'Nothing to worry about.'

    'He had a stack of bones-'

    'Driftwood collected for his stove. David, you're shivering. You'll have to learn to relax.'

    'How can I when you're near?' I said, rounding on her. 'Every time I see you I feel marked. I feel as though a sniper's drawing a bead on me. I don't know who the hell you are. When I see you I want to simultaneously fuck you until I'm knackered and run a mile. I want to crawl inside you and sleep for ever. You scare me to death and you thrill me.'