That Summer He Died (24 page)

Of the three young men party to this discovery, Tim Sunday left Grancombe later that summer, never to return. A second, Alex Howley, can still be found there, and is now the proprietor of a local nightclub.

Daniel Thompson, however, was not to be so lucky. Nearly a decade after he found Jack Dawes’s corpse, his own body would be found, similarly mutilated, apparently the victim of the killer’s return to the woods after almost a decade’s absence.

James pulled his hands back from the keyboard. He walked to the window and stared hard at the rivulets of rain which snaked down the glass. He felt breathless. His chest was tightening. He didn’t know if he could do this. He didn’t know if he could meet Lucy, or write this. He did not know if he could cope.

It was mid-August, just gone noon, back before the killing of Kenneth Trader on the beach.

James was sitting in an old wicker chair on the terrace at the back of Alan’s house. He glanced along the back wall of the building, following the uneven stone surface as far as the window of his uncle’s ground-floor study.

The curtains there were drawn tight, as they had been since Jack Dawes’s funeral. James glanced at the sky. No barrage balloons. No dark smudges of flak patterning the even blue. No bomber formations raining death on the landscape below. Nothing external to account for the blackout that Alan had imposed on himself.

And while he sat inside, insulated in a private universe like some latter-day Nero, outside the property was going to rack and ruin. Anorexic fingers of grass clawed upwards from between the paving slabs. The garden beyond was lush with weeds, becoming wilder by the day, blending into the untended wilderness of the paddock leading to the woods.

James sped up the passage of time in his mind, projecting a model of how this place would look in a few years’ time if nature were left to its own devices: shattered roof slates lay buried beneath a jungle of brambles and nettles across what had once been the terrace; ivy and wisteria wrapped themselves like a green fist around the house, threatening to crush it into dust; and still the curtains of Alan’s study remained drawn, the irregular sound of fingers clattering across a keyboard being the only reminder of human habitation.

The mental image faded. Alan might not even be here in a few months’ time, let alone still holed up in his study. He might not even be alive by then.

James waved his notebook across his face, chilled the sweat on his brow. Might not be alive then? Christ, there wasn’t much evidence that he was alive now.

James saw him maybe once or twice a day. Came across him in the kitchen, slopping cold soup from a tin into a bowl, or collecting beer from the fridge. Once a week, he’d see him walking to the Land Rover and disappearing in search of provisions, returning later with more beer, more soup and more cigarettes. Or he’d hear him flushing the toilet, then listen to the padding of his bare feet down the corridor, followed by the slamming of his study door. And other noises, too. Always later at night. Always the same: the noise of Alan entering the cellar.

But even though Alan was physically here, as far as company went, he might as well have been dead. When they crossed paths during the daytime, it wasn’t so bad. At least then he would speak to James, reply to his questions in monosyllables. But at night, when the drink flowed through him, it was hopeless.

At first, it had worried James. More: it had scared him. It had made him remember the way he’d once been himself. Watching Alan stumbling through the shadowed recesses of the house had dredged up the horrors that James had hoped were buried for good. The old images had returned: the hours spent looking at the newspaper articles that had detailed his parents’ deaths, the obituary listing his father’s achievements for Queen and country, the single sentence given over to his mother’s fifty years; the view of the city as he’d sat on the ledge at the top of the clock tower at school, hating himself for not having the guts to let go of the stone, slide forward and tumble silently into the darkness to be with them once more.

*

‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’

That’s how Alan had replied when James had encountered him in the kitchen a couple of weeks back and tried to speak to him. The booze had already done its work. Alan’s facial muscles had been slack, his eyes closed as he drank from a tin of beer. When he’d spoken, there’d been no anger in his words, no inner voice trapped inside, crying out for help.

There’d been no sign of any emotion at all.

‘I know you don’t want to,’ James had replied to this, ‘but we’ve got to talk. I can’t just stand by and watch you doing this to yourself.’

Alan’s eyes had slowly opened, like someone waking from sleep. He’d stared at the tin of beer in his hand. ‘I’m fine,’ he’d said. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be all right.’

James had stepped forward then. He’d reached out, rested his hand on Alan’s shoulder. His uncle’s body had felt cold. ‘You need to see someone. Talk to someone. There are people who can help. I know it’s not what you want, but please, Alan, it’s what you need.’

His uncle had raised one hand and pinched at his brow as if he’d been attempting to coax a response out of his brain. ‘It’s done now,’ was all he’d said.
‘No one can bring them back. No one can change what’s happened.’

‘Please, Alan. Just give it a go? You’ve got to. I know someone. . . someone who helped me.’

Alan had shaken himself free from James’s grip. His unbrushed teeth glowed yellow as he’d snarled, ‘The only people who could’ve helped me are dead!’

James had heard his own voice cracking. In pity for Alan’s tragedy, or in frustration at his own inability to help? Both. He’d tried again, even though he’d known that the conversation had already burnt out. ‘Look at yourself,’ he’d pleaded. ‘Just look at yourself in the mirror. You can’t fail to see what’s happening to you.’

‘There’s no point,’ Alan insisted. ‘I already know what I’ll see. I already know what I am.’ He’d opened another tin, taken a drink. Beer had trickled down from his bottom lip on to his shirt, his mouth feeling nothing, like he’d been anaesthetised by a dentist. His face had reverted to neutrality. His eyes registered nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said, pushing past James. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ve got things to do. My work. I’ve got to get back to my work.’

And he’d left James as if he were suddenly invisible; a ghost he’d chosen not to believe in any more.

*

James brushed a wasp away from his thigh, and returned his attention to the notebook he held. He read over what he’d just written. It was the beginning of a short story, set in Grancombe, like all his writing had been over the past month or so.

He’d given the first story he’d written to Alan, had slipped it under his study door, with a note attached, saying that he’d appreciate his uncle’s opinion. That had been three weeks ago now. He’d heard nothing. For all he knew, Alan hadn’t even picked it up from the floor.

The lack of any response had upset and angered James to begin with. It was the first time he’d shown his work to anyone. But these feelings hadn’t lasted. Getting feedback from Alan about his work had only been part of the reason he’d handed over the story to begin with. Just as important had been the hope that it would act like a fishing fly on his uncle, luring him out of his dank study and into the daylight.

A sober conversation. That’s all James had really wanted. The only one he’d had with his uncle since the funeral hadn’t been in ideal circumstances. And Murphy hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to aid the restoration of familial relations between them, either.

It was maybe a month since the episode with Hazel and Georgie at Marge’s caravan site. James couldn’t be sure. Time didn’t seem to mean much to him any more. Not like when he’d been at school, and the days had been severed into distinct slices by the clanging of bells and the switching on and off of lights. Not like London either, with the chattering of its radio DJs, its rush hours and weekend evacuations, the openings and closing of its bars and clubs and pubs.

Here in Grancombe one day slid into the next, as imperceptibly as waves lapping over one another as they rolled on to the beach, cancelling each other out.

*

As he’d sprinted away from the caravan that day and headed for the woods, cursing the way the cigarettes he’d been smoking had affected his fitness, he’d heard his name called. Quite distinct. A single syllable, familiar and aggressive, like an owner calling their dog to heel.

For an instant he thought it was Alex, assumed that there’d been some change of plan; that it wasn’t the police who’d been banging down the door, that some whacked-out mates of Alex’s or even Dan’s had only been winding them up.

He slowed, and the shirt slid from his face. He turned his head, and there was Alex, standing in the doorway of the caravan, refusing to come out as a cop tried to haul him through.

And right there in front of him, looking James’s way, was Murphy, his arm outstretched, like it had some crazy cartoon capacity to extend, become telescopic, reach out and clamp James by the collar.

His name came again, in synch with the movement of Murphy’s lips. This time fear dropped like a net over James. Another policeman appeared at Murphy’s side and for a second nobody moved. Then Murphy’s face warped, sliding into a mask of anger as he barked an order, and the other policeman darted forward towards James.

Shit. . .

‘Do it!’

James’s face panned across to the caravan like a camera. It was Alex shouting to him, still holding on to the door frame, still distracting the other cop and Murphy from chasing after James as well. An octopus of uniformed limbs engulfed him as Murphy joined in the fight, and he and his colleague finally dragged Alex down and out of sight.

James spun round and ran.

Faster, faster. Rollercoaster.

With the amount of adrenaline that had been released in James’s metabolism over the preceding few minutes he almost flew, racing past the first caravan he reached in what felt like a single stride, past the next, and then the one after that in two more.

He ducked right then, using another caravan for cover. He heard shouting behind him, but he didn’t look back. He reached the caravan park’s wooden boundary fence and threw himself over it like a hurdler. He sprawled face down into the dirt on the other side and rolled to an exhausted halt.

Silence. Except for the pounding of his heart.

Then footsteps. The sound of panting. Just there on the other side of the fence. James debated whether to get up and run or stay put and pray. Had the cop who was chasing him seen him come this way? If he looked over the top of that fence, would he see him now?

‘You!’ came the answer.

James twisted and looked back to see the cop scrambling clumsily over the fence. But it was covered in brambles at that point. Thorns bit into his uniform, snagging him, holding him back.

James didn’t wait to see what happened next. Covering his face again, he tore himself free from the encroaching nettles and vines and pushed on, ignoring the rending sounds as Alan’s suit trousers got snagged and shredded.

He made it through the last of the dense undergrowth and found himself at the top of an open field. He ran, keeping close to the hedge.

Move it. Go on.

All he had to do was reach the bottom of this field and get into the next without being seen. He hit the metal gate twenty paces later with a clang that winded him. Hauling himself over it, he looked back.

Nothing. No one there.

With a final effort, he dived down behind the hedge and crawled along its length to where it terminated in a ditch. He lay down flat inside it and desperately heaved in breath.

*

Murphy had already arrived at Alan’s house by the time James got there an hour or so later. He saw the police car from the bottom of the drive. His first instinct was to run. But a policeman was standing by the car and, from this distance, James wasn’t able to tell whether he’d already been spotted or not.

Then he remembered the bag in his hand. In that instant it was transformed from something he’d forgotten about to something impossibly significant, a heavy weight that could take him down with it, could sink him completely, just like it would have done Alex.

Still the policeman didn’t move, failed to betray any sign of whether or not he’d seen James. The compulsion to throw the bag away was becoming unbearable now. But what if the man was watching? What if he saw?

Don’t panic. If he hasn’t seen you, you can hide it in the long grass further up the drive, drop it by the bush there in the shade, out of sight, and no one’s going to be any the wiser. But if you throw it now, or try and stash it, or run, and he has seen you, then you’re finished.

James walked slowly forward, staring intently at the policeman and keeping the bag down by his side. Worst-case scenario: if the policeman saw him before he dropped the bag by the bush, he could run again. His legs ached, his throat was dry enough to splinter, but he could still manage it. As far as the woods again. As far as safety.

He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. Why hadn’t he already stashed the bag?

As he drew level with the bush he’d singled out, he finally released the wash bag. The noise of it landing on the grass sounded as loud in his ears as if he’d dropped a cymbal backstage during a mime act, but the policeman didn’t so much as shift his feet.

As James drew near to the outbuildings and the policeman’s face came into focus, he saw it was the same cop Murphy had sent after him at the caravan park.

Gritting his teeth, James wondered how the hell this would play out. Murphy hadn’t only seen him before he’d run, he’d called to him by name so there wasn’t going to be any point in denying he’d been there. That left him with the problem of explaining why he’d chosen to run.

Drugs. He’d been carrying the drugs. Murphy had probably already guessed that much. But without proof, he wasn’t going to have a thing on James, was he? Not so long as he kept his trap shut. Not so long as he didn’t panic or snitch.