That Summer He Died (7 page)

So how much did he tell his editor? Forget telling him his uncle’s name. Norm had started out writing book reviews for one of the nationals. He’d probably be able to recall Alan’s backlist of titles without a pause. He might even be able to recite a few plots, quote a couple of lines. And he’d definitely have read about the recent death in the papers. There were sure to have been obituaries printed while James had been away.

Telling Norm the truth would be fatal. James could see him now, jaw-dropped, pinned back in his chair, hallucinating headlines, plucking them from the air. James wouldn’t put it past him somehow to try and tie Alan up with the Grancombe Axe Killer; hypothesise that the killer had upgraded their chosen tool of slaughter from an axe to a shotgun, changed their target pattern from randoms to icons, pulled the trigger on Alan, popped a local celebrity to feed their own lust for fame.

James decided instead to tell Norm nothing at all.

‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said.

Norm stared at him suspiciously. He’d clearly been expecting James to put up more of a fight.

‘How come?’

‘Just because.’

‘It’s always “just because” with you. Yesterday, no yes. Today, no no. What’s changed?’

‘Dunno.’ James felt Norm’s curiosity focus sharply on him, like he was on-stage. He looked round the room as if waiting for a prompt to fill him in on his lines. ‘Maybe you were right. . . I was tired then. And maybe you were right about not letting something like the Headley piece get to me. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it? You’ve got your result. You should be pleased.’

Norm grunted. ‘I am.’

James got to his feet. ‘So everything’s cool. I’ll polish off Headley and then I’ll get my arse down to Grancombe.’ He stopped by the door. ‘One thing, though. Because of my uncle and all that, I’ll need some time off. Stuff to tidy up, you know?’

Norm folded his hands behind his neck. ‘Sure. No problem.’ James turned to go.

‘One other thing,’ Norm said.

James faced him. ‘Hit me.’

‘That photographer. Freelancer. Did the shoot for your boy band exposé.’

‘Lucy?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. You still fucking her?’

‘If that’s your sophisticated way of asking if I’m seeing her, then the answer’s yes.’

‘It’s what bits of her you’re seeing that I’m asking about,’ Norm said, all grin.

‘What’s your point?’

‘We-ell, way I remember – and correct me if I’m wrong – she did a good job last one we pushed her way.’

‘Yes. And?’

‘So you’ve scratched my back, seeing sense about this Grancombe piece and agreeing to do it. Now, being as how what goes around, comes around, I’ll see what I can do about scratching yours.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I’ll keep her in mind for future jobs, see if I can chuck something her way.’

‘She’ll appreciate that.’

Norm laughed. ‘I couldn’t give a toss if she appreciates it. Just so long as she shows her appreciation by appreciating you, eh?’

‘Thanks, Norm. Very altruistic of you.’ James relented. ‘Seriously, though, I appreciate it. I mean, she will. . . you know.’

‘Good. Consider it done.’

*

Friday came and David’s birthday with it. James hung round work till seven, getting the first draft of the Headley piece finished. The rush for final copy had been negated now that he’d agreed to do the Grancombe Axe Killer piece. He’d polish it off later, probably cut and paste it with whatever he managed to write in Grancombe between sorting Alan’s house out and getting it on the market.

He’d use the former article’s strength to disguise what he already suspected would be the latter’s weakness. For investigative journalism to work, it required an objective journalist, and James had no illusions on that score with regard to this piece. When it came to Grancombe, he was already in it up to his neck.

It was tipping down outside, so he chucked the idea of tubing it over to Faust, opting for a cab instead. In the back, he checked his bag. Inside, amongst all the other clutter, were two boxes, one wrapped in a Waitrose bag, the other given the full Disney Christmas treatment, with gold paper, ribbon and a gift tag. David’s and Lucy’s presents, respectively pragmatic and adorned.

He pulled David’s card from its plastic sheath and smiled again at the crude Modern Toss cartoon, then opened it up and scrawled a quick, barely legible ‘Happy Birthday, Shithead’ inside.

He weighed the pen in his hand as he flipped over Lucy’s gift tag next and stared at its blank surface. Lucy was a lot less easy to define. He still hadn’t quite worked out what she was to him. The tentative reference made to her by David on the answerphone reflected his own feelings. Was it still on, the boyfriend/girlfriend thing? Or had it melted into nothing, been snuffed out, gone the same way as all of James’s previous relationships?

The trip to LA wouldn’t have helped, that was for sure. Separate from someone for a while and you either missed them or forgot them, right? That was the way things had always been before. Only this time, it hadn’t happened like that.

While he’d been Stateside, his mind had settled on a third way; missing her some days, rolling over and breathing in the pillow and wishing it was her some nights. . . but then on others forgetting she even existed.

The fact that they’d texted and Skyped a couple of times hadn’t much helped either. If anything, it had only added to his feelings of confusion and dislocation. What was she to him? Something virtual? Something transient? Or something real?

He’d met her two months before he’d left for America. It had been in a Camden café that one of the boy bands’ PR pimps had considered cool and street enough for them to be interviewed and photographed in.

James had got there early to hook up with Lucy and brief her. He hadn’t dealt with her before and had needed to make it clear that this was a hatchet job and that the dopier she made the teen heart-throbs look, the better.

He could still replay the meeting in his head like a segment from a favourite movie. Christ, he could even remember the colour and cut of the clothes she’d been wearing, the sound of her voice and the dazzle of her smile, which had stunned him like a camera flash.

A couple of days after that they’d met up again, at the office, to run through the photos. She hadn’t been in the game long, had only got the gig because Norm’s preferred usuals had been tied up (literally, in one case, as a Polaroid on Norm’s office wall now testified to the world).

Afterwards, James and Lucy had gone out for a drink to celebrate. One drink had flowed into another, and another, finally washing them up exhausted on the bed in her flat the following morning.

As he’d lain there, staring through the gap in the curtains at the brooding sky, he’d kept his fingers interlocked with hers, let her continue to cradle him, drifted back into sleep. And, after that, he’d tried to make a go of things, and now things were going OK.

He listed:

She was beautiful.

She was intelligent.

She even made him laugh.

She was everything he could want, so how come this dithering do know/don’t know/not sure? What was the thinking behind that? Why was it that every time he started something with someone he reached the point where he doubted he could finish it? Plain habit? That was a possibility. So many failed relationships over the last few years. Maybe failure had settled into his DNA and he wasn’t ever going to be capable of settling down.

An electronic bleeping popped his thought bubble. He exchanged Lucy’s present for his phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi.’ It was her. ‘I just called the office. You on your way over?’

James checked the scenery outside. ‘Should be there in twenty minutes. You?’

‘I’m at home. Just got back. I’m going to have a shower, get dressed. It’s not smart, is it?’

‘A party thrown by David? You’ve got to be kidding.’

She laughed. ‘Forget I asked.’ Static crackled along the line. ‘You still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t drink too much before I get there.’

‘Why not?’

‘I haven’t see you in ages.’

‘And?’

‘And I want you fully functional.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every way.’

The connection cut and he sat for a moment, staring down at the phone. He was looking forward to seeing her, he realised. And not just because of the end to the evening his imagination had just projected for him. He hadn’t seen her since he’d got back. She’d been off on a job in Manchester for some film company. He’d called her, but the scratchy mobile chitter-chatter hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted to see her. He’d wanted her close. Conclusion: he did care about her, right? All he had to do was relax, follow his feelings for a change, and maybe this time the relationship wouldn’t suddenly switch into half-life and disintegrate before his uncaring eyes.

All he had to do was change, have faith in the fact that he was capable of falling in love, and remind himself that it wasn’t like it had never happened to him before.

He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and, picking up the gift tag again, settled for writing ‘A gift from the States. Enjoy’. He signed his first name and xxx’d it. Then he added ‘I’ve missed you’ and attached the tag to the present.

He stared out of the window, following the delta of raindrops on the glass. And as he did a feeling of hollowness crept through him. His optimism faded away.

No, he thought. It really wasn’t like it had never happened to him before. . .

‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ James asked as the Land Rover pulled to a halt at the front of the car park on Eagle’s Point, the section of cliff which at high tide bisected South Beach from North Beach and the town.

Alan shut off the engine and stared across the flat sea and the stonewashed horizon.

James had slept like the proverbial log, a result, no doubt, of having gone to bed without drinking at all. The usual crazy half-drunk dreams had been absent, but instead of waking refreshed he felt more tired than ever, as if that sleep had only been a part of the cure his body still needed. Uncle Alan’s barging in on him at dawn with a greasy mug of tea had been about as calming as being chain-sawed in half. James was still resenting him for it now.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, clawed the scabs of sleep from the corners of his eyes with his nails.

‘You said Jack Dawes. Am I meant to know who that is?’

‘He’s my friend.’

Finally, James’s mind, still moving slowly, like an engine on a cold morning, turned over and made the connection.

‘Your neighbour? The guy from the farm on the other side of the woods, right? The artist. He made a speech at Monique’s funeral. . .’

Alan lit a cigarette. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘So what’s happened to him?’

‘If we knew that,’ his uncle said, reaching for the door handle, ‘we wouldn’t be searching for him, would we?’ He hesitated, stared across the sea again. His expression altered. ‘No one’s seen him. Three days. Maybe four.’

‘But still. . . a search party? He might have gone on holiday. Anything.’

‘What are you,’ Alan said, twisting violently in his seat to face James, ‘a bloody detective? He’s missing, OK? Hasn’t been on holiday since the day he was born here. So why the hell should he start now?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t—’

‘No,’ Alan said, his tone suddenly apologetic, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be going off at you like that.’ He pointed to his head. His hand was shaking. ‘Feels like it’s going to explode. Feels like my brain’s turned to porridge.’ His fingers shook as he took a drag on his cigarette. Ash collapsed on to his lap. He ignored it, either not noticing or simply not caring.

‘He was meant to be doing a photo shoot at his house three days ago for a New York art magazine. And yesterday, some interview for a retrospective they’re doing in London. But he didn’t answer the door for either. Not like him. Murphy – he’s the head copper round here – went round and broke in.’

‘And?’

‘And he found the cooker still on. Bottom of a pan burnt out. Some solid black muck that he reckoned might once have been stew all up the sides. Said it had probably been on for days. Said it was a miracle the place hadn’t burnt down. Not that Murphy’s word’s worth shit. That animal.’

James opened his mouth to ask about Murphy, but Alan cut him off with a wave of his hand.

‘There was Jack’s dog, too. Zack. In a complete state. No water. No food. Murphy said he didn’t even have the energy to wag his tail.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s what decided it. The search party, I mean. Jack loved that dog. His only companion. There’s no way he would’ve just left him there like that.’

‘So what do you reckon?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alan said, taking another long pull on the cigarette, opening the door and sending the butt spiralling out of the window with a flick of his fingers. Morning sunlight swept across his legs. A light breeze dislodged the ash on his lap, rolled it like tumbleweed across the denim of his jeans and on to the floor. ‘Come on,’ he said, climbing out. ‘Time we got going.’

Despite the bright sun and cloudless sky, it was cold outside. Alan walked to the wooden fence at the front of the car park and leant over it to gaze down at the cliff face. James hooked the small rucksack, which he’d convinced Alan to stock up with bottled water and chocolate bars from a garage on the drive in, over his shoulder and joined him.

To the left stretched South Beach. To the right Grancombe Harbour, North Beach and the town itself. Fishermen stood along the shore of North Beach, rods as thin as insect legs pointing at the sky.

James wrapped his jacket closer around him and followed Alan across the car park to where it led to the cliff path. His eyes traced the zig-zag of steps cut into the rock, polished as smooth as marble over the years by tourists’ feet, bouncing the sunlight back towards the sky like mirrors.

A gull scythed through the air, then caught a thermal and rapidly rose into the blue until its body vanished and only the twin arcs of its wings remained. It hung there, seemingly stationary, a cliché from a child’s painting of summer. Then, as the sun began to bleed raw on to his retinas and he lowered his stare, James spotted other signs of life down on South Beach, this time human.