It must have been thirty years ago, Alan struggled to recall the precise date, when this man had carried out a series of grisly murders, and had disposed of the mutilated bodies in an orchard behind his suburban house. The subsequent hunt for bodies was a scene of disorganised chaos and the public outcry that followed was a major factor behind the growth of the new science of Forensic Archaeology.
This last man sat down in his reserved seat, with an officer beside him. He stared at Alan with an unflinching, blank, emotionless gaze. Alan realised at once he was a psychopath – it was only too obvious. And he wondered why on earth he was here in a civil prison. Surely, he thought, he ought to be in Broadmoor, or a secure hospital somewhere? This man had taken the lives of innocent people, for his own satisfaction and pleasure. This is what a real murderer looked like. Nothing like the vulnerable young man in Lane’s mugshot.
Alan shifted his gaze from the psychopath and started methodically scanning the rows, trying to spot Ali. On his right he could see the Governor’s large form rise to its feet and start walking towards the front desk. Alan instinctively moved slowly towards the right, so that he could return to the centre when introduced. But his eyes continued to scan the rows, even as he stepped to the side. He knew he had to be disciplined about this. He was well aware there were too many people out there for him just to stare and hope one particular face would jump out at him.
Alan was shocked at how many black and Asian faces stared back at him from the assembled audience. His academic brain told him that, statistically, the percentage of non-white inmates did not match the percentage balance of the general population. So, what was this? Some right-wing papers might claim that ethnic minorities were violent for social or cultural reasons. Alan was more inclined to believe in a deep-rooted, prejudice within the police and judicial system. Not a deliberate or vocal prejudice, but a pattern of thought that was so deeply engrained in the subconscious of white Western society that neither judge nor jury would be aware of it. Yet another factor that would surely have affected the outcome of Ali’s trial.
He could hear the Governor start his introduction:
‘It gives me the greatest pleasure to introduce Mr Alan Cadbury, this evening’s speaker. Mr Cadbury studied at the Department of Archaeology at Leicester University, and was instrumental in the excavations prior to the construction of Blackfen Prison, a site which I have done my own extensive research on, as a result of Mr Cadbury’s initial findings…’
The old boy was now talking about himself to a large audience. With any luck, Alan thought, he should hold forth for a good five minutes. Maybe just time enough to check out everyone in the audience.
Row two.
Row three.
Row four. Who’s that? Look up damn you. No, not him. Too thickset and squinting.
Row five. Yes. No. Too tall. Nose the wrong shape.
Alan felt the blood rush to his face as he realised that he, as much as anyone else, had a depressingly blinkered point of view. He had no problem distinguishing between the faces of the identikit white, shaven-headed muscle-bound prisoners. But the Asian men, at first glance, looked all the same to him. He forced himself to breathe. Slow down. Start again.
Row one…
Then slowly he became aware that everyone was suddenly clapping. Bloody hell, it was time to start. He walked to the centre of the desk and turned to the departing Governor.
‘Thank you so much for that splendid introduction, Mr Grant,’ Alan heard himself saying in what he hoped were ingratiating tones. ‘I’ll try to live up to your kind words.’
To his relief nobody seemed to have noticed he’d been miles away.
‘Very well, gentlemen we’ve a small matter of twenty thousand years to get through…’
He had barely begun when some joker shouted out.
‘Bloody hell Simpson, that’s longer than you got!’
This took Alan completely off guard and he laughed as loud as anyone else in the room.
‘Right,’ he continued, ‘I can see I’m going to have to watch what I say. A pity, that.’ He paused. ‘Now, the Governor told me to be sure to discuss the prehistory of oats and most particularly that of porridge.’
A bit heavy-handed, but it got a good laugh and with a throw-away query whether people at the back ‘in the cheaper seats’ could hear him clearly, Alan’s talk had got off to a good start. But throughout, the psychopath’s face remained immobile.
The atmosphere needed to be relaxed, if Alan’s hectic overview of archaeology from the Ice Age to the twentieth century was to go down well. He knew that Ali had been fascinated by the processes of change he witnessed at Flax Hole. He was intrigued by how pits filled-in and how soils grew to cover old surfaces. So Alan discussed glaciers and how they had carved out the landscape of eastern England; how rivers and peats had formed the fens and how medieval farmers had left their telltale fields of ridge-and-furrow. And he linked all these to the ordinary things of daily life left behind by prehistoric communities, just as he had done that afternoon in the site hut in Leicester.
Anyhow, it seemed to have gone down well. Very well. As he showed the final slide of a Cold War microwave relay tower out in the open fen a few miles north of the prison, he glanced up at the clock. Damn, he thought, I’ve overrun. The Governor’s introduction had dragged on for ever. There would be limited time for questions. And he needed time.
As the applause continued and the lights came up, the Governor approached the front desk. He nodded to one of the officers, who opened the double door to the left of the screen. A murmur ran round the room. All eyes were on the tea and coffee urns, plates of biscuits. The Governor raised a hand.
‘That was an excellent talk – and I even learned quite a lot myself.’ Polite laughter. ‘But seriously, I think we’ve had a splendid session and Mr Cadbury deserves a warm round of applause.’
And he got one, plus stamping and piercing whistles. Again the Governor raised a hand.
‘Now as you may know, Mr Cadbury has given this lecture as a sort of shop window to display the delights of archaeology. So I’m very keen that as many of you as possible enrol for his A-level course. And that’s why we’ve organised a small tea and coffee reception.’
‘What no porridge?’
It was the same joker. This time the laugh wasn’t quite as big. The Governor smiled indulgently.
‘As I was saying, please use the next half hour to ask Mr Cadbury questions, but as our time is limited, I must ask you all to be brief. Remember, if you come on the course, there’ll be plenty more time to talk with him at greater length.’
He turned to the two officers standing in the open doorway, who moved to the side. The audience rose and headed into the reception area next door. Alan reckoned there were around eighty men there – seventy-nine now. The psychopath sitting on the back row had been taken away.
* * *
Alan and the Governor walked through to the reception and were met by a small queue of men standing to one side of table where the drinks and biscuits were being served. The Governor nodded to a member of the catering staff who poured them both mugs of coffee. Meanwhile Alan had been ambushed by a group of men, who seemed more interested in Craig Larsson, the charismatic presenter of History Hunters, than archaeology at A-level. And there was no sign of Ali.
Five minutes to go, and Alan was beginning to feel very depressed. The prospect of teaching an A-level course, without any interaction with Ali, was grim. And whilst the Lifers seemed, on the surface, polite and enthusiastic, he could tell they were on their best behaviour. There was an undercurrent of tension in the room, like a low-level hum of electricity, a sense of latent violence. Was he really cut out for this? Or was Lane right, was he just an academic idealist – good with rocks and dead things, but totally naïve when it came to the real world.
Alan’s reverie was broken by a light tap on his sho
ulder. He looked round and there Ali was standing behind him, now fully six inches taller. The skinny youth had been replaced by a well-built young man. More than well-built, Alan reckoned he’d been at the gym. He looked athletic, with a short beard and closely shaven hair. A Number One haircut. But the eyes, that intense, intelligent gaze. That was still exactly the same.
‘Remember me?’ Ali asked quietly.
‘Of course I do,’ Alan replied. ‘Ali Kabul. Best digger at Flax Hole.’
Alan saw a shadow pass across Ali’s face, and then it was gone.
‘Different life,’ Ali shrugged.
Even though the room was full of men, all chattering away, Alan felt the silence stretch between them. And then, as if he was taking pity on Alan, who seemed to have suddenly lost all ability to make normal conversation, Ali continued:
‘You still living out that way?’
‘No. Haven’t for a long time. Seven years ago I landed a big site near Peterborough and moved back to the Fens.’
‘Moved back? So you come from around here?’
‘Yes, I was brought up on a small farm near Crowland.’
‘Good to be back home?’
‘My brother has the farm now. I’m at Tubney.’
Ali was clearly none the wiser.
‘It’s a little village about ten miles away. Near Chatteris. I’m in a grim bungalow. Everything stinks of diesel. The place used to be owned by scrappies.’
Ali smiled ruefully.
‘Sounds like you’d be better off in here.’
‘Except that the Hat and Feathers is next door.’
‘The what?’
‘The village pub. They do excellent local ale. I drink there most nights.’
Ali’s smile was neither hostile nor friendly.
Somewhere outside a loud bell sounded and men started to leave through a door on the other side of the room. Alan could have kicked himself. This might have been his only chance to talk to Ali. And what had he done? Just wittered on about diesel and his local boozer.
Ali glanced up at the clock on the wall, then said with some disdain,
‘I’d better be off. Feeding time at the zoo.’
He turned to go.
Alan put a hand on his shoulder.
Ali spun round, immediately tensed. The instinctive reaction of a caged animal, or a man used to being challenged.
Alan released his grip, and looked directly into Ali’s eyes as he spoke.
‘Will you be coming, Ali? It would mean a lot to me and I think you’d enjoy it.’
He’d expected Ali to be pleased – or to have shown at least a positive reaction. But no, his expression gave nothing away. Alan felt chilled.
‘What, like old times?’ Ali replied, not breaking Alan’s gaze.
‘As near as I can manage. Without the mud and the trenchwork, obviously.’
Alan was talking too fast. His voice was shaking. If Ali noticed, he didn’t show it.
‘I dunno, I mean, all that digging around in the past. Hard to see the point of it now.’
Before Alan could reply, an officer appeared and took Ali by the arm, gently but firmly leading him away. Ali kept his head held high, his back straight as he was ushered out of the door. Alan stood stranded in the centre of the empty classroom. Echoing down the corridor, he could hear the sound of those metal doors slamming shut, one after the other.
Seven
The next day, Friday, got off to a bad start. Alan had a thick head – beer at the Feathers and whisky at home. Then he slept fitfully. He had dreamt he was back at Flax Hole. Fractured images came back to him as he lay in bed. Sofia was there. A man – he didn’t see his face – was dragging her by the arm, throwing her into a trench, forcing her face down into the wet spoil heap and holding her there. Alan had been running through the mud, trying to reach her, but each step he took his boots were held tighter and tighter by the sticky wet clay, which sucked him down. And down. He was drawn further and further into the cloying earth.
He turned on his mobile and looked at the time: 08.06. Through the torn curtains he could see it was light, but gloomy outside. He didn’t feel rested, but he knew he was awake and had things to do. Like finding work. He drank a lot of water and ran a bath. He lay in the warm water, and scrubbed himself clean, but that waking nightmare remained in the back of his mind. Then he lay back; tried to wallow. He wanted to, he had to think. That panicky dream meant something, he was sure of it. Of course she couldn’t be buried at Flax Hole, that was ridiculous. But there was another memory, maybe a clue, bubbling to the surface of his subconscious, but still just out of reach. Then his phone rang. It was the Wake Up alarm: 08.15. He turned on the radio: news of a cyclone somewhere in the Pacific. He tried to regain his thoughts, while a voice said exciting things about tennis.
Then suddenly it came to him. The next step was so bloody obvious. Why didn’t he think of it before? He jumped out of the tepid water, towelled himself a bit dry and hurried into the hallway.
He picked up an old notebook by the phone and dialled a number. It rang once, then a synthesised transatlantic voice offered him three options: press one for The Museum Shop; press two for Reference Collections; or press three for PF Consulting. He pressed three and a human being answered.
‘Can I speak to Paul Flynn, please?’
‘Who can I say is calling?’
‘Alan Cadbury.’
A Chopin Nocturne cut in, played on what sounded like an amplified lute. Alan waited, almost holding his breath.
Flax Hole had been the first step on Dr Paul Flynn’s fast track to fortune and notoriety. Paul’s busy schedule meant that they had lost touch over the years, and they moved in very different circles now. Paul the businessman, always securing contracts with the big players of industrial development. Alan, the digger, hands-on in the trenches. Sure, Alan had thought him a pompous prick at times, but that was just Paul’s social manner. He liked to be seen to be in charge and at the top of the pile. But Paul was also a perfectionist. He cared deeply about his research and the integrity of his work. That was something he and Alan had in common. It might just be enough.
Suddenly the music cut out.
It was Paul’s voice.
‘Alan, how very good to hear from you.’
He sounded genuinely pleased.
‘I’m sorry, Paul, I’ve been shamefully out of touch, but I didn’t want to interrupt your meteoric rise to pre-eminence.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’ he said modestly.
But Alan could tell he was lapping it up. He always was a sucker for flattery. Time for some more.
‘No, but seriously. I think it’s time that archaeologists made more of an impression out there in the big wide world, and your enterprises have certainly done that.’
‘Well, we’ve tried to offer value and integrity. That’s the key.’
‘Well, it’s certainly worked. And nobody could possibly say you’d sold out to commercial interests, because you haven’t. And look at all the employment you’re offering to archaeological graduates.’
To Alan’s surprise Paul was chuckling down the phone. He had a reputation for many distinctive qualities, but a sense of humour wasn’t one of them.
‘If I didn’t know you better, Alan, I would think you were trying to butter me up.’
‘I suppose I am. It’s all a bit embarrassing really…’
‘You need a job?’
To Alan’s surprise, there was no underlying smugness in Paul’s tone. In fact, if anything, he sounded sympathetic.
‘Got it in one.’
‘How about the first of February? With a recce sometime next week?’
Alan tried not to sound like he was biting Paul’s hand off. Traces of cool must be retained in such moments.
‘Yes, I can do that… I think…�
�
He paused and noisily turned a few pages of his address book. ‘Yes… I can do that … yes, for sure. Where is it?’
‘St Guthlic’s Church at Scoby. The Parish Council want to install toilets. It’s just outside…’
Alan broke in.
‘Boston. Yes, I know it. A good early name and a good early church. But they can’t possibly be on the mains drains out there, so presumably there’ll have to be a cesspit too?’
‘You’re right. We’ve already done geophys along the pipe’s length and it looks like you’ll be dealing with around twenty stiffs.’
And some of them, Alan thought, are bound to be Saxon, because Guthlic was a local Saxon saint who’d lost an ear fighting off Viking raiders. In the Middle Ages that ear was permanently displayed at Crowland, Thorney and Lincoln, simultaneously. Alan loved the Dark Ages. The fifth to seventh centuries AD were a time when south and east England almost returned to prehistory, after the short Roman interlude. This was also when England re-invented itself and established its modern identity. One day he wanted to write a book about it, and a dig at St Guthlic’s would give him superb material. He didn’t find it hard to be enthusiastic.
‘Paul, that sounds absolutely fantastic! Count me in. When should I come over?’
‘I’m free on Friday morning. Say ten-ish. You could meet Harriet…’
‘Do you mean Harriet Webb? As in, the brain with the bones?’
Alan knew her by reputation. Everyone did, but she was also notoriously unforgiving. She didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘That’s right, you’ll be co-directing with her.’
And with that he rang off.
Alan leant back against the wall. He almost felt out of breath. It had all happened so fast. And so easily. He had a job working with one of the most highly-regarded bones specialists in the UK. And he would be focusing on a period of history he was passionate about. Alan was confident of his own credibility and he suspected that Webb’s detractors were the sort of folk who resented high achievers. And she was certainly one of them, with a string of substantial papers to her name – many in prestigious national journals. In her case, the term ‘up and coming’ was spot on. Yet why did she choose to work for a consultancy hidden away in the depths of the Fens, when she could have walked into any of the best universities in the land? Money, Alan supposed. Paul certainly had a lot of it at his disposal – and that seemed to be the biggest motivator for most people, in the end.
The Lifers' Club Page 6