The Reservoir Tapes

by Jon McGregor

  Clive kept an allotment, and had done for years. One of the jobs on an allotment was keeping the weeds under control. He wasn’t a puritan about it. Some people had a love of bare soil that was hard to fathom. There was no need to be obsessed. It was only necessary to keep enough of the weeds under control so as to give what you wanted to thrive a head start. That was all.

  The shooting jobs Clive carried out were a manner of weeding, was the way he saw it. If there were too many rabbits on an allotment, none of the crops would get started. Too many crows on the moors, the grouse wouldn’t breed. It was only a question of balance. Happened the shotgun was a good tool for restoring balance.

  Most of the shooting he did was contract work. Rabbits, pigeons, crows; foxes from time to time. And a few of the more difficult predators, on the game estates. He called it contract work, but mostly it was a case of cash and a handshake. He took no pleasure in it, but there was a certain satisfaction in doing the job well. He avoided busy times, but if people saw him they had no need to be surprised. They still were though, sometimes. Especially some of the newer residents.

  There had been the incident with the paperboy, for example. This was what the police officers wanted to talk about, as it turned out. They called it an incident; Clive wouldn’t have used that term. The lad came into the house to wash his hands, and he left again. That was all.

  The gun had been out on the table on that occasion as well. He’d been cleaning it. He was a responsible gun owner, it’s what he did. But it may have given the lad a start.

  Just for the record, the older policeman said: why was the boy in your house?

  The lad had a spot of bother with his bicycle, Clive told them. Just out the front there. So he’d gone and offered some help, and once it was sorted the lad’s hands were mucky with bike oil. So he naturally enough told him to get inside and get scrubbed up.

  Naturally enough, sir, the older policeman said.

  They had a way of saying ‘sir’, some of them. Clive didn’t appreciate it.

  Was there a problem with that? Clive asked. Should he have done a criminal-records check first, was that what they were saying? Did he want to have risk-assessed the soap?

  The police didn’t always have a sense of humour. They wanted more details. How long was the boy in the house? Did he only go into the kitchen? Did he say anything about the gun?

  Clive was very clear about that. The lad had never mentioned the gun. Clive had noticed him looking at it, and wondered if it might have alarmed him. He wasn’t from round these parts. But he hadn’t said a word, which was why Clive had thought no more about it. Until these two turned up with their questions.

  But why had the lad involved the police? Clive asked. He would have been happy to talk to the boy’s parents, and explain about his gun-safety procedures; reassure them. It didn’t seem like a police matter.

  The two of them looked at each other.

  I imagine there’s a heightened sensitivity, sir, the younger one said. Given current circumstances.

  They were talking about the missing girl, of course. No one was talking about anything but, it seemed. It was tragic for the parents, fair enough, but Clive didn’t entirely see why it had to be tragic for everyone else. They all had their own crosses to bear.

  Could we ask you, the older one said, just as a matter of routine: where were you exactly, on the afternoon and evening in question?

  *

  He’d been at home all day, on the afternoon in question. Went to bed early with a hot-water bottle. No one had any business being out on the hills, on a night like that. It got cold quick up there, if you weren’t paying attention. Beautiful, mind. The type of cold it got, that time of year. Ice on everything. All the growth stripped off. You could see the bones of the place. Frost deep down in the soil, breaking it up. Killed off the pests. It was a cleansing, of sorts. Clive liked to see a proper cold spell.

  He wasn’t one of those wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud types. He was a practical man. He’d worked his whole career for the water company, starting way back when some of the reservoirs were still being built, helping keep them in operation all those years. Folk had no idea how much was involved. Out of sight, most of it. Sluices and spillways. Hydraulics. Twenty-four-hour job keeping the system in balance.

  But the whole landscape was a working environment. Everything had its place. Everything had its job to do. No point being sentimental about it. But he could appreciate seeing a thing work well, and understanding how it worked. The engineer in him could appreciate that.

  Same on the allotments, in the spring, all the new shoots coming up, the pea shoots winding around anything close at hand. It was just cracking-good design. Evolution, call it what you like. Was a pleasure to see it.

  Or take the rabbits. Some people might assume that shooting the arse out of them indicated a certain disrespect on his part. Not at all. They were wonderful creatures to look at. When you peeled the skin off and saw how the muscles were knit together, the joints, the blood vessels. Nothing wasted. A little masterpiece. Same with the crows: the way the wingspan stitched into the body, the whole structure just built for flight, right down to the hollow bones. We are well made, was the point of it. Fearfully and wonderfully made, as it said in the Bible.

  He’d always been struck by the truth of that when he used to go swimming up at the reservoirs. Years ago. When he first started working up there. Him and another lad would go off swimming after hours, in the summer. If you looked at the span of muscle and bone across the shoulders of a strong swimmer, there was something almost wing-like about it. Like wings folded away under the skin there. If he’d been an artist he would have liked to draw it. Study it. The way bodies are slotted together. The engineering of it, to use that term again. The way muscles and bones move beneath the skin. Even the technology of skin itself, the effective waterproofing of it. The way sweat passes out of it but water never gets in. The way water just beads up on the surface and runs down, follows the contours. And the cooling mechanism: the blood flushing to the surface when the body gets overheated. Ingenious, really. A marvellous sight.

  *

  The police had more questions. Where were you the day after the girl went missing? Did you see anything that day, or the following day? Were you out walking perhaps, did you see anything out of the ordinary?

  They weren’t particularly imaginative questions, in Clive’s opinion. They were easily answered.

  They wanted to know more about the gun, of course. He showed them his licence, and the certificates. He showed them the locker it was kept in. They asked why the gun hadn’t been in the locker when the lad came into the house.

  He’d been cleaning it, he told them. He’d not been expecting company.

  The pair of them seemed to run out of steam. Clive got talking to the younger one while they filled out some paperwork. He was the more approachable of the two. Thoughtful lad. A PC Forshaw.

  They got on to allotments. PC Forshaw had just taken on a plot over in Cardwell, it turned out. Clive told him the trick with allotments was making sure to put the hours in. Always plenty to do. You reach this age, he said, it gets so it’s something to do with the days. Good way of using up some energy.

  PC Forshaw saw the sense in that. He was with Clive on the rabbit problem as well. Said it was quite bad over in Cardwell.

  Trouble with rabbits, Clive told him, is they breed like rabbits. This was one of his jokes. They were rotten for it, in the spring. Out of control. Hard to fathom. Some people are like that, it seemed. No self-control whatsoever. Couldn’t see the point of it, himself. All that nonsense.

  The younger policeman had been reminding Clive of someone, and it took him a while to think who it was. One of the lads he’d known when he first worked on the reservoirs. Not long after the war. Smart lad. Good engineer. Didn’t chat too much on the job. Good swimmer as well. He wasn’t around for all that long, only a few years. Would have gone back home at some point, Clive assumed. He didn’t k
now where to. A lot of people had moved up here temporarily, when they were still building the reservoirs, Clive among them. But he’d never found a reason to leave, himself. Didn’t have a family to go back to, as it were. Never fancied settling down to family life up here either. Families being a snare of a kind. Not that he’d ever seen someone chew their own leg off to get away from a family, but he’d known some who had come close. Wasn’t for Clive. He liked company but he liked time to himself as well. He kept things in order at home and he liked things quiet.

  He’d never done much of the swimming after that other lad had left. Couldn’t find anyone who took the same liking to it.

  *

  The two policemen had to get going, in the end. They stood up to leave before Clive had finished talking. That happened, sometimes. More than he’d like to expect. He wasn’t a talkative chap. It was just that on occasion he got into a flow.

  He asked if they were all square. They said they’d be in touch if they had any further questions. Clive said perhaps they could ask the lad to pop in and say hello. So that he could clear up any concerns the boy might have, any misunderstanding. They said it would be better if he contacted the boy’s parents directly.

  He asked if they wanted one more cup of tea before they went, but they said they had to get on.

  He turned his attention back to the gun.

  8: Martin

  It wasn’t even a llama, for starters.

  He’d had to clear up that misunderstanding more than once. People had been quick to tell the story – oh, here’s a good one, did you hear about Martin and that llama? Well, the joke was on them, because it hadn’t been a llama in any case.

  People liked talking, in these parts. There was always a story going round, and they generally took on a life of their own. But he wanted to set this particular one straight.

  He’d been thinking about getting the wife a dog.

  Not a great big one. Something easy to manage. But something to keep her occupied. He thought it might cheer her up.

  A butcher’s dog. It made sense. He didn’t know why they hadn’t thought of it before.

  Things had been sticky with the wife for a while. She’d been unpredictable. Both kids had left home, and the two of them were rattling around a bit. Martin found himself down at the pub more often than not, and who knew where Ruth was some nights. And then the shop was running itself into the ground, on top of everything else.

  Things weren’t all roses and sunshine, basically. He needed something to turn it around. He’d been thinking her birthday might be the opportunity.

  This particular evening, he’d been down at the Gladstone for a quick pint with Frank, who used to work at the quarry. Frank had been going on for a while about some trip to the doctor’s. Martin was nodding a lot, but not really listening.

  Anyway, he said, when Frank stopped talking. I’ve been thinking about getting the wife a dog. For her birthday.

  When’s the birthday? Frank asked.

  Tomorrow, Martin said.

  Problem, Frank said.

  Martin agreed. It was a problem.

  Leave it to me, Frank said, and went off to the bar.

  *

  When they got outside the evening was still warm. It was the type of evening Martin could have done with just sitting out in the garden, watching the sprinkler. But Frank had talked to Tony, and Tony had made some calls, and now they were heading over to Cardwell, to talk to a man about a dog. Someone knew someone who was breeding. Had some spares to get shot of.

  Martin could tell it was going to be a long night. The last time they’d got involved in a mission like this they’d come close to getting arrested. They’d been trying to get rid of some scrap. It hadn’t gone to plan.

  Frank drove. He always drove fast, although his car didn’t seem built for it. The lanes were narrow and the verges overgrown, and the weeds whipped against the side of the car. The sun was starting to lower, and it flickered through the high hedges.

  Frank was telling a long story about getting his appointments mixed up at the doctor’s, or being sent to the wrong department, or something. Martin couldn’t really hear above the noise of the engine and the air whistling through the gaps around the door. Well, that’s doctors for you, he said, when it seemed like the story was finished.

  They parked up in Cardwell and went to a pub called the Grapes. Martin felt on edge already. Folk didn’t go over to Cardwell much. There was history. While he was getting the round in, Frank told the barman they were looking for a man by the name of Rake.

  That was standard.

  It was usually clear which way things were headed when there were folk involved with names like Rake.

  The barman said he knew no one with that name.

  Frank stood his ground.

  Said he’d been told to meet Rake there. Said he was happy to wait.

  The barman said he could wait all he liked, he still wouldn’t know anyone called Rake.

  They sat in the corner, and waited. The place was basically empty, but there was some kind of fuss going on in the pool room. Two women arguing, it sounded like. Martin wasn’t sure, but he thought one of them sounded like Will Jackson’s girlfriend. That would be a turn-up. He was just about to mention it to Frank when a young lad came over to their table, nodded, and sat down. He dropped a pouch of tobacco and some papers on the table, and started rolling a cigarette.

  You’re looking for Rake? he said, talking in a low mutter.

  Correct, they told him.

  This one’s after a dog for his wife, Frank said, nodding towards Martin.

  The lad thought that was hilarious for some reason. Told them he could get a puppy within the hour. Your man Rake’s desperate to get shot of them, he said. It was surprising what you could come by, round here, if you found the right person to ask.

  So then it was back in the car, following this lad, hurling down the narrow lanes, trying to hear what Frank was saying about X-rays and waiting times while also trying to work out where they were headed. The sun was nearly down and when they came through the woods the road was suddenly dark.

  *

  They were somewhere on the far side of the reservoirs when they got out of the car.

  It wasn’t much of a place. Looked like a scrapyard of sorts. Corrugated-iron fencing. Lots of chains and padlocks, warning signs. Inside, there were sheds and kennels, a lot of mud, and three dogs roaming around on long chains, barking. The lad from the pub went and knocked on a caravan at the far end.

  Martin gave Frank a look. He didn’t like the way this was going.

  The lad came back and said Rake was all out of puppies but Woods might be able to help.

  Well now. Woods was a name you didn’t want to hear at that time of night, in a strange part of the valley and with dogs barking all over the place. Woods was a man you wanted to avoid getting involved with, if you could help it.

  But they’d come this far. Martin was out of options.

  Right then, he said: let’s go and see Woods.

  You don’t go and see Woods, the lad said. Woods comes to see you.

  He said the price was going to be a hundred, and he needed half of it up front. Martin was ready to leave by then, but Frank just handed the money over.

  Martin knew there was no point discussing it.

  The lad said they were welcome to wait in the caravan, and left.

  The dogs were still barking, and this tall lad in the doorway of the caravan was looking over at them. It was dark by then, and getting cold, so they thought: what the hell. Why not.

  Rake nodded hello as they ducked through the door, and pointed to a sofa at one end of the caravan. He opened a beer, but didn’t offer one to Martin or Frank. Which was fair enough. It was unlikely he’d been expecting guests. They had to move some piles of clothes and magazines before they could sit down.

  It wasn’t a big caravan. It had a smell of being lived in, and was a squash with the three of them in there. It was damp and
stuffy, even with the door open. Rake was up to something with some pots and pans on the stove. Not cooking exactly, just sort of poking around. He was too tall to stand up straight in there, so he was stooping around the whole time. Skinny as well. A bony face, with a crooked nose.

  There wasn’t much in the way of conversation. Frank was trying to tell Martin something about his wedding anniversary, of all things. And then they were just sat there, waiting. Rake rolled himself a cigarette, and stood there smoking it and watching them. You can put the television on if you want, he said. But they couldn’t get it to work.

  The whole time they were sitting there, Martin was remembering the stories he’d heard about Woods. He was trying to work out how they could leave. Frank seemed more relaxed.

  Eventually they heard a car outside, and there was a sweep of headlights across the yard. Doors slammed, and the dogs started barking more loudly. Through the open door they saw a big lad come marching towards them. This was Woods, they took it.

  Martin had never actually met him before, despite knowing his name all that time. The man looked like he’d been a rugby player twenty years before. He had that size but it had all gone soft. A smooth head. One of his ears was mashed. He was carrying something in a plastic bag.

  He came up the steps and leant in through the door. The whole caravan rocked. He nodded to Rake, and asked who was after the dog. Martin put his hand up, like some sort of schoolboy, and Woods dumped the bag in his lap.