by Cole Moreton
‘Close the door, please!’
The boy isn’t listening. ‘Please. Help me.’
He’s shivering. A scraggly boy with black hair, wet through. He looks drowned. The Keeper assesses him quickly, as old habits die hard. Cheap leather jacket, bought in a market. Black shirt with big white polka dots, retro rock and roll, probably second-hand. Vintage, they call it now. Brighton or maybe Camden. Skinny black jeans and pointed boots. Nose like a beak. The boy’s a crow. He’s from the States, the accent is East Coast but he’s been in this country a while, dropping his aitches like that. London then. What’s up? Is he mad? No. Desperate.
‘What is it, darling? Are you okay?’
Magda is out from behind the bar, her arm around the boy, sitting him down, closer to the fire. ‘You need a drink. What do you want?’ She glances across at the landlord, who has come out from the back room and shakes his head at her. ‘Tea, maybe, yes? I can make you a cuppa. Or coffee?’ She knows what to do, because desperate people have turned up after dark here before. Tony has gone again; he will be phoning the police.
‘She came here, I think she must have done. Have you seen her? My age. Hair. God, I don’t know. Ringlets, copper. Dimples. Sarah is her name. Sarah, okay? Sarah. She must be here . . .’ He’s getting confused, words tumbling; his hands are rubbing his face, form-ing a fist, banging his forehead.
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‘It’s okay. Come on, darling, come here,’ says Magda, catching his hands and pulling them down, holding them still, inside hers. ‘Look at me. We’ll help you.’
She’s doing a good job, the lighthouse keeper notes instinctively. Lots of eye contact. Speaking quietly but firmly. Calming the boy. He’s quieter now. Still talking urgently, but in a voice that can’t be heard from the other side of the room, with Magda leaning into him as if they are conspirators.
The police enter like warriors in their bulky black stab vests and high-visibility jackets, radios hissing. They take control. A female officer with blonde hair tied up loosely takes the boy’s name, address, phone number. The male, black-haired and boy-ish, directs Magda to one side. They know each other – there’s a familiarity about the way she touches his arm as he talks, before her hand flutters up to her chest. He speaks quietly, she nods her understanding. When the police and the boy have gone, Magda closes the door, mutters something to herself in Polish, then says it again more loudly, in English, for the Keeper and Tommy to hear.
‘That poor girl.’
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Seven
Okay, so this is good, the cops are good, they will help. They will find Sarah. That’s great, they have all the resources. Cars, people, dogs. Jack eases back against the head-rest on the rear seat of the police car and exhales. They’ve got helicopters. He’s shivering. Now he’s shaking, and pulls his arms around himself to try and stop it but it won’t stop.
‘You all right, sir?’ The female cop sitting next to him is turned half away and looking out of the window. She sounds distracted.
Jack’s fingers drum on his arm, tapping out a rhythm. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yes, fine. Yeah.’
‘We’re going to the station, then we’ll get you dry and warm and have a chat, try to establish what has happened. Do you under-stand, sir?’
‘Okay, yeah.’ Anything. Just find Sarah, that’s all. There’s noth-ing to see outside, looking past her. Only the rain on the glass as the patrol car glides into town. The lights offend him. Sarah’s missing, she’s gone, life can’t just continue like this. At the station he is given a foil blanket, filthy instant coffee in a cardboard cup and a couple of slices of toast with sickly white margarine. They make him feel a little bit better, warmer at least.
‘Can I ask you, sir, when did you last see your wife?’
Now there’s another woman, presumably a detective, asking a question straight out of a comic book. Northern accent, he has no idea where from. Flat and sceptical. Jack didn’t catch her name. She’s older, forties maybe. The roots show in her ash-blonde crop. Her glasses have FCUK on the side – is that even allowed?
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay. Yeah. So. It was this morning. Hang on, yesterday, maybe. What’s the time? Doesn’t matter. Before work. She goes before I do.’
‘What is it you do, Mr Bramer?’
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‘Drummer.’ He looks down at his fingers, tapping on the table. Tapping on. ‘I’m a drummer. And percussion.’
‘I see, sir,’ she smiles weakly, as if to suggest that’s not really a proper job at all but she’ll go along with it. ‘What sort of music do you play?’
‘Anything. Jazz. Latin. Rock. Whatever.’
‘I see. I like a dance. Is there a good living in that then, sir?’ She can’t help herself, can she? Smirking at him. ‘Ha! No. I
wouldn’t say so. Not a good living. Not a living, as a matter of actual fact, as it so happens. A lot of work but not a lot of money. I make websites for people as well, in the daytime. Afternoons.’
‘What sort of sites would they be then?’
‘I don’t know. Music. Companies. Individuals. Whatever, you know? Whoever wants it. I make people look good online. Great, sometimes.’
‘And you work from home?’
‘Mostly. It’s easier. A couple of clients are back in the States, so the hours are a little strange to some people.’
‘And your wife?’
‘She doesn’t mind. Oh, I see what you mean. She’s a teacher. High school. Day and night, always working. Marking. It’s not like people think.’
‘I understand.’ The detective looks unconvinced and very tired. ‘I just have a few other questions. Could you describe how your wife was, the last time you saw her? What was her demean-our? What mood would you say she was in?’
‘Angry,’ says Jack quickly, and regrets it.
‘Angry?’
‘Angry.’
She waits for him to say more.
And waits.
The tapping starts again.
‘She was pissed at me, right? She’s always pissed at me. That’s how it is. Have you got kids?’ The detective says nothing, but winces. Jack doesn’t notice. ‘Okay. So. I said all this in the car to the other . . . we’ve been trying to have a baby. Trying a long time.
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Upsides, downsides, sideways, in a pot, in a test tube, any way you like. Nothing works. We’ve spent a lot of money and a lot of time and eaten a lot of shit over this . . . I’m sorry . . . and we’re all done, let me say that. Did I say that? Last chance.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Bramer? A last chance for who? Your wife?’
‘No. Jeez. Don’t put words in my mouth. Do I need a lawyer here? No, that’s not what I mean. Not at all. One last chance means us – we’ve got one more go. At the treatment. The money has run out. This is it. When it doesn’t work—’
‘You mean “if” it doesn’t work, surely? The treatment.’
‘I have no expectation of that. Anyway, we have one more chance,’ says Jack, lips twitching, fingers rippling. ‘So she’s tense, Sarah. As tense as . . . tense.’
‘And how would you say she is when she is tense?’
‘Explosive,’ he says, tapping out a soft little galloping rhythm on the table top with his fingertips now. ‘Look, Sarah is a beautiful woman. Inside and out. Caring, clever, funny when she wants to be. Used to be. All those things. The best. The drugs they put her on do bad things. They make her mad.’
‘Mr Bramer, let me be clear.’ She says it right this time. ‘Are you suggesting that your wife has mental health issues?’
‘Seriously? Don’t we all? Don’t you? Doesn’t he?’ He catches the eye of the officer in uniform by the door, who glances away. ‘I mean mad as in angry. That’s not just a Stateside thing, right? But she does get very, very angry at the smallest things, and then . . .’
‘And then?’
‘She lashes out.’
The detective leans forward, alert
now. ‘Mr Bramer, I want you to think carefully about how you answer this next question. Are you with me? Does your relationship with your wife ever involve violence?’
‘You mean when she throws knives at me?’ She stares at him.
A dry sound comes from the back of his throat. It was a joke. A dry, bitter joke. ‘When Sarah swings on the chandeliers
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and kicks me in the face? When she smashes a bottle over my head? No. That’s the movies. War of the Roses. Can I smoke? Look, where is this getting us? Sarah’s missing. I need to find her. I need you to find her for me. Can’t we just go and look or something?’
‘Does she hit you?’
‘No, she does not.’
‘Then what did you mean when you said she lashes out?’ ‘I meant it verbally. Obviously. She lashes out verbally.’ ‘Do you ever hit her?’
How dare she? Jack tries to stare right back, angry now. Tappety-tap, tappety-tap. Then he blows out his breath like a punctured balloon and slumps backwards into his chair, shaking his head. ‘No. No, no, no. I do not. Never, ever. I do not hit Sarah. I love Sarah. I need to find her right now, wherever she is, and take her home with me. Do you get it? Can you help me or not here? If not, I’d like to go.’
He stands up and goes to leave but the detective moves to block him. The officer by the door also takes a step forward.
‘Just a minute.’
‘What?’
‘Sit down, would you, please? There’s something we need to let you know.’ The two police officers exchange a glance. ‘Look. We’ve had a report from the Guardians – they patrol up there, you may have seen them. One of their people saw a woman. A youngish woman. They were some distance away at the time.’
Jack wonders what that means.
‘They reported a possible casualty, and both the Coastguard and the RNLI have attended the scene, to attempt a rescue. Or . . . well, a recovery.’
The word is a punch in the face. She means a body. Suddenly Jack can’t see or hear or think as his blood pressure soars and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t know he’s staggering towards the back of the room, putting his hand out on the wall. He can’t breathe.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I am sorry. From what you have told us, there are reasons to believe the female they saw may be your wife.’
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Jack refuses to leave. The detective offers to find him a room in a hotel somewhere but he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to leave the station. He demands to see the body, and doesn’t hear them when they say it’s not possible, not yet. It takes time, they say. They’ve got to recover the person first; the helicopter is bring-ing the individual to the hospital, where the coroner’s officer will attempt to make an identification. There are records to check, dis-tinguishing marks. Please understand, sir, please be patient, please try to calm down, please, sir. He hears none of that, only the rush of noise in his head, the shouts and abuse of drunks and crack-heads as they are brought into the station and slammed into the cells one by one, each slam hurting him.
Frustration builds to rage as the hours pass and he waits in a side room and nobody tells him anything. The plastic chair is uncomfortable, his bum goes numb, so he sits on the floor with his back against the wall. He lies down and tries to rest but there is no rest to be had and he is up again and out of the door, down to the duty desk, saying, ‘What is the hold-up? Why can’t I see her?’ He doesn’t hear the explanation or the caution they give him – after a warning, because they have to – when his language goes too far, because he is powerless and therefore in a rage. He doesn’t feel the force of his flailing, grieving panic when they try to move him back into the room. Jack doesn’t appreciate that they understand, they get it, mate; they just want him to calm down, yeah? Get some rest, here. He doesn’t feel the connection his fist makes with a policeman’s face or see the blood all over his shirt as he clutches his nose, cursing. Jack doesn’t even hear the door of the cell slam and lock. For his own safety. He’s oblivious, in a mist. He can’t follow what they’re saying outside, with his head splitting and his mouth arid and his eyes closing all the time. Closing. He’s in a daze, in a daze lying down, when the offi-cers come again for him and he does as they say and he follows them out into the corridor, out of the door, into another car, to another place that looks like a hospital, with high ceilings, half-tone walls, green doors and a kindly looking middle-aged man with a helmet of white hair.
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‘I realize that this is hard for you, Mr Bramer, but what I need you to do is to say whether this is your wife. Sarah. Do you understand?’
Jack indicates that he does, yes, and the door to the next room is opened. The curtains have been drawn against the daylight, the room lit by a light that flickers dimly. There’s a bad painting of a mountain, some flowers on a table.
‘We will go slowly. I’m afraid there has been some . . . damage.’ It’s not real, this. It can’t be. Feels like a dream, like he’s high, like he’s floating, with no control over his feet, moving closer to the body. Standing there. Almost touching the white cloth that covers her body. The man is folding down the cloth. The face is
revealed. She was so beautiful.
‘Oh no. Sarah. Oh God, no . . .’
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Eight
Half a dozen miles away – out of town and way up on the Downs – the man they call the Keeper is running hard. Running into the day, following a wide grass path a good, safe distance from the edge of the cliff. There’s a hard frost some mornings that can crack the chalk, so that shards of white fall away without warning. If you happen to be standing on the grass on top of one of them admir-ing the view, then God help you. Hundreds of feet to fall, with tons of chalk and rock and earth falling around your ears. There’s no surviving that. He has walked the beach far below at low tide and seen huge half-pyramids of rubble and ruin, leaning against the foot of the cliffs where they fell. So he stays well away as he comes to the last mile of his run, a long loop of the Downs ending in the place he always stops. A bench with a view.
‘Morning,’ he says lightly but she doesn’t answer. There is nobody else here either yet, this early. The sun is hiding behind a flat, white cover of cloud. The wind-chill is fierce. It hurts his ears, so he pulls a hood over his beanie hat and slides himself along the bench, to where there is a little shelter. His love used to sit here with her sketchbook, surrounded on three sides by trees no taller than women, a congregation wind-bent into swaying, pentecostal forms.
‘I said, “Morning.”’
He’s not mad. He knows she’s gone but he still feels her here. It’s like when you know you’ve lost a hand but can still feel the fin-gers. The white noise of his grief has never stopped, only become part of the music of his life. A drone, a constant note. But it helps to talk. When she’s in the mood, which is obviously not today.
‘Suit yourself.’
This bench was put here a long time ago, in memory of some-one. It’s on a slope, just where the hill begins to swell.
‘Like a breast,’ she said when she brought him here.
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‘Like a birthday cake in the shape of a breast,’ he said, to make her smile. ‘A birthday cake for a teenage boy obsessed with breasts. Loves Page Three. Collects pictures of tits and sticks them on his wall. His dad is a bit sheepish about it. Mum hates it but doesn’t feel she can say anything, and she’s so used to putting up with it that when he says he wants a boob cake she doesn’t bat an eyelid.’
‘She would!’ said Rí, protesting. When she raised her voice, the Irish sharpened her London accent. ‘I’d tell the little jerk where to get off. And his dad.’
‘Yes, but you’re not her. And anyway, I think the boy knows exactly where to get off. That’s the point.’
‘You’re gross.’
‘I’m not! He is.’
‘He doesn’t exist,’ she said, laughing. ‘Yes, he does. His name is Derek.’ ‘Derek the teenager?’ ‘Y
es.’
‘No wonder he’s odd. That’s no name for a teenager.’
‘He’s not odd. He’s obsessed with breasts. That’s not odd for a teenage boy.’
‘Nor an old one, eh? A filthy old boy like yerself?’ And she snuggled into him. They were sitting together on the bench, on a summer’s evening, with the remains of bread and cheese and an empty bottle of wine at their feet. She smelt of sweat and lemons. It had been a long day, a long walk, a gorgeous time. Gorgeous. She also smelt of the grass and the sea, the wind and the salt spray, just like now.