The Swimmer

by David Haynes

  Joe laughed and pulled her closer. “And you’ve got this.” He kissed her roughly on the mouth.

  May pulled her head away but wrapped her arms around Joe’s waist. “Like I said, a mad week.”

  They were both absolutely ravenous and devoured the pizzas in short time along with the first bottle of wine. Joe fetched the second bottle, opened it and filled both their glasses again. The only light in the room was the warm orange glow of the fire and the dim light on Joe’s desk. They sat on the floor with their backs pressed against the old sofa.

  May took a small sip; she could already feel the effects in her legs. “Now, if I understand everything correctly, our swimmer knows, or knew something about Levant mine. As far as we know, nobody else knew what he knew?” She laughed. “Sounds like a riddle.”

  Joe smiled and nodded. “And whatever information he had was from some book or other, which is in the church somewhere.”

  “And right after he mentioned it, the book I mean, he drowned.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “Or had his head bashed in and then drowned?”

  May sighed. “The thought crossed my mind too but what on earth could be so damning in that book to make someone kill him? That sort of thing only happens in Hollywood cop movies, not in St Just.”

  Joe smiled. “It can happen anywhere, given the right set of circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I look at it this way, what are the chances of these two things happening at the same time? The mine re-opening after all this time and a stranger being washed up in the cove. You could assume it’s a freak; after all when did anything like that happen around here? Probably never. So, dig a little deeper, or meet Henrietta in our case and just under the surface is a link between the two, which then links to the church and I think will lead us to David Polglaze.”

  May took a larger drink. “I was hoping you weren’t going to say that.”

  “But you knew it was coming, didn’t you?”

  May smiled. “It doesn’t make him a killer though, I’ve known David for five years, he’s a buffoon. There’s no way he’s capable of something like that.”

  Joe carried straight on. “Given the right circumstances, everyone’s capable, you just have to find the right buttons to push. What buttons does David have I wonder?”

  “Money.” May said without hesitation.

  Joe nodded. “A strong motivating force in anyone.” He paused, stretched his arms to the ceiling and stifled a yawn. “Sorry, I’m not used to all the fresh air. Listen, I’m not saying David killed our swimmer. I’m just thinking out loud. It wouldn’t hurt to be on guard with him particularly if you mention Adam, or whatever his name was.”

  “So what do you suggest we do now? We can’t exactly walk into the church and ask to see this book can we?” May paused. Something had dawned on her. “The church are involved somehow, aren’t they.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’d say they probably know more than we do right now. Do you know the priest?”

  “Just his name and his face to say hello to. Reverend Treleck. Always seems a bit ineffectual to me; a bit of a non-event. But then again I’ve never been to a service so I can’t say what his sermons are like.”

  “And does he know Polglaze?”

  May laughed. “Everyone knows David Polglaze and David Polglaze knows everyone.”

  “He doesn’t know me.”

  15

  Reverend William Treleck collapsed in his antique, brown leather chair. He traced the fingers of his right hand over the cracked leather on the arm of the chair and pushed the fingers of his other hand into his mouth. His teeth searched in vain for a millimetre of nail to bite, a jagged edge or a loose flap of skin. He winced at the sensation; his fingernails were bitten to the quick and were raw. He quickly took his fingers away and traced the perished leather; it soothed his fingers to feel the familiar weathered texture.

  He thought back to his first day as Reverend in St Just and how it had seemed like a dream job. He wasn’t interested in working in the inner city or in a deprived neighbourhood; he hadn’t got the drive or determination to bring religion to a challenging parish. He knew his amiable manner and affable character had played a large part in securing the parish for him and he had so badly wanted to keep it.

  He reached down and picked up his crystal tumbler. Inside, the sumptuous looking golden liquid swayed invitingly, and he downed the double measure in one. The soothing warmth relaxed him immediately. Dealing with David Polglaze always made him nervous; even in their early meetings before he knew anything about Hooper. It was easy to recognise Polglaze as a potential bully who clearly had ulterior motives swirling about his twisted mind. Now, Treleck realised he was being weighed up by David, weighed up as a potential adversary or as an ally. In truth Treleck wanted neither, he wanted to simply run a quiet Parish and to enjoy his job.

  His predecessor, Reverend Buller had clearly been an ally of Polglaze. Whether by choice or other means he didn’t know but David Polglaze was used to a certain way of being dealt with and he’d expected that to continue. He’d been wary of him in the early days; but allowed David to invite himself to the vicarage on several occasions before he made it very clear what his expectations of their relationship would be.

  Treleck had allowed a habit to develop which he didn’t particularly like. In the evenings, particularly winter evenings, he would bring a bottle of malt whisky into the sitting room and place it between his feet. That was when the thoughts started; the dark thoughts where the spiteful delusions lived. They had been quietened by his faith in the past but now they continually wormed their way back out. He poured another large measure into the tumbler and gently swirled the glass. The spicy aroma wafted upwards and he closed his eyes inhaling deeply. That evening three years ago, everything had changed; he could still see the scene.

  “Now then Reverend. I think we have some business to discuss.”

  Treleck smiled cautiously. “We do David?”

  Polglaze stood in the centre of the room; he’d declined the offer of a seat but Treleck sat in the old leather chair.

  “Yes we do. I’m sure you’re aware of the rather grand bursary my family provide to the parish each year.”

  Treleck nodded. It was a large sum, without which the church would struggle to maintain a full time cleric. “Of course. Very generous it is too.”

  “Are you aware of the conditions attached to the bursary?”

  Treleck frowned. If Polglaze was attempting to back out of the deal, it could be disastrous. “I wasn’t aware of any conditions, David. I assumed it was a gift for the Church and the community.”

  Polglaze scratched his chin. “Hmmm, not quite a gift because that would entail there’s nothing expected in return wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose it would.” He knew there was some bad news on the way. People like Polglaze always wanted something in return. The question was, exactly what did he want?

  “Here’s the thing you see, Reverend. My family have lived in this area for hundreds of years; they’ve been the backbone of this community for the same amount of time. The church has always been here, probably longer than my family but your influence is lessening with age whereas mine is increasing. Nevertheless both my family and your church are bed fellows, for want of a better phrase, whether we like it or no. Believe me I do not.”

  Treleck was confused. “Bed fellows? What on earth are you talking about?”

  Polglaze turned away from Treleck and intently surveyed the bookshelves. The books were chronologically displayed behind glazed doors which he quickly unlocked and dragged one of the volumes out.

  Treleck stood up, shocked at the rough handling.

  Polglaze held his hand out. “Don’t worry, Reverend. I won’t damage the precious book but you need to read it.” He heaved the weighty book carelessly to Treleck. “And when you’ve read it, we’ll talk again. I’ll show myself out.”

  Polglaze walked briskly
out of the room leaving Treleck alone with the book. He still had no idea what Polglaze was talking about but his manner was alarming to say the least. He turned the dark leather volume onto its side and read the spine; in gold lettering it read. ‘1900 – 1938 Rev. G. Hooper.’

  Treleck sat back down in the chair, opened the first page and started to read.

  Treleck downed his third glass of whisky and poured another measure. He could feel the effects but knew he needed just a little more to be able to do what he had to. He took his glass and walked over to the bookcase. “Right then, Hooperman. I think it’s time we took this outside.” He poured half the contents of the tumbler into his mouth and washed it around his gums like mouthwash before swallowing; the other half he guzzled straight back. His fingers released their grip on the tumbler allowing it to drop silently onto the carpet at his feet.

  The brass key which kept the diaries locked away turned easily in the lock and clicked the mechanism with effortless fluidity. In amongst the other books ‘1900-1938 Rev. G Hooper’ was unremarkable and had a similar gold font on the spine and was consistent in width as the others. The gold letters and numbers had faded slightly but were still bold against the dark leather binding.

  He levered the book from its secure position and held it against his stomach. The gap in the shelf, where it had been, remained empty where the other volumes refused to transgress. He stared at the gap for a moment, then walked to the vicarage door, where he picked up a shovel and stepped into the clear moonlit night.

  He was wearing his full vestments for the occasion, and as he stepped onto the graveyard, the wind whipped around his bare legs; he shivered against the sensation but continued. He followed the narrow path towards the rear of the church; its bulky, symbolic construction cast an eerie shadow over the headstones. It was fortunate that he was as familiar with the layout as he was the layout of his bathroom. In recent weeks he had taken to night walks among the ancient graves, so the lack of light didn’t bother him in the slightest. He walked purposely with the book under the crook of one arm and the shovel gripped firmly in the other hand.

  The giant yew tree loomed from behind the bell tower as he rounded the furthest corner of the church. He hesitated briefly as the silhouetted shape of the tree nodded fiercely in the wind, before moving forward again. In truth, he hadn’t spent any time in this part of the graveyard since he’d read Hooper’s words. He felt ashamed and embarrassed to be in the same area with these men. The memorial stood sentry in front of the yew and although it was dark Treleck knew the engraved words; he traced his fingers over the indentations. “October 20th 1919. Sacred to the memory of The Thirty One – No longer to labour in the dark.” He sighed and started digging.

  The ground was surprisingly soft and fine. There was almost no growth under the shade of the giant tree which he was pleased about; he doubted he had the stamina for a long dig. He felt a few spots of rain and heard the pages of the diary rustle in the wind so he quickened the pace. He didn’t need the hole to be deep, not like a grave, but deep enough for what he was about to bury to remain hidden.

  Eventually he was satisfied the grave was deep enough when it came up to his knee. Before he had time to think about it anymore, he took Rv. G Hooper’s poisonous transcript, and raised it above his head with both hands.

  “When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  He tossed the book into the dark hole where its spine twisted and broke before covering it over with the earth.

  Treleck walked a circuit around the graveyard, trailing his fingers over illegible, lichen-covered headstones until he found himself outside the vicarage again. He paused and looked look back at the shadowy form of the church; the regular mass of the bell tower climbed into the night sky. He smiled and walked inside.

  He poured another measure into the tumbler and swallowed it straight back. He stared at the open space where Hooper’s work had stood for so long; it was strange but a real sense of calm had come over him since he’d buried the book. There was a relief in knowing that something which had tortured him for so long had now gone into the earth beside those poor men. If there was any part of Hooper’s wretched soul imbued in that book, the thirty one dead miners would be tearing it apart right now. Treleck laughed, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” He shoved the books together in an untidy mess and sat back down in his chair, clutching the tumbler and the bottle.

  Tonight, there was something else under the chair, just far enough under to be hidden; he dragged it out with his toes. He reached inside the box and took out a packet of anti-histamines. Even with the exercise he’d taken he could still feel the effects of the whisky, but his mouth felt sour and dry. He couldn’t remember how many of these tablets he was supposed to take, or in what order things came next, but he popped four tablets into his hand and swallowed them with another tumbler of whisky.

  Treleck eyed the box of diazepam carefully. He couldn’t read the prescription; the typed letters had long ago faded but the large numbers on the front of the box were easy to read. ‘Diazepam 10mg 50 tablets.’ He’d had the box since his first reading of Hooper’s diary but couldn’t remember taking more than two. He disliked the sensation intensely and had been strong enough to find calm through his prayers. He opened the box and pulled the foil tray out; he smiled, only two were missing from the blister pack.

  He popped all the tablets onto his vestments and began swallowing them in twos. He had always been good at taking painkillers and even as a child had never gagged or choked when faced with a dose of antibiotics. By the third blister pack Treleck had dispensed with the tumbler and was drinking straight from the bottle. When he took the first two tablets from the fifth pack Treleck noticed a strange, but not altogether unpleasant tingling sensation in his fingers and toes. He didn’t know if this was the alcohol or the tablets but he shrugged and continued.

  When May stood up to use the bathroom she felt the effects of the two bottles of white wine they’d drunk. She stood still for a moment before walking off towards the kitchen corridor where the toilet was. She realised after the first three steps there would be no driving home tonight.

  Joe watched her walk off towards the toilet; they’d talked almost nonstop through the pizzas and not just about everything they’d been through today. He couldn’t remember feeling this relaxed for a very long time. He stood up and put the palms of his hands into the small of his back; sitting on the floor for that long wasn’t something his back would put up with. He walked behind the sofa and stood in front of the enormous window looking out onto the ocean. The night was clear and in the sky, the almost perfect crescent moon, cast down a brilliant silver radiance onto the dark water below. The light trailed a path directly through the eerie bulk of the Brisons and out the other side. Whatever the swimmer had been searching for might not be on the Brisons, but there was enough intrigue to arouse his curiosity. After all, what was good enough for old Coppinger was certainly good enough for Joseph George.

  “A penny for them?” He felt May’s arms circle about his waist, her warmth pressed against his back.

  “Do you know anyone with a boat by any chance?”

  May let go and stood beside him. “A boat?”

  Joe turned and smiled. “Yes, a boat. I’d like to take a trip out there.” He turned and pointed towards the island.

  “Err… the two lads who found the body, Chris and Charlie? Oh and David, he’s got one too, tried to get me out on it several times.” She shivered.

  Joe put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Like to come out with me instead?”

  “Can you row?”

  “I’ve done some rowing in my time. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
r />   May laughed. “That’s vague, but why not?”

  They both remained silent for a few minutes and looked out onto the ocean. She hadn’t heard it before because they’d been talking constantly but now May could hear the sound of the waves crashing onto Priest’s Cove below. Even though she couldn’t see the waves, she could imagine the churning water crashing onto the rocks below. The little house felt solid and impenetrable from the elements outside but the wind whistled and sighed as it tried to find an entrance into the warmth; she shivered again.

  “It’s so beautiful, even in the dark. It’s humbling.”

  She felt Joe’s body move as he nodded his agreement. “Can you see why I never want to leave this place? And I never will, not now.”