by Simon Clark
Fifteen
Victor had covered perhaps one hundred yards in the direction of his sister’s farm when he heard frantic shouts from the jetty. He glanced back to see people surge along its boards. They were pointing, shouts rose in volume. Victor knew enough from their body language to realize that someone had fallen into the river. This sent shivers down his spine. The currents in this part of the Severn were lethal. He should know, these vicious waters had made a widower out of him. As he raced back to the jetty he tugged the fleece off and flung it aside.
‘Stay out of the water,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t go in after him.’ Laura had already kicked off her sandals. ‘That goes for you, too, Laura.’
‘It’s Max.’ Her face was the essence of panic. ‘He jumped in. He’s so frightened he’s trying to kill himself.’
Victor shielded his eyes against the sun. The teenager lay face down in the water, not moving, perhaps unconscious, or perhaps forcing himself not to swim. If you’re so inclined, he thought grimly, this is the perfect place to die by your own hand. Whirlpools, ice-cold pockets of water, turbulence, cross-currents. A death trap.
‘Victor, do something,’ Laura pleaded.
‘The flow’s running at around eight miles an hour. I can’t catch up with him.’ He checked for boats . . . damn, no boats. He would have to go in there after the boy.
‘You’re going to stand there, watching Max drown?’
Children began to weep at the sight of the still figure being swept away.
Victor shook his head. ‘I need to gauge where the current will take him, then try and swim there when he’s carried past.’
‘Oh my God!’ For a moment it seemed as if Laura would start crying, too, but when she noticed Jay standing in the lane her mouth hardened. ‘Don’t do this to him,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Victor had to blot out Laura’s reaction. What mattered now was getting Max out of the water. He turned his attention back to the river. If he swam for a point fifty yards downstream of Max, then he just might intercept . . .
A shadow flashed past him, brushing his arm. A split second later there was a huge thump as a body hit the river hard. Victor stared in astonishment.
‘Did anyone see who that was?’
Nobody had. Victor was just as perplexed when the figure surfaced then swam after Max with so much power that they left a creaming wake in their trail.
‘Do you know him?’ Laura asked.
‘Never seen him before.’ Victor shielded his eyes as the stranger blazed through water like an Olympic swimmer. All he could make out was a dark-skinned man with a shaved head. In fact, the skin was so dark it was like gunmetal – a blue-black. ‘I only hope that guy knows what he’s doing. Those cross-currents are a killer.’
By now the children cheered the would-be rescuer. Adults, too, were praising the man’s prowess to one another loudly enough to express their relief that someone else other than them had taken the risky plunge.
Around a hundred yards offshore the man grabbed hold of Max, raised his head above the water, then swam back to the island with big muscular strokes that cheated the current of another victim. Even so, the flow was strong enough to carry the pair away from the jetty so the man was forced to make for the beach, to avoid having to fight the current head-on. Victor, Laura, and the rest, ran across the shingle to help the man carry Max back on to dry land. Laura held the teen’s head so she could check if the boy was alive. However, he sobbed hard enough to prove he was breathing normally.
After the crowd of islanders had gathered round to slap the stranger on his drenched back, his white shirt clinging to him like a second skin, he wiped his face with his hand then jerked his head back at the Severn.
‘I’m full of praise that this river’s got no hippos. I don’t like crocodiles. Let me tell you, hippos are worse.’ He grinned. ‘A hippo will bite a man in two. Crocs only take your feet. If you’ve got the Lord on your side.’
Laura shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mr . . .’
‘Constable.’
Laura glanced at Victor, puzzled, then thanked the man again.
Victor shook the man’s sopping hand, too. The grip was a powerful one. But then this man was a human speedboat. ‘I didn’t know we were expecting a visit from the police.’
‘You are and you aren’t.’ His smile was a bright one. ‘I’m not British police. I’m from the West African Republic. My baptism name is Solomon Constable. I came here to see Laura Parris and a boy she’s caring for.’ His smile faded as a grave expression took its place. ‘You see, it’s important I talk to her. I know God wants me to be here to help her, and her brethren.’
Victor eyed the man standing there in pinstriped trousers and a once crisp white shirt. Water dripped from the clothes until a pool formed around him.
‘You are Nurse Laura Parris, aren’t you?’ The man scrutinized her face. ‘You care for Jay. So you know what he does to people.’
‘I’m not speaking to you. You’re from the press.’
‘No, I’m not. Humbly, I claim to be from God. Because though you know Jay destroys people, you don’t know why. Or what he is.’
‘I’m not interested.’ Firmly, she steered Max away through the crowds.
Solomon Constable gave Victor a rueful look. ‘I came all the way from Africa for that?’
‘You’re not a reporter?’
‘That I’m not, sir. I’m a retired police officer. Constable by both name and rank. And I have one last case to close before I’m done with the world.’
Victor said, ‘Come with me. I’ll get you dry clothes and a towel.’
‘You are a good man, sir. So I will speak with you then you can convince Nurse Parris to hear me.’
As they strolled to the village Victor asked, ‘What makes you think she’ll listen to me?’
‘She loves you. You love her.’ The man smiled warmly as Victor paused mid-step. ‘I was a police officer for forty years. And I love my Sherlock Holmes books. So I made a most elementary deduction.’ The man’s sing-song voice suggested gentleness and wisdom. ‘Sir, I make deductions all the time. They’re second nature to me. Many married men remove their wedding rings when they go out on the town. Your fingers have an even tan, so when I see an indentation on the third finger of your left hand I have to ask myself why you reverse this habit of certain other men? I think the answer is that you wear the wedding ring when you’re alone at night. I mention this deduction because it reveals you are deeply loyal . . . intensely loyal.’
Victor’s eyes were drawn back to the river that took Ghorlan away. They had matching wedding rings. Hers must now lie on the river bed. With what remained of her.
‘I don’t wish to pry, sir. Or cause you sadness.’ Solomon Constable’s brown eyes held genuine compassion. ‘My experience as a police officer tells me you have a good, honest heart. Not like your Mayor Wilkes. Now there’s a man who has secrets running through every part of him. Secrets flow in his veins like blood. I did my research before I came here. Even though he has no criminal convictions there is something amiss. He is a businessman as well as elected mayor, isn’t that so? Yet though he makes deals his name doesn’t appear in legal contracts, even though that would be perfectly normal. It suggests to me a man who is habitually secretive to the extent he conducts legitimate business as if it were a criminal act. Moreover, he employs ex-prisoners in his construction company. These men would normally find it hard to get work. Mayor Wilkes claims he does this because he is being kind. I consider that he has ulterior motives. Former convicts will have to be loyal to Wilkes, because they’d find no work elsewhere. So Wilkes can make them bend the rules; they might even help him bury his secrets, too. And men who build bridges can bury secrets very deeply indeed. Have I been able to convince you that we should talk?’
‘Of course we can talk. First, though, you need some dry clothes.’
The grave expression returned on Solomon’s face. ‘I must give you this warning.
You won’t like what I have to say. Because once you hear it, you will have to do something about the boy they call Jay.’
Sixteen
Mayor Wilkes watched Victor Brodman from the apartment over the village post office. From a harsh blue sky the sun shone on the island ranger. For some reason he walked in the company of a short, muscular man who had skin the colour of cobalt – a striking blue-black. The stranger dripped water as the pair headed in the direction of the youth hostel.
‘Dear God.’ Mayor Wilkes shook his head in disgust. ‘Where does Brodman find these strays? It used to be just animals. Now he’s collecting people, too. Fishing them out of the river by the look of them.’ A middle-aged woman, sitting at a computer, began to answer but Wilkes spoke over her as if her presence in the room was merely incidental. ‘The times I’ve seen Brodman mooching across the island with some wretched beast in a cardboard box, because he was going to fix its leg or rub ointment into its rump ulcers. Now, it’s strangers. The sooner I get him replaced with our people the better.
‘I’ve had to endure Brodman for more than a decade. Victor-the-beasts’-guardian-Brodman. Do you know what it’s like to have that man on the island? It’s like walking with a thorn sticking in your foot. I’m trying to push forward plans, but I can’t because he’s making me limp along like a cripple. Conservation – it’s a mantra with the man. What really sticks in my craw is that the locals respect him. Dear God, I wish I could dynamite all their houses. Then we’d have real progress here. But you’re probably one of the Victor Brodman fans, too, aren’t you?’ He awarded the woman with a sneer.
‘You promised you wouldn’t hit me again.’ She pushed back a fringe, prematurely streaked silver. Her right cheek glowed an angry red.
‘Well, you promised not to annoy me again. You did, so you were the first to break the promise.’
‘I work for you. That doesn’t give you a right to knock me around.’ She touched her cheek. ‘It really hurts.’
‘Don’t expect me to kiss it better for you.’ He eyed her with disgust. ‘You’ve really let yourself go, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Bastard.’
‘Don’t push your luck, June.’
June pointed at her face. ‘I look twenty years older than I really am because of what you did to me.’
‘Did to you? I let you live in an apartment rent-free and pay your wages. That’s hardly an exercise in cruelty, is it?’
‘To think I lied to the police to save your neck. And you stood by and let me be prosecuted for fraud, when it should have been you in court. Not me.’
Wilkes shook his head. ‘Self-pity isn’t noble, June. Cry if you want but set up the meeting with the planning officer first.’
‘Why don’t you give him his bribe money yourself?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Wilkes turned back to the window to watch Victor again. Slapping June again tempted him more than words could say but there was no point in dispatching her on errands with her face puffed up. Besides, the woman was still useful to him. He had her in his pocket. Because she’d served time in jail for fraud she was unemployable. Charitably, he had publicly forgiven her for her wrongdoing. Then he’d offered her a home (as hers had been repossessed by the bank when she couldn’t afford the mortgage repayments). Now June did all those awkward chores that might expose him to criminal prosecution.
He realized June had still been speaking . . . well, bellyaching, he told himself. Maybe dealing her another stinging slap would be in order.
‘You know,’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘I don’t feel well. I’ve come over really hot.’
‘You do look flushed,’ he conceded. ‘You must be coming down with that ruddy bug everyone’s getting. Whatever you do, don’t give it to me.’
‘I’ve never met anyone as cold as you,’ she hissed. ‘Now I’m trapped in this . . .’ She grimaced. ‘Oh, no.’ Quickly she hurried to the bathroom.
‘It’s not all bad.’ Mayor Wilkes laughed. ‘The quack says that infection drives the body temperature up so much that people will have hallucinations. You might hallucinate that you’re sunning your old bones in St-Tropez.’ He wrinkled his nose as he heard sounds coming from the bathroom. ‘I’ll let myself out. Bon voyage!’
Seventeen
With the hostel manager indisposed, Victor and Laura used his office so they could talk to the stranger in private. A staff member had also lent the African a tracksuit in a rather too vivid yellow while the washing machine soaked away the river water from his clothes. Victor sat on the desk as the late afternoon sunlight streamed in. Solomon Constable sat in a swivel chair. Laura chose to stand by the door with her arms folded and her face set to distrust.
Laura fixed Solomon with a hard stare. ‘I gladly thank you for saving Max’s life today, but that doesn’t give you the right to exploit Jay. Tell your newspaper friends they’re getting nothing from me.’
‘I’ve not travelled five thousand miles to get anything out of anybody.’ Solomon settled into the chair. ‘God willing, I’m here to give, not take.’
‘Jay’s been through hell. He was the only survivor on a ship full of refugees. He has behavioural problems. I won’t allow you to talk to him, or—’
‘I’ve no need to meet with Jay. In truth, ma’am, I should be very afraid of the boy if I did.’
‘I’m too busy to play your game.’ She gave an impatient sigh. ‘Victor, I’ve promised Dr Nazra I’ll help with his patients.’
‘So now there’s an epidemic?’ Solomon wasn’t surprised. In fact, for some reason it seemed as if he expected it. ‘There’s disease on your island?’
Laura scowled. ‘A virus that causes upset stomachs. Hardly a plague.’
‘And it has a name, this virus?’
‘I have too much work to do to stand around talking.’
Victor knew that Laura was ready to leave. ‘Laura, we should listen to what Mr Constable has to say.’
‘Solomon, please,’ he insisted.
‘Victor, you can listen to stories if you wish – I’m going.’
Solomon Constable knitted his fingers together, then announced in grave tones, ‘The boy, Jay, does not exist.’
‘Fine, believe whatever you want.’ She opened the door.
‘Don’t bad things happen to those near him? Doesn’t he sometimes say that he’ll take people for a little walk? Only he takes them to places that seem to exist purely in nightmares or to visit friends that have died a long time ago. Am I right, ma’am?’
Grim-faced, Laura shut the door then faced him, arms folded. ‘Go on.’
‘First, why I’m here. I’m a retired police officer. I always hated not being able to close a case. This is one that I must close if I’m going to make my peace with God.’
‘You’re talking like you’re an old man,’ Victor said. ‘Anyone seeing you swim today would agree that you’re probably the strongest man for miles around.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’s a heart-warming compliment,’ Solomon said. ‘I am fifty-seven years old. By rights, I should be dead. Six months ago I helped my neighbour. She’s an old African widow who likes to keep chickens; she says they hatch the souls of her ancestors. It might not be a Christian thing to say but she’s a good woman, so I helped her mend her chicken coop, and I managed to put a nail right through my hand.’ He held up a pale palm. A circular red scar dominated its centre. ‘As a follower of Jesus I appreciated right at that moment the pain of such a wound. Anyway, it became infected. My kidneys failed. A priest gave me the last rites and they got ready to move me to the mortuary. But God gave me my life back.
‘In three days I was out of the hospital. But every night I dreamed about the refugee ship that sank, and those people that my countrymen drove off their own land. Those refugees belonged to a clan that claim they’re the descendants of the Carthaginians. You recall Hannibal and his elephants? Out of a desire of vengeance he marched the elephants through the snowy Alps with the aim of destroying Rome.
Only the God-given weather defeated him. The Cathdran worshipped the old city gods of Carthage. But that wasn’t what angered my people. The Cathdran owned rights to freshwater springs. They made money from piping the water into town.’
‘So they weren’t persecuted for their faith as the newspapers claimed,’ Laura said. ‘It was all down to money?’
‘Isn’t that always the root of all evil?’ Solomon let out a long sigh. ‘Now let me get to the core of why I’ve travelled from Africa to see you. A quest that tested me. Even when I’d come all this way there was no ferry to bring me to the island. I had to rent a motor boat so I could cross the water to you.’
Victor listened to the voice of the man. It had a hypnotic tone. Even though he heard every word he seemed to find himself in a world between sleep and wakefulness. The rise and fall of the voice washed over him as he gazed out at the river as the tide turned. Wavelets crept up over the beach. In the turbulent waters some lithe creature slipped across the surface before diving down into the depths where it would be so dark and so cold, and where all those years ago he knew his wife, Ghorlan, must have found herself being drawn down to the river bed. In his mind’s eye, he gazed on white bones held prisoner by the cold, oozing silt. Poor Ghorlan. And in his imagination Victor swam down through thirty feet of river water to that hidden place where sunlight never penetrated.
‘Five years ago,’ Solomon told them, ‘I was taken off my beat in the city. My commander put me to a desk with a computer. He ordered me to compile a register of all those refugees on the ship. Dates of birth, addresses, marital status, occupation. All those kinds of facts. Then against each name I was expected to add information about criminal convictions, and when that failed I would record any suspicions of illegal activity connected with those dead people. It wasn’t hard to find my countrymen that would testify that the Cathdran contaminated the water they piped into the city. Or even gossip about the Cathdran indulging in witchcraft. All that was expected of me was to list everyone on board that death trap of a boat, and then present so-called proof that they were all criminals anyway. This would ease the conscience of my people, and the rest of the world, which turned the refugee ship away from their ports. These refugees were all thieves and wrongdoers we could say. If you’d let them into your country they would have wreaked carnage. So . . . as you know, the N’Taal sank. Only one survivor was found on a raft. The rescuers called the boy Jay. You keep him safe at Badsworth Lodge. Now he is here with you on this island. Don’t look so surprised, you’d be amazed what can be found on the Internet, just by typing names into a search engine. I know about your sad loss, Victor. During my research I found reports about the tragedy concerning Mrs Brodman.’