‘Drive carefully!’
‘Oh, I’ll try to.’
He couldn’t prolong that little burst. The driver had to close the doors and continue: she had her other passengers to think about, and a schedule.
‘Oh! What time is the next bus?’ That would have been a forgivable extension, and might have given him the moment he needed to change his mind.
He didn’t think of it in time, though, and the doors were closing. The handbrake grated, and the wheels crunched over loose stones. The bus became a yellow lantern, and he watched it slalom carefully through what must be a small village. He watched it disappear and reappear. It climbed up the same road, but its headlights were dimming and then suddenly – as if the world wasn’t round at all – it reached an edge and tipped itself into oblivion.
He – Michael – walked forward.
There were a dozen houses at the most, though there may have been more down hidden lanes. Some of the front windows were illuminated, but there wasn’t a single street light. The wind now buffeted him, as it had done the vehicle, and his waterproof was no protection: he was instantly, violently cold.
He retraced his steps, and explored the other way. Overhead was a great spray of stars, but no moon. There were steps to his right, which the driver had referred to – they took him to an abrupt corner and another, steeper flight down. Seconds later, he was at the bottom, in a car park. There was a sign, lit up by two weak bulbs: The Golden Fleece, it said. Welcome.
21
Maria checked in quickly.
Her reservation was entirely in order, and the manager had kept a table for her in the bar. They stopped serving food at nine-thirty, so she had time to freshen up – it wasn’t quite eight o’clock. No, she didn’t need help, and she could manage her own bag. Within a few minutes the door was locked and she was sitting on the bed.
Single rooms were always a little sad, but she had a ritual to ward off that sadness: she opened the handbag she’d lost, and removed her wallet. Inside was a small concertina-shaped photo book, and the next moment the room was full: her husband, children and parents were in front of her. They looked up, and she said their names quietly. There was no disapproval or recrimination: there was only the simple reminder that whilst she felt so far away, they were even further. Nothing stood between them but time and temporary distance. She said a prayer, and thought about the woman she’d met in Preston whose name she had already forgotten – she said a prayer for her, too.
She put her tablet and phone on charge, and then she unpacked.
The shower was weak but welcome. She turned the television on, just to hear voices, and got ready to go downstairs again. She didn’t hear Michael as he walked along the landing, past her door.
He had entered the pub, wondering what to do.
The bar wasn’t crowded, and nor was the restaurant area. He was in a new state of uncertainty, though, because nobody could expect a room in a place like this if they hadn’t booked one in advance. People didn’t walk into hotels any more: they planned their journeys. He would be met with suspicion and rejection, and he couldn’t face inventing some story about a broken-down car. He knew what he looked like: he looked desperate.
The pub would not welcome him.
He was about to turn around and leave when the receptionist arrived.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How are you tonight?’
Michael saw a frank, friendly face. The man looked busy, without being rushed or hassled, and he was looking into Michael’s eyes as if he saw only a normal, harmless customer.
Michael licked his lips, realising he was actually frightened.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’m fine, thank you. But… I’m in a bit of an awkward situation.’
‘How can I help?’
If anything, the man was concerned.
‘I need a room, please. For tonight.’
‘That’s easy. Just tonight?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Because tomorrow we’re chock-a-block, one of those walking parties, but tonight… I’ll double-check.’
He had turned away. He was looking at a computer screen.
‘Tonight, you’re in luck. Single or double, sir?’
‘Single, please.’
‘Room twelve. It’s one of the nicest rooms we have, I think. It’s a double, but I don’t think that matters – we can upgrade you.’
He clicked the mouse.
‘Bed and breakfast is eighty-five, and I can cancel the supplement. Dinner as well? That’s one hundred and four.’
‘I think I’ll go for bed and breakfast.’
‘Not a problem. Have you stayed with us before?’
‘No.’
‘Then if I could trouble you to fill in the card – your name, phone number. Are you parked in the car park?’
‘I came by bus, actually.’
‘Oh.’
The man was surprised, but there was still no suspicion or fear. Why should there be? Perhaps people’s plans did change just like that, and this was more common than Michael had thought.
‘What time would you like your breakfast?’ said the man.
‘Seven-thirty, please.’
‘Seven-thirty.’
Michael took his wallet out. He had one twenty-pound note left, plus all the change from his fare – clearly, the credit card would have to work its magic. He watched its progress as it was slotted into the payment machine, feeling deep in his bones that this would be the moment of terrible truth, when everything would grind to a halt. The smiles were about to fade, and the trust would evaporate.
‘I need a valid card, sir.’
‘Of course. Could you try that one again, please?’
‘I can try it, certainly.’
The man’s voice would drop in register, and the ‘sir’ would seem just a little ironic. Two beads of sweat rolled down from Michael’s armpits, but he tapped in his personal number, and after the hesitation and consideration, the card was approved. The debt must be four figures by now, but the payment went flying through as if the cash was on the counter, and the man tore the receipts out with a flourish. Suddenly – magically – there was an old-fashioned key on the desk, attached to a wooden fob.
‘I’ll just fill in the form,’ said Michael.
‘Or you can do it in the bar, if you want a drink.’
‘I think I’ll… do it here, and come down for a drink later.’
‘Very good. Can I leave you to it for a moment? The room’s up the stairs, turn right. Everything’s signed, and… will you need a hand with luggage, or…?’
He had realised the guest had nothing, apart from his shoulder bag – and what was in that?
‘I’m fine,’ said Michael. ‘Like I say, I’m travelling light.’
The man replied, ‘If you need anything, like a toothbrush – or a razor… There’ll be someone on call right through the night.’
‘Thank you.’
‘See you later.’
Michael reached his room, and sat on the bed.
It was larger than the bedroom in his flat. The bed was big, and the pillows stood fresh and white beneath a bright cushion that matched the curtains. There was a little dressing table or writing desk, but half of that was given over to a television set. The other end was dominated by a kettle, with tea, coffee and biscuits in a jar. There was a chest of drawers, and over it a painting of a woodpecker. Everything was clean, and he thought how unfair it would be to die here – it would be even more unfair than under the gaze of a poor train driver. But the man at reception had offered a razor, and it was conceivable – if he asked for one – that he might dismantle it for the skinny blade. Was that not expected of him? A seasoned spy would take it apart in an instant, and slash away with the little shard of super-sharp metal: the veins could be open in seconds, if you’d had the training. But to do that here, where the bedcover was so pale, and the carpet so carefully hoovered – it would be monstrously rude.
When he’d
worked as a cleaner he’d come upon ingrained dirt: the dirt of filthy shoes and filthy habits. Spillages, and the daily dropping of food that got ground into the fabric – no time to clean up properly, and no will to do so either. Let people drink in their own mess. This place, in contrast, was loved. Perhaps the cleaner was the owner, and his or her personal pride went into every careful stroke of the duster. How would he or she feel when the moment came? The guest in room twelve still hadn’t appeared, and the gentle knocks on the door still hadn’t roused him.
‘Was he by himself?’
‘Yes. Came by bus, or so he said. Said his plans had changed.’
‘Knock again.’
It would be way past checkout time, so they might suppose he’d disappeared as mysteriously as he’d arrived – they would have to look.
Michael sat with his eyes closed.
The manager would bring a duplicate key. What if Michael had left his own in the lock, so he couldn’t get it in? That would cause terrible inconvenience. The hotel staff would have to find a ladder, and put it up to the window, and if the curtains were undrawn they might see evidence of his presence, and realise he definitely hadn’t left. They would knock again, more loudly, and at last the decision would be made: they would have to drag the poor locksmith out, all the way from the nearest town. Ten minutes would pass as he jiggled Michael’s key onto the floor – no need to break down doors, this wasn’t an arrest. This was simply gaining access with a rising sense of dread, for everyone now knew the guest wasn’t sleeping, or wearing headphones. No: there was a dead man awaiting them, and the only uncertainty was what state he might be in.
In the bath, up to his nose in cold, red water?
Or does the water drain over ten hours, through a leaky plug? Who would pull him out, and how? What equipment could they bring to prevent the crazy comedy of his corpse slithering out of the tub and slapping the lino?
He put his head in his hands, but the thoughts uncoiled.
‘Stop the film,’ he wanted to say – but now he was remembering an old friend or acquaintance… someone he’d got chatting to, perhaps? She’d worked in the Salvation Army, and he recalled the lovely, serious slogan, Where there is need, there is the Salvation Army. Utterly devout, utterly committed – she had been summoned to places once the police and fire brigade had left the scene. She had been trained to break bones – to break arms and legs – so as to get corpses into body bags. That’s what she told him, because he had asked about her nights on call, and pumped her for the details.
‘What do you do? What have you seen?’
She told him. The body in the bed grew stiff and couldn’t be moved. If there was nothing suspicious about the death, that was part of her job: to break it down. She had broken limbs across her knee.
He found that his eyes were closed tighter than ever, so he opened them. He slowed his breathing down, and filled the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he cleaned his glasses and ate two biscuits. Then he washed his face and had a cup of coffee. He felt glad then, that he was alive and in such a pretty room. He felt ashamed, too, for bringing such horror into it. He felt like opening a window, but instead he got undressed and had a shower.
‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Stop thinking.’
He started to sing, very quietly:
‘And did those feet…’
He stopped, wondering where the old hymn had come from, and how it came to be buried so deep.
‘And did those feet. In ancient times. Walk upon England’s pastures green?’
He paused, and tried the next part.
‘And did the holy. Lamb of God. On all our pleasant pastures… seem?’
They weren’t the right words, but the tune would never leave him. In the absence of a school song, ‘Jerusalem’ had been used in every end-of-term assembly, roared out by eight hundred boys, the music teacher hammering at a piano. Never had he pondered the meaning of the song’s questions and demands, but they were there in his brain and on his lips – the singer wanted a bow of burning gold for some reason, and arrows of desire. He was calling for a sword, and then not just a chariot, but a chariot of fire, knowing that the clouds had to burst open at some point so Jerusalem could rise. It would rise here, of course, right next to this hotel.
He stood, lost in thought.
He made the water colder, and that increased the power of the shower jet. He sang more loudly, repeating phrases as he sluiced himself down, and when he stepped back into the room wet, dripping and white, he was surprised at how quiet it was. Everything around him was beautifully still, and he smiled because nobody had been hurt, and no one had died. At five to nine, he went downstairs and ordered a glass of wine, for which he paid in cash. The backpacker was there, at a table on her own. She was studying a map but she looked up at him suddenly, and he knew at once that she recognised him.
He saw the surprise, and then a flash of unmistakable fear.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hi.’
It was quiet in the bar, and she knew he’d followed her. There was music, but it was soft and he found there was nothing he could say – so they simply looked at each other.
22
‘How are you?’ he said at last.
‘Good, I think,’ said Maria. ‘I don’t know. How are you?’
‘Good. Lovely place, isn’t it?’
‘So nice. Very nice.’
There was a silence again.
‘You live here?’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘This place. This… area.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I’m passing through.’
‘Like me.’
‘Yes.’
He tried to relax, for it occurred to him now that he might have been wrong. She hadn’t recognised him, and what he’d taken for fear might have been nothing of the sort. They hadn’t actually made eye contact on either the train or the bus – and they certainly hadn’t spoken. She had been so busy with her tablet and maps, so why on earth should she have noticed him? She had spoken because it would have been rude not to.
‘What are you planning?’ he said. ‘You look as if you’re off somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Pardon?’
They stared at each other, and he wondered if she had misheard.
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Sorry… I was asking where you’re heading. You look like you’re planning a walk.’
‘Tomorrow, yes. I’m going to Higher Lee Ridge.’
‘Very good. Lovely.’
‘I hope so.’
She looked at the map again, and stretched her thumb and finger over it.
‘Seven miles, I think,’ she said. ‘Seven miles back too, so… early start.’
There was a vacant chair tight against the wall, and Michael was close to it. She noticed it too.
‘Can I see?’ he said, nodding at the map. ‘Can I join you for a second?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t want to intrude,’ he said. ‘You’re probably with friends.’
‘No, sit down,’ said Maria. ‘Please. I’ll make a space for you.’
‘Don’t worry, no – I can squeeze in there. Are you sure? You’re probably enjoying a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘No, please – you’re welcome.’
She laughed, and Michael eased himself into the seat opposite hers. She drew the table back slightly, and he tried to sit in a position that suggested he was about to get up and leave. He would leave, too – as soon as he’d glanced at the map, he’d find an excuse. She would have headphones somewhere, and be yearning to use them.
‘Higher Lee Ridge,’ he said. ‘What time are you heading off?’
‘Oh, eight o’clock. Maybe half-past seven – I don’t know.’
She was unfolding a leaflet.
‘Have you looked at the weather forecast?’ he said.
‘No. You think I should?’
‘I don’t know. Always wise.’
‘Maybe i
t will rain.’
‘It’s bound to, isn’t it? This is England.’
She laughed again, and shuddered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to look at the weather forecast. If it snows, it snows. I have waterproofs.’
‘You’re very determined, then. That’s good – you’re serious.’
‘What?’
‘About your walking. You’re serious.’
‘I’m very stupid,’ she said. ‘I will get lost, and… what if they never find me?’
She carried on smiling, and he knew he must tear his eyes away because the smile seemed too full of joy. He put his wine glass down, and as she unfolded the leaflet he saw that she had made careful notes on it. There was a drawing he’d noticed at the check-in desk, which seemed to feature one walk in particular. He picked it up and studied it.
‘“Higher Lee Ridge,”’ he read. ‘This is where you’re going?’
‘That’s where I want to go, yes.’
The hotel was marked by a red circle, and a black dotted line ran round the car park they had both crossed earlier. It took you up the steps they had descended, and you then had to walk along the road. The road must be the one the bus had taken – and after fifty metres or so, you veered off to the right across open country. The leaflet showed woods and a stream. It showed a viewpoint and what appeared to be open moorland. He turned it over, and saw that the dotted line continued past a ‘shepherd’s store’, and zigzagged. Then it was moorland all the way, and Higher Lee Ridge appeared to be a narrow, exposed pathway leading to a dramatic peak. The final sketch was of that peak: a kind of stack or column, with views in every direction.
Six hours, said the text. In fine weather. Not suitable for young children or the infirm. No climbing, but steep final ascent.
‘You’ve come up here to do this?’ he said.
Maria nodded.
‘I have two days only,’ she said. ‘A friend told me, “You have to see this place. Higher Lee Ridge – you have to see it.”’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s incredible.’
She laughed.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he said, as lightly as possible. ‘Wine, or a juice?’
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