Firewatching

by Russ Thomas

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Lillian?”

  Lily looks down at the floor. “No . . . I mean . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

  Edna turns back to the screen. “I thought there might be.” She adjusts herself in the chair, wriggling her toes in her moccasins. It’s an odd movement given the conversation they are having, almost playful in intent, her feet flopping back and forth like windscreen wipers. In moccasins! That she last saw propped up on the Cavalier footstool.

  Edna must see the realization in Lily’s eyes, because she suddenly lets loose with a devastating smile. She reaches into her cardigan and pulls out the crumpled letter. “How long has this been going on?”

  Lily can’t speak.

  “Well?” A pause for effect, then, “Lillian Josephine Bainbridge, I asked you a question! Clearly this isn’t the first, so how many have there been?”

  Lily rises and fetches the first letter from its hiding place in the grandmother clock. She passes it to Edna, who reads it slowly, frowning. It takes her an inordinately long time for a message consisting of just five words. But then, Lily supposes she herself must have studied those words in much the same way when she first read them, as though the answers to their author, not to mention their meaning, might be visible on the page somewhere.

  I know what you did.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Edna asks.

  Lily shrugs.

  “Of all the stupid—”

  “Edna, please don’t call me stupid. I’m not stupid.”

  Edna stares at her. “No,” she says. “No, you are not. I’m sorry. But that is exactly why I would have expected you to tell me about this. This . . .” She waves the crumpled letters in her fist. “This isn’t something we can ignore.”

  “I’m not ignoring it.”

  “Oh, Lillian, what have you done?”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve done something stu—” She changes what she was going to say. “Something inadvisable.”

  Lily sighs. She’s standing in front of Edna with her hands behind her back. She begins to tell her everything, just as though she’s reporting to the headmistress. How easily she gives up control. Edna listens silently, nods occasionally. Finally, Lily mentions her meeting with Joe Wentworth.

  When she is finished, Edna says, “You are to go nowhere near that man ever again.” As though she has any intention of doing so! “If he talks to you, you will tell me. Immediately.”

  Lily bristles at this but finds herself saying, “I won’t. Of course I won’t. But I’m sure he isn’t responsible for this. It’s why I think we should go on this trip. We can talk to people. See if anyone is behaving unusually.”

  “Lillian, this is not a game!” Edna slams her hand down on the arm of her chair. “This isn’t some pulp-fiction detective novel, you do realize that?”

  “Of course I do, Edna, I—”

  Edna tuts over her. “Such nonsense. Of course we are not going to Whitby, and there’s an end to it.” She folds the letters in her hand and tucks them back into her cardigan, taking ownership, taking back the reins.

  Lily is furious. Edna has no right to cut her out of this. “Well, you can please yourself,” she says, “but I think I’m going to go.”

  “You can think again.”

  “I have, and I’m going.”

  Edna doesn’t reply, and Lily realizes she is physically exhausted. It must have taken every last ounce of strength she had to get up the stairs and carry the footstool back down. It makes Lily wonder how she knew. She must have, of course. How had Lily given herself away? Perhaps it was earlier when Edna asked what she had been doing upstairs. Is she really so easy to read? Or is there some part of that conversation she can’t remember? Lily wants to cry. To be unable to trust your own memory; it is so terribly unfair. But she refuses to ask. She will remember!

  Lily turns away and moves into the kitchen to start on dinner. In this way the conversation ends, since Edna will not shout between rooms and has no energy left for pursuit. Lily wonders why she’s never thought of this before. It’s the perfect escape strategy.

  This won’t be the end of it, of course. Edna will raise the subject again at bedtime, but far from dreading the argument, Lily finds herself ready for it. She has made her decision. This time she will not quietly acquiesce. She has done far too much of that in her life already. She knows Edna only wants to protect her, but it is becoming increasingly obvious to both of them that she won’t be able to for very much longer. It’s Lily’s turn to do the protecting now, and to do that she needs to find out what happened—what she did—to make someone attempt to blackmail her. She is determined to piece it together, whether Edna likes it or not.

  * * *

  —

  When Tyler gets to the pub, Oscar is waiting outside. He’s sitting in a silver BMW convertible, the top down, the black flames of his tattoo wrapped round the headrest of the passenger seat. “Get in,” he says.

  Tyler folds his arms across his chest. “Come inside, Oscar. We need to talk.”

  “We will. It’s just . . .” The cocky Oscar is gone again, replaced by the vulnerable one. “Please? I want to show you something.”

  Tyler hesitates for a moment and then climbs into the car.

  They pick their way through the early evening traffic, negotiating tram tracks, bus gates, and the one-way system, until they are out of the city center and winding along the curves of the A57 toward Manchester. The Snake Pass. Sharp bends give way to intermittent stretches of long, straight tarmac. When they reach these spots, Oscar puts his foot down, taking the car to its limit before braking hard again for the next turn. They travel in silence. Tyler wants to ask where they are headed but refuses to give Oscar the satisfaction. The erratic driving feels like a challenge, a deliberate attempt at breaking rules, of disregarding Tyler’s authority. So he says nothing, just closes his eyes, slumps in his seat, and forces himself to relax. With the top down on the convertible the wind blasts across his face, but the air is warm and far from unpleasant. Tyler smiles to himself.

  How does he end up in these situations? He still hasn’t decided what, if anything, to tell Jordan, but he’s damned if he’ll pose as Doggett’s honey trap. Then again, isn’t that exactly what he’s doing right now? This is hardly a conventional interview with a suspect. He wonders why he hasn’t heard anything from the DI yet. Perhaps because he knew what Tyler would do all along. And then he wonders why Doggett didn’t mention that he used to play golf with Gerald Cartwright. Doesn’t that make him guilty of not declaring interests as well? But then, playing golf with someone and sleeping with someone are hardly the same thing.

  The car slows for another bend. Tyler opens his eyes and sees a set of traffic lights ahead of them. The lights change to green, but Oscar takes the left turn at the junction. Tyler recognizes the place as Ladybower Reservoir. He remembers one particular Sunday when his father brought them here on a family outing. And he remembers how they’d left early when Richard was called into work. Jude sulked half the way home until Richard shouted at him, while their mother spent the entire journey in silence. Tyler kept his eyes on her all the way. He knew something was wrong even then. How did the others not? Why didn’t he say something? Looking back, he supposes it wouldn’t have made much difference. She must have already made her decision by then. A couple of weeks later she walked out of their lives for good.

  Oscar stops the car in a small unpaved parking lot and switches off the engine. Still he doesn’t speak, but gets out of the car and walks to the edge of the reservoir. Tyler takes his time to catch up.

  The evening sun glints across the surface of the huge man-made lake that stretches out before them. Beyond it and all around them, the Y-shaped Derwent Valley is lush with green foliage, and the occasional splash of pink heather. They stand together, looking out
across the wide expanse of golden water.

  “The body we found,” Tyler begins.

  “I know.” Oscar wraps his arms around himself. “I got a call from a reporter at the Star earlier.”

  Damn Elliot for letting that out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

  Oscar shrugs. “It’s not exactly unexpected, is it?”

  The water laps gently at the shore just a few inches from their feet.

  “My father used to bring me here,” Oscar says. “With Edna and Lil. They told me the story of how they built the place during the war. Do you know it?”

  He does, but he lets Oscar tell it. How they flooded the two villages of Ashopton and Derwent, first demolishing one but leaving the other just as it was.

  “When the water level’s low,” he goes on, “you can still see it. Like a drowned world. The clock tower of the church sticking right up out of the water. At least, you used to be able to.”

  “I think they blew it up for safety reasons.”

  The sun is beginning to drop behind the hills.

  “I think about this place sometimes,” Oscar says. “A village frozen in time.” He moves forward, crouches down close to the edge of the water. “I’ve been waiting six years to find out what happened to him, but nothing’s really changed, has it? I thought things might be different now. Knowing for sure that he’s never coming back.”

  “It takes time,” says Tyler. But only because it’s what you’re supposed to say, not because he believes it.

  There’s a single crystal-clear droplet of water sliding down Oscar’s gaunt cheek. It winks in the dying light of the sun.

  “You asked why I joined the police,” Tyler says. Oscar looks up at him. “When I was sixteen my father committed suicide. I joined the force to get closer to him, a man who consistently let me down, right to the end.”

  Oscar takes Tyler’s hand and squeezes it. A car speeds past them on the main road, its horn blaring as one of the occupants leans out of the window and shouts some obscenity at them that’s lost in the slipstream.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Sophie,” Oscar says.

  “It’s not my business.”

  “I hoped it might be.” Oscar looks away again, out over the lake. “I thought maybe afterward, you know, when this is all over . . . ?”

  Tyler lets go of Oscar’s hand. “We should get back,” he says, as the last sliver of sun slips behind the hills and dark shadows turn the water to ink.

  * * *

  —

  Tyler lets the hot water pelt his face, massaging life back into his features. He imagines what it might be like to come home to something other than an empty flat, a quick shower, a microwaved meal. To have someone to confide in, to talk to about his fucked-up childhood. Someone he could go to about his concerns regarding Doggett. Why didn’t the man tell him that he knew Cartwright? And the fire at the house that he’s sure now, more than ever, is somehow connected to Gerald Cartwright’s tattered corpse. And the painting.

  Not that he could share any of those things with Oscar even if he were here. Strangely, the image that forms in his head is of the broad frame of the fire officer wrapped in thin gray cotton. Tyler lathers his hands with shower gel and rubs them across his body, working the kinks out of his tired limbs.

  As he turns off the shower he hears someone banging loudly on the front door. He grabs a towel and steps out of the bath, drips his way quickly into the corridor.

  Another pounding threatens to take the hinges off. He looks through the fisheye lens and sees Doggett’s fun-house-hall-of-mirrors nose filling his vision. He can make out the sharp brown hairs in his nostrils. He opens the door.

  Doggett looks him up and down, his fingers rapping out his theme tune on the doorframe. “Get your kecks on, son, the SOCO boys have dug something up.”

  The water drips from Tyler’s body and gathers in cold pools around his feet. “What sort of something?” he asks.

  Doggett’s fingers stop abruptly.

  “Another body sort of something.”

  day four

  9673 pageviews—4 posts, last published

  Saturday, 17 September—807 followers

  San Francisco, 1906

  You’ve always loved that Judy Garland song. It reminds you of your mother, her broken voice warbling in competition with Judy’s, not helped by the vodka and Coke in her hand. For years you thought San Francisco was some sort of magical place, like Narnia. When things got bad, near the end, you would lie staring at the wardrobe door, willing the doors to open and whisk you away to that fairy-tale land in your mother’s song.

  San Franciscans talk about “The Big One,” the moment when their house-of-cards city will be swallowed by the San Andreas Fault. They wear their vulnerability like a badge of honor, partying hard, awaiting the inevitable end. You’d like to think of yourself as that sort of person.

  Did they think it was the end back then? The morning of April 18, 1906. 5:15 a.m. The earthquake measured 8.25 on the Richter scale. It lasted for just one minute. That doesn’t sound long, does it?

  Just sixty seconds. But how long does it feel when the earth is moving under your feet? With buildings cascading all around you, and explosions ripping holes in the sidewalk. Ruptured gas mains blowing concrete and dust high into the clear bay sky.

  Then come the flames, roaring down Market Street. Fire officers set dynamite charges in order to destroy buildings and create artificial firebreaks. Unfortunately, the fire officers had no training in this, and ended up contributing to the problem more than solving it. As word spread that their insurance policies didn’t cover earthquake damage, desperate homeowners and crafty businessmen began setting fire to their own properties. But the quake had ruptured the water main, and all attempts to bring the fires under control soon began to falter. People trapped in burning buildings begged the police to shoot them rather than be burned alive. The police obliged.

  Three thousand people were dead before the end. But then, that wasn’t the end, was it? There’s never an end for those who survive. They have to go on living with the memories, trying to forget.

  Do you remember the first time he took you to that place? The cold draft from the wind whistling up through the slatted floorboards. You thought it would just be the two of you, but he had other plans. He told you that you didn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to. You remember how his face changed when the others arrived, and you realized you didn’t know this man at all and that even if you did you no longer had any choice. You remember the pictures and the trophies lining the walls, boys and girls in green and brown uniforms looking down on you. You remember how they watched and they laughed.

  But you survived all that. And more than that. It wasn’t the Big One for you.

  The Big One is still to come.

  POSTED BY thefirewatcher AT 9:57 AM

  5 COMMENTS

  KHainsworth said . . .

  Dude, what’s the Judy Garland song?

  helenM1972 said . . .

  It’s San Francisco from the 1936 musical of the same name about the 1906 Earthquake. It stars Jeanette MacDonald and Clark Gable and was nominated for 6 academy awards.

  RDAtack said . . .

  Earthquakes are no longer measured on the Richter scale but by means of the Moment Magnitude Scale: Mw1 where w represents the mechanical work accomplished. The moment magnitude is a dimensionless number: Mw = 2/3(log10M0−16:0). Although this method wasn’t developed until the 1970s.

  Dublinsmouse said . . .

  Fuck off @RDAtack you boring wanker

  PerryA said . . .

  Actually, the Richter scale was invented in 1935 so we can only really guess the magnitude of the SF earthquake. Fun fact! I used to work in the Audiffred Building, one of the few buildings in SF to survive the quake and the demolition. It was slated for demolition to create
a fire-break but the owner gave the firefighters beer so they’d skip it.

  DarkHorsey said . . .

  (This comment has been removed due to inappropriate content. For a full explanation of terms and conditions please contact the administrator.)

  The second body lies curled in a shallow grave of half brick and rubble, returned in death to the fetal position in which it began life. Since the extraction of Gerald Cartwright, the SOCO team has been painstakingly sifting through the debris behind the ruined wall, a routine search for evidence that has unearthed something far from routine. Tyler inches his way backward out of the partially demolished cellar wall and straightens.

  Behind him, Doggett shuffles his feet in the rubble. “Definitely a woman?” he asks.

  Elliot looks paler than ever, his white scene-of-crime suit shining in the light of the arc lamps. “Aye.”

  “The body’s been here longer,” Tyler points out. The skeletal remains are further decayed than Cartwright’s, despite their being buried deeper.

  “My guess is ten years plus.” Elliot turns and places a gloved hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “You’ll notice the use of the word ‘guess,’ mind.”

  Doggett snorts. “All right, Doc, we won’t hold you to anything. God forbid you should give us any specifics.”

  Elliot’s face creases with a tight smile. “How’s that lovely wife of yours, Jim?”

  “Still banging her gym instructor as far as I know. Speaking of wives . . . ?”

  “The missing Cynthia Cartwright?” Elliot shrugs.