by Andy Tilley
I pick up and only at the very last moment do I remember to sound too poorly to work but not seriously ill. The result is a hastily contrived kind of squeaking, asthmatic whine that sounds more like my granny on helium than stomach cramp but luckily for me, this isn’t the boss; it’s the police constable who I reported my concerns about Ruby to yesterday. After asking me if I am okay and then checking once more (I forgot to revert to my natural voice when I answered him that I’m fine) he finally gets to his point; he has some news and I should go to the station this afternoon. He won’t tell me anymore than this but does insist that Ruby is fine and that I shouldn’t worry but that it is important that he speaks to me. The police man sounds anything but fine and even though I demand that he should explain more, when he declines a third opportunity to do so (offering instead to send a car to collect me) I realize that this is perhaps a serious business that’s beginning. I promise to be at the station as soon as possible and put the phone down. Karma can be so cruel and fast acting too because immediately that the call is finished my stomach sets off into sharp twisting turns of stressful cramp, so severe that I need to sit and hold my arms across it for a while until it settles. The constable’s rather unsettling mix of vague reassurances and ominous insistence, taken on top of Aunt May’s crazy X-file style attempt to expose my boyfriend’s true nature, turns out to be a rather sickening cocktail.
The small blue door of the police station seems to have shrunk. I’m not sure that I can get through it. This is how Alice must have felt before entering Wonderland except for one subtle difference because, whilst there’s no doubt that the enchantment beyond will still have dormice, white rabbits and Cheshire cats, I can’t help thinking that they’re all dead. Trouble is I have to go in and find out about Ruby so taking a deep breath I twist the door knob and through the looking glass I go.
‘Rose? Rose Williams, yes? Oh thanks for coming down at such short notice love. Tom’s expecting you so if you’d like to come through I’ll show you to his office. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
As we walk I order tea, two sugars and a drop of milk. The police woman leads me past the reception desk and down a bright yellow corridor. I can honestly say that I’ve never been inside this place before and everything about it is different to how I imagined it to be. It’s light and warm for a start and as it turns out this small village cop shop has no cells so the noise the place makes isn’t a psychotic symphony of tin mugs clanging on bars. I can’t smell urine either but I can smell coffee and the lady stops at a small kitchen to prepare my drink. She shouts for Tom and his head pops out of a doorway less than five paces further down. First impressions? The bloke looks more stressed out than the mad hatter.
‘Rose, thanks for coming down at such short notice. Please, come and in and grab a seat. Beryl will bring your brew through when it’s ready.’
The office door hadn’t been shut when I arrived but whatever he wants to talk to me about requires Tom to not only close but lock it too. Pointless really because no sooner has he turned the key and taken his seat behind the desk than my tea arrives. From the corridor Beryl moans about how ridiculous it is to lock the door when there’s only the three of them in the whole building and Tom excuses himself whilst he collects my drink and reminds her that station protocol has to be followed during interviews. Is this what this is? An interview?
‘By the way Rose, this isn’t an interview. But she doesn’t have to know that now does she.’
I wait for him to get back to his side of a very neat pile of light blue cardboard folders stacked to one side of a PC monitor before asking him what it is if it isn’t an interview and also if has he found Ruby yet.
‘Yes and no Rose, yes and no. We haven’t found Ruby but then again, we’re not looking for her either. Like I promised I would, I went round to Peter Statham’s house this morning to have a chat with him.’
From the top folder Tom takes a single sheet of paper. On it is a hand written account by Pete of how, on Friday evening shortly after they had finished setting up camp, he had discovered ‘texts of a romantic nature’ on Ruby’s phone. This didn’t sound very ‘Pete like’ but I guess Tom is translating all this into police lingo. Pete and Ruby spent the whole of Friday night talking about this and eventually they decided, quite amicably according to Pete’s words, that they should split. Ruby called her lover and organized for him to collect her as soon as possible which turned out to be the following day around lunch time. And that was that? Case closed Tom? So why hasn’t she answered her texts for four days then? Don’t you think she would have found time to contact her best friend and fill her in on this life changing event? What does the letter say about that then Columbo? To my surprise, quite a bit as it turns out.
‘And I quote, Ruby wanted to be alone. I asked what I should say to Rose and the rest of them and she said that we should say nothing for a few days because she wanted time to get her head together. To make sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. by anyone she left her phone with me but I was so angry with her that after they had driven off that I just threw it in the woods. Unquote.’
Huh, fancy that.
‘Well thanks very much for everything Tom, and I’m sorry to have troubled you with this but we were starting to worry. So I take it Pete is still at his flat then? I’d like to catch him and have a chat on my way home.’
Tom slides the letter back into the folder. It’s only now that I notice what’s written on the front of it in thick black letters. Next to the case number is printed Peter Statham, not Ruby Stevens. Why is that? Why has Pete got a case to close and Ruby hasn’t?
‘Perhaps I should have explained earlier Rose. This isn’t a statement as such, it wasn’t taken from an interview. This was a suicide note, and that’s why I need your help.’
Today has gone far beyond the weirdness of breakfast. As I leave the police station and climb into the patrol car I can sense a dark twist developing on the horizon, something that I am completely not happy about and the worst of it is that I’m not even allowed to run away, hanker down and ride it out in the storm cellar. Apparently it’s my civic duty to stand in the open and wait for that menacing tornado to devour me, spin me around. Okay, I understand that helping the police out is important but surely I’ve done my bit so why should I be the one who has to identify Pete’s body? This is total crap if you ask me. I mean come on Tom, the police know who he is! That’s why you went round to his place this morning remember? That wasn’t a random address I gave you. So if it wasn’t Pete that you found hanging from the ceiling there, who the hell do you suppose it to be? Call me naïve but I never realized that it was such a common event, having suicidal strangers knock on the door and ask if they can borrow a length of rope. Cheers mate, and sorry to be a complete pain but would it be okay if I strung myself up in your living room because mine is a right tip and I’d hate to be found swinging in a dump. Tom won’t listen though. He’s sympathetic enough but he’s insisting that someone has to identify the body and as Pete doesn’t appear to have any next of kin (and god knows where Ruby is) then I’m the next best thing. Jesus, I forgot about Ruby! She’ll be devastated when she finds out and even though the note doesn’t blame her it’s pretty obvious that the break up was simply too much for him.
We’ve arrived. Outside the small health clinic come treatment center, yet another building in the village that I have no recollection of ever having been in. Somewhere inside its yellow brick walls is the eye of the tornado and the sooner I get this done the sooner blue skies will return and save the day. I recognize the girl behind the reception but she doesn’t acknowledge me and her total yet awkward professionalism as she checks Tom’s credentials leads me to believe that having to adapt treatment room number two for use as temporary morgue is a rare event. Rare, but not unforeseen for the notice on the door has been produced by a sign making machine and clearly states that admission is restricted and can only be given if accompanied by a police officer or coroner. Coroner. Damn i
t, I‘ve seen what coroners have to see, on the television. Their patients are always dead, decayed and bruised death masks frozen in some terrified screaming plea for mercy, their last expression as life abandoned them. No way, I can’t do it. I can’t stand there and watch the bag get unzipped. Especially because there’s no bloody point!
‘We already know who it is so why do I have to do this!’
‘I know Rose, and I‘m sorry to have to put you through this but trust me, this will all be over as quickly as possible. Now, let me tell you how this will happen. The body is lying on a trolley. It’s behind a screen but it isn’t covered over. When we go inside I’ll go behind the screen and I’ll ask you to confirm that the body is that of Peter Statham. There’ll be no rush so you take your time. His head will be at the end nearest to you so when you feel ready just lean around the screen, take a quick look and just say yes or no. That okay?’
No Tom, it isn’t okay. But it’s going to have to be I suppose. Mind you, if all I need to do is pop my head around the screen and say yes or no, maybe I can keep my eyes closed or just stop them at the hair line. I don’t actually have to look at his face and no one would be any the wiser. My heart is hammering again and stomach cramps are slowly returning (damn you Karma!) and by the time the door has closed us inside, with only two paces between me and a dead person, I am physically shaking. Tom reassures me once more and reminds me what to do as he carefully pulls back the curtain and slips behind. I breathe deeply, three times, long and loud. Tom stays quiet but as I repeat this attempt at lowering my blood pressure for a third time he speaks.
‘When you’re ready Rose. In your own time.’
This is police speak for get a move on it’s almost lunchtime. Here goes; one….two ….three…pop.
I haven’t closed my eyes and neither have I stopped at the hair line. The result is very disappointing. Pete looks more like he is taking a nap than beginning his journey to the other side. Totally under whelmed I move further in but freeze mid step to check that this is okay.
‘Sure, come in Rose. So is it Peter Statham?’
‘Yep. That’s Pete. Is it okay if I touch him?’
How and why this macabre moment made me ask this question I will never understand but all my fears had stayed outside the screen leaving only an inquisitive desire to test how far I can go. Tom nods. He doesn’t look to be the slightest bit taken aback and his nonchalance is all the encouragement I need to reach out and grab Pete’s hand. It feels warm and soft, warmer than it did in life and not at all clammy. Without warning I begin to cry and I realize how much I am going to miss hating this man. I’m still sniffing tears, taking in as much of this scene as possible (so that I will be able to console Ruby when she eventually shows up) when there is a knock at the door. A rather urgent voice asks if Tom is inside and explains that it’s Jeremy and that he got Tom’s message. Tom tells me that it’s the doctor and slips back through the screen to let him in. When he returns he is with a middle aged, very well dressed gent; clean shaven, tidy hair and immaculate finger nails. He doesn’t disturb me, doesn’t really acknowledge me at all but quickly busies himself at the head end of the corpse, bent slightly with his back facing me. Then, with no warning at all his cool, sharp appearance is suddenly betrayed by an agitated jerk that makes me jump as he straightens up and whispers something illegible but quite rude. Tom turns to me and looks concerned about whether or not I should still be here but whatever decision he was about to make is too late; the doctor has already slipped a scalpel from his inside jacket pocket, bent back over the head and sliced something.
‘Shit Tom, it’s back.’
Chapter 11
They tell the children different.
Some folks say silkies are men at midnight;
And that's to keep the children in their bed.
Some folks say it's on Allhallows Eve that silkies are men, come for wicked children and dandle them down in the waves and drown them;
And that's to keep them good.
Some folks say the silkies are the spirits of dead hunters;
And that's to comfort widows, and it's not true.
I've looked for my dad; none of them beasts is him.
Some say the silkies are men when as they like.
Some they're men when as they walk on the land.
Some say only great silkie turns into a man.
It's all untrue because if we should doubt who is a man and who is not, we'd soon be looking slyly at each other: "Is he a silkie really?"
Thomas Chevalier closes the book and looks out to sea. There’s still no sign of the end for him; no sail heaving his way or engine humming his name in the offing. The only noises he can hear are huge splashes as his daughter heaves rocks into a flat calm sea, the cry of gulls and the screams of the girl in the tower they circle. How long she will scream he has no idea but the noise doesn’t concern him; it can’t be heard beyond the first few hundred yards of open water. His daughter is concerned by it though and she carefully turns around, drops to all fours and slowly makes her way back toward him across slippy, trippy pebbles.
‘Are you sure that they’ll be okay daddy? I mean, I have heard that if you scream too hard for too long then they can fall out and what would we do then?’
This is a story. Christine has become a very competent teller of tales over the years. They always, but always include the phrase ‘I have heard’ and whenever she is challenged she insists that her father was there too but that his hearing isn’t as good as hers is because he doesn’t have to rely on ears. He has eyes that work.
‘Please tell her to stop daddy.’
‘Okay Princess, I’ll go and talk to her again but you promise me to throw your stones from here whilst I’m away and not to go near the water. Okay?’
In spite of her propensity toward story telling his daughter isn’t a liar and her word is all he needs. Leaving her on the beach he makes his way up shallow basalt steps towards the light tower. The door at the base is hooked by a padlock but not clasped and Thomas is quickly inside, climbing around the one hundred or so steps that curl thirty meters upward to the watch room where the lantern and the girl are kept. The stairway is lit naturally by three slits of glass equally spaced through the climb and it’s only by counting these that Thomas can gauge how far he has to go, when its time to begin rummaging in his pocket to find the key he will need to access the lamp room. He knocks on the door and the screaming stops but only long enough to morph into a desperate shout.
‘Please! Please let me go. Why are you doing this to me! Please!’
‘Listen Ruby, you need to calm down. Now if you go away from the door and tell me when you’re on the other side of the lamp then I can come in and we can talk about this again. I’m not going to harm you, I give you my word, so please.’
The keeper isn’t lying; he truly has no intention of harming his prisoner. On the other hand, he isn’t telling the truth either because he well knows that Ruby will never leave this god forsaken lump of rock. But if he can keep this from her for a few more days then every one will have a better time for it. Hearing the girls call bounce around a thousand prisms to find him from the other side of the lamp lens, Thomas turns the key and joins her.
Under any other circumstance the lamp room would be a fantastic place to spend time. The space is contained by a perfectly curved wall of diamond shaped panes, each piece of glass attached to the next by a black iron frame, sixteen feet in diameter. Even the flat grey light of the day outside is revitalized by it, pouring in from every direction. Above there is an iron dome. Strong and untouched by centuries of abuse it stands still, proud of its unblemished record, of a life dedicated to protecting the heart of the tower; a fantastically engineered mass of prisms that turns slowly at the centre of the room. Yes, under any other circumstance Thomas Chevalier could lose hours in this place but its clinical beauty is stained by the stench of fear and the sobs of a woman that is close to losing her mind.
‘Please Ruby,
you really need to calm down.’
‘Please, please, please, please….’
He does have pity, of course he does, but there is nothing he can do. A deal has been struck and it’s far too late in the day to pull away from it. The girl has to be here, in the tower, when they arrive and that’s the end of it. Thomas isn’t sure what to say or why he even bothered to climb here at all. But then he does remember.
‘It isn’t doing any good Ruby. No one can hear you and I wouldn’t ask for myself but all this screaming and carrying on is starting to upset Christine and she’s struggling to sleep at…’