Instead of riding home, he rode along the Holkham Road, out of Wells and up Leafy Lane to the farm. But Mrs Timms said Peter was busy with the clean-up and that Verity was recovering from a fever.
‘I’ll tell her you called,’ she said, the door already closing on him.
*
That night, the flood returned to Arthur. Black and white. Black night, a black sea and a white moon. Arthur is in the boat. Jack is saying something. Jack’s mouth is moving. The words hurt his ears. A tornado of rage and humiliation whirls through his head. He has to stop the words. His head hurts. His heart hurts.
‘Shut up!’ he shouts into Jack’s ear. He punches him round the head, white-hot anger surging through his body, mind as pitch black as the sea. He feels the bones of Jack’s head under his fists and smashes into them again and again, imagines grinding them to a pulp. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Jack says something. Perhaps he says ‘Stop.’ Jack’s body writhes like a fish, his hands against his head. But Arthur keeps punching and punching. Shutting up the jeering, leering, grinning mouth.
He stops. The writhing and jerking have ceased. Jack has fallen away from him. The cold night air and a chill fear shiver through him.
‘Jack?’ he says but there’s no answer. His hand throbs. There’s a groan from the other end of the boat. He breathes out, reaches forward to touch Jack’s body. He prods it, half imagining that it might spring up. But it doesn’t move. The churn in his gut tells him Jack is dead but it doesn’t seem possible. They were just talking.
‘Peter?’
It is the voice again, the one they thought was Verity but now he thinks he has gone mad and there is no voice. His mind feels very slow and heavy. Think. Think. He must get away from here. Get the boat to safety. But he’s being stupid. The boat is leaking. The body is weighing it down. He realises with a rush of deliverance what he has to do. He heaves Jack’s body over the side of the boat and hears the splash as it goes under the water. He waits seconds, minutes, he counts in his head to sixty, one hundred. He tries to move the half-submerged boat with the oar but the motion makes it worse and veers him alarmingly low to the water. If he stays on the boat, he will sink with it.
The water is so cold it stops up his throat. Somewhere he remembers that he has only minutes before his body will seize up. How many? He drags his arms and legs forward, one, two, one, two, counting in his head to keep going, the rhythm of it. He doesn’t know if he is swimming towards anything he can hold onto, or back, to the sea and certain death. His hand brushes something hard and he hears a scream. He imagines Jack is pulling him down into the dark. How long can he swim? Salt in his mouth and eyes. The Drowned Man. How long? He will drown and no one will ever know what he has done.
‘Who’s there?’ It’s a voice, a human voice. He must be hearing things, because it sounds like Verity. He is hearing things. It can’t be real.
‘Jack?’ says the voice and then he knows it is her.
Jack is dead because he has killed him. It is his, Arthur’s, fingers which touch hers.
*
Arthur woke in a sweat, trembling and cold, his sheets in a twisted pile on the floor. The room was dark; it felt like the middle of the night. He shivered. He clung to the side of his bed, as if it was the boat, afraid he would fall out. He closed his eyes. If he slept, he would wake up and it wouldn’t have happened. It can’t have happened. It did happen, a voice said. Shut up, he said to the voice and turned his head into his pillow, praying that he would sleep properly. The deep, dark sleep of the dead. Jack is dead, said the voice in his head and he knew he would not sleep.
4.
Verity sat at her dressing table. Her washed-out, pinched face glared back at her. It was intolerable. She let out a groan and swept her hand across the trinkets and fripperies on the table, flinging them onto the floor. For a while she sat and stared at her own destruction. A twisted tumble of necklaces and brooches were scattered across the floor. Her mother’s bottle of L’Air du Temps was on its side; the stopper rolled over by the bed and a dark wet patch of scent seeped into the rug. The room smelt violently of flowers. Jack’s Turner postcard was still upright against the looking-glass, impassively taunting her.
The telephone lines from the farm to the town remained down so every day she had tried to call the airbase for news, trudging into the town to use the public phone box but there was no news. A kind-sounding local woman answered the line on the exchange but wouldn’t put her through. She told her to go and ask at the village hall but there was never any news there either. Verity walked along the marshes, sloshing in her brother’s thigh-level waders. She was not searching for a body, she told herself, just clues. But there was nothing and everything. Hundreds, thousands of pieces of debris that came back and forth on the tide. She barely ate, everything turned her stomach, even cake. She drank endless cups of tea for warmth, but the cold of the flood had got into her bones and she couldn’t get rid of it. She smoked the Camel cigarettes Jack had brought her from the base, rationing them to eke them out, and kept the ruined Zippo in her pocket.
Finally, she took Peter’s bike out. There was snow on the ground, but only a thin covering. The roads were just passable. The plan was only half formed in her mind. It was her body that took her along Leafy Lane to the Holkham Road and past where she had been so many times. The journey felt long and slow without Jack’s motorbike and her legs ached with the effort. But they kept turning, pain shooting up her calves and thighs to her groin, and she welcomed the pain because it felt like she was at last doing something. She existed. The sky was a clear, pale blue and the white-streaked fields sparkled, and although there was a cold wind coming off the sea, that too gave her a sensation of her body as part of nature, that she was alive, as it was.
On the little track that led to the marsh, she pulled the bike through a snowy arbour of trees crackling with old snow hardened to ice. The weak sun lit it up like a glittering ice tunnel. Then onto the marsh. Her walk slowed as if she no longer wanted to get to the endpoint. The door of the shack was frozen shut and she had to get a stick to lever it open. Inside it was so cold she shivered despite the effort of the ride and her layers of woollens. She stopped in the hallway, listened, and heard only the whisper of wind in the old chimney and through the cracks in the windows. It must have been flooded too. There was scum on the walls and the smell of salt was strong as if the sea had reclaimed the space that had once been theirs. Which in a way, it had. Her feet wandered to the kitchen but there was nothing there: just their two enamel mugs on the side by the stove. She thought she heard a scuffle and started, heart lurching. She looked around wildly, but then heard another rustling and she remembered the mice.
In the bedroom, their bed. It was still as it was the last time they had been here, when they had argued. The sheets were crumpled in a ball at the end of the mattress, there were indentations on the thin pillows at the head, and on the floor, a chipped saucer they used for an ashtray with stubs of their cigarettes. Her legs couldn’t take the weight of her body and she lay down on the bed, full-length, in her coat, hat and scarf, face pressed against his pillow. The mingled scents of sex and sweat were faint, but still detectable. If she closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, she could suck in his distinctive scent that was just him: the musk of his cologne, the tang of the Brylcreem and the particular sharpness of his sweat. She lay there a long time, crying, but not sobbing, letting tears wet her cheeks and soak into the sheets. It was as if she had no energy for the breakdown she expected. She’d hoped in some part of herself that he would be here, knowing at the same time that he would not be. There was still a chance he would be found, a voice said, and she tried to pin her thoughts on that. She couldn’t let herself think he was gone forever, because it would all be gone then – the secrets they’d shared and the promise of escape he meant.
It would soon be dark. Her body felt bloated and tender as if a mere touch would bruise her. She should leave, but she couldn’t be
ar to. It was here they had been together. She wanted something of it, something to take with her. But what was there? A couple of chipped enamel mugs, her sketches. In the bedroom, there was a dark, heavy wardrobe. The door was stiff and she had to wrench it open. There was nothing in it, just some old wire hangers, and she was going to shut it, but then at the top, on the hat shelf, there was a darker shape. She couldn’t quite reach so she got a chair. It was probably something belonging to the old crabber who’d lived here, but her heart was pounding anyway. When she pulled it down, it was a black leather bag, like a briefcase with a metal clasp and a small keyhole. It was locked. She tugged at it; she tried to saw it through with a knife but it wouldn’t budge. Exhausted and defeated, puffy with crying, she lay back down on the bed.
With the light ebbing from the sky, she dragged herself over to the window and stared out, not seeing. There was the silver line of the path that led through the marsh to the woods and the sea. Her body was a heavy, swollen sack. She could not imagine moving. As she watched the daylight leave the marsh, something white shifted on the horizon. She realised she was watching people along the line of the pine trees. Mesmerised by the movement, she watched the tiny figures disappear out of sight. She was about to turn away when there was another flicker of movement by the woods, much closer now. People – two men – were in front of the pine trees. Something made her keep looking. She never did know why she didn’t just turn away.
*
In the nightmares, words came out of Jack’s mouth.
Playing at spies.
A kid’s game.
I should have told you about Vee.
It’s complicated, Art.
His own voice cut in.
Shut up. Shut up.
Arthur woke, gasping, his body cold and clammy with sweat.
A rapping at the door. ‘What is it, Arthur? You were shouting.’ His mother.
‘Nothing, it’s all right. Just a nightmare.’
In the kitchen, she handed him a cup of tea. He must have slept in. ‘I didn’t like to wake you. You look so tired.’ She reached up to touch his face but he flinched. He couldn’t bear to be touched. All skin felt so slimy and cold. ‘You were shouting in your sleep,’ she said. ‘You were shouting – “Shut up!” Raving. I think the cold’s got to your nerves.’ She talked on and on about the doctor and remedies but he stopped listening.
Then she said, ‘I almost forgot to tell you. A policeman came round this morning, while you were asleep. He was asking about that American you were with. He wouldn’t tell me why. I said he’d have to wait for you to wake up, but you’d be happy to go down to the station to help them. He seemed like a nice sort of young man.’
A chill rippled through him.
It would be easy to open his mouth and say, I killed him. I killed him. I don’t know how. I don’t remember how I did it, but I did. I think I did. He wondered what she would do. But his mouth stayed shut.
He ought to have told someone straight away, when he and Verity had been rescued from the tree. He ought to have said that a man was out there. And yet the lie had already been told by then. He’d told Ver there was no one in the boat and when dawn came there were people, and there was never a moment to say it, to speak the truth. Now it was too late because everyone would wonder why he hadn’t said anything before.
What could he say? Officer, I have something I need to tell you. The missing American, John Doherty, known as Jack, was with me the night of the flood. Oh yes, they would say, pencil poised, waiting, curious. He fell out of the boat, officer. There was nothing I could do. He disgusted himself with his pathetic humbling act. He could not explain, that was the trouble, he could not explain. I lost him in the dark, officer. I wanted to tell someone but… It was a lie. A lie. They would know it was a lie.
‘You’re not eating properly, Arthur.’
He looked down at the remains of the gloop in his bowl, but couldn’t stomach another mouthful. He picked up the bowl and scraped the gluey remains into the bin. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he said.
‘But you have to eat,’ his mother said, imploring.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. He held the spoon in mid-air. What if they just wanted to ask him some questions? He didn’t have to tell them the truth. He was with Jack, then he disappeared. Nothing about the boat. No idea what happened to him, officer. Although he felt bad at her fallen face as he left, he couldn’t do anything about it. He had to go, now, right now, before he lost the nerve.
Inside the station, a police constable was at the desk with a pencil in his mouth, drumming the counter. Arthur recognised him. He was not much older than him, a callow, thin youth with a hint of old acne around his jaw. He hadn’t noticed Arthur coming in and he was about to cough when the PC put a finger up, keeping his eyes on the paper in front of him until he had finished with the form he was filling in. His name was Blowers; Arthur remembered him as one of the raggedy kids who used to run around with Muriel – the village children as opposed to those at the grammar or, certainly, the big houses, like Howe Farm. It would have been easier for Arthur if he’d embraced a job like this, a cut above shopkeeping but nothing too startlingly out of his class. But he despised the likes of Blowers, that was his problem. He’d left them behind when he went to the grammar but he’d never belonged with Verity’s class either. He was lost.
‘Hello, Mr Silver, thanks for coming in. Stay there.’ He waved at Arthur to remain where he was and called through the back, ‘Doris? Can you cover me?’ A neat middle-aged lady with half-moon glasses and a pinched mouth smiled at the policeman and took his seat.
Blowers emerged into the waiting area, still talking, holding out a large warm hand for Arthur to shake. ‘How’s your mother? Terrible damage to her shop I heard. This way, please.’ He put his hand on Arthur’s elbow and steered him to a bare, windowless interview room.
‘Yes,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘She wants to reopen as soon as possible.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said the policeman. There was a long pause. Arthur could almost see the gears changing in Blowers’ brain. ‘I wanted to ask you about one of our American friends.’ The policeman smiled. He waited patiently for Arthur to say something.
‘I was with him on the night of the flood.’ Blowers’ face remained unperturbed, merely waited for Arthur to carry on. ‘We rescued some of the people from the prefabs. Then we went out to the farm. We wanted to help our friend Peter, you see. Only he hasn’t been found.’
‘Peter? Do you mean Mr Frost’s son Peter? He’s absolutely fine. Well, as fine as any of us can be at the moment. Over at the farm right now, I should imagine. Terrible what’s happened out there though—’
‘No!’ Arthur almost shouted. It was going wrong and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get it out unless he did it now. Constable Blowers’ bright, beady eyes widened and he pulled back slightly in his seat as if alarmed by Arthur’s manner. Arthur lowered his voice. ‘Sorry, I know about Peter. I meant Jack, the American. He’s missing. He went missing that night. He’d been with me.’
‘Yes, there’s still a few of them not found. Awful it is. I feel for their families, not knowing. I mean, they do know they’ll not turn up, not now, but it’s very hard not having a body to bury.’ He stopped and peered at Arthur. ‘I spoke to your mother, Mrs Silver. Friend of yours then, this Jack?’
‘Sort of. The thing I was trying to tell you was that we were out on a boat, and afterwards, he went missing.’ He stopped. This was the moment to tell the man the truth; that Jack had been with him on the boat, at the end. He felt faint as if all the blood had drained from his head.
‘It were you what found Miss Frost, weren’t it, Mr Silver? Reckon you’ve had a hard time of it yourself.’ His voice was gentle but his small eyes were sharp.
‘Yes,’ he said, then in a rush, ‘the boat sank and I swam and found Verity, Miss Frost I mean, but… But I don’t know what happened to Jack. I should have said something when they found us. I
’m sorry.’
The policeman was looking at him across the counter with an expression of kindly concern. ‘That’s all perfectly understandable, Mr Silver. Terrible things happened that night and people forgot themselves. You were probably half mad with cold. I know I was. I said to my mother that I could imagine what it must have been like for Oates on one of those Antarctic expeditions, I did.’ He went on in the same vein, telling Arthur his dull, pointless tales from the night of the flood. Arthur nodded and murmured interest, but he wasn’t listening. His words had flown up and disappeared. The policeman seemed to have no interest in the missing man at all.
But then the flow of reminiscing abruptly stopped. ‘You said you didn’t see Mr Doherty, Mr Silver?’ He said it as if it had only just occurred to him but Arthur’s heart banged hard.
‘I did, earlier on. Then I lost sight of him.’ This was a form of the truth.
‘I see. An Air Force officer called in the day after the flood, you see. Let us know there was one of theirs they were keen to locate. This Mr Doherty was the name he mentioned, funnily enough. Didn’t tell me why. I presumed he must have been important in some way for them to make a special point of mentioning it.’
Arthur’s blood raced. They had been looking for him. They just hadn’t connected Jack to him.
‘Tell you what, how’s about this? If it’ll ease your mind and mine, what about we do another trawl of the area, see what turns up?’
Arthur could not think of anything more horrifying. But surely, the body might never be found. Then again, he’d have a head start on the Air Force if he found it first. He couldn’t think straight. ‘Right. Yes, that would be good,’ he heard himself say but through a thick membrane of fog.
The policeman beamed at him and took him back to the waiting area. He bustled around behind the desk. Arthur could hear talking round the back but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Maybe someone senior would come and talk to him. Why had he come? He had come to confess, hadn’t he? He thought that if they came now, someone sympathetic, who could see into his soul and see the rot there, if they came with a cup of tea and a kind word, a hand on the shoulder, he would tell them everything, all of it, just to rid himself of the sickness. But he waited and no one came except thin-faced Constable Blowers. He said that if Jack had gone missing from Wells as Arthur said he had, then the chances were his body would turn up further along the coast. ‘Could be anywhere up to Cromer now, but you can never be too sure of these things.’ Arthur began to think that the young policeman was more astute than his slow, Norfolk drawl implied. He was conscious of the twitching of his fingers, the involuntary tapping of his foot. He must scream suspicious, even to a local plod like Blowers. But he couldn’t very well refuse to help find his ‘friend’.
The Night of the Flood Page 22