Sympathy for the Devil

by Howard Marks

Catrin found a table at the back while Huw waited for service at the counter. A tall, cadaverous man was filling stainless steel containers with hot water and soya milk and arranging them on a tray.

  Huw carried the tray over, placed it on the table with a grimace.

  ‘It’s camomile. Sorry, they don’t do builder’s tea here.’

  He had also brought two small poppy-seed cakes, the colour and texture of brindled grey winter socks.

  ‘They’re supposed to be fat-free,’ Huw explained, as he poured the tea into the cups. He was looking closely at the other customers.

  ‘Do you notice anything?’ he asked.

  Catrin looked around again at the café’s customers, hunched over their drinks, none engaged in actual conversation, although there were some sporadic exchanges.

  Huw leant across the table and hissed under his breath, ‘They’re supposed to be attached to a rehab clinic, but these people all look out of their tree.’

  The glare of the spotlights made it difficult to look directly at the faces further down the room. Instead she focused on a burly man on the table to their left who was dressed in the white trousers and jacket of a hospital orderly. There was a fine layer of sweat on his face. He was staring at a small ridge on the melamine table, his pupils as dilated as a frightened cat’s. Catrin turned back to Huw.

  ‘Rhys was a junkie, right?’ Huw nodded. ‘Small place like this, how many dealers can there be?’

  She moved closer to him so she didn’t have to raise her voice

  ‘So if we can find the dealer, we’ve got a line on where Rhys was staying.’

  She turned back to survey the room, focusing again on the table watcher to the left. They both rose, sat down on the steel seats on either side of him. He didn’t acknowledge them at first, carried on staring. Catrin put her hand on his arm and he looked up slowly, eyes gradually refocusing. He blinked a few times, shook his head as though trying to clear it. Catrin’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘You know where we can get some brown, love?’

  He cleared his throat as if about to speak, but instead jerked his head to his right, indicating a man in a leather jacket by the doors through to the kitchen. On the table in front of him was a crash helmet next to several empty glasses. Catrin went over to him alone, while Huw hung back.

  She flicked open her coat to give him a glance of the clutch of twenties she was holding. He stood up, nodded towards the swing doors. She was led through the kitchens into an enclosed yard.

  Catrin took out three twenties and passed them over. He tucked them in an inside pocket, motioned her closer with his hand. She closed her eyes when he put his hand on the back of her neck. She knew what was coming, bent her head down as his tongue pushed the cellophane-wrapped package deep into her mouth in a king’s cross kiss.

  The dealer was already moving back towards the door to the kitchen. She spat out the wrap from her mouth into her left hand, took hold of his arm with the right. He had no option but to turn round and face her.

  She flashed him her warrant card. ‘You had a customer recently we’d like to talk about. His name’s Rhys, but he may have been using another name.’

  As she was speaking he tried to push past her, but Huw was ready for him. He held the man in an arm lock as she grabbed at his crotch. His lips curled back in a snarl, but the noise he made was no more than a subdued gasp. Catrin took out her wallet and showed him the photograph of Rhys.

  The man tried to pull away, but she increased her grip.

  ‘I served him two weeks ago, but he didn’t look anything like that.’

  ‘How do you know it was him, then?’ asked Huw.

  He moved a trembling finger onto the photograph.

  ‘The dog-tags necklace, and that earring shaped like an Egyptian cross.’

  ‘Know where he was staying?’

  ‘In one of the holiday lets on Eglyws beach. There’s only one finished, so it must’ve been that one.’

  ‘Very helpful,’ she said. ‘Just a couple more photos for you to look at and we’ll let you return to your busy schedule.’ She brought out Rhys’s mysterious photos of Face. ‘You know who this is?’

  ‘Course,’ said the dealer. ‘Do I win a prize?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Catrin, ‘not unless you’ve seen him around here.’

  ‘What?’ said the dealer, a calculating look in his eye now. ‘You reckon he’s been in the clinic all this time, do you?’ He considered it for a moment, ‘Nah, I’d have heard. These fuckers,’ he nodded towards the café, ‘can’t exactly keep a secret.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘last question. Any idea where the photos might have been taken?’

  The dealer took another look. Thick sweat was dripping down his junkie’s puffy face. He shook his head, saliva dribbling from his lips.

  ‘One more thing,’ Huw said. ‘In the woods, the grow-sheds. Whose gig’s that?’

  The dealer said nothing and again Catrin increased her grip.

  ‘Tudor’s?’ she said, ‘that funny feller with the cane?’

  A look that was more than discomfort passed briefly over the man’s face and he looked away. He was trying to shake himself free but Huw held him. ‘Dunno, don’t go into the woods, do I,’ he said.

  Catrin heard a clattering from the kitchen. She signalled to Huw and he released his grip, the man backed away then rushed to the door. By the time they got back to their table he had picked up his helmet and was starting his bike outside.

  ‘Right, let’s see if we can find Rhys’s cottage then,’ she said.

  Huw nodded, finished the last mouthful of his poppy-seed cake, and they went outside. It was as dark now as it would be at midnight. The air was cool and damp, delicate scarves of mist slinking past with the promise of more to come. From somewhere down towards the cliffs came the distant shrieking of gulls, then all was silent again.

  The village was deserted. They drove through empty streets. Most of the houses were in darkness, the only light along the way the occasional flickering of a television screen. For a moment behind the lines of houses the shoreline gleamed like a bleached skull as moonlight broke through the mist.

  ‘It must be these,’ Huw said.

  A row of half-ruined fishermen’s cottages stood where the road descended to a cove between the cliffs. They had been built into the small natural amphitheatre that spread inwards from the mouth of the cove. Their low slate roofs seemed to merge with the embracing body of the black rocks behind them. In high summer some might be occupied as holiday lets but now all looked uninhabited.

  There were no curtains drawn. All the cottages appeared unfurnished apart from one near the end. It was as dark as all the others, the only sign that it had recently been inhabited a mug on a table close to the window.

  Huw tried the handle of the door. It jammed briefly before allowing him the additional leverage to release the catch.

  A bulb in the narrow passage offered only a faint light. There was another lamp on a table near the door, but Huw did not switch it on, waited until their eyes had adjusted to the half-light.

  The floorboards in the first room had been exposed and polished, covered in a large Bokhara carpet. The furniture seemed to be made from the same dark wood. Some looked antique and was inset with deep carvings. On one side was a large brick fireplace laid with twigs.

  At the end of the central passage was a low-ceilinged kitchen. Its pine panels had warped in the sea air, some of the boards hanging loose. On the work surface was a wooden board on which rested half a loaf of bread. On a plate beside the board lay a slice of ham, an open jar of mustard.

  At the end of the room, next to a large oak chest, was a desk in the same dark wood as the other furniture. Slowly, Catrin opened the drawers, but they were empty apart from some notepaper still in its wrapper, a packet of matching envelopes, some unused Biros.

  She was about to move away to the other side of the room, but turned back to the oak chest again. It was abou
t six inches deep and four feet square, the front decorated with a faded pastoral scene. She opened the door, and saw the shelves were filled with a series of small black shapes, row upon row of little paper figures of similar height and size.

  She held one up for Huw to look at.

  ‘A raven. It’s a fair likeness,’ he said. All the figures were identical: rows and rows of ravens all made from the same thick black paper.

  Catrin stepped back, feeling tired, faint. The light from the kitchen seemed suddenly brighter, flickering in her eyes. Her fingers were tingling, cold now. She held onto the side of the desk, took deep breaths.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘A raven was a talisman for Rhys. He always made ravens when he was alone under pressure.’

  Huw was opening the few drawers that were left. He didn’t look remotely interested in what she’d said. He was standing near the window, looking out at the dim line of the beach. She stood behind him, one of the paper birds in her hand.

  He lowered his gaze to a spot on the floor, near her feet. She wondered what was holding his attention. Slowly he reached down, picked up a splinter and put it to his nose.

  He ran his hand along the wall panels, took his hand away, and sniffed it. Catrin too ran her fingers along the boards. They looked like the same wood from a distance, but up close the grain had been marked with something brown. She caught the faint, sweet scent of shoe polish.

  ‘Maybe the landlord covering up some wear before letting?’ she said.

  They lay on the floor, checking the floorboards. There seemed to be no polish there. They worked their way back through the room, to the passage by the door but there was no scent of shoe polish there either. Then she checked the planks. Something didn’t look quite right. There were gaps where the dust ended on the boards then began on the wall above.

  ‘The floor’s been pulled apart,’ she said: ‘the polish covers the splinters.’

  They eased the panels up. Underneath were shallow dusty oblongs; no indentations were in the dust where anything would have lain. She lifted up one of the boards that had traces of polish on, peered down. The space was deeper but over it lay fine dust and grit that had not been disturbed.

  ‘Rhys was good at hiding things,’ she said. ‘Whatever it was they were looking for, they may not have found it.’

  Huw took the upper storey while Catrin stayed downstairs. Above she heard dull scraping, then tapping as he worked the boards up. She went back to the kitchen, looked in the rubbish. It had been emptied. She went back into the hall, stood there for a moment thinking of what they’d missed.

  She knew most cottages would have a cupboard under the stairs. It took a few moments in the gloom before she could make out the door. A line, barely perceptible except at close range, led up the wooden casing. There was no handle. She looked closer, there was no dust there either. With a knife she levered a crack, large enough to grasp with her fingers, and it opened.

  Inside a length of cord was attached to a switch in the ceiling. The space was so small that the light was, for a moment, blinding. Along the inner wall the shelves were covered by a thick layer of dust. It looked as if nothing there had been touched for many years.

  She was about to close it, but she paused. She wondered if the searchers had done the same, opened it, taken a quick look, then gone. Any disturbance would have been apparent, but the dusty surface was completely smooth. She could just make out a few long-forgotten objects: a gas mask in its original container, a miner’s lamp, a couple of old Latin grammars.

  Catrin still felt slightly faint. She squatted down on the concrete floor, began to roll a cigarette but the lighter slipped from her damp fingers and rolled away. She reached her hand to her side and felt for it. Immediately the surface of the dust crumbled and left a finger-shaped hole. She noticed some dust a slightly different shade from the rest. It looked untouched, old, in a rough square shape.

  She put her hand in and grasped what seemed to be paper, and saw she was holding a mound of old newspaper. Behind was a canvas bag. It was at least the same age as the other items but the surface wasn’t quite as dusty. She placed it on the floor, the zipper was stiff as she opened it.

  She took out a cardboard file, and spread out the black and white photographs it contained. Some of the shots looked almost identical to the pictures that Della had given her, the dancers in a circle, the blurred, hooded figures among the trees. She felt her heart beat faster. There was another, much smaller snapshot of a young man that had been taken indoors. He showed no awareness that he was being photographed. At first she thought that it was Face, in the days when he seemed healthier, had a full head of hair, didn’t have the look of a cancer patient losing the fight.

  But a second glance showed she’d been wrong. The figure was similar in his colouring and looks, but it was someone else.

  Huw was beside her now, looking at the photograph over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ve seen him before. We’ve both seen him before,’ he said.

  Catrin looked at the face more closely. He did look familiar: it was someone she’d seen recently. But she couldn’t place him.

  Huw looked out into the dark hall behind them. He was concentrating, listening for something, then he put his fingers to his lips.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She had tucked the folder into the canvas bag.

  She hadn’t registered the noise at first, the slow grinding sound close outside. It was followed by a tapping that seemed to be at the kitchen door. They’d closed the curtains at the front, but she realised now the lights at the back would have been visible from the cliffs behind. Huw moved into the hallway quickly and opened the front door a crack.

  But there was no one there. Beyond the lights of the house, the darkness covered them like a blanket. They could hear nothing but the crash of the breakers over the rocks, as they went back to the car.

  As they approached the village they saw that the windows of the bar were lit. Huw walked at Catrin’s side to the door. She thought he’d want to talk about what they had found, but he said he was tired, went straight up to the room.

  The bar was quiet, only a few of the regulars talking with the barman. She sat down at an empty table in the corner. Her hands were trembling slightly so she put them down on her knees.

  The men at the counter seemed hardly to have noticed her. Most of them she recognised from the previous day. Sure that they were not watching, she spread the black-and-white photos over the table. The dancers were in the same poses as in the earlier set from Della, the blurred figures and background behind the same also. They looked just like prints from the same negatives.

  Next she took out the smaller, colour shot of the young man, the one they had mistaken for Face. It was clear, looking closely, that this was an entirely different person. The boy had similar high, noble-looking cheekbones and heavy eyebrows; there was a resemblance to Face, but that was all. She had seen Face because they’d been expecting to see Face. But the boy, with his pale skin and black hair, definitely did look familiar, all the same.

  It was hard to be sure, but the pictures looked old, she thought, twisted at the edges, indented where once there’d been frames. The sleepy eyes of the boy seemed to meet her gaze, blink back at her across the years. Catrin found herself thinking of the men who’d pulled her into the car all those years ago. They had been wearing ski-masks, but something in her mind had made a connection between this face and those men.

  The masks had covered everything except their eyes. She could put her finger on it: just a sense she had, that she was finally looking into the eyes of one of them. She felt a sudden rush of fear mixed with confusion. After all these years it looked like Rhys had not just been investigating Face, but something related to her own abduction, her own case. Could this be why Rhys had said she was the link to the source of the photos, why she’d be trusted by the source? Catrin took deep breaths, stared up at the ceiling to try to calm herself. The plaster there was crumbling, stained with damp. Sh
e singled out a square of it to concentrate on, shutting out everything else. In her ears the blood was pounding, the sound of the men by the bar gradually fading away.

  She remembered again those weeks after Rhys had rescued her, after she came out of the hospital. She’d stayed alone in her room at home all day and night. Lying on her back, barely moving, staring at the ceiling. This had been her only view. It had been all she had trusted herself to see, all she’d felt safe looking at then.

  All the mirrors in the room she’d covered. She couldn’t bear to look at herself, she’d been frightened of what she might remember. She’d made her mam leave her food outside the door, which she locked from the inside. When she’d eaten, she’d leave the tray outside the door again.

  The one who’d rescued her, Rhys, had left her his pager number, but she hadn’t had the strength to call him at first. The only sound to reach her had been when he visited after his shifts and talked to her mam. She’d strained to hear his voice. A part of her had wanted to lie with him in the dark, lose track of time, lose herself in his dreamer’s eyes, make her bed an island on which they’d float away from that time and its harsh, bad choices. A part of her had wanted never to leave her room again.

  6

  Through the bedroom window the dull morning light fell across the ruins of their breakfast. Catrin held up a corner of the curtain, looked out into the rain. Down in the car park several men clad in bright yellow foul-weather gear were huddled in a circle. One had managed to light his pipe, which was giving off puffs of bluish-grey smoke. Above them the clouds were leaden, obscuring all views of the cliff heads and the hills.

  On the tabletop, Catrin laid out the photographs again, the first set from Della’s envelope beside the ones from Rhys’s cottage. She looked slowly from one set to the other. She’d been right, they were identical, both sets printed from the same negatives.

  Huw sat in his towel at the table. He looked briefly at the photos, then picked up the contact prints and held them under the lamp. They were enclosed in strip mounts from the same photographic shop in Abergwaun.