The Comforts of Home

by Susan Hill

‘Safer, of course – in a mortuary. They can’t fire back.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’

  Simon sat up. ‘Sorry. I’m just puzzled. One, what put you off not just the police but armed police, and what suddenly turned you on to this?’

  ‘It’s not sudden. I’ve been thinking about it for a bit.’

  ‘What – days? A week or two.’

  Sam threw his grass stalk away and pulled another roughly out of the clump.

  ‘I’m listening, Sambo, and I am taking you seriously. It’s just – a bit of a leap.’

  ‘Haven’t said I want to be a big-game hunter.’

  ‘No, but then again, that’d hardly be a leap at all.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Long training.’

  ‘I don’t mind about that.’

  ‘You might get into it and decide you wanted to go for another branch of medicine altogether.’

  ‘I might. Probably won’t though.’

  The sun was lancing through far out over the sea, brightness piercing the grey.

  ‘Come on, we need to move, I’m getting stiff.’

  ‘Race you.’

  Sam leapt up and set off all in one movement, running fast over the rough ground. Simon watched him for a moment, then followed. He could still run. He walked ten miles across the island most days. But Sam’s particular exuberance and young animal spirits were something he had not felt himself for a long time. He envied him. And he also wondered, as he started in pursuit, if spending most of his days with the silent dead in a white-tiled space was the right future for his energetic nephew.

  The sun came out intermittently, but it was pleasant enough to walk. They covered six miles to the far west of the island, mainly in companionable silence. Here, the land rose and there were cliffs, a couple of rocky outcrops offshore, which had been the downfall of many a ship and small boat in the history of Taransay. Gannets, kittiwakes and huge seagulls rose and swirled around, before tumbling back to perch in groups, making a racket with their harsh ugly cries and calls. Sam sat watching them.

  ‘No one lives over here then.’

  ‘No. It’s just too steep and it gets the lashing of the winter gales and high seas. You can see the remains of a couple of stone buildings down there. The odd hermit and sheltering sheep farmer stayed in them, I suppose.’

  ‘Someone there now.’

  ‘Can’t be.’

  ‘I saw smoke out of that chimney.’ Sam pointed. ‘Only a wisp though.’

  Simon took out his small pair of field glasses and unfolded them. There was no trace of anything.

  ‘Optical illusion. The light here can play tricks.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘I’m starving.’

  They ate the thick ham sandwiches Simon had made, with hard-boiled eggs and a couple of bananas. Sam downed his and an entire bottle of water, before lying back on the turf and falling almost instantly asleep. Simon watched him, his own eyes half closed, but he only dozed. The sun was warm on their faces. Occasionally, a cloud slipped over, shadowing them, before the brightness returned. The seabirds cried. A few of the small, sturdy brown island sheep wandered about on the slope behind them and their occasional bleats mingled with the squawkings and cawing as the gannets and gulls rose and fell. The tide was far out and silent. The waves had frills of white along their edges as they creamed over and back, over and back.

  I have everything I could possibly need or want here, Simon thought idly. Why would I go back? Sam murmured a little and was quiet again.

  The man who appeared, crossing the path a hundred yards or so away, did not see them, just hidden below the outcrop. He walked quickly, the rucksack buckled tightly to his back. It was small, and did not bulge out. He carried very little. He dropped down and around, following the narrow track that led away in the direction of the main road a couple of miles away, that led to the far side of the island, the village and the harbour. His head was bent, as he concentrated on where he put his feet. The tracks were both stony and tussocky, making it easy to slip, but he went steadily on, not looking around, not aware of the sea and the landscape and the overarching sky.

  By the time Simon registered him and sat up, giving Sam a shake, the walker was out of sight.

  Twelve

  Thursday was her free day. A farmers’ market had been running in Lafferton for less than a year but was already so successful and popular that getting there early was vital. By ten past nine, Cat already had a basket laden with fresh produce – eggs, meat, fruit, vegetables and flowers – and was heading for the marquee in the centre of the square, in which the bakers had their stalls. She would get a steak, kidney and mushroom pie. Kieron often had a Thursday meeting which finished early and sometimes they took the rare chance of going out. Tonight, they were staying in with a bottle of wine and a film. On her own, she would have watched a Scandicrime series but Kieron would not bring work home. ‘Would you watch A Day in the Life of a GP?’

  ‘No, but I watch 24 Hours in A & E.’

  ‘Not the same thing at all.’

  She had finished her shopping but was still wandering between the stalls, before going to the bistro in the Lanes for coffee, when she heard what at first sounded like a low-flying plane roaring overhead, but then, as the noise level increased, was clearly a series of explosions. From the other side of the square came shouts. A scream. Another. And then a huge plume of dark smoke that billowed up and spread. A few seconds later, the wail of the first emergency sirens sounded, shockingly close.

  Cat moved fast, down a gap between two stalls and out, the back way to the car park. Others were following her, coming from all sides, running, running, not looking back but now and then glancing up in fear at the spreading mushroom of smoke. Black specks were swirling about in the air now, and touching down on clothes, hair, the ground. Cat brushed one from her sleeve and it left an oily smear. More fell, clinging and making the same marks.

  People were leaving the car park in a hurry, driving too fast down the ramps and hooting impatiently at the barriers while tickets were fed in, dropped in panic, retrieved, and everything slowed down. At the end of the street, there was already a jam. Nothing was moving and the sirens were sounding one after another along the parallel road. Cat turned the car radio to local news but there was only a blur of confused music and voice. It was a dead-signal area. She tried calling Kieron but got an answerphone on the direct line, and voicemail on his mobile.

  The car in front jerked forward and she pushed on behind it, almost touching bumpers, anxious not to be the one stopped by any roadblock or cordon, but they were clear and she spun out and down a shortcut close to the cathedral, dived out again and headed away fast towards the bypass. By now, fire engines and ambulances were pouring in from the Bevham direction. Ahead, there was no sign of trouble. She tried Kieron again and again got the voicemails. There was nothing yet on the local radio but by the time she reached home a breaking news item was reporting ‘an explosion and fire’ at a warehouse complex close to the Lafferton canal.

  She made coffee and took it into the garden. It was cloudy but warm enough to sit outside, with a notebook and pen. She needed to think about Luke’s proposal, to make two lists, for and against, and to work out as much of the finances as she could. Wookie joined her, tucking himself away under her deckchair. It was quiet for over an hour, before her phone buzzed a message.

  Major incident. Don’t wait supper. Love you x

  The centre of Lafferton had been cordoned off and the entire area leading to and along the canal was closed. Ten years ago there had been a number of warehouses, some still in use, as well as others in the process of being demolished and the sites bought for apartment blocks. There had been a couple of working factories near the canal which had been razed but not replaced by other buildings because the council had plans to turn the spaces, banks and towpaths into green park and leisure areas, but promised money had not been forthcoming and nothing had yet been done. The canal areas in particula
r were still a haunt for drug addicts, winos and prostitutes. The police had an occasional blitz and moved them all on, but they soon returned. The last of the buildings to be in any sort of use were a tyre storage depot and a small paint factory. A fire had started in the former and spread fast. The paint factory had gone up with several explosions, and the job now was to prevent the blaze from leaping the relatively short distance to the smart apartments which had been converted from the old ribbon factory.

  Five fire engines had attended, but shortly after the alarm had been raised, there had been an explosion in the cinema and bingo hall complex, in the area of Bevham near to police HQ, which meant all fire engines and crews were needed there. It would take half an hour to get others to the scene from much further away.

  Cat watched the television news. The fires were terrifying, black smoke shot with flame billowing up into the sky from the sides of the buildings, threatening streets of houses. More engines arrived. More police started evacuating the immediate areas, and then, as the fires got out of control, further afield. Churches and halls were opened, schools, youth clubs, a dance hall, requisitioned to provide shelter. It was thought that none of the buildings in either Lafferton or Bevham had been occupied but it was still impossible for any checks to be made.

  Somewhere behind the scenes, Kieron and other police and emergency teams were coordinating not the response to the fires themselves so much as the wider picture, plans were being drawn up for access to the area the next day or for alternative arrangements to be made for people going to work and school, for traffic movements and for forensics to be on standby.

  It was a long night. Kieron came wearily up the stairs just after five o’clock, and fell onto the bed and into sleep in a single movement. Cat pulled the duvet over him and then slept fitfully herself until seven.

  Her phone beeped a message received, as she walked into the kitchen.

  Good morning. Thank you for being my lunch guest. Great to see you again, looking only maybe five years older and blooming. Let me know when you’ve had a chance to go into the proposals and we can meet up again whenever you like. You’ll have plenty of questions, but I hope your thoughts are all positive. Luke x

  She put all thought of it at the back of her mind. She had a full surgery morning and a late-afternoon clinic. If Kieron had not been caught up in the emergencies, she had planned to talk it over with him the previous evening, and now, he came running downstairs buttoning his shirt.

  ‘I have time for a cup of tea if the kettle’s boiling, otherwise it’s water. Call came in – there’s another bloody fire.’

  Thirteen

  The next day they were walking again. Walking. Climbing. Resting briefly. Walking. Walking. Climbing. Climbing. It was as if Serrailler had to compensate for the loss of his arm by making his legs and the rest of his body work several hundred per cent harder. He had to exhaust himself. Sam did not complain, even though a couple of times he would have been glad to stay later in bed, or even just take a longer rest now and then, but he instinctively understood what this was about – more than the pleasure of the views and the fresh air and the satisfaction of pushing as hard as one could and then some. They had come over to the deserted west side of the island. Nobody lived here. The cliffs were steeper than on all the other sides, and slabs of them occasionally broke away during storms, when the sea battered them until they gave in. Not even the little brown island sheep survived for long here, except during the mild weeks of July and August. There was no house, not even a derelict croft, and the ground was rough and stony, hard even on strong walking boots. The prevailing wind rushed at the rocks. No vegetation or tree could withstand the gales and salt spray.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m starving.’

  ‘OK, better turn back and head south – we won’t find anywhere comfortable to sit and eat lunch this side. Come on.’

  Sam’s calf muscles were aching, and his face felt burnt by the combination of wind and sun, but he got ahead of Simon and strode on fast, wanting to test himself, as well as show off.

  It was another hour before they reached the gentler, easier south side, an hour during which a sudden squall had soaked them, and the sun had then dried them out.

  ‘Here.’ There was a huddle of stones where a low wall had once divided the open sloping fields. Sheep were wandering about, their bleating carried on the soft wind. Simon unlaced his boots, got out the food and two bottles of water and they ate in silence, both ravenous now. High above them, the great birds circled lazily. The sea could just be heard but not seen from here.

  ‘I see where we are … that’s Sandy’s place, low down?’

  ‘Yes, we came at it from the other direction so it looks different. Stands out a bit more.’

  ‘That’s her jeep. Bloody thing – got no springs at all.’ Simon laughed. ‘I need to get back a mallet she borrowed from me. We’ll drop down after we’re done.’

  ‘Sure you’re not seeing her?’

  Simon turned on him so angrily that Sam started back.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid and if I were what would it have to do with you? You keep your nose out.’

  Sam got up and walked away quickly. He had never known his uncle snarl at him, had barely known him even to raise his voice. He had meant what he said as a joke, and he was both hurt and angry. He stood looking up the hill. Something was wrong and he was sane enough to know it had nothing to do with Sandy or his own feeble sense of humour that had caught Simon on the raw. Was it his arm? Pain? A sense of inadequacy? Or something else. He remembered Rachel. He had assumed, probably along with the rest of the family, that Simon would marry her – his mother had been cautious when he had mentioned it once. Sam could see her, standing in the kitchen with her back to the fridge, looking anxious. She had not asked him to keep their conversation to himself but he had known it anyway.

  ‘It isn’t Rachel – you know what she’s like – she’s a wonderful person, she’s beautiful, she’s fun, she’s intelligent – and she adores him. It’s him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sammy – not really. He just finds relationships, other than short-term ones, very difficult.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gay?’

  ‘I’m one hundred and ten per cent sure he isn’t.’

  ‘Nothing wrong if he was.’

  ‘Of course not. Listen, he’s just … oh God, I don’t know.’ She had sighed and opened the fridge to get out the salmon she was about to cook. Sam had waited a few more minutes but it was clear nothing else was going to be said.

  There was the sound of the wind rustling across the turf, a sound which grew louder or softer but never ceased altogether, and the bleating of the sheep and the monotony of the seabirds’ cries. Nothing else. Sam stood still. Simon had not moved.

  There should be something. An apology. An explanation.

  Something.

  Several more minutes passed.

  ‘Oh, come on, for God’s sake, this is stupid. Let’s get whatever you need from Sandy and then we can get home.’

  Sam started to move fast down the slope, at one point slipping and righting himself, a few yards further slithering on a loose stony section of the track, and almost crashing down. He did not glance behind him, but he knew that Si was not following. He reached the bottom, and walked on towards the house. He could see Sandy’s jeep parked to one side. He stopped. He could no longer hear the sheep and the sigh of the wind was muffled by the slope. The path was still muddy from the night of the storm.

  And then there was a scrabble and a bump, as Simon came fast down the track and stopped beside him.

  ‘OK?’

  Sam looked at him. There was no point in continuing their stand-off, though he was still annoyed at Simon’s overreaction. But he nodded.

  ‘Won’t take two minutes.’

  They turned into the pathway. ‘No bell,’ Sam said.

  ‘They don’t go for doorbells much around here. Ei
ther it’s on the latch or you bang.’ Sam banged. A chicken wandered towards them across the turf, pecking about.

  ‘She’s probably round the back or else along the shore somewhere. She’s a great beachcomber.’

  There was no garden at the back of the bungalow, just a strip of rough grass and the chicken house. Two more of them were scratching in the dirt.

  ‘Sandy? You out there?’

  In the distance, the sheep’s bleating. Nothing else.

  Simon tried the back door. It was locked. ‘Strange. I told you, nobody locks anything. Check the front again, Sambo.’

  Sam went. There were no windows at the side of the house. He looked into the jeep again and then he noticed the keys, not in the ignition but in the footwell on the driver’s side. He reached for them. As well as the car key, there was a door key and another which looked as if it belonged to a shed. He could hear Simon’s voice, calling Sandy. The living-room curtains were drawn back and Sam cupped his hands to either side of his head and peered inside. A table. An armchair. An upright chair. A rug. A standard lamp. A fireplace, with the dead remains of a fire. Bookshelves in an alcove, a couple of them full, the rest completely empty. It was a tidy room, without anything to distinguish it from a hundred others. There seemed to be no pictures or photographs, no personal clutter. The place might have been a holiday cottage between visitors.

  Simon came round the side, and Sam showed him the keys.

  ‘We’d better go in. Though my guess is that she’s off beachcombing somewhere.’

  Simon opened the door, paused, as if he were smelling and sensing the atmosphere of the house, and then stepped carefully inside. ‘Stay back a second.’

  Sam looked at the narrow stairs straight ahead, the closed doors to the living room and, he supposed, kitchen. The hall was barely that. It had a heavy red wool curtain tied back with a loop. A rubber floor mat. A narrow ledge to the right of the door with an empty pot, presumably for the keys, and an envelope, which looked like a circular.

  There was the same feeling of anonymity that he had picked up when looking through the window.