Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  Pete stared at him. Who was he? Was he asking him to go out for a drink with him? He tried to think if he had met him before. His father pulled his arm. ‘Come on, Pete,’ he said. ‘What are you messing about for?’

  ‘Fifteen grand,’ the man said, speaking fast. ‘Think about it.’

  Pete didn’t know what he was talking about. The man reached up and put a card into his top pocket. ‘Ring me,’ he said.

  There were voices all round, people shouting Pete’s name, the flashes of endless cameras. He lost his bearings. He didn’t know which way to go. His lawyer had disappeared completely. He was supposed to be making a statement on Pete’s behalf, but Pete didn’t know how he would manage it with this terrible noise around them. He stood and tried to make some sense out of all the heads, the voices, the garbled words that came flying through the air at him, but nothing connected. It had the surreal atmosphere of a nightmare where everyone was talking in a foreign language. They could all understand each other, but not Pete, even though he had something important to say.

  ‘Pete!’ He heard his father’s voice, and there he was again. ‘Over here.’ His arm grabbed Pete and pulled him forwards. They arrived at a car and he shoved him in. He tried to force the door shut, but they drove away with it still slightly open, a man’s face leering in at them through the window, the almost human face of his camera pointing at Pete.

  ‘Get down,’ said his father, pushing his head on to his knees just as a click set off a blinding explosion of light. They drove away, slowly at first and then faster, leaving the roar of the crowd behind them, a forced calm settling over all of them in the car, as if they’d just escaped from a war zone.

  There were more reporters at the entrance to Pete’s parents’ house, but his father had guards at the bottom of the drive by the electronic gates. Ian, whom he had known for years, stood there in his uniform and pressed the button to open the gates, while Neil stood in front of the other vehicles, preventing them following. They glided through and Ian shut the gates again immediately. Pete looked into the mirror and could see them standing in front of the closing gate with their arms crossed, twice as big as any other man he had ever met, except his father, obviously getting enormous pleasure out of the confrontation.

  Pete hadn’t wanted to go back to his parents’ house again. He thought it would have been better to go home, to his bachelor house, the place where he did as he pleased—played records, watched TV, drank and drank and drank. But he had no choice. His father was directing operations. Pete’s preferences were irrelevant.

  When they entered the front door, Pete thought his mother might be there, waiting for them, worried about the outcome of the inquest. But she wasn’t. In all the time Pete was in the house after the inquest, he never saw her. He didn’t even know if she was there at all. She might have been in one of the twelve bedrooms on the first floor, or the attic rooms. Maybe she stayed in her room the whole time, watching the garden through the window, measuring the height of the roses in her mind, seeing the grass grow, the buds forming on the late marigolds. Maybe someone took her meals up on a tray. There were plenty of people working around the house. Pete didn’t recognise most of them. He didn’t ask about her, and his father didn’t volunteer any information.

  Pete stayed indoors for about three weeks. There were always reporters at the gate. Most of them left after a few days, but one or two remained, apparently convinced that patience would reward them. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He prowled round the house, looking at the people by the gate, wondering what would happen next. He seemed to be surrounded by a fog of unreality that he couldn’t shake off. He slept very deeply every night and woke late in the morning, his head thick and heavy. He spent long periods sitting and doing nothing, finding it almost impossible to rouse himself to go to meals. He tried watching television, but couldn’t take it in. How could he be interested in people wandering around on a screen pretending that they were going through crises? What did they know about disaster? Time moved slowly, slowly, plodding with heavy feet, refusing to rush.

  Then one day his father came to find him when he was sitting in the library pretending to read a magazine about boats.

  ‘Pete,’ he said, without any preliminaries, ‘I’ve found you somewhere to go.’

  ‘What do you mean, go?’

  ‘Well, you can’t stay here for the rest of your life.’

  Why not? ‘I’ll go home, then.’

  His father shook his head and looked at him with a glance that he presumably thought was wise. Pete had seen it many times before when his father was right and Pete was wrong. ‘No good, son. They’ll never leave you alone. I’ve put the house on the market.’

  Pete thought that he should be annoyed, but couldn’t manage any emotion. Did his father have the right to do this? He’d paid for it, but given it to Pete as a present. ‘How much for?’

  His father put back his head and laughed, a great booming, tycoon laugh. ‘That’s my son,’ he said. Pete didn’t believe in the laughter. He could see that it was unreal. Always had been. He watched his father from his new perspective and thought what an unpleasant character he was.

  ‘I’ve bought you a lighthouse,’ he said.

  Pete stared at him. ‘A lighthouse?’ He couldn’t understand what he was talking about.

  ‘Yes, Pete, a lighthouse. You can go there in disguise, give yourself an alias, and nobody will know who you are.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  He had no idea. ‘You want to get rid of me.’

  His father laughed again, loudly, and Pete could see that that was exactly why he wanted him to go. ‘Of course not, Pete. But we can’t all go on living like this, under siege, afraid to go out in case they molest us, or follow us. You have to think of me and your mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t manage such a confident laugh this time. ‘I’m a businessman. I have work to go to. If you stay here, we can’t get on with anything.’

  Shame about me, thought Pete. Shame about all those dead people.

  ‘It’s a decommissioned lighthouse. North coast of Devon. Grow a beard, take a different name, they’ll never recognise you.’

  ‘How do you get food in lighthouses?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not one of those sort. It’s on land. Just a bit remote, really. Long way from people. Just the kind of thing you need. You’ll like it there.’

  How did he know what Pete would like? What did he know about his son? Pete looked at him, and saw that he was just a man. Taller and wider than most people, but still just a man. Not even worth hating. Why had Pete always been afraid of him? ‘All right,’ he said.

  They smuggled Pete out in the back of a small delivery van, covered with a blanket, pretending he didn’t exist. They changed cars twice, stopping in strange out-of-the-way places where the next car was waiting for them with the engine running, until they eventually reached the M5 in a BMW. It all seemed a bit melodramatic—there weren’t men out there waiting to abduct him, or murder him—but his father obviously enjoyed the cinema-like way of doing things. It made him believe in himself and his importance. They didn’t talk at all, until they were on the final stretch and needed to consult the map. His father was a bit put out by the last mile when they had to leave the road. He must have expected them to put down Tarmac once they knew he was coming.

  When they arrived, he turned off the engine. They sat in the car and looked at the lighthouse. It towered above them, red and white stripes gleaming, the green canopy at the top ornate and somehow mystical. Inside the car, they could feel the force of the wind, buffeting the windscreen, exposing the sharp edges of the grass. Pete got out of the car and looked up. He felt dwarfed by its height, and excited by its bleakness.

  His father got out too. He gestured to a keeper’s cottage. ‘You can live in there,’ he said. ‘There’s some basic furniture.’ Pete didn’t want him to come in with him and his father didn’t suggest
it.

  He held out his hand and gave Pete a set of keys. Pete removed from the boot his small, nearly empty case—he hadn’t been able to think what he needed for his exile. He just wanted to forget he had ever existed in any other life. His father unloaded four bags of groceries from Fortnum and Mason.

  ‘Just something to keep you going for a bit,’ he muttered. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the nearest village. ‘You can do your shopping over there. There’s a new Sainsbury’s. It’s a long way, but it’ll give you something to do. I’ve made out a standing order—should be enough to live on. If you need anything let me know. Money no object, of course.’

  Of course. Money solves everything.

  He stood in front of Pete. ‘Well, son…’ Pete looked at him. He wasn’t going to help him. ‘You’ll be OK. Just give it time. They’ll all forget in the end. These things have a habit of dying down eventually.’ His manner was hesitant. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

  He was useless once you took away the outer layer. There was nothing underneath. A blank. A non-person. As Pete stood there, watching him, he saw him shrink. This man, who had been such a huge influence in Pete’s life, had been caught out, wrongfooted by his son’s behaviour. Money hadn’t solved the problem, and he didn’t know what else to use. His resources had dried up.

  ‘Well, son…’ he said again. He leaned towards his son and, for one terrible moment, Pete thought he was going to hug him. But he stopped just in time. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  They shook hands as if they were strangers who had only just met, and then he got into the car. Pete stood outside the lighthouse with his small suitcase and the Fortnum and Mason food and watched his father’s car bouncing back to the road. He hasn’t seen or heard from him since.

  Straker sits on the train and watches the scenery passing. His father hadn’t approved of public transport. ‘Dirty,’ he would say. ‘If you don’t have to share with the rest of the world, then don’t. That’s what money buys you.’

  Straker has not thought of his parents properly for twenty-four years, but finds that a new space has opened up inside his mind. Tentatively, he explores this unexpected pathway, unwilling to experiment very far, conscious that any wrong move will result in a jolt of pain. Did his father intend never to speak to him again? Had he expected twenty-four years to pass without any contact? Has he forgotten his son altogether, or have the years just passed by mistake? Does his mother ever think of him? Are they even still alive?

  Opposite Straker, there’s a young mother with two children. She is reading to them from a book called Mrs Pepperpot. The little boy sits nestled on her lap, dozing off while she reads. The girl, who is older, is leaning against her, studying the pictures. On the other side of the gangway, there is a man reading a newspaper, his legs crossed so that one sways out into the aisle, and two middle-aged women, who are playing Scrabble on a tiny board where the pieces slot into little holes. They are talking about a wedding.

  ‘Lovely flowers,’ says one.

  ‘Didn’t like the bridesmaids’ dresses, though. Salmon pink doesn’t suit everyone. How about that? EXPORT—triple word score. Excellent.’

  ‘Seventeen times three. Fifty-one points. Well done. I thought Sally was lovely in the pink…’

  Three young men in pin-striped suits lurch up the aisle towards the buffet car.

  All trains must look like this. If there was a crash, these people would die. They would become Maggie, Sangita, Mike…He examines all the people around him and tries to imagine them dead. Would they then become more real? Would they take on a life in his head like all the others? Should dead people become more real than live ones?

  When Straker reaches Birmingham, he looks for a newsagent and buys an A–Z. He gets caught in a hustling, driving mass of people and follows them along until he comes out into daylight. Finding a corner away from shop entrances, he examines the map.

  Simon A. Taverner apparently lives not far from the city centre. If Straker can get the direction right, and cross the big traffic systems, it must be only about two miles to the flat. He’d intended to take a taxi, but he walks that far every day.

  He stands and stares up at the block of flats. They look expensive and difficult to penetrate. Perhaps they have security men, or a caretaker. There’s a row of bells with names beside them. Should he ring and say, ‘Let me in, I’m the man who murdered your wife’? That’s what Maggie suggested. It doesn’t seem an ideal introduction. But, then, what is?

  While he stands there, a woman approaches, carrying bags from Safeway. She puts the shopping down and punches out a series of numbers on the dial to the side of the door. Straker watches her and memorises the pattern. Looking ahead, impatient for the door to open, she doesn’t see him. She picks up her shopping and pushes through the unlocked door, disappearing inside.

  He goes up to the panel and reproduces the pattern of her numbers. C3562X. Easy to memorise. Three and two on the outside. Add them for five, then multiply for six. The door doesn’t make any sound, but when he pushes, it opens immediately. He goes in and lets it lock behind him.

  Inside, there are two lifts, one for even-numbered floors, the other for odd. The hall is carpeted, and dark. Not quite as luxurious as promised from outside.

  He takes the lift to the sixth floor, but twenty-two is on the one below. He finds the stairs, walks down, and stands in front of number twenty-two, then waits for a very long time, not sure how to proceed. Several times, he turns to go away, but doesn’t quite lift up his feet to do it. Why is he here?

  Then, abruptly, not allowing himself to think about it, he puts up his hand and rings the doorbell. He can hear it chiming inside.

  Nothing happens and he starts to breathe again. He can’t talk to a man who’s not in. He’s about to walk away, when he realises that if he doesn’t talk to Maggie’s husband now, he will have to repeat the same journey another day. The thought of returning is exhausting, so he puts up his hand and rings the bell again.

  This time he can hear something, a shuffling, a muttering, a clinking of keys and the door opens slightly. It is restricted by a chain. Straker can just see the face of an elderly man with grey eyes and a florid complexion. ‘Yes?’ he says.

  ‘Mr Taverner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Simon Taverner?’

  ‘Yes?’ He opens the door a little wider. He has a friendly face, the face of a man who has lived a long time, and is not afraid of what might confront him on his doorstep.

  Straker likes the look of him—he’s a comfortable man. ‘My name is Peter Straker.’

  Taverner freezes visibly with shock. He doesn’t speak for some time, conflicting emotions drifting across his face. He studies Straker intently, his frank gaze penetrating and painful.

  Finally, he relaxes and produces a half-smile. ‘I see,’ he says, taking the chain off the door and opening it properly. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Chapter 20

  Steve sat in the aeroplane, unable to believe that this was really happening. Pete occupied the seat next to him, handling the controls as calmly as if he were driving a car. Justin and Francis shared the back seat and stared out of the windows nonchalantly, unaware of the excitement that was bubbling away inside Steve’s chest. He had known them for less than a day, and here he was, in a private aircraft, joy-riding in a far more sophisticated way than any of his mates at school had experienced. Their talk of stolen Minis suddenly seemed rather childish.

  So much had happened in the last two days that he felt breathless. One minute, there he was with his mum, who used to be OK, and his stepfather, Roger, who was never OK. Things had not been right since Roger had burst into their house, propping up his golf clubs against the fish tank in the kitchen, leaving his racing bike in the hall for everyone to fall over. Rugby or football on television whenever possible.

  ‘Why don’t you come cycling with me one of these days?’ said Roger, almost every night. ‘Yo
u’d be surprised how good it can make you feel.’

  ‘The only thing that would make me feel g-g-good would be getting my house b-b-back to myself,’ said Steve, deliberately knocking over Roger’s fresh orange juice.

  ‘Oops,’ said Roger, fetching a cloth. ‘I can understand how you feel,’ he said gently, mopping up the juice.

  You’re only pretending, Steve wanted to shout. Your nice-ness isn’t real. But he said nothing and walked out of the kitchen without finishing his breakfast.

  Everything had changed since the wedding six months ago. Steve had watched his mum become distracted, lose her softness and, at the same time, throw herself at Roger, ready to do anything to please him. Steve couldn’t understand it. She no longer seemed like his mum.

  ‘Please be back by six for supper, Stevie. Roger likes us to eat together as a family.’

  Family? Not in a million years.

  ‘Just going for a drink, Stevie,’ his mum had called up the stairs two days ago. ‘Back in an hour.’ More like a hundred drinks, thought Steve, more like four hours. He hated them drinking. Roger didn’t change much—if anything, his voice softened, and he became even more caring. But his mum changed. She alternated between laughing wildly and singing. Steve couldn’t bear the sound of her voice when she was like that. He had to fight an overwhelming urge to slap her face, to force out the wild looseness that took her over.

  They returned late, talking at high speed. He could hear them coming through the front door, his mum giggling and Roger shushing her. The crash as she walked into Roger’s bike. He saw the light come on in the hall.

  ‘Come on, Barbara,’ he heard Roger say. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen. We don’t want to wake up Steve.’

  Why should you care? thought Steve.