Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  The phone screen went black. Decision made. He would not call Saffron yet. He clambered out of bed and ran a bath.

  Shortly after ten thirty, when Rain would be inside the chapel preparing to meet her congregation and Saffron would be alone in the manse, Joe called. She didn’t pick up immediately and it occurred to him he might have misread her. Maybe she wasn’t as keen as she’d appeared. Maybe she’d changed her mind, had time to reflect and decided he wasn’t worth the bother after all. Maybe she’d spoken to Rain, told her about Ben, and Rain had persuaded her to play the grieving girlfriend until a decent amount of time had passed. However long that was supposed to be.

  He was about to hang up, his throat tight, disappointment scratching the insides of his lungs, when a breathless voice stopped him.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded as if she was walking; he could hear a whistling. Wind?

  ‘Saffron? Where are you?’

  ‘On top of the cliffs. It’s amazing up here; the view of the bay, the town, is amazing, the mountains in the background are awesome.’ She sounded full of joy.

  ‘Will you wait for me?’

  ‘What? You’ll have to speak up. The reception up here’s terrible.’

  He bellowed into the phone, realising she might not have picked up instantly because she hadn’t heard it. She wasn’t playing hard to get. How could she? She couldn’t have been sure it was him. He blocked his number to everyone.

  ‘Yes, I’ll wait for you,’ she replied.

  He was out of the cottage in seconds, carried by a lightness he’d almost forgotten was possible. He jumped into the Landy and roared down the lane.

  His phone rang as he pulled into the visitor centre car park. Simon. He had to take it.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yo, man, how you doin’?’

  ‘Good. Look Simon, I’m in a bit of rush.’

  ‘On a Sunday? Yo. Sounds like the old days.’

  ‘Cut to the chase, Si. Please.’

  ‘Great news. The private dick’s headed west. Jumped a train to Holyhead – I sure as hell nearly pissed myself when I saw that booking – and then a boat to Ireland. Dublin. Way off, man. Way off.’

  Today is going to be a very good day indeed.

  ‘Brilliant. Si, can we talk in more detail tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Sure. Love to hear what you’ve got planned for those fuckers.’

  ‘OK. Tomorrow.’

  Joe had nothing planned, that was the truth of it. Vague ideas, but nothing more. His head was full of the here and now. Saffron.

  ‘Joe?’ Simon said.

  ‘Thanks for this, Simon. I’m glad you called.’

  Joe threw back his head and whooped. Thank God the car park was empty.

  From the visitor centre he strode towards the cliff and the view over the sea, fighting against the wind as he went. It came from the south, warm, hinting at summer. He was glad it blew inland. Saffron might well have been blown over the edge. She was sitting on the grass, legs stretched out before her, looking at the turbines which spotted the horizon. He slid alongside her and she turned to greet him with a smile so welcoming the day got even better. He felt impossibly happy and leant over and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’ Nothing else needed saying. He rested on his arms, elbows straight, mimicking her, hands grazing hers on the damp ground and they gazed over the landscape without speaking.

  A cable car groaned into action and rocked down the hillside to the bay.

  ‘Ever ridden one?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Want to?’

  ‘Not particularly. Shall we go somewhere? Out of Coed Mawr. Exploring. I’ve been here over six months and I know little of the surrounding area.’

  ‘It’s a national park. Meant to be beautiful.’ He’d not ventured far either.

  ‘Only one way to find out.’ She got to her feet and, wiping her palms over her backside, turned towards the car park. ‘Race you to the Land Rover.’ And with that, she was gone, pelting down the slope, arms and legs flailing, skipping more than running, long hair flying over her head. She was no athlete, so he watched for a few seconds, to give her a head start, and then he broke into a sprint, charging after her.

  I’d run for miles to catch you. Miles and miles.

  Without a map or any idea where they were heading, he followed the road which cut into mountains draped with wispy clouds. The road grew narrower and narrower, jagged rocks the colour of pewter spiked from the heather-dusted, coarse grass. As the Landy rolled slowly past, the odd grazing sheep lifted a head to regard the intruders, bemused and nonchalant. Such staring unnerved Joe somewhat. Those blank, yellow eyes.

  After an hour, they stopped at a village deep in the heart of the mountains, popular with walkers and climbers judging by the shops lining the higgledy-piggledy streets. A noisy river bisected the centre and after buying pasties and drinks from a bakery they followed it until they reached a waterfall. They sat on a slate wall and devoured the pies, the crashing water making conversation almost impossible.

  Joe watched Saffron as she drank from the can. Her legs dangled over the wall, the dark water pooled below her. ‘This OK?’ he yelled. ‘Not exactly romantic.’

  She turned her head so that she faced him, her blue eyes unnerving, as well as transparent. ‘I disagree. It’s one of the most romantic places, ever.’

  They leant forward, their mouths meeting in a kiss. Joe felt the caress of the splashing water from the falls brushing his cheek and though he didn’t say so, he agreed with her.

  ‘You going to finish that?’ he asked, nodding at the half-eaten pasty sitting on the paper bag by her side.

  ‘Yes. I’m ravenous,’ she said, ramming it into her mouth.

  From the village they drove further into the mountains until they reached an expanse of water. ‘Is this Bala Lake?’ Saffron said, ‘I read about it somewhere. We could hire a boat. Might be fun?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Can’t be, we’re too westerly.’ Something about it looked man-made. ‘Let’s stop anyway. Sun’s out.’

  He pulled over and they jumped out. Saffron bounded over to a sign, while he collected his sunglasses.

  ‘A reservoir,’ she announced, as he approached. ‘Says something about Liverpool City Council here. That’s weird.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s the place Eifion was telling me about. They destroyed a village to build it. Moved everyone out and the water wasn’t even to supply Wales. There was an outcry, protests. Led to an increase in support for Plaid Cymru.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Welsh Nationalist Party. My pronunciation is probably horrible. It was one of many things which helped the move for devolution.’

  ‘Wow. You certainly have some random conversations. How come you got talking about this?’

  ‘The pier really. And Tyson’s a Liverpudlian.’

  ‘You’ve lost me. The Tyson bit I get. The pier?’ Her brows furrowed.

  ‘Eifion has a shop on the pier. One of the developers fighting for the contract is English apparently. They want to pull the ballroom down. Insult to injury. If they win, that is.’

  ‘I love piers. I remember the one at Brighton best. Never went as a kid, but when I was at med school we used to go down for the odd weekend. Just for the hell of it. They’re so tacky, they’re sick.’ There it was again, that child-like joy, excitement.

  He pointed ahead, to some kind of monument, and they followed the road which bordered the reservoir. The sun beat down, warm for early April.

  ‘Do you remember the West Pier? Before it burnt down? Before it was nothing more than a skeleton?’

  ‘Not really.’ She stopped, closed her eyes and tilted her face at the sun.

  So she isn’t a child of the night, despite her Gothic style.

  They strolled on, leisurely and comfortable. ‘I took a tour of it, the West Pier. When it was dilapidated rather than ruined, when they were still arguing about wheth
er to restore or develop. Though it had been badly treated, and ignored, and was covered in pigeon shit,’ he screwed up his face at the memory, ‘you could still see what it had been once. Its splendour. I loved it. I wanted to restore it, make it better.’ He checked himself; he was about to reveal too much.

  ‘It’s hard to disguise what we are completely and the same is true of objects. I mean, I’ve seen people ravaged by disease and age, but you can still tell what someone might have been like in their youth, whether they were beautiful or not, before the cancer or dementia got to them. Do you know what I mean? That was always an attraction with medicine. I could help make people better, get them back to what they really were, and not what they had become. Most of the time. And if not, I could care. Treat them with respect, dignity.’

  He wasn’t sure he agreed with everything she said. Some people were expert at hiding their true nature. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘We should get involved in the pier campaign. Mum’s heavily into it now.’

  ‘Maybe.’ No way, too public. Even if that PI has gone to Ireland.

  She stopped. ‘I’m ashamed to admit this but I’ve never been on the pier at Coed Mawr.’

  ‘So you don’t love them that much,’ he teased, reminding her of her earlier comment.

  She kicked at the grass, head down. ‘I’ve not really given Coed Mawr a chance. Always seen it as a prison, somewhere to escape from as soon as I can, even though I came to escape the memories.’ She glanced up and smiled, ruefully, before returning to kicking the ground. ‘And take care of Mum. Keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Let’s go back. Walk along the pier, buy some chips, sit on a bench and see if we can keep the scrounging gulls off our food. Or we can just wander along it for a bit, and I can take you out to dinner. Somewhere decent.’

  ‘I’d love that. Chips on the pier. Forget the fancy restaurant.’

  Caught behind a tractor and then stuck in a traffic jam, it took almost two hours to get back to Coed Mawr. Saffron was surprised by the number of cars on the road until she remembered the schools had broken up for Easter. Wynne’s was selling chocolate eggs and Mrs Evans had instructed Saffron to be more vigilant now that the children were on holiday. ‘There’ll be hordes of them in here. And they’ll as soon have them eggs as look at you. Same every year. Thieving beggars. I don’t know why Mr Wynne insists on letting them in so many at a time. “Restrict the numbers,” I say. “Other shops do it.” But he won’t listen. Silly old fool. Don’t know why he made me manager if he won’t let me implement ideas, I don’t.’

  The sun was way past its zenith when they stepped onto the pier; the sticky air cold, a reminder that winter was barely out. Most of the huts were closed, or closing, many were boarded up. Saffron looked down at the sea through the gaps between the boards, thrilled by imagining what would happen if they collapsed.

  ‘I’m not sure the chip shop will be open. Do you want to turn round? We could go to the one in town,’ Joe said.

  ‘Let’s carry on, I can wait.’

  She was enjoying the walk, enjoying the little huts with their candy-striped façades. She tried to guess what they sold or offered from the names painted across the tops, those that were clear enough for her to read. There was tarot reading, hand-made jewellery, doughnuts. All the usual pier offerings. Gulls perched on the railings and watched them as they passed, hand in hand.

  Just the other side of the amusement arcade in the middle of the pier, Saffron noticed a faded red and white striped stick perched on the top of one of the huts. It could have been a barber’s pole, but she guessed it was Eifion’s rock shop. As they neared, a head poked out of the saloon style doors.

  ‘Well, hello there. Fancy seeing you here,’ Eifion sang.

  Instantly, Saffron and Joe released their hold, arms falling by their sides.

  Another head appeared besides his: Ceri. ‘Watcha! Buy a stick of rock, why don’t you?’ She waved a pink stick. ‘Or a dummy if you prefer?’ She brandished a transparent red rock dummy. Saffron had coveted them as a child, always refused by her parents. She stopped in front of the shop and laughed. ‘No thanks. I value my teeth.’

  ‘You and every other bugger round here. Dad blames the Americans and all those perfect gnashers.’

  Joe addressed Eifion. ‘Business slow? Might pick up during the holiday weekend itself?’

  ‘Might do.’ He circled the hut with his eyes. ‘Need to spruce up this place before the summer season. Needs a new roof and counter, window frames are rotten too. But it all costs and the rent’s gone up by you wouldn’t believe. Lick of paint if nothing else.’

  ‘How comes you two are out and about?’ Ceri appeared beside them, leaving her dad to close the window and shutters.

  Saffron and Joe went to talk at the same time. He waved an arm, indicating she should speak first. ‘We bumped into each other on the prom. Both hungry, thought we’d get some chips.’ The lie came easily and she knew had he spoken, he’d have lied too.

  ‘You’ll be lucky. Place has closed down. Surprised you eat chips, Saff,’ Ceri said. ‘I’m starving too. We could all go into town.’

  Eifion appeared beside his daughter. ‘Toppling like dominoes, they are. At this rate, might be the last shop standing this end of the pier. I wonder if it’s that,’ he pointed to the tumble-down ballroom at the far end, ‘that puts people off. It needs to be renovated, it really does.’

  Joe peaked a hand across his forehead and looked into the sky. A flock of starlings swarmed overhead. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Eifion was reticent. He wasn’t sure the structure was entirely safe, he said, but Joe argued, convincingly, that if it was in serious danger of collapsing the whole pier would have been closed to the public. Ceri was keen to investigate, as was Saffron.

  ‘Life doesn’t get any more exciting than breaking and entering!’ Ceri said, charging towards the tip of the pier.

  Chapter Twenty

  A few metres in front of the entrance to the ballroom a makeshift barrier decorated with frayed yellow tape stretched from one side of the pier to the other. Tacked above the double doors was a wooden board with hand-painted lettering: Danger. Do Not Enter. It had a bodged feel to it, as if cobbled together by amateurs. Joe wondered who was responsible for the site while the wrangling over restoration or a new building played out. From what he could see the interior of the ballroom was magnificent. Externally it reminded him of the Taj Mahal, with its domed roof, twisting spires, and arched windows. Much of the glass had been smashed or blown out of the windows but coloured fragments remained at the edges and it brought to mind a church. This was a temple too, once, a place to worship at the altar of pleasure.

  Saffron was talking to Eifion about the pier’s ownership. Joe hadn’t been listening fully but this line of enquiry caught his attention. He refocused on the little gang who stood admiring the structure.

  ‘A trust owns the pier,’ Eifion explained. ‘The dispute is over the exact nature of the work to be carried out. The council has the power to veto planning and so forth. There are many who want the ballroom to stay, to be made like new again. There’s a minority who want to tear it down and have something new.’

  ‘And that’s what’s delaying everything?’ Saffron said.

  ‘Yes. And in the meantime, the structure’s getting more and more ruined. Getting harder and harder to make good.’

  Joe was only half-listening again; he was considering if it was safe to enter. He swung one leg, and then the other, over the barrier and stepped towards the open doorway. The frame felt solid enough. He leaned in. It was a shell, pretty much, but it wasn’t the building itself he was interested in any more. He thought he saw movement in the far corner; he definitely heard something stirring. He made his way across what must have been the dance floor to the far left hand corner, stopping occasionally to wipe his fingers over tiny heaps of dust. Underneath the beams, the floor was splattered with pigeon waste. A dead chick lay decomposing beside an empty bottle of vodka,
half a dozen cans of Special Brew, and a neat pile of cigarette butts. Whoever had been here was a heavy smoker. Joe wasn’t the first intruder. Near the corner, Joe craned his neck and peered at where once there must have been a ceiling.

  There, where the stud wall had crumbled. He was sure of it. Movement. He tiptoed closer, his eyes never leaving the rafters. He stopped again. Yes. He was right. It came again, a stirring, and just as he thought it was about to move …

  ‘Oh my God, it’s flipping disgusting in ’ere.’

  Ceri.

  He jumped and spun on his heels, finger pressed over his mouth.

  Behind Ceri were Saffron and Eifion, treading gingerly across the dance floor, heads circling, eyes sweeping across the space, admiring. They stopped dead when they saw Joe, hushing them all.

  Without speaking, Joe pointed to the eaves and they looked up, mystified, and, judging by the glaze in their eyes, anticipating something horrific.

  Saffron looked back down at him first and mouthed, ‘What?’

  ‘A roost,’ he whispered.

  ‘Roost?’ Ceri said, at full volume. ‘I can’t see no chickens.’

  The others turned and, in unison, said, ‘Hush!’

  ‘Bats. Pipistrelles,’ Joe said. ‘They might be out at sunset. Not sure if it’s warm enough. Shall we wait and see?’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right? No way, am I staying here till it’s dark. Place is spooky enough as it is. I’m out of here,’ Ceri said, edging backwards.

  Joe turned to Saffron, who stood by his side now, eyes fixed on the eaves. Next to her was Eifion, also fixed on the eaves.

  ‘You’ve fantastic eyesight. Whatever made you think they might be here?’ Eifion said.

  ‘A hunch. I’ve been fascinated by bats ever since I was a boy.’

  ‘All boys like Batman and that,’ Ceri said.

  ‘Maybe. But I was interested in the real animals, not the fantasy. I still am.’

  A gust of wind rushed in; a can rattled across the floor with a tinny echo. Joe turned to find Ceri creeping back towards the group, mouthing, ‘Sorry. Me and my big feet.’