Banks looked at his watch. “Better make it a half,” he said. “I’ve got a date.”
Was it the age of my innocence,
Or was it the lost Land of Oz?
Was it only a foolish illusion,
The summer that never was?
Did I walk through the fields with the child in my arms
And the golden wheat over my head?
Did I feel my heart breaking under the weight?
Was my sweet sleeping boy child a burden, like lead?
I remember him crying the day he was born
And his hand like a spider that wouldn’t let go
And he wouldn’t let go and he wouldn’t let go
And the pain tore my heart out and filled me with woe.
Can a dreamer take hold of reality
And become a responsible man?
Can a killer become a lover
Or is he forever damned?
You can’t follow me where I’m going now
And you can’t go the places I’ve been
Don’t listen to the demons I’ve listened to
Or look into the darkness I’ve seen.
There’s a field and a boy and the tall golden wheat
And eternity held in a day
But it’s so hard to hold and it’s so hard to reach
And forever rushing away
Was it the age of my innocence,
Or was it the lost Land of Oz?
Was it only a foolish illusion,
The summer that never was?
Banks lay in bed late that night listening to Neil Byrd’s CD on his Walkman after dinner with Michelle and a phone call from Annie. “The Summer That Never Was” was the first song on the CD, though the liner notes said it was the last song Byrd had recorded, just weeks before his suicide. As Banks listened to the subtle interplay of words and music, all set against acoustic guitar and stand-up bass, with flute and a violin weaving in and out, like Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, he felt the despair and defeat of the singer. He didn’t understand the song, didn’t know what all the tortured phrases meant, only that they were tortured.
Here was a man at the end of his tether. And he was thinking of his child, or of his own childhood. Or both.
Banks couldn’t even begin to imagine what this had meant to Luke Armitage when, his mind disoriented with strong cannabis, he had heard it for the first time in Liz and Ryan’s flat. Annie was right. How callous could the bastards be? Or stupid. It no doubt never even entered their addled minds what damage they might be doing. All they could think of was opening up Luke’s mind to his father’s music to further their careers, and everyone knew that drugs opened the doors of perception.
Banks remembered the Rimbaud quote written in silver on Luke’s black wall: “Le Poëte se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.”
Well, had Luke become a seer? What had he seen? Was he trying to kill himself with the diazepam, or was he just trying to stop the pain?
In Banks’s mind, Luke Armitage and Graham Marshall became one. They might have died in different ways for different reasons—not to mention in different times—but they were just two kids lost in a grown-up world where needs and emotions were bigger than theirs, stronger and more complex than they could comprehend. Graham had tried to play the big leagues at their own game and lost, while Luke had tried to find love and acceptance in all the wrong places. He had lost, too. Accident though his death was, according to Annie, it was a tragic accident made up of many acts, each one of which was like a door closing behind Luke as he moved toward his fate.
Banks put the CD player on the bedside table, turned over and tried to go to sleep. He didn’t think it would be easy. The song had left him with such a feeling of desolation and loneliness that he ached with need for someone to hold and found himself wishing he had stayed at Michelle’s after their lovemaking. He almost took out his mobile and rang her, but it was past two in the morning, way too late. Besides, how would she react if he showed such neediness so early in their relationship? She’d probably run a mile, like Annie. And quite rightly.
He could hear his father snoring in the next room. At least there had been a reconciliation of sorts between the two of them. Though Arthur Banks would never actually admit anything, his attitude had changed since their drink together that evening. Banks could tell that his father had been proud of him for his success in solving Graham’s murder—though he insisted Michelle had done most of the work—and for not trying to cover up Jet Harris’s role. Proud for perhaps the first time in his life.
How strange it was to be at home in his old bed. As he drifted toward sleep, he imagined his mother calling him for school in the morning: “Hurry up, Alan, or you’ll be late!” In his dream, he fastened his tie as he dashed downstairs for a quick bowl of cornflakes and a glass of milk before picking up his satchel and meeting the others out in the street. But when he walked out of the door, Dave and Paul and Steve and Graham all stood there waiting for him with the bat, the ball and the wickets. The sun shone in a bright blue sky and the air was warm and fragrant. There was no school. They were on holiday. They were going to play cricket on the rec. “It’s summer, you fool,” Graham said, and they all laughed at him. The summer that never was.
About the Author
PETER ROBINSON’S award-winning novels have been named a Best-Book-of-the-Year by Publishers Weekly, a Notable Book by the New York Times, and a Page-Turner-of-the-Week by People magazine. Robinson was born and brought up in Yorkshire, England, but has lived in North America for nearly twenty-five years.
www.peterrobinsonbooks.com
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Praise
Critical acclaim for award-winning author
PETER ROBINSON
and
CLOSE TO HOME
“SUSPENSEFUL AND ENGROSSING…
[It] offers a growing complexity of character,
motive, and event.”
Orlando Sentinel
“AN ELABORATE MYSTERY PLOT…
poignant, thoughtful…effective…refreshingly down-to-earth…[It] takes on a mature, substantial aspect that is especially welcome in police procedural fiction…And Mr. Robinson, like his hero, understands the deeply mixed emotions that accompany a return to the past.”
New York Times
“RICHLY COMPLEX…
satisfying and subtle…lots of suspense.”
Publishers Weekly
“WITH THE FADING OF
P.D. James and Ruth Rendell,
British crime fiction needs a new leader.
Peter Robinson may be the next top gun.”
San Antonio Express-News
“The novels of Peter Robinson are CHILLING, EVOCATIVE, deeply nuanced works of art.”
Dennis Lehane
“Very absorbing…a TAUT, TIGHTLY WOUND mystery…[that delivers] the pleasures of a thriller and the emotional weight of a literary novel.”
Madison Capital Times
“Robinson’s skill with the British police procedural has been BURNISHED to a high gloss.”
Chicago Tribune
“A highly entertaining book that will keep you up late…Robinson’s cops are as flawed as the rest of us, and even his VILLAINS ARE COMPLEX sorts…Close to Home should gain him a wider following.”
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
“Among THE FINEST mystery writers.”
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Peter Robinson has been called the whodunit world’s BEST KEPT SECRET…He succeeds splendidly.”
San Diego Union-Tribune
“A superior detective…a SUPERIOR writer.”
Denver Post
“STRIKING…[a] well-crafted novel that examines and contrasts the 1960s and the present day…The story is a very good one and Banks continues to be an INTRIGUING character.”
Tampa Tribune
&nbs
p; “Robinson brings a seamlessness to his creation of Banks and his world that has helped the series remain fresh…It’s [the] dips into English history and culture that make Robinson so READABLE, as well as his WELL-DETAILED villains, including a few British cops.”
Seattle Times
“Highly readable…[a] FIRST-CLASS STORYTELLER…Close to Home never fails to be entertaining, but its implications insist on being taken seriously.”
National Post
“Peter Robinson is an INCREDIBLE writer.”
Calgary Herald
“Returning to the world of Alan Banks is always A PLEASURE.”
Boston Globe
Also by Peter Robinson
GALLOWS VIEW
A DEDICATED MAN
A NECESSARY END
THE HANGING VALLEY
PAST REASON HATED
WEDNESDAY’S CHILD
FINAL ACCOUNT
INNOCENT GRAVES
BLOOD AT THE ROOT
IN A DRY SEASON
COLD IS THE GRAVE
AFTERMATH
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CLOSE TO HOME. Copyright © 2003 by Peter Robinson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition MAY 2006 ISBN: 9780061969973
10 9 8 7
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