He knew this but he could no more bring it up at that moment than he could undress in public and put his body's damage on display. So he said, “My love, listen. I know you want to help.”
“Do you?” she asked bitterly.
“Of course I do. But you can't crash round Guernsey just because you want to help. You haven't the expertise and—”
“Oh thank you very much.”
“—the police aren't going to be the least bit cooperative. And you have to have their cooperation, Deborah. If they won't divulge every bit of their evidence, you'll have no way of truly knowing whether China is actually innocent.”
“You can't think she's a killer! My God!”
“I don't think anything one way or another. I'm not invested as you are. And that's what you need: someone who's not invested either.”
Even as he heard his own words, he felt himself becoming committed. She hadn't asked it of him and she certainly wouldn't ask it of him now, after their conversation. But he saw how it was the only solution.
She needed his help, and he had spent over half his lifetime extending his hand to Deborah, whether she reached out for it or not.
Chapter 6
PAUL FIELDER WENT TO his special place when he fled Valerie Duffy. He left the tools where they were. He knew this was wrong because Mr. Guy had explained that at least one part of good workmanship was the care and maintenance of the workman's tools, but he told himself that he'd go back later when Valerie couldn't see him. He'd sneak round the other side of the house, the part that wasn't near to the kitchen, and he'd collect the tools and return them to the stables. If it felt safe, he might even work on the shelters then. And he'd check the duck graveyard and make sure the little plots were still marked by their circlets of stones and shells. He knew that he had to do all of that before Kevin Duffy happened upon the tools, though. If Kevin happened upon them lying in the damp growth of weeds, reeds, and grass that surrounded the pond, he wouldn't be pleased.
Thus, Paul didn't go far in his flight from Valerie. He just circled round the front of the house and rode into the woods along the east side of the drive. There he dove onto the bumpy, leaf-strewn path beneath the trees and between the rhododendrons and ferns and he followed it till he came to the second fork to the right. Here he dumped his old bike next to a mossy sycamore trunk, part of a tree once felled by a storm and left to become the hollowed home of wild things. The way was too rough to ride the bike forward from this point, so he shouldered his rucksack more firmly and took off on foot with Taboo trotting along beside him, pleased to be out on a morning adventure rather than waiting patiently as he usually did, tied to the ancient menhir that stood beyond the wall at the edge of the school yard, a bowl of water at his side and a handful of biscuits to see him through till Paul fetched him at the end of the day.
Paul's destination was one of the secrets he had shared with Mr. Guy. I think we know each other well enough now for something special, Mr. Guy had said the first time he introduced Paul to the spot. If you want to—if you think that you're ready—I have a way that we can seal our friendship, my Prince.
That was what he had called Paul, my Prince. Not at first, of course, but later, once they grew to know each other better, once it seemed like they shared an uncommon sort of kinship. Not that they were kin and not that Paul would ever have thought they could be kin. But there had existed between them a fellowship, and the first time Mr. Guy had called him my Prince, Paul was certain the older man felt that fellowship as well.
So he had nodded his assent. He was quite ready to seal his friendship with this important man who'd entered his life. He wasn't altogether sure what it meant to seal a friendship, but his heart was always full to bursting when he was with Mr. Guy and Mr. Guy's words surely indicated his heart was full to bursting as well. So whatever it meant, it would be good. Paul knew that.
A place of the spirits was what Mr. Guy called the special place. It was a dome of land like an upended bowl on the earth, grassed over thickly, with a flattened path running round it.
The place of the spirits lay beyond the woods, over a drystone wall, part of a meadow where the docile Guernsey cows once had grazed. It was overgrown with weeds and fast becoming encroached upon by brambles and bracken because Mr. Guy had no cows to eat the undergrowth, and the greenhouses that might have replaced the cattle had themselves been dismantled and carted off when Mr. Guy first purchased the property.
Paul scrambled over the wall and dropped down to the path at its base. Taboo followed. It led through the bracken to the mound itself and there they tripped along another path which wound round to the southwest side. Here, Mr. Guy had once explained, the sunlight would have burned the strongest and the longest for the ancient people who had used this place.
A wooden door of far more recent vintage than the dome itself stood halfway round the circumference of the mound. It was hung from stone jambs beneath a stone lintel, and a combination lock thrust through a hasp on the door kept it safely closed.
Took me months to find a way inside, Mr. Guy had told him. I knew what it was. That was easy enough. What else would a mound of earth be doing in the middle of a meadow? But finding the entrance . . . ? That was the devil, Paul. Debris was piled up—brambles, bushes, the lot—and these entryway stones had long been overgrown. Even when I located the first ones under the earth, telling the difference between the entry and the support stones inside the mound . . . Months, my Prince. It took me months. But it was worth it, I think. I ended up with a special place and believe you me, Paul, every man needs a special place.
That Mr. Guy had been willing to share his special place had caused Paul to blink in surprise. He'd found his throat blocked by a great plug of happiness. He'd smiled like a dolt. He'd grinned like a clown. But Mr. Guy had known what that meant. He said, Nineteen three twenty-seven fifteen. Can you remember that? That's how we get in. I give the combination only to special friends, Paul.
Paul had religiously committed those numbers to memory, and he used them now. He slipped the lock into his pocket, and he shoved the door open. It stood barely four feet from the ground, so he removed his rucksack from his back and clutched it to his chest to give himself more room. He ducked beneath the lintel and crawled inside.
Taboo trotted ahead of him, but he paused, sniffed the air, and growled. It was dark inside—lit only from the door by the shaft of weak December light that did very little to pierce the gloom—and although the special place had been locked, Paul hesitated when the dog seemed uncertain about entering. He knew there were spirits on the island: ghosts of the dead, the familiars of witches, and fairies who lived in hedges and streams. So although he wasn't afraid there was a human within the mound, there could well be something else.
Taboo, however, had no qualms about encountering something from the spirit world. He ventured inside, snuffling the stones that comprised the floor, disappearing into the internal alcove, darting from there into the centre of the structure itself, where the top of the mound allowed a man to stand upright. He finally returned to where Paul still stood hesitantly right inside the door. He wagged his tail.
Paul bent lower and pressed his cheek to the dog's wiry fur. Taboo licked his cheek and bowed deeply into his forelegs. He backed up three paces and gave a yip, which meant he thought they were there to play, but Paul scratched his ears, eased the door shut, and buried them in the darkness of that quiet place.
He knew it well enough to find his way, one hand holding his rucksack to his chest and the other running along the damp stone wall as he crept towards the centre. This, Mr. Guy had told him, was a place of deep significance, a vault where prehistoric man had come to send his dead on their final journey. It was called a dolmen, and it even had an altar—although this looked much like a worn old stone to Paul, raised a mere few inches off the floor—and a secondary chamber where religious rites had been performed, rites they could only speculate upon.
Paul had listened and looked and
shivered in the cold that first time he'd come to the special place. And when Mr. Guy had lit the candles that he kept in a shallow depression at the side of the altar, he had seen Paul shaking and had done something about it.
He took him to the secondary chamber, shaped like two palms cupped together, and accessed by squeezing behind an upright stone that stood like a statue in a church and had worn carvings upon its surface. In this secondary chamber Mr. Guy had a collapsible camp bed. He had blankets and a pillow. He had candles. He had a small wooden box.
He said, I come here to think sometimes. To be alone and to meditate. Do you meditate, Paul? Do you know what it is to make the mind go to rest? Blank slate? Nothing but you and God and the way of all things? Hmm? No? Well, perhaps we can work on that, you and I, practise it a bit. Here. Take this blanket. Let me show you round.
Secret places, Paul thought. Special places to share with special friends. Or places where one could be alone. When one needed alone. Like now.
Paul had never been here by himself, however. Today was his very first time.
He crept carefully into the centre of the dolmen and felt his way to the altar stone. Molelike, he ran his hands across its flat surface to the depression at its base, where the candles were. A Curiously Strong Mints tin was tucked into this depression as well as the candles, and inside were the matches, protected from the damp. Paul felt for this and brought it forth. He set his rucksack down and lit the first of the candles, fixing it with wax to the altar stone.
With a little bit of light, he felt less anxious about being alone in this damp, shadowy place. He looked round at the old granite walls, at the curving ceiling, at the pockmarked floor. Incredible that ancient man could build a structure like this, Mr. Guy had said. We think we have everything over the stone age, Paul, with our mobiles, our computers, and the like. Instant information to go along with our instant everything else. But look at this, my Prince, just look at this place. What have we built in the last one hundred years that we can declare will be standing in one hundred thousand more, eh? Nothing, that's what. Here, Paul, take a look at this stone . . .
Which he had done, Mr. Guy's hand warm on his shoulder as the fingers of his other hand followed the marks that hand upon hand upon hand before him had worn into the stone that stood guard to the secondary alcove where Mr. Guy kept his camp bed and blankets. Paul went there now, to that secondary alcove, his rucksack in his hand. He scooted behind the sentinel stone with another candle lit and Taboo at his heels. He placed his rucksack on the floor and his candle on the wooden box where melted wax marked the spot of dozens of candles placed there before it. He took one of the blankets from the camp bed for Taboo, folding it into a dog-sized square and putting it on the cold stone floor. Taboo hopped onto it gratefully and circled three times to make it his own before settling down with a sigh. He lowered his head to his paws and fixed his eyes lovingly on Paul.
That dog thinks I mean you ill, my Prince.
But no. That was just Taboo's way. He knew the important role he played in his master's life—sole friend, sole companion until Mr. Guy had come along—and knowing his role, he liked Paul to know he knew his role. He couldn't tell him, so instead he watched him: his every move, in every moment, during every day.
It was the same way Paul had watched Mr. Guy when they were together. And unlike other people in Paul's life, Mr. Guy had never been bothered by Paul's unwavering stare. Find this interesting, do you? he'd ask if he shaved while they were together. And he never poked fun at the fact that Paul himself—despite his age—did not yet need to shave. How short should I have it cut? he'd ask when Paul accompanied him to the barber in St. Peter Port. Have some care with those scissors, Hal. As you can see, I've got my man watching your moves. And he'd wink at Paul and give the signal that meant Friends Till We Die: fingers of his right hand crossed and placed against the palm of his left.
Till We Die had arrived.
Paul felt the tears coming, and he let them come. He wasn't at home. He wasn't at school. It was safe to miss him here. So he wept as much as he wanted to weep, till his stomach hurt and his eyelids were sore. And in the candlelight, Taboo watched him faithfully, in complete acceptance and perfect love.
Cried out at last, Paul realised he had to remember the good things that had come from knowing Mr. Guy: all the things he had learned in his company, all that he had come to value, and all that he had been encouraged to believe. We serve a greater purpose than just getting through life, his friend had told him more than once. We serve the purpose of clarifying the past in order to make the future whole.
Part of their clarifying the past was going to be the museum. To that end, they had spent long hours in the company of Mr. Ouseley and his dad. From them and from Mr. Guy, Paul had learned the significance of items he once might have tossed heedlessly to one side: the odd buckle from a belt found on the grounds of Fort Doyle, hidden among the weeds and buried for decades till a storm beat the earth away from a boulder; the useless lantern from a car boot sale; the rusty medal; the buttons; the dirty dish. This island is a real burial ground, Mr. Guy had told him. We're going to do some exhuming here. Would you like to be a part of that? The answer was easy. He wanted to be a part of anything that Mr. Guy was a part of.
So he threw himself into the museum work with Mr. Guy and Mr. Ouseley. Wherever he went on the island, he kept his eyes open for something to contribute to the vast collection.
He'd finally found something. He'd ridden his bike all the miles southwest to La Congrelle, where the Nazis had built one of their ugliest watch towers: a futuristic concrete eruption on the land with slits for their anti-aircraft guns to shoot down anything approaching the shore. He hadn't gone looking for anything related to the five years of German occupation, however. Instead, he'd gone to have a look at the most recent car that had plummeted over the cliff.
La Congrelle possessed one of the few cliff tops on the island that were directly accessible by car. Other cliff tops one had to hike out to from a car park a safe distance away, but at La Congrelle one could drive to the very edge. It was a good spot for a suicide that one wished to be seen as an accident, because at the end of the road from Rue de la Trigale to the Channel, one merely had to veer to the right and accelerate the last fifty yards through the low-growing gorse and across the grass to the edge of the cliff. A final stomp on the accelerator as the land in front of the bonnet disappeared and the car would shoot over and plunge down to the rocks, end over end till it was stopped by a jagged barrier of granite, exploded into the water itself, or erupted into flames.
The car in question that Paul went to see had met its end by the last method. There was little left of it but twisted metal and one blackened seat, something of a disappointment after the long bike ride in the wind. Had there been something more, Paul might have made the perilous descent to investigate. As there wasn't, he explored the area of the watch tower instead.
A rock fall had occurred, he saw, recent by the look of the stones and the ravaged nature of the ground from which they had become dislodged. The newly bared stones were devoid of thrift and sea campion that grew in tufts along the cliffs. And the boulders that had toppled towards the water below had no guano on them, although their older companion chunks of Icart gneiss were streaked with it.
This was a most dangerous place to be, and as an islander born and bred, Paul knew it. But he'd learned from Mr. Guy that whenever the land opened itself to man, there were secrets that often came into the daylight. For that reason, he scouted round.
He left Taboo on the cliff top and picked his way across the face of the gash left by the rock fall. He was careful to keep a firm hold on a fixed piece of granite whenever he moved his feet, and in this manner he slowly traversed the façade of the cliff, working his way downwards like a crab scouting for a crevice in which to hide.
It was at the midway point that he found it, so encrusted with half a century of soil, dried mud, and pebbles that at first he thought it wa
s nothing more than an elliptical stone. But when his foot dislodged it, he saw the glint of what looked like metal marking a curve that emerged from within the object itself. So he picked it up.
He couldn't examine it there, midway down the cliff, so he carried it tucked between his chin and his chest back to the top. There, with Taboo snuffling at the object eagerly, he used a pocket knife and then his fingers to reveal what the earth had kept secret for so many years.
Who knew how it had come to be there? The Nazis hadn't bothered to clean up their mess once they realised the war was lost and the invasion of England was never going to happen. They merely surrendered, and like the defeated invaders who had occupied the island in times before them, they left behind whatever they found too inconvenient to carry.
So near to a watch tower once occupied by soldiers, it was no wonder that their detritus continued to be unearthed. While this would have been no personal possession of anyone, it certainly would have been something the Nazis might have found useful had the Allies, guerrillas, or Resistance fighters successfully made a landing beneath them.
Now, in the semi-dark of the special place he and Mr. Guy had shared, Paul reached for his rucksack. He'd intended to hand his find over to Mr. Ouseley at Moulin des Niaux, his first solo, pride-filled contribution. But he couldn't do that now—not after this morning—so he would keep it here where it would be safe.
Taboo raised his head and watched as Paul unfastened the rucksack's buckles. He reached inside and brought out the old towel in which he'd wrapped his treasure. In the way of all seekers of history's nuggets, he unfolded the towel from round his find to give it a final and rapt inspection before placing it for safekeeping within a place of security.
The hand grenade probably wasn't actually dangerous at all, Paul thought. The weather would have battered it for years before it became buried in the earth and the pin that might have once detonated the explosive within it was most likely rusted immovably in place. But still, it wasn't wise to carry it round in his rucksack. He didn't need Mr. Guy or anyone else to tell him that prudence suggested he put it somewhere that no one would come across it. Just till he decided what else he could do with it.
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