by Clare Carson
‘Gate shuts at four today.’
‘Thanks.’ One hour until closing.
‘Penny for the guy.’ The girl nodded at a pile of rags propped up against the cemetery wall, dressed in a smiley tee shirt and clutching a bottle of Lucozade. She dug in her pocket for some loose change. The girl stuck out her mitt to take the coins.
Sam’s hand hovered in the air.
‘I don’t suppose you know whether there’s another way in to the cemetery do you?’
‘What, you mean another gate?’
‘Whatever. Just a way of getting in when the main gate is locked.’ She wondered whether she needed to give them an explanation. ‘I want somewhere to go for a spliff.’ Spliff. They weren’t into dope. They were into Es and rave parties. The girls exchanged a glance and she thought they were about to start giggling, but then one answered.
‘Yeah. If you go back along this road, take the first left, walk to the end and there’s a gap between the wall and the railing which is easy to get through. Everybody uses it.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
She dropped the coins in the girl’s hand. They ambled off, left the guy lying on the ground.
*
A MAGPIE CHATTERED and vanished in the mist as she walked under the arch. The twisted branches of oaks loomed like some old smoker’s lungs, clotted with the black remains of discarded crows’ nests. Norwood was once part of the Great North Wood, the stretch of forest that covered the hills of south London and north Kent. If the mist cleared, she reckoned she would be able to see Harry’s allotment on the slopes of Gypsy Hill from here. But the fog wasn’t clearing and the light was rapidly dwindling. She glanced at the stone mausoleums, the grass around their plinths severely trimmed. The regimented order of the tombs gave the cemetery an unsettled atmosphere, not at peace with death and encroaching nature. Norwood Cemetery had been created by the Victorians to accommodate the corpses that could no longer be buried in the overflowing city graveyards. Lambeth Council had taken ownership in the sixties and had started digging up the graves, chucking out the corpses and selling off the plots to raise some quick cash. In south London, nothing was sacred. The disinterred wraiths haunted every corner, moping around the monuments of the residents who had been too grand to be removed, resentfully watching the new bodies being motored in to take their graves. Even in death there was a hierarchy. Especially in death. The rich got to keep their resting places. The poor had been evicted.
Valerie had to be a resident of one of the recycled plots. She should be easy to find on the far side of the cemetery among the rows of shiny marble arranged more or less in date order. She ambled down the hill and was about to check the epitaphs on the first row when she heard footsteps behind. A jogger padded past; the whites of his swanky trainer soles vanished in the mizzle. She kept walking, not daring to stop until she could be sure she wasn’t being watched.
A rocket shrieked – the first firework of the evening – a yellow flash dissolving in the watery vapour. The runner hadn’t reappeared. She retraced her steps, eyes on graves, reading dates. She caught sight of a 5, stooped. Peter Grey. Loving father and grandfather. Born 1906. Died 31 September 1985. Right row. She edged along. Six graves in from the path she spotted a stone with the name Valerie Archer etched in the smooth surface. Archer must have been her maiden name. Born 3 July 1946. Died 5 November 1985. Christ, she was only thirty-nine when she died. How old was Anna? Two years older than her, born 1964. Valerie was only eighteen when Anna was born. She really was young. A girl. Like the phantom woman running down the road that night in Hoy. She wiped her forehead, sweaty, woozy. Getagrip.
She returned to the path, scanned the ground, spotted a rock lying against the neatly trimmed grass and shoved it with her foot until it was in line with Valerie’s grave, marched on, headed for the main gate, left the cemetery behind and turned in to the High Street, spotted the jogger with the flash trainers in the distance, running north. Good riddance. A crack made her jump. She whipped around, caught the whiff of gunpowder and spotted two boys scarpering, lobbing bangers as they retreated. Another whoosh – pink, yellow, green artificial Northern Lights exploded in the grizzle.
She grabbed a coffee from a deli to warm herself, checked the High Street again. No joggers. Past four already – the main gate would be closed. She crossed the road, followed the directions she had been given, found the gap in the railings and slipped inside the cemetery. She was in among the grander mausoleums and Victorian angels with broken noses. She trod carefully around the graves, avoiding the uneasy spirits, made her way down the slope and found her marker stone, scanned her surroundings for a suitable hiding place, spotted a house-shaped tomb decorated with praying angels and barley twists. That would do – set back from Valerie’s grave but close enough to see what was going on. She slumped behind the salmon granite plinth, tested the view, adjusted her position and waited, bum on damp soil, spider crawling over her leg, bangs and flashes blazing smudgy trails in the damp night sky. Hard to tell now whether the vapour hanging in the air was drizzle or smoke. A bat flitted past. Disappeared among some cedars then reappeared, swooped close to her head. Shouldn’t it be hibernating? Maybe it had been woken by the fireworks. She tipped on to her hands and knees, crawled a few feet to get a better look, stretched and spotted a familiar figure. She retreated to the shadow of the tomb, heart thumping, watched as Anna approached, lit a candle in a glass jar, knelt and placed it on her mother’s grave. Between the cracks of fireworks she heard a sob. Anna was crying. A lump formed in Sam’s throat. She was wretched, spying on Anna. What was she playing at? She hugged her knees, regarded the sky, a silver shower raining, and wondered whether she should crawl away, leave Anna to her own devices.
A voice disturbed her. ‘You can come out now.’
She didn’t move.
‘Sam, you fucker. I know you’re there.’
That made her mind up for her anyway. She stood, made her way over to Anna, hands in pockets like a naughty schoolgirl.
‘I thought you might be here. What do you want anyway?’
‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘So you thought you’d hang around in a dark graveyard and leap out at me from behind a tomb?’
A rocket exploded.
‘You didn’t tell me how to contact you.’
‘Well, perhaps there’s a message there that most normal people would have absorbed.’
‘Well, perhaps most normal people wouldn’t send their mate off on dangerous errands to see their ex-spy of a father who is being trailed by an arms dealer called the Butcher.’
‘I didn’t send you. You sent yourself.’
A scream broke their argument. A gang of kids ran down the cemetery path waving sparklers in the air.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have disturbed you at your mum’s grave.’ She glanced at Valerie’s tombstone, the tea light flickering in its jam jar, and spotted another jar next to it, half buried with something darkish sitting in the bottom. She leaned over, squinted, swooped and stuck her fingers in – rainwater, woodlice, and then the smooth surface. Anna’s eyes bored her back, but she didn’t try to stop her. She scooped the tile out, realized there was another below and fished that one out too. The two red tiles Anna had given to Valerie.
‘Two. Why two? I thought one was for your mum and the other one was for...’
Anna lunged forward, snuffed the tea light with her finger. ‘Back.’
She indicated with her head, a beam sweeping the path in the distance, swirls of mist and smoke in its arc. Sam dropped the tiles in her pocket, and they retreated behind the barley twist tomb, watched the figure in a hooded windcheater descending the hill. He halted by Valerie’s row, sidled across the grass, stopped by her headstone, inspected the grave with his torch, returned to the main path, and headed back up the hill.
‘MI5,’ Sam said.
‘I know.’
‘Do you think he came in through the gap in the railings?’
�
�Probably. Everybody does. Perhaps we should talk,’ she added.
‘We should leave before the spook comes back.’
‘Yeah. This way.’
Sam trailed after Anna, the smoke making her wheeze. Up ahead, Anna had stopped at the far edge of the cedars, waving her hand frantically. Sam drew level, peered through the needles and saw the spook guarding the gap in the railing. They retraced their steps.
Out of earshot, Sam whispered, ‘Do you think he knows you are here, or is he waiting to see if you turn up?’
‘The latter, I suspect. If we wait long enough, he might go.’
‘What if he comes creeping around the cemetery again?’
‘We’ll have to find somewhere where we won’t be seen.’
‘I know a good place. Although you might find it somewhat gloomy.’
*
THE BACK ENTRANCE to the catacombs was in a corner of the rose garden on the site of the old chapel. She had been shown it by a mate who was employed by a Youth Opportunities Scheme to collect litter from the cemetery lawns. The catacomb entrance had been blocked for years, but the debris had been cleared when the council had been awarded a grant to build a café in the garden despite the fact, her friend had told her conspiratorially, that some of the corpses below contained anthrax. The entrance to the steps was taped off, a Danger Keep Out. Falling masonry sign the main deterrent to would-be explorers. A rickety wall shielded a plank-covered hole in the ground. It didn’t take much effort to remove the planks and find the flight of steps descending to the darkness. Replacing the makeshift cover above their head was a more difficult task, but between them they managed, Sam shining her torch while Anna edged the boards back.
‘Do you think he’ll follow us down here?’ Sam asked.
‘Nope.’
‘Mind, there’s a puddle at the bottom.’
She jumped over it, stood for a moment, the whines of fireworks dimly audible through the walls. The air was damp and mouldy and held an odd metallic whiff, like dried blood on a childhood scrape, but still it was something of a relief to be away from the choking smoke of bonfires. She shone the torch around; white arches, cast-iron gates, the shelves and shelves of dilapidated coffins. Yellow eyes fizzled and vanished. Rats. A fox perhaps. She edged along the aisle, Anna behind her, directing the torch into the dark caverns on either side.
‘Oh my god, are those all coffins on those shelves?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re rotting.’
‘Only the outer cases.’
She swung the beam around a vault, illuminated wooden caskets decomposing, jet-black beetles scurrying from the light. ‘They’re all lead lined.’ She swept the light along a shelf to demonstrate, caught a grey viscous goo oozing from the corner of a mouldering wooden shell. ‘Or at least they are supposed to be.’
Anna gagged. Sam decided it was best not to mention the anthrax, shifted the light to the central aisle.
‘What’s that?’
Anna pointed to a large platform on a pole.
‘A catafalque. Hydraulically powered. It’s a lift. Services were held upstairs in the chapel and then the coffins were lowered down here on the catafalque.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I have a friend who works here.’
‘You’re obsessed with death.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You went on about plague pits when you stayed the night at my flat in Blackheath.’
She was about to defend herself, but Anna had a point; death played on her mind.
‘I don’t want to argue.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘I want to know why you told Reznik where to find Pierce.’
Anna sighed. ‘There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes.’ Sam shone the torch in her face. ‘Don’t do that, you fuckwit.’
‘Sorry.’
Their relationship still followed the contours laid down when they first met. Anna the leader, the scornful commanding officer. Sam, the subordinate, seesawing between attempts to win Anna’s approval and trying to gain the upper hand.
‘Is there anywhere safe to sit down in here? Can we sit near this...’
‘Catafalque.’
‘Yeah, that thing.’
They huddled, the cold rising from the earth below. Anna dug in the canvas bag she had slung across her chest, produced a bottle of water and a packet of raisins. ‘Lucky I brought some provisions. We could be here a while.’
A rocket squealed.
‘I’d better switch the torch off to preserve the battery.’
‘OK.’
Faint shafts of light fell through the gaps in the boards covering the entrance. Something brushed her cheek. She yelped.
‘It’s me,’ Anna said. ‘I wanted to know where you are.’
‘I’m here, right next to you.’
‘Good.’ She sounded scared. The darkness made it harder for Anna to lie, Sam thought. Or maybe it made her less likely to be misled by Anna’s sparkling blue eyes, the generous smile.
Sam nudged her. ‘Reznik.’
Anna said, ‘You and me. Do you think we should start up our own intelligence business? Private eyes?’
‘That’s a terrible idea.’
‘We couldn’t make a worse job of it than the wankers who are employed as spooks by the state.’
Anna was trying to distract her.
‘Reznik. Why did you tell...’
Anna interrupted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me in ’76 that you’d seen Pierce in Orkney?’
‘Because Jim told me not to say anything.’
‘So why did you come and look for me thirteen years later? What’s your game?’
‘I bumped into Pierce in September when I was working at an archaeological site in Orkney. He told me he wanted to see you again. He wanted contact, reconciliation...’
‘Reconciliation?’ Anna shouted. Her voice echoed around the vaults. ‘Are you dumb? I can’t believe you believed that shit. What’s wrong with you? He didn’t want reconciliation.’
Her voice echoed around the crypt.
‘What do you think he wanted then?’
‘He wanted to control me, like he always did. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to say anything bad about him to anybody, give him away. My guess is he knew that I was his biggest enemy, I was the person most likely to betray him, so he was trying to draw me in, find out what I was doing and thinking, bind me to his side. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a plan to fucking well kill me if he thought I was a risk to his bloody life.’
Part of her wondered whether Anna had lost it, raving down here in the dark about her father wanting to kill her, but she also recognized the truth of her assessment. Pierce was a controller, she had belatedly realized, a coercive manipulator who used people without a second thought about the risks to them. Prospero, master of the dark arts, lying through his teeth when he said he was about to put his books of sorcery aside. The man who always kept his paraffin lamps dimmed so you could never quite see what was going on.
‘But why do you hate him so much?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘I don’t know... I...’
‘What have you got in your pocket?’
Sam fumbled. Her penknife. Something else. The two tiles she had found on Valerie’s grave. Two. Anna had said she would give Valerie two of the red tiles, one for herself and one for her unborn child. Anna had placed them both on the grave. She squeezed them against her palm, their warmth comforting. ‘You told me your sister had been taken care of.’
‘I didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Talk about what? What happened to your sister?’
‘Nothing. There was no baby. My mum had a miscarriage when she was six months pregnant.’
Valerie had been about five months pregnant when she turned up at their house in ’76; they had pitched up in July and the baby was due in November. She had seemed ill – frail – at the time. Forever lying do
wn, wanting to rest, pallid, the sweaty sheen on her face. Sam had assumed that all pregnant women were like that: sickly. Anna had been worried. The two tiles must have been her prayer for protection; talismans to ward off disaster.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She didn’t want to ask too many questions, although she could sense Anna was waiting for her to dig. ‘Did something go wrong with the pregnancy?’
‘Pierce.’ Anna spat his name. ‘That’s what went wrong with the pregnancy. Fucking Pierce. He was a violent fucking bastard.’
The hairs on her arms stiffened; as soon as Anna said it, she could see the signs. Valerie’s bullied and fearful demeanour, Anna’s protectiveness of her mother. Sam had felt physically threatened by him as well and then dismissed her instinct. She felt stupid for not twigging earlier – she had worked in a women’s refuge after all. She’d always thought the mosaic tiles, the Fisher King’s treasure, told Anna’s story, and perhaps her subconscious mind had recognized the pattern of abused women, screamed at her while she was riding past Betty Corrigall’s grave. But her conscious mind had dismissed the obvious.
‘Pierce was a wife-beater. A domestic abuser.’
‘Yeah.’ Anna gulped, swallowing her tears. ‘He always was a domineering shit. But Mum thought he was having an affair and confronted him. He said it wasn’t an affair, it was work related. He couldn’t tell her about it because it was a state secret. And she couldn’t say anything about it to anybody because that would put him in danger.’
‘Bastard.’
‘I hate the way the fucking spooks use their state secret bollocks to control their own bloody family. Step out of line and something nasty will happen. You can’t say anything to anybody. What kind of crap is that?’
‘It’s total shit.’
Anna sniffed. Sam dug for a tissue, passed it to her.
‘Anyway, she got pregnant. I suppose Pierce thought having a baby would shut her up. Except then she found a plane ticket for Paris and a photo of this woman and the gas bill for his supposed bloody safehouse. She asked him about it again. He flipped. Really flipped. He can’t stand people challenging him.’