‘Adam Turner. Actually, I was just having a drink with David last night.’
‘I take it from your accent you’re not from round this way, Mr Turner?’
‘Not any more. Used to be though. David and I went to school together. Kings.’
‘I see.’
The barman put the last of Henderson’s pints on the bar, and Henderson hesitated for a second then gestured to Adam’s own glass. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Adam drained the last of his Scotch. ‘Thanks.’
‘Same again, sir?’ the barman asked.
‘Make it the good stuff this time.’ He gestured to a twenty-year-old malt on the counter behind the bar. ‘A large one.’ He smiled at Henderson, whose expression hardened a fraction as he put a twenty-pound note on the bar.
‘One for yourself, Arthur.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the barman murmured.
Henderson nodded to Adam. ‘Give David my regards next time you see him.’ He started to turn away.
‘I will. Funnily enough he mentioned your name last night come to think of it. We were talking about the development.’
Henderson hesitated. ‘Oh?’
‘I said I was interested in the tenders for the building work. David thought in my business I should talk to you.’
‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ Henderson said, definitely on the defensive now. ‘When did you say we’d met before?’
‘To tell the truth I might have exaggerated that slightly.’
What remained of any pleasantness vanished from Henderson’s expression. ‘Turner you said didn’t you? Exactly what business are you in, Turner?’
‘Sewage, you might say. That’s my speciality. Rooting around in the shit. I’m a journalist actually.’ He extended his hand, which Henderson pointedly ignored. Adam shrugged and withdrew it. ‘Anyway, now we’re having this cosy chat, would you care to comment on the rumours of irregularities over the approval for Forest Havens’ plans?’
Henderson stared at him coldly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
‘I understand your brother-in-law owns a building firm, Councillor. Will he be putting in a tender for part of the development work do you think?’
Henderson leaned close. The smell of cigar smoke was ingrained in his clothes, and his breath was beery. ‘I should be careful of the things you say if I were you, Mr Turner.’
Adam smiled blandly and made a show of looking over Henderson’s shoulder. ‘That’s Councillor Campbell over there isn’t it? Perhaps I should come over and talk to you both at the same time. Kill two birds with one stone so to speak.’
Wordlessly Henderson turned away. ‘Thanks for the drink by the way,’ Adam said to his back.
He stayed for a while, making a show of sipping the Scotch, which was actually pretty good. Henderson glanced over now and then and at one point left the room through a door that was marked as the way to the toilets. When Adam followed he saw Henderson standing outside, talking animatedly into a mobile phone.
It was dark when Adam walked back to his car. The square was deserted except for a few cars. Somebody threw a cigarette butt from the window of a four-wheel drive parked along the street which exploded in sparks on the pavement and some youths came out of the chip shop laughing and shoving each other. Adam started the Porsche and headed out of town. The Scotch had settled with a pleasant knot of warmth in his stomach and he was actually looking forward to the night ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Voices drifted from the yard below the window. From snatches he overheard David knew they were talking about what was going on at Cold Tarn. Everybody was talking about it. He’d stopped in the town after he’d left the cottages to buy a bottle of whisky and people were talking about it in the supermarket. Not surprising really.
He sat down behind his desk again. He’d been thinking all day about those few seconds that morning when he had found himself staring down the twin barrels of a shotgun. He remembered looking at Mary and her eyes were crazed and wide and whatever she saw it wasn’t him. She hadn’t snapped out of it until he’d spoken her name. He supposed he would think about those seconds for a long time, perhaps for as long as he lived. They said that your life was supposed to flash before your eyes when death was imminent. Had that happened to him? He didn’t think so. Parts of it perhaps. He remembered fear. Not the kind of fear he could describe to anyone so they would really know what it was like. Everything was sucked out of him. As if he had a hole in his guts through which his insides had been vacuumed. The sensation was something like a fairground ride that plunged you into a too rapid descent. After that had come a sort of numb acceptance. It happened too fast to think, but funnily enough he remembered a very brief moment of calm. It was then he’d seen bits of his life flicker across an internal screen.
He had been trying all afternoon to remember what those images had been. It seemed important. In those few moments when he’d believed he was going to die an automatic switch had tripped in his brain. He thought that was what had happened. It was some sort of built-in response to distract him. Something to make dying less traumatic. He wanted to know what parts of his life his subconscious had considered the most pleasant distraction before the blast of a shotgun shell disintegrated his brain into a million bloody fragments. But he couldn’t remember much. He’d seen Angela and Kate. Kate riding her pony for the first time, and Angela was laughing at something, but that was all.
He became aware that the door to his office had opened, and belatedly he realized that somebody had knocked. He looked up and saw Mollie looking at him uncertainly.
‘I was just about to leave for the day. Is there anything else before I go, David? Can I do anything?’
She had worked for his dad before him. He remembered that she’d given him sweets when he was a little boy.
‘No, I’m alright, Mollie. Thanks.’
She started to go, then hesitated.
‘Shut the door on your way out, Mollie,’ he told her before she could say anything else.
‘Yes, alright,’ she said, her expression filled with something almost like grief. For an instant he regretted speaking sharply, but then his regret drifted away from him, like a small boat bobbing on a strong current. In the space of a few seconds he’d forgotten about her.
He glanced towards the clock on the wall. Where the bloody hell was Nick? He hadn’t been at the yard all day. There was a space on the wall below the clock, a bright square patch where the mirror had hung before he’d taken it down. He couldn’t stand to see himself any more. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he looked like. Bloodshot eyes, haggard flesh. He reached for the bottle and poured more whisky into the chipped enamel mug he was drinking from.
When Mary had put the gun down he’d collapsed. It was comical really when he thought about it. His legs had given out and he’d simply folded up, sat on his arse on the ground.
‘Jesus,’ he’d breathed, when he could talk again. ‘What are you doing with that thing?’
She’d looked blankly at the gun. ‘I thought it had come.’
‘It?’
She hadn’t answered though, and he could tell from her eyes that she was as mad as a hatter. Eventually he’d managed to stand up and had taken the gun from her and leaned it against the wall. As he led her back inside the house something occurred to him and he’d checked the barrels to see if the thing was actually loaded. It was.
He’d sat Mary down in the kitchen. There was an unpleasant smell in the house, and unwashed dishes were stacked in the sink. He’d looked around at the squalor, wondering when was the last time anyone had cleaned the place. Mary herself was a mess and her hair was greasy. She’d watched him as he poked around looking for the things to make some tea but she hadn’t said anything.
‘Mary,’ he’d said gently when he sat down. ‘Where’s Nick?’
She’d stared blankly.
‘Have you seen him this morning?’
Nothing.
‘Di
d he come home last night?’
‘He leaves me alone too much,’ she’d said, speaking at last.
There was nothing else he could get out of her. She rambled about ‘it’ coming for her, but didn’t seem to have any idea where Nick was. In the end he’d left her, not knowing what else he could do. He couldn’t worry about her when he had so much to think about.
He stayed at his desk as the light faded outside, and even when it was quite dark he didn’t turn on the lights. He kept waiting for Nick to phone or turn up. Finally the phone did ring, its shrill tone startling him. He stared at it with his heart pounding before he picked it up.
‘There you are. I talked to a bloody friend of yours earlier.’
It was Henderson. He sounded angry. ‘What friend?’ He didn’t know what Henderson was talking about.
‘Adam bloody Turner, that’s who. What the hell is going on, Johnson?’
Why was Adam talking to Henderson?
‘He came into the bloody pub. Started going on about the development. Talking about contracts and such. He said he’s a fucking journalist for Christ’s sake! What have you been telling him?’
‘Nothing. I haven’t told him anything,’ David said. Bloody Adam! Dammit! ‘Don’t worry, he’s just trying it on. He doesn’t know anything.’
‘You better bloody well hope not. Can’t you do something to stop him? You know what’s at stake here.’
What was he supposed to do, David wondered? ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. But Henderson wasn’t about to let it go so easily. He was still talking loudly as David hung up. On the way out he pulled the phone cord out of the wall. The office door slammed shut behind him and the cold wind felt like the whip of a tree branch across his face.
He drove home, but didn’t pull into the gate. Instead he sat in the lane and watched the house. The yellow squares of the windows spilled light into the darkness outside. Every now and then he saw Angela moving around inside. He wished he could go over, put his key in the door and step inside. He closed his eyes, remembering what it had felt like going home at the end of the day, having Kate run to him, and then kissing the back of Angela’s head as she made dinner. It had been a long time since he had done those things.
The other night, when she had asked him about the planning committee she had looked at him in a way he’d never seen her do before. As if she was seeing something in him she hadn’t known was there until then.
He started the engine and headed back towards town. He kept looking in the mirror as he drove down the lane watching the house get smaller and more distant.
The sound of a car outside drew Angela to the window in her studio that overlooked the front of the house. At first she thought it was somebody turning through the gate and her heart raced. She thought of David and Adam almost simultaneously. She both wanted it to be one of them and at the same time hoped it was neither but when she pulled the curtain back the sound was already fading and she only glimpsed red tail-lights through the horse chestnuts along the lane.
Damn. Her mouth tightened as disappointment and relief jostled for dominance. She knew it had to have been one of them, and felt suddenly sure that it was David. She crossed quickly to the phone and started punching in the numbers to call his mobile but it was turned off and she only got a recorded message. After a moment she hung up. Adam. Damn him and his theories. She wished she had never gone with him today. She knew he was wrong about David. It was ridiculous. No, wrong word. That made his suspicions sound comical, something to be dismissed and ridiculed, but there was nothing even faintly amusing about this. The things he’d said were madness. Unbelievable.
All the way home in the back of the taxi she’d stared out of the window, seeing nothing. The driver had talked for a little while, chatting about the weather and asking if she’d lived in Castleton long. She answered in monosyllables if at all. Once she’d caught his eyes on her in the mirror before he’d quickly looked away. After that he’d put the radio on and they’d driven in silence the rest of the way. When they’d arrived at the house she had tipped him generously and tried to smile. Bad day, she’d told him.
She went upstairs and sat down in front of her computer screen. She felt drained. There was an email message from Julian reminding her tactfully that they needed to respond to the American offer. Without too much delay. She managed a faint smile. In other words don’t take all bloody month about it. For a few moments she allowed herself to contemplate an existence where she and Kate moved away, and she became a celebrated author of children’s books. They would go and live in a rambling cottage somewhere. Perhaps in Oxfordshire, on the edge of the Cotswolds. Away from all of this. She looked around her. But it wasn’t the house she wanted to escape, or the town. It was the feeling she had that everything she had built her life on had turned to sand and was shifting beneath her feet. Her marriage was crumbling, and she was afraid.
She tapped a quick reply to Julian, asking for a few more days, and clicked on the Send icon before she could change her mind, and in an instant it was gone, then she disconnected from her provider.
What was she afraid of? She switched out the lights and went downstairs. The house was quiet without Kate. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of wine. Rationally she went over everything Adam had told her. He hadn’t tried to stop her when she’d left the pub. He hadn’t tried to convince her that she was wrong.
She was afraid partly because David had changed. Or perhaps to say he’d changed wasn’t accurate. He’d revealed parts of himself she hadn’t known existed. He had secrets from her. His drinking was a symptom, as were his moods. Of what? Stress? She didn’t think so. Yes, he’d been preoccupied, overworked and worried for a long time and that had taken its toll. But this was more than that. Guilt then. Was that what was eating him? How long had he been this way? A few months? It was hard to pin down a precise time. Certainly throughout September. A thought occurred to her.
Those three lads had been killed around the beginning of September.
As the pub door swung closed behind him David peered about the room. He’d decided to try the Crooked Man in Halls Tenement because he knew that sometimes Nick drank there. There were only half a dozen vehicles outside and Nick’s had been among them. He was sitting alone with his back to the window, slumped forward with his arms resting on the table. He didn’t look up. An almost empty pint glass was in front of him.
‘Scotch,’ David said to the barman. ‘Make it a large one.’ He gestured towards Nick. ‘Has he been here long?’
‘Most of the day.’
David paid for the Scotch and emptied the glass. He couldn’t bring himself to go over to Nick. Not yet. Now that he’d found him he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. In the end Nick must have sensed somebody watching, and he looked up. His eyes focused. It was clear he’d had plenty to drink, but he wasn’t drunk. He didn’t look surprised. Finally David went over.
‘I’ve been trying to find you all day. You weren’t at the yard.’
‘I’ve been here.’
What now? What was he going to do now? For a second the room swam in front of David’s eyes and he put a hand on the table to steady himself. He was aware of an old man with a dog at his feet watching him curiously. He took a deep breath and focused on Nick again. He felt as if somebody had shoved a blade in his guts and ripped it through his body.
‘What did you do?’ he said. His words came out in a croaky whisper. ‘What did you do?’ he repeated, clearer this time.
It was impossible to read what Nick was thinking. He grabbed his glass and stood up. ‘I need a drink. Want one?’
David didn’t answer and he kept looking at the empty place where Nick had been sitting a moment before. ‘What did you do?’ he repeated. His vision was blurring. His cheeks were wet. He imagined himself cracking up. Like a statue. Cracks appearing, spreading cobweb-like from head to toe. Then small chips dropping off, followed by bigger chunks. Nick went towards the bar and David reached out to stop him.
He wiped his eyes and repeated his question.
‘I said, what did you do?’
His voice was loud. Murmured conversations around them died away. People were watching.
‘I need a drink,’ Nick said again.
He heard a sound that he knew he’d made himself. It was like a shout of rage or pain or both mingled together. But a part of his mind remained detached, as if it wasn’t really him. There was a sensation of release, as if a tightly stretched cable had snapped and the heavy weight it had been holding back was gathering momentum under its own force. He felt his fist connect with something and saw Nick’s head snap back and then abruptly, like a switch had been flipped, it was over. He stood listlessly as people rushed forward and held his arms even though it must have been obvious he wasn’t going to do anything else. He didn’t hear their voices, only noise, and he barely felt their restraining hands. From the floor where he’d fallen Nick wiped blood from his nose and looked up with a pained expression. Not physical, but something deep which tugged at David inside as Nick got to his feet and made for the door.
They only let him go when the lights of Nick’s Landcruiser flashed by the window.
Adam, David thought. This was all because of Adam.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The moon appeared now and then, seen hazily through thinning cloud. As the road climbed towards the fells a set of headlights appeared in Adam’s rear-view mirror, and stayed there. It would vanish every now and then when he rounded a bend, but reappear shortly afterwards. When he reached the gated turn-off to Lake Lodge he pulled in and switched off his lights and engine. Silence and darkness closed around him as he waited for the vehicle to pass. About half a minute went by and then headlights lit the road behind him, and a few seconds later swept by. Darkness fell again and the sound of an engine faded and was gone. Only then did he get out and open the gate, and once he was through he closed it again though he didn’t replace the chain.
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