From his vantage point, Larry Meres watched the little car speed off up the road. His heart was heavy. He was completely alone. It had been like this, when they hauled Jed off to remand. For the first time in more years than he could remember, there wasn't anyone to share moments with. An empty house, an empty life. Now, it was here again, for different reasons, but with the same outcome. Loneliness, deep and penetrating. Sighing heavily, he sat down on the edge of the bed, put his face in his hands and quietly sobbed.
Sometime later there came an insistent pounding on the door. Larry had half a mind to ignore it, but as he was about to set off for work, he decided to open it. Half expecting to see the postman standing there, he was taken aback to find, swathed in a padded jacket, Miles Foreman, Jed's closest friend.
“Hi, Mr Meres. Sorry to call so early. Is Jed in?”
Larry shook his head. “Sorry. He's gone away for a few days.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, he seemed at a loss for words. He pulled in a breath. “This is a bit nosey, I know, but, do you know where he's gone?”
“Scotland. With that friend he met in the hospital. Jon is it?”
“Ah, yes – Kepowski. Yes, I know who you mean. When will he be back, did he say?”
“Two days. Was it anything important, only I've got to—”
“No, no nothing important – not really.” He turned to go, then stopped, as if he had forgotten something and turned around again. “Mr Meres, would it be all right if I called round again, later on? I've got something to talk to you about. Something which I think you will find very interesting.”
Intrigued, despite his mood, Larry nodded. “After tea, Miles. About sevenish?”
Sometime after nine, they pulled into a motorway service area for breakfast. Jed, after sitting crunched up in the back seat, stretched out his limbs, and glanced over to the others standing close by. He'd noticed, almost from the start, that Janet was distant, barely speaking to him, spending most of her time laughing with Jon as he leaned over to whisper in her ear every other minute. And did he press his hand on her knee more than was necessary? As he looked out of the window and watched the world racing by, Jed began to think the whole journey was a dreadful mistake. But then, as soon as Janet nosed the car into a tight parking space, she whirled around, all flashing teeth and tossing hair. “Let's go and get a coffee and a bacon butty whilst Jon goes and does some business.”
Jed wanted ask what kind of business, but Jon was already heading towards the far side of the car park, his stride meaningful, his shoulders bunched. “What's happened?”
“Not much,” said Janet, hooking her arm into his. “Let's go and get something to eat.”
She nuzzled into his arm and suddenly the world seemed a much brighter place altogether.
It was mid-afternoon when the two policemen came. Larry was where he always was lately, at United Molasses painting the huge steel drums that dominated the Wallasey end of Dock Road. He'd seen their approach, but paid them little attention until he heard his name shouted across to him by Warren Taylor, the site foreman. Reaching the ground he noted how serious the two uniformed officers appeared, and a jolt of anxiety shot through him. “Is it Jed?” he asked.
“Sorry sir?”
“Is it Jed, has there been an accident?”
The two officers exchanged bemused expressions. “It's your son we want to talk to, sir. But there's been no accident.
Larry was scratching his head. “Look, if this is about that nurse, then I thought it was all cleared up. Haven't you spoken to Sullivan? To interrupt me at my work – for God's sake!”
“We have spoken to Detective Sergeant Sullivan, yes sir. He sent us. We need to talk to your son. His school said he would be at home, on exam leave. But there was no reply.”
Larry was frowning. “Well what's it about?”
It was the other officer who spoke, and he began by levelling a measured stare towards Larry. “There's been a murder, sir. Another one.”
24
“I don't believe this – he was here only this morning.”
“And what time would that be, sir?”
“Just before I left for work. About five minutes or so before eight.”
“How can you be so exact, sir?” The young officer was scribbling it all down in his notebook whilst the other, much older man, stood impassively, his eyes never leaving Larry.
“Because I always leave for work at five minutes to eight. Always.”
“I see. And what time did your son set off for Scotland, did you say?”
“Six, or thereabouts.”
“And he would have travelled straight there, would he?”
“I suppose so…yes.”
“But you couldn't swear to it?”
Larry felt his stomach tense. “Well, not exactly, no. How could I? But…well, it had all been arranged. His friends picked him up.”
“Friends? And who were they, sir?”
“Er, the guy he met in the hospital.”
“Jon Kepowski?” It was the other policeman who spoke, his voice sounded incredulous.
Larry wasn't liking this. It felt too much like an interrogation. He wrung his hands, “Yes! He called for Jed this morning and they drove off together.”
“And you actually saw him, did you, this Jon Kepowski?”
Larry stopped, frowning. “Yes…” He let his voice drift away. Thinking back, he hadn't actually seen the man's face. He just assumed it was him. There had been someone else in the car, the driver, but they hadn't got out. “Look, what is all this? My son has gone to Scotland with friends, and now you're telling me that all of this has something to do with Miles?”
“His death, yes.”
Larry squeezed his eyes shut. This was becoming more and more like a living nightmare. When he opened them again it was to see the police officers still standing there, as big as life. It was no nightmare, not one you could wake from anyway. Larry sighed. “Jed had nothing to do with it, obviously. Like I said, he's gone to Scotland.”
“Yes, but you also said you couldn't be certain that he had. For all you know, Mr Meres, he may never have left the Wirral.”
This argument was taken up by Detective Sullivan just over an hour later. Sullivan sat across from Larry Meres at the same table, wearing the same suit, with the same tired look on his face. “This is becoming very depressing.”
“Isn't it just. Can't you just make some checks, Sergeant? Get in touch with the Scottish police, ask them to find the car?”
“What car, the one you said Jed was picked up in? And what would the registration number be, exactly?” Sullivan waited. There was no reply, how could there be? Larry hadn't even thought to check the number. “You see, Mr Meres, without that sort of information, there's not a lot to go on really. All I do know, for certain, is that you didn't do it.”
“Thanks!”
“You've got your alibi, at work all day. Always in the presence of someone else.” Sullivan reached inside his pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped it open. “Miles's body was found at just after ten o'clock this morning. His head had been bashed in, just like the others. According to the pathology report, as the body was still warm, the murder had been perpetrated within a very short time before the body was discovered. Perhaps as early as nine o'clock. We know you didn't do it, you were at work on time. There is no possibility of you having murdered Miles, then trotted off to United Molasses to begin your day. So that only leaves Jed. And you say he has gone to Scotland.”
Larry had his face in his hands, listening to the detective droning on and on. He spoke through his fingers. “Look, I saw him drive off with his friends. I told you. It had been arranged. Then, at around eight, Miles calls and tells me he wants to talk to me. We arrange for him to call round again at seven in the evening. Jed is in Scotland, just find him and sort all of this out.”
“Who were his friends?”
“I told the constable.” Larry dragged his hands away. He felt tired and
drained. He wanted his tea, then bed. It was another day tomorrow and the work was mounting up. Taylor would be furious that he'd lost an hour. Could life get any worse?
“Yes, I know what you told the constable. Let me ask you something else, Mr Meres. What father, what caring, doting father, allows his son, who is supposed to be on study leave, to go off to Scotland – if, indeed, he did – without knowing anything about who he was going with, how long he'll be away, or where he was going?”
Sullivan was right, of course he was. Larry felt ashamed at that moment, because Sullivan's words were thick with truth. He was a poor excuse of a father. It had crossed his mind to ask Jed all of those things but for some reason, some unfathomable reason, he hadn't done so. What was it, trust? Or perhaps he just didn't care. Was that the real truth? He should have felt angry at Sullivan's accusations, but he didn't. Just a deepening realisation that he didn't really care about anything or anyone. Not even Jed. It was all so bloody pointless.
“You see, if it were me, I'd want to know. Sure, he's getting older, he's a big lad. Can handle himself too, by all accounts. But, with everything that has gone on, not knowing where he's going to, that strikes me as irresponsible. Wouldn't you say?”
“I suppose…”Larry propped his head up with on hand. “He said he'd phone me later. To tell me where he is.”
“And in the meantime? We just wait, is that it? Wait for him to grace us with an explanation.”
“There is no need for an explanation, sergeant – he didn't do it!”
“So you say. The man who says he went off with Jon Kepowski?”
“Exactly.”
“You see, that's the other really interesting thing about all of this. You didn't see his face, did you?”
“No. But Jed had told me, the night before, that…” Larry blew out his cheeks
“Ah, right. This is the same son who tells you he's going to Scotland for a couple of days, when in actual fact he didn't – he stayed here, to murder poor Miles!”
Larry looked away. He'd had enough, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was too tired to even feel angry at Sullivan's accusation. “Look, I'm getting tired now, tired of this, tired of you and your insults. Just talk to Jed, and Jon. They'll put your mind at rest, then perhaps we can all get back to living our lives.”
“Oh, I'll be talking to Jed all right, don't you worry. Kepowski might be a bit trickier however. Seeing as he's dead.”
They'd driven down past Glencoe, stopping briefly to take in the view, but without going to the visitors' centre. Jon seemed distant, his mind on other things. Janet was lighter, always smiling, as if she were trying, in a way, to compensate for Jon's dark mood. When Jed stepped out to stretch his legs, an elderly couple gave him a strange glance, but he soon forgot them and clambered back into the car as Janet prepared to take the car down the long, straight road, which would lead them towards Culloden.
Jon briefly came out of his bleakness to tell Janet to take a sharp right. Jed was mesmerised by the view, a single stretch of road cutting through the most desolate, beautiful and breath-taking landscape he had ever seen. For as far as the eye could see stark wilderness rolled towards the horizon, reminding him of one of those roads he'd seen in American movies, stretching on and on. He wondered what they would do if they broke down. How would they summon help? He shook himself as the car swung into a new stretch of road and looked out to see more desolation. But this time, it was different.
The mood changed, the first thing he noticed as he wound down the window and breathed in the air. It was now late afternoon and the sky was a solid, depressing grey. But it wasn't the sky that grabbed his attention, it was something more. A sinister atmosphere gripped the land and Janet, slowing down, sensed it too.
“What the hell is that?”
She stopped the car and Jed joined her, staring in disbelief at what loomed before them.
It was a wall, enormous, stretching upwards, perhaps ten feet thick and thirty feet high, possibly more and wide, wider than a terrace of ten houses. Jon was already stepping out of the car and Jed didn't hesitate in following, pushing the passenger seat forward, scrambling out into the daylight.
It was cold, a bitter wind ripping around him, and he pulled his coat closer. He stood, open-mouthed, staring at the wall. Up close, it was truly huge and, upon its surface, were strange marks, like massive splats made from what looked like eggs hurled against it. But not eggs, obviously. Splats. Splats of what?
There was no noise other than the wind, a dreadful, ghastly moan, the sound of countless lost souls, setting up their chant of despair, letting the world know of their abandonment, trapped between this world and the next. No one to help, no one to care, damned forever to wander in the twilight of existence.
Pressing his trembling hand against his mouth, Jed wondered what the hell was he thinking about, where had these ideas came from? Shaking himself, he turned to see Jon standing, a hundred yards or more so away, hands in pockets, staring at something on the ground. Jed walked over to him, looking back over his shoulder occasionally, to check that the wall was real, that it wasn't just a figment of his imagination the way the sound of the wind was.
“What is this place?”
Jon looked up, face drawn, as grey as the sky, looking more emaciated than at any other time since hospital.
“It's a target.”
“A what?”
“This,” Jon kicked the strange construction he stood beside. Half as tall as he was, made from metal, it looked like a symbol of some sort. Jed couldn't make it out, but from above it would be possible to read what it was. “It's a pointer, to the target – the wall.”
“Seen from above?”
Jon nodded.
“A target? A target for what?”
“Typhoons.” He swept his hand above him in a wide arc, “They'd fly in low and fast, firing off their missiles to hit the wall.”
“Typhoons?”
“World War Two fighter-bombers. Used in droves during the Normandy offensive.”
“Jon, what are we doing here? I don't like it, there's something not right about this place.”
“Full of ghosts, you mean.”
“Ghosts. Yes. I can … Jesus, I can feel them.”
“We've slipped, Jed.”
“Slipped? What the hell are you—”
“ You've got to understand, I have no control over these things. Only control over you, and others. But not this.”
Jed shook his head, “Jon, you're not making any sense. Slipped? A target?” He turned and looked over to where the car was. Except, it wasn't there anymore. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and gaped. “Jon? Where the hell is the car? Where's Janet gone with the fucking car?”
He whirled around and then he knew he was in Hell.
25
The roar of engines, far off in the distance, caused him to spin on his heels. Peering into the grey expanse of sky, he saw them, like specks of black, approaching fast. At first he thought they might be birds, but as they closed in, their shape grew more distinctive.
They were Hawker Typhoons. He recognised them, had built an Airfix kit some years back. Their big, powerful engines rumbled across the land, and he watched, mesmerised, as the small formation of four planes, split into two pairs. Coming in low and fast, Jed span, realising instantly what their target was.
The huge wall.
And he was mere yards away.
Head down he dived to the ground, rolling behind the massive cast-iron arrow that only moments before Jon had sat on. Now, the only person remaining on that barren landscape, was Jed. Curling himself into a ball, making himself as small as possible, he heard the great rush overhead as each plane released their RP-3 ground-attack rockets. Within seconds, the rockets struck the face of the wall, exploding with a tremendous blast, and he realised, at once, what those strange egg-splat stains were.
Chancing a look, he watched the planes peel away far above him, soaring upwards before turning once mor
e for a second attack.
But one of them took a different course.
Crouched against the arrow, Jed saw it, the terror gripping him. For this particular Typhoon was making its second run, not towards the wall, but directly towards where he lay.
The rocket released, its vapour trail streaking out behind it, and he screamed as the world closed in all around him.
He snapped open his eyes and for a moment he didn't know where he was, but one thing was certain – he no longer sat amongst the coarse, damp grass of the open moor. He was in room, smelling of rose-water, or something similar, the kind of stuff elderly ladies dabbed on themselves to make them sweet. Sweet?
None of this was sweet! Anything but. Rubbing his face, he rolled over and sat up, aware of the sweat and grime clinging to his body. He was in need of a shower – even the rose-water couldn't disguise that.
“Are you all right?”
Her voice, like an angel's, soft and low, came to him from out of the corner of the room and he shook himself and turned to find Janet, smiling. It took him a second or two to reorient himself. “Where are we?”
“In a little guest house. You blacked out. I didn't realize how heavy you were until we tried to get you into the car.” She came and sat down beside him on the single bed underneath a small three light window, its chintz curtains toed back by decorative red cords. Tracing the line of his bicep, she purred. “It's all muscle though…” Then she leaned across and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Jon's next door. I'll just go and tell him you're awake.”
Jed went to speak, but already she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her. He sat for a few more moments, trying to disentangle his thoughts. The last thing he could remember was seeing…He struggled. There was the wall and that huge symbol on the ground and he remembered the pot-marks on the surface… He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to conjure up the image from the depths of his memory, but everything remained fuzzy, refusing to come into focus. Made from metal, symbol and wall, and the symbol, was that an arrow, pointing towards the wall?
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