by Tom Trott
‘Mr Grabarz!’
Jesus Christ!
She looked down at the tarmac. Mr X’s footprints were still visible here, leading off the road.
‘Who are you chasing?’
I stared down at the prints. They led into the north entrance of the Stanmer estate, toward Stanmer village.
‘Who are you chasing?’ she repeated in a voice that would be heard on the tape. ‘Is it Max?’
I took the only shot I had.
I scoffed, turned to her with a grin, glanced briefly down the camera lens and back at her.
‘Max?’ I asked incredulously. ‘He’s not real, you know.’ I laughed, a little too maniacally. ‘I made him up for the publicity.’
Then I ran off after the footprints.
29
Sanctuary
I jogged into the little car park, the news crew ran to their van and climbed in. I heard their van pull in behind me, on my tail, but then I reached the gate to the Stanmer estate, which was locked at night. I clambered over it and got moving toward the lodge houses. I heard them getting out, checking the gate, cursing, then giving up, getting back in, and turning around.
I peered at the two cottages. There were lights on, nowhere to hide, he wouldn’t risk it. I hobbled down the wooded lane until it emerged from the trees. I kept following the road as it curved gently, trees appearing again on my right, to my left were white fields. Then the road was straight ahead for half a mile. There was no speck of a human to be seen. I crunched over the powder, assuming he had to head this way and hadn’t pushed through the trees to get to the plots that Plumpton, the agricultural college, use.
When the straight half-mile finished, the road entered Stanmer village, passing under trees where I could see tracks again: tyre tracks. No footprints. Shit. He had probably driven up through Stanmer Park, through Stanmer village, up to the lodge houses, parked just past the locked gate, and walked over the fields from there. Just in case there was any suggestion of foul play at Downsfoot and the police checked the surrounding CCTV and ANPR cameras: there was no way they would check the cameras two miles away where he would join the A27 at the bottom of Stanmer Park, and his would be just another car amongst hundreds if they did. Shit, piss, fuck! He was gone. The fight in the house was now an hour ago.
I took in my surroundings. There’s only one road in Stanmer, ten cottages on one side, six on the other, a tea rooms, a farm, one big house. One or two lights burned behind the windows of the cottages, but it was the middle of night, and they were just for anxious sleepers. The flint cottages were draped in snow, the lacquered paint on the old agricultural machines some kept as ornaments in their front gardens glistened in the night. It was hard to believe this place was real. As I reached the end of the road the pond and church revealed themselves, also capped in snow, and looking for all the world like a Victorian Christmas card. I almost expected to hear carols drifting on the air. But the air was silent; the night cold. I touched a gravestone, it was colder than ice.
I tried the church door. It was locked, of course. These days sanctuary could only be sought during business hours. I would have to find mine somewhere else. I huddled in the archway, resting my foot, but as the blood returned it hurt even more.
I trudged past the stony pond, or stony “mere”, that gives Stanmer its name. Across a white lawn from me was Stanmer House, looking resplendent, if still irritatingly asymmetrical. I marched the half a mile to the gates of Stanmer Park, where it joins the bypass and Lewes Road. And from there I began the long walk into town.
Past the Southern Water building, past Coldean Lane, past Moulsecoomb, past The Avenue. By this point there were already plenty of people about. Students, mostly; buses of them heading from Sussex and Brighton Uni halls, and student houses in Bevendean; it might be gone one in the morning, but they had only just finished pre-drinking.
Past former offices and former factories turned university buildings and storage warehouses. Past all the takeaways that used to be real shops. I remembered one of them was a toy shop called “If Only” and foster parents would take me there when I’d been good. I didn’t go there much. Past the United Reformed Church, past the Mormons, past Shabitat and the bus depot. Into the gyratory. Past the garage, past Sainsbury’s. Past the Gladstone, past Grubbs, and onto Lewes Road proper. There was still plenty of traffic here. I limped the length of it. Past St Martin’s, past the entrance to Park Crescent, Hanover Crescent, and reached the Level. I stood at the middle of the crossroads.
So many everyday landmarks. Life in Brighton. Maybe it was just the cold and my foot getting to me, but it felt like the last time I would see them. I wanted to drink them all in, never forget them. I looked down at my feet, one of them had stained my shoe red.
The Caroline of Brunswick, the Open Market, the prow of St Bart’s rising over the bare trees. I limped further south along the Steine. St Peter’s ahead, Thornfield ahead left. Then past St Peter’s. Another Grubbs. Clarence’s office. Victoria Gardens. The King and Queen, bouncers out front.
I heard my name from their mouths.
‘Grabarz, you know. The detective guy.’
‘Ten thousand pounds?’ the other asked.
‘Yeah,’ the first confirmed, ‘so keep your eyes open.’
Is that all I’m worth? I wondered if they’d give me the reward.
I trudged on. Pavilion Gardens, the Dome, the back of the Pavilion, then North Street. The Lanes. Meeting House Lane. My door. The small brass plaque still read “J. Grabarz, No.1 Private Detective.”
Maybe I would find my sanctuary here. I raised my fist, knocked. And waited for an answer.
30
There Is No Trap so Deadly...
Even before I woke, I knew there was someone in the room. I was in my old chair, at my old desk. I was aware of a deep throbbing in my foot. Behind the venetian blinds there was still snow falling. The lamp was on, glowing yellow. In the outer office the fire was lit, died down to embers, glowing orange. My bookshelves were empty, but the office bottle still in the drawer. The past, like cobwebs, still in the corners. The cobwebs, even more like cobwebs, there too. The windows whistled in the winter wind. On my desk there was nothing but the pot I kept my pens in. It was empty, I had thrown the cheap biros. Opposite me was the client chair. Wooden, simple. And sitting in the chair was a man of my age.
‘Wakey-wakey, Mr Grabarz.’
He was much skinnier than me, gaunt like a survivor, barely filling out the grey mac he was wearing. He was leaning forward restlessly, elbows propped on his legs. He had a sharp nose and thin, pale mouth. His hair was fairly long, but thinning, blonde. His eyebrows were almost invisible. He had a fine haze of stubble around his chin and upper lip. His skin was unblemished, healthy looking, if very pale. It didn’t see much sun. When he spoke I could see his teeth were a natural ivory; clean, and straight. His deep-set eyes were pale blue, almost grey, regarding me with controlled frustration. So this was Max.
‘Why did you say it?’ he asked.
I yawned to avoid a smile. ‘You came.’
‘I’m here alright. I’ve been watching you sleep, you don’t sleep well.’
I nodded. ‘No.’
Wind rattled the blinds.
‘Why did you say it?’ he asked again.
‘So that you’d come here, of course.’
His lip curled. ‘Is this poetic for you?’
‘Poetic?’
‘Did you always think it would end like this, me and you here? Did you dream about it?’
‘Did you?’
‘It’s your office, it means nothing to me,’ he almost snapped. ‘I’m just wondering why you would want me to come here.’
‘Poetry doesn’t factor much into my decision-making.’
He sighed. ‘Either way, mission accomplished: I’m here.’
I nodded.
There was shouting down in the street. It passed.
He licked his lips. ‘What do you want?’
�
��I want your story.’
His golden eyebrows raised. ‘Now you want it. You just told everyone Max never existed.’
‘That was just a demonstration.’
‘To whom?’
‘You, of course. Remember, I’m your Cervantes, I decide whether you exist or not. You said it yourself: you were always you, but I created Max. And I can destroy him.’
‘And you think that holds much sway with me?’
‘You could get away scot-free. Rus Hillerman’s antics with the secret test drilling will still damage their share price, you’ll make a modest profit, and any man with millions can make millions more.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Your man just tried to kill four people and failed, they’ll describe him. You care about your legacy, Max, why else would you risk coming here?’
‘Why indeed.’ He pulled a silenced revolver from his inside pocket and rested his arm on his leg, the barrel pointed at me. ‘Max’s legacy, the urban legend, it was a nice bonus. Just like killing you.’
I smirked. ‘When it all comes down to it, you’re the same as the rest.’
He raised his eyebrows again, unimpressed but curious.
‘You’ve made this personal,’ I explained. ‘You could be on a private island, sitting on the beach earning twenty percent.’
He was amused, privately. He didn’t smile. ‘Tomorrow. I have a plane fuelling up at Shoreham as we speak. I’ll be in the air in thirty minutes.’
‘You and your henchman?’
‘He’ll have to take his chances, I’m afraid.’
‘What if he gets caught?’
‘He knew enough, but not too much. Just another pawn.’
‘Is that all I was?’
He smiled dryly. ‘No, I never controlled you. You were just an emergent property.’
‘I feel privileged,’ I drawled. ‘What are your plans?’
‘You already know: new place, new identity, new life.’
‘Sad to be leaving home?’ I asked, sounding like a hairdresser.
‘Keen to leave the womb.’
‘That makes it sound like your first time out,’ I remarked flippantly.
He didn’t respond.
‘Of course it is,’ I said, ‘travelling requires documentation, and whilst I’m sure you’ve enough money to get a good fake passport, even a fake real passport, why risk travelling on it before tonight.’
He smirked, amused by my deductions. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I like it here.’
‘I can’t stand this place.’
I frowned.
‘It’s the people I hate,’ he went on, ‘they flock to this place because they believe they’ll be free, whatever form that might take: free to have a dirty weekend, free to live and love how they want. But they’re not free. They’ve brainwashed themselves, drugged themselves, convinced themselves they’re happy. It’s pathetic. By the time the sunlight kisses your corpse I really will be free.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I thought I might try South America, there’s a lot of money to be made there. Once I have my new identity I can move around. China, India, Africa; all the emerging markets with resources, a workforce, and no regulations.’
I feigned interest. He thought I was mocking him.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ he responded through gritted teeth, ‘I want you to know how badly you’ve failed before I kill you.’
‘See: personal.’
‘So what?’
‘You do care. Of all my limited powers, the one no one can deny is my ability to piss people off. I’ve pissed you off by destroying your carefully constructed myth. “Schrodinger’s Max”, does he exist or not? Right now he doesn’t. If you kill me it stays that way. But I’m willing to tell the truth. I’ll spread the story of Max far and wide, how he fooled us all, how he beat me.’
He leant back in the chair, but kept the gun on me. ‘Really? And what do you want in return?’
‘Your story.’
‘Got this place wired for sound, I suppose.’
‘No. Even if I did, what difference would it make? I could get you to sign a confession, but if you signed it “Max”, what would it matter? You can’t arrest a legend. I want your story, I want to know who you are.’
‘I’m Max. For now.’
‘You can’t escape the past.’
‘Of course you can.’ He laughed. ‘I have.’
‘No. You haven’t.’
He just cocked his head, inquiring.
I didn’t speak.
‘Go ahead,’ he told me, ‘say your piece. But choose your words wisely, you haven’t many left. Make it something that will haunt me all my life.’
I nodded. ‘You can’t escape the past. You can ignore it, like I have. You can kill all the witnesses, like you have. You can destroy records. Remove the thing from living memory. But you can never erase the fact that you did it. No matter what you do, you can’t get to it: it’s locked away in the past, untouchable. And like a stone dropped in a pond, the ripples spread far and wide, becoming tiny certainly, only detectable by the most sensitive detector, but there nonetheless. We feel them every day without knowing it.’
He was unimpressed. ‘You said you didn’t like poetry.’
‘I said it doesn’t factor into my decision-making.’
He gave a conceding nod.
‘My point is,’ I added, ‘you can’t escape the past because you can’t destroy it. It’s always there.’
‘Destroyed or not, it’s far behind me.’
I shrugged. ‘Someone once told me that aboriginals, in Australia, think of the past as in front of them, because they can see it, and the future as behind them, because it’s unknown. It’s probably not true.’
Uninterested in this discussion, he looked at his watch. ‘I’d love to talk further, but I really must kill you and be on my way. It’s been fun, Joe, but you’re one more part of my past I can destroy.’
‘Kill me and you kill Max,’ I reminded him.
‘So be it. I’ve lasted this long by knowing when to walk away.’ He raised the pistol.
I smiled, sadly. Said, slowly: ‘And yet you came here, James.’
He went white. He bared his teeth and hissed like a cat. No, like a rat, cornered. I dived under the desk at the moment he squeezed the trigger. I heard the silenced phut, the crack of the blinds, and the plink of broken glass. I stood up with all my might, lifting the desk with my shoulder, up into him, foot screaming in agony at the work it was being asked to do. I heard scrabbling footsteps. Then the desk thundered to the floor. Everything shook. I fell backwards onto my arse. Looking up I saw Thalia standing over a sprawled Max, the pistol in her hand.
‘Don’t move!’ she barked.
Stephanie was in the doorway, panting.
I stood up, stood over him, thought of a million things to say, discounted them all as not good enough. I frisked him. He had nothing in his pockets. Absolutely nothing. He stared at me, eyes never leaving mine, hands clenching and unclenching. I knew that if Thalia dipped the gun for a second he would try and rip the skin from my face.
Stephanie was moving about, she disappeared out onto the landing.
I squatted down next to Max, met his gaze. I breathed deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I didn’t want to say much, but I had to say something. Choose your words wisely.
‘There was a girl once,’ I stated matter-of-factly. ‘You left her to die in a hole in the ground. Alone, scared, in pain. She didn’t deserve that. If it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t have been there. If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t be here.’
He squinted, flitting between my eyes, as though he didn’t really understand but took it as an insult nonetheless.
‘Just once,’ I continued, ‘for one night only, everyone is going to get what they deserve.’
‘Andy’s here!’ Stephanie called.
I stood up. ‘Get up,’ I told him, ‘and beh
ave. I don’t have to tell you what I can get away with if you don’t.’
I heard Andy’s footsteps skip up the stairs, then he was standing in the outer office in a blue mac, a tartan scarf around his neck, snow on his shoulders and in his long hair. He looked so normal compared to the rest of us. He took us all in, unhappy, uncertain, but didn’t say anything. It was taking every grain of trust he had left.
‘Did you bring cuffs?’ I asked him.
He took them from his pocket. I gestured for him to toss them to me. He walked over instead and placed them in my hand. I tried to take them but he held onto my hand. I squeezed his, gave him half a smile. After a beat he let go.
I cuffed Max and turned him to face Andy.
‘Detective Sergeant,’ I introduced him, ‘James Maxwell, the boy who murdered his family.’ I glanced at Max. ‘At number 37 Thornfield. “The Maxwell House case”, even though it had nothing to do with coffee.’ I addressed Max directly. ‘You made a terrible mistake: you succumbed to sentiment. I knew the flat was important to you, that much was obvious, I just couldn’t figure out why. But that night there, when you tried to impress me with all your bullshit, you made a little involuntary gesture, your fingertips pointing to the room when you talked about leaving your past behind. Plus your talk about “shed skin”. The funny thing is Daye had even told me about you not two weeks ago, when talking about the farm and other children who killed their families. The ultimate expression of trying to destroy your past.’
I looked back at Andy.
He just stared at me.
‘James Maxwell,’ I continued, ‘alias “Max”. The man I saw murder Alan Douglas, the man who ordered the murders of Mahnoor Jilani, Clarence Alderney, Benjamin McCready, and DCI Noël “Penny” Price; amongst countless, and nameless, others.’