The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  ‘It always happens when people visit from England,’ Gerry said, laughing. ‘Without fail. Just wait until you try and cross the road.’

  The first thing Banks noticed as Gerry drove out on to the expressway were the huge cars and the stifling heat. It was like trying to breathe at the bottom of a warm bath. In no time, his shirt was stuck to his skin. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. Even the draught through the open window was hot and wet.

  ‘You’ve come in the middle of a heatwave, I’m afraid,’ Gerry explained. ‘It’s been between thirty-three and thirty-six degrees for the past three days now. Above ninety per cent humidity, too.’

  ‘What’s a hundred like?’

  ‘Funny, that,’ Gerry said. ‘We never get a hundred. Not even during a thunderstorm. Summer can be a real bitch here. Toronto’s a city of extremes as far as climate is concerned. In winter it’s bloody cold, real brass monkey weather, and in summer it’s so hot and humid it’s unbearable, as you can tell. Pollution count goes way up, too.’

  ‘What about spring?’

  ‘We don’t have one. Just a lot of rain and then the sun. Fall’s the best. September. October. Warmish days, cool evenings. Beautiful.’ He glanced sideways at Banks. ‘I suppose you were expecting icicles and snowmen?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I didn’t expect the heat to be this bad.’

  ‘You should see the Americans,’ Gerry said. ‘I lived in Windsor for a while when I was doing my M.Sc, and I worked for customs during summer. They’d come over the border from the Detroit suburbs in the middle of July with skis on top of their cars and fur coats on the back seats. What a laugh that was. Americans know bugger all about Canada.’

  ‘I can’t say I know much, myself,’ Banks admitted.

  ‘Worry not. Keep your eyes and ears open and all will be revealed.’ Gerry had an odd accent, part Yorkshire and part North American, with a mixed vocabulary to match.

  They swung eastwards around a bay. For a moment, Banks thought they were on the wrong side of the road. He tensed and the adrenalin prickled in his veins. Then, again, he realized he was in Canada.

  On the right was Lake Ontario, a ruffled blue sheet with millions of diamonds dancing on it. The white triangular sails of yachts leaned at sharp angles. There seemed to be at least a cooler breeze coming from the water and Banks envied the idle rich who could spend their days sailing like that.

  ‘Those are the Islands over there,’ Gerry said, pointing towards a low hazy blur of green. ‘They’re just a long sandbar really, but everyone calls them islands. People live on the far ones, Ward’s and Algonquin, but the politicians want to chuck them off and make a heliport or a mini golf course.’

  ‘That sounds typical,’ Banks said, recalling the various schemes for developing adventure playgrounds and safari parks in the Dales.

  ‘A lot of trouble over it,’ Gerry said. ‘At first, the islanders even got themselves a home guard organized – hard hats, the lot. They were prepared to fight off an invasion.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s still going on really. Oh, various bright sparks come up with ideas for long-term leases and whatnot, but there’s always trouble brewing. It’s jealousy, I think. Most of the people who live there now are academics or artists and a lot of people stuck in the city envy them their lives. They think only the filthy rich ought to be able to afford such a pleasant environment.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t envy anyone who survives winter after winter out there in not much more than a wooden shack. Look.’ He pointed ahead.

  In front of them a cluster of tall buildings shimmered in the heat like a dot matrix block graph. A few were black, others white, and some even reflected the deep gold of the sun. Close to the lake, dominating them all, was a tapering tower with a bulbous head just below its long needle-point summit. It was a phallic symbol of such Olympian proportions that it made the London Post Office Tower look like it had a serious sexual dysfunction.

  ‘The CN Tower,’ Gerry said. ‘Toronto’s pride and joy. Tallest free-standing structure in the world – or at least it will be until the Japanese build a bigger one. See those elevators going up the outside?’

  Banks did. The mere thought of being in one made him feel dizzy. He wasn’t afraid of heights up to a certain point, but he’d never felt like risking a meal in a revolving restaurant at the top of a tower.

  ‘What’s it for?’ he asked.

  ‘Well you may ask. For show really.’

  ‘What’s at the top?’

  ‘A restaurant, what else? And a disco, of course. This is the height of Western civilization. A feat on a par with the Great Pyramids and Chartres cathedral.’

  ‘A disco?’

  ‘Yes. Honest. Oh, I suppose I’m being flippant. They do use the place as a radio and TV transmitter, but it’s basically just one of man’s muscle-flexing exercises. This is downtown.’

  The expressway, on a kind of elevated ramp, rolled past the backs of warehouses and billboards. Because the buildings were so close, the speed the car was travelling at was exaggerated and Banks felt as if he was on a roller coaster.

  Finally, Gerry branched off, drove through an industrial wasteland of dirty old factories with external plumbing, then turned on to a busy street. Most of the buildings seemed quite old and run-down, and Banks soon noticed that nearly all the shop signs were in Chinese. Roast ducks hung by their feet in shop windows and teeming stalls of colourful fruit and vegetables blocked the pavements in front of grocery stores. One shop displayed a handwritten sign offering a mysterious combination of LIVE CRABS & VIDEOS. The street was bustling with people, mostly Chinese, pushing and shoving to get to the best deals, picking up and examining wares. The rich smell of food gone bad in the heat, mingled with the aroma of exotic spices, drifted into the car along with the suffocating air. A red and cream tram rattled along its track beside them.

  ‘Chinatown East,’ Gerry said. ‘Not far to go now.’

  He continued up the street past a prison and a hospital. To the left was a broad green valley. Beside the road, it sloped like a huge lawn down to the broad bottom, where a busy expressway ran beside the brown river. Above the trees on the far side, the downtown towers shimmered, greyish blurs in the heat haze. Gerry turned right into a tree-lined street and pulled up in the driveway of a small brick house with a green and white porch.

  ‘Home,’ he announced. ‘I’ve got the bottom floor and there’s a young couple upstairs. They’re generally pretty quiet, so I wouldn’t worry too much about noise.’ He put his key in the lock and opened the door. ‘Come on in. I’m dying for a cold beer.’

  The place was small and sparsely furnished – apparently with cast-offs bought from second-hand shops – but it was clean and comfortable. Books stuffed every possible shelf and cavity. The Gristhorpe clan certainly seemed to be great readers, Banks thought.

  Gerry led him into the small kitchen and took two cans of Budweiser from the fridge. Banks pulled the tab and poured the iced, slightly malty beer down his throat. When Gerry tipped back his can to drink, his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, wiping his lips. ‘I’m sorry it’s so hot in here too, but I can’t afford an air-conditioner. Actually, I’ve lived in worse places. There’s a good through-draught, and it does cool down a bit at night.’

  ‘What’s this area of town called?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Riverdale. It’s gone very yuppie in the past few years. Property values have shot up like crazy. You’ll see the main drag, the Danforth, if you walk or take a streetcar up to the corner. It used to be all Greek cafés, restaurants and twenty-four-hour fruit and vegetable stores. Now it’s all health foods, late-night bookshops, and bistros with long-stemmed wineglasses and coral-pink tablecloths. All right if you like that kind of thing, I suppose.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘There’s a few unpretentious places left. You get some good blues at
the Black Swan on Saturday afternoons. And then there’s Quinn’s, not a bad pub. Some of the old Greek places are still around, but I can’t say I’ve ever been fond of Greek food myself – it’s all greasy lamb, eggplant and sticky desserts as far as I’m concerned.’

  They sat down on the sofa, an overstuffed maroon 1950s monstrosity with arms like wings, and finished their beers.

  ‘Your uncle said you had to go to a conference somewhere,’ Banks said. ‘I hope I’m not driving you out?’

  ‘Not at all. Actually, the conference isn’t so important, but Banff is a great place – right on the edge of the Rockies – so I’ll get a bit of hiking and partying done too.’

  ‘How are you getting there?’

  ‘Sneezy.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘A couple of thousand miles. But you get used to distances like that here. Sneezy’s done it before. She quite likes long journeys. I’ll take my tent and camp out on the way. If you need a car . . .’

  Banks shook his head. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t dare drive on the wrong side of the road. What’s the public transport like?’

  ‘Very good. There’s a subway, buses and the streetcars you’ve seen. We don’t call them trams here.’

  ‘I was surprised,’ Banks said. ‘I haven’t been on one of them since I was a kid.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance to make up for lost time. I use them a lot myself to get around the city. Often it’s not worth the bother of parking in town, and the cops can be pretty sticky about drinking and driving. Oops, sorry.’

  Banks laughed.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gerry went on, delving into a drawer and bringing out a couple of maps, ‘this is the city – easy to find your way about as it’s mostly an east-west, north-south grid system. And here’s the transit map. It’s not as complicated as the London Underground, so you shouldn’t have much trouble.’

  And Gerry went on giving information about subway tokens and free transfers from one mode of transport to another. But after the journey and in the sweltering heat, Banks felt his eyes closing. He could do nothing about it.

  ‘Here,’ Gerry said, ‘I’m boring you to death. I don’t suppose you’re taking any of this in.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Do you want to go to bed?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a nap.’

  Gerry showed him the bedroom.

  ‘Isn’t this your room?’ Banks asked.

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll bed down on the couch tonight.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Not necessary. I’m off early in the morning anyway. This’ll be your room for the next week.’

  Too tired to argue more and, frankly, grateful for a bed, Banks undressed, sank on to the mattress and fell asleep within seconds.

  When he woke he was disoriented at finding himself in an unfamiliar bed. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. It was hot and dark, and the sheets felt moist with sweat. Hearing sounds in the front room, Banks rubbed his eyes, pulled on his trousers and walked through. He found Gerry stuffing clothes into a huge backpack. For a moment, it made him think of Bernard Allen.

  ‘Hi,’ Gerry said. ‘I thought you were out for the count.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. Three in the morning, your time.’

  ‘I just woke up suddenly. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Jet lag does funny things like that. It’s much worse going the other way.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  Gerry grinned. ‘Beer?’

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure. We’re not all coffee-drinking barbarians out here, you know.’

  Gerry switched on the television and went into the kitchen. Banks sank into the sofa and put his feet up on a battered pouffe. A pretty woman was talking very intensely about a debate in the House of Commons. Again Banks felt the shock of being in a foreign land. The TV newscaster spoke with an odd accent – less overbearing than the Americans he had heard – and he knew none of the politicians’ names.

  Gerry brought the tea and sat beside him.

  ‘There might be a couple of things you can help me with,’ Banks said.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Where can I find Toronto Community College?’

  ‘Easy. The subway’s the quickest.’ And Gerry told him how to get to Broadview station by streetcar or on foot, where to change trains, and where to get off.

  ‘There’s another thing. Do you know anything about the English-style pubs in town? Somewhere that sells imported beer.’

  Gerry laughed. ‘You’ve certainly got your work cut out. There’s dozens of them: the Madison, the Sticky Wicket, Paupers, the Hop and Grape, the Artful Dodger, the Jack Russell, the Spotted Dick, the Feathers, Quigley’s, not to mention a whole dynasty of Dukes. I’ll try and make a list for you. What’s it all about, by the way, if that’s not top secret?’

  ‘I’m looking for a woman. Her name’s Anne Ralston.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’

  ‘How very secretive. You’re as bad as Uncle Eb, you are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Uncle Eb. You mean you don’t know . . .?’

  Banks shook his head. Gristhorpe had never mentioned his first name, and his signature was an indecipherable scrawl.

  ‘Well, maybe I shouldn’t tell you. He won’t thank me for it, if I know him.’

  ‘I won’t tell him I know. Scout’s honour. Come on.’

  ‘It’s short for Ebenezer, of course.’

  Banks whistled through his teeth. ‘No wonder he never lets on.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s not all. His father was a grand champion of the labouring man, especially the farm workers, so he called his oldest son Ebenezer Elliott – after the “Corn Law Rhymer”.’

  Banks had never heard of Ebenezer Elliott but made a mental note to look him up. He was always interested in new things to read, look at or listen to.

  ‘Ebenezer Elliott Gristhorpe,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Thought you’d like that,’ Gerry said, grinning. ‘It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? My poor mum got lumbered with Mary Wollstonecraft. Very progressive, Grandad was, respected the rights of women, too. But my dad was plain old George Webb, and thank the Lord he’d no hobby horse to tie his kids to.’

  On the news, a gang of street kids in Belfast threw stones and tossed Molotov cocktails at police in riot gear. It was night, and orange flames blossomed all along the street. Black smoke rose from burning tyres. The world really was a global village, Banks thought, feeling his attention start to slip. Consciousness was fading away again. He yawned and put down his teacup on the low table.

  ‘You can tell me something now,’ Gerry said. ‘Where did you get that scar?’

  Banks fingered the white scar by his right eye. ‘This? I passed out from lack of sleep and hit my head on the corner of a table.’

  Gerry laughed. ‘I get the point. I’m keeping you up.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I’m definitely falling asleep again. See you in the morning?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Gerry said. ‘I’ve got a long way to go and I’m setting off at the crack of dawn. There’s coffee and sugar in the cupboard above the sink. Milk and stuff’s in the fridge. Here’s a spare door-key. Make yourself at home.’

  Banks shook his bony hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will. And if you’re ever in England . . .’

  ‘I’ll be sure to visit Uncle Ebenezer. I always do. And we’ll have a jar or two in the Queen’s Arms. Goodnight.’

  Banks went back into the bedroom. A light breeze had sprung up to ease the suffocating heat a little, but it was still far from comfortable. He flopped down on the damp sheets. Outside, a short distance away, he heard a streetcar rattle by and remembered exciting childhood trips to big cities when the trams were still running. He thought of the Queen’s Arms on the edge of sleep, and pictured the pub on the corner
of Market Street and the cobbled square. He felt very far from home. The Queen’s Arms was a long, long way away, and there was a lot to do if he was to track down Anne Ralston before the week was over.

  9

  ONE

  They were going to church: the women smiling in their wide-brimmed hats and cotton print dresses, the men ill at ease in tight ties and pinching waistcoats.

  Every Sunday morning Katie watched them as she cleaned the rooms, and every week she knew she should be with them, dragging Sam along with the promise of an hour in the pub for him later while she cooked dinner. But he went to the pub anyway, and she cooked dinner anyway. The only thing missing was the hour in church. And that she couldn’t face.

  All through her childhood, Katie had been forced to go to the Gospel with her grandmother, and the icy devotion of the congregation had scared her half to death. Though they were praising God, they hardly dared sing so loud for fear He would think they were taking pleasure in the hymns. Katie could never understand the readings or the lessons, but she understood the passionate menace in the tones of those who spoke; she understood the meanings of the spittle that sometimes dribbled over their lips and the way their eyes glazed over. As she grew older, all her fear affixed itself to the sights, sounds and smells of the church: the chill mustiness rising from worn stone flags; the pews creaking as a bored child shifts position; the unearthly echo of the minister’s voice; the wooden board announcing the hymn numbers; the stained glass fragmenting colour like broken souls. Just thirty seconds in a church meant panic for Katie; she couldn’t breathe, she started trembling, and her blood turned to stone.

  But she knew she should go. It was, after all, God’s Mansion on Earth, and she would never escape this vale of tears if she didn’t give herself to Him completely. Instead, she watched the rest of the village go off in their finery and listened to the hymns on the radio as she dusted, tidied and swept, humming along very quietly under her breath. Surely, surely, He would approve? She was working, doing her duty. It was the sabbath, of course, but there were still guests to take care of, and she suspected deep in her heart that the sabbath was only meant for men anyway. Surely He would approve. Her work would count in her favour. But it was a sin, she remembered vaguely, to court His favour, to say, ‘Look what I’ve done, Lord.’ It was the sin of pride. At least some said it was. She couldn’t remember who, or whether she had been told to believe or disbelieve them – there were so many heresies, traps awaiting those impure in body and mind – but words such as faith, works and elect circled one another in her thoughts.