“Come on in, the water’s fine,” she said, in an unfamiliar American drawl, but at the same moment, he became aware of another shape on the far side of the bed. With mounting dread, he continued to pull away the remaining sheet, part of him silently screaming to turn and run, yet compelled by some invisible force to continue. Even before it was revealed, Peter knew what the shape was. As the cotton came away, there appeared the greying dark hair, wan forehead and finally the staring dead eyes of his brother. “Go home,” said the dead man, “before it’s too late!”
He jolted, and once again Peter found himself sitting at the desk in Martin’s den. This too had been a dream, but hadn’t he awoken already? That must have been part of the same dream. His heart was racing. The PC screen now showed a screen-saver. Powering it down for what seemed like the second time that afternoon, he swiftly left the room. In the kitchen, he pulled a beer from the fridge and sat at the table, shaken. How could he tell he was no longer dreaming? Ridiculous, he thought, of course he wasn’t. But that was just it, the whole experience had been so vivid. He looked around the kitchen. Everything seemed to be real enough. He studied the label on the bottle of beer in his hand. He had read somewhere that if you look at writing during a dream, turn away and then look back, the words invariably change into something else. “Premium lager, brewed in the traditional way since 1885,” it read. He turned away, then looked back. It was the same. Of course he was awake. He felt suddenly very foolish and quickly knocked back the remains of the bottle, letting out a satisfied gasp. Opening the fridge to retrieve a second beer, he noticed two salmon fillets lying on a plate and decided to prepare dinner. Peter was far from talented as a cook, but without really thinking, located some potatoes, cream, garlic and a few other ingredients, and somehow transformed these into a convincing attempt at pommes dauphinoise. To accompany the salmon, he prepared a white wine sauce with a little Cabernet Sauvignon, that had already been opened, topped and tailed a handful of mange-touts and washed up. He hardly ever cooked at home, but as surprisingly appetising aromas filled the kitchen, he now wondered why not.
An hour or so later, Isabelle poked her head round the door, still looking sleepy. “Something smells good!” she said. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Well, yes I rather surprised myself actually.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had made a white-wine sauce - or pommes dauphinoise for that matter - but somehow he had put it together without a second thought. “But I suppose we should reserve judgement until we’ve tasted it.”
Isabelle laughed. “You know, I don’t usually sleep in the afternoon, but after that little walk we had, I couldn’t resist a quick siesta.” She glanced at him, smiling. “I dreamt about you actually.”
Peter blushed, remembering his own rather disturbing ones. Seeing his reaction, she blushed also. “No, don’t worry, it was nothing like that. It was a bit weird actually. You were standing in a darkened room, looking around as though searching for something. I tried to turn on the lights for you, but they didn’t work. I asked you what you were looking for, but you just stood there like you hadn’t heard me. Then I wondered if it really was you. You seemed to be changing into someone else. As I continued watching, I realised this someone else was Martin. Then I woke up.” She stopped and started setting the table. “Funny things, dreams. Do you think they mean anything?”
“No I don’t,” said Peter emphatically. “I believe they’re the result of the semi-conscious mind trying to make sense of random thoughts.”
“But where do those thoughts come from?”
“Well, except under general anaesthetic, or in certain vegetative states, the brain always has some activity. Clusters of neurons fire continually across different parts of the brain, and what we refer to as conscious thought might merely be the result of whichever cluster reaches a critical size at any given point in time.”
“So our very essence is now reduced to some sort of random electrical storms in the brain? I can’t believe that.”
“Well it’s only one of the many theories for how consciousness arises, but they all – at least all the scientifically respectable ones – can still be reduced to the brain’s electrical activity. I mean, what’s the alternative? We know the brain is where it all happens, since when it gets damaged or affected by drugs, our thoughts, feelings – even personalities - change also.”
“So, you don’t believe in a soul?”
“If there is such a thing, then it’s somewhere in the brain.”
“But then it would die when the body dies.” Isabelle looked simultaneously shocked and saddened. Peter immediately regretted his insensitivity.
“No... well... that’s what I happen to believe,” he said, trying to undo the damage. “I suppose there are still questions that haven’t been answered by science, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
“Do you really think that one day science will provide all the answers?”
He looked into her beautiful brown eyes, now fixed on him anxiously, as though awaiting the verdict of a murder trial. He suddenly felt uneasy as though a great weight of responsibility had been placed on his shoulders. “I honestly have no idea, Isabelle. I like to think so. In a way, I suppose you could say that the dead live on in the minds of the living – as memories, but I see no good reason to suspect that they continue in any other sense - some metaphysical realm of the soul for example. I think I’d like to believe in heaven, and in life after death.” He paused. “It’s just that for me, the two sides don’t seem to square up.”
“I think that’s why I was never any good at science; it always seemed to contradict my Catholic upbringing. Perhaps it’s something you should discuss with Roger.”
Peter was relieved at the opportunity to change the subject. “Oh yes, that’s right, I said I’d meet him at the Fox and Hounds at eight. Shall we try out this culinary masterpiece of mine then?”
The salmon was exquisite and Isabelle seemed visibly impressed. Between them they finished off the wine and chatted about everything and nothing. Adhering to the old adage, Peter would try to avoid the topics of religion and politics from now on.
After dinner and with some trepidation, he phoned Abigail.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said immediately, “it wasn’t fair of me to blame you like that - especially right after Martin’s funeral - I feel terrible.”
Peter felt a surge of relief. “I’m sorry too. How is Kate now?”
“Oh much better. They had a school outing to a farm today, and she’s been going on about wanting a pony ever since I picked her up.”
“Well that’s a relief - unless of course, you agreed,” he added jokingly.
“No – well - not really.”
“Abigail?”
“Well, I said that we couldn’t have one here, but that maybe one day we might move to a big house in the country, one with some land, and then we’d see.”
“Are you serious? I thought you hated the countryside.”
“No. Well - maybe once, but it’s different now we have the children. It’s not healthy for them here anymore. You always hated suburbia, and for the money we could get for this place, we could get something much bigger farther out.”
Peter couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s wonderful. I don’t know what to say. I never imagined you felt this way.”
“Well don’t say anything. Let’s talk about it when you get back. When is that likely to be by the way?”
“I don’t know - I mean I haven’t really decided. I’m sorting out Martin’s den and helping Isabelle with the paperwork.”
There was silence - then “How is Isabelle?”
“Oh fine. At least - she’s as well as can be expected under the circumstances. I thought that while your mother was there, I might stay on for a few days - try to answer some questions - you know - about Martin.”
There was a pause and Peter at once felt uneasy. “Abigail?”
“No - don’t worry, that�
�s fine. Take your time. I’m sure she’s very grateful for your help.”
Peter tried to determine whether there had been a tinge of sarcasm in Abigail’s voice, perhaps not. “I’m sure it’ll only take a few days.”
“It’s fine, really!” She sounded marginally more sincere now. “Look, I’m just a bit tired and I need to get the kids into bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After they’d hung up, Peter replayed the conversation in his mind, trying to discern any hidden meaning between the words. If there had been any jealousy of Isabelle, she had never before let it show, and he was pretty sure he had never given away the fantasies secretly harboured over the years. Even if she did have suspicions, surely she knew he would never act on them – especially under these circumstances. But at the same time, his mind jumped back to the dreams of that afternoon, and he wondered if perhaps he was in love with Isabelle. But was it love or lust? After twelve years of marriage, how would he know the difference? He still loved his wife, didn't he? There were aspects of Abigail’s character he had always found hard to come to terms with. When on form, she could be delightful, then at the drop of a hat, she could transform into someone quite different altogether. This other person was moody, uncompromising, and for the most part sad and frustrated with life. For many years, Peter had felt at least partly responsible for these turns, assuming that in some way he must have failed her, and letting himself be tormented by thoughts of what he might do differently. Eventually however, he had come to accept it for what it was - an aspect of her personality. If he wanted the charming and bubbly character with whom he had fallen in love, then he would have to accept this other, somewhat darker side as well. Of Isabelle, he would just have to be content with fantasies. To do any more would be a cruel betrayal of those he loved.
CHAPTER 4
Doug and Brian locked arms and knelt in the wet mud, their heads sandwiched between the buttocks of the front row for what seemed like the hundredth scrum that afternoon. Essex Police had always been a tough opponent, and this afternoon they were on home turf. Big men, mostly in their mid-twenties to early thirties, the coppers had a reputation for rough play. By contrast, the students were mostly under twenty-one, but what they lacked in size and weight, they made up for in fitness. Today the rain had turned most of the pitch into a quagmire preventing the police scrum from exploiting their weight advantage, and the students were leading seventeen points to three. Needless to say, the police, who never much liked students at the best of times, were less than happy with the situation.
The front rows slammed together and everyone jostled to find some purchase in the mire. The scrum-half launched the ball into the fray, to a deep growl of “Heave!” from the front row. Doug’s studs found some grip, and he locked his legs. He could see the feet of Taff, the student hooker, desperately trying to reach the ball, when a fist flew up from one of the opposing props. Suddenly the ball was gone and the police had possession. As Doug broke loose, he could see blood pouring from Taff’s nose. The police tight-head was smiling conspiratorially at one of his team-mates. Their possession was short-lived though. By the time the ball was half way down the line, the students were all over it, forcing a hasty kick into touch, and presenting them with a line-out just twenty-five yards from the try-line.
As the ball was thrown back in, Brian rocketed into the air, caught the ball easily with both hands, and as he came down, drove his elbow hard into the right eye of the police tight-head, sending him flying backwards into the mud. “Serves you right you fat git!” muttered Doug as he bound onto Brian, head down and started to push once again. They were now twenty-yards from the police try-line and slowly gaining ground. Doug, spotting a gap on the inside, slipped his arm around the ball and broke free. Summoning the very last reserves of energy, he charged. From the corner of his eye, he could see the police winger closing from the outside. Adrenaline surged through his body, forcing aside the exhaustion he had felt only seconds before. He pumped his legs harder, feeling powerful, invincible. Unlike the rest of the squad, the police winger, whose boots could be heard slapping in the mud behind him, was match-fit and closing fast. Doug glanced over his shoulder. The policeman was gaining. He looked around for support, but there was no easy pass. Ahead, the police back was now converging on the gap for which Doug was aiming. It was going to be tight, but he reckoned he could still squeeze between him and the goalpost. With one last grunt, he lunged for the line. As his feet left the ground, the winger’s shoulder slammed into his thighs, setting his body into a mid-air spin. He thumped the ball down over the line, but kept spinning. He saw the post looming rapidly and then everything went black.
Out of the darkness came a voice, “Doug!” It sounded like Kal’s voice. “Be very careful! - Leave it be! – Don’t use it!”
“Careful now! Leave him be! Don’t move him! Doug! …Doug! … Doug!”
A ring of blurred faces peered down at him.
“Kal?”
“What? …He’s coming round!”
He began to sit up trying to make out where Kal’s voice had come from.
“Just lie still.” said another voice, this time from a man kneeling at his side. The man was feeling around Doug’s neck. Gradually his vision started to clear. It was Dean the coach, a slim, powerful man of about thirty five with a shaved head and Essex accent. He peered into each of Doug’s eyes then held up three fingers. “How many fingers can you see?”
“Three!”
Dean curled the third finger and presented a “V”-sign. “Good, and now?
“Same to you, ya bastard!”
“Good! Do you know where you are?”
“Barbados?”
“Very funny. Do you know what just happened?”
“I think I scored a try didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Dean smiled. “You finally chalked one up for us, you big ape.” His face turned serious again. “Your head hit the post though, and you blacked out for a bit. Can you move your head?”
Doug raised his head off the mud and rolled it from side to side. “Feels okay” There was a throbbing coming from his left temple. He touched it with his fingers and then inspected them for traces of blood. There were none.
“You’re going to need to go down the hospital and get checked out,” said Dean, “better safe than sorry.”
Dean held out his hand. “Come on, get up! Let’s get you off the pitch so we can convert it and put these bastards out of their misery.”
As he got dizzily to his feet, some of the players started to clap.
Standing on the touch line, Doug could see Taff holding a wet sponge to his nose. “How’s the hooter?” Doug asked, “Broken?”
“Not sure!” said Taff, his lyrical Welsh accent booming across the pitch. He removed the sponge and ran his thumb and forefinger up and down the bridge. “Think it might be all right actually.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still ugly as sin.” Dean shouted.
The conversion was taken, but the wind gusted, sending the ball just wide of the posts. It no longer mattered. The referee blew full-time and a cheer erupted from the students. As the teams lined up to shake each others’ hands, a large hairy-faced man started towards them from the touch line. Doug recognised him as the plain-clothed policeman from two days before.
“Well played lads!” said the man. “Nice try, Mr. Richards.”
Several of Doug’s team-mates turned and eyed him suspiciously.
“You know, you should really get that head and neck looked at. I’ll give you a lift over to the hospital, if you like?”
Before Doug had a chance to say no, Dean had answered for him. “If you could mate, that’d be great. I’ll drop by later and take him back to campus.”
“That’s settled then,” said the policeman. “Do you want to take a quick shower or will you go like that?”
“I’d prefer to shower if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you in the car park.”
The atm
osphere in the guest changing rooms was typically jubilant, but Doug felt uncharacteristically subdued. Taff’s tenor voice was leading a chorus of “Wild Rover”, but Doug couldn't get into it. Although he didn't relish the idea of having to talk to hairy-face all the way to the hospital, he was actually quite glad not to have to stay for the after-match drinks. His neck was sore and a pig of a headache was taking hold.
In the car park, the big man was standing next to a dark blue Ford Mondeo and puffing away on a large pipe. As Doug approached, he flipped open the boot of the car and gestured towards Doug’s kit bag with the stem of the pipe. He took one last draw and emptied the smouldering contents onto the gravel, grinding it in with the heel of a large muddy hiking boot.
“Mr. Richards,” said the policeman offering his hand. “Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Inspector Bullock. How are you feeling?”
“I feel like I’ve just been hit by a train. Other than that, not too bad.”
“Well, sit yourself there in the front. It’s only about twenty minutes to the hospital.”
As the car pulled away, Doug slumped into the seat and turned his head towards the window. For some minutes the two men remained silent and Doug hoped it might stay that way. Eventually the inspector spoke. “I’m very sorry about your friend, Mr. Gupta. Were you two close?”
“Kal was my best friend.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said again. Several moments passed, then he added, “I understand there was a party the night before.”
“Yeah, it was a good one. That’s what I find so difficult to understand.”
“What’s that?” said the inspector, looking straight ahead at the road.
Doug studied the man’s face for a moment. It was relaxed and almost completely devoid of expression, rather like that of a professional poker player.
“Well, he seemed to be having so much fun. One minute he’s the life and soul and then the next…” Doug trailed off. The inspector was still looking straight ahead, his face giving away nothing. “Does the name Sergei Markov mean anything to you?”
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