The Other Lives

by Adrian J. Walker

  Lucy shouted with delight from the shore.

  ‘You’re all silly stupid boys!’ she yelled above the wind. She pointed her camera, trembling with excitement, and watched them for a while, boxed in her sights as if she had captured them forever, these three boys jumping and splashing and screaming in the freezing water. And then she pushed her button, and she knew that she had.

  A DEAD MAN'S MEMORIES

  Marshfields, Present Day

  ‘I THINK WE’RE ALL just worried about him now. At times like these, it becomes very clear what’s important, and what’s important is that he knows that we’re thinking about him, and that we want him to come home and tell us that he’s all right. And that regardless of whatever arguments we have on-screen or off-screen I want him to know that I consider him a friend and that if he needs to talk to someone, he can talk to me.’

  ‘And if he’s listening right now, what would you like to say to him?’

  ‘I would say, “Elliot, if you’re listening, let me know that you’re OK, OK? We may have our differences, but there’s nothing so bad that we can’t talk about it together. Whatever you’re going through, I would love to be able to help.”’

  ‘Mary O’Brien, thank you. The time is 3:15 p.m. this Friday 22nd…’

  Mary O’Brien’s Belfast whine echoes in my ears, and all I can see is her smug face, screaming with glee beneath that concerned veneer. I turn off the van’s radio with a crackle of static.

  ‘You should call someone,’ says Zoe. ‘Tell them you’re safe.’

  We’re still at the harbour with Stanley’s box. The sea is churning and Morag has taken Heathcliff to find tea. Emily Havers’ life — along with all the others — is still ringing in my mind.

  ‘No. I already told Morag — I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.’

  I push the lid down over the papers.

  ‘Is it happening?’ says Zoe.

  ‘Is what happening?’

  ‘Are other lives coming back to you?’

  There’s an excitement to her voice that rattles me. It’s as if she finds some pleasure in all of this.

  ‘No. Only Stanley’s, and some of these.’

  ‘It won’t be long, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Certain? How? There’s nothing remotely certain about any of this.’ I shake the box. ‘A dead man’s memories; that’s all these are.’

  She frowns.

  ‘Memories that you share. Surely that means something to you? Surely you believe now; surely you care…’

  ‘No. That’s just it. I don’t care.’ I toss the box on the dashboard. ‘This just makes everything worse.’

  She sits back, watching me. I’m getting tired of all this being watched.

  ‘What is it?’

  She finds a cigarette in her pocket and lights it, eyes still upon me.

  ‘You seemed angry in Gladys’ house,’ she says.

  ‘Really, I don’t remember. Open a window, will you?’

  She winds down the passenger window and blows smoke out into the cold air.

  ‘Tell me something about Stanley.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to know about him. Why was he so indifferent to his daughter.’

  I turn on her

  ‘He wasn’t.’ The snap of my voice surprises me. I look out at the swollen sea, trying to temper it. ‘He wasn’t. He loved his daughter. Despite what Gladys thought, he loved her more than anything. His favourite thing was to watch her playing when she didn’t know. For hours on end he would stand at that doorway, enjoying her games, wanting to join in. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to get too close to her, he didn’t want to… infect her with what he had. His memories. Not just of his other lives, but of his too. The war knocked things from him, that shell, that face of his friend half-blown away in the mud.’

  We are both quiet for a moment.

  ‘See?’ says Zoe at last. ‘You do care.’

  Just then there’s a knock on Zoe’s window. Morag is there, face urgent, hair streaming in the wind. Zoe rolls down the window.

  ‘What’s wrong? Where’s Heathcliff.’

  ‘There’s a problem,’ says Morag. ‘You need to come.’

  Morag leads us, running, to a bookshop on the main street. I can hear the commotion from halfway down the street: shouts, growls and yells of alarm from inside.

  ‘He won’t stop,’ says Morag. ‘I tried to make him, but he won’t listen.’

  We fall through the door, and the little bell jingles uselessly above. Inside is a rustic clutter of wall hangings, dark velvet drapes, and tables scattered with books.

  The shopkeeper is a tall Scandinavian woman in her fifties. Her hair is cropped and grey and she wears an elaborate coloured shawl.

  She turns to us and I catch her for a moment.

  …beeswax candles, lilies, chamomile, the sound of flutes calms me, I don’t like what the world is becoming, I want to detach from it, all those things I never did, at least I went to India, that image of an old yogic woman I imagine myself becoming, but I avoid mirrors because it’s not what I’m becoming at all, I’m becoming old, old and alone on a nervous sea, a storm that seems to darken with every passing…

  Above the rumble of her latent thoughts is a single scream of alarm, the reason for which is at the far end of the shop. Heathcliff, lit by streams of light from a high window, is ransacking the place, pulling book after book from the shelves. His hands work furiously, tearing at them, flicking through them and tossing them over his shoulder. He mutters and grumbles as he moves.

  ‘Heathcliff!’ shouts Zoe.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes widen.

  ‘He is with you?’ she says.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Zoe.

  Morag grips her arm.

  ‘He stopped when we passed. He saw something in the window I think; then he just went in and started doing…this.’

  Zoe walks towards him.

  ‘Heathcliff, it’s all right…’

  He turns and roars, fists clenched and his eyes bulging. The shopkeeper yelps and scurries to her counter.

  ‘I am calling the police,’ she says, scrabbling for her phone.

  Zoe and Morag try to reason with the terrified woman, leaving Heathcliff to his shelves. I edge towards him, and as I do, the world seems to slip away, until all that is left is this dark mess of a man scrabbling about before me, trying to find something, trying to finish a riddle. For a moment he is the only thing I see and hear and the only thing that makes any sense, and as every other part of the world becomes distant and irrelevant, I know that this mess of a man and I are deeply entwined, and that I would die for him.

  I lay my hand on his shoulder, and it feels as if I have tripped an explosive charge. A jolt of energy runs up my fingertips and surges through my arm. I jump back, and as I do, he turns with another white-knuckled, wide-eyed roar. There are no words, just noise, but the message is clear.

  Get off me, get off me, get off me, let me be!

  I cower against a display table, the world back in focus and the argument between Zoe, Morag and the shopkeeper still in full flow. Heathcliff looks at me — looks in me — and for a moment his eyes flicker and soften. Then he turns and continues.

  ‘Enough,’ says the shopkeeper. ‘I am calling the police now.’

  ‘Please, don’t, he’s confused, he’s…’

  But Heathcliff has stopped and is hunched over a book I cannot see. I watch him from behind, turning page after page until he stops again. A long, rattling breath leaves him and he turns, carrying it back to me through the mess of discarded books on the floor.

  He lays it on the table next to me, grunts and walks from the shop.

  I pick up the book.

  Early Photography on England’s South Coast

  On the left of the open page is a photograph. It is the same one from the Cherry Tree. Stanley Mordant stands, clear as day, pointing. His
finger is directed to the page opposite, which is taken over by a portrait of a young woman. It is just her face in black and white, looking away from the camera, her eyes downturned. She wears a white dress, and her hair is tied in two bunches, with black ribbons streaming from them.

  Underneath is a note.

  Emily Havers, 1922, the daughter of a factory owner in Lasswick, Devon, who drowned in the Atlantic at age 19. Despite rumours of suicide, her family maintained that her death was a tragic accident due to storm winds on one of her evening walks.

  The past tears open like a hole. Emily Havers was Stanley’s first other life, and I have seen this photograph before.

  ‘Elliot, we need to go.’

  Zoe is at the door with Morag.

  ‘Thank you,’ says the shopkeeper into her telephone. She replaces the handset and turns to me, arms crossed, face brutal and resolute.

  ‘They are on their way.’

  Zoe, Morag and Heathcliff are already through the door. I follow them out onto the street and freeze. On the opposite corner of the square, parked in a row of squat, dull hatchbacks and delivery trucks, is a car that had no earthly business being in Marshfields — a black Bentley with mirrored windows. And outside, leaning on the door and smoking his brown cigarette, is its driver — the tall man in a black suit and Ray-Bans. He surveys the square in a slow sweep, allowing his eyes to travel beyond to the main street, where we stand. He sees me and performs a slow double-take.

  I am already marching in the direction of the harbour as the Bentley’s door clunks shut and its engine starts. Zoe follows.

  ‘Who is that, Elliot?’

  ‘No time. We need to go.’

  WE ARE NOT STRANGERS

  WE REACH THE HARBOUR car park as the Bentley pulls away and follows the road on the opposite side of the square. When we get to the van, Heathcliff is already inside.

  ‘Why are we running?’ says Zoe. ‘Who is in that car?’

  ‘No time, get in.’

  Morag falls in beside Heathcliff, and I take the passenger seat. Zoe starts the engine, and as she pulls out, the reflection of the Bentley crawls past in the side mirror.

  ‘Shit. Go.’

  ‘Elliot, what the — ‘

  ‘Just go!’

  She floors the accelerator and we speed away, the bottom of the van scraping over speed bumps. The Bentley picks up speed behind us.

  ‘Looks like somebody has been missing you after all, right, Elliot? A friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Get down,’ says Zoe. ‘Heathcliff, you too!’

  Heathcliff is sitting up. His face blocks Zoe’s mirror view.

  ‘Heathcliff…’

  He grips the back of the seat, opens his mouth and begins to wail.

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Morag. ‘It’s all right, calm down!’

  But Morag’s peaceful voice does nothing to settle him. We hurtle down the road to the main street by the square as the pedestrian traffic lights change to red. I feel the engine revs momentarily rise, and Zoe considers pushing through, but just ahead we see a police car outside the bookshop and Zoe slows to a halt.

  ‘Just go through,’ I say under my breath.

  But it’s too late. An old couple pulling a wheeled shopping bag have stepped onto the road in front of us. The black shape of the Bentley looms behind us.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  Zoe turns to me. ‘Elliot, what the hell is going on? Who is he and what does he want with you?’

  From those stories about Hunt, I can guess.

  Trust, Elliot. No flaking out on me. That never ends well.

  I tap the rearview mirror towards me until the Bentley’s windscreen, and its driver’s pointed face, fill my view. For a second he looks back, perfectly still. Then, with his thin lips quivering in a smile, he dips his sunglasses once again. And this time I’m in, back within that uncluttered, reptilian mind of his. I search for something, confirmation of what I already believe, the glimmering urge I could not identify when I saw him outside Patti’s office. It feels like I am falling into a deep cavern, that I’ll be lost forever in that thoughtless space. There is nothing: just the image of my face in the mirror looking back, and the leather steering wheel beneath my glove, the pressure of the pedal beneath my boot, the residual sense of my long, deep breaths and slow pulse.

  But then in the darkness, like a glint, appears a thought.

  Clean and short. That’s what he said. No body, no mess.

  And there behind it I feel that single glimmering urge: Kill.

  I fall again and I think that this might be it — the end. I will be gone soon, hopelessly lost inside this place, but as I surrender myself and this murderer’s urge folds back into his furious, hate-filled darkness, I catch sight of something else. A paper plane soaring past. I reach out, grab its tail and let it drag me back. Back to the mind of Elliot Childs, which is, I realise, perhaps not such a bad place after all.

  ‘Elliot?’ says Zoe.

  I gasp for breath.

  ‘Go.’

  ‘I can’t, look.’

  The old couple are halfway across the road. The Bentley’s door shuts behind and I catch the flap of jacket tail in the side mirror.

  ‘Go, Zoe, please.’

  She honks the horn. The couple jump, stop and stare. Across the road, the keeper of the bookshop is explaining something to a police officer. The side mirror is filling with black.

  ‘Zoe!’

  ‘Fuck it.’

  She floors the accelerator and swerves around the old couple, who throw up their arms in alarm. Heathcliff’s wail whirs up like an air-raid siren, and as we turn onto the main street our pursuer dashes back to the Bentley. We turn the corner and he speeds through the lights, tailing us, leaving the old couple twirling in fright.

  ‘This is a car chase now, isn’t it?’ says Morag.

  ‘Yes,’ says Zoe. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Right.’ Morag buckles in and reaches over to do the same for Heathcliff. ‘It’s all right, just going for a little ride, that’s all.’

  Heathcliff sits back, both arms still holding our headrests, his wail now having risen to a constant howl.

  The street is empty and we pick up speed.

  ‘Where are we going?’ says Zoe.

  ‘I don’t know! Away from him!’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Zoe swerves to avoid the back end of a delivery truck, slamming me into the window.

  ‘You can’t go up here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a dead end. The main street leads to a car park at a lookout point.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I fucking remember, that’s why.’ I turn to her. ‘From Stanley.’

  She hesitates. Perhaps this is still just as difficult for her to believe as it is for me.

  ‘Then where do I go?’

  ‘Left, into the suburbs.’

  ‘How are we going to get away from him?’

  ‘I don’t know, just keep turning left and right, maybe we’ll lose him. Left, now!’

  She swings the van left and powers up a hill lined with semi-detached houses. The Bentley follows. It seems to crawl effortlessly behind, while the van’s engine spins like a washing machine. At the top of the hill we take a right, then a left.

  ‘That’s it,’ I say to Zoe. ‘He’ll never keep up if you keep doing…fuck.’

  Zoe slams on the brakes as the Bentley’s front end swings right in front of us. It stops and we face each other for a few seconds. I look at Zoe.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Zoe yanks the stick, pulling the van into reverse and zipping backwards up the street. Heathcliff’s wailing has stopped. His face has appeared between mine and Zoe’s, mouth agape and wheezing. The Bentley crawls towards us. There’s a turn on the right and Zoe stops, pushes into first and heaves forwards. Heathcliff falls back into his seat as we rush the short distance to a T-junct
ion.

  ‘Left,’ I shout. ‘No. Right!’

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ says Zoe.

  ‘Out of town, I think.’

  ‘Think? Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. Right here, then straight on, then right again and…yes, left.’

  Zoe follows my directions. The Bentley is still far behind, but with every turn it matches our route, one step behind.

  ‘Right, left, left, straight on, no, left again…hold on, this can’t be right. We’re going downhill.’

  ‘This is a main road. Elliot, we’re back where we started!’

  ‘Fuck!’

  We stop at the junction and Zoe turns to me, teeth gritted.

  ‘Is there any chance that Stanley was shit at reading maps?’

  Heathcliff’s howl winds up again. I hold my head, thinking.

  ‘Turn left.’

  ‘That’s what we did last time.’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘What kind of idea?’

  ‘I remember something else, I promise. Now go as fast as you can. Go!’

  Zoe pulls out in front of a slow-moving Fiat that skids to a halt with its horn blaring.

  ‘Floor it. Don’t let him see you.’

  We pass the turning to the left that we took before.

  ‘I thought you said this was a dead end?’

  ‘It is, but just wait, wait…there!’ As I thought, there is a rise in the track to the right of the road. ‘It’s a tunnel to the beach. We might be able to fit down it.’

  I point at a circular opening to a concrete drainage tunnel leading down from the road. Zoe spots it too. On the road behind us, The Bentley has screeched to halt with the Fiat blocking its path. Its engine growls as it negotiates around the little car.

  We arrive at the tunnel.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Zoe, spinning the steering wheel. The tyres squeal as we swerve off the road, flying for a second before hitting dirt and then hurtling into the tunnel. The front wheel arch catches the concrete, sending glass and stone splintering through the air. Heathcliff’s cries, now joined by our own, become dense in the new acoustics. The beach is beyond. We hit sand and jerk to the right. The wheels spin, but the van powers through, back end snaking before we hit a boulder-fronted sand dune and stop.