The Other Lives

by Adrian J. Walker

  ‘Quiet!’ says Zoe. ‘Everybody be quiet!’

  Heathcliff’s wail continues in the silence of the stopped car, and Morag claps a hand over his mouth. He grabs it, eyes wide, letting out muffled gasps.

  I open the door and get out, then scamper back along the sand to the tunnel. I can hear the Bentley’s engine approaching as I peer through to the road. The pitch begins to fall as it gets closer. I jump back and flatten myself against the rock.

  The Bentley drops to a deep thrum and there is a light whistle of brakes as it stops. I freeze, holding my breath. I can see Morag in the van still holding her hand over Heathcliff’s face. His muffled cries are still audible over the hiss of the waves. Time stretches. I close my eyes, expecting a door to open, but then the car pulls away and speeds down the road. I crouch by the wall and watch it disappear. In a minute it returns and tears past, back into Marshfields. As the sound of the engine disappears, I fall back against the wall and down to the cold, hard sand.

  I pick up a stone and brush it clean. It is a black oval, cool and hard like a fossilised egg and traced with grey threads marking the contours of its history. Beyond, long waves roll in and collapse on scattering shells.

  What am I doing here?

  The van door opens and Zoe jumps out. Heathcliff’s cries are now splutters in the back. He spills out onto the beach like a black sack of snakes, coughing. Morag helps him up, but he shakes her off and staggers away down the beach still waving her away, hacking.

  Zoe and Morag walk over, Morag smiling.

  ‘Phew!’ she says. ‘Good driving, Zoe. Think we got rid of him, eh?’

  I look up at Morag, feeling the weight of the stone in my palm. She pulls her cardigan around her chest.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I splutter something, look at the sea, then back at her.

  ‘Elliot?’

  I struggle to my feet.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that I was perfectly all right before you came along and showed me that photograph. Now I’ve got the whole fucking world in my head, and I’m in a shitty little town wearing’ — I pluck at my hellish attire — ‘even shittier clothes, chasing other people’s shitty memories with a tramp and two strangers in a shitty van, and now I’m being chased by a hitman sent by the man who was supposed to be taking me to the next level of my career but who now wants me fucking dead. And probably the police, too. That’s what’s wrong, you fucking lunatic!’

  Morag offers me her hand.

  ‘Elliot,’ she begins.

  ‘Get off me,’ I say, brushing her away and marching for the tide. The sky is darkening. She follows me and stands by my side.

  ‘You can’t escape life, Elliot, and you can’t escape the truth. We’re not strangers, and you were not fine before we came along.’

  She takes a step towards me.

  ‘Things happen to us. Sometimes they’re unusual. And I think you wanted something like this to happen for a long time. You’re famous for hate. That’s who you think you are. But all that hate inside you, all that rage, all that indifference — where does it come from?’

  I look down at the stone, now warm from my clenched fist.

  ‘I need you to leave me alone now,’ I say, and hurl the stone into the surf.

  Morag hesitates by my side. She opens her mouth to speak, but is silenced a sudden whoop from the road. Zoe shoots me a look, but before we can do anything, there’s the sound of a door slamming and footsteps in water. Out from the tunnel come two police officers.

  They stop, surveying the scene.

  ‘Mr Elliot Childs?’

  I step forward and cast off my baseball cap, enjoying the bliss of cold air on my forehead and scalp.

  ‘Yes.’

  ENEMY

  Cornwall, 1940

  THEY GOT IN TROUBLE for their dip at beach, but the three boys agreed it was worth it. Even Mr Sutton heard the news of their misdemeanour with something approaching amusement, which made Rupert glow with happiness.

  ‘What will we do, James?’ whispered Billy from his bed that night.

  James didn’t answer. He went to sleep thinking of deep water and high trees.

  Sometime before dawn, he woke with a start. Billy was at the window again with the curtains pulled back. Outside, the sky was a cloudless black lit up by a bright moon and stars that stretched across it like a net. The farm and its fields and the copse beyond it seemed trapped — unmoving and stunned into silence by the white winter light. Snow was falling and settling over everything — each flake a fingertip that touched the next, silently amassing until the whole land was smothered and frozen by its weight.

  ‘Billy,’ whispered James. ‘What is it?’

  Billy held his hands together, clicking his fingernails. James could see that he was holding something.

  ‘It’s wrong,’ he said. ‘It’s wrong, all wrong. I don’t know what happens. I can’t remember. He’s cold. He’ll freeze. He’ll starve. He’ll die. I can’t remember. I don’t know what happens.’

  James looked down at his brother. His face seemed to belong somewhere else.

  ‘Billy,’ said James. He crouched down and held his brother’s arms, turning him towards him. He held him gently and stroked his brow, the way he remembered his mother doing. He thought this might help him. He thought this might break whatever it was that was troubling him, that was making him think things that weren’t true and that couldn’t possibly be true. He thought this would bring him back from his loneliness. Perhaps all he needed was a kind touch from his brother.

  ‘Tell me. Tell me now and tell me the truth and I promise I’ll believe you. How did you know about Schmidt? How did you know there would be a man in the forest.’

  He would tell him. He would say that he had run off one day when he wasn’t looking. Perhaps he had forgotten all about it. It would have only taken ten minutes, fifteen at most, when James had been sweeping the steps or carrying tools for Mr Sutton. He wouldn’t have noticed him gone for such a short time.

  Billy looked down at his brother, then down at his fingers.

  ‘Because I remember,’ he said. ‘I remember being him. Just like I remember the people in my stories, and the cards when Lucy picks one. Every time, I know. I remember.’

  James’ shoulders sagged and he took his hands from his brother’s arms. He was about to stand up when a sudden fury overtook him. He grabbed Billy and shook him.

  ‘Billy you need to stop this!’

  Billy jumped and the thing he had been holding dropped from his grip.

  ‘What’s this?’ said James.

  ‘No, James, please…’

  The tin had opened and a stack of papers had spilled out. On some were words, on others, photographs and drawings. James picked them up and began looking through them.

  ‘Billy, where did you get these? Did you steal them?’

  ‘I meant to tell you, honestly, I did. It was Schmidt, he gave them to me. He said…’

  ‘Who are these people in the pictures?’

  ‘People he remembers, James. Don’t you see? He remembers things like me.’

  ‘He’s trying to trick you, can’t you see? He’s telling you silly stories to get you on his side because he knows you’ll believe him. He’s the enemy, Billy! The enemy! Daddy would be furious with you if he knew.’

  ‘And what would you know about what Daddy thinks?’

  His words were like sharpened stones.

  ‘Billy, how dare —’

  Billy narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re already forgetting him.’

  James froze in his brother’s terrible glare, unable to speak, but Billy’s resolve could only hold for so long. His brow flickered, and James found his voice.

  ‘He’s the enemy,’ he repeated, shaking the pictures.

  Billy’s shoulders slumped. All the cruelty and reckless desire to hurt his brother drained from him, leaving a stain of remorse.

  ‘But he’s not, James, he’s not, and what’s more he
said —’

  ‘I don’t care what he said. You’re getting rid of these. You’re getting rid of them right—’

  The words caught as if his mouth had been suddenly plugged with cotton. His jaw hung open. He was looking down at one of Schmidt’s sketches.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Billy. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  James staggered back a step. His eyes were wide, his skin as pale as the moon outside.

  ‘James, you’re frightening me. What’s wrong?’

  James thrust the papers back at his brother.

  ‘Get rid of these. Get rid of them now or so help me God I’ll—’

  The last air left his lungs, wordless. Then he turned and fell into his bed, rolling up against the wall.

  ‘James?’ said Billy. ‘Heads?’

  When there was no reply from his brother’s bed, Billy put the papers back into the tin, pausing only to look at the photograph his brother had stopped on.

  It was a school photograph. Rows of children sitting outside in the sun.

  Feeling terribly alone, he got into bed and reached beneath his pillow for the one thing that gave him comfort. Then he closed his eyes.

  Neither he nor James saw Lucy stirring, or sitting up and looking out at the snow-covered night.

  MERCER

  Marshfields, Present Day

  MARSHFIELD’S POLICE STATION IS a small unit run by a cheerful soul named Sergeant Mercer. He is a big, bald man with thick eyebrows and a permanent lopsided grin that looks like it belongs more behind a helm than a desk.

  We’re placed in holding cells and interviewed one by one. It’s midnight when my door opens and I’m led out by one of the officers who found us. He’s beaming, and I don’t blame him — this is quite a coup for a small town cop shop, and for him, personally, this has to be good news. He’ll be recognised at last, offered a transfer, perhaps even a promotion. He’ll be in the papers, that’s for sure. His name, his photograph, something to show his mum. It could be the start of something big.

  For me, however, it is the end. I am done with this goose chase. Everything I do seems to lead to more questions, and now I’m in danger. I shall explain to Sergeant Mercer what has happened — I have done nothing wrong, after all, not yet — and try to regain the trust of Callum Hunt upon my return home. I can live with this, this…whatever it is. I have to.

  I sit down, avoiding his eyes, calm in my resignation. I have a new resolve.

  But it will not last long.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m a little starstruck, Mr Childs,’ says Mercer, sitting down, eyebrows waggling as he arranges some papers on the desk before me. ‘Bit of a fan! Watch your show all the time, so does the missus, never miss it. Wish there were more like you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know. People who aren’t afraid to speak the truth. Rare these days, that is, rare, I don’t know what’s become of this country sometimes, I really don’t. Makes you wonder how much longer we can keep going like this, doesn’t it?’

  He glances behind and leans towards me, clearing his throat and dropping his tone to a conspiratorial murmur.

  ‘I, er, wouldn’t say this if I didn’t know you’d understand, but in my opinion it’s all down to the gays. In my day, boys were raised properly. We were taught how to behave. You know, to be men. Not to be weak, or wear strange clothes or be different. Right, Mr Childs?’

  He gives me a nod of encouragement, as if he’s hit upon the correct answer to some question I’ve been posing him. I think of Stanley Mordant and of the fearful things he hid from his father. And I think of Lasswick, and a boy with a terrible gift of which he never spoke.

  ‘Right,’ I say. I think that, already, some process has begun inside me; some unravelling over which I have no control. I drop my eyes to the table, and the papers arranged upon it.

  ‘What are these?’ I ask Mercer, gripped by a sudden velocity.

  ‘Oh, these are some of the items the old gentleman, er…’

  He trails off, scratching his head.

  ‘Heathcliff,’ I offer.

  ‘That’s right, Heathcliff, ha ha. These are some of his things, and he’s, er, not the most communicative fellow if you see what I’m saying. Doesn’t say much. So I was wondering if, er, you might be able to identify them? Course I understand if you can’t, seeing as how, well, I’m sure you’ve got nothing to do with all…’

  I look over the papers, letting Mercer babble. The first is Stanley’s photograph, still fizzing with memory.

  ‘…’Spect you want to get home. Sure this has all been quite an ordeal…’’

  Next to that are some worn papers covered with faded writing, and notebooks filled with the same. The thing over which I have no control continues to unravel within me, and I give it all the freedom it needs. It is a wondrous feeling, like aching muscle finally soothed in cool water. I realise that this thing has been wound up too tight for too long, and it is I who have been keeping it so. I need to let it go.

  I need to let go.

  ‘…Get some rest and what have you. We’ve called that lady o’ yours, Miss Burns, Patti. She was very glad to hear from us, on her way here now to collect you, assuming we get this all sorted, course then there’s Scotland Yard, they’ll want to have a word…’

  Next to the notebooks are some other photos. There is one of a house on a hill, over-exposed with colours running, another of a family standing by a Land Rover, and ten or eleven more arranged in a grid beneath.

  I do it. I let go.

  ‘…And Mr Hunt, of course. He’s on his way. He’s been ever so helpful, obviously values you very highly. Are you, er, friends? None of my business, of course, and he’s another one who tells it like it is, like you, Mr Childs. You all right, Mr Childs?’

  I sit bolt upright in my chair.

  ‘Mr Childs?’

  I have seen these pictures before, and I know exactly where. At that moment whatever doubts I still might harbour — whatever shreds of cynicism I still feel about reincarnation — disintegrate like burned paper. It is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and for a second this truth fills my being like light. I sit there, staring at Mercer in blissful silence with nothing in my head but this beautiful, pure, nebulous light.

  And then they arrive.

  One by one, the other lives arrive.

  Through Emily Havers, Stanley Mordant and all the others in his box already known to me, I arrive upon a man in a field, holding a plough. The sky is orange, the earth is wet and my head is bleeding, but before I can grasp anything else I am whisked away through centuries. I find myself before a stone wall, tracing my finger over a line I have found, with absolute wonder but no words with which to express it. Then away again, I am a woman upon horseback, my left ribcage shattered and my sabre held high as monstrous machines soar overhead and I scream victory to the fiery heavens, my chest burning and crackling; then a boy in a prison, flaking dirt from a crust; a man at a desk in fluorescent light, sweating away a hangover thinking hell, this is hell; on stage, a woman, a rockstar leaping from an amplifier into a crowd of teenagers, guitar swinging, ears full of noise, brain full of chemicals, unable to imagine what it feels like to be anything but awesome; away again…a boy in a Texan underpass, 1973, hitching up his jeans as he walks away, not looking back, the money in his hand, away, away, a woman staring over a steering wheel in a stopped car, steam rushing from the radiator, horns all around, staring, just staring and waiting, praying, but he hasn’t stood up yet, he hasn’t stood up, away, away, away, again, again, again…

  The years surge back and forth like a riptide, and I’m dragged wherever they take me until…

  One life.

  One particular life.

  And that’s where it stops, upon this shimmering image of a quiet young boy in a place he would rather not be.

  ‘His name is not Heathcliff,’ I say, staring at nothing.

  ‘Pardon, Mr Childs?’

  I cannot be
here any longer. I cannot be here, talking to this man, waiting for my fate to arrive and carry me away. I have to go; we have to go — these people with whom I now know for sure I am connected — and I know where. So I focus on Mercer’s eyes and speak to him, and when I am done, all the mirth has drained from his face.

  ‘What did you say?’ he says.

  WATSON'S

  MY FATHER OWNED A secondhand bookshop called Watson’s, which was run by a friendly widower called Henry, and in which I was given a Saturday job to occupy me at the weekend.

  ‘Elliot,’ said Henry on my first morning. ‘My books are free range — they are allowed to roam the shop as they please. Your job will be to gently coax them back to their shelves. And also to serve customers when I’m next door at The Ship. And to make me tea, which I like with milk and two sugars. Kettle’s over there. Good lad.’

  Spending my Saturdays in a dark room full of books suited me. It was as much practice ground as sanctuary. As well as locals, Watson’s attracted day-trippers — Lasswick was something of a tourist town due to its long beach. Old couples, spinsters in flowery dresses, or the occasional beer-sozzled father on his way back from a family-escaping trip to the Ship — once within the cool walls of Watson’s they let their feelings fall. A stranger’s leaf through a book could provide a banquet of ticks on which I would feast as I shepherded Henry’s books back to their pens.

  After a few weeks, I took my talent to the street, diving into Lasswick’s residents on my walks home.

  There were some who I avoided — the lady who drove the ice cream van; the little boy who walked behind his mother with his collar buttoned tight in midday heat, staring at the pavement; the vicar, whose face seemed to leap from his head in strange, wide-eyed shock as he strode from the church.