by Tim Weaver
I smiled again, rocked my head from side to side to show I was tempted and then pointed to my own watch. Got to be up early.
She rolled her eyes. Poor excuse.
I looked at her and something moved inside me. A tiny flutter of excitement. The feeling that, if I wanted something from her, the experience of being close to someone again, she would do it. In her eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to break free from what was keeping me back.
But, just as there were days when I still needed to feel wanted, there were others when I didn’t feel ready to step outside the bubble. I wanted to remain inside. Protected by the warmth and familiarity of how I felt about Derryn. Most of the time, even now, I was caught between the two. Wanting to move on, curious about letting myself go, but wary of the aftermath. Of what would happen the next morning when I woke up next to someone, and it wasn’t the person I’d loved, every day, for fourteen years.
8
After getting the car window repaired early the next morning, I followed up Mary’s library lead and immediately hit a dead end. Even if Alex had gone there on the day Mary had followed him, it wasn’t for books. She’d told me it was about six o’clock when he’d got to the library, but their computers had no record of anyone borrowing anything during the fifteen minutes he was inside. Once I was back at the office, I called the company he’d worked for in Bristol. It was just as fruitless: like talking to a room full of people who didn’t speak the same language as you. His boss remembered him, but not well. A couple of colleagues could only give me a vague description of what sort of person he was.
Next, I called the friends he’d lived with. Mary had told me she’d kept in contact with one of the them, John, for a while after Alex’s disappearance and that, as far as she knew, they still lived in the same place. She was right. There were three of them. John was working when I called. The second, Simon, was long gone. The third, Jeff, was home, but seemed as perplexed by what had happened to Alex as everyone else.
‘So, how can I reach the other two guys?’ I asked him.
‘Well, I can give you John’s work address,’ he said. ‘But, I doubt you’ll be finding Simon anywhere.’
‘How come?’
‘He kind of… disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘He had some problems.’
‘What kind of problems?’
A pause. ‘Drugs mostly.’
‘Did he leave around the same time as Alex?’
‘No. A while after.’
‘Do you think he might have followed him?’
‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Alex didn’t get on with Simon at the end. None of us did. Simon was a different guy in those last few months. He… well, he kind of hit out at Kath when he was high one night. And Alex never forgave him for that.’
I put the phone down, and turned in my chair. On the corkboard behind me, in among the pictures of the missing, was a hand-drawn map of a beach.
My options were narrowing already.
* * *
Winter suddenly came to life as I crossed into Cornwall five hours later, the colours of late autumn replaced by a pale patchwork quilt of fields and towns. About forty miles from Carcondrock, I stopped at a café and had a late lunch. Through the windows, turning gently in the early afternoon breeze, I could see the wind turbines at Delabole.
Carcondrock itself was a quaint stretch of road with shops on both sides, and houses in the hills beyond. It was framed by the Atlantic and the smudged outline of the Scilly Isles. The beach ran parallel to the high street, while the main road wormed out of the village and upwards along the edges of a rising cliff. The higher the road, the bigger the houses — and the better the views. Below, against the cliff walls, the beach eventually faded out, replaced by sandy coves, dotted like pearls on a necklace along the line of the sea.
I found a car park between the beach and the village, and then headed to the biggest shop — a grocery store — armed with a picture of Alex. No one knew him. At the end of the high street, where the road followed the rising cliff face, there was an old wooden shack. Beyond that, a pub and a pretty church, its walls teeming with vines. Everything had an old-world feel to it: walls greying and aged; windows uneven beneath slate roofs. It was obvious why Kathy and Alex had loved it. Miles of lonely beach. The roar of the sea. The houses like flecks of chalk among the scrub of the hillside.
I got out the map Kathy had drawn for me of the hidden cove, and walked a little way on the road as it gently rose upwards along the cliff. Halfway up, leaning over the edge, I found it. Two hundred feet below me was a perfect semi-circle of sandy beach, surrounded on three sides by high walls of rock and on the fourth by the ocean. Waves foamed at the shore.
The only way I was going to get to it was by boat.
* * *
The wooden shack turned out to be the place to hire boats. It was starting to get dark by the time I reached it, and the old man who ran it was closing up. Behind him, attached to a jetty, four boats bobbed on the water.
‘Am I too late?’
He turned and looked at me. ‘Eh?’
‘I need to hire a boat for an hour.’
‘It’s dark,’ he said.
‘Almost dark.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s dark.’
I looked him up and down. Red and green checked shirt; mauve suspenders holding a pair of giant blue trousers up; yellow mud-caked boots; unruly white beard. He looked like the bastard love child of Captain Birdseye and Ronald McDonald.
‘How much?’ I asked him.
‘How much what?’
‘How much for an hour?’
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you takin’ the piss out of me, sonny?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll double whatever the going rate is. I just need one of those boats for an hour. And a torch if you’ve got one. I’ll have everything back here by seven.’
He pursed his lips, thinking about it, then turned around and opened up the shack.
It took about twenty minutes to row around to the cove. I moored on the sand and dragged the boat up, away from the tide. The cove was small, probably twenty feet across, and the cliff walls towered above me. I flicked on the torch and swept it from left to right. At the back of the cove, in the torchlight beam, I could see a pile of loosened rocks and boulders. Some had fallen. Others had been washed up. As I stepped closer, I could see the arrow-shaped stone Kathy had talked about. It had tilted, but still faced upwards. At the bottom was a tiny mark — a cross — in black paint. I knelt down, clamped the torch between my teeth and started digging.
The box was buried about a foot under the surface. Its bottom sitting in water, its sides speckled with rust. Kathy had wrapped its contents in thick opaque plastic. I picked at it with my fingers but couldn’t break the seal, so removed my pocket knife and sliced it open. The contents were dry. I reached in and pulled out a stack of photographs and, around them, a letter. The birthday card was inside. A rubber band kept everything together.
I placed the torch in my lap and flicked through the photographs using the cone of light. Some of the photos were of the two of them, some just of Kathy, others only Alex. In one of the photographs, I noticed Kathy had her hair short. I guessed it had been taken by someone other than Alex, some time after he’d disappeared. I flipped it over and on the back she’d written: After you left, I cut my hair… On closer inspection, I could see all the photographs had comments on the back.
I picked up the torch and turned my attention back to the letter. It was dated 8 January, no year, and still smelt faintly of perfume.
I’ve no idea why you left, Kathy had written. Nothing you ever said to me led me to believe that one day you’d drop everything and walk away. So, if you came back now, I’d cherish you as I always did. I’d love you like I always did. But, somewhere, there would be a doubt that wasn’t there before, a nagging
feeling that, if I got too close to you, if I showed you too much affection, you’d get up one morning and walk away.
I don’t want to feel like a mistake again.
I looked at my watch. It was almost six-thirty. In the distance, thunder rumbled across the sky. I folded the letter up, placed everything inside the box and took it with me as I rowed back around to the village.
9
I drove out of Carcondrock and found a place to stay about three miles further down a snaking coastal road. It was a beautiful greystone building overlooking the ocean and the scattered remnants of old tin mines. After a shower, I headed out for some dinner and eventually found a pub that served hot food and cold beer. I took the box with me and sat at a table in the corner, away from everyone else. There was a choice of three meals: steak and kidney pie, steak and ale pie or steak pie. Luckily, I wasn’t vegetarian. While I waited for the food, I opened the box, removed the contents and spread them out.
I picked up the birthday card first. The last contact Kathy ever had with Alex. She’d kept it in pristine condition. It was still in its original envelope, opened along the top with a knife or a letter opener to avoid damaging it. I took it out.
The card itself looked home-made, without being amateurish: a detailed drawing of a bear was in the centre, a bunch of roses in its hands. Above that was a raised rectangle with happy birthday! embossed on it, and a foil sticker of a balloon. I flipped it over. In the centre, in gold pen, it said: Made by Angela Routledge. I opened it up. Inside were just seven words: Happy Birthday, Kath. I love you… Alex.
I closed the card and studied the envelope. Something caught my attention. On the inside, under the lip, was an address label: Sold @ St John the Baptist, 215 Grover Place, London. I wrote down the address and turned to the photographs.
There was a definite timeline. It began with pictures of Kathy and Alex when they’d first started going out, and ended with two individual portraits of each of them, both older and more mature, at a different stage of their lives. I sat the two portraits side by side. The one of Kathy was a regular 6x4, but Alex’s was a Polaroid. When I turned them over, I noticed something else: they had different handwriting on them.
‘Mind if I sit here?’
I looked up.
One of the locals was staring down at me, a hand pressed against the back of the chair at the table next to me. The subdued light darkened his face. Shadows filled his eye sockets, thick black lines forming across his forehead. He was well built, probably in his late forties.
I looked around the pub. There were tables and chairs free everywhere. He followed my eyes, out into the room, but didn’t make a move to leave. When he turned back to me, he stole a glance at a couple of the photographs. I collected them up, along with the letter and the card, and placed them back into the box.
‘Sure,’ I said, gesturing to the table. ‘Take a seat.’
He nodded his thanks and sat down, placing his beer down in front of him. A couple of minutes later, the landlady brought my meal over. As I started picking at it, I realized all I could smell was his aftershave. It was so strong it buried the smell of my food completely.
‘You here on business?’ he asked.
‘Kind of.’
‘Sounds mysterious.’
I shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘So, where does she live?’
I looked at him, confused.
‘Your bit on the side.’ He laughed, finding it funnier than he had any right to.
I smiled politely, but didn’t bother answering, hoping that the less I talked, the quicker he’d leave.
‘Just messing with you,’ he said, running a finger down the side of his glass. As his sleeve rode up his arm, I could see a tattoo — an inscription — the letters smudged by age. ‘Boring place to have to come for work.’
‘I can think of worse.’
‘Maybe in summer,’ he said. ‘But in winter, this place is like a mausoleum. You take the tourists out of here and all you’re left with are a few empty fudge shops. Want to hear my theory?’ He paused, but only briefly. ‘If you put a bullet in the head of every Cornishman in the county, no one would even notice until the fucking caravan parks failed to open.’ He laughed again, putting a hand to his mouth as if trying to suppress his amusement.
I pretended to check my phone for messages. ‘Nice theory,’ I said, staring at my empty inbox. When I was finished, he was still looking at me.
‘So, what do you do?’ he asked.
‘I’m a salesman.’
He rocked his head from side to side, as if to say he didn’t think I was the type. ‘My friend’s a salesman too.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘A different kind. He sells ideas to people.’
I smiled. ‘You mean he works for Ikea?’
He didn’t respond. An uncomfortable silence settled between us. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t taken the hint yet. He cupped his pint glass between his hands, rolling it backwards and forwards, watching the liquid slosh around inside.
‘I bet you’re thinking, “How do you sell ideas to people?” — right?’
Not really.
He looked up at me. ‘Right?’
‘I guess.’
‘It’s pretty simple, the way he tells it. You take something — then you try to apply it to people. You know, give them something they really need.’
‘Still sounds like he might work for Ikea.’
He didn’t reply, but his eyes lingered on me, as if I’d just made a terrible error. There’s something about you, I thought. Something I don’t like. He took a few mouthfuls of beer, and this time I could make out some of the tattoo — ‘And see him that was possessed’ — and a red mark, running close to his hairline, all the way down around his ears and along the curve of his chin.
‘Got hit with a rifle butt in Afghanistan.’
‘Sorry?’
He looked up. ‘The mark on my face. Fucking towelhead jammed his rifle butt into my jaw.’
‘You were a soldier?’
‘Do I look the salesman type?’
I shrugged. ‘What does a salesman look like?’
‘What do any of us really look like?’ His eyes flashed for a moment, catching some of the light from a fire behind us. He broke into a smile, as if everything was a big mystery. ‘Being a soldier, that teaches you a lot about life.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Teaches you a lot about death too.’
I tried to look pissed off, and started cutting away at some of the pie’s pastry — but the whole time I could feel him watching me. When I looked up again, his eyes moved quickly from me to the food then back up.
‘You not hungry?’
‘Looks better than it tastes,’ I said.
‘You should eat,’ he replied, sinking what was left in the glass. ‘You never know when you might need the strength.’
He placed the beer glass down and turned to me, his eyes disappearing into shadow again. They were impenetrable now; like staring into one of the abandoned mine shafts along the coast.
‘Where you from?’
‘London.’
‘Ah, that explains it.’ He flicked his head back. ‘The home of the salesman.’
‘Is it?’
‘You telling me it isn’t? Millions of people whose only reason for being anywhere near that hole is so they can live on the top floor of a skyscraper and try to convince people poorer than them to live beyond their means? That’s a city of salesmen, believe me. Take a step back from the rat race, my friend — see what’s going on. No one’s there to help you.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’
‘You jest,’ he said. His eyes locked on to mine. ‘But I’m being serious. Who’s going to be there for you in that city when you wake up with a knife in your back?’
I could hardly make him out now, he’d sunk so far back into the darkness. But I wasn’t liking what I was hearing. I looked away and focused on my food.
>
‘Do you want to be left alone?’
He had a smile on his face now, but it didn’t go deep. Below the surface, I caught a glimpse of what I’d seen before.
A second of absolute darkness.
‘It’s up to you.’
He continued smiling. The smell of aftershave drifted across to me again. ‘I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you’d rather be earning commission than listening to me, right?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Nice meeting you, anyway,’ he said, standing. ‘Maybe we’ll see you again.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I think so,’ he said, cryptically.
Then I watched him leave, walking past the locals and out through a door on the far side of the pub, where the evening swallowed him up.
10
That night, I had difficulty sleeping. It had been a long time since I’d slept in a bed. A longer time since I’d been away from the house overnight.
I left the curtains slightly ajar and the window open. Just after one, I finally fell asleep, curled up in a ball at the bottom of the bed. In the dead of night, maybe an hour later, I stirred long enough to feel a faint breeze against my skin. And then a noise outside. Rotting autumn leaves caught beneath someone’s feet. I lay there, too tired to move, and started to drift away again. Then the noise came a second time.
I flipped the duvet back, got up and walked to the window. The night was pitch black. In the distance, along the coastal road, were tiny blocks of light from the next village. Otherwise, it was difficult to make anything out, particularly close to the house.
The wind came again. I could hear leaves being blown across the ground, and waves crashing against the rocky coast — but not the noise that had woken me. I waited for a moment, then headed back to bed.
* * *
I got up early and sat at a table with beautiful views across the Atlantic. Tin mines rose up in front of me like brick arms reaching for the clouds. Over breakfast, I spread the contents of the box out in front of me again, and studied the Polaroid of Alex. He was too close to the camera; some of his features weren’t completely defined. His hair was shorter. There were dark areas around the side of his face where stubble was coming through. Behind him, there was a block of light that looked like a window, but it was difficult to see what was through it. Part of a building maybe, or a roof.