The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

  His only hope that someone – anyone – had missed him, would be out looking for him. And that they would find him.

  Yes. They would find him.

  They had to.

  PART TWO

  7

  The storm broke, shifted off somewhere else, leaving behind soaked earth and a colour-cancelling grey gloom over St Petroc. The locals emerged from their homes once more, like moles blinking in the sun, and life struggled on as normal. But not for Tom.

  He went back to work the next day. And the day after that. Doing his duties: lifting, fetching, serving, all the while giving no clue to the casual observer that anything was amiss. Bantering with Pearl. Chatting to customers when they initiated it. Pirate John seemed somewhat agitated, still giving his usual pseudo-philosophical rambles but pointing up certain words, like he was speaking in some special code Tom was expected to understand. Tom just zoned out, nodding occasionally to feign interest. He had more important things on his mind.

  *

  The first thing Tom had done after Rachel left a few nights ago was to go looking for the girl, Lila and, more importantly, his coat. And everything it contained. She couldn’t have got far, not on foot and in the state she was in, so she must have hidden somewhere. Tom exhausted all the places he could think of, was as thorough as he could have been. No Lila. She was good, he admitted grudgingly to himself. He might have had the training, but she had the natural – or at least developed – skills of a survivor.

  He had barely slept since then, out driving round the area on the lookout for her both before and after his shifts. Again, he found no sign of her. He hoped she hadn’t attempted to use his cards. They would probably be flagged up on some database somewhere, making his whereabouts known, making him vulnerable. He couldn’t have that. But he didn’t know what to do. He felt he had run out of options.

  All except one.

  A big old Edwardian house just outside Truro, surrounded by trees and set away from any main roads. The downstairs rooms like a spread from Country Living, all original features, sumptuous decorations, tastefully complementing antiques and huge, filled bookcases. But it was upstairs that interested him. Tom was required to remove his shoes on every visit, make his way up to the attic. A Lloyd Loom armchair facing a Lloyd Loom sofa. Box of tissues and a carafe of water on a side table. One glass. Behind that set-up, the other half of the attic was an office, including desk and computer. Tom sat where he was expected to, on the sofa. He could see the sky through the slanted windows. It looked grey, distant.

  A woman sat down opposite him. Late fifties or early sixties, well-dressed, trim and fit. Healthy looking. Intelligent eyes and refined, attractive features.

  ‘Hello, Tom.’

  ‘Hi, Janet.’

  ‘Not your usual time for a session. So this is an emergency?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She sat back, notepad on lap, waited.

  ‘I’ve lost my identity,’ said Tom.

  And that was how he started the latest session with his therapist.

  *

  He told her what had happened. Lila. His coat. Rachel’s unexpected arrival. His fruitless search.

  ‘And I just can’t . . . it’s . . . I just don’t know what to do next. I’m . . .’ He struggled to voice the word. ‘I’m scared of what might happen.’

  ‘Scared?’ Janet frowned. ‘Not a word you normally use.’

  A ghost of a smile passed his lips. ‘Maybe I’m getting more in touch with my feelings.’

  She smiled also. ‘Maybe. So what are you scared of? Somebody finding you?’

  ‘Not so much that. I think I can take care of myself if I have to.’

  A stern look. ‘We’ve talked about that, Tom. That kind of thing’s behind you now.’

  Tom didn’t reply. ‘I’m scared of someone . . . yeah, finding out where I am. But letting people in the North know. Not so much for what they’d do to me, but what they’d do to . . . you know.’

  Janet nodded. ‘And that’s worrying you, making you unable to see a way out of this?’

  He nodded. ‘Plus getting exposed where I am. I’ll have to move again.’

  ‘Well, that’s a possibility. Obviously I’d prefer you to stay where you are, give these sessions some continuity, get you better again.’

  Another nod.

  ‘Any more dreams recently?’

  Tom put his head down, shook it. ‘Not yet. I can feel the shakes coming on again, though. Stress. Anxiety. You know.’ The words seemed to be torn out of him.

  ‘I know. So the best thing we can do is come up with some coping strategies to head off a full-blown attack. And I think the best way to do that is by looking at practicalities, wouldn’t you agree?’

  He nodded. Even if he didn’t agree, and didn’t feel able to do what she asked, he knew she was right.

  ‘OK, then. First thing, can you tell anyone?’

  Tom gave a bitter laugh. ‘My point of contact is supposed to be Rachel. But you know what happened there.’

  Janet, trying to keep her expression professional, allowed a frown of rebuke to settle on her forehead momentarily. ‘I should have reported your affair. It could have compromised your safety.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you assured me it was over.’

  ‘It is. No long-term damage.’

  ‘So you say. But now you can’t talk to her.’

  ‘Not . . . yet. Not about this. If I tell her that there’s a teenage runaway girl in my kitchen, stealing my stuff, while she’s sitting in the living room coming on to me as I’m telling her there’s no one else in the house . . . I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think she would be professional about it? After all, you were just trying to help someone in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but . . .’ Tom sighed. ‘I’ve already overstepped the mark with her. And yeah, I’m trying to back-pedal on that. But what if she doesn’t act professionally? If she wants a bit of revenge? It’s a small community. What if she starts telling them in the village, in the pub, that I entertain teenage girls in my house?’

  ‘D’you think she’d do that? She would actually be angry enough to do that?’

  Another sigh. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. There’s something . . . dark about her. A bit dangerous. I think that was what attracted me to her in the first place. So, I don’t know. But I don’t want to take that risk.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  Tom liked the way she said that. He had always expected therapists, counsellors and psychologists to sound patronising when they referred to ‘him’ as ‘us’. But he didn’t get that with Janet. It just made him feel that someone was on his side. That he didn’t have to cope alone. Or not completely. He knew that held its own risks, mainly of dependency, but he would tackle that if and when it came to it.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he finally said.

  ‘Is there no one else you could ask? Talk to? Have a quiet word with? Someone this girl knew who could help you?’

  ‘Well, there’s the travellers she came from. But I don’t think so. She was running from them. I doubt they’d tell me much. If anything, I might make it worse.’

  Janet nodded. Checked her notes. ‘One thing I think I should ask. Why did you help this girl?’

  ‘Because . . .’ He knew what she was driving towards. He didn’t want to answer this. Not yet. Because he’d asked himself the same question, repeatedly, and hadn’t come up with an answer. Or not one he could admit to himself. ‘Because she was wet through and cold and starving. I’d have done it with anyone. I’m sure you would have too.’

  Janet didn’t answer. ‘Are you sure that’s all? She didn’t remind you of anyone? You didn’t feel there was something about her situation, something familiar that you had to atone for?’

  Tom sat back, closed his eyes. ‘I think I’ve had enough for today.’

  *

  The TV in the
bar played on. Property shows gave way to local news. The sound turned down, subtitles giving a rough – sometimes very rough – approximation of what was actually being said, out of sync with the images. They were reporting on the missing student. Tom knew that because the same photo had been used for days now. That smiling, happy image as familiar a face as the regulars in the pub. The parents were giving a new police press conference, faces blank and eyes darkened by sudden camera flashes, their grief rendered slightly comical by mismatched subtitles poorly reporting their words, their anxiety intensified. Desperate to be heard, begging to be understood, knowing as time went on that not only would the odds of finding him be lowered – at least alive – but that their newsworthiness was diminishing by the day. With no progress the press and the public would get bored and they would be off the air for good. Replaced by someone or something else for the public to become briefly angry, appalled or concerned about. They had already been relegated from headline to supporting feature, an anti-EU fishing industry protest taking the top spot. Soon Kyle would be just another open case, another unsolved mystery. Until somewhere down the line someone gave up a lead. Until a body turned up. Dead or alive.

  Something about the missing boy hit a nerve within Tom. What was it Lila had said?

  All about the boy . . . the one who went missing, on the TV . . .

  He had overlooked her words in his desire for the return of his wallet. What else had she said?

  His recall used to be near-perfect but it was a skill he had allowed to lapse. He concentrated once more, mind going back to a few nights previously.

  It wasn’t . . . wasn’t me . . .

  She had said a name. Something biblical. Moses? No.

  Noah.

  Noah. That was it. He remembered because of the downpour outside. But there was someone else. Another name. Not biblical. Hippyish . . .

  Not Noah . . . and Kai . . .

  Yes. Kai. And something else. Someone else? No. Something else.

  Crow . . .

  And the Morrigan.

  ‘Miles away, you were.’ The words accompanied by a small laugh, a giggle. High-pitched, girlish almost.

  Tom blinked. In front of him stood Emlyn, the retired teacher, smiling, slowly waggling an empty beer glass.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tom, recovering, ‘What can I get you, Emlyn, same again?’

  ‘Please.’

  Tom took the glass, placed it to one side, produced a fresh one from the shelf, took it to the hand pump of an ale from a local brewery, began pouring.

  Emlyn and his wife Isobel were regulars and proud Round Table members. Both retired history teachers, both small, always wrapped in shapeless fleeces and all-weather gear, always smiling, cheerful. They sat at the same corner table under a wall lamp, and slowly drank the same drinks, eking out the days and evenings reading books or newspapers, sometimes doing the crossword. Completely content with one another’s company. Tom wondered how they had achieved that. How anyone could.

  Tom placed the drink on the bar. Took the money, gave change.

  ‘Must have been something serious, judging by your face,’ Emlyn said, mouth crinkled into a smile.

  Tom managed a smile of his own. ‘Just the way my face looks when I get lost in thought. Been told I can look a bit fierce.’

  Emlyn just wandered back to his seat, giggling.

  Pirate John was sitting at the corner of the bar, glass nearly empty, trying to make eye contact with Tom again. Tom instead went into the kitchen on a flimsy pretext. Looked around, counted to thirty. Very, very slowly. When he emerged, there were two new customers at the bar. Two of the travellers, the surf communists, wearing variations of their counterculture uniform and sullen, withdrawn expressions. He gave them their pints and they took their seats, as far away from the few meagre customers as possible.

  Tom studied them. Could they be Noah and Kai? Probably not. But they might know them. Should he just go over and ask them?

  Pearl chose that moment to enter. She found him looking at the two surfers.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, her words breaking the spell. He turned to her. ‘Just looking at those surfers. Travellers. Is that what you’d call them?’

  ‘Whatever you like, I suppose. They’ve got a campsite over the rocks in the next bay. They’re kind of . . . I don’t know. A commune? You get a fair bit of that stuff down here. People who think they’re getting back to nature. That kind of thing.’

  ‘You sound like you don’t agree with them.’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t care. As long as they pay their way and don’t cause trouble they’re welcome to drink in here. We need the money. We can’t be fussy.’

  Tom kept staring at them. ‘They don’t seem very peace and love.’

  ‘Why are you so obsessed with them suddenly?’

  ‘I’m not. It’s just . . . curious, that’s all. Thinking about what drew them to this “outlaw” lifestyle, as they’d say. I mean, they’re not just hippies, they’re more of a ragtag bunch, aren’t they? Some just want to get wasted, some just do it at the weekends, go back to their day jobs on Monday . . .’

  ‘Some of them are running towards things,’ said Pearl. ‘New lives, new futures.’

  Tom turned, looked at her.

  She smiled. ‘I can be deep as well, you know.’

  ‘Didn’t doubt it.’ He glanced back at the travellers, sitting there like they were in a world of their own. ‘I reckon more of them are running away from something rather than running towards it, though.’

  ‘Or from someone.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom. ‘Be the perfect little hideout, something like that, wouldn’t it?’

  She said nothing. Walked away.

  Tom looked again at the two surfers. Thought. If Lila had been involved with that student’s disappearance, if this Noah and Kai were involved, then if she used his cards he wouldn’t just be flagged up on a database. He would be connected to that case. And that was something he couldn’t allow to happen. That wouldn’t just make him vulnerable, it would be putting him in danger. And not just him . . .

  He made busy behind the bar, polishing the wooden surface once again, looking for any physical action to free up his mind. Planning the best way to approach them. He had to find Lila.

  But first he needed to talk to Noah.

  8

  ‘Fancy a drink before heading off?’ The pub had emptied – which hadn’t taken that long – and Pearl was standing by his side, smiling.

  ‘I do, but . . . I think I’d better be off,’ he said, watching the two surfers through the window disappearing into the darkness.

  Pearl frowned, concerned.

  ‘Got a bit of a chill from the other night. Haven’t been sleeping too well. Better get myself sorted before tomorrow’s shift.’

  ‘I’ll run you home.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that. Put yourself out. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re not going to join the travellers, are you?’

  He laughed, walked out. Feeling Pearl’s eyes on him as he did so.

  *

  He knew where he was going. Or at least he had walked the route in daylight. And he had the two travellers in front to guide him.

  Past the street lights of the village, onto single track lanes. Up the stone footpath carved out of the side of the hill, stumbling as the trees, foliage and darkness increased, the only illumination coming from the difference in dark grey and black between the land and the sky. He reached the top of the cliff, found the path along the edge, mindful about where he placed his feet. Below, the tide rhythmically crashed and receded, an indistinct background murmuring.

  He should have waited. He knew that. Planned his actions, devised a risk assessment, made sure of an escape route if anything went wrong. He was only thinking like this because he’d sensed from Lila’s words that this Noah was involved in the disappearance of the boy. And, given Tom’
s instinctive suspicions of these travellers, possibly other things too. If that was the case then it made him potentially dangerous. Possibly very dangerous. Tom shouldn’t even have been contemplating confronting Noah. But his identity took precedence, missing student or not. Anything else, any kind of heroics, someone else would have to take care of.

  In front of him, the two travellers had rounded a rock face and begun their downward descent. Tom followed and saw down below the travellers’ camp. In a small, beachless inlet with towering rocks on two sides, was a field with a couple of old ambulances, tents both makeshift and genuine, a few yurts with permanent wooden front doors, camper vans in various states of disintegration. A wooden shack, presumably some kind of communal toilet block, had been inexpertly erected. Bare bulbs were strung around, their wires snaking down to a couple of old, black, smoke-belching generators. The last few campfires of the night were dying out.

  As he got nearer, he realised the vehicles were pulled round the canvases, like Western wagons in a defensive formation. Keeping the Indians – or whoever – out. Him, perhaps. He revised his plan of action. Jogged on ahead to catch up with the two men from the pub.

  ‘Hey,’scuse me.’

  They both turned, startled to see someone behind them. Silhouetted against the light from the camp, Tom noticed that at least one of them was afraid. The other one had tensed, his body language ready for a fight.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, keeping his voice as friendly as possible. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you up. I work in the pub.’

  The two of them relaxed slightly, recognising him.

  ‘I need to speak to someone here. Noah? Is he about?’

  ‘Why d’you want him?’ The bigger of the two had a strong Northern accent and for a second Tom was thrown. Did they know each other? No, he told himself. That was ridiculous.

  ‘Just need a chat. Can you take me to him?’

  The second one looked between Tom and the bigger traveller. He seemed scared to speak, to intervene. Waiting for someone to give him instructions. Or at least see how things developed.