by Jane Jesmond
I met Grid’s gaze after I put the phone down.
‘Jen?’ he asked.
I told him what had happened on the lighthouse – most of it. I had to. I owed him. And I told him I’d come to suspect someone else had been there.
His face showed little as he listened but I was used to that. Just an occasional flare of amber in his brown eyes when they picked up the beam of the wall light. After I finished he remained silent for a few moments.
‘And you’re sure,’ he said in the end, ‘absolutely sure you didn’t do this to yourself?’
For answer, I took the rope out of my bag and passed it to him.
‘This was what you were hanging by?’
I nodded.
‘But you might have used it, Jen, if it was all you had to hand.’
‘Look at the knot.’
‘Ah. I see. Yes, I understand. A reef knot.’
‘I tried to tie one,’ I said. ‘With the rope in my car. To see if I could. To see if I had. But my fingers don’t know how.’
‘You still keep a rope in your car? I thought you’d given up climbing.’
‘You can use rope for other things.’
‘Such as?’ He waited for me to answer. ‘Tying up runaway horses? Temporary washing line?’
‘Shut up.’
We laughed a little.
‘Still,’ he said. ‘At least you know it wasn’t one of your climbing friends. None of us would have used that knot. We’d know it wasn’t safe.’
The background murmur of chatter and crockery clinking faded behind the ringing in my ears. I swallowed to ease the dryness in my throat. I watched him realise what my silence meant.
‘Oh fuck, Jen. You think someone did it on purpose? Someone who knew the knot would fail?’ I couldn’t look at him then but I felt the weight of understanding land on him. ‘Like me, or Vince, or Ricky?’ he asked. ‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Why you got in touch, out of the blue?’
‘Not completely,’ I said.
He shut his eyes.
‘But when I saw you again, I knew. I knew you’d never have done anything to me. But… before… I thought you might be bitter because I couldn’t hold the rope. Couldn’t stop you falling. I tried to but…’
I had to lean forward to catch his words as they came.
‘I have no hard feelings, Jen. You did what you had to.’ I felt him dredge deep inside himself. ‘Dealing with what happened. The foot. It’s not easy. No way. No fucking way. And if I could go back and change what happened – of course, I would. I have bad days. No, I have crap days, horror days. But I’d never… you know what I mean.’
I nodded.
‘And Vince and Ricky?’ he said. ‘You thought it might be them?’
‘Grid, it isn’t like you’re making it sound. I don’t know anything. But I can’t sit around being constantly afraid someone might try again. I’ve got to know what happened.’
‘You don’t remember anything?’
‘It’s a blank.’
‘But before the blank?’
‘I was in the hotel bedroom. Feeling wrung out after the drive.’
He tapped his foot against the iron leg of the table. I tried not to stare at it.
‘You should tell the police,’ he said.
‘What exactly should I tell them?’ I bit the inside of my mouth hard. The words had come out wrong. Louder and angrier than I had meant. ‘Sorry. But think how it would sound: “Sorry, Officer, I don’t remember anything much but I think someone drugged me, although I am a recovering addict and might have relapsed. Then they hung me over a lighthouse. It might have been for a laugh. Or they might have done it to hurt me. And, by the way, if you look me up in your records, you’ll see I have a caution for trespass from climbing dangerous buildings.”’
It was his turn to shrug. My mood had reached out and embraced him. His skin had whitened and the knee of his bad leg jerked up and down as though the strain of controlling it had become too much.
I wanted to go. Couldn’t bear to watch him force his leg back under control. This was reality, I thought. This was what I’d done to him.
‘I don’t think it was anyone I knew, Grid. I think it happened because I saw something I wasn’t meant to see. There’s lots of stuff going on along the coast. Smuggling, I mean. They use RIBs – rigid inflatable boats. They’re powerful and small and they can land in places other boats can’t.’
I told Grid my theory and he listened, but I could tell he thought it was far-fetched. His eyes looked beyond me out into the street and suddenly focussed on something.
‘Shit,’ he said.
I turned.
Someone was picking his way through the tables and chairs towards us. A man. Our age. A biker, I thought, from his battered leather jacket. His black hair was flattened as though he’d not long taken his helmet off. The face was familiar.
‘Hey, Grid.’ He swung his hand over and clapped Grid’s raised one. ‘Saw you in here and wanted to come in and say thanks again, man.’
‘Mark.’ Grid’s face was white.
It came back to me. This was Kit’s friend, Mark. Mark Vingoe. Seb’s brother, Mark. Dead Seb. Oh shit, could this get any worse? I hunted for the right words to say, but there weren’t any. There never are.
I wondered how they knew each other. Mark pulled a chair to the table and sat astride it, leaning towards Grid. He’d only given me a quick glance and hadn’t recognised me; it was a long time since we’d last met.
‘Mark.’ I tapped on his shoulder and he swivelled round. ‘It’s Jen. Kit’s sister. I’m up from London for a bit. I just wanted to –’
As I spoke his face distorted. The red, slightly puffy and open-pored skin tightened and wrinkled into lines of fury.
‘You!’ He paused and Grid reached for his arm.
‘Mark,’ Grid said. ‘Now is not the time –’
But Mark shook Grid’s hand and warning words away.
‘Jenifry Shaw.’ He leaned towards me and his hot breath hit my nose. Sweet mint barely masking the smell of alcohol. ‘The wild and wonderful Jenifry Shaw.’ Despite the alcohol, his words were sharp and clear. ‘That’s what he called you. That’s what Seb called you.’
I had no idea where this was going but it wasn’t good.
‘Afraid of nothing.’ His voice grew louder as his anger poured out. ‘You think you’re something else, don’t you? You and your famous father and your big house. You think you’re so fucking fantastic because you’ve climbed a few hills.’
He’d lost it. Big time.
Around us was quiet. The other coffee drinkers had fallen silent as Mark started to shout.
Grid took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Mark, I know how hard this is for you but now is…’
But his words only provoked Mark.
‘And Seb fell for it.’ His voice was a burning poker in my ear. ‘He fell for all your fucking mystique. Your glamour. Life was too short, you said to him. Too short for wasting. Take risks. Go for it. That’s what you told him when he tried to talk to you about how he was. About how things weren’t working out like he’d hoped. He was in a bad place and you fed him bullshit. You couldn’t just listen. You had to feed him your own personal belief that danger was the stuff of magic. And Seb was always a sucker for magic. So he believed you. He was desperate for something. And he went for it. He said he’d taken a leaf out of your book and that you were right. How he never felt so fucking alive as when he was out leaping over buildings and all that crap.’
And on and on. He spat the words at me and I sat and let them hit me. Piece by piece, they stuck to my skin, oozed through and stole into my brain. I was to blame. I got that first. Seb would never have started free running if he hadn’t known me. If I hadn’t made him think it was important to take risks. It was all my fault. Al
l of it. Every last bit of it. At one moment, I thought I’d put my head down. Rest it on the table and let the barrage pass over me but I couldn’t move.
Eventually it stopped. The words stopped and only the hatred echoed round the café, bounced off the faces of the old French film stars and crackled in my ears. The manager and Grid were standing behind Mark. Arguing. I couldn’t hear their words. I was shut off from them as though watching through a small window in an airlock with nothing in it except the noise of Mark’s words.
The manager asked him to leave. Grid asked him to leave. And he finally went, shambling to the exit, kicking chairs out of his way, slamming the door.
I drank tea I didn’t see arrive and thought how great it was to be with Grid who knew I needed tea.
‘You OK?’ Grid asked me.
I drank more tea and heard the murmur of conversations start up around me.
‘You OK?’ Grid said again.
I nodded.
‘You didn’t know?’ he asked.
I found my voice. ‘That Mark blamed me? No.’
‘I thought Kit might have told you.’
‘Kit knows?’
‘Oh yes.’
I sipped more tea.
‘I didn’t tell Seb to go free running, Grid.’
‘Are you sure?’
I couldn’t believe this. Not from Grid.
‘I’ve never told anyone to do anything,’ I said.
‘Mark’s looking for someone to blame. Isn’t it what most people do when something dreadful happens?’ But his voice lacked conviction and he wouldn’t look at me straight on.
‘Grid. I would never…’
But now I was not so sure either because the things Mark had said did echo my own beliefs.
Grid reached out and covered my hand. His skin was warm after the cold of the marble.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not saying you made Seb go parkouring but you should read his blog. It’s full of the sort of things you say. You do go on about the joys of free climbing and how important it is to take risks. How most people live lives hedged in with fear and caution. You’ve been climbing since you were a child so the skills are ingrained in your body and it makes you fearless and daring. Things most of us would like to be. You seem glamorous and exciting. Kit’s like that too. And your dad. You make the rest of us feel second-rate. Seb was feeling vulnerable because his life wasn’t working out how he’d thought it would. He was going through that moment we all go through when dreams collide with reality. But it’s not your fault that he died, Jen. Don’t start thinking that.’
‘Is that why you stopped me from visiting you?’ I heard the sadness in my voice but I didn’t care. ‘Tell me the truth, Grid.’
‘Maybe. You’re quite hard to deal with when… when I’m not feeling on top form.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Jen, it’s just the way you are. So full of life and energy.’
A thought sent a shockwave through my body.
‘Grid, you don’t think Mark – could he have…? He hates me. You saw that. He loathes everything to do with me. And he’s mad with grief. Off his head with it.’
‘No, he couldn’t.’ Grid’s voice was curt.
‘Oh fuck. You saw him. If we hadn’t been in a public place. If you hadn’t been with me, I think he might –’
‘Mark’s angry but he wouldn’t hurt you. He’ll rant and accuse but that’s all. Besides, I was with him on Friday evening.’
‘You were with him?’
He nodded.
‘But how? I didn’t know you knew him, anyway.’
‘I don’t. I didn’t.’ He sighed. ‘Look, they had a wake for Seb on Friday.’
‘I know. Kit and Sofija went.’
‘It was by the grave. A bit of a ceremony. Everybody had to remember something about Seb. Kit said it was dire because none of Seb’s friends, his close friends, were allowed. Mark wouldn’t invite them. Not even his girlfriend. Mark blames them all for not stopping Seb, for not making him see sense. You’re not the only one.’
Grid didn’t look at me. I might not be the only one, I thought, but I sure as hell am one of the main ones.
‘Afterwards they went to a pub near here,’ Grid continued. ‘Kit had asked me to meet him there.’
He hesitated.
‘Oh shit,’ I said. ‘Kit borrowed money from you.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it’s not.’ And it wasn’t. Grid had worked for Kit. They got on but he was my partner and the thought of Kit tapping him for a few quid made me feel sick.
‘It wasn’t much. And I didn’t mind.’
‘How much?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Listen to me. I met Kit at the pub. There was only Mark, Sofija and him left. Everyone else had gone because Mark was in such a state. Ranting and raving to anyone who’d listen.’
‘About me?’
‘A bit.’
A lot, I thought. No wonder Kit had been so mad at me when we’d met the next day.
‘Kit and Sofija had to go. There was a storm on its way, a big one, and they needed to get back so Kit begged me to see Mark home. Took me hours to drag him out of the pub and then I couldn’t get a taxi to take us. It was gone nine by the time we got to his flat and I didn’t leave him for quite a while. Once I did, Mark wasn’t capable of doing anything but passing out.’
‘You’re sure. Sure, sure, sure?’
‘I’m sure. Kit and Sofija left just before four and Mark wasn’t out of my sight after that. It was a long and tedious few hours.’
I’d half risen and my hands were clenched into fists. I made myself sit back down and relax my hands. It wasn’t Mark. Mark had been with Grid.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Mark didn’t know I was in Cornwall. You saw him just now. He was shocked to see me. I don’t think he was faking it. In fact, no one knew I was in Craighston. Not even Kit and Sofija. So I’m right. I’ve been right all along. Something must have happened while I was out walking on Friday evening.’
Grid nodded. It was clear he’d had enough. Enough of us Hammetts and our problems. I hoped he hadn’t lent Kit too much money. We finished our drinks quickly, both desperate to leave. But when he stood and pulled some money from his jeans pocket, he asked me one last question.
‘Still got your car?’
‘No. It had to go. We needed the money. I’ve got an old Golf now.’
He fingered the coins in his hand.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘A volcano-red Aston stands out, that’s all. Just thought that anyone who saw it by the hotel would have known you were there. But you’d sold it, so that’s OK.’
Nineteen
I can’t bear being underground. Something about the tons of rock above me and the buildings with their foundations digging into it. Spurs of concrete as white as knuckles gripping the rock; I hear the ground above grumble and creak with the strain. And I think it will crack and crumble and rain rocks down to bury me.
Grid and I used to climb those tall, tall buildings. Sometimes we climbed with friends of Grid’s. Not climbers, really, although they were good. Explorers, they called themselves. Urban explorers. Committed to getting into and photographing or writing about places that are forbidden to the general public. You’ve probably heard of them and their Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints philosophy, or seen things in the papers about them climbing the Shard or standing on impossibly high cranes in Hong Kong.
Don’t be fooled, though, by the guff on their websites about how we’re trapped by our everyday existence, forced to walk only the paths the ‘powers’ want us to, and how urban explorers are striking a blow for freedom on our behalf. Most of them are nutters. Complete nutters, or worse. Sure, they’ve got a point. Most of humanity is too shit scared of its own shad
ow to step out of the boring and everyday. But the so-called urban explorers, they’re doing it for themselves. Not for us. I mean, you don’t need to have a birthday party in the Paris sewers or take photos of your toes on top of a crane with nothing but a thousand feet of space beneath them to make the point about how we’re all confined by fears for our safety. It’s taking the piss.
But I really liked them.
So we went climbing with them a few times, Grid and I, and it was kind of fun because they’d go anywhere. What they lacked in skill they made up for in sheer bravado.
And then we went pot-holing with them. Urban pot-holing, that is. Down below London. I should have remembered how much I hated being underground and known it would be a disaster. As soon as the clang of the manhole cover rang down into the cramped passages, kicked back into place by the top watchers, panic seized me. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The thump of my heart thudded the blood against my skin so hard I thought it might burst. And everywhere, the smell of damp and soot oozed out of the brick-lined tunnels. I wrapped myself round the ladder, burying my face in my arms, and whimpered.
Grid got me out, muttering words of encouragement with his mouth pressed against my ears and his hands encircling my limbs and helping them to bend and move. As I neared the top, the sense of a shifting mass of earth and rock hanging above and around me receded and I scrambled up the last few rungs unaided and hammered on the cover until the watchers opened it, letting me out into the night with its canopy of dark sky and stars floating up high. Insubstantial. Light.
When Grid left the café, it was like being underground again. Only this time there was no manhole to hammer on and no Grid to show me the way to it. Instead of earth and concrete pressing down on me in the dark, it was the weight of the things I’d done. The weight of the person I was, threatening to suffocate me.
I drove back to Tregonna, pushing my way through the evening traffic, cutting up anyone who gave me a chance, not caring what they thought, not hearing their honks of protest nor feeling their indignant gaze wash over my back. Driving like a mad thing to get ahead of the darkness chasing me.
When I arrived at Tregonna, Kit wasn’t there. Sofija was in the back room, ironing and watching Shaun the Sheep with Rosa.