1
BRISTOL
The crone from the front desk of the
hotel gaped as Sam strode back through the double doors and into the lobby, the
desk phone in her palsied hand. She’d heard the gunshots; she was about to call
the police. Her index finger was poised over the keypad. He didn’t have any
time to play with and trying to convince her not to make that call wasn’t worth
the effort it might take. He needed to find out the name of his sister’s
boyfriend; the name of the man who killed her, and he needed to do it before
the police arrived.
Sam started to unfold The Lie,
running through the memory points of his earlier conversation segment by
segment. He had mentioned his relationship to Lucy, that he had been in town
for business and had arranged to meet up. It was unfortunate he had identified
himself. He winced inwardly but gave no outward sign then he set his expression
to be angry/concerned/grieving and raised his hand. “Call the police! My
sister’s been killed! Quickly!”
The crone gaped but didn’t move her
finger onto the keypad.
“There’ve been gunshots!” said Sam,
“I surprised him but he escaped through the window!”
She was alarmed and confused. There
were communication problems in her brain, perhaps trying to work out how she
had seen him go upstairs and now saw him appear from outside. She wasn’t going
to react quickly enough; he had to move to the next level.
Sam grabbed her hand on the receiver
and fixed her in the eyes. “Please! You have to help me! Call the police! My
sister! She’s been killed!”
The crone nodded and started to dial.
Sam stepped back three paces. She turned her body, peering out the front door
while she waited for a reply. Now she couldn’t see his face, Sam relaxed his
expression but kept it ready. She looked back at him and he reinforced it,
shaking his head, letting her see how distraught he was. As the emergency
services switchboard answered, Sam mumbled some unintelligible segments he knew
she wouldn’t be able to make out and made vague hand signals: miscellaneous
symptoms of grief.
The crone asked to be put through to
the police. Sam walked toward the stairs, making the movement seem part of a
stagger. The crone got through and began to explain the details of what had
happened. She looked after him as he started up the stairs but she was locked
in conversation and didn’t call him back.
As soon as Sam was out of sight he
started to jog the rest of the way. It was only going to be minutes now before
they arrived.
2
SAN FRANCISCO – USA
Murder.
Molly Butler stared into and through
her PC monitor, looking at some vague distant point on the wall behind. Her
mind had blanked, cancelling out conscious thought of the half paragraph she’d
typed. There was a French to English dictionary turned upside down on her lap
and an open manuscript on the desk beside the keyboard filled with slanting
black French longhand.
The last word she had punched onto
the screen had jerked her out of her flow, soliciting a series of flash card
images, some of them her own memories, some the product of descriptions she’d
heard or imagined about what had happened: a cliff-side road lit only by
moonlight; the sneering face of her brother Ruben; her father’s car tearing
along at dangerous speeds; white water waves crashing on black rocks; her
father’s screaming eyes and mouth.
Murder: the
word she had typed, translating from the manuscript; six letters evoking a ribbon of guilt, tying her to her father’s
death, damning up the flow of the concentration she needed to go on working.
She blinked, coming back to reality.
Her study was quiet; the conversation and laughter she’d expected to hear from
the party downstairs was absent. High noon sunlight was slanting in through the
blinds onto the polished floor. The connecting door to her bedroom was ajar.
She looked back at the screen and wished she hadn’t; the fragment she’d been
typing when she zoned out was still there.
After the third murder…
She pressed the button that switched
the monitor off and swivelled round to put her back to it. That was enough
translation for today. Gaston’s book, his semi-fictional biography of a
travelling serial killer, would have to wait until tomorrow. She had promised
her mother she would make at least an appearance and time was getting on.
She didn’t bother to shut down the
computer. Perhaps she would come up and give the translation another try after
she’d got a bite to eat. It would give her an excuse to break away from the
movie crowd that would be mingling downstairs.
Her brother was sitting near the foot
of the wide spiralling staircase, his shoes off, attacking a plate overfilled
with delicate hors d’oeuvres. He gave her a quick glance as she descended then
went back to eating. Despite being well into his twenties, as she was, he
managed to maintain the same sullen slouch he always had. The hallway was empty;
the double doors leading to the lounge were closed.
“Don’t go in there,” said Ruben. “If
you do you’ll regret it.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see if you go in, but don’t
complain that I didn’t give you a heads-up.”
Molly stopped short of the door and
turned to face her brother, arms folded. “I see you got dressed up for the
occasion.”
“I changed my socks,” said Ruben.
“What more do you expect?”
“From you?”
“Being the black sheep of the family
takes effort you know.”
“You do it so well.” She turned back
to the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“If you get the chance… Ask her about
Jack Catholic.”
She hesitated. “Who? Is he somebody
our father was—”
“Ask her. She’ll tell you. Jack.
Catholic.” He said the name in two segments in the solemn pace he might have
used to count down the seconds to the end of the world. Two. One. Boom. Then he
pointed his face down at his plate, ignoring her.
3
BRISTOL
Sam turned Lucy’s head in a gloved
hand, looking into her face. It wasn’t her face anymore though: it was a bad
fake; a facsimile that didn’t have the details right. He closed her eyes and
checked her over: broken neck; fractured skull; brain damage; immediate death.
He lowered her head gently.
Back on his feet he moved swiftly
through the room, taking a rapid inventory, looking for signs of the boyfriend’s
full identity.
Jack; that was all he knew: seeing
Lucy for three months.
Double bed, wardrobe, chest of
drawers, two bedside cabinets, two lamps, bookcase, en suite bathroom, no
cooking facilities, gaudy fireplace too big for the room, fold out easel
leaning against the wall with a price label still attached; no painting; no
paint or brushes. He found, and took, Lucy’s flat keys.
The light was fading fast from
outside. Sam reached quickly into his inside breast pocket. He had already
reloaded and replaced the pistol in its holster. He pulled out a strap-on torch,
slipped it over his head and turned the lens until it gave out a broad beam
from his forehead like the lamp on a miner’s helmet.
The wardrobe was empty; drawers too.
Both sets of clothes were hanging out of their cases; no identification. He
glanced at the bed: ruffled; covers up and over; rough; careless. They’d had
intercourse – he put his hand on the centre of the mattress, felt the stain
with his fingers – less than half an hour ago.
There was something on top of the
drawers beside the bed. Sam circled to it: a photograph of Lucy at the beach.
She was smiling, happy. He looked at it for five or ten seconds then slipped it
into his inside jacket pocket.
He flicked off and removed his torch
and moved over to the window; frowned down at the broken glass in the frame. A
two second glance back at Lucy then away; then Sam slipped back to the door and
down the stairs.
There was only one place now likely
to give him the name he needed.
4
SAN FRANCISCO
Molly pushed open the lounge door,
ready to brave the hoards of sleazy partygoers, turning the name Jack Catholic
over in her mind. She took a deep breath to stave off the inevitable overuse of
cologne but inside, the room was all but empty.
The huge lounge had been redecorated
especially for the event. White table cloths lining the opposite wall were
covered with expensively catered finger food and alcohol. A team of catering staff
stood ready, seven of them: five women and two men, dressed in black pants and
white short-sleeved shirts.
But no guests; not one; and Molly’s
mother, Jennifer, was sitting in the middle of the room on one of the new white
leather sofas, head in her hands, weeping. Her pale blond hair swirled round
her head in an extravagant style, and she was wearing an elegant ankle length
dress that showed off her lean “salsa-cised” figure. She had spent almost three
months preparing for this day and here she was, crying as though it were her
sixth birthday party and none of her friends had turned up.
Molly moved forward several steps to
comfort her but stopped, still ten feet away. “Mother? Are you okay?” It was a
clumsy, stupid question and didn’t prompt an answer. Molly went over, wishing
the barriers that had formed between them in recent years weren’t there.
“Mother?”
Jennifer lifted her head, hearing
Molly for the first time. She drew in a sharp breath, halting mid-sob. Only the
very centre of her otherwise smooth forehead was creased into a series of tiny horizontal
lines. The breath she’d inhaled burst out of her in a sound like a slit tire
going down and she started to cry again.
Molly heard a whisper and a giggle.
The hired help were standing in a row, failing to look professional. They were
all teenagers. “You can go now,” she said, sounding angrier than she’d meant
to. “We won’t need you anymore today; thank you.”
They didn’t move, shocked more
probably by the emotion in her voice than the content of what she’d said; then
one of the boys shrugged his shoulders and said, “The deal was we work here
until seven.”
“Well I’m sorry,” said Molly, still unable
to keep the hostility out of her voice. “The party’s not happening after all.
You’re going to have to leave.”
The other six started to break off
but the insolent one remained in place, his arms folded. When they saw he was
staying, the others slowed down to see what he had to say. “Are we still gonna
get paid the full amount?”
Molly nodded and started to reply but
her mother grabbed her wrist and hissed “No” quieter than a whisper. She stared
up at Molly through wide, almost childlike eyes.
Feeling unsure of herself, Molly
said, “I’ll talk to the agency and work something out. Please just leave.”
The insolent boy seemed undecided but
broke off and the rest followed him. Molly waited for them to leave then took a
seat next to her mother and placed a hand over hers. “What happened? Where is
everybody? I thought it was supposed to start three hours ago.”
The tears seemed used up but the
sorrow made Jennifer’s body rigid. Her hand, in Molly’s, felt stiff. “We’re
ruined Molly,” she said. Her voice was still quiet. Her eyes stared forward at
the ceramic tiled floor.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody’s come. Not one. Even my
agent. Can you believe that?” She laughed. “My fucking agent couldn’t even drag
himself here. It’s a joke. A God damn joke is what it is.”
“Nobody came at all?”
“One person did: a reporter. He came
and went; took a few pictures; had a good laugh at my expense, the greasy
little shit.”
Molly squeezed her mother’s hand. “It
doesn’t matter. Who cares if nobody came? It’s their loss, right?”
Jennifer looked at Molly and now her
eyes closed to half mast. This time when she spoke her voice was at a normal
pitch. The sudden change was disturbing. “We’re broke Molly. This lunch is the
final straw. I put everything I had into it.” Her words became muted and weary.
“I was so sure it would work. We may lose the house. We’re going to have to
sell everything. It’s over.”
Molly had always tried hard not to be
a princess in an ivory tower, but she felt this news like a slit of her wrists
all the same. They didn’t live the life that they could have lived if her parents
had remained together, her father had been the one with the real wealth, but to
give up what they did have – the house, the cars – to actually be poor, to
change their whole way of life… No words came to mind. She didn’t speak. Both
of them stared forward.
“You’d have thought at least some of my
old friends would come,” said Jennifer. “Wouldn’t you?”
Molly nodded, still looking forward
with the same vacant expression her mother had worn.
“There aren’t any friends in this business
though are there? Not really. Just maggots all feeding off one another,
squirming over themselves to be on top of the pile.”
Molly couldn’t think of a single
thing to say that would mean anything. She thought of her father then she
released her mother’s hand and withdrew her own, the old wall coming back up
between them; the old bitterness. She thought of Ruben and the night her father
died. She thought about what they did and about what they should have done then
she remembered what Ruben had said just now outside the room.
“Mother?”
Jennifer slumped back in the sofa,
staring up at the ceiling. She drew in a long shaky breath then let out a sigh.
“Yes?”
“Tell me who Jack Catholic is.”
5
BRISTOL
A cluster of people were in the lobby:
guests/busybodies from the street. The landlady had finished on the phone and
was gesturing and speaking too loudly.
Sam switched The Lie back on,
staggering the last few steps downstairs out of rhythm. They all turned to look
at him, faces melting out of concern or curiosity. He paused for support
against the edge of the landlady’s booth, head hanging. He had mussed his hair
slightly before descending and flicked the mental switch that generated
moistness in his eyes. He didn’t need full-blown tears but he had them in
reserve. For now, a redness and shimmer round the edges would do.
A woman put her hand on his shoulder
to give comfort. There were folds of unsightly flab around her wrists. He
turned away, repressing a shudder. Several of them started talking, asking
questions or offering help, but he tuned them out. His head was low enough that
they couldn’t see his gaze. His eyes were fixed on the registration book on the
desk.
Sam needed that book.
The people bustled him while he ran
scenarios through his mind. He twisted his wrist to pull his hand clear of his
sleeve and subtly turned it until he could see his watch. He ran the time frame
through his mind again as he had on the way downstairs, taking into account
probabilities and average police response times. Anywhere between two and six minutes
was most likely now. If these people hadn’t known who he was he’d just have
taken what he needed without the need for finesse. As it was, he was already
risking everything he’d been setting up for the past five years. Any trouble
might accelerate the inevitable and close doors before he’d had a chance to
break free.
“I think…” he said, his voice
strained and quiet, “I think it was the boyfriend who did it.”
One of the plebs stupidly repeated
what he’d said.
“God,” said Sam, “I don’t even
remember his name… The police are going to want to know.”
They looked from one face to another.
“Jack something,” said Sam. “I don’t
know what his last name was.” The landlady wasn’t picking up the hint. “Is his
name in the register?”
“Of course!” She reached for the book
and flipped it open, spinning it round to face her. The fat woman took her hand
off Sam’s shoulder and stepped closer to the reception desk, peering. “Yes
here!” The crone sagged. “No. No. It was the young lady that signed in. Lucy Decker.”
Sam covered his eyes. Time was
ticking but he needed that name. Prioritisation: His sister was dead. Finding
out the killer’s identity was more important than getting out of there before
the police arrived. He had the gun in his pocket. He would use it if he had to.
If he left without the name he might not have time to find it out through other
channels before the net closed in on him because of what he had been doing at
work. Already he was going to have to miss his flight.
“Have they paid already?” he blurted.
“There may be a credit card receipt with the name on.”
Everyone in the lobby turned to look
at him. He looked back at them, confused for a half second. Then he realised: he
had dropped The Lie; his voice had come across too forcefully; his expression
had betrayed him. He picked it up again, altering his demeanour as carefully as
he could. “Do you think there might be a record there?”
Faltering, the people looked back
toward the crone but she was shaking her head. “They haven’t paid anything yet.
They had the room for one more night. People don’t pay until they leave.”
Damn.
So that was it: no more information
here. It was time to go.
Three people stood in a cluster
between Sam and the door. Above the vague traffic noise he could barely detect
a wisp of something that might have been a siren. He swiped his hand back
across his eyes. “I feel sick. I need some air.” Nobody moved. “Sorry, I think
I might throw up.”
The cluster parted, making room, fear
of being sprayed with vomit superseding any concern. Sam smiled in his mind. He
staggered through the gap they had made.
“I’ll come with you,” said the fat
woman, moving up behind him.
She couldn’t see his face; none of
them could. It was fortunate. He raised his right hand. “No thanks. I’ll be
okay. I’m just going to go outside and take some deep breaths.”
He staggered through the door into
the evening air and descended the steps, then straightened and walked briskly
down the street to where he’d seen Lucy’s car.
6
LONDON – ENGLAND
The first thing Anna Thorpe saw near
the top of page one was the name Sam Decker.
Seeing it made the muscles in her
cheeks and round the edges of her mouth tighten. If not for him she could have
been relaxing downstairs with Greg instead of wasting her evening going over
old reports. A shallow vertical crease formed above the peak of her nose,
kick-starting the beginning of a headache.
“Watchya doin’ Mummy?”
Anna inhaled, looking up at the
ceiling through her eyelids and did her best not to let it out as a sigh. “I’m
working. Why aren’t you in bed?” She couldn’t help smiling a little but she did
try to hide it.
“Can’t sleep.” Billy came all the way
into the study and put his little hand on her thigh then looked up at her with
his Bambi eyes, lower lip pouting. “Can I stay in here with you till I get
sleepy?” He was wearing his pyjamas at least, scratching his eye with a bent
forefinger.
The study was small and pleasantly
cluttered, decorated in a dark palate of browns, blacks and greens. Anna had
the lights low, as always, the desk lamp and monitor the only sources of
illumination. The sound of the television Greg was watching downstairs was just
audible over the hum of the fans in the back of her PC.
“Let’s see,” said Anna, using her bemused
mother voice. “How old are you?”
“Four and a half.”
“That’s right. And what time is it?”
Billy stared blankly.
Anna gave him the answer. “It’s after
bedtime.”
“Oh.” The pout extended further over
his chin. He lowered his head but continued looking up, making his eyes seem
even bigger. “Can I stay up anyway? Just for a little while?”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “What would
your father say?”
“Please!”
She knew she would regret being
lenient all the time when he was older but it was so hard to say no. “Alright.
As long as you promise not to disturb me while I’m trying to work.”
“Okay.”
“Good boy. Go and sit down.”
Billy trotted across and climbed onto
the leather sofa. He made it on the second try. Anna turned back to the open
file and flipped to the second page of Sam Decker’s investigation report.
There was an audit coming up and the
files in front of her were cases that had shown some paperwork discrepancies in
the pre-audit reviews her department was having to undertake. As one of the
senior insurance investigators, she had been given the job of digging up any
missing elements of the reports on these unusual claims. As luck (bad luck in
this case) would have it, one of Sam’s cases topped the pile. It irritated her
that it was him, he had been with the firm long enough not to be sloppy, but
discrepancies had appeared apparently and because he was on leave she had to
pick up the slack. There wouldn’t be time for him to do it when he returned.
“Mummy?”
“Yes sweetie?”
“Can you tell me about that one?”
Anna swivelled her chair to face the
sofa. Billy was sitting cross legged, holding onto his toes. For the past month
or two, he had developed the irritating/endearing habit of asking her to tell
him about whatever case she was working on in lieu of a bedtime story. It was a
distraction but it could be fun too and if it got him in bed without any fuss
then it was probably worth the effort. Besides, with the amount of paperwork
she had to bring home with her on a regular basis, she had to take her quality
time where she could get it.
She flicked through the file. “It’s a
strange one.”
“Goodie! Tell it like a story! ”
“Okay.” Anna settled down into her seat
and scanned the page in front of her. “Once upon a time there was a woman who
died.”
“How did she die?”
Anna lifted the corner of the page
she was on and glanced at the cause of death. “It doesn’t matter. She died very
peacefully and she didn’t mind because it was her time. Now everyone was very
sad... but they weren’t as sad as they might have been. Do you know why?”
Billy’s voice was solemn and
deliberate. “Because she had a viable life assurance policy?”
Anna laughed, throwing her head back.
“My my! You have been paying attention, haven’t you?”
Billy nodded.
“Well that’s right. So although she
had died, her husband got paid a lot of money by my company and everyone lived
happily ever after.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Until the other day.”
Billy grinned leaning forward. He
loved it when she put in her surprise twists. “What happened?”
“The other day the woman who had died
rang up the insurance company!”
Billy’s eyes widened, more out of
excitement than fear. “Was she a ghost?”
“No. She was alive and well and quite
angry when we told her we had already paid her life assurance out. Her husband
said he never got any money and that he had never told us she was dead.”
Billy scratched his head, trying to
keep up. “Then who lied and said she was dead?”
“Somebody who wanted to make a lot of
money illegally.”
Billy giggled as though it were a
joke. “So what happened in the end?”
“In the end?” Anna shrugged. “In the
end I have to look into it and find out what went on, see if we can’t sort it
all out, because the man who investigated originally confirmed everything was
above board.”
“Oh.” Billy looked sad that it had
ended.
“Now come on, let’s get you tucked
in.”
“Tell me another one!”
“No. It’s time for bed.”
“Please!”
He was going to be a terror as a
teen. “All right then, one more. Then you have to promise to get straight in
bed.”
“I promise!”
Anna opened the next file in the
stack and scanned down the front page. “Er… okay. Once upon a time a house
burned down and everyone was very sad. But they weren’t as sad as they could
have been. Do you know why?”
“Because their house had building and
contents insurance?”
“Well done!” Billy clapped his hands.
“But when Anna the insurance investigator looked into it she discovered that
there was no record of the statement made by the fire brigade at the time of
the accident. So she had to look at— Oh. That’s interesting.”
“What?”
“The address of this house… It’s on
Chestnut Street.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s the road where your playgroup
is. It’s funny though…” She flicked forward several pages then back to where
she had been, forgetting she was talking to Billy and doing nothing more than
thinking aloud. “I don’t remember any fire there. When was this?” She found the
date. It was six months earlier. There definitely hadn’t been anything then.
She looked at the house number. “Wait a minute.”
“What is it Mummy?”
“It says number thirteen. Thirteen
Chestnut Street. There is no thirteen. Your friend Martin’s mum lives at fifteen.
The builders didn’t make a thirteen because it was unlucky.”
“Is this young man bothering you?”
Anna looked up. Her boyfriend Greg was in the doorway, sweater sleeves rolled
up above the elbows, hair still damp from the shower he had taken after dinner,
a sheen of moisture glistening in his goatee beard. “Are you okay? You’re
looking funny.”
Anna beckoned him over. “I’m just
going over some claims and I’m noticing a pattern of incongruities.” Greg put
his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “This house doesn’t exist but a policy
has been set up and paid for and a claim made when it was supposed to have
burned down.”
“But I thought your department
investigated big claims. Why didn’t it show up that the house was never there
when the claim was made?”
Anna checked the name of the
investigating officer.
Sam Decker.
She looked back at the first file;
the one with the dead woman who hadn’t really died.
Sam Decker again.
“Because there is something rotten
going on here,” said Anna. “A pattern. And I’m starting to get a bad feeling
what it is.”
7
BRISTOL
The police sirens were distinct now:
no more than half a mile away, probably less. Sam figured he might have a slightly
shorter time than that before one of the hotel guests emerged to check on him.
The lock on Lucy’s boot broke easily
in less time than it would have taken to wish he’d picked up her car keys when
he took the ones for her flat.
Inside: 1 tent, 2 roll-out mattresses,
1 unframed painting on card. Even outdoors now the light was low. It was the
frustrating time between daylight and dark. He held the painting under the inbuilt
light in the hatchback door: it was small and unfinished, one foot by two; a
portrait in pastels. The shape of the head had been sketched in white, the hair
quite thick for a man’s and blond; no more than one sitting’s work. The face
showed no detail, the subject’s identity was a mystery, but Sam knew who it was
supposed to be; he knew who created it. It was a self portrait of the man who
had murdered his sister.
He lowered it slightly, considering
other things, his thoughts almost blank. Then he felt something again in the
back of his skull: instinct; premonition; something.
The man who killed his sister was
still alive. He was still alive and he would be making his way back to London.
Absolutely no way he could know that
fact; no way the bastard could have survived the leap off the bridge. Sam
didn’t believe in presentiment or any kind of fantasy but he knew that Jack was
alive. It didn’t matter how he knew. He knew.
A police car span round the corner at
the top of the hill, lights flashing in the gloom, siren still blaring. It
stopped too fast outside the hotel, wheels skidding into the pavement. The
siren switched off but the lights remained flashing as the policemen got out.
Sam was twenty yards away. They weren’t going to spot him but it was time to
go. The two cops hurried up the steps of the hotel and in through the front
door into the crowd that had assembled there.
Every extra day he remained in
England, he risked arrest and prison; but his sister was dead; the man who had
done it was free. He could not leave it like that.
Sam looked back at the self portrait,
at the blank features that could have given him a perfect simulacrum of the
face he was trying to find. He sneered. Then he lifted the picture and brought
it down hard on his knee.
8
SAN FRANCISCO
“Have you heard the name Jack
Catholic?” asked Molly, keeping her modulation fairly low.
The old man on the phone cleared his
throat with a rattle. He didn’t come straight back with a response and Molly
got the intuition, despite her history with him, that whatever came out of his
mouth next was going to be a lie.
“Jack... Catholic? Is he a relative
of your father’s?” His voice sounded like an old record of the tenor she
remembered from when she was a girl, still living under his care. David Eden
had worked for her father for twenty-five years from first successes to final
plummet.
“You know he is, right? I talked to
my mother. You approached her about him.”
“Molly...”
“I don’t know if you think you’re
protecting me or... I don’t know what you’re doing. David... I’m curious;
that’s all. My interest has been piqued. Who is he?”
“Molly, I’m glad you called; really.
It broke my heart not being able to see you all these years. It’s been
wonderful to catch up but... Some things... I think that some things should be
left in the ground.”
“Like my father.”
Eden said no more.
“I’m sorry David,” said Molly. “I
shouldn’t have said that.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No; it does. I shouldn’t have said
it.”
“Molly, really. It doesn’t matter.”
He paused. “I miss him as much as you do.”
In her study, Molly stared at the streetlight
shimmer on the window blinds.
“Are you there?” asked David.
“Yes. I’m here,” she said.
“It’s getting late. It really is good
talking to you. I’d like to meet sometime. For lunch?”
“Why are you trying to find Jack
Catholic?” she asked.
“Molly...”
“He lives in England, doesn’t he? Why
are you looking for him?”
“I don’t think we should be talking
about this. Really.”
“David. I want to know.”
“Really.”
“My mother told me you rang her out
of the blue, asking if she had an address. It must be important if you did
that. I’ve never heard her say a nice word to or about you.”
Eden sighed. “Your mother and I
weren’t plucked from the same tree. You shouldn’t believe everything she tells
you. She’s never encouraged good relations.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing at all. Look, I have to go
now Molly. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what you want to hear.”
“David...”
He cut her off. “Let me give you some
advice my dear. Please; allow me that for all the times I told you to brush
your teeth and picked up after you. Hmmm?”
She suddenly felt the old affection
for him come back and hated herself for pushing. She let him go on.
“Forget Jack Catholic,” he said. “I
mean it. Knowing about him will only lead you to heartache.”
9
SOMERSET - ENGLAND
When he opened his eyes, all Jack Catholic
could see was clear blue sky. It filled his field of view, top to bottom and
left to right.
He was lying on his back, only the
vaguest ache in his body and limbs; no agony of shattered bones or pulped
muscles. He was damp and cold but only on his underside. His chest; the front
of his arms and hips; his face: they were warm in the sun.
He tried to lift his hand but
something pulled at his arm, sucking on the flesh like fly paper. He had to
strain, then suddenly it came free. He held it up, bending at the elbow. His
arm and hand were covered in mud, dry caked over by wet. Jack dropped it back
down. It cracked against the mud that he was lying in. He lifted his head with
difficulty. He was lying on a shallow muddy slope. The cold grey filth coated
his clothes and body and hair. The river was less than a foot away.
It ached to hold his head up. Exhausted,
he lowered it back down for a minute, rested, then raised it again. The river
was wide and strong here; far wider than it should have been; maybe a couple of
miles across. It wasn’t the river Avon. It had to be the Severn. He wasn’t
anywhere near Bristol. The river must have carried him… how far? Miles at
least.
Surely it wasn’t possible.
He remembered every moment of the
fall; turning slowly over and over, the bridge becoming smaller above him as
the river grew to fill his view below. He remembered it in slow-motion detail
until he hit the water; then nothing; blank. Until now: hours after dawn.
He should have been dead or close to it. The
fall should have killed him. From that height it was like falling onto a road.
It knocked him out. He should have
drowned. There was no way he could have been carried that many miles
unconscious without breathing in water. The cold and damp alone should have
killed him.
But it hadn’t.
He tilted his head back. High grass
glistened just inside his field of vision. There were traffic noises far off
but he couldn’t be sure of the direction.
Jack struggled, fighting against the
suction of the mud, the vacuum he was creating beneath him as he forced himself
to sit up. He managed to lift a few inches, turning; pushing his hands into it
for purchase so that he could get a better view. Solid ground was twenty yards
away past the reeds. If he tried to crawl or walk in that direction he might go
under. He imagined slipping face first into the grey morass and shuddered.
The tall grass obscured most of the
view but he was definitely away from any buildings or people he could call to
for help. A little way downstream was an old jetty, made of logs rather than
planks. Black ropes covered in weed hung from it into the river. Jack turned
his body toward the water and squirmed, spreading his weight, tugging forward,
slipping and losing, but pushing on; winning.
He reached the edge of the river and
slipped in. The intense cold instantly banished the sleep from his eyes.
Surfacing, he swam, the current moving him faster downstream than his arms and
legs could. It almost carried him past the jetty. He only just managed to grab
hold and he was still weak. Pulling himself up onto the platform took what was
left of the wind out of him.
He knelt, dripping and waited grimly
for his lungs to fill. The water ran off him, washing most of the mud away in
dirty rivulets. After several minutes he got enough breath and strength back to
move. He sat back on his heels and looked round.
There was no sign of Bristol or any
kind of habitation in sight. The reeds on his side of the river obscured much
of the view, but he could make out farmer’s fields beyond and perhaps three
quarters of a mile away a raised up stretch of road, cars speeding along it,
just glints of reflected light and colour. On the other side of the river were
more fields; no particular landmarks to tell him where he was. Then upstream he
caught a glimpse of something; far off. It was the southernmost suspension bridge
that spanned the Severn: vast and white, reaching right across the gap. That
gave him a rough idea of his location. He was right. He’d been carried miles
and miles downstream.
It was a beautiful fragrant morning.
For a little while he simply looked, the rasping becoming panting then normal
breathing. Then the memory of what he had done to Lucy coursed into the front
of his mind so hard that he physically jolted. He saw her body lying on the
hearth, horrifically splayed. He felt the sharp crack against his palm as though
he had just slapped her. He saw the blood; the dent in her skull. He felt the
guilt. Then the things she had said came following: the secret words that had
driven him to do it. The same anger came back with them. The muscles around his
eyes and mouth twitched. Blood flushed into his limbs. The fingers of his right
hand screwed into a fist.
All the moral lessons from his father
as he was growing up and he still couldn’t help thinking that he had been right
to do it. However abhorrent he had always known killing was, now that time had
passed he could only be glad.
Did that make him a murderer?
He hadn’t meant for Lucy to die. The
blow was an impulse thing, sparked by hurt. If not for that untied shoe and her
falling against the fireplace, she would still be alive. But he had killed.
There were no two ways about that. Of course he was a murderer.
He looked back up into the sky, into
the sun.
He had survived the fall when he
should have died. He had endured unconscious when he should have drowned. He
was alive and free.
All of this pointed to one question.
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