Authors: Peter Robinson
Back at the car, they loaded their purchases in the boot. “That was fun,” Tracy said. “What do you want to do next?”
“I’m hungry,” said Jaff. “Want to go for a pub lunch or something?”
“Sure,” said Tracy. “We’ll stop somewhere on the way back.” She was standing by the car looking down over the terraced gardens and the river, which rushed along over rocks in little waterfalls below the steep castle walls to her right. She remembered walking there with her father when she was younger, holding his hand tight as they passed near the edge of the sheer drop, afraid of falling, asking him how the little flowers could grow out of the crumbling stone. He told her they were called rosebay willow herb and they could also grow after forest fires. She thought what a lovely name that was for something so strong and durable. Sometimes the wind was so wild that she thought it would blow them both away like autumn leaves, but he had said he wouldn’t ever let her go, and he never had. Not until now. When she turned to Jaff, she had tears in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just the wind. And the sun. I should have bought some sunglasses back at Superdrug. Look, there’s still an hour left on the meter. Would you like to go and have a look at where Erin lives? You know, the street on the news last night. We can see if there’s still anything going on there.”
“Is it near here?”
“Not far.”
“Okay. Sure,” said Jaff. “But let’s be careful.”
They left the shopping center by the York Road exit and crossed the cobbled market square, past the Queen’s Arms and left along Market Street. Tracy was wearing her new tight-fit Levi’s and a crisp white T-shirt that felt soft and sexy against her skin. She felt good. Jaff took hold of her hand. They passed the police station where her dad worked but, of course, she couldn’t say anything to Jaff. She saw a sudden image of the bed and the mess they had made back at the cottage. Whiskey stains and worse on her father’s sheets.
They hadn’t gone far when Jaff started to complain about the distance and how hungry he was, but Tracy just laughed at him again. “You’re a real city boy,” she said. “I’ll bet you don’t walk anywhere.”
“That’s what cars are for,” he said. “Is it much further?”
“Just past that next zebra crossing.”
Even before they got to Laburnum Way, careful to stay on the other side of Market Street, Tracy could tell that the police hadn’t finished there yet. The cul-de-sac wasn’t blocked off—the people who lived there could come and go as they pleased—but police cars and vans parked at awkward angles would make it difficult for anyone driving in and out, and would certainly discourage sightseers.
Erin’s house had police tape on the gate and over the door—Tracy could just see the blue-and-white pattern—and two uniformed officers stood on guard. As Tracy and Jaff gazed surreptitiously, just two young lovers passing by, some men came out of the front door wearing white coveralls and elastic covers for their hair and shoes. The SOCOs. Tracy realized she had met some of them, and she hoped that no one recognized her. But how could they, the way she looked now? Besides, she reminded herself, she wasn’t wanted for anything, and there was no way they’d know who Jaff was, even if they were looking for him. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to them. It was one thing to watch it on TV, Tracy thought, but quite another to see it like this, at close quarters, as it was happening.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jaff, picking up the pace a bit when he saw the SOCOs. “Is that where she lives? This looks serious.”
“They
did
find a gun,” Tracy reminded him. “They take that very
seriously. And you don’t often get that sort of thing in a nice middle-class street like Laburnum Way.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” said Jaff. “It is a bit bay-window. But even so…Does it really take that many of them?”
Tracy could have told them that it did, and why, what each one of them did and how long they might be there, but she held her tongue. “How would I know? We can go back another way, if you like,” she said, leading him down a street to the left that linked up with York Road near the college. “It’s a bit longer, but we don’t have to walk past the police again. Anyway,” she said. “We don’t even know that anyone’s looking for you yet, do we?”
“They will be,” Jaff said. “If not now, then soon. Even if Erin keeps quiet, someone’s bound to talk. They’ll track down her other friends, people from the clubs, the restaurant where she works. We have to be careful.” He looked around and gave a little shudder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the car and find somewhere to eat outside town. I’ll feel safer away from here.”
BANKS WALKED
along Fisherman’s Wharf in the morning sunshine eating fresh crab cakes in a piquant red sauce from a paper carton, the Golden Gate Bridge at his back. He watched the tour boat sailing over to Alcatraz and wondered if he should go. Maybe not, he decided, after all. Historic or not, it would be too much like a busman’s holiday. Touring a prison and being shut in a cell, even if Al Capone had once been there, held no real appeal for him. Not even for a minute. And he was supposed to be getting away from all that. Or so he had thought. He knew he couldn’t run away from his problems; that he would take them with him wherever he went. But a change of scene and time to think had, at least, seemed essential. A trip would give him new sensations, new experiences and, at best, it would inspire him. At worst, it would be just another collection of holiday snaps he would download to his computer and probably never look at again.
The horror of the bomb blast he had witnessed in London and the sense of guilt that he had been responsible for an innocent man’s death still kept him awake at night. He could smell the smoke, see the blood
and hear the screams every time he laid his head down. And his car crashed in slow motion time after time. He stared at the body sprawled bleeding on the bonnet of his Porsche while government agents told him it was probably the best thing that could have happened for all concerned. He remembered the rain, blood and tears that streaked down his face on his long walk home in the dark. Could he have handled things differently? Should he have? Probably. But he hadn’t. What was done was done, and he couldn’t run away from it simply by taking a flight to America.
Then there was Sophia’s betrayal. The image of her sitting across the table from another man in the wine bar, and later on, at her front door, of the man’s hand resting proprietarily on the small of her back as she put her key in the lock, glanced quickly up and down the street, and invited him into her house, still lingered. Her subsequent silence had hurt even more. He had left phone messages, written letters, but he had heard nothing. It was like dropping a stone into a deep dark chasm and waiting for a splash or echo that never came. No cry in the dark. Nothing. She had said she needed time, space, and she was certainly sticking to that.
After nearly two months of silence, Banks received a banal, chatty e-mail from Sophia, which ended, “I’ve moved on. You should do the same. Have a good life.” It was sent from her BlackBerry, for God’s sake, or so it informed him at the bottom. Definitely not with a bang; much more of a whimper. At least that quickly put paid to any lingering hopes of romantic reconciliation he might have been harboring. After that, he felt mainly contempt for Sophia. He didn’t like feeling that way about someone he had once loved, so he was working on indifference. It was the closest he could come to forgiveness.
Banks leaned against the wooden railing of a pier and stared across the bay at Mount Tamalpais, the sleeping maiden. He could make out her shape easily enough—the long, flowing hair, the soft curve of her breasts, the flat belly and thighs. She had drowned while swimming to meet her lover, or she had lain down there in dejection after being spurned, and had wept her tears into the bay, depending on which version you believed. Banks glanced down into the ruffled blue water, then back toward the majestic bridge, more orange than gold to his
eye. He felt a sense of inner peace that he hadn’t had before he came away, and he thought of that night in the desert.
It was the third or fourth day of his trip, and he was in Arizona. He had visited the Grand Canyon and Sedona, and he now planned on driving across the desert from Phoenix to Los Angeles, then up the coast to San Francisco. As he drove, he played desert music on the car stereo through his iPod adapter, or what he thought of as desert music: Captain Beefheart, Lucinda Williams’s
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road
and Dylan’s soundtrack from
Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid
. He also played a lot of Handel oratorios very loud. Somehow they seemed to chime with the sense of the place for him.
He had driven a meandering course on and off Interstate 10, stopping occasionally to visit various attractions. Here he had experienced the desert landscape the way he had always imagined it. Mile after mile of nothing but sagebrush, tumbleweed, clumps of prickly pear and and tall, gangly saguaro cacti; unrelenting dry heat. In the evening the long range of jagged peaks that never seemed to get any nearer caught the fading light, all earthy shades of terra cotta, red and brown.
That night he had found a motel off the beaten track. It wasn’t quite the Bates Motel, but it had a similar creepy, run-down atmosphere about it, fortunately without the big eerie house on the hill behind. The desk clerk was sixty if he was a day, a bald Mexican with a paunch, a Pancho Villa mustache and a case of five o’clock shadow so advanced it was probably six or seven o’clock on his face, though it still stopped short of a beard. When the clerk smiled, Banks noticed that he was missing his two upper front teeth. At least he didn’t resemble Norman Bates in the slightest, and there wasn’t a stuffed animal in sight. The room Banks took was clean and quiet, and the small friendly diner next door served a good steak, though he would probably have had to travel a long way for a decent bottle of wine to accompany it. Instead, he settled for a jug of cheap California burgundy.
Around two in the morning, unable to sleep, Banks got up and walked outside. The desert nights were cool, but in August that meant the temperature went down from about anywhere between 85 and 100 to 75 or so, still T-shirt weather for a British tourist. Even so,
Banks found he needed his light wind cheater that night as he struck out from the motel across the road into open desert. The stars shone bright and clear, more than he had ever seen before, so close he felt he could reach out and grab a handful, along with a yellow sickle moon. Not for the first time Banks wished he could recognize more constellations than Orion and the Big Dipper. He could see the Milky Way and trails of distant nebulae between the stars. Was that the Crab Nebula overhead? In front of him he could just make out the saw-toothed silhouette of a mountain range in the far distance.
He hadn’t really known what to expect from his journey, but that night he realized there
was
something he wanted, something ineffable, inchoate, and suddenly it didn’t seem so unbelievable that he might get it from a place such as this. He felt an odd tingle of anticipation, as if he was on the verge of what he had been waiting for, his revelation, his epiphany.
Someone had once told him that there were places you could go that would change you, which was probably why so many kids in the sixties set off for India or Kathmandu. It might be a country, a culture, religion, or perhaps a certain kind of landscape—the ocean, mountains, a desert. It might be a place associated with a powerful childhood experience, or with a dream. Sometimes, perhaps, you just didn’t know. But it changed you.
Banks had been having a dream from time to time since his childhood, and it stayed with him. He was swimming underwater through waving fronds that tried to grab him and pull him down. The dark rocks below terrified him with their shifting shapes, and with the thought of what lurked in the depths between them, through underwater tunnels that led to other tunnels, narrower, deeper and darker. He was running out of air, his lungs straining, his strength failing, when he finally broke the water’s surface and found himself on the edge of paradise. The damn thing was that he couldn’t remember anything about it. It was a special place, he knew that much, one that had the power to change him and heal him, but all he remembered was the journey, the darkness, the fear and agony of his bursting lungs, and that blissful moment when water ceased to be water and became air, when darkness became light and the white sand led…somewhere green and pure.
For so long he seemed to have been struggling in the dark, and in that desert night, when the motel’s blinking red neon was nothing but a dot on the horizon, he found an epiphany of a kind. But it was nothing momentous. No road to Damascus, no lightning strike of revelation or enlightenment, as he had hoped for. First, he was aware only of the silence when he stopped, a silence unlike any he had ever known—nothing rustling, no animal sounds, no birdsong, no distant cars or lorries. Nothing. Just the smell of dry earth and the tall, still silhouettes of the saguaro cacti, arms reaching out and up, all around him.
The epiphany, when it came, was nothing more than a simple fleeting ripple of happiness that went through him as a light cool breeze might brush one’s skin on a hot day. He felt as if something had clicked into place, like the final number of a combination lock, the tumblers finding their positions. That was all. He wasn’t even sure whether it was something opening or closing, but he knew that he would be okay, that he
was
okay, that he could deal with things. His problems didn’t matter in the midst of the desert night—the myriad stars above and grains of sand under his feet. He would still hurt. He would still carry the burden of his past mistakes. He would still feel the deep ache of loss and betrayal and guilt and horror. Paradise would always remain just beyond his reach. But he would go on somehow. Perhaps not in the same way he had been, doing the job he did, but somehow. Future uncertain. Prospects unclear. End always near. He remembered thinking that he was a long, long way from home, but, oddly enough, he didn’t feel so far away at that moment.