We were standing outside the B&B. It seemed diminished somehow, sunken. It looked as if the buildings on either side of it were helping to keep it up. I thought of the figure I'd seen in the window, or thought I'd seen. Now it appeared that there had been someone in the building. A vagrant, perhaps. A squatter. He or she had found something unpleasant in there.
'Who was in there, anyway?' I asked. 'Who found this so-called skeleton?'
'We got a phone call,' he said. 'A concerned neighbour. Saw someone mooching about the property.'
'And the body?'
'A child,' DI Keble said. 'A little boy or a little girl. We don't know yet. But it doesn't really matter because... hell, a
child
, Paul. You don't mind me calling you Paul, do you, Mr Roan?'
'So what happens now?'
'When were you last here?' he asked.
'Yesterday,' I said.
'Yesterday? So, it was you doing the mooching about?'
'Possibly,' I said. 'Probably.'
'This body, this skeleton, has been in situ for... according to my forensic labrats...' He made a great play of pulling out his notebook and moistening his thumb and flipping pages. '... At least two weeks. Maybe more. And you didn't see anything?'
'It's the first time I've been back since my accident. My girlfriend -- '
'Your girlfriend? Who would that be?'
'That would be Tamara Dziuba. Can I finish?'
'Tamara Dziuba. There's exotic. How do you spell it? What is she? Model? Actress?'
'She's done some modelling. When she was younger. She worked as a flight attendant.'
'Too much make-up, don't you think?' he asked. 'I mean, I'm not saying Tamara wore too much, but it tends to be the case, wouldn't you say?'
'I don't have an opinion on the matter.'
'How did you meet her? I met my wife on a rollercoaster ride. No kidding. I almost threw up in her lap. She took pity. She sells expensive jewellery in a shop where you have to be buzzed in. There's nothing in the window displays. How confident is that? You and I would have to re-mortgage our houses three times over just to be able to buy a share in a watch strap. Très exclusif.'
'I met her at work. Is this part of your questioning?'
'It is, yes, if I say so. So you were an air steward?'
'I was a pilot.'
'No way,' he gripped my arm to anchor himself as he took a step away from me, another theatrical play at surprise. 'A pilot. How exciting.'
'Not really,' I said. 'It can be a grind. Boring even. It's all routine.'
'Well I think it is exciting. Especially if things go wrong. Although I understand some pilots can go through their career without ever suffering an engine failure. Is that common?'
'Yes,' I said. And wished I'd told him I was a school janitor. 'I'm not a pilot any more.'
'Is this related to your accident?'
'No. Although, yes. I can't fly any more. My eyes aren't good now. I left the job.'
He was looking at me as if expecting me to explain. When I didn't he remained quiet, but I wasn't going to fall for that psychology again. It's only an awkward silence when at least one person is upset by it.
'Where's your girlfriend now?'
'I don't know.'
'Okay,' he said, and he seemed suddenly tired. The creases in his clothes, a faint food stain on his tie, suggested he'd been on the go for a long time. 'Shall we go in?'
For a moment I thought of trying a joke, asking if he had made a booking, but I didn't think it would go down too well. He followed me through the door.
'I need hardly say this, but don't touch anything.'
'Where are we going?' I asked, irritated that he should be ordering me around on my own property, regardless of the situation. The place seemed utterly different now that there were remote lighting systems dotted around. Their intense LEDs scoured every corner of every shadow. It was like walking through a film set.
'Top floor bedroom,' he said. I felt a jolt at this. My legs met the stairs and I began to ascend. I was faltering, exhausted by the time I met the first landing.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't be putting you through this.' But he didn't offer me the chance of a rest, or the opportunity not to make the journey. I didn't tell him that I'd made the same journey the previous night, or what I'd seen, or thought I'd seen. What I'd heard.
At the top of the building I held on the banister and waited for him to move past me into the bedroom. But he paused behind me, wanting me to enter ahead of him. Plastic sheeting lay on the ground. More LEDs spotlit the room. Men and women in white gowns and masks and covered shoes padded softly around, carrying small briefcases or cameras on tripods. The chatter of radio static volleyed up and down the stairs as if we were in an enclosure at some science-fiction zoo where something made from electricity stalked.
The wardrobe was open, its door having finally fallen off, or been torn free by the shocked hand of whomever had found it. Inside, lying on an uncovered pillow, was a small skeleton, positioned (it seemed, sacrilegiously) in the shape of a foetus, although this body was much older than that; five or six years old, I'd have guessed.
'Do you have anything to say?' Keble asked.
'No,' I said. And then: 'How long did you say this has been here?'
'We're not exactly sure, but we reckon maybe three weeks.' He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember something, trying to figure something out. I wondered if he'd watched
Columbo
as a kid. 'Tell me,' he said, 'when did you wake up from your coma, just out of interest?'
He knew very well. I got a sense of him knowing more about me than I did. 'About three weeks ago,' I said. 'Of course, the first thing I did - weak as a foal, barely able to walk more than two steps - was kill a child, bone it and stuff the remains in a top-floor wardrobe.'
'I'm not accusing you of anything,' Keble said. 'But you'll agree it would be seriously remiss of me not to at least question you, the hotel owner, about this?'
It was a question that didn't require a response. Instead I watched the forensics team work around us, effusively irritated by our presence.
'We'll talk again,' Keble said. 'In the mean time, I need hardly say this, but I'd strongly advise you not to leave town any time soon.'
'I'm going nowhere,' I lied.
Chapter Twelve
The Craw
Getting out of Suffolk is difficult, if you don't have a car. I caught an early morning bus to Darsham. I was looking at a five-hour journey, with three changes, before I reached Hull. The train to Ipswich was old and cold and noisy. One of the windows was broken, its hinge bent, incapable of being closed. Frigid air rushed in and swirled around the carriage; I couldn't be bothered to move to another. Shooting pains in my legs and hips and back kept me nailed to the seat. Delayed muscle aches from the supposedly tender act I'd shared with Ruth.
I was alone for that first leg, apart from a huffing attendant who clipped my ticket while his huge gut tried to pour out over the top of his poor, failing waistband. I ate the breakfast I'd packed for myself. A handful of raisins, a pot of yogurt, a dozen pills.
I had crept from my room like a thief in the night. Outside, in the unholy bleach-blue of dawn, I had listened to the kiss of the sea on the beach and felt drawn to it. I wanted to sit in the sand, feel the cold mask one type of pain in my legs with another, watch something burn and produce alien colours. But there were no boxes. The village was pure, or its folk had found someone even more damaged and blasted than me to turn to for redemption.
I smelled something burning. Acrid, chemical. A bonfire flickered in a back garden abutting the embankment. A man in a thick grey jumper throwing black parcels on to the flames. Things wrapped in bin bags. Now gone, swallowed up by the fences and hedges and trees. Back gardens shot by like slightly different scenes from a flicker book. Well maintained lawns dotted with the gaudy colours of children's toys. A trampoline. An inflatable paddling pool. A barbecue, a pergola, a pagoda. Now and then they would be punctuated by something unusual. A yard without grass. An old car in the middle of a lawn.
The backs of these houses stared blindly on to the tracks, most of their curtains drawn. In one or two windows, though, bodies shifted slowly under bleak yellow light, like lizards in a vivarium. I saw fragments of lives before the position of the train altered, cutting me off from them. A man with his arms raised, stretching or surrendering. A woman folding clothes, her face a sunken pit of misery. Children cowering from something real or imagined.
I turned away and stared at the patterns in the worn seats. How many people had travelled on this dinosaur? It felt and sounded like the last journey anybody would take. The brakes were applied. When the train stopped I would open the doors on a locomotive's graveyard and find the driver taking an axe to our ride. But it was just Ipswich, and I had six minutes to get to another platform in order to catch the next train to London.
In little over an hour I was at Liverpool Street and I felt as though I had come thousands of miles. The speed at which everyone operated was frightening. It frightened me too to think that I had once moved like this; faster, even. Southwick was like a village trapped in aspic. I found myself wanting to turn on my heel and get back on the train and simply bury myself back there in the slow and the sure and the uncomplicated. But that was only the surface of things, I reminded myself. That was not me. I was a hive of worry and uncertainty. Everywhere I went that would remain, no matter how sedate my surroundings. I was taking action. I had to keep at it. I had to find out.
I took a Circle Line tube train to King's Cross, keeping my eyes closed as often as I could, unwilling to meet the gaze of my fellow travellers for fear of what I might see there. By the time I'd found the correct platform at St Pancras I was starting to flag. I bought a coffee and washed down some more pills. I stared at my legs and almost saw the pain vanish from them, the shake of discomfort slowly extinguished by the mask of analgesics. I used to hate painkillers. Pain was a necessity, I thought. It was the body's alarm system. Now I was disabling it, or some of it. When you're in pain all the time, it didn't seem to matter any more. It was like a fire alarm going off in a house that has been reduced to ash.
I tried to relax despite the constant blur of people thrashing around me. They moved so fast that I thought someone must get hurt. A collision, a torn muscle. I was grateful when it was time to board the train. I found my seat and collapsed into it. Weeks of nervous exhaustion that had piled up in my muscles came pouring free. I was asleep before the doors were sealed shut.
I slept all the way and when I woke up, it was lunchtime and the light was different, like something refracted through a seashell polished almost to translucency. Everything was different, despite the sea being the same flat expanse of mud grey. The wind bit harder and tasted of salt and oil. The clouds seemed heavier. The people were tougher, more solid than those I had left behind back home and in London. They, like trees growing up in the teeth of ocean gales, appeared more anchored.
Now I had eight hours to kill before the ferry left. I spent them eating and reading and writing a letter to Ruth that I would not post. I had twelve pages of it done by the time I took my seat for dinner in a pizza restaurant set back from the coast. Flags in a car showroom shook as if they were trying to free themselves from their masts. The wind was so strong it seemed to dimple the glass in the window frames. I drank half a bottle of Chardonnay and raged and pleaded and begged. The ink seemed to turn darker as I let it all come.
You should have let me die
, I told her.
You should have let me drain away into the soil.
Everything that had once been me was gone. I was starting again and I didn't want to. I tore into her about the way she had treated me during what should have been a watershed moment in our relationship.
I hated you a little bit, when I ought to have been falling in love.
I ought to have been writing to Tamara, but doing that might jinx what I hoped would be happening within 24 hours, that I would be able to speak my mind directly to her.
I finished off the wine, paid and limped out into a gale. I caught a taxi to the ferry where I suffered a harrowing moment when I thought I'd left my passport back in Southwick.
But it was there, at the bottom of my rucksack, showing the face of a man I no longer was. That caused its own problem, and I argued and pleaded for ten minutes until I was able to persuade the guard on control that it was me. I was waved through, and I hobbled on board the great ferry. It took a while to find my way to the cabin decks, and then to pinpoint my room. It was tiny, no window. One of the pursers asked if everything was all right, and he actually winced when I turned to face him. We chatted for a while about the room and about prison cells and although I was only joking, he took it all seriously.
'Give me a moment,' he said, and he went away.
He came back having scored me an upgrade, explaining that it would be a quiet crossing; the ship was far from full. He led me to a family-sized room with a porthole view. It was surprisingly spacious, and comfortable, like being in a budget hotel that made an effort. I gave him a tip, although he tried to refuse it and explained that his mother had been in a motorbike accident when she was much younger, and that she was still struggling with the after-effects now, many years on. I don't know if he meant to make me feel better, but the pleasure of the upgrade was dented a little.