A sea mist crept silently over the land in a damp blanket smelling of rotten kelp.
Steven felt himself shrinking under its blind vastness. The image of the galaxy came back to him. He was an atom on a microbe on a speck on a mote on a pinprick in the middle of nowhere. Moments before he’d been upright and strong and emanating heat. Now, just seconds later, he was a corpse-in-waiting adrift in space. Avery was right. It all meant nothing.
Steven’s eyes became superheated and—with no further warning—he started to cry. At first it was just his eyes but his body soon followed and he started to sob and bawl like an abandoned baby stretched out in the heather, his chest heaving and hitching, his stomach muscles tensing with effort, his white-cold hands curled into loose, upturned fists of hopelessness.
For a few minutes he lay there weeping, not understanding what this feeling was or where it had come from; his only coherent emotion was a vague, detached concern about whether he had gone mad.
His crying slowed and stopped and his hot eyes were cooled by the mizzle swirling soundlessly from the nothing-white sky. He blinked and found the effort almost beyond him. Tiredness seeped from his heart and through every part of him like lead, pressing him down onto the moor, and then there was nothing left for his body to do but lie there and await instructions.
Inside his complete physical stillness, Steven’s mind came back to him from a long way off, a bit at a time. At first he felt very sorry for himself; he wished his mother would come and find him and wrap him in a fluffy white towel and carry him home and feed him stew and chocolate pudding. A little after-sob escaped him at the knowledge that this wasn’t going to happen—not just now, but ever again. And another, colder stab in his heart told him that this memory-wish had probably never happened. He had no real recollection of fluffy towels, or of stew, or of his mother enveloping him in safe, warm arms when he was wet and cold. He had plenty of memories of her roughly stripping wet socks off his feet, of shouting about the filth in the laundry basket, of drying his hair too roughly with one of their mismatched, thinning towels that were hung up at night but were always still damp in the morning. That made him think of the stained bathroom carpet, which played host to big reddish fungal growths behind the toilet in winter, as if the outside was slowly seeping inside their house, filling it with cold and creeping things. Davey cried when he first saw the fungus, and wet the bed rather than go near it. But now, like all of them, he ignored it. Sometimes they even joked about the mushrooms and the mildew, but more often, when Steven came back from Lewis’s spotless house, the smell of the damp hit him as he opened the front door. He could not smell it on his own clothes but—from the fresh, flowery aqua blue washing powder scents of his classmates—he had an uncomfortable feeling that he carried that stench of poverty around on him like a yellow star.
He never felt clean. Not when he came off the moors covered in mud, not when he climbed out of the tepid baths he shared with Davey, not when he first arose from the bed they shared and pulled on yesterday’s school shirt.
What had happened to him? Steven felt his mind whirl with confusion. How had it happened? Where had he gone? Somewhere, somehow, the little boy who used to be him had disappeared and been replaced by the new him. The new Steven did not watch Match of the Day or queue in the Blue Dolphin for fifty pence worth of batter bits. He did not want Steven Gerrard in his Soccer Stars sticker book more than life itself. The new Steven was out here every afternoon until nightfall, sweating in dirt, eating moldy sandwiches, prodding feebly at the ground with a rusty spade, and seeking death.
For three years this had been his life. Three years! He felt like a man who’s just heard a sentence passed down. The thought of three wasted years stretching out behind him was as shocking as if they were still to come. What had happened to him? Where had he gone?
Hot on self-pity’s heels came an anger so intense that it struck Steven an almost physical blow. He threw up an arm as if he could ward it off. The anger was blinding. In a single violent motion Steven rolled onto his knees and tore at the heather and grass, ripping up great handfuls, gouging the soil with his fingernails, slapping the sodden turf. He beat and flailed and kicked and pounded as the heather flicked rain at him. A high whining sound in the back of his throat was punctuated by little mewling breaths that kept him alive for this one purpose—to assault the very planet.
When Steven next had a conscious thought he was kneeling with his forehead on the ground, prostrate before nature. There was scrub in his fists and in his mouth, as if he’d tried to chew through the Earth.
He sat up slowly and looked at the feeble inroad his hysteria had made into the moor. A few scattered clumps of uprooted grass; heather torn from its stalks, now dying on the ground, a couple of small, muddy exposed patches fast filling with water. It was nothing. Less than nothing. An Exmoor pony pawing for winter grass, a deer lying down to sleep, a sheep squatting to shit would have left more of a mark than Steven had in all his fury.
He stood up shakily into the white sky. His spade was where he had dropped it aeons ago; his lunch box and map nearby—alien artifacts that had no meaning for him in this end-of-the-world fog.
He turned to go but had no idea where he was. Ten feet in any direction was as far as he could see, and then there was nothing. Something far back in his ordinary boy’s mind stopped him from stumbling blindly into the swirling void. He had been caught on the moor before like this, enveloped by fog and wholly lost. This whiteness sneaked up on you, even on a sunny day out of a blue sky. Two years ago he’d sat beside an empty grave for three hours in total whiteout before summer reemerged and he could find his way home.
The memory pulled Steven back to something like normality and he had the sense to stay where he was.
He was cold, but he’d been colder. He was wet, but he’d been wetter. He wasn’t hungry—yet. He wasn’t injured and, as long as he didn’t walk stupidly into the fog, that should remain the case.
He glanced down at his spade and it seemed familiar to him once more. Not lovely, but at least familiar.
The rain was coming down again and Steven upended his lunch box and put it on his head. The rain that was gently cushioned by the heather turned into a tin-roof rattle on his skull.
Being still would only make him colder. With reluctance, he leaned down and picked up the spade. He found the place where the first sliver of ground had been broken and dug the spade in again. It was a halfhearted effort, but his next strike was better and, by the fourth, Steven was back in a rhythm.
By the time the hole was half dug, Steven knew he would carry on, even when the point was not merely to keep himself warm.
Digging had given his life purpose. It was a small, feeble purpose and was unlikely to end in anything more than a gradual tapering off into nothingness.
But purpose was something, wasn’t it?
A small, mean voice somewhere nagged that it meant nothing. It all meant nothing.
But there was another, stronger voice in Steven. It had no answers, only another question, but it was this question that kept him digging until well after an unseen sun set in the invisible sky.
If it all meant nothing, why did it matter so much?
Chapter 13
“STEVEN! BREAKFAST!”
“I’m coming!” Steven’s hands shook as he opened the letter from the serial killer.
Steven turned the page over with trembling hands and held it up to the light. Nothing. The paper was cheap and thin—no impressions could have been scored into it. He turned the toilet light on, but there was no mark on the reverse of the letter.
Steven frowned. What was the point of Avery writing back if he was not going to help him? Avery’s previously neat and even handwriting had been replaced by an uneven script, dashed off carelessly, using inappropriate capital letters.
“STEVEN!!”
“COMING!!”
From his reading he knew that serial killers liked to play games—first with their vict
ims and then with the police. They liked to show off. From what he could tell, that was how most of them were caught. If they were caught.
Maybe Avery just liked getting letters and was tempting him to keep writing.
But then surely he would make more of an effort to lure his correspondent into a reply this time?
Steven couldn’t work out whether thanking him for his “great letter” was sarcastic or not. He’d be the first to admit that his letter had not been top-drawer stuff, but if Avery had found and understood the clue, then maybe he thought that was pretty great. Maybe that thing about time and tide meant Steven was right to be asking these questions right now. But if Avery had found the clue, why had he not responded in the same way with a map? Or—
Steven jumped as the toilet door banged open. His mother was red in the face from running upstairs.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Mum! I’m on the toilet!”
Lettie looked down at him. “With your trousers up? I’ve been yelling at you for ten minutes!”
She noticed the letter in his left hand.
“What’s that?”
Steven reddened and folded it. “Nothing.” He looked at his mother and saw an expression of flinty patience come over her face. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“Just a letter.”
“Who from?”
Steven writhed under her stare.
“Give it here.”
She held out her hand.
Steven didn’t move but when Lettie reached down and took the letter from him, he didn’t have the guts to actively resist her.
Lettie unfolded the letter and read it. She was quiet for a lot longer than it could possibly have taken to read it, and Steven looked up at her apprehensively. Lettie was staring at the letter as if it contained hidden instructions on how she should react. She turned it over briefly and Steven thanked god that AA had not scored a map into the reverse.
After what seemed like aeons, Lettie suddenly handed it back to him.
“Come down right now.”
Steven was stunned. He followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a bowl of Cheerios softened in the milk.
Nan folded her arms and glared at him.
“Where was he, then?”
“In the loo.”
Nan snorted as if she knew what boys his age did in the loo and it had very little to do with what any decent person would be doing in there. Steven started to redden at the mere thought and Nan snorted again—her lowest expectations confirmed.
“Oh, leave him alone, Mum.”
Steven was so surprised that he bit down painfully on the bowl of his spoon. Davey looked up from his cereal, but was immediately intimidated back to it by Nan’s furious glare.
Breakfast passed in silence. Steven washed up his bowl and spoon and left for school with the killer’s letter in his pocket.
The hoodies caught him at the school gates. They came out of nowhere, twisting his arms up behind his back and pushing his head down so that he stumbled and nearly fell. Vaguely he heard Chantelle Cox say, “Leave him alone,” compounding the humiliation of the assault.
“Get his lunch money.”
“I don’t have lunch money. I bring sandwiches.”
“What, Snuffles?” Someone pulled his head up by the hair so they could hear him, another was patting him down like a police academy graduate.
“I bring sandwiches.”
The boy holding his hair shook him; Steven gritted his teeth. He felt his backpack being unzipped and was tugged off balance as they rummaged inside. He felt like an antelope brought down by wild dogs, feeling the pack starting to eat him alive. Books, papers, pens—all scattered at his feet as they tore at this thing still attached to him—still part of him. He felt sick.
Suddenly his lunch box was under his chin, the lid peeled back. He could smell the fish paste and his eyes pricked with humiliation.
“No cake?”
They all laughed. Steven said nothing.
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“He’s hungry.”
A grimy hand picked up a sandwich and rammed it at his mouth. He tried to twist away from them and keep his mouth shut, but a sharp pain in his leg made him cry out, and the sandwich filled his mouth like a fish-flavored sponge, expanding, choking.
Steven coughed.
“Fucking hell!!” The boy with the grimy hands wiped wet bread off his face while his mates laughed at him.
“It’s not fucking funny!” He ground the lunch box into Steven’s face—the apple hitting him in the eye, the other fish paste sandwich forcing its way up his nose and crushing his lip, with the fake-Tupperware edges a surprisingly painful follow-up.
And suddenly the box clattered to the ground and they were gone, melting into the stream of children in their black and red jumpers as the vague figure of a teacher moved towards Steven.
He winced as the blood rushed back into his arms.
“Are you all right?”
Blood leaked saltily into Steven’s mouth from his broken lip.
“Yes, miss.”
Mrs. O’Leary regarded Steven. She knew he was in one of her classes, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The boy looked like a fool. He was red in the face, with deep purple marks squared on his skin by the lunch box. Half a sandwich stuck to his forehead and his cheeks were smeared with butter. He had a black eye coming and smelled of fish. It was this that made the connection for her. This was the boy who smelled like mildew. Any sympathy she’d had for him was now replaced by slight distaste. Mildew and fish. She became brusque.
“Pick your things up, then, Simon. The bell’s gone.”
“Yes, miss.”
She didn’t know him.
It cut him to the core.
He was the boy who wrote authentic letters! My grandmother choked on your fillit! The Nintendo you sent was the best present ever! I won a trophy for being the most curteus soccer player!
Steven wondered fleetingly whether Mrs. O’Leary would remember him if he told her that he’d written to a serial killer for help in finding the corpse of his dead child-uncle. He swallowed the words miserably. She’d only remember him then as a liar—a macabre fantasist. Or worse, she’d believe him and call a halt to his correspondence. It was a no-win situation.
“Hurry now, the bell’s gone.”
“Yes, miss.”
She stood over him impatiently while he picked his books and papers off the dirty wet tarmac. He was pleased to see his sandwiches had all but disintegrated, saving him the embarrassment of picking them up. His apple, having blacked his eye, had rolled into the gutter, where he left it to rot.
It took him a couple of minutes to find the lid of his lunch box under a car. He stood up again, his knees muddied, to see Mrs. O’Leary holding the letter from Arnold Avery. He went cold.
“Thank you for Your Great letter.”
Steven said nothing. What could he say? He watched her face scan the scrap of wet paper, a little frown line appearing between her eyes.
Mrs. O’Leary’s mind turned slowly like the barrels on a rusty combination lock, and finally clicked into place. She looked at him and Steven felt his stomach drop.
“So you write great letters in your spare time too?”
For a split second he thought he’d misheard. But he hadn’t. He felt the heat rising from his collar and creeping up his face.
“Yes, miss.”
She smiled, relieved to be able to muster some interest in the boy; she needed these little reminders that she had not wasted her life going into teaching. She held out the letter and he took it tentatively.
“Run now, Simon!”
“Yes, miss.”
Steven ran.
Geography.
Steven traced a map of South Africa. He transferred it to his exercise book and started to fill in the mineral wealth. Gold. Diamonds. Platinum. Such exotica. He snorted quietly as he thoug
ht of his home country’s mineral wealth: tin, clay, and coal were the only things that had ever been worth digging for on this tiny peak of sea-mountain called Britain.
Tin, clay, coal—and bodies. Bodies buried in the dirt, in the soil, in the turf. Bodies that had fallen asleep and quietly died, bodies of butchered Picts and Celts and Saxons and Romans; Royalists and Roundheads put to the sword in the sweet English grass. And as the coal and the tin and the clay industries died, so the industry of bodies had taken hold. Now the bones of Saxon peasants were pored over on prime-time TV as they emerged in careful relief from the earth. A rude awakening from centuries of hidden rest.
Bodies were as much a mineral wealth of Britain as gold was in Africa. The declined empire, shrunk to tiny pink pinpricks, had become withdrawn and introspective—tired and surrendered in conquest, now discovering itself like an old man who sits alone in a crumbling mansion and starts to call numbers in a tattered address book, his thoughts turning from a short future to a long and neglected past.
Britain was built on those bodies of the conquered and the conquerors. Steven could feel them right now in the earth beneath the foundations beneath the school beneath the classroom floor, beneath his chair legs and the rubber soles of his trainers.
So many bodies, and he only wanted one. It didn’t seem a lot to ask.
As he carefully pressed the graphite into the clean page, Steven wondered how many of those ancient bones were in the ground because of serial killers. When Channel 4’s Time Team prized femurs and broken skulls from the holding planet, were they contaminating a two-thousand-year-old crime scene? Was the Saxon boy or the Tudor girl a victim? One of many? Would archaeologists a hundred years from now be able to link six, eight, ten victims and say for sure that they were murdered? And murdered by one hand?
Arnold Avery had been convicted of six murders. Plus Uncle Billy. Plus … who knew how many? How many lay undiscovered in shallow graves? How many through the whole of history? Did he crush their bones underfoot as he walked home? Did their eyeless skulls peer down at him when he explored the old mines at Brendon Hills? Steven shivered and prodded the map out of alignment. As he carefully covered Johannesburg with Johannesburg again …
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