"So what brings you down here now?" Lowe asked.
"I got a call from a friend. She was worried. She's not seen my father around for a few days and wondered if I knew where he was. I didn't. Nor did anyone else. The rest you know. I drove down to check up on him."
"This friend? Someone who knows him well? She'd know if something was amiss?"
I turned my full attention back to Lowe and tried to read his expression. What was it with this guy? Was he compiling a dossier on me or was this his idea of small talk? The craggy face was expressionless.
Over the sound of Dawson's drilling, I said, "She knows him well enough to be concerned when he's not been seen around for a few days. Karen Dyer. She runs the Fairview guest house over on the Esplanade. I'm sure she'll be only too happy to confirm what I've told you."
"Karen? I know Karen. She's a friend of yours?" He sounded surprised. Like it was something he should have known about.
"I've known Karen all my life. We grew up together."
"You're quite close then?"
"Yes." What else was I hearing here? Why this sudden interest in my relationship with Karen? My turn to be nosey. "You know Karen well?"
He flushed. "I ... er ... yes, I guess."
"Oh?" Time to get my own back.
"We've been seeing each other."
"Oh?" Interesting. So our nosey Sergeant fancied his chances.
I took a closer look at our boy in blue. Not a bad looking guy. Medium height and a bit on the thin side. But Karen could have done worse. Under the regulation helmet was a sharp hawkish face. Chiselled features and carbon-black eyes under dark bushy brows.
Whatever was going on between them, I hoped she'd made a better choice this time.
He said, "We get on well together."
"Really?" I was enjoying this.
Fortunately for Lowe, he was saved from any further embarrassment by the sound of the door lock dropping onto the stone floor of the porch. Dawson turned off his drill and stepped back into view, a look of triumph on his face. "All done," he said.
Lowe was ahead of me. He approached the door and pushed it open. The church tower, stark and unprepossessing, that ever watchful guardian over my childhood virtues, looked down on us from over the top of the vicarage roof as I closed in behind him. How I hated it.
On the threshold, we were greeted by a malodorous smell from inside the house which brought us both to a halt. It wasn't a smell I was familiar with but I had no doubt about its cause. Lowe probably recognised it too. I suppose in his line of work, he may have been around a dead body or two in his time. It was the pungent odour of rotting flesh with a hint of sickening sweetness.
It was all too obvious what was waiting for us inside. My stomach churned, and I gripped the door jamb to steady myself. I clasped a hand over my mouth and pinched my nose but nothing could block out that noisome stench.
A gust of wind blew in from the coast, carrying with it the faint far off sound of the sea, of waves breaking against the distant shore. We stood together for a few moments, not speaking.
Lowe was the first to move. He stepped over the threshold and I followed him through the gloomy hallway to the living room where the smell was strongest. We entered the room, and I tried to push past him but he held me back with an outstretched arm.
"Best not touch anything," he said.
As if I would.
My father was seated in his old battered armchair by the fireside. The ashes of a recent fire covered the hearth grate. He was dressed casually, faded brown corduroy trousers and a baggy brown cardigan. As ever, he wore his clerical collar, the symbol of his presumed authority to sit in judgement over the rest of us. Something I remembered all too well.
He looked, for all the world, as if he had settled down for a rest at the end of the day, his shock of white hair resting against the back of the chair, his lined face in repose.
The room was cold, and I shivered.
I wasn't sure what I'd expected to find. But not this. My father had been in poor health - a couple of heart attacks had a way of knocking the wind out of your sails - and I'd presumed he was laid up in bed. Maybe in need of help. But not this. I hoped it had been quick. That he hadn't suffered.
He stared up at me, dead eyes full of blame, and an overpowering sense of guilt and loss welled up inside me.
I turned away, heart racing, and made my way outside, took in a few deep breaths of cold fresh air and gazed out into the distance, not seeing anything.
He hadn't been the best of fathers. God knows we'd had little cause to like each other over the past few years. But maybe I hadn't been the best of sons. There was a time when perhaps I could have tried harder, found a way to work out our differences and get along.
But then he'd found out about Nathan. And after that, I'm not sure anything could be the same again. Maybe if I'd tried. Maybe if we'd both tried. And now I'd never know.
Over to my right, a net curtain twitched in the window of the only other house in the courtyard. It was, as previously pointed out by Sgt Lowe, the home of my father's current Curate, Giles Trivett, the concerned citizen who had called the police. Trivett lived there with his wife, Frances, but I couldn't tell which of them was at the window.
Given the proximity of people who took such an obvious interest in the comings and goings at their neighbour's house, how had my father been left undiscovered for so long? Surely, his non-appearance would have prompted any reasonable person to check in on him before now. Especially his own Curate, living right next door.
A hand on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts. It was Lowe. "Looks like a heart attack."
I nodded, unable to speak. Dawson made clucking sounds and looked embarrassed.
Lowe said, "I'll take care of this. Dawson can fit a new lock and I'll leave the keys with Trivett." He nodded in the direction of the Curate's house. "Just let me know where I can get in touch with you to make arrangements about the ... about your father's remains."
I pulled myself together. "I'll go down to the Fairview. Karen should have a spare room at this time of year. You have the number?"
"I have it. Go get yourself settled and we'll touch base later."
CHAPTER THREE
I dropped my bags by the reception desk in the lobby.
The place hadn't changed much.
The Fairview was one of those old-fashioned privately run seaside guest houses you didn't see much of any more. It could have used a lick of paint here and there but it was that air of faded gentility that gave the place its charm.
A flame-haired woman appeared from a doorway behind the desk and greeted me with an enthusiastic welcome and open arms.
"Mikey, it's so good to see you."
Karen Dyer was a vibrant attractive woman; sun-kissed and freckled with high cheekbones, and aqua-green eyes in an oval animated face framed by a cascade of untamed hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
I reached out and hugged her. At a time like this, it was good to have a friend like Karen around.
I couldn't remember a time when I hadn't known her. Right from the earliest days of our childhood, she had been one of my closest friends. There had been the three of us; Karen, Nathan and me. We'd played together, laughed together, fought together. We had been inseparable. Those happy carefree days before the world closed in on us and everything changed.
I'd been the first to leave, fleeing to London after that final devastating showdown with my father. I'd resumed my friendship with Karen when she'd married and moved to London some time later. But she'd had a rough ride over the past few years. Life with an alcoholic husband had worn her down until she had finally escaped from the ruins of her marriage and returned to Elders Edge to help her grandmother run the Fairview.
When her grandmother died, she'd inherited the business and kept it going. The life suited her and she looked a damn sight better for it. We had seen each other only occasionally during the past few years whenever she'd travelled down to London. But we'd alw
ays kept up a long-distance relationship.
She pulled away, holding me at arm's length. The warmth faded from her eyes. "It's bad news, isn't it? Your father?"
I didn't need to say anything. Karen knew me well enough to read my moods, and my expression would have confirmed what she must have already guessed.
"Heart attack," I said.
"Is he ...?"
"'Fraid so."
"Oh, Mikey, I'm so sorry." She squeezed my arm.
Outside, the wind soughed through the trees and rattled the doors and windows as it circled the house.
"Come on," she said. "We may as well make ourselves comfortable. Let's sit and talk."
She steered me over to a recessed alcove on the other side of the lobby.
A couple of sagging armchairs dressed with carefully ironed antimacassars flanked a panelled fireplace. We settled ourselves into them. A brass companion set stood in the hearth, reflecting the log fire that crackled and blazed in the grate. The warmth of the fire was a welcome relief from the winter chill outside.
"Tell me what I can do," she said.
"Right now I need a room for a few nights. I guess there'll be a lot to sort out so I need to stay around for a while."
"You've got it. I'm officially closed for the winter so we'll have the place to ourselves."
"Good. I'm not sure I'm up to facing people right now."
"How are you taking it?"
"Not sure. Mixed. You know how it was with us. It's not like we'd ever been close. And after ... you know ... what happened ..." I lapsed into silence.
A log cracked and settled in the grate, sending a shower of sparks flying into the air.
I said, "I can't understand why I feel so guilty. As if I'm to blame."
"I suppose while your father was still alive, there was always the possibility of a reconciliation, a chance to put things right between you. And now that chance has gone. It's bound to have an effect, make you feel you've failed somehow."
"I guess so."
"So what happens now?"
"Not too sure. Your Sergeant Lowe said he'd get in touch."
"My Sergeant Lowe?"
I gave her an old-fashioned look.
"What's he been saying?"
Grateful for a change of subject, I said, "He didn't have to say anything. He gave himself away by colouring up every time your name was mentioned. A bit like you're doing now."
Karen pulled a face.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. The worn springs squeaked under my weight. "Well, I'm waiting. Tell me all about it."
"There's nothing to tell. Not really."
"Not really?"
"It's early days yet."
Neither of us had had much luck with relationships so I understood her caution. "I hope it works out. You deserve a break. And he seems like a nice enough bloke."
"We'll see." She forestalled any more questions and said, "And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"I heard about you and Donna. Is it true?"
I grimaced. "She's filing for divorce. My fault."
"No chance of a reconciliation?"
I snorted. "You've got to be joking."
"What happened?"
"The usual. I strayed."
"Oh, Mikey." She glared at me, emphasising her disapproval. "I won't insult you by asking if it was another woman. We both know what a crock that is. So, are you still seeing him?"
I stiffened and sat upright. Karen could still shock me with her directness. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words stuck in my throat and I stammered.
"Don't look so surprised, Mikey. And don't bother to deny it. I've known you a long time and I know you better than you think."
My face burned. She'd always been able to read me like a book. And not always to my advantage.
"Well?" she said.
I sank back into the chair. "It was just one of those things. It wasn't going anywhere."
She clucked. A disparaging sound.
I said, "Shit happens. What can I tell you?"
"Sometimes we make it happen."
"I have a habit of doing that."
"So what will you do now?"
"God knows."
"You're thirty years old, Mikey, and this is your second failed marriage. Doesn't that tell you something?"
"It tells me I'm not very good at relationships. So maybe I should stop trying."
"Well you know what I think."
"I should do. You've told me often enough. But please let's not go there again."
Another well-worn commentary on my dysfunctional life was one thing, but I saw where she was going with this and I needed to head her off. It was the one subject I couldn't discuss. And I wished she could understand why. How painful it would be. I tried to steer her away, but she was having none of it.
"You never ask about him," she said.
"No." I hoped the brusqueness of my response would be enough to deter her from pursuing that particular subject. But no such luck.
"He asks about you," she said.
Her words surprised me. "You stay in touch?"
"Of course we do. You were the one who deserted him."
I turned away and stared down at the fire, watching the dancing flames. On the mantelpiece, a Westminster clock chimed the hour.
I wished she would try to understand why I was so reluctant to go over this again, why it all seemed so pointless. "I don't know what else I could have done."
"Sometimes, Mikey, we have to find the courage to go our own way, no matter what the consequences."
I had nothing to say.
She persisted. "I would have thought, given your background, you'd have more insight into your own nature."
I looked up again. "Maybe I don't want to know."
I was drained. And I didn't want to get into a debate about my many failings.
"Sorry, Karen," I said, "but I'm whacked. Would you mind if we called it a day?"
She rose from her chair, frowning. "Of course not. Come on. I'll fetch you a set of keys while you sign the register and then we'll go find you a room."
CHAPTER FOUR
The face that stared back at me from the bathroom mirror the following morning was pale and drawn; blue eyes rimmed with red and dark-blond hair matted and damp with sweat. I'd seen better looking scarecrows. Groaning inwardly, I stumbled into the shower.
It had been a restless night. Sleep, late coming, had been disturbed by strange unsettling dreams. Elders Edge had worked its baleful magic on my mind, stirring up old memories and painful reminders of a past I would rather forget.
I showered, shaved and dressed, and slipped into a pair of faded Levi's, a cool-blue flannel sweatshirt and a matching blue Arran sweater.
Downstairs, feeling slightly more human, I helped myself to a bowl of Weetabix from Karen's kitchen, knocked back a mug of strong black Gold Blend, and, while the rest of the world was still sleeping, left the Fairview and took the Elan for a drive along the seafront.
Later, I would pick up the vicarage keys from Trivett and then go to the police station to check in with Sgt Lowe. But right then I wasn't ready to deal with the world. I needed some time alone to gather my thoughts and clear my mind.
I slipped the Elan into fourth and sped on out of town along the coast road as dawn's early light streaked the horizon. At the turning to the cliff road, I changed down into first, and took the steep climb to the top.
Night was giving way to day as I walked across the road to the cliff edge.
This was my thinking place. It's where I always came as a young man when I was troubled or needed to work through my problems.
Over to my right, far across the water, the sun was rising to meet the day, staining the sea with a spreading orange glow as it climbed the sky. The morning was clear; the rain that had been forecast was holding off. And although the wind was as strong as ever, it was fresh against my face, clean and invigorating.
Elders Edge spread
out below me. All over town, lights went out one by one as darkness retreated and old familiar places emerged into the grey light of day.
From up here, the town had always seemed so small and, by comparison, my problems had always seemed smaller too, so far away.
In its heyday, Elders Edge had been a flourishing Victorian resort, competing favourably with popular spa towns, bringing in holiday-makers from London and other big cities, attracted by the fresh sea air and sandy beaches. It had even boasted a thriving seaport. But all that was in the past. And whilst the town still survived as a holiday destination, its larger grander hotels had closed, the seaport had gone, and visitors came in smaller numbers.
Now that holiday-makers preferred to travel abroad to sunnier climes, seaside resorts like Elders Edge had fallen into decline, and were run-down dilapidated remnants of their former impressive selves.
And how I had always longed to get away from the narrow claustrophobic confines of this worn-out town, the source of all my childhood ills, eager to leave it behind forever. But when that time finally came, it had been a painful and traumatic experience.
In small towns like this, hotbeds of gossip, it was never long before private affairs become the subject of public speculation and so rumours of my relationship with Nathan had reached my father's ears.
I could still hear his words ringing in my head. You filthy sodomite. You're no son of mine. I hope you rot in hell. And my mother standing behind him. Face pale. Tears running down her cheeks.
I hadn't denied my feelings. I'd tried to stand up to him. But all those years of conditioning weighed heavy and under that onslaught of invective, the thin tenuous thread of belief I'd clung to had snapped and I'd caved in, accepted his judgement, and promised to change my ways, to strive to be a good and decent son.
It hadn't been easy being raised in a home where hell and damnation were everyday realities where the punishment for breaking the laws of my father's God were harsh and eternal. The growing awareness of my sexuality went hand in hand with feelings of guilt. Was it some sort of punishment? Was I evil? Maybe, in time, I would have been able to come to terms with who and what I was, shake off the yoke of that oppressive doctrine that had been forced on me for as long as I could remember. But it wasn't to be.
The Slow Road to Hell Page 2
