by Tim Weaver
Carcondrock itself was a quaint stretch of road with shops on both sides, and houses in the hills
I found a car park between the beach and the village, and then headed to the biggest shop – a grocery store – armed with a picture of Alex. No one knew him. At the end of the high street, where the road followed the rising cliff face, there was an old wooden shack. Beyond that, a pub and a pretty church, its walls teeming with vines. Everything had an old-world feel to it: walls greying and aged; windows uneven beneath slate roofs. It was obvious why Kathy and Alex had loved it. Miles of lonely beach. The roar of the sea. The houses like flecks of chalk among the scrub of the hillside.
I got out the map Kathy had drawn for me of the hidden cove, and walked a little way on the road as it gently rose upwards along the cliff. Halfway up, leaning over the edge, I found it. Two hundred feet below me was a perfect semi-circle of sandy beach, surrounded on three sides by high walls of rock and on the fourth by the ocean. Waves foamed at the shore.
The only way I was going to get to it was by boat.
*
‘Am I too late?’
He turned and looked at me. ‘Eh?’
‘I need to hire a boat for an hour.’
‘It’s dark,’ he said.
‘Almost dark.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s dark.’
I looked him up and down. Red and green checked shirt; mauve suspenders holding a pair of giant blue trousers up; yellow mud-caked boots; unruly white beard. He looked like the bastard love child of Captain Birdseye and Ronald McDonald.
‘How much?’ I asked him.
‘How much what?’
‘How much for an hour?’
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you takin’ the piss out of me, sonny?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll double whatever the going rate is. I just need one of those boats for an hour. And a torch if you’ve got one. I’ll have everything back here by seven.’
He pursed his lips, thinking about it, then turned around and opened up the shack.
It took about twenty minutes to row around to the cove. I moored on the sand and dragged the boat up,
The box was buried about a foot under the surface. Its bottom sitting in water, its sides speckled with rust. Kathy had wrapped its contents in thick opaque plastic. I picked at it with my fingers but couldn’t break the seal, so removed my pocket knife and sliced it open. The contents were dry. I reached in and pulled out a stack of photographs and, around them, a letter. The birthday card was inside. A rubber band kept everything together.
I placed the torch in my lap and flicked through the photographs using the cone of light. Some of the photos were of the two of them, some just of Kathy, others only Alex. In one of the photographs, I noticed Kathy had her hair short. I guessed it had been taken by someone other than Alex, some time after he’d disappeared. I flipped it over and on the back she’d written: After you left, I cut my hair… On closer inspection, I could see all the photographs had comments on the back.
I’ve no idea why you left, Kathy had written. Nothing you ever said to me led me to believe that one day you’d drop everything and walk away. So, if you came back now, I’d cherish you as I always did. I’d love you like I always did. But, somewhere, there would be a doubt that wasn’t there before, a nagging feeling that, if I got too close to you, if I showed you too much affection, you’d get up one morning and walk away.
I don’t want to feel like a mistake again.
I looked at my watch. It was almost six-thirty. In the distance, thunder rumbled across the sky. I folded the letter up, placed everything inside the box and took it with me as I rowed back around to the village.
I drove out of Carcondrock and found a place to stay about three miles further down a snaking coastal road. It was a beautiful greystone building overlooking the ocean and the scattered remnants of old tin mines. After a shower, I headed out for some dinner and eventually found a pub that served hot food and cold beer. I took the box with me and sat at a table in the corner, away from everyone else. There was a choice of three meals: steak and kidney pie, steak and ale pie or steak pie. Luckily, I wasn’t vegetarian. While I waited for the food, I opened the box, removed the contents and spread them out.
I picked up the birthday card first. The last contact Kathy ever had with Alex. She’d kept it in pristine condition. It was still in its original envelope, opened along the top with a knife or a letter opener to avoid damaging it. I took it out.
The card itself looked home-made, without being amateurish: a detailed drawing of a bear was in the centre, a bunch of roses in its hands. Above that was a raised rectangle with happy birthday! embossed on it, and a foil sticker of a balloon. I flipped it over. In the centre, in gold pen, it said: Made by Angela Routledge. I opened it up. Inside were just seven words: Happy Birthday, Kath. I love you… Alex.
Sold @ St John the Baptist, 215 Grover Place, London. I wrote down the address and turned to the photographs.
There was a definite timeline. It began with pictures of Kathy and Alex when they’d first started going out, and ended with two individual portraits of each of them, both older and more mature, at a different stage of their lives. I sat the two portraits side by side. The one of Kathy was a regular 6x4, but Alex’s was a Polaroid. When I turned them over, I noticed something else: they had different handwriting on them.
‘Mind if I sit here?’
I looked up.
One of the locals was staring down at me, a hand pressed against the back of the chair at the table next to me. The subdued light darkened his face. Shadows filled his eye sockets, thick black lines forming across his forehead. He was well built, probably in his late forties.
I looked around the pub. There were tables and chairs free everywhere. He followed my eyes, out into the room, but didn’t make a move to leave. When he turned back to me, he stole a glance at a couple of the photographs. I collected them up, along with the letter and the card, and placed them back into the box.
‘Sure,’ I said, gesturing to the table. ‘Take a seat.’
He nodded his thanks and sat down, placing his beer down in front of him. A couple of minutes later, the landlady brought my meal over. As I started picking at
‘You here on business?’ he asked.
‘Kind of.’
‘Sounds mysterious.’
I shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘So, where does she live?’
I looked at him, confused.
‘Your bit on the side.’ He laughed, finding it funnier than he had any right to.
I smiled politely, but didn’t bother answering, hoping that the less I talked, the quicker he’d leave.
‘Just messing with you,’ he said, running a finger down the side of his glass. As his sleeve rode up his arm, I could see a tattoo – an inscription – the letters smudged by age. ‘Boring place to have to come for work.’
‘I can think of worse.’
‘Maybe in summer,’ he said. ‘But in winter, this place is like a mausoleum. You take the tourists out of here and all you’re left with are a few empty fudge shops. Want to hear my theory?’ He paused, but only briefly. ‘If you put a bullet in the head of every Cornishman in the county, no one would even notice until the fucking caravan parks failed to open.’ He laughed again, putting a hand to his mouth as if trying to suppress his amusement.
I pretended to check my phone for messages. ‘Nice theory,’ I said, staring at my empty inbox. When I was finished, he was still looking at me.
‘I’m a salesman.’
He rocked his head from side to side, as if to say he didn’t think I was the type. ‘My friend’s a salesman too.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘A different kind. He sells ideas to people.’
I smiled. ‘You mean he works for Ikea?’
He didn’t respond. An uncomfortable
silence settled between us. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t taken the hint yet. He cupped his pint glass between his hands, rolling it backwards and forwards, watching the liquid slosh around inside.
‘I bet you’re thinking, “How do you sell ideas to people?” – right?’
Not really.
He looked up at me. ‘Right?’
‘I guess.’
‘It’s pretty simple, the way he tells it. You take something – then you try to apply it to people. You know, give them something they really need.’
‘Still sounds like he might work for Ikea.’
He didn’t reply, but his eyes lingered on me, as if I’d just made a terrible error. There’s something about you, I thought. Something I don’t like. He took a few mouthfuls of beer, and this time I could make out some of the tattoo – ‘And see him that was possessed’ – and a red mark, running close to his hairline, all the way down around his ears and along the curve of his chin.
‘Sorry?’
He looked up. ‘The mark on my face. Fucking towelhead jammed his rifle butt into my jaw.’
‘You were a soldier?’
‘Do I look the salesman type?’
I shrugged. ‘What does a salesman look like?’
‘What do any of us really look like?’ His eyes flashed for a moment, catching some of the light from a fire behind us. He broke into a smile, as if everything was a big mystery. ‘Being a soldier, that teaches you a lot about life.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Teaches you a lot about death too.’
I tried to look pissed off, and started cutting away at some of the pie’s pastry – but the whole time I could feel him watching me. When I looked up again, his eyes moved quickly from me to the food then back up.
‘You not hungry?’
‘Looks better than it tastes,’ I said.
‘You should eat,’ he replied, sinking what was left in the glass. ‘You never know when you might need the strength.’
He placed the beer glass down and turned to me, his eyes disappearing into shadow again. They were impenetrable now; like staring into one of the abandoned mine shafts along the coast.
‘Where you from?’
‘London.’
‘Is it?’
‘You telling me it isn’t? Millions of people whose only reason for being anywhere near that hole is so they can live on the top floor of a skyscraper and try to convince people poorer than them to live beyond their means? That’s a city of salesmen, believe me. Take a step back from the rat race, my friend – see what’s going on. No one’s there to help you.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’
‘You jest,’ he said. His eyes locked on to mine. ‘But I’m being serious. Who’s going to be there for you in that city when you wake up with a knife in your back?’
I could hardly make him out now, he’d sunk so far back into the darkness. But I wasn’t liking what I was hearing. I looked away and focused on my food.
‘Do you want to be left alone?’
He had a smile on his face now, but it didn’t go deep. Below the surface, I caught a glimpse of what I’d seen before.
A second of absolute darkness.
‘It’s up to you.’
He continued smiling. The smell of aftershave drifted across to me again. ‘I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you’d rather be earning commission than listening to me, right?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Nice meeting you, anyway,’ he said, standing. ‘Maybe we’ll see you again.’
‘I think so,’ he said, cryptically.
Then I watched him leave, walking past the locals and out through a door on the far side of the pub, where the evening swallowed him up.
That night, I had difficulty sleeping. It had been a long time since I’d slept in a bed. A longer time since I’d been away from the house overnight.
I left the curtains slightly ajar and the window open. Just after one, I finally fell asleep, curled up in a ball at the bottom of the bed. In the dead of night, maybe an hour later, I stirred long enough to feel a faint breeze against my skin. And then a noise outside. Rotting autumn leaves caught beneath someone’s feet. I lay there, too tired to move, and started to drift away again. Then the noise came a second time.
I flipped the duvet back, got up and walked to the window. The night was pitch black. In the distance, along the coastal road, were tiny blocks of light from the next village. Otherwise, it was difficult to make anything out, particularly close to the house.
The wind came again. I could hear leaves being blown across the ground, and waves crashing against the rocky coast – but not the noise that had woken me. I waited for a moment, then headed back to bed.
I got up early and sat at a table with beautiful views across the Atlantic. Tin mines rose up in front of me like brick arms reaching for the clouds. Over breakfast,
I turned it over.
Written on the back was: You were never a mistake.
I decided to call Kathy.
She answered after a couple of rings.
‘Kathy, it’s David Raker.’
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Sorry it’s so early.’
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I was getting ready for work.’
‘I’ve got the box here.’ I turned the Polaroid over and looked at Alex again. ‘Do you remember what photos you put inside?’
‘Um… I don’t know – I think there’s a couple of us at a barbecue…’
‘Do you remember the one of Alex on his own?’
‘Uh…’ A pause. ‘I’m trying to think…’
You were never a mistake.
‘Tell you what, I’m going to take a picture of it and send it to you, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll send two photos – one of the front and one of the back. Take a look at them when they come through and call me right back.’
While I waited, I looked around. The owner was filling a giant cereal bowl with cornflakes. Outside, in the distance, a fishing trawler chugged into view, waves gliding out from its bow as it followed the coastline.
A couple of minutes later, my phone went.
Silence.
‘Kathy?’
Gradually, fading in, the sound of sobbing.
‘Kathy?’
A long pause. And then I could hear her crying again.
‘Kathy – that’s Alex’s handwriting, isn’t it?’
She sniffed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you take that photograph?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea who did?’
More crying. Longer, deeper gasps of air.
‘No.’
I looked at the Polaroid again. Turned it over. Traced the handwriting with a finger. Then I picked up the letter Kathy had written Alex.
But, somewhere, there would be a doubt that wasn’t there before, a nagging feeling that, if I got too close to you, if I showed you too much affection, you’d get up one morning and walk away.
I don’t want to feel like a mistake again.
‘No.’ She started to sob again, a long, drawn-out sound that sent static crackling down the line. ‘No,’ she said again – and then hung up.
I placed my phone down.
So, Alex had used the box after all.
Alex died on a country road between Bristol’s northern edge and the motorway. I felt I should go there, but first I wanted to see his friend John. Jeff had given me a work address for him the previous day. When I called enquiries to get a telephone number, it turned out to be a police station south-west of Bristol city centre.
John was a police officer.
By the time I got there, it was lunchtime and had been raining: water still ran from guttering, and drains had filled with old crisp packets and beer cans. The street was deserted, except for some kids further down, their cigarettes dying in the cool of the day. I parked on the road and headed into the station.
It was quiet. There was a sergeant behi
nd a sliding glass panel, framed by a huge map of the area. Dots were marked at intervals in a ring around the centre of the city.
The sergeant slid the glass across. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see John Cary.’
He nodded. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘I want to speak to him about Alex Towne.’
It didn’t mean anything to him. He slid the glass panel back and disappeared out of sight. I sat down next to the front entrance. Outside, huge dark clouds rolled across the sky. Somewhere in the distance was
Something clunked. At the far side of the waiting room a huge man emerged from a code-locked door. He was chiselled but not attractive. His Mediterranean skin was spoiled by acne scarring that ran the lengths of both cheeks. I walked across to him.
‘My name’s David Raker.’
He nodded.
‘I’m looking into the disappearance of Alex Towne.’
He nodded again.
‘Alex’s mum came to me.’
‘She told you he’s dead, right?’ he said, eyeing me.
‘Right. I was hoping I might be able to ask you a couple of questions.’
He glanced at his watch, then looked at me, as if intrigued to see what I might come up with. ‘Yeah, okay. Let’s go for a drive.’
We drove north to where Alex had died. It was a picturesque spot: rolling grassland punctuated by narrow roads, all within sight of the city. Cary parked up and then led me away from the car, across to a field sloping away from the road. I looked down. A sliver of police tape still fluttered in a tree nearby. Apart from that, there was no sign that a car had once come off the road here.
‘Were you on duty when he died?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘So, you went to see him at the morgue?’
‘You actually saw his body?’
‘What was left of it. His hands, his feet, his face – they were all just bone. Some of his organs were still intact, but the rest of him…’ Cary looked out at the fields. ‘They reckon the tank must have ruptured when the car hit the field. It was why the fire consumed everything so quickly.’ He glanced at me, sadness in his eyes. ‘You know how hard you have to hit something in order to rupture a petrol tank?’
