He needed time to think.
Peter coughed hard. A gob of phlegm filled his throat. He spat into the back of the fire. The phlegm sizzled.
Inspector Morse and his sidekick, Sergeant Lewis, had gone to the mortuary. The corpse lay naked on a steel table. Forensic instruments lay alongside. A pathologist in a stained apron was explaining the cause of death. Peter didn’t want to know. He switched off the TV and lay back. His limbs were heavy. He felt himself drifting away.
The clock woke him by striking ten. He shivered, the room was cold. The peat bucket was empty. It was time to go to bed.
He trailed across the yard to lock the dogs up for the night – then decided he wanted them nearby and led the greatly-wondering Ben and Meg back to the house. He made a fuss of each, particularly Meg, and gave them their bedtime treats on their day beds. Then he switched off the lights and climbed upstairs.
Some time in the middle of the night Peter woke with a start. Something was wrong. He sat up. Abruptly he realised he was going to be sick. Just in time he reached the bathroom and fell to his knees, retching into the toilet bowl. A cold sweat stood on his brow and made his hair prickle. When the spasm was over he pressed the flush and sat back on his heels, spitting and scrubbing his lips with lavatory paper. As he stood up he felt dizzy. The light hurt his eyes. He rinsed his mouth at the washbasin.
Ben had come up to see what was wrong. In mute sympathy he stood on the landing. Meg waited behind him in the shadows. ‘It’s all right,’ Peter said wretchedly. ‘Good boy. Good girl.’
The clock by his bed said quarter to two. His pyjamas were wet with perspiration; he threw them into a corner. Rather than go downstairs for a dry set, he pulled on his T-shirt and underpants and crawled back into bed. His pillow was wet too. He turned it over, reversed the duvet top to bottom and pulled it to his ears. The room swam. Ben stood by the bed, just touching it with his whiskery chin, then flopped to the rug alongside. Peter trailed a hand from the bedclothes, feeling for his friendly head.
Five minutes later he was asleep.
Alone in the house Peter passed a bad night, tossing and turning and beset by fevered dreams. He thought he was going to be sick again and lay awake in the darkness, wrestling with the loss of his father. Although he’d been sweating he felt cold and went downstairs for a hot-water bottle and a towel to cover the damp pillow. Then he slept again and by dawn his sleep was calmer. Some time later the dogs, who could wait no longer to go outside, woke him with their whining. Peter let them out and returned to bed.
It was midday when he woke finally. Limply he lay and gazed at the ceiling. He felt washed out but better than he had done in the middle of the night. His headache had lifted. The bedclothes had dried.
Briefly he worried about school then remembered that today was Sunday.
Sunday, and his dad had been dead for a day. A whole day, lying out there on the wintry hillside. By this time, following the cloudless night, his body would be as hard and cold as the earth itself.
He didn’t want to think about it and swung his legs to the floor. As he stood up he felt light-headed. He drew back the curtains, letting a shaft of brilliant December sunshine into his room. The roof of the byre, directly opposite, was still white with frost. So was most of the yard. A shadow line, straight as a ruler, divided it from the part that had thawed.
The house was cold. Heavy-limbed, he lit the fire, gave the dogs their breakfast and sat down with a cup of tea.
His problems would not go away, they had to be confronted. What was he to do about his dad? There was no one to ask, he was on his own. Plainly he had to inform Constable Taylor. Perhaps he had committed a crime by not reporting the death already. But if he phoned right now, as he should, what would be the outcome? His dad would be picked up by an Argocat or helicopter. And he himself would be taken to – well, wherever they took homeless boys. They wouldn’t leave him at Scar Hill, anyway, that was for sure. And what about Ben and Meg, out in the yard? Would they be taken to some dog pound? And later, if nobody offered them a home, would they be given a lethal injection? It was unthinkable.
What could he do? There must be something, he thought, some plan he could work out before making the fateful call.
He needed more time. It would be dark in an hour or two. If his dad had been safe at the foot of Blae Fell until now, it was going to make little difference if he was left there until the morning. This gave him the rest of the day and another night to think about it. If people wanted to know why he hadn’t phoned before, he could say truthfully that he had phoned but nobody was in. He’d been sick.
For the rest of that short day Peter stayed warm by the fire and switched on the TV for company. His headache returned and he took a couple of paracetamol. It was twenty-four hours since he had eaten and his stomach was empty. He went to the kitchen and spread two slices of bread with peanut butter. Later he divided yesterday’s pie between the dogs who scoffed it up as an unexpected treat, then he opened a tin of soup for an early tea. By the evening, though his chest was bad, Peter was feeling a little better.
The weather was changing as the met office had forecast. A northwesterly wind blew rain clouds in from the Atlantic. The temperature rose a few degrees but it felt colder.
At nine he went to bed and slept more soundly. During the night he woke needing to go to the bathroom and padded barefoot along the landing, trying not to wake his dad. His dad’s bedroom door was open wide. The memory hit him like a blow and he clung to the banister. Beneath him gaped the cold, black well of the stairs. From happiness to despair was as fast as the flick of a switch. Tears brought on an attack of coughing. Scarcely able to see, Peter groped his way to the toilet and back to bed. Even though the bed was warm, he found himself shivering and made another hot-water bottle. Lying in the darkness he heard the downstairs clock strike once, then once again, then twice, before he was claimed by sleep.
At seven-thirty he let the dogs out into the wet, black yard and returned to bed, but he did not sleep and an hour later trailed downstairs in his dressing gown and slippers. Gusts of wind rushed about the windows. He made a mug of tea and switched on the rusty electric fire. One bar didn’t work; it gave out little heat. He wrapped a rug round his legs and cupped the mug in both hands.
It was Monday. A day and a night had brought no answers but matters could be put off no longer. A decision had to be made, and right then, that morning. His dad could not be left out on the hill indefinitely, like a dead sheep. Peter had seen countless dead sheep: rotting carcases, gaping mouths, scattered bones. He wouldn’t let himself think about it.
The phone was in the hall. He could pick it up right then and speak to Constable Taylor, or if he wasn’t there, to his head teacher, or the minister, or the parents of a friend – though not to Billy Josh, for by this time on a Monday morning Billy was away on his trawler. He longed for someone else to take the decisions, shoulder the responsibility, but still there was no one. Ben stood by his knee and looked at him with trustful eyes.
And Peter’s long hours of wakefulness had produced other thoughts:
His dad was dead, nothing could change that awful fact, but did that mean Scar Hill belonged to him now – even though he was only thirteen? And whatever money his dad had, was that his too? Or was it Valerie’s? Or did everything belong to his mum, wherever she was? Had his dad made a will?
But that was for the future. Peter had had an idea. Well a sort of idea, not a plan exactly, it was too shocking for that, but something to consider. Probably it was a crime, something that would get him into serious trouble. He stared into the dead grate. It wasn’t something he could actually do, surely not. And yet … It would certainly give him more time. A week maybe? Two weeks? Long enough, anyway, to make some enquiries.
He pulled the dressing gown across his chest and turned up the collar. Some months earlier, he and Jim had watched a science programme about a prehistoric man in Denmark who had been buried in the peat moss thousands of years ag
o. When he was discovered and dug up, his body was perfectly preserved. You could see what he had looked like, enough to recognise him. Archaeologists had even taken his fingerprints. He had been sacrificed, they said. And he wasn’t the only one, there were hundreds of them, all over northern Europe, including Scotland. They were called bog people. The peat preserved their bodies.
And peat was something Peter knew about. Every day he burned peat on the fire and smelled the fragrant smoke as he came home from school. When he walked on the moor he walked on peat and avoided the deep black pools they called dhu bogs. For years he had gone peat cutting with his dad, Jim digging out the wet black slabs with his tusker-spade and Peter stacking them on the moor to dry. He knew how soft and spongy it was, how easy to cut once you got past the tough roots of heather.
If he were to bury his dad out there on the moor, Peter thought, he could easily dig a hole deep enough. Provided there weren’t any rocks, of course, and maybe not six feet, but enough to bury his dad properly. It might take a long time but he was sure he could do it.
And he knew, he was positive, that his dad wouldn’t mind. He’d probably have laughed and told him to go ahead. ‘Take off my watch mind,’ he’d have said. ‘It’s a good watch that.’ He loved the hills, they were his favourite place in the whole world and he’d been all over in the army. He’d often said so and Peter thought it would be a nice place to be buried, much better than a graveyard, even the one in Tarridale with dry-stone dykes and a view of the sea. It would be a bit lonely maybe, but then his dad was a bit of a loner. He’d like it out there with the wind blowing and the moon shining down.
The clock struck nine. He took down a photo from the mantelpiece. It showed his dad and himself standing on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle. He remembered how Jim had asked a French tourist to take it. His dad was laughing. Peter examined him, from his off-white jeans to the sparkle in his eyes. It had been a great holiday.
‘Is it OK?’ he said to the man with an arm round his shoulders.
The man laughed back
‘Don’t take things too seriously.’ It had been one of his dad’s favourite bits of advice. ‘Nothing matters that much. When in doubt go ahead – unless it’s drugs and that. It’s the things in life you don’t do that you regret. Just so long as you don’t hurt anybody.’
Well, Peter thought, this wasn’t going to hurt anybody. Apart from his dad and himself there was no one to be hurt.
And it wasn’t as if he was going to be left there for ever, just for a few days until he got things sorted out in his head. Just to keep his dad safe. Then they could dig him up again and bury him properly, with flowers and a church service and everything.
He had almost talked himself into it. Still, actually to bury his dad out there on the hillside …
He mixed the dogs’ food and fetched Buster into the house for a run around while he made some toast. As he crossed the yard, still wearing his dressing gown, the wet air brought on his cough. He felt far from well.
But by the time he had picked the last crumbs from his plate and finished his second cup of tea, Peter’s mind was made up. The idea terrified him but he would do it. Whatever the outcome, it was a relief to have made at least some sort of decision.
He returned Buster to his run in the shed and collected a spade from the corner, then went upstairs to change.
17
The Lonely Peat Moss
THE HALL WAS cold and it was by pure chance that when the head teacher picked up the phone Peter was convulsed by a coughing fit.
‘Hello? … Hello?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Harle, it’s – ’ Cough, cough, cough.
‘Who is that speaking? Just take your time.’
‘It’s me, Mrs Harle.’ He caught his breath. ‘Peter Irwin.’
‘Good morning, Peter. That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there.’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m phoning.’
‘Sounds as if you should be in your bed.’
‘No, I’m,’ he took a steadying breath, ‘much better now thanks. But my dad had to go off to the sheep and he said I should give you a call to let you know I’ll not be in today.’
Mrs Harle liked Jim Irwin. He had his faults but most of the time he was a good, hardworking father who took Peter’s education seriously. She liked Peter too, a straightforward, reliable boy. On the rare occasions he missed a day’s schooling there was always a good reason.
‘Yes, he rang me last week,’ she said. ‘You look after yourself, Peter, get good and fit before you return to the fray.’
‘That’s what dad says. Thanks, Mrs Harle.’
‘Bad luck it has to be just now, you’ll be missing some of the run-up to Christmas.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be back in time for the party, I hope.’
It was more than a week away. Peter had been looking forward to it. Now it seemed so unimportant he was surprised to hear her mention it. ‘Yes, I expect so.’
‘Good. Well, give your father my best wishes. It must be cold out there on the hills this time of year.’
‘Yes, it is. I mean, I will.’
‘All right then, Peter. Look after that cough. Be sure you keep nice and warm, plenty of hot drinks. Thank you for ringing.’
‘Bye then, Mrs Harle.’
‘Bye-bye, Peter.’
The phone went dead.
‘Bye,’ he said forlornly and put down the receiver.
Mrs Harle was right, it was cold on the hill in December. She was right, too, that Peter should have stayed warm indoors until he got his strength back. Unfortunately it was not possible.
As he tramped through the wet heather he wheezed and sweated and tucked the scarf round his throat. The cloud cover had thickened during the night and it had rained. Watery ice covered the moorland pools. A strengthening wind, moisture-laden and just a degree or two above freezing, blew into his face from the north-west.
His progress was slow. He wore gloves, an old pair of Jim’s with the fingers cut off, and shifted the spade from hand to hand as he climbed. On his back he carried his schoolbag with a thermos and sandwiches in it and two short planks sticking out of the top. It took an hour and a half to cover the two and a bit miles from the parking place to the shoulder of Blae Fell. As he topped a low ridge his dad’s rucksack came into sight with the remains of the red and white poly bag fluttering from the top. He looked past it and saw the hump in the heather that two days earlier he had thought was a protruding rock.
His heart thudded, from fear as much as the climb. Peter did not want to do what he was planning. He wished the next hour or two were past and he was on his way home. The dogs sensed it and stood close by. He touched Ben’s head. ‘Come on then.’
Jim lay as Peter had left him, although his clothes and the navy-blue jersey that swathed his head were sodden. He dropped the spade and took off his schoolbag. With relief he saw that his dad’s body was untouched. All the same, he refrained from unwrapping the jersey. He wanted to remember his dad as he had been, not as he might look two days after death, encased in ice-cold saturated wool.
As he crossed the moor, Peter had planned what he must do. His first task was to go through his dad’s pockets. His wallet would be there, his credit cards, maybe letters or papers that should be taken home. He pulled off the clumsy gloves.
Jim wore his old, olive-green parka. One or two heart pills had dissolved into white stains. The pockets had flaps and studs but they were not fastened. Peter slipped his hand inside. Everything was cold and stuck together with the wet. His fingers encountered slippery peppermints, his dad’s pocket knife, a dirty handkerchief, his plastic wallet of tobacco, a cheap lighter, a biro, an empty envelope, a seashell and a pebble with nice markings. One at a time he laid them on a bright green patch of moss.
His dad’s hand, outflung in the heather, still grasped the little pill bottle, part full of water now. Peter prised it loose. His gold watch, bought in the back streets of Cairo when he was
a soldier, ticked on bravely, counting the hours of his death as it had counted the hours of his life. Peter removed it from his wrist, feeling how icy the skin was, and added it to the pile.
The jacket had a storm flap. It opened with a rip of Velcro. There was an internal zip. Peter pulled at the tab with numb fingers. It jammed. He jiggled it and tugged harder. It would not budge. He took a better grip and wrenched it up and down. The body rocked. The zip slid to the bottom. He pushed the jacket wide and was confronted by the Shetland pullover his dad wore most of the time. It was his favourite and brought back memories. Peter swallowed a lump in his throat. He had promised himself, whatever might happen, he would not cry.
There was no wallet, there were no credit cards. They must be in another jacket or a drawer back at the house, maybe Jim’s private drawer in his bedroom. Methodically Peter went through the inner pockets of his jacket then turned to his trouser pockets. This was worst of all. His dad’s legs were rigid. First he searched the side pockets then, exerting all his strength, turned him over to reach the back pockets. There was little of value in any of them, at least little to a thief: a ten-pound note, a few coins, a list of items he needed from the farm store in Clashbay, a card from church giving details of the Christmas services – and a little holder containing two photos of Peter.
He stared at it. It was too much to bear. Peter wept for his loss.
The wet wind struck through his clothes. He looked for a sheltered spot and carried his schoolbag to the lee of some rocks. The scrap of plastic sheet that he always took to the hill gave him a dry seat on the grass. The dogs waited expectantly. He gave a biscuit bone to each and opened his thermos. It was something he had done a hundred times and it always brought pleasure, a hot cup of tea with the breeze blowing his hair and the wild land stretching before him as far as the eye could see. Not today. Today was different. Today there was no dad to share a joke with. Today his dad lay forty metres away with a spade at his feet.
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