No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  I’m not sure if my cry travels beyond the misted windows, but it reminds me to take care. I peel away the blanket and shiver as the cold air penetrates my running shirt. It takes me a few moments to remember I changed out of my sodden clothes last night. As they’re not in the car, they must be in the boot.

  Once my feet are on the tarmac, I pull myself into a standing position, feeling the muscles groan in my lower back. When the ache ebbs, I’m aware of the cold wind, whistling through my shorts. It appears I removed my underwear as well as my clothes. A nearby milkman stares at me. I guess he doesn’t see many runners who can barely walk. But the movement eases the muscles and I’m soon moving more freely.

  In the public toilets, I assess the abrasions to my cheek and forehead in the mirror. The swelling and reddening are superficial. My hair, matted with blood and sweat, will need a long shower and an industrial comb to untangle. The abdominal bruising has darkened, ready for a journey through the colours of the rainbow over the coming days.

  How did I let Miller get the better of me? Where did the hoodies spring from?

  Back in the car, it takes me a few minutes to orientate myself and drive to Glastonbury Abbey. Customers fill the confectionery shop at the edge of the car park, reminding me I haven’t eaten for almost twenty hours. I accelerate away and turn right at the next roundabout to head out of town. Moments later, I spot the Four Seasons guest house. While the name suggests the place opens all year, the empty forecourt doesn’t support that impression.

  The red brick Victorian building, trimmed with honey-coloured stone on the corners and around the bay windows, rises through three floors. The dormer windows in the roof stare down like surprised eyes as I make my way to an arched porch, also trimmed with stone. I ring the bell and wait, recalling a bed and breakfast I once inspected. The middle-aged landlady took a shine to the young environmental health officer, saying, “It’s a long time since anyone inspected me.”

  A tall, slim woman, immaculately dressed in a navy jacket and skirt, opens the door and looks at me as if I’ve rifled through the bins. Her unimpressed grey eyes match the colour of her wavy hair, tamed with hairspray. Keen to dispel her suspicions, I offer my ID card.

  “We were expecting you last night, Mr Fisher,” she says in rich, West Country tones. “We didn’t realise you intended to run all the way from Sussex.”

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “You look like you need to freshen up.” She returns my ID and glides across the hall to a small reception counter, busy with brochures for local attractions, a bell, and a sign telling guests all the things they can’t do.

  The aroma of bacon draws me inside. “Can I still have the breakfast I paid for?”

  “Of course. Did you bring any luggage?”

  She wants to know if I have any clothes to change into. “My clothes got wet in the rain.”

  She nods and hands me a key with a black fob that says, WINTER. “We name our rooms after the seasons,” she says, not realising how sharp I am.

  “As opposed to Vivaldi, you mean.”

  “You’re on the top floor, Mr Fisher, which has some lovely views across the marshes. You won’t have much time to enjoy them as you should vacate the room by ten. Unless you wish to stay a little longer?”

  “I need to return home today.”

  “Then take as long as you need, Mr Fisher. I’m Ann Summers, by the way.” The twinkle in her eye tells me she’s heard all the jokes. “That’s why we chose the name, Four Seasons.”

  The attic room’s clean, decorated in soft blues and cream, and a reasonable size for a single. In the en suite shower, I take advantage of the complimentary gel and shampoo, allowing the hot water to soothe and warm my muscles. Back in my running clothes, I jog down the stairs to the dining room at the back of the house. I have the place to myself, which means large helpings of grilled bacon and sausages, poached egg, mushrooms, tomato and baked beans, washed down with dark tea in a pale cup.

  Ann refuses to join me for tea and toast, claiming she has to get the place ready for more visitors this afternoon. I’m sure she runs the place on her own as there’s no sign of a Mr Summers or any domestic help.

  Back in the room, I settle on the bed to write up what I learned from Miller. Even before he turned on me, his claims about running off the day before Daphne went missing sound lame. Why would Colonel Witherington threaten to kill him? It made no sense at all. I’m prepared to believe he loved Stacey Walters. I’m even willing to believe she went to Spain with him. Did she remain, singing in karaoke bars, flirting with the punters? Is that why he returned?

  Or did he kill them both?

  From the ferocity of his attack on me, he could have.

  Then again, maybe nobody killed anyone and I’m wasting my time.

  I’m no wiser when I wake a few minutes later, the notebook sprawled on the bed beside me. I pick up my pen, trying to recapture my train of thought. Then I spot the clock on the bedside cabinet.

  I’m downstairs within a couple of minutes. Ann asks me if I slept well and charges me half rate on the understanding I return again, which I promise to do. She also lets me ring Niamh, who wants to know where the hell I am. When I suggest she cancels dinner because I might be late, her voice turns cold.

  “You’d better not be after all the trouble I’ve gone to.”

  ***

  After a race across country, I arrive home around a quarter past seven, squeezing my car in between Davenport’s Mondeo and a black Audi TT that probably belongs to Richard. With silent thanks to Ann’s ibuprofen, I ease out of the car and spot Columbo, frantically pawing the window of the caravan. When he starts barking, Frances scoops him up and lets him out. He hurtles over, leaping up at my legs. I scoop him into my arms so he can lick my face.

  “Miss me, did you?”

  “He’s been sulky all day.” Frances gasps when she notices my injuries. “What happened?”

  “You should see the other bloke,” I reply.

  She takes Columbo and doesn’t ask why I’m wearing my running gear. “You have to stay here,” she tells him when he whines. “The undertaker’s allergic to dogs.”

  I smile. At least there’s no danger of him moving in here.

  The sweet aroma of garlic and rosemary welcomes me into the kitchen. Niamh ignores me at first, busy with some smoked salmon. When she turns, the knife falls from her hand and thuds to the floor.

  “Sweet mother of Jesus! What happened to you?”

  She hurries over, wiping her hands on the wildlife apron that covers her best green frock. Her hair, normally tugged into a loose knot, is sculpted back into a ponytail that flows in luxuriant, shining waves down her back. Her fringe is braided into a plait that runs across the top of her forehead.

  “You look stunning,” I say. “And that smells wonderful.”

  “You look shite,” she says, her face close to mine. “There’s calamine lotion in the bathroom cabinet and a suit for you in the bedroom. And don’t you dare stop to talk to your guests, looking like that.”

  Naturally, I go straight into the lounge to apologise for being late. “I’m running late,” I say, pointing to my shorts and vest. “And I slipped on some wet steps and took a nasty tumble,” I add, enjoying their stunned looks. “Good to see you, Alasdair.”

  Davenport, who looks like he’s dressed for the undertaker’s annual ball, shakes my hand, nervous as I lean forward to sniff his aftershave. It almost masks the stale reek of cigars. “Embalming fluid smells much nicer these days.

  “Smart motor,” I say, turning to Richard. His handshake’s gentle. “Gemma, I would love to hug and kiss you, but I need to change into something less revealing.”

  Davenport, whose eyes have reddened, steps back as I pass. He fumbles in his trouser pocket and just manages to push a handkerchief over his nose before he sneezes.

  “Are you going down with something?” I ask, aware of Columbo’s fur on my running top.

  Back in the
corridor, my childish grin completes my adolescent behaviour. At least it took my mind off my injuries, but not as much as Gemma’s little black number. She looked so glamorous next to Richard, who’s young, good looking and much more grown up than me.

  In the bedroom, I find a new white shirt with discreet pinstripes, a stylish navy blue suit on a hanger, and a new striped tie. I smear my side with ibuprofen gel before dressing. As I look at myself in the mirror, I’m tempted to swallow some gel to calm the flutter in my stomach.

  I’m not afraid of Davenport. Yvonne’s smart and sassy, but not my type. Gemma’s spoken for and I barely know her fiancé.

  So why do I feel nervous?

  Maybe I shouldn’t be exorcising my demons all at once.

  I stare out of the window, wishing I could join Frances in her caravan and watch trashy programmes on her portable TV. I want to go back to the times when it was just the two of us, united in our struggle to make ends meet. Birchill’s money may dispel our worries, but at what cost?

  When the time comes to leave, I’ll miss this place.

  ***

  My performance is superlative when I return to the lounge. Even its transformation into a dining space, complete with the table and chairs from the barn, fails to unnerve me. Niamh’s olive green leather sofa and armchairs from Downland Manor have replaced my dreary and weary, furniture. It means her belongings have arrived, turning my lovely bare walls into an art gallery.

  It didn’t happen in a couple of hours either.

  Alasdair, whose eyes are still red and swollen, has stopped sneezing. He and Richard look comfortable in each other’s company and well-mannered enough to ignore my injuries. I try to ignore Gemma, but she looks stunning and effortlessly elegant in her sleeveless black dress that finishes well above the knees. A thin, skin-toned dressing masks the scarring to her upper arm, restoring her self-confidence. Or is it indifference?

  It looks like I’m history.

  “I can see why you’re head of the Chamber of Commerce,” I tell Davenport, topping up his glass with more Prosecco.

  He’s overdressed in a black velvet jacket, frilled shirt and bow tie, but the creases in his trousers could slice through paper. Like the shine on his shoes, they suggest a military background I’m unaware of. When I spot the delicate white rose in his buttonhole, I want to ask if it came from a wreath. Instead, I ask if he helped Niamh rearrange my lounge.

  His hesitation confirms my suspicions, but he seems surprised when I shake his hand. “Thank you for brightening the place up,” I say, excelling in my role. “It’s good of you to give up your time while I’m falling down steps in Glastonbury.”

  “You didn’t get ‘alon’ with the Isle of Avalon,” he says, looking pleased.

  Richard nods in appreciation. “Nice play on words, Alasdair.”

  His athletic build, short hair and square jaw give him the rugged looks of someone who climbs mountains without safety ropes. He has the quiet, inner confidence bestowed by a private school education, law degree at Oxford or Cambridge, and wealthy parents. It’s there in the casual gaze of his blue eyes and the understated, but expensive pinstripe suit and waistcoat beloved by the legal profession. His wide smile and constant glances at Gemma tell me this confident young man has never been happier.

  “If you want to sue anyone for the accident, Kent, I’d be glad to advise you.”

  Gemma wraps her arms around his. “Kent doesn’t approve of people suing when they should look where they’re going,”

  “I was only joking,” he says, raising his hands. “It’s not my field. I spend my time poring over contracts and leases. It’s terribly tedious. Not like your work.”

  “I’m sure your work has its moments.”

  “Divorce and litigation, I suppose. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t like to see marriages boiled down to columns on a spreadsheet.”

  “Me neither,” I say, starting to like this man. “So, have you named the day?”

  “Not yet.” He gazes into Gemma’s eyes. “It’s hard to find a day when everyone can get together. My lot are scattered across the planet,” he says, as if they’re pioneers. “We’re holding the ceremony in Herstmonceux Castle. It’s traditional, enchanting and so romantic with the moat. And you gave the kitchen a top hygiene rating, of course.”

  It’s good to know I’m contributing to their happiness.

  Niamh walks in with a bottle of white wine in a cooler. She places it on the table and encourages us to take our places, according to the elegant name cards she’s produced. “Our last guest has just arrived.”

  Yvonne knows how to make an entrance, strutting into the room in a strapless scarlet dress and matching stilettos. A sparkling necklace caresses her smooth, slim neck, while silver bracelets clasp her wrists. Her wide smile and confident blue eyes scan the room before focusing on me. She pushes her short blonde hair back with long fingers, tipped with red. Her American accent adds a touch of drama to her soft voice.

  “Like you, Mr Fisher, I can sneak in from the rear.”

  She laughs, well aware she can raise more than a smile. She has the natural confidence I’ve found in most Americans, coupled with a desire to shock and get her way, I suspect. I can’t help feeling that nothing is off limits.

  “I prefer not to get beaten up when I do,” she adds before kissing my injury-free cheek.

  I pull away. “Let me introduce you to Richard and Gemma.”

  She embraces and kisses them both, swapping a few words. While Richard enjoys the moment, Gemma looks uncomfortable, especially when Yvonne tells her she has the most awesome, sexy eyes.

  Niamh also looks uncomfortable. “Come and help me with the food, Gemma.”

  “Allow me,” Yvonne says, stepping forward. “I haven’t contributed anything so far.”

  Davenport breaks the silence after they leave. “She’s self-assured, as you can see, just like her father. He passed away unexpectedly last year and she took it badly, him being in New York. I never expected her to return, but I’m pleased she did.”

  I can’t help feeling the potted history is for my benefit.

  “Even you, Kent,” Gemma says, leading Richard to the table. “I’ve never seen you lost for words.”

  Has she forgotten the first time I undressed her?

  Niamh and Davenport sit at opposite ends of the table. I’m next to Gemma and facing Yvonne. If she plays footsie during dinner, I wonder who she’ll choose.

  “I must say I’m impressed with the sanctuary,” Richard says once we’re settled. “We arrived early and Gemma gave me the guided tour. I don’t know how you find the time and energy to work and run this place, Kent.”

  “He has help,” Niamh says, arriving with two plates of smoked salmon and rosemary potato rosti. Yvonne follows with two more and takes her seat opposite me.

  “We met Frances,” Richard says, nodding. “You can’t help but admire people who have a passion for what they do.”

  “What are you passionate about?” Yvonne asks him.

  He glances at Gemma and then blushes. “Oh, I see what you mean. Windsurfing’s my passion – when I’m not skiing, of course. How about you, Alasdair? Can’t be easy, dealing with the grief stricken.”

  “I help those who’ve lost to find their way,” Alasdair says, sounding like one of Danni’s motivational mantras.

  “You’re very clever with words,” Richard says. “What about you, Yvonne? What are you passionate about?”

  “Life.”

  “Ironic, considering you work for an undertaker,” Gemma says.

  “Life goes on for those left behind,” Davenport says. “We support the living.”

  “Surely your work’s done once the coffin’s in the ground,” I say. “That’s what people pay for, isn’t it? Family and friends do the rest.”

  “What if there is no family?” he asks. “What if families can’t or won’t take that on? You’ve never married, have you, Kent? You don’t fully appreciate what it’s like to l
ose a partner you’ve loved and cherished for so many years.”

  “Don’t tell me I don’t understand loss,” I say, irked by his smug superiority.

  “That’s enough!” Niamh glares at me from the doorway, the final two plates in her hands.

  Davenport raises his hands. “It’s okay. Kent feels that somehow I’ve taken his place.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Gemma says, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

  “I know how it feels,” Davenport says, his tone soothing. “I lost Angelina to a long and debilitating illness. I watched her die, day by day, hour by hour, the life draining from her until there was only a shell.” He pauses, his eyes tight shut. “I lost my wife, my soulmate and my best friend in February last year, but it seems like only yesterday.”

  I should say something sympathetic, but Davenport doesn’t have a monopoly on loss.

  He looks straight at me. “I’m not taking Niamh away. I’m returning her to you.”

  I’m tempted to throw up, but Niamh distracts me by thumping my plate on the table. There’s no mistaking the fury in her eyes, though I don’t see what I’ve done wrong. Maybe I should say something to appease her. She’s already miffed because I dislike salmon. Like pretentious people, it makes me gag.

  “You baked any humble pie?” I ask, my tone light. Too light, it seems.

  “Death isn’t a joke, you know.”

  “I’m sure Kent wasn’t making light of William’s passing,” Davenport says, dragging the high moral ground even further from me. “Kent’s grieving too, but he hides it behind jokes and quips. He doesn’t mean any harm or disrespect, so let’s hear no more about it and enjoy this wonderful food you’ve prepared. Let’s celebrate the joys ahead, like Richard and Gemma’s marriage. And Kent can do the washing up,” he adds, raising his glass.

  “For at least a month.” Niamh raises her glass. “To Richard and Gemma.”

  After a polite first course, Gemma insists on helping Niamh clear the plates and serve the main course of garlic-basted chicken, served with baby leeks, carrots and parsnips. This time, Richard catches the compliment bug, saying how wonderful everything tastes as he speeds through the course. If only his profession could work as quickly.