Lost Summer

by Stuart Harrison

  ‘You had no proof,’ Adam pointed out.

  ‘Oh, come on, you know as well as I do I could’ve written it so there was just enough to make people start asking questions. Findlay was just covering his arse.’

  Adam didn’t say anything. He had the feeling her defiance was more about justifying what she’d done to herself rather than to him.

  ‘How else am I going to get out of here?’ she said. ‘I don’t think the Mail are going to be impressed by my erudite coverage of the local flower show, do you?’

  He was saved from having to answer by a shout from one of the men in the boat. A diver surfaced holding something up and suddenly all around them conversations ended and cigarettes were hurriedly put out as reporters and onlookers pressed forward for a better look. The journalist from the Mail hung up his phone and trotted over to join the others. The boat started back towards the shore, towing a line that was attached to something partly submerged and guided by two divers. At the beach it was immediately surrounded by a knot of people.

  ‘What is it?’ someone shouted, but the police took no notice.

  Adam caught sight of a woman huddled in a thick coat. ‘Isn’t that the pathologist from Carlisle? Dr Keller?’

  Janice nodded. Up on the promontory some photographers had slipped through the police tape and had positioned themselves in the hope of getting a good picture. A constable went after them and started herding them back again and as Adam watched a movement further back in the trees caught his eye. Someone was back there, hidden in the gloom among the pines high up on the top of the ridge. For a moment he couldn’t make out who it was, then the figure moved into a patch of light and Adam saw that it was David. For a second it seemed as if their eyes collided, then abruptly David turned and vanished.

  ‘What is it?’ Janice asked, seeing Adam’s expression.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. He turned back to watch the group huddled on the beach.

  Nick learned about the find in Cold Tarn when he stopped at the newsagent’s to buy tobacco on the way to the yard. His eye caught the headline as he was handing over his money.

  The old man behind the counter saw what he was looking at. ‘We’ll be swamped by the buggers now. There’s been cars going up that road since before it was light. Says in there they’re going to send divers down.’

  Nick grabbed a paper and put it on the counter and the old man took his money and rang up the sale.

  ‘Wonder who it was?’ the old man said, eager to talk, but Nick took his change and left the shop without saying a word. The old man watched him go and shook his head. ‘Surly bugger,’ he muttered. He went back to unwrapping the bundles of papers the way he did at this time every day. He shivered; it was getting colder in the mornings. He glanced at the sky, which was flecked with harmless fluffy white cloud. This weather couldn’t last. He could feel a change in the air, making his rheumatism play up.

  When he reached the yard Nick unlocked the gate, whistling through his teeth for the dog. It appeared at the corner of the barn, its tail between its legs. ‘C’mere,’ he called and dug in his pocket for the chunk of dog roll and the handful of biscuits that comprised its daily meal. With barely a look he tossed them on the ground and swung open the gates. When he turned around the dog hadn’t moved. Fucking animal! What was wrong with it? ‘Suit yourself then.’ He kicked the food to one side as he went back to his Landcruiser. Even when he stopped by the barn the bloody animal hadn’t moved. He thought there must be something wrong with it.

  It was only when he got out that he noticed the dog’s swollen belly. As he started round the back to chain it up it trotted meekly ahead of him with its head down. The stink around there was terrible. Bloody dog had been sick. He chained it up and looked around, wondering what the hell it had eaten. It lay with its head on its paws looking half dead. He hadn’t noticed if the barn door had been forced. Someone had poisoned a dog once so they could break into the yard. Kids probably, looking for money, but he never kept any around. They’d wrecked the office though, the little bastards.

  He went back around to the front of the building but the door was secure and when he opened up there was no sign of disturbance inside. Maybe the dog had caught a rabbit with myxie or something. He put the kettle on to make coffee and rolled a cigarette. Then he sat down at the table and took the rolled-up paper out of his pocket. When he’d finished reading he looked at the phone. He hesitated before he dialled David’s number at the sawmill. There was no answer. Too early. After a while he went outside and rolled another smoke. He needed to think. Everything was coming apart. Everywhere he turned. For a while he’d thought it would be okay. Then Adam turned up, sticking his bloody nose in. Jesus. Now this. And Mary. Mad Mary. She thought something was going to get her. Maybe she was right.

  He couldn’t think. He needed to work. He picked up his tools and went down through the yard. He’d finish stripping that Jag. He could think better when he worked.

  He might not have noticed the Vauxhall, except for the footprints in the mud. Dog and man. The dog never strayed far from the barn. He paused. The door was shut, and as he stared at it he saw the scratch marks, long thin scrapes. He knew what they were instantly. The bloody dog made the same marks when it scratched against the barn door. He went over and looked inside the car. Something glistened on the floor and when he picked it up he saw it was a piece of glass. Thin, not like glass from a window. The glove compartment hung open. Hadn’t it been jammed shut when the car had come in? He remembered catching Adam here, the look on his face.

  Shit! He turned and went back towards the barn.

  David sat in his Land Rover at the bottom of Back Lane where he’d parked after leaving the tarn. He’d been there for more than an hour, and he was cold though he barely noticed it. He caught a movement in the rear-view mirror and glancing up saw a woman standing outside one of the council houses across the road. She had her arms folded across her chest and was staring in his direction with a frown of open disapproval, almost hostility. Wondering what he was doing there. Nosy bloody bitch!

  He was surprised by the vehemence of the thought. He looked in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. Christ, he was cracking up. He looked liked shit. He hadn’t been home the night before. After Graham had phoned to tell him about what had been found in the tarn he’d stayed at his desk in the office, drinking steadily as it grew dark. He hadn’t wanted to face Angela again. Especially not now. He knew he wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye. Perhaps he wouldn’t ever be able to again. But then maybe he wouldn’t get the chance because she wouldn’t be there. He smiled grimly at the thought. No doubt Adam would be happy.

  Adam! Fucking Adam! Sometimes he thought that name had been a curse to him ever since that day they’d waited by the road for him when they were kids. Somebody new on the estate they’d heard, a kid from London. Some snotty Southerner. He tried to remember whose idea it had been to make him pay to pass. But of course it would have been Nick’s. His was another name that had become a curse. Where the hell was he? He tried calling the yard again, but like every other time that morning there was no answer.

  It was funny how a person’s life could be changed by something that at the time seemed insignificant. And that one thing shaped your life for ever. Take that day on the road. Adam had given him a bloody nose, but he’d still helped him up. Why had he done that? He supposed he’d felt bad about making him fight. He’d liked him too for some funny reason. Maybe because even though it was obvious he’d been scared he’d tried not to show it and he hadn’t backed down. He remembered seeing Adam on the first day of term at Kings and feeling guilty about what had happened so he’d gone over and offered to shake his hand. Nothing was ever simple again after that. He’d known from the start that Nick and Adam would never mix. They were like oil and water. If it had been just Graham it would have been okay, Graham had always been easy-going, but Nick, he was a different matter.

  David leaned forward and rested his head on the wheel. He h
ad a headache. It felt like something tightening around his skull. Squeezing his brain. He hadn’t even known why he’d liked Adam. Always with his nose stuck in a book, didn’t know one end of a fishing rod from another hardly. He supposed it was partly that they went to the same school, not that he’d ever wanted to go to Kings. That had been his dad’s idea, and he’d only just scraped in. Not like Adam. It was obvious from the start that he was smart and maybe that’s why he’d liked him. He was different. The trouble was Nick. Or maybe it was both of them. He’d never really understood it himself. It was like they both wanted something from him. He knew Nick was somehow threatened by Adam, as if he thought Adam would take his place or something and so he’d always had to make sure he didn’t make Nick feel he was being pushed away, but at the same time he had to be a friend to Adam. And he’d always felt as if Adam needed him somehow. It seemed as if he was always trying to work this balancing act between the two of them but somehow he couldn’t do it and when it came down to it he’d known Nick his whole life.

  Jesus. It was all so long ago and now it was such a fucking mess.

  It had felt strange up at the tarn earlier. When was the last time he’d been there? Years. More than he could remember. That place held nothing but bad memories. He’d watched Adam while the boat came back to shore. For a few seconds he wasn’t thinking about what the divers had found, instead he was thinking about an early morning years ago when the ground had been covered in snow. He could picture what had happened as if it was just a day or two ago. He’d been thinking about Angela. Wondering what he was going to do. He’d known he couldn’t go on the way he had been for much longer. He was starting to think about them together, wondering what they did. Sometimes he’d found himself watching them with his fists clenched and he’d had to turn away so they wouldn’t see what he was thinking. Then he’d heard a movement behind him, something glimpsed underneath a tree across a small clearing. He’d lifted his gun because he needed the distraction and he was bored because there weren’t going to be any ducks anyway. He’d thought at first that it was a deer. Then the voice of caution reminding him never to shoot at anything until he was certain of the target. He remembered peering into the grey half-light and starting to form a shape but it had moved again and before he could properly consider what he was doing he’d pulled the trigger.

  His hands had been numb, his fingers clumsy. He remembered the roar and flash mingled with a scream that didn’t come from any deer. But there had been an instant. An instant when he’d seen. Seen what? Fuck! Fuck! He banged his forehead on the wheel. Thud. Thud. Thud. Repeatedly until he thought he felt the skin break. Jesus Christ! What was happening to him?

  He was breathing heavily. Taking great gasps of air, his whole body shuddering. He should have known that day when he’d watched Angela dive from the bridge. He should have known then, when he felt something tighten in his throat, when he felt the muscles in his belly clench, that it would all end in fucking disaster. And maybe now, finally, it would. In a way he was almost grateful. All of his life since Adam had left he’d been waiting for him to come back. No, that couldn’t be true. But maybe he’d felt as if he’d been living a life he didn’t deserve. That someday it would all come down around his ears.

  What if he’d noticed Angela before Adam had? He’d asked himself that question a million times. He didn’t know why he hadn’t, except that she was just Angela. He had known her so long she was just there. But what if it hadn’t been like that? What if he had been with her the night of the disco? Then he would never have talked to Meg. Then he wouldn’t be sitting here now. Christ! What was the point of torturing himself? What was the fucking point?

  He felt something wet on his face, and for a second he thought it must be raining, but the window wasn’t open and anyway it wasn’t rain. He looked at his wet fingers. His vision was all blurred. Tears. For fuck’s sake he was crying! He laughed, but it was a harsh choking sound that caught in his throat. He was falling apart, cracking up. He’d end up like the girl Nick lived with, Mary, who was completely crazy.

  He got out of the car, stumbled into the road and slammed the door behind him. He looked back to see if the woman across the street was still watching him, but he couldn’t even see through the tears swimming in his eyes. It was happening to him more and more. He thought it was partly the booze. Partly. Wasn’t it supposed to make you melancholy? He supposed that was true. It stopped him from thinking too, that was why he did it. It allowed him to sleep. He didn’t think about dead people.

  He stumbled along the bridleway, wiping his eyes, pulling himself together. There was worse to come, he knew that now. Adam would make sure of that. His conscience, his fucking tormentor. He would bring it all down. He didn’t understand the town, he didn’t understand any of it and he never had, and because of that he would destroy it all.

  At the bridge he paused to look at the cottages on the other side. He didn’t come here much, couldn’t remember the last time he had. It was strange that Nick had lived here for so long, a place that couldn’t hold many happy memories, if any. But Nick was odd, you never really knew what he was thinking. He supposed that was why Nick and Mary lived together. They were suited in a peculiar way. One thing he’d never thought was that Nick would sell the cottages. He’d always said he wouldn’t, though he wouldn’t spend a penny to fix them up either. Even when Forest Havens had said they wanted this land to build their boathouse, and offered him more than it was worth, Nick had said he wouldn’t sell. But then the offer had been increased, several times, and finally Nick had agreed. Who wouldn’t? But even then it seemed Nick was reluctant. Funny how everybody has their price. And once it’s reached, funnier still the things that people are capable of to protect what they cherish. Ha-ha. Fucking hilarious.

  He crossed the bridge. He hadn’t been here in over a year. Maybe two. The sun was on the roofs. The cottages looked unlived-in, forgotten and abandoned. He emerged from the trees as the sun slid behind a cloud and shadows raced across the meadow. He felt suddenly cold. But he was often cold these days. He shivered. Somebody walking over his grave. He wasn’t eating properly. He’d lost weight lately. He could feel his bones grind. Nick’s car wasn’t there. He wondered where the hell he could be. Maybe Mary would know. He went towards the door and as he did a curtain twitched in the bottom window. He raised his hand to knock but before he could the door was flung open and he found himself staring down the barrel of a twelve-bore shotgun.

  He heard the click and felt a massive rush of fear like a physical blow. It took his breath away. He knew his life was about to end. Somewhere behind the fear he felt a tiny glimmer of relief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Adam was the last to leave the lake. The area around the shore remained cordoned off with police tape, and a single unlucky constable had been left to ensure the scene wasn’t disturbed; he was sitting on a log near the water’s edge, smoking a cigarette and idly skimming stones. Across the other side of the lake, high up on the fells a building was visible. That, Adam thought, must be Lake Lodge. Funny how Ben and his friends should have stayed there of all places after leaving the camp. In view of the lake, from which invisible strands seemed to radiate, linking past and present. And now something had been found out there, beneath the dark cold water. Possibly Meg Coucesco, or what was left of her after all this time. He wondered about David being there earlier. There was a kind of symmetry to it all.

  He pulled up the leg of his jeans. His knee was aching and it looked red and inflamed. One day he was going to have to see a specialist and find out if anything more could be done or he would be crippled with arthritis by the time he was fifty. He kneaded the flesh and began massaging it in a circular motion.

  ‘You alright?’

  Startled, he looked up and found the police constable he’d been watching earlier standing in front of him. ‘I’m fine. It’s just an old injury.’ He rolled down his jeans, embarrassed in some way by the exposed scars.

  ‘
Thought you’d have gone with the others,’ the constable said.

  ‘Oh, I’m not one of them.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. So, if you’re not a journalist how come you’re here?’

  The question, Adam saw, was asked out of simple friendly curiosity. He didn’t correct the assumption that he wasn’t a journalist. ‘I’m staying at the same pub as John Shields. The one that found the bone.’

  ‘The fisherman? Is that his name?’ The constable took out his cigarettes and offered one to Adam before lighting up. ‘I only heard about it this morning,’ he explained. He stared glumly across the water. ‘I’ ll probably be here all bloody day.’

  ‘You’re not based in Castleton then?’

  ‘No. Carlisle. I think there’s only a couple of lads in the town. So, what are you doing around here then? Holiday is it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, give you something to tell everyone when you get home, won’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it will,’ Adam agreed. ‘What was it they bought out of the lake earlier then?’

  The constable sucked on his cigarette. ‘I shouldn’t really say anything.’

  ‘I understand. I expect I’ll hear about it on the news tonight anyway.’

  The constable thought about that. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters. That was a body they pulled out before. What was left of it anyway.’

  Adam looked impressed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Wrapped up in something it was,’ the constable added with the air of somebody privy to confidential information. ‘Know what that means?’

  ‘What?’ Adam asked, though he did know what it meant.

  ‘Somebody must have done it. Wrapped the body up I mean.’ He adopted an expression of authority. ‘That means it was murder, see. I mean, it couldn’t be an accident or suicide, could it?’