by Nicholas Lim
The sun had set; overhead, the sky was already black. A cluster of stars, oval, like an eye with an empty centre, shone faintly above the northern horizon. Garrett wondered where Jason was. She wanted to speak about him. Bryce was silent still. She noticed that while talking their bodies had leaned together and touched lightly at the shoulders. She moved away.
“Come on, it’ll get chilly,” Bryce said, standing, “and you’ve still got a drive ahead of you. I’ll speak to George about getting you digs on-site if you like.”
“Thank you for showing me the birds.”
Chapter 12
Hot metal boomed like a Caribbean steel drum. Garrett knocked again on the dented panels of a twenty-foot-wide entrance gate. Rusting razor wire looped in undulating coils above her head like a vicious, oversized Slinky.
“Hello?!”
“Hello? Is there anybody there?”
Garrett had been woken early that morning with a call from Eastbourne District General; they had wanted her help with an emergency response training exercise. By lunchtime she had returned to the Brighton Royal and, with Da Costa’s help, obtained contact information for the malaria cases. Frustrating calls had discovered nothing about ‘Lizzie’, the missing person. Fiona Grant’s ex-husband, speaking over a crackling line from Cape Town, had been curt and unhelpful. That left Paul Fletcher. Two unreturned messages to his girlfriend ‘Cherry’ had brought Garrett to this gate.
A concrete wall stretched out to either side topped with twinkling glass and black tufts of Buddleia. Across the road a builder’s skip, piled high with bags of rubbish, was alive with flies. What possible connection could a young professional like Fiona Grant have with a man from this place?
Garrett strolled back and forth in front of the gates. She remembered her husband’s ability to slow her down, his cautions and suggestions of patience. Investigations always start like this. Dead ends may not be what they seem. Garrett watched the flies. She remembered his persistence too, his endless questions. “Why? Why? Why?” Like a little boy. Questions that had often got him into trouble. Once, after a drunken meal and an argument that had left him too romantic, he had told her that in the ever-varying Because, Because, Because of her science they fitted together perfectly. It didn’t matter who was right, who was wrong: he was the Why to her Because, she the answer to all his questions. Glib. The words of a writer. She had pulled him by his uncombed blonde hair, kissed his eyes and told him to shut up.
“Who is it?” A voice spoke from behind the gates.
Garrett bent and posted words slowly through the gap. “My name is Dr Christine Garrett.” She could see the toecaps of heavy boots. “I called and left messages. I'm looking for a woman called Cherry.”
One half of the double gates swung open. A tall, heavily-muscled man stood in the entrance. He wore oil-stained jeans, a white T-shirt and a red bandana knotted across the top of his right arm.
“You here ’bout Spyder.”
“Paul Fletcher?”
The man pulled the gate open wide. “Better come in.”
He led the way over the concrete apron of a station forecourt past two rusting petrol pumps. The whitewashed walls of a bungalow reflected back the sun like a blank sheet of paper.
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Fly. CHERRY!” Fly’s voice was raised like a father’s. A wooden signpost read ‘Zoo Crew Clubhouse’. Underneath someone had scrawled in black and silver paint: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
“Coming!”
A head disappeared at a door. Fly gestured at an old blue sofa. Garrett hesitated then sat down in the sagging dip. Behind her the corrugated metal clubhouse roof ticked away in the sunshine.
“Spyder was Cherry’s partner.”
“Yes, I was told.”
“She’s taking his death hard. Blaming herself.”
“Blaming herself in what way?”
The girl reappeared. A wide-chested black Staffordshire terrier was jumping around her heels. Fly looked at Garrett. She had the fleeting impression of having been weighed, placed in the pan of carefully-calibrated scales. “Take care with her.”
When the dog saw Fly it jumped. Cherry checked the animal’s weight with a leash thick as a stirrup leather wrapped around her knuckles; the jerk ran through her body.
“Let me take Rocky,” Fly took the leash and snapped it hard to restrain the heavy dog. He put an arm round the girl and squeezed her shoulders before he left.
Cherry stood square in front of Garrett. She wore grey jeans and a black check shirt. Straight henna-orange hair framed an open oval face.
Fly called out from the doorway, “Can I get anyone a drink?”
“Thank you!” Garrett replied. “Coffee. Two spoons, black, no sugar.”
Cherry shook her head.
“You the doc who left a message?”
“Yes. Cherry?”
“That’s me. What do you want?”
“I’m Dr Christine Garrett. I’m an epidemiologist–”
“What do you want?”
“Please, won’t you sit down with me?”
Cherry perched on the edge of the sofa. In front of her a crate of empty beer bottles gleamed in the sun like a treasure. Garrett met Cherry’s eyes, the same bottle brown, surrounded by fine sun wrinkles, unfriendly, appraising.
“I performed the post mortem examination of Spyder.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“You seen ’im. I haven’t. Not for two days. That's not right.”
Autopsy pictures from the case file flashed across Garrett's mind. Young. Strong. Outwardly healthy.
“I’m making sure we understand exactly why Spyder died.”
“He was my man.”
Cherry stared Garrett down. Garrett remembered again the intimate examination she had performed. She looked away first.
“I understand–”
“Go on, ask your questions.”
Garrett took out her notebook. “We believe Spyder was killed by a cerebral malaria. Do you know if he had ever had malaria before?”
“Yeah. Once.”
“When exactly?”
“Four, five years back. After a Goa Christmas.”
Cherry's voice was flat, emotionless. She could have been giving directions to a passerby. Her gaze was fixed on the empty beer bottles. Where the girl’s sleeve had ridden up her arm, Garrett noticed a long oval bruise along the cephalic vein bisected by a straight line of spots like acne. Similar spots marked other veins.
“Did Spyder fall ill while you were out there?”
“No. Was ’bout a month after we got back.”
“What happened?”
“Doc told him he'd stopped taking the pills too soon. Come summer, he was better.”
“What about any other illnesses?”
“Spy wasn't never ill.”
“Nothing? The flu last winter? Anything with a fever?”
“I told you. No. He was never ill.”
“Before he got ill this time, what was Spyder doing?”
Cherry shrugged. “The usual.”
“What’s that?”
“It's a busy time. Last few weeks he was working with Fly getting set for Glasto.” When Garrett frowned, Cherry said patiently, “The festival. We run a caff there.”
Garrett questioned Cherry further about Spyder’s illness, and then about Fiona Grant and Lizzie. The girl recognised neither name.
“What about outside work? Did he do anything special in the last month?”
“No.”
“Go anywhere?”
“No. Well, couple weeks back we went to see Jade at the Brighton festie. He was fine then! Smoking, drinking like a horse down the beach.” Cherry lifted her head. “More than Christmas, and that’s saying something.”
“And when did Spyder first become ill?”
Fly reappeared and placed a mug of coffee on the ground near Garrett. He moved with his eyes down and retu
rned to the clubhouse without speaking. Garrett took a sip and turned the mug in her hands. Painted on the side was a gold eye, many-spoked, circled by religious logos. It was a copy of the tattoo on Spyder’s shoulder. Garrett’s stomach muscles shivered then tightened. The gilt paint of the image glowed a little unreal in the sunlight, like luminescence at night.
“Bout a week ago.”
“What?” Garrett looked up from the logo on the mug. She forced herself to concentrate on Cherry.
“That’s when it started. He was sweatin’ something terrible. Then coughing. Spitting. Said he must have picked up some bug. That was unusual. Spy’s never ill! And he’s not the sort to complain. I should’ve made him go to the docs. I jus’ thought–”
“You were not to know how ill he was.”
Garrett waited but the girl did not look at her. Her beginning flare of protest was gone; talk and logic couldn’t bring him back.
“Has anyone else been ill – with a temperature, fever – that you’ve heard of?”
“No.”
“Anyone at all?”
“No.”
Garrett put away her notebook.
“That it?”
“Yes. Thank you. I may need to ask some more questions later.”
Although the sun was dipping low in the sky, it was still hot on their shoulders. On a distant rise of land, Garrett could see a field of wheat gilded by the late sunlight. She turned her mug of coffee round and round in her hands. When she spoke, her eyes were unfocussed.
“May I ask you a question, about something else?
Cherry brought her tongue up in front of her top teeth. “Lady–”
Garrett raised her mug. “This logo. Do you know anything about it?”
Something bent Cherry’s lips then was gone, vanishing like writing on water. She shook her head.
“Do you?”
Cherry shook her head again. She leaned back and rested a crooked arm along the top of the old sofa, as though around someone beside her.
“Guru-sri-kalki Arshu,” Garrett pronounced the syllables carefully, exactly as Prenderville had sounded them.
“They’re a bunch of freaks. Don’t waste your time.”
“My son’s there.”
Cherry stared.
“In Asari Valley. For the last two years. I saw the same tattoo on Spyder’s shoulder. Why?”
“He lived there. A few summers back. Not for long.”
“Would you tell me what happened?”
“It was after a bad time between us. For a while I thought I’d lost him to that crew of nutters. Then he wrote me, said he wanted out, said he was scared to leave.”
“And?”
“I went and got him.”
“You went to Asari Valley?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t they throw you out? They did–”
“Thought I was joining up. I stayed a few days. Then we left. One night. Just walked. Big full moon party. No-one noticed. They were all on the beach, high, stoned. We had a little trouble after, but they know to leave us be now.” Cherry lifted her chin towards the clubhouse. “Fly takes care of his own.”
Garrett’s hands tightened on each other.
“Did you meet anyone called Jason? Or Skyler? Blonde-haired boy? Man.”
Cherry shook her head.
“Did Spyder mention–”
Cherry shook her head again.
“Do you know anyone else there?”
“A few.”
“Are you in contact with them?”
“No.”
Garrett stared unseeing at the rusting petrol pumps on the forecourt in front of her. Cherry studied Garrett. Her shoulders dropped a little. “You ever hear from–”
“Jason. Once every six months.”
“Must be hard.”
“Yes.”
“People leave. Eventually. When they get tired of the bollocks. The preaching. The guru crap. The working for free. They get help and–”
“I know.”
There was silence. Garrett rehearsed a strength she didn’t feel.
“Spyder,” Cherry stopped, then began again. “Spy loved it to begin off with. The parties, the free trips – the girls, I bet – the free booze. He was even into all the meditation. He always was a spiritual boy. That crazy mum of his brought him up a Buddhist. That's how they get you. Early. When he joined Spy was going through a bad patch. Couldn't find work–”
Garrett held still, not listening to Cherry until she had identified the pain, sharp, like a splinter left to fester. It was guilt.
“You know he could drink a bottle of vodka straight and not slur a word.” Cherry was gazing fondly at the crate of empty bottles. “Man, he loved his booze.” Pride made Cherry sit up. “He wasn't ever mean with it – he was a happy drunk. You know I still got half a bottle of Becks in our room, on his table. Not like him. Not to finish it.”
They sat together for a long while in silence.
Cherry began chanting softly, her head raised as if calling out across distance. “I Spy, My Spy. I Spy, My Spy. I Spy, My Spy, on the sea shore.”
Garrett watched two men on the other side of the forecourt securing the loaded roof rack of a white Landrover with sheet and ropes, the old way. One of them was whistling a tune through his teeth. Fly reappeared to check on the work. As he walked back past them he jerked a thumb towards the Landrover. “Skylark’s ready!” Cherry smiled at him and Garrett said, “She's alright,” as if she were. When Cherry spoke again her voice was bitter.
“Doc? You know why it happened?”
“We don't have all the answers just yet,” Garrett began.
“I should have got him to the hospital earlier.”
“Cherry, it–”
“If I'd made him go, the day before–”
“From what we know, it wouldn't have made any difference.”
But Cherry wasn't listening. Garrett waited.
“You think everything happens for a reason.” Cherry began softly. “You know: you do something good for someone, eventually something good comes back. You do bad, bad’ll happen to you.” Cherry’s head came up, her voice rising. “Seems right, doesn’t it? But Spyder and me, we never did nothing wrong.”
“No one can be blamed for Spyder's death. Not you, not him, not anyone,” Garrett said.
The two women sat side-by-side on the sofa staring into the same place. In the distance, beneath a falling sun and a sky faded to cotton-washed blue, a combine crawled across a field of shining wheat like a silent, fat beetle. After a long while Garrett began to speak, her voice matter-of-fact and tired, as though describing the beginning of a long day. “I lost my husband. Two years ago. His death was an accident, a car crash.” Garrett watched the combine harvester make its turn. “He was a reporter. He was driving to interview a contact for a story when his brakes failed; his car hit a parked coach. He was taken to hospital in a coma and died without regaining consciousness.”
Garrett looked at the ground, unseeing, her body rigid, hands clasped together in front of her as if hiding a surprise from a child.
“Afterwards, I found a reason to blame the police, then when that turned out to be unfair, I blamed the man he was going to meet, the editor he was writing for... Finally, I blamed myself, for my encouragement of his interest in the story, for not being there, for a hundred reasons. It doesn’t help. It,” Garrett hesitated, “It just confuses.”
“What was his name?”
“David.” Garrett began rubbing her hands together. “It was a local accident. The body came to my hospital late and I was the only one on duty. I did the autopsy myself. He was so broken. He had been… the steering column had smashed into his sternum, punctured the lungs, liver and heart. But his hands were fine! Not a mark. They looked just like he was alive.” Garrett stared down at her own fingers. “I often think of his hands.”
After a moment Cherry asked softly, “You’re a doctor – you must have figured out why things like th
is happen.” Garrett looked up and saw Cherry’s cheeks were wet. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing.” Garrett took Cherry’s hands in her own, her grip firm. “A cellular infection is an act of nature, like a flood or earthquake. It isn’t true that healthy people are good or beautiful people better, or ill people are bad, or that there's any achievement or sin in dying from a natural cause.”
“So it's all just luck?” Cherry said bitterly.
“Well disease doesn’t choose.” Garrett hesitated. “When someone dies, that's not the end of them. It seems like it at first. But it's not.”
“What d’you mean?”
“They live on.”
“You mean some kind of resurrection? Or like a ghost?”
Cherry withdrew. She clasped her elbows with her hands, arms in front of her, like a shield against temptation. She began to tremble, a shivering that ran all through her body. Garrett remembered her own tightening grip, when David had died, and felt a sudden love for the girl, for the adamant way she held herself, the thin set of her mouth that shaped smiles she couldn't feel. She had not asked for consolation, only answers.
“I see David in the oddest things. A lost scarf, how someone is telling someone off at a bus stop, watching the evening news. For God’s sake, I can still hear his grumbling! Every day I see him all around me. And I am David in so many small ways. How I cook a meal, read a newspaper, write a letter–”
Cherry still held her elbows tight. Garrett knew what she was thinking. It wasn’t enough. She just wanted him back.
“The blame, the guilt, it just gets in the way. If you–”
“Doc, do you mind if we don’t talk?”
They sat together on the old sofa. The sun was beginning to set, doubling the shapes of things in long shadows. Behind them the clubhouse roof still ticked on like an arrhythmic clock in the last heat of the day. In front, surrounded by a dozen or so bikes and cars, the two rusting petrol pumps on the station forecourt looked like a couple of defiant one-armed gunfighters making a last stand.
Chapter 13
You are in a maze with corridors branching in all directions. Follow the sequence of personal growth as you have been taught. Find your way through the darkness.
