Song of the Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  He nods, then turns and indicates the road he already pointed me down.

  ‘We need to go down there,’ he says, then he shuffles back around the car, his breaths heavy, and gets in.

  14

  ‘We came down here when we were children. It’s a great area for expeditions, hiking and camping. Dangerous in places, but you learn quickly where you should go, where you cannot put your feet. When you are at school, they send you off in small groups. Missions, we called them, although it is nothing more than getting across the bog in one piece. They say they watch you. They send a group off on their own, children, maybe thirteen or fourteen years of age. They say they’ll be watching. You don’t know how, and you can’t see them, but they’ve told you that they’re watching, so you believe them. That’s what stops you being scared. Four nights alone on the marshes, as the hierarchy within the group develops. That’s what they’re testing of course. To see how the group evolves.

  ‘Nowadays, I think, they send them out with cell phones. They can call when they need help. We did not have such means of communication. I was worried, but they said they were watching, so what was there to worry about? The rain came the second day. Not heavy, but soaking. That misty rain that drenches you in a short time. And it did not go away. The marshes were covered in this. Cold and wet, the air heavy with drizzle. I wondered if they could still see us, but I assumed that they must have moved in closer. Of course they would, we were thirteen- and fourteen-year-old children.

  ‘We had all had enough on the third day. All soaked through, all cold, all miserable. I remember I did not care. I did not care if I received the expedition badge. I knew there would be another chance to do the test, but I did not care about that either. I just wanted to go home. So did most of the others. One or two said no, that we had to go on. There were arguments. One of the boys starting shouting. Shouting for help. Shouting to those adults who were watching. But there was no one. No one came.

  ‘There was an argument and, of course, there was a fight. The boy who had been shouting fell into a bog. He was punched, and he fell back. The bog sucked him down. We hung on to him, but we could not pull him out.

  ‘We shouted. Yes, we shouted for help, but still no one came. There was no one to come, that was the thing. There was no one there. They lied to us. They said we’d be fine, and when we weren’t fine, there was no one to help us.

  ‘He slipped into the bog. I can still see the fear on his face, I can still see the last of his fingers as they were swallowed up.

  ‘We walked home. I don’t think we even camped that night, just trudged on, each with a torch in his hand. The boy who had punched him did not do what you might imagine, by making up a story, threatening others to go along with him. He was broken.

  ‘We arrived at the camp the following day. One short. No one wanted to tell the story of how one of our number had come to fall in the bog. They asked us, over and over. Finally, when they were talking to us one by one, the boy who had thrown the punch owned up.

  ‘We sat on the bus home, knowing our parents would be waiting for us at the other end. They were all notified, they knew what we’d been through, and those of us who had survived, they knew we were all right.

  ‘I ran into my mother’s arms. She cried, she held me. My head pressed into her chest, I looked around the same scene, playing itself out amongst so many parents and children. And there were the two parents without a child. They had been informed of their son’s death, but they had come anyway. They stood silently, hopelessly, helplessly. The only parents not crying. No tears, just lost.

  ‘Were they hoping that their child would be on the bus, that somehow the school had notified the wrong parents? Maybe they thought he was playing a game, fooling them all, and that he was going to appear, like magic, from his hiding spot. Perhaps they just had to see for themselves. The confirmation. That he wasn’t coming home. That they were never going to see their only child again.’

  The driver finally stops talking. It’s a long story, a slow narrative to accompany the drive beneath grey sky, between endless forests, the same landscape over and over.

  ‘I don’t like coming back here,’ he adds, several minutes later.

  * * *

  ‘Stop!’

  The driver slams on the brakes. I put my hands up to brace myself against the seat in front, despite wearing a seatbelt. Baden allows himself to be forced forward, and then judders back into his seat as the car stops. We all look at him, although in Kuusk’s case it is in the rear view mirror.

  He’s staring at the seat in front of him again. I wonder if we’re anywhere near where he was kept. We’ve been driving for a while since Tartu, have already changed direction once at his instruction.

  That is, of course, if he was kept anywhere. His behaviour seems too rehearsed. I need to keep reminding myself that this could be part of the plan. Someone’s plan, somewhere.

  ‘That road,’ he says. ‘The one to the right.’

  He glances back as he says it. We just passed a long, straight side road. Single lane, hasn’t been tarmacked.

  The driver tosses the car into reverse and brings us alongside the road. Baden looks along it and nods.

  ‘Are we close?’ asks Kuusk.

  ‘No,’ he says, then, ‘I don’t know.’

  I get a slight feeling of anxiety at the thought we might actually find the house we’re looking for, but I doubt the feeling is necessary. I don’t see there being much chance of it, and it’s not why I’m here, driving into the nether reaches of the country. This is about watching Baden. Gauging his reaction, letting him tell his story. The more he says, the more blanks he fills in, the greater the chance of him stumbling.

  Of course, there may be nothing for him to stumble over.

  We start driving along the road, slowly now. Baden stares at the floor.

  ‘We need you to look,’ I say.

  A slight shake of the head, and he remains in the same position.

  ‘Stop the car,’ I say, no urgency in my voice so the driver doesn’t feel the need to slam on the brakes again.

  He stops the car. Baden takes a deep breath, but does not look round.

  ‘We didn’t come all this way to not give ourselves at least a chance of finding where you were held. At the moment, you’re all we’ve got, so we need you. You need to look out the window, you need to try to identify… houses, trees, landmarks. Anything that might remind you of where you were.’

  He doesn’t move. Fingers clenching, unclenching.

  ‘You’ll be safe.’

  And aren’t those empty words? How can I promise him he’ll be safe? I think we’re so generally convinced that there’s something going on here other than Baden and the story he’s told, that neither Kuusk nor I have given any thought to what we’d do if we actually managed to locate the building and the people who were keeping him captive. They sound like they’d be up for a fight.

  ‘Look out the window. To me this just looks like any road around here. What is it that reminded you?’

  Nothing. I give him another few seconds. The light is growing dim, however, darkness will be here soon enough.

  ‘Why did you instruct us to come along here?’

  ‘The bench.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There was a small bench at the junction. It was unusual. I remembered it because when I saw it, I was aching to sit down, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk sitting out in the open like that.’

  ‘So it wasn’t long after you escaped?

  Thoughts are roped in from the outer limits as he tries to put the last few days into some sort of timescale perspective.

  ‘The same day, but a while later.’

  ‘OK, good. At least we’re in the right direction. You’re doing really well, John, but we’re just going to need you to stick at it for a while longer.’

  Nothing. I catch Kuusk’s eye in the mirror, his face expressionless.

  ‘OK,’ I say to the driver. ‘Let’s
move. Slowly.’

  The car starts up again.

  ‘I need you to look outside and tell me when it was you joined this road. Was it by another junction, or did you come out of the forest?’

  ‘Don’t take me back to the forest.’

  ‘You’re not going back to the forest, don’t worry. But I need you to look around and think carefully about where it was you joined this road.’

  Finally I’ve got through to him, and his head lifts slowly. He looks along the road, and then turns and looks behind us.

  ‘Did you walk along this road, or did you stay on the edge of the forest?’

  ‘Edge of the forest,’ he says. Voice nervous, as though we really might be taking him straight back to his captors.

  ‘Good, John, that was good. Now, d’you have any idea where you joined the road?’

  ‘Came to the road from the woods, looked along… I don’t… I chose a direction to go in. Wasn’t sure. Came this way, but went back into the trees to follow the road.’

  ‘Will you be able to recognise the spot? The spot where you first saw the road?’

  As I ask the question I’m looking along the road. I doubt you could pick a spot on here if you drove up and down it every day.

  ‘While yet,’ he says. ‘While yet.’

  He drops his gaze, looks at his hands. His hands are working, the fingers clasping together, unclasping.

  ‘Think I’ll know it when I see it,’ he says. He looks up quickly ahead, and then again back down.

  I catch Kuusk’s eye, then stare ahead. Unless he just happened to come out of the forest next to a monument or a well or a house, I’m not exactly sure how he’s going to be able to tell.

  I get the sudden feeling that for all the uncertainty and the nervousness, the hesitation and the worried glances over his shoulder, he knows exactly where he’s taking us. Right to the very door.

  15

  We find a track, down into the woods, close to the spot Baden identified. Perhaps it was the track that he recognised. It would have made sense, as he clawed his way blindly through the forest, to attach himself to something that would help guide him, that would, at the very least, prevent him going in endless circles. So maybe it is genuine, rather than part of a plot.

  Now on the other side of that patch of woods, and he’s indicating another forested area, the other side of an extended patch of damp grassy marshland.

  To our right the forests come together again, forming a large arc of trees about half a mile away. The marsh extends away to our left, the trees from which we’ve just emerged retreating, becoming sparser. The distance is murky, and not far away, as night falls and the damp evening clouds begin to fall ever closer to the treetops.

  There’s not a road to be seen anywhere, although of course it doesn’t mean there isn’t one a hundred yards into the next wood. There are a couple of crows, a very slight movement of the trees in the breeze, but that aside, a mostly complete, and unnerving silence.

  If there is someone looking out for us, it’d be hard to keep our arrival a secret, especially since we just drove a diesel car through the forest.

  ‘You came from there?’ I ask, pointing into the next forest.

  He nods. Has that look about him that suggests he can barely speak. Must be getting close, and his fear, or his dramatic performance, is getting more intense.

  ‘Tell me what else you know.’

  He looks off into the forest, as if the house might be visible if he stares intently enough through the trees. He lifts his hand and indicates the general area of marshland.

  ‘I came across here. Not long after I’d escaped.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I remember it. I was terrified coming out into the open so soon, worried that they’d see me. But I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘You could have run that way,’ I say, indicating the direction of the main body of the forest, down towards the great arc joining the two woods together.

  ‘I’d come from that direction.’

  He points now, indicating his movements up and away from the area to the far left of the arc. Either way, it seems odd. There would always be more forest to run into. On the other hand, it’s unlikely he was thinking straight.

  ‘So if we head in this direction, roughly,’ says Kuusk, indicating the forest at about sixty degrees from where we are, ‘we’ll come to this house, do you think?’

  Baden gasps slightly. We’re coming to it, right enough. I doubt any of us thought that we were coming down here on anything other than a wild goose chase, and yet now it appears that we’re pretty close. So, he continues to play the part, or he is genuinely going to be terrified.

  I’m not really sure what to do with him if it’s the latter. It would be cruel to take him back there, when his captors are very possibly still there, with just two unarmed police officers to protect him.

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘Are you carrying?’ I say to Kuusk.

  He shakes his head. The driver, even though I didn’t ask him, also shakes his head.

  Careless. That in itself is probably proof that we came to observe, not to discover.

  ‘How long d’you think you were running from the house until you got to the edge of the marsh?’

  He’s staring into the woods. Shakes his head.

  ‘Ballpark,’ I say. ‘Five minutes, thirty-five minutes?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ he says quickly. ‘Maybe ten, I don’t know.’

  ‘You think you ran in a straight line, do–

  ‘I don’t know,’ he snaps, the voice with sudden urgency. ‘There were trees, they were flying by, branches in my face, I couldn’t… I don’t know, I was running. Running, breathing heavily. I told you they took… I can’t breathe properly. I couldn’t run far.’

  As if to provide further proof of his ailing health, his breathing suddenly becomes much heavier, unable to keep up with the pace of his words, the urgency in his voice.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You’ve probably done enough.’

  I move slightly away from him, an indication that it’s all right for him to stand down – he’s said everything he needs to say – and walk over beside Kuusk. We look into the woods on the other side of the marsh. Evening seems to be seeping out of the trees, crossing the boggy ground, even as we watch.

  ‘Thinking that maybe we should have taken the Tartu police up on their offer.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  It doesn’t matter what the time is, the darkness is the thing. Walking into a stranger’s territory, holding none of the cards. We might not even have surprise on our side, as they could well have been expecting someone since Baden escaped. Perhaps there’s someone right now, on the other side of the marsh, watching us.

  I think I’ve already made the decision.

  I can smell the cigarette smoke from the driver, rather than from Kuusk. Must be a stronger brand. Aware that Baden is still standing behind, arms wrapped around himself, nervously waiting to see what’s going to happen.

  I catch Kuusk’s eye. He takes a draw of the cigarette. There’s a slight nervousness in his actions, but he makes a small acknowledging gesture. I turn to the others.

  ‘We need to come back in the morning, when we have some sort of daylight.’

  Unconsciously look at the sky. Is there ever any proper daylight in this country?

  ‘We can speak to the local police, and return heavy-handed, hopefully. We should…’ Pause, turn back to Kuusk. ‘What d’you think? Should we just go and find a hotel, or head back to Tallinn for the night?’

  ‘Six hour round trip,’ he says.

  There’s a point. Six more hours in the suffocating awfulness of that car.

  ‘Tallinn,’ says Baden. ‘I’m not staying down here. I don’t trust it.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘The area. The people.’ Another wheezed breath. ‘Everything. We can’t stay here.’

  I glance at Kuusk and he shru
gs. The driver joins him.

  ‘I’m fine to drive back,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe you can go a little quicker,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And put on the radio.’

  ‘It’s broken.’

  I turn back to Kuusk and indicate with a look that it’s time to go. Baden is straight into the car, the world-weary driver takes his seat. Kuusk and I walk round to the other side of the car.

  ‘You look sad,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s what it is. I’ve been wondering about you. Trying to get a handle on you. And that’s it. You look sad.’

  ‘We’ll come back tomorrow, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean now, about this. This is a business decision. No one would look sad about this. I mean, generally. Since you arrived. You have an air of sadness.’

  I say nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in fact, I look even sadder at the thought that this is how I come across.

  We get in the car. Baden seems to retreat into himself. Not quite curling up into a ball, but I can feel his energy withdraw into a tight knot somewhere in the middle of himself. Both the driver and Kuusk flick their cigarettes away, although the smell of the smoke from their breath quickly infects the car.

  There’s so little cigarette smoke around in the UK one becomes even more aware of it when it’s there. There should be smoking areas, and then smoking decontamination areas where smokers have to use mouthwash, because there’s really no difference between smoking, and not smoking ten seconds after you’ve stopped.

  Some smokers would probably see decontamination areas as a step too far.

  ‘What about you?’ I say, asking the question that I didn’t ask the previous day. ‘What’s your quirk?’

  Even though there are three others in the car, the driver and Baden both know that I’m speaking to Kuusk.