‘He’s been making quite a nuisance of himself. He feels wrong. Gives off a false scent. Not what he appears to be. Watch him by all means. But don’t be afraid to take care of him.’
‘No. Right.’ Noah now nodding stupidly.
‘Just remember what will happen if you mess this up.’
‘I . . . I won’t.’
Morrigan stepped towards him, smelling of fire, burning branches. ‘Don’t make me regret letting you do this. Just remember what you’re getting out of it.’
Morrigan stared at him. And he knew his audience was over.
He turned, walked away as quickly as he could without running.
Then just ran.
29
Tom couldn’t sleep. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Rachel had left a couple of hours ago. The usual goodbyes, breathless kisses, hands over bodies, then off to her car, phone out, number called and speaking to her husband before she was behind the wheel. Reassuring him she was on her way, that work had taken longer than expected. A small wave to Tom with one hand, the phone still pressed to her ear with the other as she drove off.
The night outside was cold, still. As though Rachel’s departure hadn’t made a ripple. Like she had never been there. Inside, Tom could still smell her perfume, their sex. The house reverberated with her absence.
He had tried to settle. But sitting in an armchair with a novel he had failed to get involved with, spine cracked and pages splayed out on the table next to him, he was anxious, on edge. The glass of whisky didn’t help, nor the music. He usually listened to something on a soothingly low level before sleep; Nick Cave’s Skeleton Tree or The Civil Wars were the usual ones. Dark, deep, from the playlist he and his therapist had come up with. Tonight it was the turn of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies and Gnossiennes. Lamps threw pools of glowing warm light round the living room. But he only saw the shadowed pools between them. None of his trusted late-night sleep inducers were working and he knew why. The dream. He was frightened to sleep in case it came back again. He needed to try something else.
Tom was a big man, kept himself in good shape. He had both the physique and the features of a rugby player. Bones that had been reset. Scars that hadn’t fully healed. He came across as someone who could handle himself. And he could, if he had to. But his eyes, when looked into directly, betrayed a sensitivity, an intelligence – a hurt, even – at odds with his build. He closed those eyes now. Sat still, letting the music wash over him. Listened to the silences between those sparse, beautiful, melancholic notes, trying to find space within to crawl inside, to go deep. Or as deep as he dared.
Think. Feel. Tune everything else out, meditate the way his therapist had shown him.
He hadn’t believed meditation would work. Not after everything he had been through, what those experiences had made him. But surprisingly it had. It brought him face to face with himself, the world. It calmed him, centred him. And he wasn’t too big or too close-minded to admit it.
So now he let his mind drift, waited to see what would come to him.
Rachel. The first thought in his head, the first picture in his mind. And his conscious thought when he had invited her back:
I won’t have sex with her.
I won’t have sex with her.
I’ve only called her here because of my cards, the identity theft. That’s all. Honestly.
Lies. Self-deluding lies.
She fulfils my needs. We have sex, my needs are fulfilled and she leaves. Don’t want involvement, don’t need involvement. Can’t risk involvement. And when she’s gone I don’t miss her. Perfect.
Were these lies too that he told himself?
He saw Rachel’s face. In his bed. Under him. On top of him. Rachel in ecstasy. Eyes locked on his, smiling. And now, sitting in his lounge, he smiled at the image. In his kitchen drinking coffee, talking. Her eyes, again. Still that warmth, that returned smile. She fulfilled his needs all right. He just hadn’t been honest with himself about what his needs were.
And then walking away from him. The smile faltered now, faded. Talking on her phone, readying herself to go back to her life. Her more important life. The smile gone completely now. And an emptiness inside him taking its place.
He tried to blink it out of his mind, kept thinking.
Lila. He had to find her. Not just because of what she had taken of his. More than that. She might be in trouble. She could be dead, for all he knew. No. Don’t think that. She had to be alive. She had to be. If she died after leaving him he would . . .
No. It wasn’t his fault, whatever happened to her. He couldn’t be responsible for everyone. He couldn’t get involved. Kept telling himself: don’t get involved. But still. He couldn’t have another death on his conscience. Even if he wasn’t the direct cause of it, he would feel it, shoulder at least part of the responsibility. So let her be alive. Let that be that. And don’t get involved.
Because when he got involved . . .
Another face. Another name. About Lila’s age, looking up at him with happy eyes. Trusting eyes. Loving eyes. Then later, her sprawled and bloodied body, a Picasso version of her earlier self.
And a gun in his hand.
The dream.
He opened his eyes, stood up, moved quickly to the CD player, snapped it off. Poured another whisky, drained it in one, not savouring, feeling it burn, hoping it burned. Then another. Then –
Stop.
His heart was hammering. He felt out of breath. That emptiness inside him was curdling, turning in on itself. Poisoning him. He had to get out.
*
Pounding along the cliff edge, Tom ran as hard as he could, chest burning, legs and arms jelly-shaking, but never fast enough, never far enough to outrun what was inside him.
Wherever he went, his sister used to say to him when they were little, there he was.
His sister.
He ran even harder.
Half an hour later he reached St Petroc. Slowed as he came down from the cliff, approached the main street. It was dead. The odd street light cast a sparse sodium glow over the buildings and roads. Too late for traffic, for pubs, for people. Most of the windows were dark, curtains drawn.
Tom walked the streets aimlessly, blind to his surroundings, trying to get his breath back, his limbs to work properly. He felt alone in the world, as though there had been some catastrophe and he was the last man left alive. No one to talk to, no one for company. No one to judge him, to look for him. He didn’t know whether it made him feel better or worse.
He walked, wondered what he was going to do now that he was actually here. Run back home? Walk back home? Too cold to walk. He would have to run, if he could summon up the energy.
Off the main road and down past a row of old cottages, he noticed a light on in one of them. He knew straight away which one. The flagpole sticking out pretending to be the prow of an old sailing ship gave it away. Pirate John’s place.
Tom saw movement at the window. Quick, furtive. A curtain fell back into place.
‘Tom?’ A whisper rather than a call.
Tom turned. Pirate John had opened his front door, poked his head round it, then withdrawn it fast, like a tortoise on speed.
‘Hi, John.’
The last thing he needed right now. Some conspiracy-theory bullshit. Sleep gives you cancer or something. That must be why he was still awake.
‘Just out for a run. I—’
‘Come in. Now.’ An urgency in Pirate John’s voice, the words whispered once more.
‘I—’
‘Now. Please.’
Might be just the thing I need, Tom told himself. Take my mind off things.
Pirate John quickly shut the door behind them.
*
Pirate John’s house was the idiosyncratic yet dowdy museum of the last sixty years of pop culture that Tom had expected. And like its owner, its passions were displayed with often important points missed.
They stood in the living room. Piled bo
xes and empty food tins made it look like it was under siege. Pirate John smiled apologetically.
‘Sorry about the mess, I . . .’ He stumbled. ‘I haven’t been out much, lately.’
‘No,’ said Tom, wondering whether he should sit down or just leave. ‘Haven’t seen you in the pub for a while.’
‘Yes, yes . . . that’s . . .’ A sigh. ‘Sit down, sit down, Tom. I’ve . . . sit down, please.’
Tom cleared the remains of a meal – tinned corned beef and baked beans, eaten cold from the tin – and sat on the settee. His host took the armchair, perched forward. Like a bird about to fly off. Or attack.
‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘You’ve already apologised.’
‘Yes, yes, I have. Yes.’ Another sigh. ‘Haven’t been out of the house much recently. Sorry for the mess.’
Tom looked at him. Pirate John never seemed like the healthiest of people but tonight he looked decidedly ill. Although if cold corned beef and beans was his diet Tom wasn’t surprised. But there was something more than that. He looked scared – haunted.
‘I’ve . . . this must be, I don’t know, providence? Is that right?’
‘Is it?’ asked Tom.
‘Yes, I’ve . . .’ Another sigh. ‘Sorry. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Needing to see you.’
Tom remembered him saying something like that in the pub one day. He hadn’t thought too much about it and then Pirate John had disappeared for a while. Probably saved him from a boring evening, he had thought. Dodged a bullet. ‘Right, well, I’m here now.’
Pirate John looked down, as if he had suddenly lost the power of speech. ‘Oh, God,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s . . . I don’t know how to start. Where to begin.’
‘At the beginning?’
Pirate John looked at him and laughed. It sounded simultaneously preposterous and like a smoker’s death rattle. ‘Not that easy.’
Another sigh. Tom waited.
‘It’s . . . I wanted to talk to you because you’re . . . not from here.’
Tom nodded, waited.
‘An outsider.’
‘Is that good?’
‘In this case, yes. Very good. I mean, I’ve talked to Pearl about this, took a chance that she might not . . . anyway. You’re the one I wanted to speak to. Needed to. Because they can’t have gotten to you yet, can they?’
Tom frowned. ‘What are you talking about, John?’
‘They . . .’ He looked round nervously, as if he was being watched or listened to. Then back at Tom. ‘You’re looking for that girl, aren’t you?’
Tom blinked. Not what he had been expecting. ‘What?’
‘That girl. The blonde one from the travellers’ camp.’
‘How . . . how did you know that?’
‘Never mind how I know. I just . . . I just do. You’re looking for her.’
‘D’you know where she is?’
Another glance to each side. ‘I wish. It would make it a lot easier. Then I could tell you. Then you could find her. And all this . . .’ he searched for the right word, couldn’t find it, ‘. . . this will be over.’
‘All what, John?’
‘You . . .’ A violent shake of his head. ‘I shouldn’t . . .’ Another sigh. ‘Sorry. I know I’m not making much sense. I know you think I’m just some mental old . . . I dunno.’ His eyes on Tom’s. Desperate to be heard, to be believed. ‘But I’m not. I’m deadly serious. You’ve got to find her.’
‘And how do I do that?’
‘Find Kai.’
‘I did. It didn’t end well.’
Pirate John gave Tom a fearful look. He didn’t want to ask what had happened.
‘Let’s just say he won’t be telling me anything in the near future.’
He looked downwards, the pictures in his mind probably worse than what really happened, thought Tom.
‘Right. Right.’ Pirate John nodded to himself, thinking. He looked up. ‘Newquay.’
‘Newquay? What about it?’
‘Kai used to make drug runs there. Nothing bad, though. Just a bit of puff an’ that. Try Newquay.’
‘You think she’s there?’
‘Might be worth a try. If you can find Kai’s drug source. They might be able to help you.’
‘D’you know who it is?’
Pirate John shook his head. ‘All changed there now. Used to be a bloke called Conroy. He might know. I’ve dealt with him before. But don’t trust him.’
‘I wasn’t planning on it. Where can I find him?’
Pirate John told him.
‘Thanks.’
Once more Pirate John looked around, checking for eavesdroppers. Tom became uncomfortable.
‘Well, it’s getting late, I think I’d better . . .’
‘Yes, yes, yes . . .’
Tom stood up. ‘Thanks for the chat.’
Pirate John stood also. ‘I hope there’ll be lots more like it, when we have the time. When it’s all . . .’ He tailed off again, watching whatever movie was playing behind his eyes.
Tom saw himself out.
And ran all the way back home.
30
The metal bed frame was back up against the side of the cell. Kai and Kyle sat looking at it, exhausted by the effort. They had turned off the torch to preserve the batteries.
Kyle had been horrified when he had looked down at himself in the torchlight. His arms, legs and body scratched and bloodied, blackened with dirt, his clothes filthy and torn. As though he had regressed to some kind of cave-dwelling Neanderthal.
They sat there, listening to each other’s breathing. Kyle could make out only the dim outlines of their surroundings. They had both calmed down considerably. Decided that, even if they didn’t like each other, even if one blamed the other for his predicament, the best thing to do was work together to escape. Whatever animosity remaining between them could be resolved afterwards.
‘So this is what you did?’ asked Kai. ‘Put it there, climbed up it.’
Kyle nodded. Then spoke, unsure whether Kai could see him. ‘Yes.’
‘And what did you hope to do when you got up there?’
‘Dunno. Escape. Run.’
Silence fell as Kai thought over Kyle’s words. ‘You probably wouldn’t have got very far.’
‘Why not?’
‘Have you worked out where you are yet?’
‘Dunno. An old castle? A cave? Something like that? Oubliette?’
‘Try tin mine,’ said Kai. ‘Or at least an ex-tin mine.’
‘Aren’t they all closed now? Tourist museums, or something?’
‘A couple. Most of them were just left to rot. The caves filled in, mostly, and that was that.’
‘And we’re in some of the caves.’
Kai’s turn to nod, then speak. ‘Yeah. Well, underground.’
Panic rose within Kyle. ‘How far underground?’
‘No idea. These caves could go on for miles. Some even go out under the sea.’
Panic notched in Kyle’s voice. ‘Could we be there? Under the water?’
‘Doubt it, think those ones have been closed. But, you never know . . .’ He shrugged. Kyle didn’t see it.
They sat in silence once again. Eventually Kyle spoke.
‘How d’you know so much about this? Tin mines and that? Did they tell you all this?’
‘They?’
‘The ones who put me here.’
‘Already knew. Studied it at university. History. Geology. All that. What I wanted to be, a geologist.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
A sigh. ‘Long story. Really boring, really clichéd. Got into drugs. Had a bit of a . . . dunno what you’d call it. Got in with a bunch of . . . don’t know what you’d call them, either. Druggies, travellers, surfers. Whatever. Friends, that’s what I called them.’ He fell silent once more. His mind slipped into the past, thinking of how difficult he h
ad found his course, of seeing all his uni friends doing well, of trying to run away from his problems using dope and booze and, what he always told himself, some minor shenanigans. Wasn’t that what being a student was all about? In reality he was lying to himself and he knew it. And his course friends moved on, further away from him, and his life went in a different direction. Or rather he coasted, having no direction. Soon, his new friends were all he had and he was too scared, too ashamed to try uni again. So he just stayed with them. Told himself he had made the right decision. Yeah. The right decision.
‘Friends, yeah. That’s what I called them. I dropped out of uni, that was that.’
‘And was it your friends who put you in here?’
Kai laughed. The darkness accentuated the bitterness of it. ‘Can we stop calling them that? They’re not my friends. Not any more.’ He choked off an angry sob at the end of his sentence. It echoed away to nothing.
Kyle didn’t know whether to feel any pity for Kai. His emotions were so confused he couldn’t identify which one he was experiencing. But he was pretty sure that pity, after all that Kai had done to him, wasn’t it.
Silence fell once more. Kyle broke it. ‘So how we going to get out of here, then?’
Kai said nothing.
‘I said how we going—’
‘I heard you. Jesus.’
It sounded to Kyle as though Kai had been crying. Quietly. In the dark. Doesn’t need my pity, he thought, anger coursing through him, he’s got enough of his own. He wasn’t going to let him wallow.
‘Come on,’ Kyle said, ‘we need to make a move. They could be back at any time.’
He got slowly to his feet. His body felt wrecked, pain from his fall enveloped his torso, his ankle screaming at the slightest pressure he placed on it. But he wasn’t going to let it slow him down. He wasn’t going to let it keep him prisoner here.
‘Come on,’ he said again, more urgency in his voice this time. ‘Let’s go.’
He heard a sigh from beside him in the dark, followed by the sound of reluctant movement.
‘What d’we do?’ Kai sounded defeated.
Kyle found it ironic. For so long he had been sitting here, alone, not knowing what his ultimate fate would be but guessing it wasn’t going to be good. Feeling that, as time passed, no help would actually be coming for him. And now he felt a tiny sliver of hope enter his heart. He couldn’t do this on his own, but together they could accomplish something. Together they had a chance.
The Old Religion Page 14
