The Camel Trail

by Merrigan, Peter J

  Quickly, he picked the bowl up and took it back outside. The cloud-cover from the passing storm was still thick, turning the afternoon into the colours of pre-washed night, but he was able to find the keys for the Fiesta fairly easily. He sat the bowl down, leaving the keys for anyone to stumble upon, and he unlocked the blue Ford.

  Looking around quickly—still no one in sight—he slipped into the car, kissed the key fob, and punched it into the ignition.

  The engine grunted and caught. Pushing the gear stick into first, he took off up the road, smiling as he went. Piece of cake. He’d burn a candle for Saint MacGyver.

  On his way back towards the boys, hoping the Fiesta wouldn’t be missed at least until the morning, maybe enough time to get them on a ferry and out of the country, his empty stomach rumbled. There was a small supermarket on the corner up ahead and he slowed, wondering whether to keep the car running while he went inside.

  But he didn’t make it that far. As he swung into the seven-bay car park, an elderly man in a wheelchair rolled out of the supermarket, pushing himself along by the wheel rims. Inspiration struck him like a fist on a drum. He turned the car around, exited the car park, and pulled up alongside the road.

  He got out and approached the man in his engineless four-wheel drive. Coming up behind the man, he took the wheelchair’s handles and began pushing.

  ‘Hey!’ the man said.

  ‘Having a nice day, sir?’ Frankie asked. ‘Let me just help you around the corner.’

  ‘I’m not going that way.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Frankie pushed the chair around the side of the supermarket and down an alley flanked on one side by the shop and on the other by an eight-foot wall.

  ‘Where are you taking me? Stop!’

  When he had pushed the man two-thirds of the way down the alley, he stopped, patted the top of the man’s head, and said, ‘Nice meeting you. Send me a postcard some time.’ He tipped the chair forward and the old man tumbled to the ground.

  ‘I don’t have any money,’ he said, clutching his chest.

  ‘Who said I wanted your money?’ Frankie said, and he turned and ran back along the alley with the wheelchair, a rumble of laughter erupting from deep within his chest.

  It wasn’t until he had collapsed the chair and thrown it over the backseat of the car into the boot, and he was back behind the wheel heading for the boys, that he remembered he was still hungry.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sarah knocked on Tessa’s front door, standing in the cold in nothing more than a pair of jeans and an old flimsy T-shirt that was once a baby pink but had since been drained of most of its colour. She hugged herself for warmth, waited, knocked again.

  Bleary-eyed, hair a sleep-tattered mess, Graeme opened the door and failed to smile.

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Sarah asked, checking her watch. It was three in the afternoon.

  When Alan had driven her home from the police station this morning, following the press conference, she had invited him in for coffee. He didn’t stay long, citing the need to be alone and think some things over. He hugged her and kissed her cheek before he left, reiterating that everything would be okay in the end. She didn’t know if the end would ever come.

  Graeme and Tessa had shut themselves up in their house next door and she hadn’t seen them since.

  Graeme ran a hand through his hair. ‘No, I was just…lying down. Tessa’s gone over to St Petroc’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sarah said. ‘I was hoping to have a chat with her. I don’t want things to be…’

  Graeme nodded. His smile appeared forced but genuine. ‘Maybe you could go see her there? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Do you think?’ Sarah asked. She hesitated on the doorstep, half turned, then said, ‘Graeme, I—’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘This is hell on all of us, not least of all Tessa, but you don’t have to apologise again.’

  She wanted to embrace him but couldn’t. Across the threshold of the door, he felt like a million miles away.

  Graeme said, ‘You know where Petroc’s is?’

  ‘Top of that old hill, isn’t it? I can walk it from here.’ She reached out and touched his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  She went home and put a coat on, pausing at the foot of the stairs as though listening out for Kevin’s laughter. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she ventured back out into the cold. She was holding it together. She didn’t know how, but not since leaving the station this morning had she been reduced to tears. For the hours that passed between then and now, she had moved around the house on autopilot, washing dishes, sweeping floors, keeping busy. She almost buckled to her knees in a weeping mess when she pulled some of Kevin’s clothes from the washing machine that had been lying there since their cycle two days before. They were still damp, but musty, so she filled the drawer with powder and rewashed them. They hung now on the line in the back garden, empty jumpers and jeans perhaps never to be filled again.

  St Petroc’s was an Anglican church that looked older than time. Up on a hill, it was said to have been rebuilt numerous times during the last sixteen centuries. Currently, with its little graveyard and grey stonework, it looked forbidding. Sarah hesitated before pushing the door and entering into the deep silence within.

  She crossed the back of the church as quietly as possible, her trainers making little noise, and saw Tessa sitting in one of the foremost pews. Sarah approached, paused, and then sat down next to her. Tessa did not immediately acknowledge her arrival and Sarah struggled for words. She faced forward, lacing her fingers together in her lap, and listened to the silence that encircled them.

  Tessa said, ‘They brought that crucifix over from Bavaria.’ Her voice was soft and rasping, as though from hours of tears. Sarah looked at the carved figure of Jesus nailed to a cross on the chancel screen. ‘I can’t remember the name of the place,’ Tessa said. ‘They have a Passion play every ten years. It’s famous.’

  ‘Oberammergau,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve heard of it. Don’t ask me how I know that, though. One of those things that sticks in your head, I guess.’

  They sat in silence for some time, avoiding eye contact, Tessa staring straight ahead, Sarah taking in her surroundings. She hadn’t been inside a church since her wedding day. Neither of her parents had been particularly religious. Her mother was a lapsed Catholic that remembered her faith only at Christmas and Easter, and reports stated that her father had at one point been Anglican, though he would never admit to it. ‘If there is a Big Man up there,’ he often said, pointing skyward, ‘He’s not doing a very good job, is He?’

  Her mother would defend the Big Man, Catholic martyr that she was, but never pressed the issue. Sarah sometimes envied those with faith. She wanted to believe, maybe actually did believe, but there was so much pain in the world that she could not publicly embrace an organised religion.

  Flowers and fruit were carved around the ceiling and stone columns throughout St Petroc’s, a somewhat simple design at one end of the church, becoming grandiose towards the altar, as though everything grew in abundance under the feet of God.

  Tessa cleared her throat. Without turning to look at Sarah, she said, ‘I used to bring Martin here when he was younger, after he’d been diagnosed. I’d walk him up the hill, carry him, and we’d come in and sit here, in this very pew. I’d sit him up here,’ she said, indicating the back of the seat in front of her, ‘facing Jesus and I’d say, “Make him better, God. Make my son better.” But He never did. We came often, sometimes every day, and Martin would struggle into the seat and I’d lift him up’—she raised her arms as though cradling Martin for God to see—’wrapped up tight in his snowsuit, I’d hold him up and say, “Make him better,” and I’d wait. We’d sit here and wait for an hour, two hours, and then we’d go home and do it all over again the next day.’ She paused, unlaced and laced her fingers, and said, ‘I thought God wasn’t listening, that He didn’t care, you know?’

  Sa
rah said nothing. She saw the pain on Tessa’s face as she told her story, knew how hard it must be for her, and she remained quiet and still, waiting for her to continue.

  Tessa said, ‘But I was wrong. He was listening, to every word I ever said. He didn’t make him better—that wasn’t the point. He made me better. Before Martin I…I wasn’t a nice person. Before Martin I took everything for granted, everything was mine to take when I wanted to take it. I was out to satisfy myself and no one else. Having Martin changed me. Not the way having a baby changes all mothers, but it made a real difference in me, after his diagnosis.

  ‘They said he wouldn’t survive beyond the age of twenty-five or thirty and suddenly I realised I wasn’t immortal, none of us are. I realised that I had this little baby, this toddler in my arms and one day, not too far away, he’d no longer be there. One day I’d be alone again.’ She shook her head. ‘Graeme’s been an angel, but he’s not my baby, not my flesh. I love him dearly, but he could never fill the void that Martin will leave behind. I know that sounds harsh, but…’ She paused again, grimaced, and said, ‘When they told me it was my fault that Martin was ill, that it was because of a missing link in my chromosomes, I couldn’t stand it. We never tried for another baby, even though we had a fifty-fifty chance it would be healthy. You know what they suggested? They said if I got pregnant again, they could do some tests, on the foetus, and if it had high levels of CK—that’s creatine kinase—then we can “explore our options.” That’s doctor-speak for abortion.’

  Sarah chewed on her upper lip and wrung her hands together. The pain that she witnessed in Tessa’s voice was imparting on her the fruitlessness of life.

  A man, possibly the vicar in casual wear, came through a concealed door at the side of the chancel, adjusted something on the altar, and disappeared again.

  ‘Martin changed me,’ Tessa said again. ‘He made me see there was more to this world than just existing. He gave me life. And you’ve taken that away from me.’

  That last sentence threw Sarah. For a moment, she couldn’t be sure she had heard it right, but the steely look on Tessa’s face confirmed it. She tried to speak, to defend herself, but her voice failed.

  ‘You bring your marital problems with you, and your husband chases you down and takes my baby away from me, takes the one thing I live for, the only thing in this world that actually means anything to me. Martin was supposed to die at thirty, not when he’s nine.’ Her voice cracked and she choked on a sob. ‘I was prepared for him to die in another twenty years but he could be dead already and he’s not in my arms. He’s not in my arms.’ She beat her fists against the pew in front of her.

  ‘Tessa,’ Sarah said, but could say no more.

  ‘You robbed me of every shred of my existence.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You stole from me.’

  ‘I didn’t know Frankie would get out of prison. I didn’t know he would come after us.’

  ‘If you weren’t here, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. They were both in tears.

  Tessa covered her face with her hands and sobbed. ‘My baby’s gone,’ she said. ‘My baby’s gone.’ She rocked back and forth, alternately hugging herself and masking her face behind trembling fingers.

  Sarah cried, tried to speak a few times, but could not. Once, she reached a hand out to touch Tessa but pulled it back again without making a connection. She knew it was true, that if she hadn’t moved to Padstow with Kevin, Martin would be at home with his mother. She felt like she’d been running for too long now. She should have stayed in London, should have stayed and faced Frankie when he was released from prison. If she hadn’t run, they would both have their sons. Life was unbearably cruel.

  In time, Tessa’s sobs diminished and her tears dried up. She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her forehead against the seatback of the pew in front. The ensuing silence was punctuated with her sniffling. When she sat up straight and fished a tissue from her handbag to blow her nose, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

  Sarah said, ‘It’s all right. It’s pretty much the truth. I don’t blame you for hating me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you,’ Tessa said. She sighed, looked up at the figure of Jesus. ‘I just miss him. Like you miss Kevin.’ She reached out and took Sarah’s hand. ‘We’re in this together. And when it’s all over, you can ask Alan to move in with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know,’ Tessa said. ‘Bad time for a joke. But he likes you, I can tell.’

  ‘Let’s just get our boys back first, okay? You want to get a coffee down by the harbour?’

  As they left the church, a fierce wind had kicked up, making the patches of taller grass dance over the graves. Tessa linked her arm around Sarah’s and they walked down the hill.

  At the base of the Camel Trail, Sarah looked along the path, half expecting to see the boys come running towards them, but instead saw a line of policemen, shoulder to shoulder, moving slowly away. ‘What are they doing?’

  Tessa looked, shrugged. ‘Looking for evidence, I guess. They’ve been up and down all afternoon.’

  ‘But they’re not there,’ Sarah said. ‘Frankie has them.’

  Tessa shrugged again. ‘I suppose they’re “exploring their options.”’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kevin listened to Martin’s hacking cough and winced every time it sounded like he was about to vomit a lung. Spittle flew from his lips with each roaring cough and, although his face was white, his cheeks were burning crimson. His eyes bulged as he strained to catch his breath.

  Rubbing Martin’s back, Kevin said, ‘It’s too cold out here.’

  ‘I’m freezing,’ Martin agreed, hands on his knees, greedily sucking lungful after lungful of fresh air. ‘I need my cocktail,’ he said of his combination of colourful medication.

  It had probably been ten or fifteen minutes since Frankie left them here. Kevin had no idea what his father had planned, where he went, or when he would return. He also had no idea where the nearest police station was.

  ‘My legs hurt.’

  ‘I can exercise you.’

  ‘No.’

  Martin was pallid. From the rain and the smears of mud on his cheeks, nose and chin that he had unsuccessfully tried to wipe away, his face looked ashen and clammy. Another cough bubbled up from his chest.

  The rain had stopped and Martin had pulled his hood down, his hair waving in the wind at acute angles. Kevin’s hair was wet and skull-clinging. He rubbed his hands on his jeans.

  ‘We need to find a policeman,’ he said.

  ‘I need to go to sleep.’ Martin’s voice was thick with exhaustion.

  ‘Let’s sneak round the corner and see if anyone’s there.’

  ‘I can’t move,’ Martin said. ‘You go.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you here on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’ Despite their circumstances, he joked, ‘Pick me up a jam doughnut on your way back.’

  After enough reassurances from Martin, Kevin agreed to walk to the end of the road and peer round the corner. If he saw nothing, he would return and they would wait for Frankie to come back and do whatever he was going to do with them. ‘But if I see someone, anyone, I’ll shout to them and get them to rescue us.’

  Martin’s head was drooping forward on a weak neck. ‘And buy doughnuts.’

  Kevin stood, looked both ways, and crossed the street, hunkering slightly as though to minimise visibility. He walked alongside a six-foot wooden-slat fence, keeping tight to it, glancing through the half-inch gaps between each plank at the neatly manicured backyards of tiny little houses.

  When the fence ended and a low wall began, he crouched lower and edged his way towards the street corner. He looked back at Martin but Martin’s head was bowed and he wasn’t watching. Kevin considered what he would say if he saw someone. He could hardly tell them they had been taken hostage, two kids sitting alone on a quiet str
eet—where was the hostage taker?

  At the end of the street, he stood erect, flush with the gable wall of a small building, and looked round the corner. Up ahead, fifty or sixty feet away, a woman walked with a dog on an extendable lead. The dog bounced along in front of her. She was the only person on the street.

  Kevin took a deep breath—a bad man was after them; could she help?—and walked purposefully towards her. Her pace was unhurried and her gaze was directed downwards, as if she knew the streets so well that she didn’t have to look where she was going.

  Closer. Kevin quickened his step. The dog, a retriever, bounded towards him, tail wagging, tongue lolling from its mouth.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Kevin said. The woman looked at him.

  A car sped along the road and as it approached, without seeing who was behind the wheel, Kevin knew it was his father. He crouched and patted the dog’s back, looking away from the car in a bid to avoid attracting Frankie’s attention. Nevertheless, the horn sounded sharply as the car went by. The woman was still ten feet away, holding onto the far end of the retractable lead.

  ‘Nice dog,’ Kevin said. He turned and ran back the way he had come, cursing himself for not telling her the truth, cursing himself more for leaving Martin alone.

  By the time he had returned to the spot where Martin was, the car had pulled up and Frankie was standing on the road.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Frankie demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just looking for somewhere to pee.’

  Frankie gripped him by the shoulder and shook him violently. ‘You think this is a game? I told you to stay where you were. What did you say to her?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ Kevin said, cowering from his dad. ‘I didn’t tell her anything. I never even spoke to her.’

  Frankie raised a hand.

  ‘I didn’t. I swear.’