Savage did not respond. Trelawney said: ‘I’ve shown this to the guv’nor and there’s not going to be any charges. The best they could have done was drunk and disorderly anyway.’
‘I wasn’t drunk,’ said Savage.
‘Four times over the top,’ the sergeant told him flatly. ‘Just as well you weren’t driving.’
‘I don’t drive now.’
‘Well, anyway, you’ll hear no more from us.’ With a flick of his hand he produced a plastic envelope in which was an oblong of cardboard. ‘Your ticket from Basingstoke,’ he said. ‘Three keys and fifty-odd quid. What were you doing down in Basingstoke?’
‘I remember that much,’ said Savage. ‘I went down to go to my house. My marriage has packed up. My wife was there, by coincidence. It was a bit upsetting.’
‘You had a barney.’
‘No, nothing like that. But something happened on the train on the way back. Some yobs started throwing a woman’s baby about.’
Both the policeman’s eyebrows went up, one after the other. ‘Throwing a baby about?’ he repeated dubiously. ‘In what way?’
‘Like a rugby ball,’ said Savage not realising Trelawney’s disbelief. ‘They were drunk and they grabbed this baby and I had to get involved and they did for me while I was holding it. I bled all over the kid and the mother went mad.’ He saw the sergeant’s expression. ‘And I don’t remember anything after that.’
‘Christ,’ said the policeman inadequately. He took a heavy breath. ‘Right, well, like I say you’re free to go.’ He rose but remained looking thoughtfully at the computer print-out.
‘But you ought to make an appointment to see this . . .’ He checked the fax again. ‘. . . Dr Fenwick at the hospital.’
‘I will. This is going to worry me a lot.’
‘I expect it will.’
‘I thought I was going to be all right.’
Trelawney nodded. ‘I’d put one of the probation officers on to you. But they’re all busy trying to sort out the requirements of thieving kids.’
‘No. Well, thanks.’ They shook hands solemnly. ‘And thanks to your guv’nor.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
Outside he stood on the pavement holding the return rail ticket in his palm. The three keys were for his flat, his house and his suitcase. He had to find the suitcase, his typewriter and, he suddenly remembered with a shock, his gun. Oh, shit, who had his gun? He waved a taxi down and went to Waterloo.
He located the Lost Property and, after a moment outside, went diffidently in. They had a typewriter. The man put it heavily on the counter and he identified it and signed the release form. ‘That’s a museum piece, that is,’ said the attendant surveying the wooden case almost reverently. ‘All we get these days in here is lost laptops.’
No, they did not have a suitcase with ‘Staff Sergeant F. I. Savage’ stencilled on it. The man made a double-check but returned as though he were truly sorry. ‘Only the typewriter, mate,’ he said.
Savage returned to the station concourse. It was hard to believe that it was only yesterday that he had been there, staring as he did now at the Arrivals and Departures indicator. There were not many people waiting at that time of the day. He looked around him. He was isolated. He began reciting the names of the stations to himself; perhaps that would make him remember: ‘Clapham Junction, Woking, Fleet, Farnborough’, all the way to Basingstoke.
He felt sure it was the same man framed in the ticket window. He remembered the blue turban and was pleased at his recognition. He bought another return to Basingstoke and caught a stopping train that left fifteen minute later. His relief was repeated from the previous day; it was almost empty. He sat in a corner seat where he could survey the route, where he might get a glimpse, a clue, of some place where he had been; some place where had lost his suitcase and his gun. Then he thought of the clock. If that was still ticking they would think it was a bomb. Oh, God.
The train was about to leave when a young woman with a baby appeared on the platform. It was not the same one but Savage panicked. He made for the door and as she got in he got out. The platform guard took his whistle from his mouth and urged him to hurry. He got into the next carriage. ‘Make up your mind,’ grumbled the man slamming the door bad-temperedly as he blew his whistle. The train moved away.
He was alone apart from a crouched woman in a mackintosh of pink plastic, so stiff it crackled, who was at the distant end of the long compartment. As each station was reached he examined it from the window, everything he could take in. Nothing touched his memory until they reached Shuffley where a porter was wheeling a laden barrow along the empty platform with a small yappy dog jumping up at him. Something stirred but he had no time to grasp it before the train was moving. He remained staring from the window, desperately trying to place the memory. It refused to be released. At the next station he prepared to get out. The woman in the plastic mac stood up and crackled towards him. ‘Do you go up and down all the time?’ she enquired. ‘I saw you yesterday. You had all this blood on you.’
He stared at her dismal face wrapped in pink plastic. Her eyes lit a little when she realised he was intent on what she had said. ‘I go up and down all the time,’ she said hurriedly as though she feared he might lose interest. ‘Every day. I get from one train to another. Just up and down. I’ve got nothing else to do.’ The train was slowing towards the station.
‘You saw me yesterday?’ he said.
‘Like I said. You was all bloody. Like a bad nose bleed.’
Carefully Savage pulled his overcoat across his front and asked: ‘Where did I get off the train?’
She seemed unsurprised at the question. ‘I thought at the time you didn’t look as if you knew where you was,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You didn’t seem like you was with us. You just stared straight ahead. I saw you all bloody on the platform when you got off.’
‘Where?’ he repeated. ‘Where did I get off? Which station?’
‘The last one,’ said the woman. ‘Shuffley. Where the cemetery is.’
He returned on the next train. When he got out at Shuffley he saw that the man who had been wheeling the barrow was at the exit waiting to collect tickets, the small brown and white dog sitting attentively by his trouser legs. Apart from Savage only one other passenger alighted from the train, a sedate lady with a stout walking stick. She got to the exit in her own time. Savage loitered, pretending to read a timetable on the station wall, before going towards the door after she had gone through.
He at once saw that the ticket collector recognised him. ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he said. His hand went forward for the ticket. ‘This takes you to Basingstoke then back to Waterloo,’ he said screwing his eyes and lifting the ticket to just below his nose. The dog began to whine and scrape his trouser leg with its paw.
‘I know,’ answered Savage. ‘But I want to get off here.’ He looked directly at the station man. ‘You saw me? When I was here before?’
‘Yesterday,’ the man said. Surprise and curiosity pinched his face. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Without questioning the inadequate explanation the man continued. ‘Your nose was bleeding like a tap and you had blood all down your shirt.’ Savage pulled his coat together. ‘You looked like you’d been in a punch-up.’
‘I was attacked on the train.’
‘The sods. You should have reported it. Mind, you didn’t seem to know where you was. You had a big suitcase.’
‘I did?’ Savage altered his tone. ‘I did?’
‘You just gave me your ticket. That was for Waterloo as well, now I come to think about it. I gave it back to you. Did you go up later? I was off duty at five.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I went to London.’ He could not think of anything more to ask. The dog was pawing the man’s leg more insistently. ‘He wants to chase the barrow,’ said the man. ‘That’s all he wants to do. Chase the barrow. It’s his enjoyment.’
Savage walked from
the doorway. It was a deserted place. Dead leaves blew across the yard. The elderly woman with a stick had been assisted slowly into a taxi and it was driving away. He walked in the chilly day in the only direction possible, an overhung road which he presumed led towards whatever sort of place Shuffley was. Desperately he tried to remember being there. The taxi stopped and he caught up with it. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ the driver said out of his window. ‘When I’ve dropped Mrs Leadbetter. If you need a cab, that is.’
‘How far is the village?’ asked Savage.
‘Village? There’s no village. Just the pub and the graveyard. That’s all there is here.’ He jerked his chin briefly towards his passenger. ‘Mrs Leadbetter lives the other way,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you here yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ said Savage with a touch of embarrassment. ‘I was.’
‘Thought so. Saw you come out of the Crossways Arms about half past ten at night. You must have got the last train. If you went to London.’
‘I went to London,’ confirmed Savage. The old lady at the rear appeared to have belatedly become aware that they had halted. She banged on the driver’s glass partition with the rubber end of her walking stick. The driver obeyed and with a quick wave drove on. The woman glared at Savage and wagged her stick.
Unsurely he walked away from the station studying the road. Then he began to remember it, faintly, like a road he had last walked down years before. A dull white wall became visible through the stencilled winter trees. The pub, a solid Victorian block with blank upper windows, was set back from the road. The door was shut but there was a light in the bar. He went in. A recently lit fire was pale in the grate. He saw that the man behind the bar knew him. ‘Back again,’ the man said. ‘I hope you were all right.’
Savage sat on a stool and ordered a whisky. ‘Had to open a new bottle,’ grinned the barman, fat and wearing huge braces over his belly. ‘You drank your way through one.’
‘A whole bottle?’
‘There wasn’t much left. You seemed to be all right, though. A bit dazed, befuddled. But you seemed dazed when you came in.’ He regarded Savage wryly. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I don’t much.’
The barman pulled on his braces as though ensuring their support. ‘Well, you sat in that corner, talking to nobody, although there weren’t many in, and you put back the Scotch. You were okay or I wouldn’t have gone on serving you, and it was over a couple of hours. You walked straight but I wondered where you’d got to. Afterwards I was a bit worried, to tell the truth.’
‘I was fine,’ lied Savage. He leaned forward. ‘There was some blood on me?’
‘A lot of it. All on your shirt. I asked if you wanted any help but you said you didn’t. What happened?’
‘I was beaten up on the train,’ said Savage. ‘Three yobs. I’ve been ill and I must have just blacked out because I don’t remember any of it.’
‘It’s a bloody crime these days,’ grunted the barman. He poured a whisky and said that one was on him. Savage thanked him. ‘So I just came in here and a couple of hours later I went out?’
‘Right. Someone said they’d seen you earlier walking up the road from the cemetery. Do you remember that?’
‘No . . . no, I don’t.’
‘That’s what they said. But it was gone eight o’clock when you came in here because I didn’t finish my meal until then and I saw you come in, like I say. They shut the cemetery at five in the winter.’
Savage said: ‘How is it there’s a cemetery here but no village? Nothing but this pub.’
The man appeared surprised. ‘It’s no ordinary cemetery,’ he said. ‘It’s a military cemetery. It’s full of soldiers.’
Savage said: ‘When I came in here did I have a suitcase?’
‘No. I’m almost sure you didn’t.’
‘Thanks very much for the drink and the information,’ said Savage getting down from the stool. ‘Can I buy you one?’ ‘Another time,’ said the barman. ‘I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.’
‘Myself,’ shrugged Savage. He went towards the door.
The man looked embarrassed. ‘Well, I hope so.’ He raised his hand. ‘Cheers.’
Savage crossed the empty road. The place was as bleak as any place with trees could be. They rattled and sighed above him as he took the road opposite. A sign said: ‘Shuffley Military Cemetery.’ An edgy wind came directly up the road and, as if seeking him out, into his face. The way bent around another gaunt bunch of trees trembling together. Beyond them a gatehouse appeared, beside a wide ornamental gate which was closed and a smaller gate at its side which was open. He went through the side entrance and into the gatehouse. A man was just taking off his blue uniform cap to sit behind a long counter.
‘Did I leave a suitcase here yesterday?’ asked Savage blatantly.
‘You did,’ returned the man without hesitation. ‘Or somebody did. It was standing on a grave.’
Savage swallowed. ‘It has my name on the side,’ he said. ‘Staff Sergeant F. I. Savage.’
‘That’s it,’ said the man rising cheerfully as though Savage had qualified for a prize. ‘We’ve got it here. I was going to take it to the police station.’ He had half-turned towards the counter under which Savage could now see his case. He tried to hear if the clock was ticking but there was nothing. The man glanced back over his shoulder and said: ‘You didn’t by any chance get locked in the cemetery last night did you? You didn’t have to climb over the wall?’
‘No,’ said Savage decisively. ‘I just forgot my luggage, that’s all.’
The man picked up the case and put it on the counter. ‘If you’ve got some identification,’ he suggested. Then conversationally: ‘Yes, it seems like somebody got shut in. We’re always careful, naturally, we always ring the bell, three times, but it looks like this person got locked in and had to get over the wall. We found one of our ladders up against it this morning.’
‘I don’t have any identification,’ said Savage. ‘But I have the key.’
‘That’s all right,’ said the man as though relieved. ‘You’ve told me the name.’ Savage produced the key although he hoped he would not have to open the case. No sound of ticking came from it. The man said: ‘That’s all right,’ again and pushed the case across the counter towards him. ‘How come you forgot it?’ he enquired.
‘Lapse of memory,’ said Savage with an air of taking the man into his confidence. ‘I’m discharged from the service now. I have these lapses.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said the cemetery keeper sympathetically. ‘Because of ill-health, was it? That’s what happened to me. Swamp fever.’
‘I was injured in Ulster,’ said Savage.
‘Oh, I see.’
Savage said: ‘It was on a grave, you say?’
The man rose. ‘I’ll run you down there,’ he said kindly. ‘I’ll show you.’
They went outside. A van was parked around the rear of the building. The man got behind the wheel and Savage climbed in beside him. He kept the suitcase with him, putting it in the rear. ‘It’s not a bad job, this,’ said the man as he started the engine. ‘Most people wouldn’t want it but in the summer it’s lovely. The birds start singing at four. And it’s always so peaceful.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Like it should be.’
They began to drive at what seemed an habitually slow pace, down a long path between lines of white graves. ‘I wish some of the kids today would come in here now and again,’ said the cemetery keeper. ‘They reckon they don’t believe in war but some of us had to believe in it, didn’t we. We didn’t have the choice. Like it or lump it.’
At the foot of the drive, where a wall heavy with ivy confronted them, he turned right and after twenty yards stopped the vehicle. ‘It was there,’ he pointed. ‘On number 445 R.’
Savage got out of the van and walked towards a line of simple white stones. ‘To the left,’ said the man from the vehicle. ‘That’s the one.’
Savage bent. It was all re
turning now. The terror, the horror, the panic, all frozen in this deeply silent place with its dumb stones. The inscription on the gave said: ‘Sergeant Henry Barnard’, and gave a date of birth and one of death. He turned and walked back to the van. ‘All right?’ asked the driver solicitously.
‘Yes,’ said Savage quietly. ‘I knew him. I was with him when it happened.’
While he was waiting for Dr Fenwick a squat woman wearing a red headscarf wheeled a tea trolley into the room. Savage did not recognise her but he was not entirely surprised when she offered him a cup of tea and, after pretending to pour it, handed him an empty cup before leaning forward solicitiously and asking: ‘Would you like sugar, dear?’
He knew the rules there. He thanked her and said he would, sitting solemnly while she spooned in imaginary sugar. ‘Two, is it?’ He accepted two. ‘Nothing like a nice cup of tea this time of the day,’ she said. ‘If you’d like a refill just call me. I’ll be down the passage.’
When Paul Fenwick came in he saw the empty cup. ‘I have three of those a day,’ he sighed as they shook hands. ‘The trouble is we can’t decide whether she’s fooling us, that she really knows she’s pouring phantom tea, and she’s seeing how long she can keep it up. On the other hand, she may not know.’
‘It’s a place for problems,’ observed Savage.
‘My God, is it just. You should have been at the football match yesterday. Mayhem. Yet everybody’s going around today saying what a good game it was.’ He reached to the desk and picked up a long envelope. Savage recognised it. ‘I’m glad you wrote everything down,’ said the doctor.
‘As soon as I got back home I got the typewriter out,’ said Savage.
‘And home is now in Kensington, Kensington Heights,’ said Fenwick looking at the letter. ‘Where is your wife?’
‘She’s with her mother.’
‘It’s not reparable?’
‘I’m afraid not. She was very patient but there was a limit to it. I was relieved when she went. I didn’t want to see what I was doing to her.’
Fenwick nodded. ‘You got this place in Kensington by yourself?’
Kensington Heights Page 7
