Dead Romantic (17 page)

Still, on the bright side, now that I’m committed to a wild goose chase across Buckinghamshire, everything around me seems remarkably ordinary. The carriage is almost empty apart from a handful of tourists and a few students, and so far today there’s been no sign of Alex. Yes, the world is looking like its usual self, with not a dead rock star in sight – which is just the way I like it.

As I fiddle with my iPhone I can’t help thinking that it’s a supreme irony that Alex’s absence confirms rather than makes me doubt his existence. He’s promised to stay away if I play my part, and so far so good. Things are normal, if a little dull, but I’m determined this is just how they’re going to stay once I’ve kept my word and made a prat of myself in front of Rafe Thorne. Dull is good if you ask me. Dull is
wonderful
. I’ve had enough excitement lately to last me for a lifetime.

The train gathers pace and before long the crammed terraces of the inner city start to smudge into the semis of suburbia. I haven’t done this journey for a long time but I know that within the hour I’ll be watching the green blur of the Chilterns pass by, threaded through with the silver ribbon of a young Thames, before I have to change at High Wycombe for the branch line. Trying my best to push away thoughts of the kind of reception I’m likely to get from Rafe Thorne – he’ll think I’m mad at best and a lunatic stalker at worst – I send up a quick prayer of thanks to whatever genius invented on-train Wi-Fi, and tap Rafe’s name into Google. I think the only way I can carry out my mission and keep some dignity is to treat it like a piece of research. I’ll start digging through his history and find out exactly what it is I’m dealing with. Then, just like I would with my work, I’ll start to examine the facts. Never mind the chance encounter we had all that time ago: I just need to find a way to let Rafe know that his brother doesn’t hold him responsible for his death.

Alex might be full of bright ideas and good intentions, I think despairingly as I scroll through online newspaper stories about Rafe’s latest stint in rehab, but he hasn’t been an awful lot of help when it comes to how I might deliver his message. No, that minor detail of his master plan seems to have escaped his attention. Somehow I don’t think turning up on Rafe’s doorstep and saying that his dead brother sent me is going to work.

“Any ideas?” I say aloud, glancing around the carriage just in case Alex is about – but for once he’s silent. Fat lot of help he is; it looks like I’m on my own with this. I sigh and return to my phone, scrolling through the Google search results and feeling more nervous by the minute. Rafe Thorne has had an eventful few years, that’s for sure. The open-faced young man I met for that brief hour has vanished and in his place is a scowling Heathcliff type, shut away in his big house with only alcohol and memories for company. His face glowers at me from my laptop screen; it’s a pap shot taken when he checked out of rehab for the latest time, and although the eyes are the same there’s a darkness behind them now that was never there before. I shiver. This merging of the familiar with the unfamiliar makes me very uneasy, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to knocking on his door. I really wish I had Alex with me.

Listen to me. I wish I had Alex with me? I’m seriously missing a dead guy I never knew in his lifetime? My imaginary friend?

Susie’s right: I ought to get out more. But in the meantime I need all the help I can get. “Alex! I need a hand with this!” I murmur. I take a deep breath and try to quell the growing wave of panic that threatens to swamp me as I consider the insanity of what I’m planning to do when I reach my destination. “Come on, Alex! This isn’t funny. I need some help.”

But apart from the noise of the train speeding ever closer to what could well be my impending doom, there’s silence. Alex does not materialise on the seat opposite; neither does he choose to whisper words of wisdom into my ear like something from a Hollywood movie. God. Whoopi Goldberg was so lucky to get Patrick Swayze. Here I am carrying out Alex’s final wish, and probably making a right idiot of myself to boot, and he can’t even be bothered to show up. He’s probably riding the Circle Line right now and peering down girls’ tops with Hank.

Men are useless. Dead or alive.

I raise my voice. “Alex! How on earth do I speak to Rafe? What do I say?”

There’s no reply and I feel like thumping my head on the table in frustration. Only the fact that the last time I banged my head didn’t work out too well stops me.

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter, beyond caring now whether I look crazy. What does it matter when in an hour or two I’ll be behaving like a lunatic anyway? Luckily most people in the carriage are wired into iPods and phones, and the bunch of teenagers at the far end are far too busy trying to look cool to notice me. My questions go unanswered. Defeated, I return my attention to Google, where I read all about Rafe’s acrimonious relationship break-up, his heavy drinking and finally his reclusive life in his house on the River Thames. It doesn’t make me feel much better.

By the time I change trains at High Wycombe and take my seat on the small branch line that winds its way through some of Buckinghamshire’s prettiest countryside, I’m extremely nervous. No matter what Alex thinks, I know this isn’t going to end well. I’m also dreading seeing my father and being back in a house that echoes with grief and memories. With every mile of track I’m coming closer to my own past and, believe me, I don’t like digging about in that at all. Some things really are better off left buried. It’s too late to back out now, though: the train’s drawing into Riverside Halt and I know from experience that there won’t be another back to the town for over an hour. Like it or not, I’m committed to this.

The small unmanned station that serves several scattered dwellings seven miles beyond Taply-on-Thames hasn’t changed a bit, but then why would it? Just because everything in my world shifted and altered that long-ago Christmas doesn’t mean it did for anyone else. That “Stop all the clocks” poem has it spot on; how is it possible that the day-to-day minutiae of life carry on when it feels as though your world has ended? We buried my mother, my lovely, clever, ambitious, beautiful mother, and then we all tried to return to our lives as normal. But of course nothing was ever normal again and our family was changed. Dad went to pieces, Tolly became obsessed with work and I fled to Egypt. Vicars could drone on about heaven as much as they liked, but I doubted its existence. Working with the remains of a culture who’d believed wholeheartedly in the afterlife, only to end up as dusty artefacts, had erased any lingering faith I might have had in life after death. Or at least, it had until a few weeks ago.

What a little ray of sunshine I am this morning.
Snap out of it Cleo
, I tell myself firmly as I shrug my rucksack on and wait patiently for the train to stop fully so that the doors will open. Maybe I ought to read one of those self-help books that Susie’s always
accidentally
leaving on my desk or open on the arm of the sofa – books with covers showing ancient scrolls and which claim to unlock the secrets and mysteries of eternal happiness and abundance. What a load of hokum! Susie, who’s permanently broke, really should ask for her money back. Besides, it’s pretty hard to think positive when you’re worried that you’re going mad and that your entire life hangs in the balance. Somehow I don’t think any of those books have a chapter on what to do when a ghost called Alex Thorne won’t leave you in peace and makes you go and visit his brother to deliver a message from beyond the grave. I’m just going to have to figure it out for myself.

The winter’s morning, which had made London glitter with frost, has iced the hills of Buckinghamshire too; when I step onto the platform I’m struck by just how pretty this part of the world is. Spiders’ webs lace the railings, and the metal seat where Rafe Thorne and I once spent a Christmas Eve sparkles. There’s nothing here but a handful of houses and a picturesque medieval Church where couples clamour to get married, so anyone who alights at Riverside Halt is soon driving away to the villages beyond. Nobody journeys to their destination on foot from here, except me.

The countryside is just as quiet as I remember. As I walk down the narrow lane the only sounds I can hear are the chirruping of a robin and the thudding of my own heartbeat. It always was an isolated spot. The fields around are white; cows stand in chilly huddles by the hedges and horses are wrapped up in blankets, smoke pluming from their nostrils as they canter across the frozen grass to the gate just in case I have treats. I don’t know much about horses but I can tell these ones are worth a fortune. The station’s in the middle of nowhere – a throwback to the golden age of branch lines – but beyond several fields and a muddy footpath is the Thames, a silver serpent winding its way through three counties. Here the cluster of houses beside the Thames forms some of the most expensive real estate in England: beautiful riverside properties owned by bankers and actors.

And rock stars.

Rafe Thorne lives in Mellisande, a thirteenth-century house right next to the river. I remember it from childhood walks along the riverbanks: a mellow grey-stone building smothered in deep green ivy and slumbering behind crumbling walls. Thanks to its status as a listed building, it’s escaped being levelled and turned into a glass-and-chrome modernist creation like some of the other houses here. It’s beautiful but hardly the kind of property I’d have expected a rock star to live in. It’s a house for a poet rather than a pop star. It’s an interesting choice, and one that I can relate far more easily to the sweet guy I met all those years ago than to the brooding man with the dangerous edge that he’s apparently turned into.

With my rucksack on my shoulders I continue up the lane and climb the stile leading me to a footpath skirting fields of furrowed earth. Crows fly upwards, caw-cawing as my feet crunch across the frost, and in spite of my nerves I enjoy the walk. Or at least, I enjoy it until I find myself in front of the big wrought-iron gates of Mellisande. Then my heart plops into my boots.

“This would be a great time for you to show up, Alex,” I say hopefully, but there’s no answer, only my breath clouding the air. It looks like I’m on my own.

The gate isn’t locked and when I give it a shove it swings open soundlessly. The path beyond is overgrown; hedges straggle across it. I wind my way around them, through to the front door. There are no lights on and the whole place has the look of somewhere long shut up. A blackbird flies up with a cry of alarm and the gossamer threads of a spider’s web stretch and break when I push my way through. Rafe Thorne hasn’t been out today then, at least not along this path. It doesn’t look as though anyone’s been this way for a while.

I climb the three steps into the porch, treading stones smoothed by centuries of feet, and pause. The windows are small and diamond paned, and beyond them all I can see is darkness. Fat spiders scuttle into the corners but otherwise all is completely still. It doesn’t look as though there’s anyone at home. Maybe Rafe’s back in rehab again? From what I read online this would hardly be surprising. I lift the heavy brass knocker and rap it against the door. The noise is shocking against the stillness. For a few seconds I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs, just in case the door swings open – but there’s no response.

I could give up and walk back to the station, but I hate the thought of coming this far and quitting. Besides, I want my life back and a promise is a promise, isn’t it? I can’t risk Alex and pals never going away, so I’m going to have to find Rafe Thorne sooner or later. I may as well just get it over with. Maybe he’s out in the garden or something?

There’s a path leading around the side of the house to the lawns at the back. Crossing my fingers that I won’t come across any dogs or security guards, I follow it right the way around until I come to the overgrown formal gardens that roll gently down to the river and the boathouse. There are no footprints on the frosty grass and apart from the chugging of a passing boat everything is still.

Is he inside? Should I knock on one of the French windows maybe? Or try to peer through? I release my rucksack from my shoulders and abandon it while I decide what to do next. This kind of thing always looks so straightforward on TV, but in real life it’s not so easy gaining access to someone else’s home, especially when the terrace is covered in empty plant pots – over which I trip and nearly go flying. Only grabbing the trellis and ending up with half a tonne of dead Virginia creeper on my head saves me from toppling over. I end up yanking half of the thing off the wall and almost skewering myself on a piece of the trellis. Fan-bloody-tastic. Now I’m not only trespassing but causing criminal damage as well. If only I was back in my office, absorbed in my work. Life was so simple before I had my accident. OK, so it was rather uneventful – boring, even – but at least it was uncomplicated.

I dust myself off and lean the damaged trellis back against the wall as best I can. I’m pretty certain that this kind of thing never happens in
CSI: Miami
. Windows are clean and sparkly there, and nobody nearly turns themselves into a human kebab on a chunk of broken trellis. Now I’m covered in leaves and bits of splintery wood and have wrecked the climbing plant as well. I should stick to being an academic; this detective lark is easier said than done, that’s for certain.

I venture back to the French windows. One heavy brocade curtain has been dragged halfway across and the other has been abandoned as though whoever went to draw them lost heart mid task and gave up. I press my face against the glass but it’s so gloomy inside that it’s hard to discern anything at all at first. I shield my eyes against the glaring reflection of the river and squint; slowly, the room comes into focus. I can just about make out a sofa and a table and possibly the blank screen of a television, but beyond that the room swims in darkness. The house is empty. Wherever Rafe Thorne may be, it isn’t here. There’s a familiar feeling to this place, with its heavy furniture and fittings and its air of abandonment. It’s as though the occupants have just slipped away, leaving behind only whispers and secrets. It may be a beautiful medieval manor house bathed in watery winter sunshine on the banks of the Thames, yet it feels exactly the same as one of the ancient tombs I’ve worked on back in Egypt. There’s the same sense of stillness and expectancy, as though the occupants of the place have only just left…