That Summer He Died (15 page)

He found Dan’s grave on the other side of the churchyard. Fresh flowers – hundreds of them – lay about the rectangular gravestone. James’s eyes wouldn’t settle on the epitaph, only Dan’s name and age – the same as his own. They’d been born within a month of each other.

Anger stung him. Dan hadn’t deserved to die. Murdered. Murdered by a sick-head. Maybe Alan was right. Maybe there was no good. Only evil, coming to get you every time.

Peter Headley’s face hovered like an apparition before James’s eyes. The morgue shots he’d seen in LA. Animal. Better off dead. He pictured himself shooting Headley. Shooting him in the face. Blowing him away time and time again. But Headley kept rearing back up, shot away like a gun target at a funfair. He was laughing, saying over and over the same words from the nightmare James kept having in LA:
Kill me again. Be like me. Become like me. . .

Because that’s what James couldn’t deal with. How could people kill? How could people become like that? Was it something we all had in us? Something waiting to explode from the darkness inside?

He crouched down and propped the flowers up against the gravestone. He traced Dan’s name with one finger. The stone was cold. An impulse set James’s hand retreating to his side, like he’d been stung. He knew he was too late. Dan was already gone.

He ignored the tears running down his face and the flow of sweat beneath his shirt. The wind felt hot, although he knew it to be cold. He wiped a clammy hand across his clammy brow. He had no right to cry. Sentimental crap. You can’t nurse the dead. You can’t bring people back.

He stood. His legs felt weak. He shouldn’t have come here. No point. He shouldn’t have come to the graveyard. He shouldn’t have come to Grancombe. There was only death for him here.

The gravestone shifted before his eyes and he tried to steady himself by reading the engraving. Letters slid into new words, a language he couldn’t translate.

Another trickle of sweat. His mouth, he realised, was dry. This strange heat was eating him. It was making him feel sick. Pulling at his collar, he dragged air into his lungs.

But his vision lurched and the gravestone slipped sideways. The tower of the church crashed sideways across the darkening, swirling sky.

*

James felt himself moving, being lifted up. Rain slapped against his face.

Feeling cold, so cold. He opened his eyes and saw a hand closing round his jaw, slowly moving it from side to side. Lightning cracked across the dark sky. The wind howled.

‘What?’ he managed to say.

‘Try not to speak,’ someone said. ‘You’ve fallen. Your head’s bleeding.’ The hand moved from his jaw to his arm.

‘Help me to get you sitting.’

James tried to move, and groaned. He hissed through his teeth and flinched as a sharp pain exploded across his brow.

‘It’s OK,’ the voice said. ‘Just a cut. You’re lucky.’

‘What—’

‘You’ve had a fall. You’re soaked.’

James looked at the gravestone in front of him. ‘Dan,’ he whispered, remembering where he was.

‘You knew him?’ the voice asked.

‘Yes.’ James stared at the flowers he’d left there. ‘He was my friend.’

‘Mine too.’

James twisted round, pushing his hair from his face, and looked at the owner of the voice. Black hair. Those eyes. A sparkle... the silver star in her left ear. And then he knew.

‘Suzie?’

Her mouth was open now. Slowly, her head shook and her arms withdrew, leaving him propped up in the mud on his elbows. She blinked. And again. Confused. She reached out her hand, as if to touch his face, then stopped, leaving it frozen between them in mid-air.

This couldn’t be, he thought. Just a statue. An angel. Guardian of the graveyard. Stone hand. Stone face. Stone heart.

‘Suzie?’ he asked again.

‘Yes,’ she said, standing looking down at him. ‘Yes, James. It’s me.’

And now he believed his eyes. Then came the jolt – as if he’d just touched a live wire – hitting him the same way as when he’d first seen her in Surfers’ Turf on the morning of the search.

He remained where he lay, stunned as much by the sight of her as by the ache in his head. Had she changed? How? He couldn’t be sure. Winter was here and heavy clothing screened everything apart from her head. Her hair was longer, down past her shoulders. It lay in thick, wet streaks across her face, black as a crow’s feathers. Her face wasn’t lined, but was still older. Something had changed in her eyes. Their mahogany colour had matured, hardened. She was still beautiful, though. As beautiful now as when he’d seen her in his dreams. He reached out to her.

‘Can you help me up?’ he asked. ‘Please.’

She closed her fingers round his and pulled him smoothly to his feet. A slick of fresh sweat seeped across his brow. He left light-headed, feverish, drunk.

‘OK to walk?’ she said.

He rocked his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I suppose.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Nowhere. I mean, Alan’s. Only I haven’t gone there yet. Only just arrived. My car’s parked down by North Beach.’

‘Come on,’ she said, supporting him by one elbow and steering him back to the path.

‘There’s a fire in the Moonraker,’ she said. ‘We’ll go there first. I’ll fix you up with some clothes till yours dry out. Check out that cut as well.’

*

An old Fat Boy Slim track was playing at half volume on the jukebox as James looked away from the fire, his eyes beginning to sting from staring too long.

Exhausted, he gazed sleepily down at the clothes he was wearing: a tatty denim shirt, thick black jumper and jeans, all a size too big. He’d changed in the bathroom in the flat above the bar. They were Dan’s clothes. Suzie hadn’t needed to tell him that when she’d handed them over. Her hands had given her away, holding the ragged bundle so gently, as if she’d been surrendering a child.

James looked across the room to the bar where Suzie was fixing them both a drink. So little had changed. He’d swear the same punters were still conversing in hushed tones. Far from being a ghost, he now felt like he’d never left, like the years between had been nothing more than a dream.

Suzie’s dad, Johnno, as if reading his thoughts, nodded at James from behind the bar and smiled. It had been the same when she had brought him in out of the storm. Not even a flash of surprise to mark the passage of time, just acceptance and that nod and that smile. He’d remembered James’s name, had greeted him like he’d last been in the night before. So much for trying to outfox your past. So much for time wiping it away.

Suzie rounded the bar. James wished he could still smoke in here like in the old days. Looking at her now, he suddenly felt nervous as hell.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a pint. ‘Dad said that’ll soon warm you up.’

‘Thanks.’ He took a swig. It was bitter and strong. ‘He’s not kidding. Make it himself?’

‘Yes, he’s got it down for his Christmas Ale.’

‘Well, he should have a few satisfied customers.’

The awkwardness between them was only getting worse. His fever wasn’t helping either. He felt self-conscious, still couldn’t believe she’d found him flat out in the graveyard like that.

But most of all he felt a kind of embarrassment, a kind of shame, as if he owed her an explanation, for where he’d been, and for why he’d gone away.

But he was worried that if he spoke then too many things would flood out. Like all those times he’d imagined this reunion. All those bitter Edinburgh nights the year after he’d left Grancombe, when her face had been the last he’d pictured before he went to sleep. And all those times since, as he’d moved from girlfriend to girlfriend. And even lately, while he’d been in the States, the other side of the Atlantic from Lucy, left alone with his dreams once more.

But now that it was for real – her here, him here – what could he really say at all? Nothing about his dreams, that was for sure. But what about what he felt on seeing her? That she looked incredible? That he’d missed her and was only beginning to realise what a darkness her absence had created in his life?

Forget it. They were adult. Crushes were for kids. All he was feeling now were old emotions, echoes from the past. None of them belonged to him any more.

‘How does your head feel?’ Suzie asked.

‘Still stings, but better,’ he said. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Anyone would think I’d saved your life.’

He felt himself blushing and took another deep draft of beer. ‘So here we are then,’ he said.

‘Yeah, here we are.’ Her mouth pinched into a reluctant smile. ‘And the last time I saw you must have been. . .’

‘A few years back now.’

An expression of exaggerated puzzlement crossed her face. ‘And what were the circumstances?’ she asked. ‘Was it. . .? No, I can’t quite seem to remember. How strange.’ She raised her eyebrows and suggested, ‘Maybe your memory’s better than mine.’

Was she teasing him? Mocking him? Was she angry with him? Or was that all in the past? He couldn’t tell. He no longer knew her well enough for that.

‘On the doorstep,’ he said. ‘Outside here. On a hot summer’s night. Nine years ago.’

She clicked her tongue, sat back in her chair. ‘Well, that’s something, at least, you remember that.’

‘I do.’

She frowned. ‘And then you kissed me goodnight and told me you’d call me – do you remember that too?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t call me. Ever again.’

‘I know. I left town.’

‘And?’

‘And I guess I owe you an apology.’

‘I guess you do.’

He caught the trace of a smile on her face.

‘Are you enjoying this?’ he said, hoping to hell she was just teasing him, hating himself all over again for ever having hurt her, wishing he could take it back.

‘Might be.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’

Suzie wagged her finger at him. ‘ Don’t try and switch this round on me. You’re the one who’s meant to be apologising.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘So. . .’

‘All right. Fine. I’m sorry. I mean it. It’s just. . .’ A sigh came out instead of words. ‘I don’t know. Something came up. I had to leave. I—’

‘Whoah!’ She was grinning now. ‘Enough. Punishment over.’ She raised her glass to him. ‘We were kids. Apology accepted.’

‘That’s it?’ he checked. ‘No more recriminations? You’re sure?

‘I’m twenty-nine years old, James. I think I’ve kind of grown out of hating people for not calling me when they said they would.’

He clinked his glass against hers. ‘OK, then. Cheers.’

They both drank. ‘It seems a long time ago now,’ she said, returning her glass to the table. Pain suddenly crossed her face like a cloud. The light in her eyes faded. ‘So much stuff’s gone down since then.’

Say it, he told himself. Don’t duck it. And so he spoke.

‘About Dan. . . I’m sorry, Suzie. I’m so fucking sorry.’

Tears filled her eyes. He wished he knew her well enough to wipe them away.

‘I just,’ he said. ‘I mean, you must be. . .’

Her lips had rolled in on themselves. He could almost feel her teeth biting down on them.

‘It’s OK,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to keep it in.’

Her head was shaking. ‘No, not here. I mustn’t talk about him here. Not now.’ She looked over at her father. ‘Not with Dad here. He. . . he might look like he’s fine, but he’s not coping well.’ She took another sip of her drink and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s talk about something else. Let’s. . . Oh, Jesus, let’s just have another drink.’

Regret gnawed at James as she took their glasses and walked over to the bar. He should have stayed. He knew it for real now. He could have changed things. Everything. His life. Hers.

And, most important of all, Dan’s. He shouldn’t have run. It had got him nowhere, just back to where he’d started from.

He was back and Dan was dead, and he might have been able to change that. He might have saved Dan’s life.

A noise shrilled out, high and insistent, and all the heads at the bar turned to face him. He stared along the row of accusing faces, feeling confused.

‘You gonna answer that or what?’ Johnno asked.

‘What?’

One of the locals laughed. ‘That bump on his head must be worse than we thought. Your phone, kid. Your bloody phone.’

Another one of the locals pointed to a sign on the wall.

‘That’s a quid you owe.’

James read the sign: MOBILE PHONE PENALTY – £1. He shook his head, managed a smile and picked his mobile off the table.

‘Norm?’ he said, seeing his boss’s name flashing on the display. ‘How you doing?’

‘Good, Marple. Real good. Where you at?’

James turned away from the staring faces, embarrassed, and twisted his chair round towards the fire again. He kept his voice low. ‘Grancombe,’ he said. ‘Just got in.’

‘Had yourself an ice cream yet? Seen any nice titties on the beach?’

James wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘You may not have noticed, Norm, but it’s mid-winter. And in case you’d forgotten, the only women who sunbathe topless on British beaches are the models you plant there for your smutty articles.’

Norm cackled down the line at him. ‘Hey, hey, hey! Just providing a service, you know. Just giving the readers what they want.’

‘Just giving the readers what you want them to want, Norm. There is a difference. Now what can I do for you?’

‘
Nada
. Just checking your mobile’s working. Never can tell with the provinces.’

‘Civilisation does exist outside the M25.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Still, better give me your hotel number – assuming the hotels down there have telephones, that is?’

‘I already told you, I only just got here. Haven’t found anywhere to stay yet.’

‘OK, but let me know as soon as you’re sorted.’ Norm sniffed loudly. ‘What about your woman? She down there with you?’

‘No, Friday.’

‘Yeah, well, no honeymoon suite, OK? It’s still the recession. And don’t forget you’re both there to work, all right?’

‘Sure, Pops. We’ll be good.’

‘Good. So what are your plans?’

‘What for?’

‘For digging me up some dirt. What’s on the cards?’

‘I dunno. There’s a local paper down here. Suppose I’ll start there, check up on the history of the murders and all that. Should be able to sniff out enough background to get the article up and running. Then have a chat with the cops. The usual. . .’