That Summer He Died (18 page)

‘All the same,’ he said, ‘we really should go.’

Alex finished his drink, ran the back of his hand across his mouth, and belched. ‘I don’t do should. Only want.’ He leant on the table and pushed himself to his feet. ‘You coming, or what?’

He didn’t wait for James to answer, just turned and walked to the door. James sat alone for a few seconds, watching the family at the table nearby. They’d finished eating now. The father and mother were engrossed in newspapers, the little boy rolling a stick of rock back and forth across the table’s surface, making engine noises. His sister’s head was resting on her hands, her back rising and falling regularly in the motion of sleep. James finished his drink and left.

‘Wait up,’ he shouted after Alex, running down the street to catch him up.

Alex walked on a while, then sat on the thick concrete sea wall that severed the street from North Beach. He slipped his t-shirt from his back, tucking it beneath his belt so that it hung down across his thigh. His body was muscular and lithe.

‘What’s that all about, then?’ James asked, sitting down next to him and nodding at the tattoo of a black cockerel on his arm. ‘Black magic, huh? Voodoo?’ he joked.

‘Something like that,’ Alex said without smiling. ‘Got it done last summer.’

James looked across North Beach. There were maybe a hundred people scattered across the sand, like huddled desert outposts, segregated from one another by parasols and wind-breaks, sweating it out against the sun. A caravan of donkeys, saddled with toddlers and escorted by camera-snapping parents, plodded wearily along the shore, tails swishing, hooves kicking up the sand. To the left, below the hill on which St Donal’s stood, was Grancombe Harbour. Thirty or so yachts and powerboats were berthed there, bobbing against the rubber tyres which girdled the concrete quays. Even from here, James could hear their halyards tinkling in the breeze. Further out at sea, windsurfers and kitesurfers cut past one another like jousting knights.

‘So?’ Alex asked. ‘What’s it to be?’

James slid off the wall. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

Alex dropped his shades back down on to the bridge of his nose. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

They walked along, past the junction with the high street. James felt liberated at having made the decision to duck Dawes’s funeral wake, like he was back at school, skiving off class. He slid the knot of his tie down, removed Alan’s jacket and folded it over his forearm. He undid the top button of his shirt, rolled his sleeves up and felt the warm breath of the sun envelop his skin. Hot summer days. Perfect in every way. All that was missing was the touch of another person’s hand in his.

‘The Moonraker’s run by Suzie’s parents, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The girl who owns Surfers’ Turf?’

‘Suzie’s parents. Dan’s parents. Johnno and Lil. Call them what you want. Yeah, they run it.’

James slowed to a halt. ‘Suzie’s Dan’s sister? You’re kidding.’

‘No.’

‘Jeez. I didn’t have those two down as being related.’

‘Yeah. Elder sister. How come you know her anyhow?’

‘I don’t really. Had a quick chat with her before the search. And she was there when I went back to get Murphy.’ He checked himself. ‘She was nice. Stayed with me till Alan got back.’

‘Nice?’ Alex glanced across at him archly. ‘What the fuck does nice mean?’ He laughed. ‘Nice as in she visits pensioners in her free time and makes them cups of tea? Or nice as in she’s got the prettiest little tits in Grancombe and you wouldn’t mind getting your hands on them and giving them a good squeeze?’ He monitored James’s face for a reaction and got the one he was looking for.

‘Jesus,’ he said, laughing, ‘that’s it. You fancy her. You’ve got a hard-on with her name all over it.’

‘No,’ James said, flustered. ‘Well, not now that I know she’s Dan’s sister.’

‘But before, yeah? Before you knew. Before that you were up for her, right? Got her in your head? That why you were bitching back there about not coming to see these girls?’

‘No,’ James said. ‘Because I am, right? I’m coming with you now, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t blame you for liking her, mind,’ Alex said. ‘A good-looking girl.’ He hawked and spat. ‘Wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole myself.’

‘Why? Because of Dan?’

‘Nah, Dan wouldn’t give a toss. They’re not exactly close.’

‘Why, then? Is she seeing someone?’

‘Nah, just not my type. Too – I don’t know – too fucking adult. Too square. No fun. It’s like having your granny in the room when she’s there. Disapproving looks. All that crap. Can’t just be yourself. And she’s only a year and a bit older than us. Not like she’s got an excuse.’

Alex turned off the road into the car park next to the harbour. James followed him as he wove between the bonnets and boots. They stopped between a clapped out VW and a red Spitfire, its roof down, its tiny steering wheel glinting in the sun. James walked round to the other side of the VW.

‘Wrong,’ Alex said, pulling a jangle of keys from his pocket and climbing into the Spitfire’s driving seat.

James walked slowly back. He hesitated by the passenger door. ‘This
is
yours, isn’t it?’

Alex laughed and slid a key into the ignition. ‘Chill out,’ he said, his grin far from reassuring. ‘I haven’t been joyriding for months.’

James remembered the conversation they’d had with Dan on the clifftop. ‘So Murphy was right, then? About Dan?’

‘Right about suspecting him, sure. Nothing right about what he went and did as a result.’

‘How bad was it?’

‘Bad enough for Dan to have to tell his parents he’d been mugged. Murphy slapped him round the face a few times.’

‘I still say you should’ve grassed him for it,’ James said, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘Told Dan’s parents. Let them sort it out.’

Alex ran his hand through his hair. ‘Someone tried that once. A few years back. A guy a couple of years older than us called Paddy Hayworth.’

‘Paddy who?’

‘Hayworth. Dealer. I kind of took my cue from him, took over when he stopped. Used to buy off him. Good guy. Anyhow, he tried to get Murphy busted.’

‘What’s the story?’

‘The story? Someone burgled Murphy’s house when he was on holiday, vandalised the place a treat. Sprayed all kinds of stuff about him and his wife over the walls. Even laid a turd on the kitchen table. Murphy reckoned it was Paddy,’ Alex said. ‘Probably right, too. From what Paddy told me, he had reason enough. Murphy had bust in on his flat a few months before. Class As all over the place. Hadn’t nicked him, though. Murphy’s too sharp for that. Went for the cash option instead.’

‘What, blackmail? You’re kidding.’

‘More like taxation. At least, that’s the way I heard it. Regular payment each week. Made Paddy’s life hell. Same as he would with me, if he ever caught me with anything more than grass.’ Alex reached behind the seat and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, took a slug and passed it to James. ‘So Murphy grabbed him on suspicion of the burglary, took him for a drive where no one else would see and gave him a good shoeing, tried to get him to confess.’

James drank from the bottle, and wheezed, ‘Did he?’

‘Nah. Kept his gob shut. And as soon as Murphy let him out, he went and got himself a lawyer.’

James sat back, half-closed his eyes against the glare of the sun bouncing off the car bonnet. ‘So what happened? How come Murphy’s still here and not in prison?’

Alex sighed. ‘Because Paddy ain’t.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That’s the million-dollar question. Disappeared the day after he’d seen the lawyer. Hasn’t been seen since.’

‘What are you saying?’ James scoffed. ‘That Murphy knocked him off? Come on, it’s a bit paranoid, isn’t it?’

‘Bit of a coincidence, him vanishing like that.’

‘Still—’

‘Still, nothing. Whether it was actually down to Murphy or not ain’t the point. Point is there’s a lot of flooded slate mines round here where a body wouldn’t ever be discovered, and me and Dan don’t want to find out first-hand if Murphy specialises in watery graves.’

Alex snatched the bottle back and stowed it behind the seat. He fired the ignition.

‘Jesus,’ James said, listening to the threatening growl of the engine. ‘Nice bit of machinery.’

‘Fucking should be,’ Alex said, slipping into gear and navigating his way round a tour bus. ‘Cost me enough.’ They reached the street and he leant across and opened the glove compartment. He rummaged around for a few seconds, the engine idling. ‘Here,’ he said, producing a pair of shades and dropping them on to James’s lap. ‘Put them on. No point being in a car like this and not looking the part.’

The car pulled away and James slid the shades into place. Day slipped into dusk in an instant. They cruised back down along the sea front.

‘So how fast can this baby go?’ he said.

The car slowed as they reached the junction and turned into the high street. ‘You really wanna know?’

An edge in Alex’s voice told James that maybe he didn’t. But what was the problem? He checked the speedometer as the street slid past. Twenty miles an hour. It was daytime. People on the pavement. Murphy was up at St Donal’s. As far as he knew, Alex hadn’t ingested anything more dangerous than a pint of lager and a thimbleful of JD all day. They turned right and headed for the bend in the road that would lead them past St Donal’s.

‘Yeah,’ James said, ‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’

‘Yeah? Well, I hope you’ve had an enema recently.’

‘What?’

‘ ’Cos if you haven’t, you’re gonna end up shitting your pants.’

No sooner had Alex finished his sentence than James felt the acceleration kick in. Air powered against the windscreen, streaming down over it to thump into his face, ventilating his scalp like a hairdryer. The noise of the engine rose and fell as Alex shifted busily through the gears. The Spitfire squealed into a bend and James felt the G-force wedging him sideways. And then, maybe two hundred yards up the hill, he saw the faces outside St Donal’s begin to turn and stare. Alex released his hand from the gearstick.

‘Sounds,’ he shouted, flicking the stereo on.

House music burst out of speakers in the doors. The vibrations racked James’s body, threatening to shake loose his teeth from his gums.

‘Shit!’ he yelled, impulsively ducking down in the bucket seat as they drew level with the church, narrowly missing a woman crossing the road.

He covered his face with his hands, not wanting to be spotted doing this with the funeral still going on. But alongside his fear of exposure was something more powerful. A sense of release, a feeling that this was something he’d been born to do, something he’d been denying himself for years. He lowered his hands and twisted his head round. The road flowed away behind them. White-water rafting. The mourners outside St Donal’s were left stranded in their wake.

‘You’re a fucking madman,’ he shouted over the music.

‘So, welcome to the asylum,’ Alex said, cutting the volume of the music. He slowed down as they left the town behind and they followed the gully of the high-hedged lane like bobsledders.

‘How far’s this caravan site?’ James said.

‘This far.’ Alex yanked on the handbrake and slewed into a driveway. He released the brake again and steadied the vehicle, then slowed.

James felt the flow of adrenaline begin to taper off. Flat fields spread to left and right, uneven with sheep-trimmed grass. Up ahead was a plain farmhouse, its slate roof dull against the sky. From here a jumble of outbuildings, ranging from breeze-block shower rooms to corrugated-iron animal shelters, radiated outwards. Caravans lay like sleeping cows in a random pattern across the field to the right of the house. As they covered the last few yards of driveway before reaching the parking area they passed a small swimming pool and play area, complete with swings, a roundabout and slide, and attendant kids.

‘There’s a wash bag in the broken panel on the left in the boot,’ Alex said, as he pulled out a plastic bag of beers from behind his seat. ‘Dig it out and don’t go leaving it anywhere.’

Alex slapped his hand against James’s shoulder as they walked towards the small concrete bunker with a sign reading
Reception
bolted to its door. Blood was smeared across the skin on his forearm. ‘Horsefly,’ he commented, scratching at it. ‘Bastards. Worse than wasps. Been a bad summer for them.’ He pushed the door open and moved inside. ‘All right, Marge,’ he said to the middle-aged woman sitting smoking behind the counter, reading a tabloid paper.

‘Alex,’ she said with a nod, not moving.

James noticed her fingers, crooked and tanned with nicotine. The room was hot and stank of stale ash. Alex picked up a tourist brochure from the scratched glass surface of the table in the corner of the room and idly leafed through its glossy pages.

‘Business good?’ he said.

‘So, so.’

‘Great.’ He sounded bored. ‘Number sixteen,’ he said, cutting to the chase. ‘Where is it? We’re meeting some people.’

Marge stood and leant over the counter, studied a list on a clipboard. Her breasts were clinched together like an arse hanging out of a fat builder’s jeans.

‘Hazel and Georgie,’ she read aloud.

‘That’s them. Where’s their caravan?’

‘Out the door and right. Tenth one up. Blue door. Friends of yours, are they?’

But Alex had already turned his back on her and was halfway through the doorway. Marge sat back down and cloaked her face with the newspaper once more. James replaced the brochure and followed Alex outside.

Hazel waved at them as they approached. She was sitting in the doorway of a decrepit yellow caravan. Her legs swung gently back and forth, like a child’s on a swing. The soles of her bare feet brushed against the lush grass, making it hiss.

‘Hi,’ she said as they reached her. She stood up and ducked inside. ‘Come on in.’

The doorway led into the caravan’s main room. It was cluttered with clothes and crumpled cigarette packs. The smell of takeaway food clogged the air. Georgie was lying down on one of the bench seats, smoking a joint. Her bra strap lay exposed on her shoulder, white against the tan of her skin.

‘All right, there?’ Alex said, crossing over to the brown Formica-topped table and sitting down.