That Summer He Died (20 page)

By the time James had got out of the car, the man had disappeared from sight. James felt a stab of panic. There should be no one here. But he told himself to calm down. It was probably nothing. Just a farmer Alan had had some sort of arrangement with. Maybe using the barn to store hay in or something.

James walked towards the building, but when he was still ten yards away he saw the man reappear in the doorway. He was holding a crowbar and strode purposefully towards James, his face devoid of emotion.

Another man came out of the barn and stood there watching, arms folded. James’s heart drummed. He didn’t like the look of this, not one bit. Who the hell were these people? Burglars?

The first man stopped a foot away from him. He was big, maybe six-four. Shaved head. Forty-something. Thick neck and bulbous gut. He was swinging the crowbar in and out of his palm, making a smacking sound.

‘You lost or what?’ he said, his eyes running over James like a laser on a barcode. Accent wasn’t local. London.

‘No. I––’

‘Yeah, well, this is private property,’ the man said. ‘Meaning you got no right being here.’

James eyed the crowbar, and thought about just leaving. He could go back into town and check with the estate agent, find out what was going on. He could even come back with the estate agent. Or the police, if it turned out no one was meant to be here.

But this was probably nothing, right? he reasoned instead. What would burglars want with this place anyway? There was nothing worth stealing, was there? The place was a total dump.

‘I’ve got every right,’ he said, deciding to clear this up now. ‘I’m the owner.’

The man’s face creased in confusion. ‘You what?’

‘This house and that barn and everything here belongs to me.’

‘Bollocks,’ the man said. ‘This place used to be owned by—’

‘Alan L’Anson,’ James said. ‘I’m his nephew. He left it to me in his will.’

The man stared. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ve got ourselves a bit of a fucking problem.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked the other man, beefy, early-twenties, coming over.

Crowbar Man ignored the question. He was already calling a number on his phone.

‘That you?’ he asked. ‘Yeah, ’course. . . Nah, that’s sorted. Some geezer just turned up here. Says he owns the place. Inherited it.’ He fixed James with a stare. ‘Nah, everything’s under control. . . Yeah, now. Make it quick, all right?’ He cut the call and slipped the phone into his back pocket. ‘Right, mate,’ he told James. ‘Now I don’t know who the fuck you are and I don’t know if you’re talking shit or not. So we’re just gonna wait here until my boss shows, and then we can sort it all out one way or the other, all right?’

‘Fine. I’ll be in my car.’

The man looked at him for a second as if he might tell James no and try and stop him. But then he stepped aside. As James walked away, he could feel two pairs of eyes boring into his back like lasers.

What the hell was all this about?

And who the hell was this boss?

*

Half an hour passed. James had tried the estate agent’s number, but reached an answerphone. He’d left a message, but had heard nothing back.

Screw this, he thought, getting out of the car, feeling emboldened by the fact that he’d left the message because it meant that someone else actually knew that he was here.

He got out and walked over to the barn, which the two men had re-entered . He’d had enough, he decided. He had keys and he was going to go into the main house. It was his fucking right.

As James walked into the barn, the first thing he saw was that a whole bunch of new-looking crates were neatly stacked up around the place. The older man with the crowbar nodded at the younger guy, who got up off the crate where he’d been sitting smoking. But before James even got the chance to tell them where he was going, he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

‘You stay there,’ the older man told James. ‘Go fetch him,’ he told the younger guy.

The other man obeyed, sliding the barn door shut behind him. There was the sound of a car door opening and closing and a muffled conversation. Then the barn door opened. A man in a suit walked in.

James couldn’t make out his face too well to begin with in the dim light. He was wearing a heavy, expensive-looking overcoat over the suit. A white shirt underneath. His eyes were hidden by a pair of black shades. He stood still and stared.

‘Hello, James,’ he said, removing his shades. ‘Long time, no see.’

The eyes, even in this gloom, were unmistakable. They were the colour of the summer skies James had walked beneath when he’d lived here. Alex. No longer kitted out like a beach bum. Serious. Clean-shaven. The tattoo out of sight. Suited and booted and managing events. His face had changed, too. A straight line of white scar tissue ran from just beneath his earring-less earlobe to the bottom of his chin. Knife-slash. Either that or careless shaving. . . But nothing about Alex had ever been careless.

‘You know this guy?’ Crowbar Man said.

Alex continued to stare at James. ‘You could say that. You could say we’re old friends.’ His teeth showed in a fleeting smile. ‘Isn’t that right, James?’

He didn’t answer.

‘A hello would be nice.’ Lighting a cigarette, Alex tossed the match on to the dry barn floor. His accent slid from local to Home Counties in a half-hearted attempt at impersonation. ‘Hello, Alex. How the devil are you? Looking good. Looking fine. What say you and me go for a drink and chat over old times? Crumbs, Alex, it’s just so good to see you.’ Then, reverting to his natural accent, ‘Well? How about it? You gonna say hello?’

His attempt at intimidation had the opposite effect from the one intended. All it did was remind James of the banter they’d once shared. Restored equality to the situation. The suit and the thugs slipped from James’s mind and there were just him and Alex, aged eighteen, sizing one another up on South Beach on the morning of the search party. Kissing butt wouldn’t have won Alex’s respect then, and the same applied now.

‘Hello,’ James said. ‘How the devil are you?’

Alex grinned a grin that was gone as soon as it appeared. ‘That’s better.’

‘So how about telling me what you’re doing here?’ James said. ‘What all of you are doing here.’

Alex said nothing.

‘Your friend here, or whatever he is,’ James said, ‘seemed to think I shouldn’t be here. Well, he’s wrong.’

Alex turned to Crowbar Man. ‘Everything unloaded?’

Crowbar Man was glaring at James like a dog on a leash. ‘Yeah.’

‘OK. Wait outside. I’ll sort this out.’

Crowbar Man wasn’t convinced. ‘You sure you don’t want—’

‘Just leave. Both of you. Now.’

Alex studied the ground between his feet until the others walked out and shut the barn door behind them.

‘We really have got us a problem here, James,’ he said finally, looking up and pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He held the pack towards James. ‘Smoke?’

‘No.’

‘What? You quit?’

‘No.’

‘Just don’t fancy one now, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Just like when we were kids, eh? You were always trying to stop yourself doing something, weren’t you. . . always trying to change who you were. . .’

Trying to be better. . . trying and never managing it. . . never managing it, not once.

Alex shrugged and lit a cigarette, inhaled and exhaled in silence. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘the stuff in these crates. . . I’ll need to keep it all here a few days, ’til I sort somewhere else out.’

‘What’s in them?’

‘That’s not your problem. The point is—’

James lost it. ‘No,’ he snapped, ‘the point is you’re not keeping shit here unless I say so. You want me to call the pigs? You want me to fucking call them?’

Alex’s voice sounded very calm, like a teacher to a child. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘Don’t get what?’

‘This.’ Alex’s expression hardened. ‘You’re not in charge here. I am. What I say, you do. Right now, there are two head-cases outside who want to smack your face in, just for fun, right? Just because that’s what they both like to do. And right now the only thing that’s stopping them from doing that is yours truly. Meaning, right now, you owe me. And because you owe me, you’re gonna behave. And because you’re gonna behave, you’re gonna hear me out. OK?’

James was on the verge of snapping back a reply when he stopped himself. Alex was right. For the moment. Till the two heavies disappeared down the drive. Till then, just play along. Let him play the big man, the fucking gangster. Say whatever it takes. Then call the pigs.

‘Doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice, does it?’ he said.

Alex studied him closely, then his face relaxed. His voice, this time, was softer. ‘No. Now, I didn’t bring this situation on you. You did. You’re the one who rocked up here out of the blue. Inheritance, huh? That mad old prick leave you the house?’

‘Alan left it to me in his will, if that’s what you mean.’

‘OK. So things are starting to make sense. And you’re down here to flog it, yeah?’ Another fleeting smile. ‘Not planning on moving back to Grancombe to hang out with your old mates for good?’

James felt his skin prickle. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think not. But I want to be sure. So?’

‘So, you’re right.’

‘Right. So you’re here and the crates are here. And you don’t like me. And you don’t like me telling you what to do. And I can understand that. I wouldn’t like it either.’ Alex drew deep on his cigarette. ‘Reverse psychology, I think they call it. And following on down that route, if I were you, what I’d be thinking right now is: Fuck him. The moment he’s outta here, I’m gonna call the police. Let them bust open those crates and then let them bust him for whatever’s inside ’em. ’Cos that’s the other thing you’re thinking, right? That what’s in those crates ain’t legal. . .’

‘You sound like you’ve got it all worked out,’ James said.

‘I have got it all worked out. That’s my job.’ Alex stabbed a finger at him. ‘Now, some advice. You call the pigs, or so much as touch one of those crates, and either me or one of my friends out there is going to bust your head open.’ His eyes fixed on James’s, unwavering. ‘You and me have history, James. You know me. You know what I’m capable of. I warn you now: fuck with me on this, and you’ll live to regret it.’

‘You’ve got no power over me any more,’ James told him. ‘Nothing. I left this place. That was the end of us.’

‘D’you remember the last person who fucked with me, James? That was the end of him as well, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what—’

‘Yeah, you do,’ Alex interrupted. ‘Every second. Every second of every minute of what happened down on the beach that night. Every second of every minute of what happened up on the clifftop. Every fucking second.’ Alex smiled as the colour drained from James’s face. ‘ ’Course you do. You remember it all.’

James’s mouth had turned dry. He forced the word out: ‘No.’

‘That a fact?’ Alex said. ‘But you did hear the news about Dan? About him being found gutted?’

James wanted to curl up in a ball. The light in here was too dim. The walls were shifting. He felt weak. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Know what that means?’

‘It means he’s dead.’

‘It means the killer’s still here, James. And if the killer’s still here, then what you, me and Dan did down on the beach that night can happen again.’ He paused to give James’s brain time to soak up the information. ‘Time’s moved on but nothing’s changed. Nothing. There’s enough in those crates to put me and a number of other people you don’t want to ever fucking meet away for life. There’s nothing I won’t do to stop that from happening. Nothing,’ he said. ‘You understand that?’

‘You wouldn’t,’ James said, but even as he spoke, he knew he was wrong.

Alex walked across to the crates and rested a hand on one of them. ‘Maybe you’re right. But I don’t reckon it’s a maybe you’re gonna bet on. Not just because you don’t want me keeping a few boxes in your barn for a couple of days. Could prove to be a pretty fucking dumb move, you ask me. . .’ He slowly ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Reckon I got you stitched up, mate.’ He ran his finger from his navel to his throat. ‘From here to here.’ He cocked his head to one side, placed his hand back on the crate, spat on the floor and looked across at James.

‘So what d’you say? You gonna babysit these boxes or what?’

*

James stood beside his car, watching the van and Alex’s sleek BMW turning out from the bottom of the drive and into the lane.

Alex had waved at him as he’d pulled away. The piece of shit had actually waved. Like they were still mates. Like James was just doing him a favour, for Christ’s sake.

Then James was sinking. Down to his knees. But deeper than that. Into the past. To a time several weeks after that day when the police had raided Hazel and Georgie’s caravan. To the end of that summer. To when Alex and he had no longer been friends. To South Beach. To the night Alex had just spoken about. To the same night James had made his decision to leave this place for good.

The gravel of the yard softened beneath his shoes. Then it was sand. It swallowed him up and he was eighteen once more.

James stepped down off the bottom of the steps and felt his shoes sink into the cool night sand of South Beach.

In the distance he saw flames, a campfire. Alex. His favourite spot. It could only be him. If James were careful, he’d be able to sneak past like a shadow and they’d be none the wiser. Silently, he hurried on.

But then the shouting stopped him dead.

For a moment, he couldn’t work out what was going on. He heard a voice – Dan’s voice – bellowing something. Then a figure burst out of the darkness, pounding across the sand towards him.

Dan’s voice again, like an earthquake: ‘Get him.’

The running figure was closing in on James. A man, tall and thin. Features became discernible on his face, features James didn’t recognise. As the man saw James he slowed, confused, and looked for another way to run. But already Dan’s unmistakable silhouette was racing up behind him. Another figure was close behind. Alex. It had to be Alex. The thin man turned and clocked them. Turning back, he ran hard at James.