Down Cemetery Road (39 page)

‘It’s of consuming historical interest,’ Zoë finished.

‘So we go there,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. Okay?’

And proved to be good as his word.

Two more things:

Howard, who’d worked out where he was, started after point
B
just as point
B
started to move . . .

. . . and Amos Crane, who’d been following all this, smiled, as he moved too.

IV

There was a small wooden door, very old, with fresh splintering around the handle; with iron nails stamped into it like bullets. There were bushes round this door, clawing their way out of the stony ground like an illustration of a parable.

There was a stained-glass window too; a somewhat Celtic cross. There was no name to the chapel that Sarah could see. Nothing to tell you where you were.

There was a blue 2CV parked lopsided to the back of the building; its rear left wheel an inch or so above the ground, as if its front right had found a ditch.

Sarah stood taking this in while Zoë waved distractedly at the car now heading away from them, reversing up the track through the trees, towards the main road. ‘Nice man,’ she said.

‘Hmm?’

‘He didn’t have to help us.’

‘No.’

She was going to take a few steps forward, push on the door, go right in. Any minute now. That was what she was going to do.

‘So what’s the story, Sarah? Ten minutes ago, you had no idea where they were.’

‘I remembered.’

‘You remembered he said he’d meet you here?’

‘I remembered he talked about it. Back when he and Tommy Singleton escaped. This is where they hid.’

Zoë took it in. Shook her head. ‘Well, if you ask me,’ she said, ‘it’s fucking spooky,’ and she reached into her bag for her gun.

Sarah didn’t notice. She was taking those few steps forward, pushing on the door. Which swung open.

. . . What it reminded her of, those first few seconds, was the chapel in that awful place where she’d first gone looking for Dinah. Arimathea. Here, now, walking into another chapel, she suffered again that sense of old air, of air locked in stone, and the feeling crashed in on her that this was what had become of her life: it had degenerated into a succession of moments, each of which had to be lived through in turn. Brief flashes of memory ignited for her, like sudden views of a bright room: the distant
thump
of a house collapsing, and sparks flying upwards into a dark sky; a man with blood like a necktie pooling down on to his desk; another with a rope of dental floss he was trying to kill her with . . . And herself, all those years ago, falling from the roof, with lights cartwheeling like a circus attraction. All of that. And all leading to where she was now, in another old, cold chapel, looking for a girl who was a survivor, as she was herself. So far.

There were no benches in the chapel. No altar. No furniture of any kind. Just a bare room with a filthy stone floor, some old cracked windows and naked beams low overhead. And a man sitting against the wall opposite, with a small child in his arms . . . Dinah.

Michael was levelling a gun at her.

That was almost it. Right there. Not a matter of her past life flashing before her eyes – not again – more a case of seeing her future, all of it, folding into a single instant, an instant in which he fired the gun, she fell, the world went black . . . None of it happened. Instead he lowered the gun as she stepped out of shadow, raised it again as he saw Zoë – who was right behind her – then put it down once more. No matter Zoë held a gun. He looked, Sarah thought, so tired – so tired, he was maybe half dead himself.

‘You came,’ he said.

‘You forgot your jacket.’

A stupid thing to say, she knew; one of those flippant comments she’d be embarrassed about afterwards, if there was an afterwards. She came forward, his jacket feeling baggy on her shoulders. ‘This is a friend of mine.’

Zoë nodded at Michael. She was still holding her gun. Michael simply stared at her, then looked back at Sarah.

Only a matter of hours, after all, but what had he done with them? Killed how many people? And look at him now, holding a small child, who seemed very like she might be sleeping: what did she say to him? What did she say to Dinah?

I left my life behind to find you, and I can’t remember why . . .

‘You didn’t have to kill them,’ she said. The words had a life of their own. Too much life for Michael, perhaps, who put his head on one side, as if getting out of their way. ‘Michael? You didn’t have to
kill
them.’

Zoë brushed past her. Michael seemed not to notice; he’d put his gun on the ground now, and folded his arm back round Dinah.

Sarah was swimming on dry land; her thoughts as waxy and monstrous as jellyfish. Was this
it
? Was this the end?

‘Sarah?’ Zoë said. She had her hand to Michael’s forehead.

‘. . . What?’

‘He’s sick. Did you know that?’

Buzzing now, loud as a car. She felt sick herself. Had to snap back to reality; pull herself out of whatever pit she was falling into, just as she felt the draught at her back, and the door to the chapel opened.

Amos Crane came walking down the track.

This was
it
, this was
the end
; here was where he closed with flesh and bone. And it was odd, but it was happening the way it always did, with a slow gathering of detail, and the heightening of all his senses. He’d thought this would be different. It was his brother’s killer, after all. He’d thought there would be a mad rush, and a sudden descent; that for one berserk moment, he’d be free of all thought, all feeling, and come back to himself only once it was over . . . When the flesh and bone were done.

But everything was as it always was, and Amos Crane was walking down the track.

The chapel didn’t look much bigger in the world than it had on the map: that was his thought as he stood in the clearing, casting a critical eye. Not that size mattered. All that deskwork, all those months of waiting – all those blips on the screen. And here they were, under one roof. With a woman in a red jumper for an extra.

It was a pity about the child. But sometimes things didn’t work out quite as cleanly as you’d have liked.

He put a hand on the roof of the 2CV. It felt cool to the touch. This was where Downey had come, then, after taking the child. Crane wondered how easy that had been. He wondered if Howard had made it easier somehow; if Howard had his own ideas about how the end should be played. As well for him if he did. As far as Amos Crane was concerned, Howard was part of the ending.

On the main road, he heard a car slow, then stop . . .

But it was too late for that, too late for anything else. He walked to the door, put a hand to it. All the blood within him, all the
atoms
, singing free.

This was where he closed with flesh and bone.

Or was that somebody else coming down the track behind him?

Sarah, dully, said, ‘Oh. Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘We thought you’d gone.’

‘I came back.’

Zoë frowned up at him. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have.’

He shrugged.

Sarah forgot him then, put David Keller out of mind just like that, and stepped forward to crouch by Michael and look at the child. Dinah was not asleep. She lay quiet – a small blonde girl with large green eyes, who looked unblinkingly back at Sarah for a moment, then turned her head to stare into Michael’s chest.

‘She looks like Maddy,’ Michael said.

‘. . . She’s beautiful.’

And she was. She was even worth it.
Because if Dinah isn’t worth it, nothing is . . . Just a tiny girl, how can they
use
her like this?
Thoughts she’d had way back when, staring at the night sky, adding up the stars . . . Last night. That had been last night. And yes, she was beautiful.

Michael wasn’t. He looked ill and drawn, was fading at the edges. Around his T-shirt collar was a spray of blood, and Sarah knew he’d had another coughing attack . . . As if he could start to let go, give up, now that his search was over.

He was talking to her. Saying something like: ‘I didn’t kill anybody. Not this time.’

Zoë shrugged.

‘Just walked in and took her away . . . Didn’t I, sweetheart?’

Sarah said, ‘Okay. It’s okay.’ All those bodies on the island, but he hadn’t killed anyone. Okay. She stroked the child’s shoulder, drawing her attention away from wherever it was it had gone. ‘Here, I brought you this.’ The blue teddy. The kidnapped bear. Who had come from the island where all the bodies lay, though
Michael
hadn’t killed anyone.

Dinah reached a hand out, and touched the bear on the nose.

‘Do you want to hold it?’

She shook her head.

Zoë stood, keeping her movement as smooth as possible. Not wanting to disturb anyone, to cause ripples round the scene.

‘Are you sure? I brought it for you.’

Dinah shook her head again, then regarded Sarah gravely. Who felt something give in her heart; as if strings were being stretched; as if her heart were an instrument, played by a child.

‘. . . Can I hold her?’

Michael nodded. It seemed an effort. Not the dip of the head, but bringing it back upright, to rest against the wall.

Zoë frowned, as if she’d heard something outside.

Sarah held her arms out. ‘Do you want to come to me, Dinah? Give Michael a rest?’

It felt like the longest moment, crouched like that, with outstretched arms. Did Dinah want to come to Sarah? Sarah had come far enough for her, but the child didn’t know that, the child shouldn’t care. All that mattered was the here and now. Her mother dead and gone, and Dinah wouldn’t even know that yet . . . And yet she snuggled there in Michael’s arms as if she trusted him, and knew he’d hold her safe.

‘It’s okay, sweetie. You stay where you are.’

But the child wriggled in his arms then, and held her hands out for Sarah.

She placed the bear in the dust by her side, and lifted Dinah to her. There was a lot of weight and warmth in the exchange; a whole new world of smells, of heavy sounds. She could feel Dinah’s body working, that was what it was; could feel her lungs filling and emptying, her stomach churning away at nothing . . . Christ, the child would be
hungry
. Needed feeding. Needed sleep. All the things small children needed, though all Sarah could offer was a moment’s peace.

‘That man again,’ Dinah said, pointing at the teddy.

‘That’s a bear,’ said Sarah.

‘
Man. That
man again.’

And Dinah pointed at the man she meant, and Sarah and Zoë turned to look at David Keller . . .

. . . Though Keller, in fact, lay dead some miles away, not far from the roadstop where he’d drunk that final cup of coffee.

Pharmaceuticals . . . You’d be surprised the way people raise an eyebrow when they hear that
. But Amos Crane had not raised an eyebrow, had given the matter no thought at all, and had killed David Keller, whose only sin had been to give Crane a lift, with a similar absence of reflection, or indeed regret – because it was, after all, necessary, or if not necessary desirable, or if not desirable . . . about to happen. That was what it was. You could not argue with what was about to happen. David Keller hadn’t. Amos Crane needed a temporary identity, and David Keller had yielded his with no more than a wet murmur. Amos Crane needed a car, and dead David Keller wasn’t using his any more. Sarah and Zoë had needed a lift, but dead David Keller hadn’t been there to oblige.

They looked at David Keller now, but Amos Crane looked back.

He came forward and crouched down too, all of them almost on their knees now, bar Zoë, in a chilled empty space built for worship. He smiled kindly, and Sarah saw his history in his smile; saw Rufus – Axel? – leering at her in her kitchen, shortly before he began to kill her. And she thought: all this distance, to end the same way it began. Everything stops where it started. It wasn’t an answer she was happy to find.

Zoë dipped for her gun, but it was already in Amos Crane’s hand.

Michael reached for his – but Zoë’s little pistol was nuzzling into Sarah’s ear, burrowing there like a maggot in the apple of her head.

And here was another moment she was called on to live through: the one that might be her last. Her exit.

‘Pass that gun,’ Crane said.

Michael slid his gun across the floor. It made a clattery, bumpy sort of noise – this gun, too, had come a long way; all the way from Gerard’s collection . . . Michael, then, slid
Gerard’s
gun across the floor, making a bumpy, clattery sort of noise: at least until Zoë stood on it.

The barrel of the little gun pressed harder into Sarah’s ear, and she might have screamed, but she didn’t drop Dinah, who was starting to twist and wriggle in her arms.

Zoë picked the gun up.

‘I will,’ said Amos Crane, ‘blow a hole in her head.’

‘Not with that you won’t.’

Oh please please don’t tell him please don’t bluff him please don’t say

‘It isn’t loaded.’

So Amos Crane pulled the trigger.

Howard heard the shot from outside, where the day was brightening at last after a slow start – he was under the trees now, of course, but their leaves cast mottled shadows on the ground before him as he walked; lent even the air itself a dappled quality, as shadows brushed his face. He had parked the car back on the road. He no longer needed his suitcase. The gun, his hand tightened round now, though he did not draw it from his pocket.

He ought to be very frightened, very nervous. In truth, he was at one remove from any kind of emotion: the nearest he could call to mind was sitting an exam – a very important exam, or at least one that seemed so at the time, and he’d felt, walking into the examination hall, a great weight lifting from his shoulders, or anyway his mind, because it didn’t
matter
any more, it was out of his control. Anything he hadn’t already done wasn’t going to happen. Whatever was put in front of him, he’d just cope with the best he could.

But everything about him was intense: the sunlight through the branches, and the breeze that stirred the stones. The gunshot from the chapel, which sent birds clamouring into flight for as far abroad as he could imagine. Like an exam, he reminded himself. Like an unseen. He took the gun from his pocket slowly, slowly. Watched as the door in front of him started to open. Then faded back into the shadows like a ghost, like an unseen.