Looking Down (19 page)

‘Well,’ Lilian said. ‘Here we are. Like I said, you’ve got to help me. I’ve got to get it back. That painting I gave you to take away, I’ve just got to get it back.’

‘Ah. That might be a bit tricky.’

‘You haven’t sold it, have you? Who on earth would want to buy it?’

He was calmer now. May as well behave as she did, but his hands shook.

‘Why do you want it back? I thought you wanted it stolen, as well as everything else.’

‘I want it back, because it wasn’t mine to give away.’

She paused, stroking the side of the mug with a long finger, struck by another thought. ‘Mind you, if I’m honest, nothing is mine to give away, not really. Or to keep. And I’m going to lose everything at this rate.’

‘Such as?’ he murmured, taken aback by the rush of words and the complete confidence she seemed to be reposing in him. It made the blush rush to his head, but that could have been the mere sound of her voice. He ached to hear her laugh.

‘Oh, just my life, my husband, just everything I’ve got. Well, borrowed, really. I’ve had to do a lot of thinking in the last day or so, especially since he’s gone off again. He doesn’t like me much at the moment. And he won’t, until I get that painting back. He painted it, you see. Or if I can’t get it back, I’ve got to learn to understand stuff, so I can talk to him on the level he functions at, if you see what I mean. Only I can’t. I just don’t get all this art stuff. That’s why I was crying.’

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. He felt as if he had scarcely listened, but remembered every word.

She threw back her head and laughed. It was utterly infectious; he thought his head would burst.

‘Am I? I don’t feel it, I just feel stupid.’

‘What is it you don’t understand?’

‘Why anyone would want to paint pictures when they can’t make anything pretty, and keep on doing it. Or spend hours looking at them, like he does.’ The husband went up in Steven’s estimation.

‘Oh, I see. So you came here today to learn. Is that it?’

She nodded, vigorously. The golden hair danced, the eyes were brilliant green, he decided. She sipped the coffee gracefully, a blob of foam attaching itself to her lip, as if this was a conversation she could have every day. Sweet. It was never utter perfection one wanted in a painted face, it was perfection with a flaw. The
zing
factor kept on returning, making him stare. She turned her attention on him.

‘What about you? What were you doing, sitting in front of a picture with your head in your hands? I was sorry for you. Made me sorrier for myself.’

He was shy, but encouraged by example, cleared his throat and gave up any attempt to make sense.

‘I go there often. It’s one of the few places where I feel completely happy, although any of the large collections would do. My spiritual homes. Like other people might go to churches or temples. I love looking.’

She shrugged. ‘I thought you were a thief.’

‘I am, but I don’t steal, I liberate. I get hidden stuff to people who will love it. I probably only steal because I hate things to be hidden and I love looking.’

‘Teach me,’ she said. ‘Teach me how to look and love looking.’

There was a pregnant pause until his mobile rang again. He
ignored it, but knew he could not ignore it for ever. Her hand covered his. Warm, dry skin, like an electric shock.

‘You could teach me,’ she said, forlornly. ‘You know what I’m like. Will you? And will you get that painting back?’

‘Which comes first?’ he said. ‘They’ll both take a bit of time.’

‘I’ve plenty of time,’ she said, ‘but not much brain.’

‘You don’t need brain. You need courage and feeling. I reckon you’ve plenty of those. I think we should start by looking at bodies.’

They were gazing into one another’s eyes, his brown, hers green, locked in a challenge.
Zing
was never quite like this.

He needed courage. John was not thinking about bodies per se, but a single body. The possible second body no one cared about. Easier to care about a young girl. John parked the car where he had before, ignored the wind, and wondered why a day which had begun so refreshed by sleep could alter so fast in a matter of hours. A patient had told him once:
I feel so down, Doctor, that the only decision I have to make when I get up in the morning is whether I do the suicide before my dinner, or after.
He had told the man to eat and think about it. Grim as he felt as he strode towards the crevasse of the cliffs, John smiled at the memory, because although he was angry at Edwin, and all the old guilt was back, it was controllable and, in its own way, stimulating. It was not a day he did not wish to live through. There was none of that dullness, only excitement, energised by such sound sleep and the existence in his mind of a number of jigsaw-puzzle pieces inviting interconnection.

It had begun when he had gone to the police station in response to a call. A sad youth in a cell, sat with a blanket round him, speaking in broken something or other through an interpreter. Afghan, thin as a rake, bruised, hypothermic, traumatised, immediately consigned to hospital, he would have been enough
to depress the best of days, although he was not entirely unusual. It was what he had said, when he could speak at all, before John ended any attempt to question him, which lit a fuse. He said, as much by gesture as by words, that he had come in over the cliffs, out of a boat, and been left behind, weeks ago. That was all he could say.

Hanging around the police station, a yellowed institution of many locks, barred doors and paper-thin walls, John waited and listened. He never left until the ambulances he requested had actually arrived, and in the waiting time, if he was not with the patient, he was either being consulted by the police about minor ailments or was universally tolerated, included in conversation sometimes, more often than not. In the listening interval today, conveniently coinciding with lunchbreak in the canteen, he had paused with his bad coffee and listened to gossip. Someone said the girl body was now officially classified as suicide, but that was only because there was too much else to do to call it murder. Someone else said the pathologist could not make head nor tail of her, an unintended pun which caused rueful laughter. They were tough, but not tasteless; they knew when they were beat. There was no mention of a second body, although someone had talked to Edwin the day before. That was when John’s hackles had begun to rise. Then the regular sergeant who had mentioned Edwin eyed John and told the others to shush. Gradually conversation died and they froze him out.

The story of the illegal asylum-seeking youth was not taken seriously. Why land on that lethal bit of coast and scramble up over cliffs when you could cross in a choice of transport whoever you were? And, if the choice of lorry or train were denied you, wouldn’t you take the risk of a boat which could land far more easily a few miles further away, on flat coast, with no cliffs to climb?

He had listened to their incredulity, but did not share it. The problem with all of
them
was they were, like himself, half afraid of the cliffs and would do anything to avoid going there. But the cliffs were just another pathway. If you were desperate for freedom, or a chance, or a dream, or for profit, any pathway would do. Theories formed and reformed in his mind. No one would want to know them.

What made him mad was Edwin saying nothing, because of the ravens.

The second body might exist. It might have been Edwin’s tease. So John drove himself to Cable Bay.

It had rained in the night, and now the wind blew hard. Again, his was the only car parked in the field, but he noticed when he got out that the grass verge at the side of the road was churned with tyre marks. He tried to remember if they had been there the last time and could not. A signpost, warning of danger and pointing out the deviation of the coastal path inland, had been tilted sideways by the wind. Nettles grew round the base of the sign. Absentmindedly he pushed the sign upright, pulled at it with his full weight to make it stand straight. Then he embarked downhill, ignoring the flora, concentrating on his feet. He wore his stoutest boots, taken from the boot of the car. They were soon caked and heavy with mud.

He slipped and slithered, despite the tread of his boots; the fresh mud made a sucking sound.

He was remembering what Edwin had said about pathways creating a new wilderness. They closed down and protected what lay on either side, rendering it impenetrable. Until accidents created new pathways, new vistas, like the fall of the cliff in this particular place, revealing a fresh view of the sea, and a different accessibility to it. Also, a new point of access to the land, as soon as anyone saw the possibility of a path. He went on into the valley which led down to the sea. It was late afternoon now, the sun
fitful and spring-like, more rain threatening at the same time. White horses danced on the water. There was no hovercraft sound today. Perhaps those sensitive machines could not function in rough seas. A ferry ploughed across the horizon. John concentrated on his feet.

The same, scarcely created path, for the sheep and goats that had once grazed the headland and thus created a habitat for birds like the chough. The chough had thrived on overgrazed land with bare patches for scratching. It lived sparingly on fly larvae, beetles, earthworms, cereal grains, and the barer the land, the greater the access. The chough required a combination of agricultural land and wilderness. John knew that: he had looked it up. Richard could never have seen it round here. Remembering the joyful conversation of yesterday and the day before, the product of Richard’s grasshopping mind, John wondered as he walked if this random selection of topics reflected not only true freedom of speech, but the inability to remember what he had said last. Certainly the rapid succession of ideas and observations and preoccupations was infectious, and presently confusing, adding itself to a cocktail of ideas. John made himself concentrate, first on his own physical progress down towards the sea, and then on his purpose, which was in itself an amalgamation of several superimposing images, leading to uncertain conclusions rather than ideas. He was beginning to see images were as important as ideas.

He hoped he would not see Edwin. Edwin had become frightening because he was unknown and ignored, but John was not going to think about that. Edwin could not be everywhere. John paused to massage his temples and count the priorities of what he wanted to achieve. C’mon, man, what was the purpose? To find the body Edwin said he had found, and failed to report, get it dignity, whatever it was, while avoiding the terrible thought that
it might be a human body. Then maybe to see these mythical ravens, which were unlikely inhabitants of this part of the coast, although more likely to occur than Richard’s lonely, freakish chough. He counted backwards. He had to see if Edwin had lied either about the body, or the existence of a raven nest, or both. His suspicion was that Edwin had not lied about the body, but had lied about the ravens, and his overriding thought was that Edwin would lie about anything to keep everyone away from this part of the cliff. Which certainly begged that repetitive question, why?

Squinting down he could see that it would be possible to bring a boat in here, although dangerous, even for the most experienced navigator. There could be high seas, there were certainly strong currents, and there were rocks. Again he had the overpowering desire to be down by the water, looking up, instead of the other way round. He was beyond the point in the path where Edwin had materialised last time and began to feel safer, spurred onwards by raw curiosity, scolding himself for ever feeling unsafe. The greatest danger here was falling rock. Fresh boulders and fragments looked incongruous among new green. He could imagine the sound of a new fissure forming, like a giant groan, the earth grumbling and coughing, like massive indigestion.

This time, just as he began to feel almost carefree, with the pure attitude of an explorer, he almost stumbled across Edwin, sitting in that uncannily still pose that only Edwin could hold, looking as if he merged with the ground. The shock rooted John to the spot, although, for God’s sake, there was no reason to be shocked. Edwin could always have appeared from almost anywhere, that was his habit – but John had not wanted to see him today, not until he had seen something else for himself, and he had persuaded himself that Edwin would be miles away. Edwin was looking out to sea but the notion that he had not heard
John’s approach was fanciful. He must have sounded like a herd of elephants in his clumsy progress. Edwin would have felt him coming, let alone seen. Play it by ear. John stood still. Edwin got up and dusted his trousers.

‘Why didn’t you report the corpse, Edwin?’John asked, raising his voice over the noise of the sea. ‘That was the deal. I said nothing on the basis that you reported. And you didn’t.’

He tried to keep a note of recrimination out of his voice, to speak more in sorrow than in anger, although anger was beginning to percolate, replacing the fear. Edwin spoke over his shoulder, as if throwing away the words.

‘Body? What body?’

‘The body you said you didn’t want me to see. Remember?’

His voice had risen to a shout. Edwin shrugged. He turned to face John and his fingers went to his own neck, fiddling with the scarf. There was some of the perspiring anger of the other day, mixed with weariness and cunning. John felt as if Edwin’s responses were somehow rehearsed.

‘You’re losing your mind, old man. Getting on in years, happens to us all. What body? I never said anything about a body.’

He continued to finger the scarf.

‘You got bodies on the mind, ever since that girl. This one’s nothing but a dog. You imagine things. That’s what I’ll say. I’ve already had a word with the police. Told them I was worried about you. Being friends with that artist and all. Dining with him, too. It’s a small town, you know. You’re imagining bodies everywhere, you.’

‘You told me there was a body,’ John insisted.

‘Me? I said no such thing. It isn’t there now. Never was. You’ve been imagining things.’

Anger blocked John’s throat. He watched, speechless, while Edwin unknotted the scarf, as if irritated by it and needing to retie it, instead pulling it taut and yanking it straight between his
hands. The material looked cleaner than he recalled, freshly washed and strong enough to use as a ligature. Edwin seemed to have renewed all of his clothes but he still smelled as he stretched the scarf as if testing it for use.