That Summer He Died (28 page)

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and lifted the sandwich to her mouth and held it there, lips parted. She watched him over it and the tears slowed. He lit a cigarette, watched her. They stared at one another in silence for a minute or so. Finally, she mumbled something, her mouth full, then did the strangest thing. She laughed. It started as a smile, so thin that James mistook it for a grimace of pain. Then came the glint in the eyes, that sparkle he remembered so well, as if the good parts of that summer were finally surfacing in her memory.

‘What?’ he asked, confused.

‘Nothing.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I was just looking at you, remembering. . .’

He was smiling now, too. ‘Remembering what?’

‘How nervous you used to be of me.’

‘I was a kid.’

‘I know. But you never realised how nervous
I
was of you.’

‘I didn’t understand women then.’ He laughed. ‘Christ, I still don’t!’

She took his hand again and looked it over. ‘No ring,’ she said. ‘So either you’re not married, or you don’t like jewellery. . . Which?’

‘Both.’

‘Girlfriend?’

It was a difficult question, sitting here with Suzie’s hand in his. He thought of Lucy, tried to imagine himself greeting her within a few hours, taking her in his arms and feeling emotion, warmth, the desire to return her kiss. But she remained abstract, distant, dreamt. All he felt was for what he held now.

‘Yes,’ he said, but added, because he now knew that it was true, ‘She’s fun, but it’s nothing serious. It’s only been going on a couple of months.’ As soon as he’d finished speaking, he knew how lame this sounded, what a typical guy thing it was to say. He felt himself flush, and said, ‘What about you? Are you married?’

‘No. And no boyfriend either.’ Suzie let go of his hand. ‘There was someone. Mick. I went out with him for over three years. Moved in. The works.’

‘But . . .’

‘I never really did work out what went wrong. I think it was more that things didn’t go right, I suppose. More that we just ended up comfortable, and we would have carried on comfortable, and next thing I would have been married and bringing up the kids of someone I didn’t really love. So I moved out. I came back home and he moved away. We haven’t spoken for over a year. I don’t even know where he is now. And I don’t really care.’ She lifted her mug and drank. ‘Yuk!’ she said, wincing. ‘All cold.’

James stared at her, suddenly nervous. He wanted to make a move on her. He wanted it so bad, but he didn’t know if he could handle her saying no. He didn’t want to face the possibility.

‘I should get going,’ he said.

‘Article to write?’

‘That and my friends. They’re coming down from London for a couple of days.’

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘Yeah. Her too. She’s a photographer, doing some shots for the article.’

‘And have you told here. . . that you used to live here?’

‘No.’

Suzie didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Because here it was, a secret for them to share, the knowledge that James was already deceiving his girlfriend.

‘And then there’s Alan’s place,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’ve got to pack his stuff up. I’m putting it on the market.’

‘I thought you probably would. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone who might be interested.’

‘Thanks.’ He looked at her. This was right. Her. Here. He didn’t want to leave. He should never have left in the first place.

‘What about his things – the stuff you’re packing up? Are you taking it back to London?’ she said.

‘Yeah, but I need to find somewhere to store it first, until I get it together to have it sent up there. There won’t be enough room in the car. Do you know anywhere?’

‘I’ll give Dad a call. You can dump it in his garage until you’re ready to move it. He’ll be fine about it.’ She pulled a set of keys from her pocket, slid one off the ring and handed it to him. ‘Here, it’s round the back of the ’Raker. Number eight.’

‘Thanks again.’

‘So . . .’

‘So . . . I guess I should be going.’

Suzie got to her feet and he followed suit. She stood with her hands dug deep in her pockets. God, she was beautiful. Her mouth opened, as if she was about to speak, but then she clamped it closed again. He followed her to the door.

‘What about this place?’ he said. ‘You going to sell it?’

‘I’ll try. Can’t see anyone being stupid enough to buy it, though. Hardly an ongoing business. . . I suppose I’ll just have to watch it rot.’

Then it happened. As he’d dreamt it would. As he’d always wanted it to be. She lifted her face to his. But she didn’t turn her cheek. He leant in and kissed her on the lips and, together, they closed their eyes. She pressed her body up tight against his, but then she was gone, stepping back from him, away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Suzie said, smiling. Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment. She cradled her cheeks in her hands, her mouth forming an ‘O’ – of consternation, pleasure, he couldn’t tell which.

‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘It was—’

She shook her head. ‘It was stupid.’ But her smile contradicted her words. ‘Go,’ she instructed, opening the door. ‘Go and meet your girlfriend.’

He stepped outside and turned back to face her. ‘This isn’t goodbye. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Right now, I don’t know what I know.’

She closed the door on him and left him to the sea winds, not knowing, as he now knew, that it was only a matter of time before they blew him straight back to her.

The electricity guy was already there when James reached Alan’s house. Apparently there was some sort of problem, a short circuit. It might take an hour or so.

James left him to it, headed upstairs, dug out some boxes and began to pack. He felt more at ease with someone else in the house and worked quickly, running through the list he’d made the day before.

He had the first load packed in the car by the time the lights came on and the radio in Alan’s room crackled into life. He paid off the electricity man and drove back into Grancombe to unload the boxes in the garage at the back of the ’Raker.

He didn’t bump into either of Suzie’s parents, which was good. He wasn’t in the mood for explanations, or for any further discussion of death. Just the here and now. That was all he wanted to deal with. And, time-wise, he was doing fine. Lucy and the others wouldn’t be down for another couple of hours. There was time to do another load. Then that was it. He’d never have to set foot in Alan’s place again.

When he’d finished packing the second load, he scouted the house a final time. There was nothing left that he he wanted. The main items of interest – Alan’s papers and computer files – he could study at his leisure. Everything else here held no meaning for him.

Only the thought of the basement nagged at him. Only the lack of any key to fit its lock. He went through the various drawers in the house again: nothing. OK, so he’d have to come back. One last time. Once the others had returned to London. He checked the basement door. A crowbar and a bit of brute force should see to that. Then out, his mind at rest. Probably nothing down there anyway. He’d be away. Back to London. Back to London for good.

But even as he was thinking this, he was thinking of Suzie. She’d never leave this place. She’d said as much. So leaving here meant leaving her. Another sacrifice. But that was the way it was. He couldn’t stay here. Not with Alex on his case. Not with the killings still going on. He’d never find peace inside this tent. Maybe he could persuade Suzie to leave with him? Anything was possible, wasn’t it? What if she wasn’t leaving because she was being driven out? What if she left because she wanted to be with him?

James walked out to the car and stood staring at the barn where Alex kept his stuff. He didn’t even have the courage to walk over and see if the crates were still stashed there, let alone disobey Alex’s command and break into one and discover what was inside. Not that it took much to guess what it was. Drugs. But in crates? It didn’t seem realistic. Not unless the drugs were stashed inside other bulkier objects, maybe whatever it was they’d been brought through customs in. And if that was the case, then it wasn’t just going to be grass in there. Most of that was grown hydroponically in the UK. Leaving aside the possibility of pills or hash or coke. . . but again, how much would there need to be to justify the use of crates? It made no sense.

Just forget about it, James told himself. Pretend you don’t even know that it’s there.

He got in the car and set off to Grancombe to meet the woman he now knew he did not love.

The radio alarm in James’s room in Alan’s house burst into song at four-thirty. James opened his eyes and the ceiling spun, blurring above him like a helicopter blade. He remembered the ’Raker with Alex and Dan, only hours before, their A-level results, the booze. . .

He tipped on to his side as what felt like a bucketful of vomit cascaded from his mouth on to the carpet by the bed. He lay there for a few agonised seconds, staring at the Technicolor porridge, clawing at his stomach, willing the cramps away.

He wiped the drool from his chin using the pillow case and risked sitting upright. The room was steadier now, still lurching occasionally, sure, but no longer rapidly revolving like it had been flung from the epicentre of a passing typhoon. Things were definitely looking up.

Or maybe not.

‘Jesus,’ he said aloud, as the stench of the spew reached his nostrils.

He puked again, into the cup of his hand this time. Vomit begets vomit. He held his full palm to his face, waiting for the inevitable third intestinal blast. Then calm. He lowered his hand a few inches. The moment – or movement – had passed.

He shuffled along the edge of the bed, his feet hovering above the mess on the floor; a reluctant kid on the edge of a freezing swimming pool. Only once he was past the viscous landmine did he risk standing. Felt the same as he had when he’d been concussed in a rugby match at school. He stumbled to the door, reached the bathroom without any further stomach tantrums, and emptied the contents of his hand into the toilet.

Then he stripped down and showered.

*

‘Look at the state of you,’ Alex said, examining James with evident amusement as he collapsed into the passenger seat of the Spitfire ten minutes later and fastened his seat belt. ‘You’d be better off in a hearse. Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’d catch cold if you went out with your hair wet?’

‘My brain feels like it’s been chewed up by someone and shat out the other end,’ James groaned. ‘You got any paracetamol?’

‘Got something better than that.’

Alex turned the car round and headed down the drive before pulling up behind one of the outbuildings. He cut the engine and reached beneath James’s seat. He pulled out the wash bag, unzipped it on his lap and produced a wrap.

‘I don’t know,’ James said.

Alex ignored him, pulled a copy of the
Face
out of the glove compartment, laid it on his lap and tipped a sprinkling of coke on to it.

‘Here,’ he said, passing James the rolled-up note once he’d done a quick line himself. ‘Indulge yourself a little. Like sticking your brain in a washing machine. Leaves you feeling squeaky clean. Bright and white. Up for fun.’

James turned round and looked at the house, schoolboy guilt momentarily slapping him, half-expecting to see Alan walking down the drive towards them, wagging his finger in disapproval. No chance. Locked in his room as usual. Doing his own writing. Teaching James squat.

He turned back, accepting the note.

Fizzzzzzzz . . .

Space dust.

Sherbet.

Gear.

Toot.

His nose and eyes watered, and he gritted his teeth to neutralise the impulse to sneeze. He sat bolt upright and unrolled the note, placing it in Alex’s outstretched palm.

‘Welcome to the Pleasure Dome,’ Alex said with a grin, licking his finger and dabbing up what was left on the magazine cover, rubbing his finger over his gums like a toothbrush. He chucked the magazine on to the floor by James’s feet and adjusted his shades. ‘Looking good, feeling good?’

‘Feeling better,’ James said. And he was. Already. His vision was sharper. The TV was being retuned. Everything was becoming spectacularly clear. Headache fading, too. Focused on the good life.
Adios
, Shitsville.

He leant over the door and examined his face in the wing mirror. ‘But still looking like I’ve just slipped out of the morgue,’ he said, not caring, with a grin.

Alex started the engine and James leant back in his seat and stared straight into the sun.

‘Excellent,’ was all he could think of to say.

The car pulled out into the lane.

‘We have lift-off,’ Alex shouted, flooring the accelerator.

‘Up, up, up and away.’

Time, and the car, flew. They hit Eagle’s Point with a screeching of tyres. A line of Alex’s mates, local scroungers and clubbers mostly, drafted in by him and Dan to act as security with the promise of free beer and easy cash, surrounded the perimeter of the site. And there, parked at the entrance, was a police car and van. Murphy, leaning on the bonnet of the car, turned his head, monitoring the unhindered progress of Alex’s Spitfire through the main gate like a security camera.

‘Fuck ’ im,’ Alex shouted, noticing James staring at the police presence. ‘Nothing he can do. We’re on private land. He comes near us without a warrant and it’s him who’ll end up nicked.’

Alex parked the car between one of the beer tents and the larger of the two marquees that housed the sound stages. They got out and he retrieved the wash bag, opened the boot and set about separating its contents into his pockets. When he’d finished, he locked the bag in the boot and patted the tops of his thighs.

‘Tried and tested on the right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Potential garbage on the left.’

James noticed a man walking towards them, though walking was maybe too regular a word to use to describe his movements. He stumbled a couple of paces, paused and lurched on. His upper body was twisted at an obtuse angle from his legs, as if he couldn’t make up his mind which way he wanted to go. He kept on grinning at them apologetically, letting them know that he’d get there in the end. He was tall, taller than Dan, but scrawny, undernourished. Between forty and fifty years old, though the uneven stubble on his jaw and the farmer’s cap covering his scalp made it impossible to be certain. His clothes – mismatching suit jacket and trousers – hung loose on his limbs. His shoulders, elbows and knees looked sharp beneath the material, as if they might puncture it any second, leave his bones protruding like a battlefield corpse.