Dying to Tell (38 page)

"And you're expert in its use?"

"I've brought no testimonials with me, ma'am. But my services are much in demand. That's because those services are efficient and reliable."

"Good. What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing. Stay in the house. Upstairs as much as possible. Wait. I'll do the rest."

"How long will it be?"

"Not as long as it'll seem. Are you a patient person?"

"Yes."

"And your brother and sister?"

"Less so. But I can manage them."

"And I can manage Townley. OK?"

Win thought for a moment. The word wasn't a normal component of her vocabulary, but she eventually decided that nothing else would do. "OK," she emphatically announced.

Win made us cocoa (the supposedly soothing effects of which seemed strangely absent). Then she went to bed, leaving Ventress and me to the fusty delights of the sitting room. My cocoa was reinforced by then with a slug of Johnnie Walker. I offered Ventress some, but he declined on professional grounds.

"I don't touch the juice when I'm working, Lance. A steady hand and a clear head are my sword and shield."

"I thought you said he wouldn't come tonight."

"He won't. But I'm already in training for when he does."

"And we just stay put until then?"

"That's the idea."

"My parents live within walking distance. Do you think '

"No."

"I could persuade them to go and stay with my sister in Cardiff."

"Could you really?" (It was more doubtful than Ventress might have imagined. If I told my father what was going on -what was really going on he'd be likelier to call the police than take refuge with Diane and Brian.) Townley's not interested in them, Lance. They're in no danger. But telling them they might be could put us at a real disadvantage. If Townley smelled a rat, we'll find ourselves in the sewer. Everything, but everything, has to appear totally normal. The Alders keeping themselves to themselves fits the bill. That's why I can spring this trap on him. But it requires them and you to lie low and quiet. OK?"

"OK."

"Try to relax."

"Easy for you to say."

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"So does Townley."

"He's old. And rusty. I have the edge on him, believe me. Thirty-seven years ago it would have been different. But this isn't thirty-seven years ago."

"How much do you know about what happened then?"

"Only what I've told you."

"But it was a conspiracy."

"If that's what you want to call it. You push too far in a certain direction in American politics, you get pushed back. It happened before McCarthyism was all about sidelining advocates of withdrawal from Korea. It's happened since -Watergate pulled the plug on Nixon just after he started cosying up to Brezhnev and Chairman Mao. As for Kennedy, well, we know for a fact he was planning to pull out of Vietnam. And we know for another fact that the plan got reversed before he was cold in his grave. Conspiracy or the system? Take your pick. But remember: even if Townley had given in to Rupe's demands and gone public, the shutters would still have come down on the story at some point. There's always a cut-off. You can never shine a light to the centre of power. That isn't how it works."

"How does it work?"

"Like you see, Lance. Just like you see. What happens here changes nothing. Except for you and me and the Alders. And Townley. We'll have closure, one way or the other. But out there, in the world, it'll never happen. The conspiracy theorists will go on analysing the Zapruder film frame by frame by frame, looking ever closer, until all they see is a blur. The denial merchants will go on arguing that all the coincidences and contradictions and flat-out impossibilities add up to zero. Nothing will change. Not a goddam thing. Nothing will ever change."

"Rupe thought he could change things."

"Yuh. And where's he now?"

"You don't have a very optimistic world view, do you, Gus?"

"I sure do." He grinned. "It's called the survivalist world view. And I'll bet it'll be yours too when this is over."

Ventress took the armchair, assuring me he'd catnap through the night and be roused by any suspicious noises. "I sleep light, Lance, and hear like an owl. Which means you can sleep easy. And hear nothing till morning."

The doors were locked, the windows fastened and I was happy to take Ventress's razor-sharp reactions on trust. But still his restful prognosis didn't quite do the trick. The lumpiness of the Alders' sofa wasn't really the problem (though in its own right it was a problem). I was simply too anxious, my thoughts too crowded with wishes and maybes, for a good night's sleep to be a realistic option.

I must have nodded off at some point, though, because I found myself back in the Wheatsheaf, where only a dream could take me. I was standing at the bar, drinking in companionable silence while Les polished the pumps and whistled "Oh What a Beautiful Morning' out of tune, when a figure suddenly appeared next to me. It was Rupe. "I'm looking for Lance Bradley," he said to Les. "Have you seen him?" "No," Les replied. "He never comes in any more." "What are you talking about?" I said. "I'm standing right here." But neither of them heard me. Neither of them saw me. To them, I didn't exist. "It's me," I shouted. "For God's sake '

"Nightmare?" enquired Ventress from the other side of the darkened room as I jolted awake. "It sure sounded like one."

"Christ, yes. Sorry. Was I talking in my sleep?"

"Not to make any sense of."

"That's something, then. What time is it?"

"Just gone five. It'll start getting light in a couple of hours."

"What happens then?"

"We have breakfast, Lance."

As it turned out, we never did have breakfast. I lapsed back into an anxious doze, until Ventress woke me with the weight of his hand on my shoulder. Grey twilight was seeping through the curtains behind him, but a tension in his stance immediately told me that he hadn't come over to ask whether I wanted tea or coffee to start the day.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing major. It's the loony brother. He came down to the kitchen a couple of minutes ago. He hasn't gone back."

"Win told him to stay upstairs."

"Seems he's not so obedient as she thinks. He's probably just raiding the refrigerator. Why don't you go check? He's likely to take serious fright if I creep up on him."

"OK." I struggled up, put my shoes on and headed out into the hall. The kitchen door was closed. There was no light shining around it. As I approached, I heard a squeaking, rattling noise from the other side. What the hell was Howard up to? I grabbed the knob and pushed the door open.

Just in time to see him scrambling out through the open lower half of the window next to the range. The back door was locked, the key lodged in the sitting room. But that obviously hadn't stopped him. He was leaving, bound for God knows where and God knows why. "Howard," I shouted. "Wait."

He glanced back at me, but it was too dark to see the expression on his face. And wait he did not. He crouched for a fraction of a second on the sill, then jumped out onto the path skirting the house.

I ran to the window and leaned out. "Howard?" I called. His shadowy figure moved to my left. As I twisted round it disappeared from view beyond the corner of the house. Guessing that he was heading for the lane, I doubled back to the sitting room, reckoning it would be quicker to get the key and open the front door than go through the window after him.

Ventress had already made the same calculation. He was unlocking the front door as I entered the hall. "We need to cut him off, Lance," he said. "Solitary dawn excursions aren't in the game plan." He pulled the door open. "I'll cover you."

With the ambiguous implications of that last phrase swirling in my thoughts, I rushed out onto the doorstep. The rhododendrons rustled ahead of me. A block of shadows moved. There he was, pushing something towards the lane. Then I heard the chain-wheel of a bicycle revolving and realized what he was pushing. "Stop, Howard. I have to talk to you."

Too late. He was on the bike, pedalling hard, when I reached the lane. I ran after him and started to gain, then the gearing kicked in and he sped ahead, vanishing into the dark overhang of the trees further along the lane. I stopped, panting for breath, and noticed for the first time how hard it was raining. I was already drenched. I listened for a moment, but Howard was out of hearing as well as sight by now. I turned and hurried back to the house.

The front door opened as I approached. Ventress stood back to let me enter, then closed it behind me. The landing light was on and by its stark gleam I saw Win standing at the foot of the stairs. "Did he take his bike, Lancelot?" she said at once.

"Yeh."

"He keeps it in the lean-to, next to the logs. I ought to have brought it indoors."

"Are you saying you anticipated this, ma'am?" There was a hint of irritation in Ventress's voice.

"No. But perhaps I should have done. I didn't tell him Rupert was dead, but if he eavesdropped on us last night.. ."

"Where's he gone?"

"I can't tell. He cycles all around when the mood takes him. He has his favourites, of course, but '

"What are his favourites, Win?" I put in.

"Oh .. . well, there's .. . Ashcott Heath."

"Wilderness Farm way, you mean?"

Win's head drooped. "Yes."

"We need to pick him up, Lance," said Ventress. Take the car and bring him back. Any way you have to."

"I should go with you," said Win. "He'll listen to me."

Ventress sighed. "Of all the cockamamie .. ."

"We have time on our side, Gus," I reasoned. "You said so yourself."

"All right. Take her along. But don't be all morning about it. And try not to attract any attention."

"It's pouring with rain and barely light. There'll be nobody out to pay us any attention."

"Let's hope you're right." He took the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to me. "Now, get moving."

Howard had ridden west along Hopper Lane, which was certainly consistent with Wilderness Farm being his destination. I was confident we'd be able to overhaul him in the car before he even got as far as the Bridgwater road, though Win clearly didn't share my confidence. "He knows all sorts of short cuts and back tracks. You won't be able to drive the route he'll take."

It was pretty soon obvious that she was right. There was no sign of him along Brooks Road, or out on the A39, where early workday traffic was steadily building. If Howard had taken to field paths and secret ways, all we could do was drive to Wilderness and wait for him to turn up.

"They farm pigs there now," said Win as we pressed on through the rain and slowly thinning murk. "It's not a bit like it was."

"Why does Howard go there, then?"

"Changed or not, the past is all he has."

Some of the roadside fields were under water. There were ponds forming on others and the rhynes were brimming. We headed north from Ashcott along the Meare road, past sodden orchards and peat diggings and the invisible way markers of Howard's childhood (and of Rupe's, and of mine). We crossed the South Drain and the abandoned route of the S and D. To our right had once stood the platform where Howard took his unsuspecting snapshot of Stephen Townley. There was a sense in my mind of that single, trivial event only now coming full circle, only now revealing what its consequences were bound to be.

I pulled over at the end of the lane that led to Wilderness Farm. The farm buildings I recalled and the piggeries I didn't were visible beyond the straggling hedge. The rain sheeted down from a bruised, sulking sky. It was no morning to be out certainly not on a bike.

"How much does Howard understand, Win?" I asked. "I mean, is it that he simply can't communicate? Or is there nothing to communicate in the first place? I never was sure about that."

"Howard can't take in new events or remember new people. But his memories before the accident are clear. So, he knows you as Rupert's friend. And he knows this as the place where Peter Dalton died."

"Does that mean he'd recognize Stephen Townley?"

"He'd know who Townley was. Whether he'd recognize him I can't say. How much has Townley changed?"

"As much as people do, in thirty-seven years."

"It's doubtful, then. But if Howard heard us talking about Townley .. ."

"He'd have known who we were referring to?"

Win nodded. "Oh yes. I think so."

Twenty minutes slowly passed. The sky grudgingly lightened. But the rain didn't. And there was still no sign of Howard.

I was about to peer for the umpteenth time into the rainswept distance, when Win suddenly grasped my arm. "Something's happened," she said.

I turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"Something's happened to Howard. I can feel it."

"Feel it? Like you did with Rupe?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Well, where? Where has it happened?"

"I don't know. I only know it has."

"Where else could he have gone?"

"I don't know." She thought for a moment. "I'm sure it would be somewhere connected with what's happened."

"And where might that be?"

"Well, if he was listening to us, he'll have heard us speak of Peter and Mil .. . and Mother .. . and Father." Win's eyes widened with alarm. "He might have gone to Cow Bridge. Where he found Father."

I started the car.

"That was a November day too."

I drove north to Meare, then south-east along the B road to Glastonbury. The traffic was heavier now and in Glastonbury the local version of the rush hour was in progress. The bypass looked to be pretty snarled, so I dodged through the side-streets and took the back way round the Abbey to the Butleigh road.

It was less than half a mile from the edge of town to Cow Bridge. I could see its humped span ahead as I accelerated along the straight, flat road. Then Win gasped. There's his bike." She pointed, and I saw it too, propped against the right-hand parapet. It was a bike, certainly, and I was ready to back Win's judgement as to whose it was.

I pulled over just short of the bridge and started to get out, only to recoil smartly as a lorry sped by. Win had already jumped out on her side. I watched as she dodged between the traffic in her haste to reach the bike.