On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory (4 page)

“Did you know him well?” the husband asked.

“Yes. Very. Brad was in every way my closest friend.”

And let them make what they liked of that. We had never been ones to flaunt our sexuality but we had never been ones to feel ashamed of it either.

“I'm so dreadfully sorry,” said the wife—Esther. “Really so dreadfully sorry.”

“Thank you. In fact I shouldn't be letting myself use that past tense. I feel he still
is
my closest friend. And always will be. Don't just feel it either; actually
know
it!”

“That's certainly a good way to look at it,” she said—after a short but distinctly awkward silence. Her husband nodded gravely.

I helped myself to sugar and I saw them notice my hands: the fact that they were well looked after. I hoped this did something further to counteract the effect of my very weird apparel.

“He had his son with him didn't he Rob?” The woman turned back to me. “At least that's what we thought but clearly you'd know better than us.”

“No, Brad hadn't got a son, just a daughter.” I glanced up again at the electric clock. Twenty to ten or thereabouts.

Naturally we couldn't see him all that well. A young man something like yourself. Same sort of colouring. Face a bit smashed up. Oh dear. But they said he had a chance—the paramedics.”

It was then that I heard about the treatment I'd received at the roadside; it made me feel both grateful and a bit shifty.

“They were really brilliant, those two, so very calm and capable, I don't know how they do it. It was Rob of course who got them here in the first place—well no I mean it was the police who did that but it was Rob who …” She seemed to be getting confused and Rob reached across and mutely took her hand. “Oh it was dreadful,” she said. Her eyes began to swim. “You feel so absolutely helpless.”

“There was nothing you could do sweetheart. And it didn't take long before we heard the siren. It just
seemed
like for ever. And they always say … well that you should never disturb anything. You see”—Rob was now speaking to me—“she so much wanted to do something but I wouldn't let her and I felt really mean about that.”

“Yet I'm certain you were right,” I murmured; though more to her than to him. “Broken bones et cetera. But it must be very hard.”

“And at least we didn't just walk away from it,” said Rob. “Not like that precious toff in his fancy evening suit!”

Rufus was sniffing round my ankles. My hand had been halfway towards him; I'd been meaning to stroke him on the top of his head.

“I'm sorry?”

“This man we saw.” It was Esther who answered. “He was standing at the next bend in the road. Only twenty yards or so from where the thing had happened. Looking back; hesitant; definitely unsure about something. He stood full in the moonlight so we got a good view of him. Even though he turned and walked away almost immediately.”

“But you say … you say he was wearing a dinner jacket?”

“And what I also say—,” interjected Rob.

Yet for the moment his wife was concentrating more on me and maybe unwittingly cut across him. “Yes. Just like the two in the car were. It's right what they always claim, you know. About truth being stranger than fiction.”

“And what I also say,” repeated Rob, “is that it must have been him who caused the accident.”

“Oh no you don't know that,” protested his wife forcefully. “You really don't know that.”

“Why else should the car have swerved so suddenly? Because that fellow crossed the road without a second's warning and of course the driver did his best to avoid him. But he wasn't worth trying to save if you ask me. A man who can just walk away from an accident—any accident that's unattended but especially one for which you yourself have been responsible! I told the police, let Constable York know
precisely
how I felt, when we gave them that description …”

“But you just don't know,” repeated his wife. “He had a nice face. Kind. He looked … well just so anxious; so concerned. He really seemed enormously reluctant to have to leave.”

“Sweetheart I don't care how enormously reluctant he seemed. The main thing is—he left.”

“There could have been a reason.”

“Like what?”

I said: “That description you gave them. May I hear it too?” I had been careful not to rush in; I was having a struggle to keep my expression suitably composed. “Maybe I know him?”

“Well as I've already told you—he was a toff in an evening suit. But it's a wonder we noticed even that much. It was the middle of the night, remember. We'd just stumbled through our gate after being shocked awake by the sound of a tremendous smash. It was obviously the accident itself which concerned us.”

“He was a man of about forty,” said Esther, “or he might have been a bit older. He was tall and very handsome and had a good figure and dark hair …” She petered out, perhaps conscious that in the circumstances it was indeed a little strange she should have registered so much, or else wondering if such details at such a time might not strike us as slightly inappropriate. There'd been a renewed element of defiance in her tone, even of near-hysteria; I somehow got the feeling that Constable York hadn't paid her the same degree of attention which he'd accorded to her husband. “Oh he was probably just here for the weekend,” she concluded, almost bathetically.

“Why do you say that?”

Why do you say that oh you wonderful woman?

“Because if he were local we'd have recognized him, dinner jacket or not. Not that we've been here very long ourselves—only a couple of months—so possibly that's why—”

“Well if that's the case thank God for small mercies. Sweetheart you might like him as a neighbour. But me—no way—not in a million years.”

Rob smoothed one stubby-fingered and reflective hand over his balding pate. Again turned back to me.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I gave this handsome fellow chase. But not at once of course and when I did I'd left it far too late. At the very least, you see, he must have been a witness.”

“You gave him chase? I'm not sure I'd have thought of that.”

“But I hadn't felt happy about leaving Esther; that was the crux of it. Not to mention not being in the pink of condition! And when I did dash round the corner he was almost out of sight. I was just in time to see him turning off towards Pack Hill and if it hadn't been for the moonlight I mightn't even have seen that much. God knows what he was going to do up there at half-past-two in the morning! Heading for some witches' coven as like as not. Definitely up to no good!”

Again I wanted to express my joy; would have liked to dance or cry out in gratitude. I had been asking for a sign. At first it had seemed I wasn't going to get one but now I'd been given not just a sign but even an eyewitness account—
two
eyewitness accounts—with virtually a road map thrown in. Glorious and irrefutable proof I'd soon be catching up with Brad.

“But aside from witches' covens,” I said, “there's nothing very much up Pack Hill is there? I've only been there once; even the views were disappointing. The only
vaguely
interesting thing was a pile of ruins which somebody told us was the site of an ancient hostelry—afterwards we looked it up in the local library. Odd sort of place to have an inn! But apparently in its heyday it used to draw people from all over. Pilgrims and whatnot. It was called The Halfway House.”

Perhaps my relief was causing me to burble. Esther stifled a yawn. She gave a guilty smile. “They asked us if we wanted sleeping pills. I think we were sensible to accept but all the same …”

“Please don't apologize; I should be off anyway. Thank you for the tea. And thank you for … well for everything you did or would have liked to do.”

The three of us stood up. Rufus reluctantly stopped licking my feet and scrambled to his own. I gave his ears a farewell rub.

But in the hall I hesitated.

“Is there any chance I might briefly use your phone? I'm afraid I couldn't pay for it but I need to call Heathrow to try to get a message to Brad's daughter.”

Afterwards, when we'd already shaken hands and I was standing on the doorstep, Esther remembered something. “I meant to ask. Do you also know the young man who was injured?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Know him well?”

I didn't answer for a moment. “I always thought I did. Now I'm not so sure.”

They may have taken this to mean I felt disappointed in him and that in some way his behaviour had let me down or let Brad down. If so I wasn't too unhappy just to leave it there.

“Will you be visiting him in hospital?”

“As a matter of fact I've just left the hospital.”

“And how was he?”

I merely shrugged; not wishing to add any further to their aftermath of sadness.

“But do you think he might like Rob and me to go and visit?”

“I'm afraid he died.” I said it as gently as I could.

“Oh no!”

The tears now spilled over in earnest. She held her hands before her face. Rob put his arm around her shoulders.

“I am so
sorry
,” she sobbed.

“Don't be. Please don't be. It was absolutely for the best.”

“Why?” Rob asked. “Was he brain-damaged?”

“No it wasn't that.” I paused and strived for something that would bring them comfort. “Really. It was what he wanted. Wanted more than anything.” I threw in all the conviction which the sheer truth of it merited.

The trouble was an instant later I heard the echo of my own words. And realized that I hadn't said ‘he'. I had said ‘I'.

Esther had taken her hands down. Little surprise then that I saw in both their faces the dawning of a drastically reconsidered opinion of me.

Perhaps I should have tried to explain. But I didn't feel
I'm sorry that was just a slip of the tongue
would really have been adequate and I couldn't think of anything else. I left them believing I must be wholly without feeling. Vengeful even. I was thoroughly dismayed. I liked them both and they'd been kind to me. And I didn't want them turning cynical on my account, possibly being less inclined to offer hospitality to strangers.

Though maybe in regard to myself it was simply poetic justice. At some points in my life ‘wholly without feeling' might nearly have been right. So let me be condemned now for all the times I'd previously managed to get away with it. Didn't that seem fair?

Anyhow I tried to be philosophical; told myself not to exaggerate—or dramatize—my own influence.

6

It was a steeper climb than I remembered—though previously of course we'd travelled up by car. I estimated that the winding road must have been well over a mile but I tackled it with vigour and was pleased to find I wasn't out of breath on reaching the top.

The first thing I noticed was the view; how could I have thought Pack Hill not worthy of a second visit? From its crest you could probably see across four counties; you could certainly glimpse the far-off sparkle of the English Channel. Why'd I been under the impression there were countless rows of new development obstructing the horizon?

The second was even more challenging; or would have been had I not been able to adjust to it faster. The Halfway House wasn't in ruins any longer. It had become precisely the sort of old inn with fresh white paint and window boxes and character and charm you might dream of finding at lunchtime on a weekend drive. Overlooking the village green perhaps or else the duck pond in the high street. Become
again
I thought.

A man I rightly took to be the manager, more on account of his air of authority than because of any formality in his attire (Bob Presley at The White Hart would
never
have stood about in jeans where any of the guests might see), leant comfortably against the inn door. He had his arms crossed—ankles too—and looked as if he were simply there to enjoy the sunshine or to entertain some fairly beguiling reverie. But the moment he saw me he straightened up.

“Hi. You must be Danny. I'm Richard.”

We shook hands. His face, his height, his breadth of shoulder—the niceness of his smile of welcome—all of this inspired confidence.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Feeling fine,” I replied. “And probably I'll be feeling even better when …”

“When you've got a little more used to things? Natural enough. You'd hardly be human if you weren't feeling apprehensive.”

“No I wasn't going to say that. I was only going to say it really all depends on the answer you're about to give me.”

“What's the question?”

“Did a guy named Brad Overton get here all right? At about three this morning? He was wearing a dinner jacket. You couldn't have missed him.”

“I wasn't on duty at that time.”

“No but you'd know anyway. Surely? There must be records—a computer. You were standing here expecting me.”

“I'm sure he'd have arrived okay. But Danny it's yourself you've got to think about. No one else.”

Had he been listening to that doctor? My faith in him began to fade. It was almost certain that when people were evasive they were covering up bad news.

I said: “I know that he started up Pack Hill; there was someone who saw him. So having come this far he wouldn't have been turned back would he? Not even if…?” I paused. “That's all I need to hear.”

“Not even if what?”

“He didn't believe in God.”

“Danny I can't tell you that.”

“Why not?”

He didn't answer. Still gave me that pleasant friendly look which I no longer saw, quite, as being either of those things.

“And do you mean that you
can't
or that you
won't
?”