The Invisible Ones (27 page)

There’s a little green tent on the southern edge of the site. The water hasn’t reached it. Not yet.

It’s not a promising situation. I have to persuade someone in charge that I have something they need. I’ve brought copies of the photographs of Rose; it’s the only bargaining chip I have.

Police figures clad in cheap macs crawl around the tent like ants. The mud sucks at my boots as I wade toward them.

I track down the inspector in charge, a man with hooded brown eyes and brown shadows under them, smoker’s skin, and slightly too-long hair that—he might think—makes him look like an aging Turkish film star. His name is Detective Inspector Considine.

“Ray Lovell.”

I show him my license.

“When did this happen?”

He glares at me with bored superiority, an expression that plainly says he doesn’t have to tell me anything.

“What are you doing here, exactly?”

I’ve already explained myself to two underlings, but it’s part of the game, so I go over it again.

“I’ve been hired to investigate a disappearance. A nineteen-year-old girl who went missing around here about six years ago.”

I hand over the photocopied flyer that features our two photographs of Rose—the race-day one and the wedding snap. He glances briefly at them, not betraying too much interest.

“These don’t even look like the same person,” he says, his voice dismissive.

“They were taken two years apart. This is the most recent.”

I tap the wedding picture. Actually, I now notice that he has a point. Somehow, the photocopying process has exaggerated the differences wrought by those two years: the carefree girl with her solid jaw and secret smile; and the bride, tentative, uncertain—almost as though she was already beginning to disappear.

“It is the same girl. Her name is Rose Wood. Rose Janko when she married.”

“Janko? What sort of a name is that?”

“A Gypsy name. Eastern European origin. English family.”

He grunts. Not in the pejorative way a lot of people would. He’s actually a little more interested. I wonder whether he has Gypsy blood himself, but that’s not something you ask a policeman on first meeting.

“About six years? Can’t you be more specific?”

“The reports are inconsistent. January or February 1980. She definitely disappeared in winter.”

“Well, okay, thanks for that.”

He’s not dismissing it.

“So what happened?”

I take out a packet of cigarettes and offer him one. He accepts, so I take one, too, to keep him company, and produce my lighter. We’re just two buddies standing out here in a muddy field, smoking in the rain.

He’s weighing up how little he can get away with telling me.

“Digger turned up some bits of bone. Someone saw them and called us in.”

“And this is the first time, at this site? I mean, I’ve heard it was an old burial pit for plague victims—they must have got all sorts here.”

“Oh, that. No, it’s the first time. I think the plague pit is just a rumor spread by the locals. Or maybe they’re below the level of the foundations.”

“So these bones weren’t that deep?”

I’m trying to sound casual, but an excitement grips my insides. Considine smiles, man to man, detective to detective.

“Look, I’ll tell you what I know, and then you’ll piss off, right? And it’s not worth much.”

I nod.

“Sure.”

“It’s about four feet down. Digger went right through it, chewed it up—it’ll be a nightmare to piece back together, even if we find all the bits. I mean, we’re talking jackstraws down there.”

“Age and sex?”

“Don’t go together.”

I ha-ha, politely.

“Can’t tell anything like that yet. They’ve got bits of rib and arm and vertebrae. Won’t know till they get it in the lab, and you’d think those bastards were on an hourly rate, pace they move.”

He shrugs.

“I’m just telling you because you brought these.”

He flaps the photos and a fat drop of rain hits Rose’s photocopied face with a splat. I fight the urge to snatch the pictures back.

“Appreciate it.”

“So don’t go blabbing to all and sundry. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

Although he has just told me that.

“Of course. When do you think you’ll have some more information on the body?”

DI Considine shrugs. He sucks the dregs from the fag and flicks it into a puddle.

“We’ll let you know.”

He says it grudgingly.

“We would really appreciate it. The family are anxious to know of any . . . news, you understand.”

Considine heads back to the tent, and then turns around, I’m sure, so he can have the last word.

“The river’s supposed to rise again, so we’ll probably have to pack up this lot. Then it’s anybody’s guess. Don’t hold your breath.”

Dismissed, I walk over toward the river, up to the edge of the creeping floodwater. The builders would have had to stop work, anyway, even without the discovery. From here you can see the original course of the river winding through the trees and scrub, even though it has overflowed its banks. The water looks brown and somehow viscous, thick like oil, holding things in suspension: things it has taken from the earth, secrets. A crisp packet is borne along on invisible currents, chased by a carrier bag. Wands of hazel and alder pierce the surface. Anything could be hidden under there. Turning around at the edge of the water, I look back across the waste that used to be the Black Patch.

I imagine there were more trees before the bulldozers moved in, ringing the site, perhaps, possibly along the edge where the little tent now stands. A shallow grave in the woods? Or rather, not that shallow— someone took the time to dig down four feet. That’s not a five-minute job, in fear and haste. Were they trying to do the thing properly? With care and dignity? Or was it simply professional thoroughness?

Beyond the chicken-wire fence is a belt of well-established woodland— field maple, beech, and hazel—that then gives way to farmland, rising away from the river, thus safer from flooding, presumably less of a bargain for land-hungry developers. Here, by the water, standing still for even a minute means that midges and mosquitoes form a cloud around me. This isn’t somewhere I would have chosen to build a house, but then,
the businessmen who chose it and the builders who build it aren’t going to live here.

I imagine stopping here in a trailer, in the old days, what it would have been like. It would have been a lot smaller, largely hidden from the road by trees. It is, in any case, a quiet road, not a direct route to anywhere. There are no buildings in sight, within earshot. As long as other Travelers weren’t stopping here, it could have been a good place to dispose of someone. Of course, I can’t prove that they ever came here. Or rather, the only proof I have is that Tene made a mistake. He said “the Black Patch,” and then tried to divert me by claiming it was somewhere else. Why would he do that? Why would the words come tripping out of his mouth if he wasn’t haunted by them?

I stare back at the tent. One of the tiny creatures flies into my eye; another brushes my nose. I take out another cigarette and light it, just to try to fend off the wildlife.

The rain begins to patter down harder, slapping the smooth surface of the water, extinguishing the cigarette in my hand. I throw the stub into the water, where some hidden current bears it swiftly away. It looks uncanny and purposeful, like a magnet moving under a table. Whatever happened to Rose, I have to find out. Whatever hidden current took her, it must be under the surface still.

“Are you Rose?” I say softly but out loud. “If you are here, tell me. Give me a sign. I know you’ve been waiting.”

I ask the woods, the water, the accommodating earth: “Is she here?”

35.

JJ

It has started raining again. I like the sound of water falling onto the roof here—it’s quieter than it was in the trailer. But at least here you can still hear outside noises. Like the rain and the fox that barks in the night. I’ve always liked the sound of foxes. They sound so desolate.

By the time it gets dark, my arm is on fire. Katie brings me some antiseptic and a bandage, and we put it on. She stays with me and wants to fool around a bit, and although in theory I want to, I feel really sick and I’m not that into it. I’m scared I’m actually going to be sick. I think she’s a bit pissed off. After a while she goes away. Maybe the antiseptic was too late; it doesn’t seem to have helped. Sometime later, I wake up and I’m alone. It’s completely dark. There was a cry, like someone screaming for help; that’s what woke me up. Maybe it was the old fox, or maybe it was a dream.

Maybe it was me.

My arm is pumping out heat like a stove. I lift it up, but it’s too dark to see anything. It feels like it’s made of lead. Pulsating with a dark red pain. I’m scared. Perhaps for the first time in all this, truly scared. My deepest fear rises to the surface and looks me in the face. It’s always the blood with us—what’s inside—that lets us down. I wonder—a dark fear
I haven’t felt for a long time—whether I, too, have the disease. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps it’s been lying in wait all this time, choosing its moment to jump out and attack me. I feel weak, floppy, useless. What if I die here, in this stable? What will people say?

I’ve slid off the straw stack, and I’m on the floor again. No matter where or what I come from, I don’t want to die in a stable, with only a horse for company. Subadar looks around, mildly interested, recognizing my time in his stable has come to an end. I push myself upright—I feel really peculiar, like my arms are very long and my hands are very heavy—and wander over to the door. Luckily, the lock is just a Yale: I walk outside into the rain. I have to walk all the way around the stables to get to the house. It seems to take forever. The house is in front of me, but it doesn’t get any nearer. At some point I realize that I’m crying, sniveling like a baby. It’s disgusting, but I don’t seem to be able to stop. I seem to be walking sideways, like there’s a force field around the house to keep dirty Gypsies from coming any closer. In this way I stagger around to the front. Katie’s bedroom is at the front, but I can’t work out which of the many windows is hers. No lights are on. Then I wonder whether Katie is the best person to wake. I have a feeling she wouldn’t want her parents to know, however ill I got, so that she can keep me in the stables like she keeps her horse. Like her pet. And right now I need an adult.

I fight the force field for miles—all the way up to the front door. When I get there I’m panting. It’s taken hours. I lean my face against the deliciously cool glass panel with a silvery floral pattern and press the doorbell. I don’t care what they do to me, because it can’t be anywhere near as bad as what my blood is doing to me already. I don’t know how long I press it for, I don’t hear anything, but, eventually, a light comes on inside. I slump against the door, thinking that soon someone else will decide what to do. I don’t care who or what it is, but it won’t be me. There’s a voice yelling, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s too much effort to stand up straight again, especially when there’s a lovely cool door to lean against. When the door opens, I slide gracefully to the floor at the feet of the council leader. This time, I don’t have to pretend.

36.

Ray

Lulu sounds tired.

“How is Christo?”

A sigh.

“All right, I think. Kath’s with him now. I’ve just got home.”

“You heard about Ivo, then?”

“Yeah. Look, you should know, I’m . . . we’re all very grateful for what you’ve done for Christo. The specialist and so on, and all you did yesterday. And I’m sorry about Ivo and everything. Messing you around like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. As long as Christo’s all right, that’s the main thing.” “Well, thank you. I dare say he has his reasons, although I must say I don’t know what they are. I expect my brother gave you all that last night. ‘Poor old Ivo’ stuff.”

“Something like that. I felt sorry for him.”

“Don’t bother. He’s had it no worse than the rest of us.”

“I mean your brother. So much bad luck; it’s . . . almost unbelievable.”

There is an uncomfortable pause. I could kick myself: I keep forgetting that she, as his sister, has shared most of those griefs.

“Yeah, well . . . You seem to have made a hit with him.”

I experience a powerful and treacherous urge to tell her about the bones at the Black Patch. What would she say? I rein it in, with an effort.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

Silence.

She sounds like she’s wishing she hadn’t said that.

“Have dinner with me. Just as friends.”

Another long pause.

For God’s sake, Ray, when will you learn?

And then she says yes.

Things are looking up. Things are definitely looking up. Not only do I have a lead in my case, albeit a slender, tenuous thread of a lead, but Lulu has agreed to meet me for dinner. For a date. A Saturday-night date. As friends, admittedly, but it’s a step in the right direction. Not only that, but at half past five, it finally stops raining.

I walk down London Road, showered, shaved, in a new shirt I found in the wardrobe, as a jet climbs joyously overhead and a tentative sun shows itself through melting clouds, pale and uncertain, like a fever patient on the first day outside. At long last, it’s even warm.

And then there is one of those moments. You know what I mean— when there is an inaudible click, and the universe holds its breath. When beauty descends unheralded, a moment of grace. For no reason that I can see, Staines is suddenly empty of traffic and I am quite alone. In the low sunlight the raindrops clinging to leaves and lampposts glow with a million tiny flames; iridescence blooms on the oily tarmac. I am surrounded by crystal and mother-of-pearl. The plane has soared out of sight. There’s no sound at all—no hum of traffic, no chirping of summer birds. No one shares the pavement to see this. The street is mine.

I take a long, deep breath—the air is soft and sweet, as though a perfumed battalion has just marched across the traffic lights. I want to shout, I want to stop, say hold it, wait, hold it . . .