Lynn could never forgive herself for the foolishness of what happened next, how she had allowed herself to be charmed by this all too plausible stranger, tricked into believing his soft-spoken half-truths and promises, lured by his smile and his easy lies.
It had ended in an open field, helpless inside a caravan, a prisoner, a metal bucket and a chain. A man who had killed and would likely kill again. For the first time since she was a young child, Lynn had prayed. And over Best’s insinuating voice, she had heard it, the rattle of the helicopter; the run, then, forced, across the rutted field. And Resnick, running toward them, arms flailing as he struggled for balance, the helicopter overhead sucking at his clothes and hair. And then he had held her, lifted her into his arms and held her, like her father and so utterly unlike her father, safe against his body.
One day, Lynn thought, she would be able to think of one without the other.
Climbing from the shower, she toweled herself briskly and then, tying another towel around her hair, went into the kitchen to make tea. Unless she got stuck behind a tractor or a caravan heading for the coast, she should have a clear run. A bacon sandwich with her mother and then the hospital well before noon. She finished off her hair under the drier, put on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed a sweater at the last moment just in case. When she crossed the Trent over Lady Bay Bridge less than five minutes later, the sky behind her was eggshell white.
Lynn’s mother was sitting just inside the back door, coat on, hands resting on the bag in her lap; she looked as if she’d been sitting there for hours. When Lynn bent to kiss her cheek, the skin felt heavy, like dough. Her fingers were bloodless and cold. “Mum, don’t you want a cup of tea?” “I was sure you’d want to go straight off, see your dad.” Lynn touched her lightly on the shoulder. “I think we should have a cup of tea first, don’t you?”
She found half a loaf of Sunblest, several days old, and made toast, which her mother made little attempt to eat.
“Mum, you’ve got to have something. You can’t just starve.” “I’ve not fancied anything since your dad’s been away.” “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up in there with him. Here, have some more of this.”
Her mother took a bite, then pushed the plate away.
There were two drips attached to her father’s arms, one at either side of the bed. He was lying with his head to one side, mouth slightly open, a stain where his face met the pillow. His lips were cracked and dry, pulling away in brittle patches. The whites of his eyes were covered by a milky yellow film; the skin that hung loose about his neck, stretched tight along his arms, a darker, murkier yellow. Lynn caught the sob that rose to her throat, but could do nothing about the tears.
Her mother busied herself with the bedside table, putting the fruit she’d brought into a bowl.
Lynn sat close and held the fingers of her father’s hand. Between the knuckles, the flesh seemed to have fallen away; the nails, unclipped, were long and hard.
“Dad? Daddy?”
His eyes moved a little, a slow blink, and she could just feel the pressure as he squeezed her hand.
It was a different registrar, a woman not much older than Lynn herself, three pens of various colors side by side in the pocket of her white coat. She spoke slowly, not unpleasantly, the way an aunt might talk to her small niece, the one who wasn’t very bright. “Your father was quite weak when he came in, really rather poorly. That’s why we didn’t operate straightaway. Let him rest, regain a little strength.”
“He looks terrible. My mother’s convinced he’s going to die.”
The registrar smiled, something almost violet in her eyes. “In your father’s state, anything invasive … well, it will take him time to recover.” She looked at the watch that was pinned to the front of her coat. “I’m sorry, I really should be getting on.” She held out her hand.
“There isn’t anything else?” Lynn asked at the door.
“How do you mean?”
Lynn didn’t know.
The registrar’s touch on her shoulder was surprisingly firm. “One thing at a time. Let’s get this cleared up, get him home. All right? If there’s anything else, anything worrying you, well, you know where I am.”
While her mother sat in front of the small black-and-white television in the front room, watching a program about migrating birds, Lynn opened a tin of tomato soup, warmed shop-bought apple pie. The top of the cooker and all around the grill pan were rich with grease; tea-leaves and potato peelings clogged the sink. How long had it been like this, Lynn wondered? Since her father had gone back into hospital or before? Look after your mother, Lynnie. I don’t know what might happen to her, else. They ate with a pair of metal trays balanced across their laps, free gifts with the coupons from however many packets of Huntley and Palmer biscuits. Conversation was sparse and bleak. Over the sound of the television, they could hear the whistling of the lad paid to come by and feed the hens, make sure they were all battened down safely at night. On the small curve of screen, a flock of young birds, like moving particles across the pink and purple of an equatorial sky, following their magnetic compass to a home they’d never seen.
Twenty-eight
The pub was smoky and full, and reverberating with noise. Ben Fowles was bobbing and weaving in front of the microphone, more like a man five rounds into a middleweight bout than Resnick’s idea of a singer. He was wearing white gym shoes, combat trousers, and a white T-shirt torn at one shoulder. His voice was pitched somewhere between a yelp and a scream, and his delivery had all the subtlety of a fast-approaching train. There were lyrics, Resnick was sure, but he couldn’t distinguish what they were.
In contrast to Ben Fowles’s exertions, the rest of the band looked vaguely bored. A tall man with thick-rimmed glasses stood stage left, staring down at the floor, playing bass guitar, while opposite, also standing, a young woman in a black silk shirt, her hair in a ponytail, played a small electronic keyboard. Behind them, a drummer wearing Forest colors and a baseball cap swatted around a minimal kit, while a squat figure wearing headphones, eyes closed, released a weird array of noises from some computer-driven gizmo, at the same time as manipulating records on a twin-turntable to make rhythmic scratching sounds.
“So what d’you reckon?” Carl Vincent asked, leaning close.
Resnick didn’t know.
The next number was altogether different: an instrumental, a sort of soul sound, but with a different beat; Ben Fowles alternating between rudimentary electric guitar and a toy saxophone, the kind found in the children’s section at Woolworths around Christmas time.
Resnick bought a round of drinks and exchanged a few words with Vincent’s friend, Peter, a computer engineer from Loughborough. The band were thrusting their way toward an interval, Ben Fowles running on the spot and repeating over and over a line from which he could only decipher the word “murder.” The bass player walked off the stage; a snare drum went crashing to the floor; a continuous, keening note came from the deserted keyboard; of the band, only one remained, hands a blur of movement over the turntables as the scratching intensified. Suddenly, Fowles threw up his hand and everything stopped. There was a moment’s silence, a few shouts, applause, and a scramble for the bar.
Resnick waited long enough to say well done and shake Fowles’s hand, then he was back out on the street and on his way to the center of town.
In the back room of the Bell, the usual musicians were into their final set. “King Porter Stomp,” “Clarinet Marmalade,” “Way Down Yonder In New Orleans.” Resnick nodded to a few familiar faces, bought a pint of Guinness, and leaned against the corner of the bar.