If she comes, I’ll be able to explain myself to her. I think I might manage that, if I work it out in my head beforehand. I suppose that’s what this declaration is, really. Practice at explanation.
I’d love to be able to see an understanding of my predicament dawning in another human being’s eyes. Maybe, if she can grasp it, it will start a new chapter in my story, and in her own. Perhaps I could even return to Wootton Bassett, if she will take my place, just for a few days. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading declarations, it’s that every woman deserves at least a few chapters of her own in the story of her life.
I put down the paper on the floor beside the sofa, and settle myself for sleep. It’s easy to relax into the pillow, to feel lethargy seep into my arms and legs, to snuggle into the warmth of the sleeping bag.
I know them now: Vanessa, Amelia, Moira, Skein Island. I understand that Moira makes men strive to go forth, to fulfil their destinies, while women go round in circles. They return to what they understand, and surround themselves with the familiar, even if those familiar people and places hold terrible memories for them. They hold close the things that they detest.
And now I hold the thought of Moira close. I will find her, and bring her back, so that I don’t have to be anyone’s victim.
But, just like all the best heroes, I can’t undertake this adventure alone. I’m going to need help.
I know exactly who to ask.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Being a hero was not as easy as it sounded.
David had only one place to look for the man who had violated his wife, and that was the library car park. But hiding in the bushes for three hours a night was not an option; the police regularly patrolled the spot now. And he was fairly certain he wasn’t dealing with a stupid adversary, so why would the man turn up here anyway? He had considered going to Sam, asking her to somehow lower the police presence, but the pain of Marianne’s departure was too acute. He couldn’t picture himself on Sam’s doorstep, begging for entry, with things leading in a direction he was not ready to revisit. So he kept his distance from both her house and the library, and as a consequence had nowhere to go and nothing to do except despise his own uselessness.
But then, one cold, dark January night, there was a knock on his front door, and time started to move forward again.
Arnie and Geoff stood there, holding each other upright, trying not to look drunk, and failing. David checked his watch. 11:48 p.m.
‘Cornerhouse just kicked out, has it?’
‘We heard a little birdie saying my daughter’s pissed off again.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I’ve got a library card,’ said Geoff, in a very loud voice, standing to attention.
‘Is it true?’ said Arnie.
An upstairs light in a house across the street winked on.
David said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Arnie and Geoff wobbled into the living room, not taking off their shoes and coats, and David shut the door and followed them. They sat side by side on the sofa, hands in their laps, attention fixed on the television screen and the end of the film David had been watching.
‘Rocky,’ said Geoff. ‘Brilliant.’
Sylvester Stallone was sweaty, desperate, having his eye cut so he could continue to see the killer punches coming. David took the remote from the arm of the chair and switched it to mute. ‘Marianne’s gone back to the island,’ he said. ‘She’ll probably write to you, once she’s ready.’
‘I’m not reading any letters from that place,’ said Arnie. He had a patchy grey beard that made him look even more unkempt than usual, and the smell of beer wafted out from him in waves. ‘Listen, come to the pub with us.’
‘It’s closed.’
‘Not now, boy.’ Arnie shook his head at Geoff, who tittered. They had become a circus double-act, stuck together, gurning at each other for their own amusement.
‘Listen,’ said David, ‘it’s really late—’
‘The way I see it,’ Arnie said, ‘that bastard hurt Marianne, am I right? He hurt my daughter. I’ll be honest, I might not have cared about it much five or six years ago. All I cared about was the cubes. I’ve mowed Mags’s lawn, if you get my drift, every Saturday for the past decade because of losing on the cubes. But I don’t owe her any more favours now and I don’t need the cubes any more. I used to need them to know stuff, but now it comes to me anyway.’
David sat down in the armchair. Rocky had just lost the match and was calling for Adrian, his pulped wreck of a mouth hanging open. ‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Other people. I’d drink the medicine down, and then I’d go in the back room and see other people living their lives. Marianne, in her library. Vanessa reading, in the darkness, always reading. Like mother like daughter. And now I see it in my dreams, at night. I saw what happened to her. I saw that man come into the library. I know his face. I know how to get him. Into cameras, isn’t he?’
‘Once, with the cubes, I was watching a big fight,’ said Geoff, his eyes still fixed on the screen. The credits were rolling. ‘There was one in red trunks and one in blue, and I was in the corner, with the stool, waiting for the bell to ring. I don’t know what it meant.’
‘We can stop him,’ said Arnie. ‘Well, you can. With our help. Before he does it again.’
‘He won’t use the library,’ David heard himself saying, while another part of his brain shouted about the ridiculousness of it. ‘The library staff are never alone now. And it’s being staked out by the police.’
‘It’s not bloody America here yet, mate. They don’t have the staff to keep that up for long. Give it two weeks and they’ll have to call it off. Then you’ll be ready to step in.’
‘What makes you think he’ll come back anyway?’
‘That’s what he does. Besides—’ Arnie tapped his nose. ‘He won’t be able to resist it. We’ll make sure of that.’
David stood up. He couldn’t reach a decision. Was some sort of plan forming? Arnie and Geoff were the last companions he would have picked for this mission, but they did seem to be committed. They were both sitting up straight now, looking more focused. Maybe having something to think about other than the cubes was doing them good.
Arnie raised his eyebrows. ‘Well?’
He could tell them to go, and they would. Probably without much of an argument. But did he really want to do this alone?
‘I’ll put on some coffee,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to sober up if we’re going to really talk about this.’
‘White, two sugars,’ said Geoff.
‘I’ll take it as it comes, son,’ said Arnie, with a smile. ‘And then we’ll talk about what you need to do tomorrow to kick this thing off.’
‘Isn’t tomorrow a repatriation day?’
‘It is. It’s too much for him to resist. You’ll see.’
The credits had finished rolling, and the late news had started. David turned the volume back up, and let the sounds of battles and blood from around the world reach him as he went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and waited for it to boil. Things were escalating. It wasn’t his imagination. Hatred was growing, proliferating, and it was his job to stop it.
The feeling in the crowd was different.
Usually, on repatriation days, there was a quiet air of solemnity over the town. People spoke in lowered tones, and many of them wore dark colours. It had become a tradition, and although David was aware of the undercurrent that existed between the serial mourners who turned up just for the catharsis of the occasion and the true locals who tried to go about their daily lives in the packed high street on such days, this level of tension was new to him. It was heavy, blanketing the people as they waited for the hearses, nine of them, the most amount of deaths to make up a cortege. The faces in the crowd were beyond sad. They were angry.