Shell listens out for the tell-tale signs of life coming from Sixpence’s clearing. He has no doubt he’ll be awake. He sleeps outside most nights and generally wakes with the sunrise. He invariably gives the inside of the campervan to his guests. He’s had no shortage of people staying with him during the years he’s been Shell’s friend. Some are not dissimilar to Sixpence in appearance; ragged troubadours in tie-dye and Doc Martens, following old lay lines and footpaths on their personal pilgrimages to wherever the spirits have told them to go. But others have surprised Shell. Well-to-do ladies, barefoot in skimpy white dresses. Handsome, well-dressed men squatting by the fireside with tears in their eyes and a joint between their lips. Children too. Wild-eyed, half-feral creatures, squatting on the steps to the camper; meditating, cross-legged, giving their face to the first rays of the sun or helping stretch soft leather over a circular frame to make the drums which beat out the rhythms of a world Shell does not claim to understand.
He moves through the archway form by the two fallen trees, and stops. Tunstall and Rideal, the two men from the posh school, are sitting by the remains of Sixpence’s fire. There is no smoke. The wood has burned Bible-black. Tunstall has his head in his hands as if praying. Opposite him, Rideal rakes, nervously, through the crumbling remains of the fire. Shell realises he should speak. Should cough or whistle to announce his presence. Instead he stands still. There is something about the postures of the two men that make him feel his presence would be unwelcome. He cocks his head and listens as the two men speak in short, angry bursts.
“…moved on, Alan. That’s what he does. That’s what he is. He’s stayed still longer than we ever expected. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re telling yourself that because you want to believe it. But he would have said goodbye. And he likes it here. Likes what we do. He believes in this.”
“Times are changing. You know we’re going to have to change with them. We’re going to have a proper curriculum. Proper tests. A roll-call of pupils, paying agreed fees….,”
“That wasn’t what we set out to do.”
“But it’s what we have to do now.”
“He wouldn’t leave for that. And not without saying goodbye.”
“Oh God man, he was never our friend. What do we really know about him anyway? I let you have him here because he looks the part and because his bullshit helps pay the bills but the education authority was never going to let this carry on indefinitely. A bloody shaman? Having pupils to stay? Residential soul-retrievals for damaged children? Look where that got us.”
“He did his best. That boy was damaged beyond repair. And Pearl blames him. You heard what he said.”
“That problem was put to bed. That’s over. He’s just gone. We don’t need to make a fuss…,”
“He’s left everything. His books. His crystals. Even his maps. What if he fell into the lake? Or the mineshafts. You know how obsessive he could get – all that nonsense about the Siberian caves – out here at all hours looking for holes into the earth. We can’t just act like he didn’t exist …”
Shell has heard enough. He clears his throat: a noise like a rutting stag in the still morning air. Steps into the clearing. The two men swivel towards him, startled, guilty. Rideal even looks afraid.
“I was looking for Arthur,” he says, gruffly. He doesn’t know if he wants them to know that he has heard.
“Ah, Mr Shell,” begins Rideal, stammering. “We were actually looking for him ourselves. But you know these travellers – they don’t stay still for ever …,”
Shell is about to reply when something glimpsed out of the corner of his eye gives him pause. A little way from the fire is a jagged rock, sparkling with a rusty metal ore. Its point is sharp, like a tooth. Its tip is crowned with a thick, viscose red. Shell moves towards it and the two men follow his gaze. Shell squats down. Two fat flies rise up, sated and red. Shell angles his head. He sees a long grey hair tangled around the rock like the severed rope of an abseiler.
He turns to the two men, his expression brooking no argument.
“Call the police,” he says. “Now.”
15
Rowan finds himself giving quiet thanks for the absence of mirrors in Bilberry Byre. He’s laid out on the cobbled floor of the living room, not quite naked but a long way from dressed – mildly indecent in leather gloves and solitary black sock. A snipped tie-wrap handcuff hangs from one wrist and he feels like there may be a bite-mark on his eyebrow. He has the dazed, sore look of somebody who has been run over, and enjoyed it.
“Don’t get up,” whispers Sumaira, putting her spectacles back on and blowing him a kiss from the doorway. She’s immaculate. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked very sweet like that. What do you call that painting by Da Vinci? With the arms and legs sticking out? You look like that. Well, that or a starfish, any way.”
Rowan wiggles upright, self-conscious. The only light in the room comes from the smouldering coals in the grate but they are enough to illuminate a scene of disarray in the small, cramped living room. They’ve broken the sofa, knocked a series of Coniston slate pictures from the wall and the contents of the log basket and fire bucket are scattered across the cobbles, interspersed with splinters of broken crockery. He isn’t sure whether the sharp, scratchy pain in his back is smashed glass or Sumaira’s fingernails, embedded in his skin like a cat’s claws left in a tree.
“I wasn’t expecting any of this,” begins Rowan, unsure what tone to take. “I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to romance information out of you …,”
Sumaira gives him a grin. “Rowan, I’m a Detective Inspector. I’m not some giggly girl. I do what I choose to do and tonight, I chose to have a lovely time.”
“Lovely?” asks Rowan, reaching out for his shirt and finding that it only has one button left. “Are we using the word ‘lovely?’”
“You’re the writer – you can find something more suitable if you’d prefer. Anyway, I have to be off. My fella’s been texting since midnight.”
Rowan raises his eyebrows. “Fella?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head,” grins Sumaira. “And look, I don’t know what you’re writing or where you’re taking it but do try and be the best version of yourself about all this.”
Rowan sits up. “And that means what?”
“People do get hurt, Rowan,” says Sumaira, squatting down in front of him. She’s reapplied make-up and sprayed perfume but she still gives off a trace of sweat and sex that comes dangerously close to reviving him. “Not all secrets are desperate to be dragged into the light, that’s all. And maybe, if you’re going to tear anybody’s life apart, you should ask that person whether they mind. This Violet, she’s obviously working through some stuff. Perhaps that’s private.”
Rowan swallows. Resists the urge to say anything clever.
“I think it might be better if this was a one-time deal,” says Sumaira, gently. “I mean, you’re fun and I like you but you seem a bit needy, if I’m honest. A bit vulnerable. But I’d love it if we could be friends. You get your rest, yeah? It’s been a blast.”
Rowan doesn’t give in to the laughter until the door has closed and he hears her footsteps fade away down the path. Then he drags himself upright, and winces himself into dark trousers, round-neck T-shirt and a baggy black cardigan. He pops two of his painkillers from the dimple packet and knocks them back with the last dregs of a whisky he can’t actually remember pouring them when they arrived back at the little cottage. He checks the clock on the mantle. 1.24am. He could sleep, he’s no doubt about that, but it feels like wasted time. Clumsily, he fills the kettle and sets about trying to make himself a cafetiere with the posh coffee. As the kettle boils, he listens back to the voice recordings. His thoughts start to speed up: an athlete finding their rhythm on a treadmill. He pours the coffee and moves to his favoured position, on sentry duty in the entryway, door half closed behind him.