The odd, cawing sounds from the caravan echoed around the quarry, through the forest and out into the open fields. Five cows grazing near by stopped chewing for a moment and looked up. It was a scream that could have been made by a bird, or an animal. A little brindled dog, which often crossed this field, stopped in its tracks and looked towards the quarry, its ears quivering and pricked.
Ewan Caffery didn't know how long he had been tied here didn't know it was seven days since Tracey had left. He didn't know it was three days since he'd finished the water from the bottle under the sink. Now he stopped screaming, too exhausted to continue, and dropped sideways on the bunk as far as the bindings would allow. He gave the ropes a few more jerks but he was too weak now to break them, so he lay patiently, on his side, his eyes rolled upwards to Britney Spears, who smiled down at him from her pickup truck in a Midwestern cornfield.
In the meadow the cows went back to their grass, ears twitching lazily at insects and the dog lost interest, sitting on its haunches to scratch under its chin.
"Now then." Bethuen lowered her glasses and looked kindly at Tracey. "Now, Miss Lamb, what to do with you?" She folded her hands and smiled. "It's complex, isn't it? But I don't have to scurry off and consult authorities to know what they'd tell me. They would tell me to take this new evidence very seriously indeed." She paused. "And so I'm sorry but under paragraphs A and B of the Bail Act you will remain in custody until we see you in court again."
"No!" Lamb shot forward.
Yes. Caffery squeezed Rebecca's hand.
"That'll be all." Bethuen nodded at the security guards, put on her glasses and began to scribble in the register. Lamb whipped round and glared at Caffery. He met her eyes coolly and she hurled herself at the glass, her hands hammering into it. "You fucking pig!" she bawled, pounding her fists on the glass. "You cheap cunt. You cheap cunt!"
"Miss Lamb!" Bethuen got to her feet, and the Securicor guards leaped forward.
"Please, Miss Lamb '
"I'll fucking have yer '
"Tracey!" Alvarez dodged between benches to get to the dock. "Calm down."
"No.r A guard manoeuvred one hand behind her back but Lamb was still jumping still thumping at the glass with the other hand. "I'll fucking have yer for it." She whipped round and caught up her Styrofoam cup, flinging it at Caffery. "You fucking wanker. You piece of shit." The cup hit the glass and the contents slid slowly down the surface. Caffery got to his feet, took Rebecca's hand, and led her quietly to the steps, his face turned slightly so that Lamb couldn't see the victory in it.
"Now you're never going to know," she yelled behind them. "You'll never fucking know!"
They reached the bottom of the stairs, closed the door, hurried down the entrance hall, and they were out in the sun with the barristers' golf swings, the beech-tree alley, the Securicor van and all the flowers and graves of Bury St. Edmunds.
Thirty-five.
Caffery and Rebecca stayed on in Norfolk, on the borders north of Bury St. Edmunds, not far from Lamb's garage. They found a B amp;B with a thatched roof and two sleek red setters playing in the garden. There was honeysuckle outside the window, roses on the bed linen and, arranged on a tray, a kettle, sachets of Nescafe and custard creams in cellophane. Rebecca made them coffee in the mornings and got back under the sheets with him, pressing her morning skin against him and nuzzling her new pixie hair on his chest and stomach.
Sometimes he could see their future quite clearly. Sometimes it looked like a long, open road, but other times, in Rebecca's sudden silences, in her bursts of laughter, her flashes of false bravery, he knew it wasn't going to be easy. He knew they couldn't re-invent their story overnight. Still, he smiled at her and loved her and held her hand when she was asleep at night and in the mornings sat on the bath edge talking to her as she bathed, watching her lather shampoo into her hair and massage her scalp with her strong fingers.
She bought a ridiculous man's Panama hat from an Oxfam shop, rolled up joints and stuck them in the hatband, interspersed with cow parsley. She looked bonkers, he told her. "Like an eccentric ivory dealer, or something." In Kings Lynn she bought strange lilies and white poppies and took them back to the B amp;B, put them in a jam-jar and made a big painting of them out on the lawn as the sun went down. On the second day they walked for miles, through the ancient land where once sand blows could cover whole villages, through the old, abandoned rabbit farms, past mysterious, ever-moving sink holes. They talked about the dreams they could buy if he sold the house: "Now that you've really moved on, Jack' the blue futures they could sign up for with her money and his freedom. He could buy a flat in Thornton Heath without a mortgage, she could buy a cottage in the country somewhere, in Surrey maybe, or something bigger out here in Norfolk. They could have a holiday "Somewhere like South America," she said. "Or Mexico, I could get really precious about the muralists." On and on they went, Rebecca in her crazy hat and Caffery quiet at her side, thinking, I can't, Rebecca, I can't.
As the sun began to set they stopped for a moment, on the slope above a shallow valley. The oblique, orange rays found a reflective surface in the trees on the other side of the valley, something artificial, a piece of glass, or a window maybe, and suddenly, as if a spotlight had swung round, a reflected image of the sun shot across the land towards Caffery and Rebecca, dipping their faces in gold. A caravan, he saw now, it was a caravan reflecting the light, and with a numb jolt he realized it was standing above the quarry near Lamb's garage. He hadn't realized how close they'd been all day. It made him want to take Rebecca straight back to the B amp;B, away from here.
"You're wavering," Rebecca said suddenly. "You're not going to sell the house I can tell." She didn't look at him as she spoke. She stood at his shoulder, staring at the sunset. "You've changed your mind about Ewan."
"No, I haven't." He reached for her hand. It was time to go. "I haven't changed my mind."
"You have. You want to go and see Tracey in Holloway again."
"I don't. Really I don't."
But he was lying. Of course he was lying. He couldn't explain it to her. He couldn't explain that everything he saw on the flinty, sandy heath land where they walked, everything he saw and everything he did, still made him think about Ewan. If anything it was worse out here, all this way from London. They drove back to the B amp;B in silence and Rebecca didn't mention it again all week.
Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, one morning he woke up with the impression that Ewan had walked into the room.
He sat up. The clock said 6.20, the sun was outlining the flowers on the curtains, and next to him Rebecca was asleep. He looked around the little B amp;B room, confused, his heart thumping, fully expecting to see Ewan sitting in the window seat, dressed in his mustard T-shirt, shorts and Clarks sandals, swinging his legs.
"Ewan?" Everything seemed different. Everything in the room seemed to have a weightlessness, everything seemed to have become detached from its meaning. His limbs were light, as if he had been carrying a heavy object and had just released it. He felt as if he might float up towards the ceiling.
"Ewan?"
"Jack? What is it?" Rebecca, half asleep, dropped her hand on his back and idly scratched his shoulder-blades. "What's up?"
"Nothing." He dropped his head back on the pillow and put his hand over his chest, over his thumping heart. "I had a dream, I think. That's all."
