Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

It was like a replay of two days ago. The man trudged on unhurriedly without looking around. The baggy raincoat flapped around his knees as the muddy wellingtons slapped rhythmically on the road.

‘What’s that he’s carrying?’ I asked. His arms were crooked, clutching something to his chest, but from behind him I couldn’t see what it was.

‘God knows. He’s always rescuing things, even if they don’t need it.’ Rachel leaned out of the window again. ‘Come on, Edgar. Edgar! ’

The gaunt figure continued along the road, giving no indication that he’d heard.

‘Bloody hell,’ Rachel muttered, and stopped the car. She got out, and after a second I did as well. The man hadn’t seemed violent, but cadaverous or not he still dwarfed Rachel. Me too, if it came to that.

She fell into step alongside him. ‘It’s me, Edgar. Rachel.’

Only now did he seem to register her presence. He spoke without looking at her or breaking stride.

‘I’m in a hurry.’

‘I know, but you need to walk at the side of the road, not in the middle. I’ve told you before.’ Rachel’s tone was firm but friendly.

‘What’ve you got there?’

‘It’s hurt.’

His voice was low and hushed, as though he was distracted. But at least he was responding, which was more than he’d done the last time I’d encountered him. I’d hung back so as not to unsettle him, but I was close enough to see the bundle of spines cradled against his chest. A hedgehog, limp and unmoving. I remembered the seagull he’d been carrying before.

‘It’s dead, Edgar,’ Rachel told him gently. ‘You can’t help it.’

‘It’s hurt,’ he repeated.

She gave me a what-can-you-do glance. ‘OK, Edgar. But you need to walk on the side of the road. The side , OK? Not the middle. You’ll get knocked down, like you nearly did a couple of days ago. Do you remember Dr Hunter?’

The man’s protuberant eyes passed over me. ‘Hello, Edgar,’ I said.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, but that was the only indication he knew I was there. Rachel motioned for me to drop back and lowered her voice. ‘It might be better if you stayed here. He doesn’t like anything new.’

I looked uncertainly at the scarecrow-like figure. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

‘Don’t worry, he’s harmless.’

I stayed back while she hurried to catch him up, although I kept close enough in case he proved her wrong. I still didn’t feel any sense of threat from him, but fear makes people unpredictable. Gangly or not, if he grew agitated he might hurt someone without meaning to.

But Rachel was already steering him to the side of the road, her hand on his grubby arm. She spoke to him in a reassuring voice too low for me to catch, but whatever she said seemed to do the trick. Watching him to make sure he kept to the edge of the road, she came back.

‘OK, let’s go before he changes his mind.’

We got back in the car. Rachel pulled away, driving slowly and giving the gaunt figure a wide berth until we were past him.

‘Will he be OK?’ I asked.

‘There aren’t many cars out here. Anyway, if we took him home he’d only come straight back out again.’

‘Have you any idea what’s wrong with him?’

‘Not medically. He just doesn’t seem aware of much that’s going on. I’ve wondered if he might be autistic or something, but no one seems to know. He’s got a thing about injured animals, though. Always rescuing something or other. God knows what he does with them all.’

I was no expert, but even if he did place somewhere on the autistic spectrum, I thought it likely he had other mental health issues as well. ‘Where does he live?’

‘In a run-down cottage in the Backwaters. I’ve been past a few times, and it’s pretty grim. If you think we’re isolated you should see that.’

‘He lives by himself?’ From what I’d seen, Edgar didn’t seem capable of functioning independently.

‘He does now. The story is that he was some kind of academic or naturalist. He used to be married with a young daughter, but then the little girl disappeared. Went out to play one day and never came back. Everyone thought she must have drowned, but Edgar never recovered. His wife left him, so now he spends his time searching the Backwaters for his daughter. If you believe the locals, anyway,’ she added.

‘The police never found her?’ I asked, struck by the eerie echoes to Rachel’s sister. If the story was true then Emma Derby wasn’t the Backwaters’ first victim.

‘No, but there’s no connection with Emma, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ Rachel kept her voice neutral as she spoke. ‘It was twenty-odd years ago, and it’s probably mostly gossip anyway. You even get some people saying Edgar murdered his own daughter, or that he rescues birds and animals because he couldn’t save her. It’s best to take it all with a pinch of salt.’

We’d reached the outskirts of town. Rachel fell silent as we passed a weather-beaten road sign that proclaimed Welcome to Cruckhaven . Below it someone had spray-painted Now fuck off .

‘Catchy slogan,’ I said, to change the subject.

‘Wait till you see the town.’

We passed a scattering of small bungalows and then came to a main street of brick and pebble-dash shops. She pulled up next to a concrete quay, stubby metal mooring posts sprouting from its edge like fossilized tree stumps.

‘Jamie wrote down what sort of spark plugs you need,’ Rachel said, handing me a piece of paper with scrawled handwriting on it. ‘The petrol station’s a bit further along this road. You can’t miss it. I’ve just got a few groceries to buy, so shall I meet you back here in, oh, half an hour?’

I said that was OK, trying not to show the unexpected disappointment I felt. What did you expect? Her to come along and hold your hand? ‘While I’m here is there anything worth seeing?’ I asked.

‘Depends how much you like closed shops and mud.’

‘I’ll take that as a no, shall I?’ I said, looking out of the car window at the tired seaside town.

‘Afraid so. Whatever Cruckhaven used to have going for it went belly-up long before I got here. There’s a fish and chip van that might be open, and a coffee shop on the quayside that’s making an effort. If you get bored with the sights they make a decent latte.’

‘Why don’t you meet me there?’

I said it before I’d even thought. Rachel looked surprised and I cursed myself for putting her on the spot. I was about to try to dig my way out of it when she surprised me in return.

‘Are you offering cake as well?’

I pretended to consider. ‘I might.’

She grinned. ‘See you there.’

There are few sights sadder than a working town that doesn’t work any more. Cruckhaven had that look. On a bank holiday, any normal seaside resort should have been bustling. Here the main road was all but deserted and half of the businesses on the small harbour front were closed. There was an old souvenir shop that looked as though it hadn’t been open in years. Its window was lined with yellow cellophane to protect the display from the sun, but its corners had come away and now drooped forlornly. Dead flies lay in the window bottom along with crab-lines, seashell trinkets and bleached-out postcards, as though the owner had locked up one day and never come back.

There were a few people about, though not many. Harassed young mothers wore thousand-yard stares as they pushed prams, and a gang of teenagers sulked on a street bench, eyeing passers-by like potential prey. I’d not taken much notice of the town when I’d driven through it before, more concerned with getting to the recovery operation. Now I saw what a drab place it was.