Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

Stranded in a flooded dip was the black Daimler.

The boat rocked, almost capsizing as I jumped up to look. The door on the driver’s side stood open, allowing small waves to lap over the sill. Porter had made the same mistake as I had on the causeway, either underestimating the water’s depth or hoping the car would make it through. It hadn’t.

There was no sign of Porter himself. I scanned the darkened road, hoping to see him stranded nearby, but except for the car it was empty. Then the creek curved away, and the Daimler was lost to view.

For the first time since I’d climbed from the boathouse, I allowed myself to hope. Although I didn’t fool myself that he was going to give up, without his car Porter would have to make his way through the flood on foot to Creek House.

There was still a chance.

I gripped the throttle tightly, as though that might wring more speed from the motor. The boat was already going as fast as it could, but even with the help from the current it seemed maddeningly slow. For what felt like an age there was nothing other than the floodplain and darkness. Then, through a screen of waving branches, I saw the lights of Trask’s house.

I willed the boat to go faster, but it continued at the same imperturbable pace. The lights slowly grew bigger, resolving into the broad strip of floor-to-ceiling windows. A smaller yellow square from one of the bedrooms hung in the darkness below them. Gradually, I began to make out shapes and colours inside. Movement. For an agonizing minute the house was obscured as a bend in the creek concealed it behind a copse of trees, then it emerged from behind them.

Waves were lapping all around the concrete pilings, but Creek House sat serenely above the floodwaters. The upstairs windows gave a clear view of the lighted room on the other side. I could see Rachel with Fay on the sofa, the young girl curled peacefully against her as she read from a book. In the smaller window below I could see Jamie sitting at a desk, staring moodily at a computer screen.

Safe.

Thank Christ . I slumped on the bench seat, suddenly weak from the strength of my relief. Framed by darkness, the windows displayed the brightly lit interior of the house like a silent film. As I drew nearer I could see Rachel’s mouth moving as she read to Fay. Downstairs in the flickering light from his computer, Jamie sat with his head in his hands.

None of them so much as glanced outside. The double glazing would blanket the sound of the boat’s approach, and I’d seen myself how impenetrable the glass became at night. Once the lights were turned on the sliding doors became a huge mirror; even if anyone in the house looked out, all they’d see was their own reflection.

But that hardly mattered: the important thing was I’d made it in time. I aimed the boat at the floating jetty, already thinking how best to handle this. I didn’t want to waste time on lengthy explanations, not with Porter still at large. The priority was to get everyone out of the house as quickly as possible. Everything else could wait until they were safely in the boat and we were well away from here.

I was almost at the jetty when Rachel broke off from her reading. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs, and downstairs at the same time I saw Jamie raise his head as well. I felt suddenly cold as I realized why.

Someone was at the door.

Rachel said something to Fay and put the book down. She started to get to her feet, but in the room below Jamie straightened and called something. Then he stood up and went out.

To answer the door.

‘No!’ The boat rocked as I jumped to my feet. ‘Rachel! Rachel! ’

Frantic, I waved my arms, but she couldn’t see or hear me. I was invisible behind the window’s dark mirror. As the boat droned the last few yards I could only watch as she turned to listen to something downstairs. Suddenly both she and Fay gave a start. Rachel shouted something and jumped to her feet. She ran towards the stairs but she’d only taken a few steps when Jamie came sprawling from the top of them.

Behind him was Porter.

Wet and caked in mud, the driver yelled and gestured at Rachel. Looking confused, she shook her head. He took a step towards her, finger stabbing. Scrambling up from his hands and knees, Jamie launched himself at him, then reeled back as Porter drove a hand into his face. The windows muted Fay’s screams as her brother tumbled downstairs.

Porter was already turning back to Rachel. She stood in front of Fay, her expression scared but determined.

‘PORTER!’ I screamed. ‘LEAVE THEM ALONE, I’M OUT HERE!’

The wind carried my shouts away. I saw Rachel snatch up a lamp and fling it at Porter’s head. It sent crazy shadows as he ducked, before shattering noiselessly on the wall. Rachel made a grab for a vase, but he caught hold of her arm. Wrenching her away, he hit her across her face. She dropped to one knee, and I saw Porter take hold of her hair.

‘ NO! ’ I yelled. And then they were lost from sight as the boat passed below the window.

By now I’d reached the jetty, but I didn’t slow. The propeller bit into mud and gravel as I opened the throttle and sent the boat over the flooded bank and along the side of the house. It carried me a few more precious yards before it ran aground. As it slewed to a stop, I leapt out and splashed through the knee-deep water. I was clutching the knife I’d taken from the boathouse, but I’d no plan, no idea what I was going to do as I rushed up the steps. The door stood open, the hallway beyond in darkness. I barged it aside and headed for the stairs.

As I started up them the crash of a shotgun rang out.

I staggered as though I’d been hit myself. No, I thought, numbly. No, no, no. Then I was running up the stairs. I burst into the room at the top.

And stopped.

A lazy drift of smoke hung in the air. The upper floor stank of gunpowder and blood. Rachel was kneeling by Fay, hugging the girl to her. They were both crying, but apart from a livid graze on Rachel’s face neither appeared hurt.

The shotgun blast had taken Porter between his shoulder blades. He’d been flung into the bookshelves, and now lay sprawled among the scattered books. I started to go over, until I saw the extent of the wound in his back and realized there was no point.

I turned to where Jamie stood nearby. Blood streamed from the teenager’s nose, and the haunted look in his eyes was as eloquent as any confession. He still had the shotgun raised to his shoulder, but offered no resistance when I gently took it from him.

The photograph Lundy had sent hadn’t done the Mowbry justice. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Two over-and-under barrels were set in a honeyed walnut stock, inset with ornate silver side panels. Engraved on them in flowing script were two initials.

LV .

Three weeks after the flood, Rachel called to say we needed to talk. She didn’t say why, but I could tell by her voice that something was wrong. She sounded different. Distant.

We met in a café in Covent Garden. The ease I’d felt with her before was absent today. I watched her walk across the room, the worn sweater and jeans replaced by a slim-fitting dress, and her thick dark hair taken back. She looked lovely.

‘I’m going back to Australia,’ she said, looking into her coffee. ‘I wanted to tell you in person rather than over the phone. I thought I owed you that much.’

I couldn’t say her announcement came as a surprise. A blow, yes. But not a surprise.

We’d continued to see a lot of each other in the days after I returned to London. To start with there had been long conversations over the phone, followed by dinner in Chelmsford one evening. Then she came to London for the weekend. I thought it might feel strange for us to spend time together in such a different environment, but any nervousness was forgotten the moment she arrived. Being with her seemed natural, as though we’d known each other far longer than the few weeks it had actually been.