James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

The road became a switchback as he raced headlong into the night and he allowed the car to choose its own path — tearing through villages, laughing at speed limits and screeching at corners. Deep down he knew where he was headed and he finally knew he had run out of road when the tyres scrunched on the sand-swept tarmac of a beach-side car park. The English Channel lay ahead, and, beyond the narrow choppy sea, France.

Two cars, sinisterly dark, sat at either end of the car park and his first instinct was to seek somewhere more solitary, more remote for his deliberations, but, as he rolled to a stop, his lights picked up a flurry of activity on the beach and two figures scurried in opposite directions. Twenty seconds later the two cars burst simultaneously to life and crept away into the night without lights. “Oops,” he said to himself, but isn’t that the thrill of adultery — the risk of being caught.

The beach turned inky black as he switched off his lights and cut the engine, then gradually came back to life as his eyes and ears acclimatised, and he sank in his seat, exhausted, letting the gentle swishing of the surf wash over him and erase his stress. Ahead, over the ocean, a couple of hazy lights flickered hypnotically and held his attention, then an armada of grey shadows steamed sluggishly out of the mist and rolled over him. He fought off the drowsiness for a few seconds, swimming back to consciousness a couple of times before surrendering to the waves.

A thousand battleships drifted slowly out of the haze and sailed through his mind as he floated weightlessly on the sea. Above him, the deck rails of the silent ships were lined by grey lifeless men — men with faces pulled gaunt by fear. Silent men, immobile men, dead men. Men who had beaten the bullet and found death before it had found them. Wasn’t it easier that way — less painful for all concerned. Wasn’t it better that each sombre faced man had already accepted his destiny and said his last goodbye. “Don’t worry — I’ll make it back,” he would have said with a forced smile, his own obituary already written and in his pocket ready for the burial party to find. “My Dearest One — I expect you’ve heard the bad news by now …” or, more often, “Dear Mum and Dad …”

Where were the happy cheering hordes that filled the Pathe newsreels at the Saturday Matinee? Where were the happy-go-lucky Yanks, Canucks and Aussies who always had a kitbag on one arm and a girl on the other as they headed for the gangplanks?

Endless fleets of ships with countless dead-pan faces sailed by and disappeared slowly over the dark horizon, then he slipped beneath the black oily surface; exhaustion dragging him deeper than dreams, beyond the depths of even the darkest nightmares.

An hour later the cold sea-breeze bit into his bones, rousing him sufficiently to fire up the engine and turn on the heater. Waves of warmth soon lulled him back to sleep and he picked up the dream as Daphne, (or maybe it was Mandy), rode a bicycle up a sun-soaked beach at the head of a column of dead men. Daphne — surely it was Daphne — enthusiastically waved her frilly knickers in the air, and in her basket, the wicker basket slung on the handlebars, was a skull — a grotesque skull, a skull with bulging eyes and a gaping fleshless mouth shouting encouragement.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” The staccato rattle of automatic fire burst through the dream. Margaret Thatcher with a machine gun leapt out of the scrub firing from the hip.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” Daphne crashed off the bike, blood pumping out of her chest, her skirt up around her waist, her knickers still in her hand — still waving.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” The Major’s skull, still screaming orders, rolled along the beach.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” Bliss cringed as a searchlight picked him out and Margaret Thatcher turned the machine gun in his direction.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” Get down — get down. I can’t, Daphne’s behind me.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” “Sir … Are you alright?”

The searchlight beat into his brain and Margaret Thatcher faded in its glare.

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” “Open the door.”

“ Rat-ta-ta-tat. ” “Open the door, Sir, or I’ll have to force it.”

“What the hell?”

“Police — Open the door, Sir, and turn off the ignition please.”

A few seconds later the policewoman eyed both him and his newly issued warrant card carefully, while he eyed her. Low forties, he estimated; jet-black hair; dark eyes with a hint of the orient; a complexion with a touch of Mediterranean warmth; and a trace of smile not entirely masked by her official face.

“Detective Inspector Bliss …” She queried suspiciously, inviting him to jog her memory. “I can’t say I remember you, Sir.”

“Ex — Met,” he explained. “Look at the date on the card. I only transferred last week.”

She looked. “Oh I see — that explains it. Well, I’m sorry to disturb you … ” then she wavered. “Are you sure everything’s alright, Sir?”

“Just tired.” Tired of running; tired of hiding.

“You should go home then.”

“Yes — I will, Miss. Thanks.”

Go home, he thought, as she crunched noisily back to her car across the sand-strewn car park, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as I’ve cleared up the case of the dead Major.

And what about Mandy’s murderer?

What about him? He pulled the trigger on Mandy and her baby — not me. He’s the one who should feel guilty — not me. For the past year I’ve been scared shitless by a two-bit hoodlum …

Where the hell did that come from?

I’ve been watching too many American movies. What else was there to do in the safe house — six months solitary in a video library.

Anyway, don’t change the subject, he’s been killing you — strangling you with fear — you’re no more alive than a soldier going to war with his obituary in his pocket. Take control — take a leaf out of Daphne’s book — pedal through life waving your knickers in the air.

“Sir?”

He leapt out of his thoughts. “Oh! You made me jump.”

It was the policewoman again. “Sorry, Sir, only there’s a couple of messages waiting for you at Westchester station, if you’d like to give them a call.”

“How d’ye know …” he began, then smiled, “So — you checked me out then?”

“Umm …”

“That’s O.K. — Absolutely right in fact. I would have done exactly the same thing. You can’t be too careful nowadays … what’s your name by the way?”

“Sergeant Holingsworth, Sir.”

“Sergeant?” he said teasingly. “Funny name for a girl.”

“It’s Samantha, Sir.”

“My daughter’s Samantha …” he began, then asked, concernedly. “Are you on your own?”

“This isn’t London, Sir. Anyway, I’m a Sergeant — obviously there are some places I wouldn’t go without back-up, but …”

“Here … get in a minute,” he said opening the passenger door. “It’s chilly with the window open.”

The graveyard shift, he thought as she walked round the back of the car, recalling his years as a uniformed constable when he’d been glad of almost anyone’s company to help pass the night.

“Thanks,” she replied slipping in beside him. “I’m on suicide patrol — this is a favourite place along here,” she continued, wiping a patch of fog off the windscreen and sweeping her eyes along the dark beach as if expecting to discover a body. “We usually find the car in the morning, a pile of clothes, an empty pill bottle and a note. The corpse washes ashore in a day or so when the crabs and dogfish have chewed off a few bits. The sea gulls usually get the eyes once the body’s on the beach. We’ve had half a dozen this year already — not good for the tourist trade.”