Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

And Mary Buckley wasn’t someone else’s past. She was mine.

I collected my photos from Boots and dropped my article off at the Lichfield Echo , then wondered what else to do. I tried ringing Dan Hyde from a callbox, but there was no answer. There hadn’t been an update on winningbid.uk.com since we’d signed the lease on the office space, and I was starting to worry he might have found something else to spend money on without consulting me. Financial anxiety gnawed at me constantly now, and I needed some reassurance.

Instead, I found myself driving towards Stafford, where I walked into the county council offices to retrieve some notes and a contacts book from my desk, even though I was technically on leave. It had occurred to me they were items which might have disappeared if I waited until my last day.

I was met with desultory greetings and embarrassed silences. My departure was a fact known to everyone, though nobody had openly mentioned it to me yet. I’d ceased to mind all this. Once I got it into my head that I’d be going, it seemed completely inevitable. I was merely waiting out my time until the end. If I was very lucky, I might get a bottle of cheap wine and a pat on the back from the Information Manager, followed by a ‘good luck’ card covered in forged signatures for all the people who’d forgotten to sign it.

Some of these people I’d worked with for quite a while, and I knew them well. There were two guys from Planning I used to play squash with every week. I wasn’t sure when that had come to an end. Did they stop asking me, or had I lost interest? When I looked in their faces, I caught momentary glimpses of the good times we’d had after work, playing hard and laughing together, the way friends do. But it seemed like one more memory of the past now. What had happened to me?

In one drawer of my desk I found the remains of my last assignment — the proofs of some new leaflets that had been distributed to households explaining the council’s policy on recycling. They were filled with cartoons of compost makers and bottle banks with jolly, smiling faces, mouths gaping wide in their eagerness to dispose of your rubbish for you. Nowhere was there a mention of a facility for recycling human beings in an environmentally friendly way. Now, as ever, people were merely dumped on the scrapheap.

The first thing I did when I got back to Lichfield was collect all the files from the cupboard and the wooden box from under the sideboard and stack them on the table. Light from the window glinted on the brass and the single iron key. The two empty keyholes drew my eye as if tempting me to try them again. But I didn’t have the other keys, and I had no idea where to start looking for them. No one would be able to open this box, except perhaps Samuel himself. So he should have it back.

Well, there was no time like the present if I was going to do it. I looked up Samuel Longden’s phone number in the book, but there was no reply to my ring. No one wanted to speak to me today. I wasn’t in a mood to be put off by that, so I consulted my Staffordshire street map to locate his address in Whittington.

For once, I’d taken Rachel by surprise. She was nowhere to be seen as I turned the car onto Gaia Lane.

Ash Lodge was a tall, square-gabled house from the middle of the nineteenth century, its doorway shrouded with trees and hedges, and the drive covered in dead leaves. It stood in a quiet, narrow road that backed onto the Coventry Canal on the eastern side of Whittington.

I parked near the bottom of the drive and walked up to the door, crunching through the leaves. A high hawthorn hedge separated the garden of Ash Lodge from the next property, but through the bottom of the hedge I could see a neat gravelled drive that looked a good deal better kept than Samuel’s. Of course, Samuel didn’t have a car, so had little use for a drive.

I rapped a few times with a brass knocker, but couldn’t get any reply. There was a little electric bell push, but it produced no sound that I could hear from outside. I peered through one of the bay windows, seeing a room full of heavy furniture and a display cabinet packed with china. Most of it was Royal Doulton and Coalport, at a guess. I hoped Samuel had some decent security, because otherwise he was a sitting duck in this secluded spot.

When I went round to the side of the house, I realised I wasn’t entirely unobserved. Here the hedge gave way to a fence which provided a view of the house next door. I could see a woman watching me surreptitiously from a kitchen window. I decided I’d better call round and enquire about the whereabouts of Mr Longden to establish my bona fides, otherwise my car number would be reported to the police. This definitely looked like a Neighbourhood Watch area.

The woman answered her door promptly, wiping her hands on an apron. She was middle-aged, with a heavy-hipped figure, and the hair straggling over her forehead was starting to turn grey.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for your neighbour, Samuel Longden. Do you happen to know when he’s likely to be at home?’

‘Well, he doesn’t go out much,’ she said cautiously.

‘I’m a friend of his. I’ve got something to return to him.’ I gave her my most reassuring smile, and she seemed to relax a bit.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I suppose he might have gone out with his daughter. He sometimes does that. I don’t know what time he might be back. In fact, I haven’t seen him all day, so he might have gone to visit his friend in Cheshire. Did you want to leave anything here for him? I don’t mind.’

‘No, it’s okay. I think I’ll just pop a note through his door.’

‘All right.’

She watched me go back to my car, where I scribbled on a page from my notebook. On one side I wrote: ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with your project. Please contact me to let me know when I can return your files’. I popped the note into an old envelope, folded it over and wrote ‘Samuel Longden’ on the outside. Then I went back to his front door and shoved it through the letter box. As I heard the envelope fall on the mat, I turned and caught a glimpse of the woman next door still watching me.

Turning back into the village, I passed the White Swan pub. This seems to be the name of half the canalside pubs in this part of the world. A little further to the north, the Coventry Canal had once formed a junction with the Ogley and Huddlesford. Working boats would have been constantly passing up and down this stretch of water.

Now, since it was winter, there weren’t even any pleasure boats — just a few ducks nosing around in the overgrown margins or dipping their beaks into the murky water for insects.

That night, Dan Hyde phoned me at home. There was an unfamiliar note of uncertainty in his voice, which rang a warning bell straightaway.

‘Chris. Bad news.’

‘Oh God, what?’

‘Some problems with the start-up. It’s the marketing company. They’re being a bit awkward.’

‘Awkward how?’

‘I had a phone call from their top guy. Basically, they won’t release rights to our brand assets until we pay their invoice. That’s our logos, website design, advertising layouts...’

‘Well, pay the invoice then. What’s the problem, Dan?’

‘The thing is — there’s not much left to pay their invoice with. There’s no revenue yet.’

‘I know that. But that’s what the start-up loan is for — the twenty thousand from the bank. Pay them out of that.’

‘Well...’ Dan suddenly sounded more cheerful. ‘Tell you what, Chris, leave it with me. I dare say we can sort it out. I just thought you ought to know, that’s all. In case you were wondering what was happening.’