Simon Clark - The Fall

‘I’m sorry, Jud. That must have been hard to take.’

‘It was. But the hardest thing was that I never told them that I loved them. Or thanked them for what they had done for me. It’s ridiculous, really. But it struck me so hard the day of my mother’s funeral that all my adult life I’d never, ever said, “Mum, I love you,” nor said it to my father, either. Not once. Or ever even acknowledged I was grateful for the sacrifices that—’

He stopped suddenly. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. ‘Will you look at that? Horse-drawn drays. Look at the size of the shire horses.’

Sam realised Jud wasn’t normally one to allow himself to display emotion, and now he was quickly changing the subject as the shire horses lumbered past, pulling the cart carrying barrels of beer.

As Jud watched it pass by with a close interest that was obviously designed to cloak his embarrassment at becoming emotional, Sam said quietly. ‘Sure, Jud. It couldn’t do any harm to say hello.’ He shot Jud a smile. ‘Say you’re a long lost cousin from Australia or something and that you just happened to drop by.’

Jud looked relieved. ‘It’s along this way. We’ll need to be quick.’

Mystified, Sam followed. Jud still glanced up at the clock in the town hall tower. Why did they have to be there at a particular time? What was so special about 5.15 on 22 ndMay 1946?

‘Your mother lived up this way?’ Sam asked as he followed Jud, who now seemed preoccupied with some plan of his own.

‘No. She lived in one of the little terrace houses not far from where we parked the car.’

‘So why are we heading in this direction?’

Jud opened the cardboard wallet he carried and handed Sam a black-and-white photograph.

Sam recognised it as the same one that hung on the cabin wall of Jud’s narrow boat. He must have slipped it out of the frame just before they left for town.

Sam Baker studied the print as he followed. It showed a young couple sitting astride a motorbike. They both smiled brightly into the camera. Of course, then neither wore helmets. The woman on the pillion wore trousers, a tweed jacket and a silk scarf. The man, grinning hugely, with goggles pushed up onto his forehead, wore a leather jacket. There was no mistaking the family resemblance.

‘My parents on the day they became engaged,’ Jud said, hurrying more quickly now along the street that was crowded with workers going home from local factories and offices. ‘Look at the back of the photograph, Sam.’

Sam flipped it over. Pencilled on the back were the words: Jeremy Campbell & Liz Fretwell (and Barney) – our very special day, 22 ndMay 1946 .

The date was obvious.

‘So they were engaged today?’ Sam was starting to get breathless.

‘They were.’

Sam looked back at the photo. ‘But who’s Barney?’

‘The motorbike. My father saved for it all the five years he was in the army fighting the Nazis. It became a kind of holy grail for him. He used to tell himself with every week that he survived all the bullets and shells that it brought him one week closer to buying the motorbike; it’s a 500cc AJS, which was the Rolls-Royce or Cadillac of motorbikes at the time.’

‘He must have really loved it.’

‘He did, but he loved something else more. He sold the bike to pay for the wedding.’

‘But I still don’t understand where we’re going.’

‘Look at the photograph. Do you see what looks like a castle turret in the background?’

‘I see it.’

‘Now look up this street. What do you see?’

‘Hell, yes. The castle in the photograph.’

‘It’s not a real castle. It’s a 19 thCentury folly called the Rook, built by a certain Lord St Thomas, a chess fanatic.’

‘But why—?’

‘Why now? Why dash up the street at 5.25?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look at the Rook again. No, the one in the photograph. There’s a clock set in the wall. What time does it say?’

‘Half-past five.’

Jud’s eyes blazed as he shot Sam a big happy schoolboy grin. ‘That gives us just less than five minutes for me to say hello to my parents.’

Sam paused. This could go badly wrong. He was going to say something to Jud, but the man was already hurrying up the street towards where his parents might already be posing for the photograph. Jud half ran with his head down as though, if he had to, he’d charge like a bull through the crowds of workers streaming home. Sam saw that nothing was going to deflect the man now.

Sighing, he followed. He realised full well that the next ten minutes or so could become rather complex.

Nicole Wagner opened her eyes. Above her, branches. Leaves glowed a brilliant green as the sun shone through them. A bird sang in a tree nearby.

It all seemed so peaceful that she could lie there all—

Oh, Christ.

Suddenly she remembered and sat up straight, her heart cracking so hard against her ribs it felt as if it wanted to make a mad dash for freedom all on its own.

‘Bostock.’

‘Lady,’ a voice said calmly. ‘If that man is Bostock, then he is dead mutton now.’

First she looked across to the figure of Bostock lying flat on his back on the grass. His face and chest were red with blood. The spilled intestines rested in a tangled heap on his legs, like a nest of pink and white snakes.

Then she peered up at the man kneeling beside her. She stared awestruck for a moment. His handsome face, framed by blond curls, was astonishingly angelic. He wore what she guessed was a medieval costume. Brown cloak, dark greenish leggings or hose, with a claret-coloured tunic beneath the cloak itself.

He gazed down at her with his angelic face. ‘What strange clothes you wear… Are you a tumbler?’

She looked at him dumbly.

‘A tumbler? An acrobat?’ he suggested in a pleasant voice that was as gentle as a parent talking to a baby. He looked into her eyes. ‘Pardon me, are you quite yourself yet?’

‘Of course she isn’t. That gorilla tried to kill her.’

‘Hush, demon head.’

She looked round startled. Where had the second voice come from?

But with the exception of Bostock’s corpse, she was alone with the angelic man.

‘Smelling salts. Hold smelling salts under her nose.’

Startled, she looked round again. The second voice seemed to come from thin air. What was more, it was a strange, croaky voice. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who might have gargled with sulphuric acid to ruin their vocal cords. And there was a Cockney quality to it.

‘Smelling salts, I said,’ came the voice again. ‘She needs smelling salts. D’ya hear me through them pretty-boy curls?’

‘I have no smelling salts. Besides, the lady appears well. Her cheeks are rosy. She is awake.’ Although the man’s blue eyes still studied her face with a concern she found astonishingly gentle, he wasn’t speaking to her but to his invisible companion.

‘Let me see her,’ came the rasping cockney voice.

‘No.’

‘Let me see her.’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ll turn my head round if you don’t – and bite!’

‘Oh, very well.’

The blond-haired man’s eyes fixed on hers. ‘I’m sorry about this. But I must do as this demon head asks.’

‘Demon head – ha! ’ the Cockney voice exclaimed dismissively. ‘I’m as flesh-and-blood as he is.’

The man stood up and untied a cord beneath his cloak. Alarmed, Nicole climbed to her own feet and backed away.

‘I’m sorry, lady. Please do not be too disconcerted by what you see.’

He gripped a side of the cloak in one hand and lifted it to expose one side of his stomach.

Nicole wasn’t sure what to expect; she looked down at his stomach, startled. The claret-coloured tunic came down over his waist to reach his upper thighs.