Stuart Harrison - Lost Summer

‘No, I haven’t said anything. I spoke to them on the phone but I got the feeling they didn’t want to talk. I didn’t realize until later it wasn’t just because they were upset.’ There was an echo of anger in her tone. ‘I can’t entirely blame them,’ she said. ‘It’s just … I don’t know. They don’t have any reason to doubt the official version, do they? They think their sons were killed because Ben was drunk.’

Adam looked at the picture again. ‘I assume this is the girl Ben was going out with. Jane something?’

‘Hanson. Yes.’

Again he thought he detected the faint bitterness he’d noticed in Karen’s office. ‘You said you hadn’t spoken to her at all since Ben died?’

‘No. The last time I spoke to Ben he told me that Jane had left. This was about a week before he died. I gathered they had broken up, but he didn’t want to talk about it so I didn’t press him. I always got the impression that he was more interested in her then she was in him. Perhaps if Ben had a fault that was it. He wore his heart on his sleeve a bit.’

‘When you spoke to him then, did he say anything that struck you as out of the ordinary? Did he sound worried at all?’

‘He sounded a bit down, which I put down to Jane leaving him.’ Helen looked away. ‘She never even phoned me, you know. I didn’t really expect her to be at the funeral. She may not even have known about it, but she must have heard about what happened sooner or later. I thought she would have phoned.’

Adam didn’t say anything. What could he tell her? Who was to say what the girl’s reasons had been for leaving? Maybe she and Ben had split up because after a couple of months living in the woods together she couldn’t stand the sight of him any more, but he didn’t want to tell Helen that. Neither did he want to say that for somebody who lived with his heart on his sleeve, as she’d said Ben did, losing a girlfriend might be enough to make a person act out of character. Perhaps get drunk and get behind the wheel of a car he didn’t know how to drive.

‘What about the protest, did he say anything about that when you talked?’

‘No. I asked him when he was coming home, and he thought about a week or two. He was vague.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’

He questioned her some more about the protest itself, but she really didn’t know much about it. He asked if he could keep the picture.

‘I’ll scan it into my computer and print you a copy. Would that be okay?’

‘Fine.’

She hesitated. ‘Does this mean you’ll be going there?’

Up until then, he hadn’t really decided, but once she’d posed the question he knew the answer. ‘Yes, but I can’t promise anything,’ he told her.

Relief and gratitude jostled in her eyes. Finally somebody was taking her seriously. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

A vague unsettling guilt niggled at his conscience. He wished he was more certain of his motives.

Later he called Karen at home, and told her what he’d decided. ‘Before you say anything I have to say I’m really not sure about any of this. Helen told me that Ben had just broken up with his girlfriend. You know how it can be. Heartbroken young guy gets drunk and kills himself. It could well be that the police have got it right. When you talk to her, try to dampen her expectations a little could you?’

‘Alright. But I’ll fax you a contract in the morning, anyway.’

‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Adam,’ she said quickly, before he could hang up. ‘Tell me something. You must have a feeling about this, an instinct if you like. I mean you wouldn’t be taking this on otherwise.’

He heard an underlying probing note to her tone. He was sure she was wondering what had changed his mind. ‘If I find anything I’ll let you know,’ he said.

She accepted the gentle rebuff. ‘Goodnight then.’

That night he dreamed. The images were confused. He was in a forest in the dark, the moon occasionally glimpsed overhead. Ahead of him a figure materialized and as he drew nearer, his heart pounding, fear tightening his insides, he saw that it was Meg. She was pale, her hair matted, her clothes ragged, and he knew that she had been dead a long time. Her wide eyes beseeched him, but he didn’t know what it was she wanted. And then it wasn’t Meg, but Angela. She was laughing, her head tipped back, and David was with her. Then suddenly a flash accompanied by a roar of sound and he woke with a cry escaping his lips and his body soaked with sweat.

The M6 cut a swathe through the industrial north midlands past Stoke-on-Trent. Adam stopped occasionally for petrol or to stretch his legs. The weather continued to be uncharacteristically warm, the whole country basking in a kind of Indian summer. It was a good day for driving and this was the first really long run he’d made in the Porsche he’d recklessly bought six months earlier. It was a 911, with muscular flared arches and a whale-tail. Metallic green with tan leather trim. His pride and joy. He’d always wanted a Porsche, and when he’d finally realized he would never be able to afford a new one he’d considered going the classic route. He’d bought a magazine and thought about it for a couple of weeks, pondering the upkeep and the fact that he didn’t know one end of a spanner from another, then decided what the hell and started making phone calls anyway. Eventually he’d bought a ’seventy-eight model from a man in Lewes who’d owned it for ten years, during which time the car had been fully restored and treated with the respect of an enthusiast. Adam hadn’t even haggled over the asking price.

She rumbled like a big cat, with a throaty growl, and when he put his foot down the power pressed him back against his seat. The insurance was a killer, but some things in life you just have to have.

Beyond Preston vistas of the countryside opened up, and after Morecambe he had the Yorkshire Dales on his right and the Lake District on his left and Ocean Colour Scene on the CD player. The quickest route was to follow the motorway all the way up to Carlisle and then it was less then forty minutes to Castleton through Brampton. An alternative, more scenic route was to turn off at Penrith and follow minor roads along the valley through the villages that huddled beneath the fells, and that was the way he chose.

The sun was going down as he plunged into the countryside. He opened up the throttle along the deserted roads and the sound of the engine echoed back from the dry-stone walls. In the hollows where the sun had already fled he switched on the headlights. Trees and fields flashed by on either side, the bleak high fells looming to his right. He slowed as he passed through villages where the old houses and buildings were built from local red sandstone, his memories stirred by familiar sights; the churches with their squat, square towers topped with battlements like castles; high hedgerows where cow parsley grew profusely among the hawthorn and crab apple and pink soapwort; village pubs and a local garage with two old-fashioned pumps outside that looked as if they belonged to another age.

He crossed stone bridges spanning rivers and streams and took arbitrary turns as he came upon them to delay his arrival, wanting to savour the last of the journey, and the odd mixture of apprehension and exhilaration he experienced at the prospect of his return. Finally, as he drove through Halls Tenement he pulled over outside a pub, its windows lit in yellow squares, a couple of Land Rovers and a handful of cars in the car park outside. He got out to stretch his leg, which was aching after the drive. The sun had vanished and dusk had taken over the countryside, casting villages, fields and woods in eerie purple half-light.