Andrew Hurley - The Loney

‘Leave him alone,’ said Clement. ‘Look at him. He’s still out of it. He dunt understand what tha wants him to do.’

‘Oh, he will,’ said Parkinson.

Clement swallowed hard and after hesitating for a moment, he took the rifle out of Hanny’s hands.

‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

Collier looked at Parkinson again. Parkinson dismissed his worries with a little shake of his head and put the knife away.

‘Such nobility, Clement,’ he said. ‘I never knew tha had it in thee.’

‘It can be something of a false victory, though, nobility,’ said Leonard, who came out of the gloom wiping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

He slowly folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket as he looked down at the baby on the mattress.

‘I mean it might seem as though Clement’s relieved your brother of an awful task, but I’m afraid it doesn’t really matter who drew the short straw. And I’d hate you to think that his graciousness has somehow taken the pair of you out of the equation. You’re down here with us like it or not. We could lay the blame at your door whenever we wanted to. But I think you know that.’

‘And they wouldn’t like prison much, would they Clement?’ said Parkinson.

Clement looked down at his feet and Leonard went over to him and held him by the shoulder.

‘No one’s going to prison,’ he said, looking from one person to the next. ‘Not if everything that’s happened here is buried away for good. Right, Clement?’

Clement looked at Leonard and then extracted himself from his hand and took Hanny and I by the arms towards the stairs.

‘Don’t listen to them,’ he said. ‘None of this has owt to do with you. You don’t belong down here.’

He gave me and Hanny a shove.

‘Go on,’ he said, fretful that we were taking so long to leave. ‘You’ll be able to cross now. Go home.’

He nodded up the stairs and then went back over to Leonard who was waiting for him by the mattress. Leonard clapped him on the shoulder and Parkinson gripped him playfully round the back of the head.

‘Don’t worry, Clement,’ he said. ‘Dog’ll eat whatever’s left.’

Clement closed his eyes and began to pray and his voice followed us up the stairs as he begged God for mercy and forgiveness.

But there was no one listening.

Coldbarrow is still all over the television.

I saw yesterday morning that they had erected a tent on the sands close to where I almost drowned all those years ago. They were working quickly to collect as much forensic evidence as possible before the tide turned, though there can’t have been much left. Not now.

The reporter was standing on the mainland, shouting over the driving gales and sleet. The police had now launched a murder inquiry, he said. Two elderly local men had been taken in for questioning, and they were searching for a third.

Things were gathering apace. But I was prepared. All those evenings I’d spent writing everything down hadn’t been wasted. Everything was clear now. Everything was straight. Hanny was safe. It didn’t matter what anyone said to the contrary. Leonard, Parkinson and Collier wouldn’t have had the wit to plan as I had. They had been too reliant on each other’s silence and hadn’t reckoned on The Loney revealing everything they’d done.

I waited for as long as I possibly could before I had to leave for work, with one eye on the news and the other on the weather outside. A blizzard had been raging since the dark of the early morning and the street outside was becoming lost under heavy drifts of snow. It was starting to come light but only just. A grey colour spilled across the sky, pale as dishwater.

Walking down to the station I outpaced the cars that were waiting to get onto the North Circular in a long line of exhaust fumes and brake lights. People stood huddled at bus stops or in shop doorways which were still shuttered and dark. Even the Christmas lights they had strewn along the high street were out. The city was grinding to a standstill, it seemed, and the crib outside the church on the corner was the only thing of brightness.

They set it up every year — a kind of garden shed crammed with life-sized shepherds and wise men and Mary and Joseph kneeling before the plump little Christ in the hay. Music plays on a loop all day and night, and as I paused to cross the road, I caught the tinny trickle of Joy to the World before the lights changed.

The tube was packed, of course. Everyone steamed and sneezed. Coldbarrow was headline news on most of the papers. Each had the same syndicated photograph of Thessaly tumbled to ruins on the beach. Some had grainy images of people in white boiler suits stooped over the rubble. I wondered how long it would be before I saw Parkinson or Collier or even Clement blazoned across the front page. They would be in their seventies now, perhaps their eighties. About to be jolted out of the complacency of old age.

At the museum, I let myself in through the back door. It was so quiet that I wondered if there was anyone else there, but going through the staff kitchen there were a few others standing around in their coats drinking tea, in a kind of holiday mood, thinking that it was very likely the museum would be closed for the day. And they were probably right. I mean, who was going to risk life and limb or a bout of the flu to come and see an exhibition of pewter or Edwardian millinery?

‘Hey, I wouldn’t get settled,’ said Helen jovially, as I gave them all a cursory good morning nod and headed to the basement.

I know they think me rather odd and talk about me when I’m not there. But I don’t really care. I know who I am and I’ve worked out all my failings by myself a long time ago. If they think I’m fastidious or reclusive then they’d be right. I am. And so where do we go from there? You’ve worked me out. Well done. Have a prize.

Helen gave me a frowned smile as I undid the security grill. She looked as though she was going to come over and speak to me but she didn’t and I pulled the shutters aside and went down the stairs, unlocking the door at the bottom that once closed behind me meant that no one was likely to bother me for the rest of the day. There is a phone but if I get any correspondence it’s through email. They understand that I need quiet to work. They’ve learnt that much about me at least.

A waft of warm air met me. It’s always warm in the basement. A dry heat to stop the damp getting to the books. It can be a bit oppressive in the summer but that morning I was more than thankful for it.

I switched on the strip lights and they pinked and flickered and lit up the long rows of bookshelves and cabinets. The homes of many old friends. Ones I’ve got to know intimately over the last two decades.

When I have a moment, which is becoming rarer these days, I like to visit Vertot’s History of the Knights of Malta or Barrett’s Theorike and Practike of Moderne Warres. There’s no better way to spend an hour or two once the museum has closed than reading these volumes as they were written — in quiet reflection and study. Any other way is worthless. Having them spread open in a display case upstairs for people to glace in passing is an insult if you ask me.

I generally work at the far end of the basement where there’s a computer I use for research and a wide desk where I can keep all the bookbinding equipment and still have plenty of elbow room.

I don’t know why I felt the urge to do it, and it makes me feel like someone out of a Dickens novel, one of Scrooge’s clerks perhaps, but a while ago I moved the desk under one of those glass grids they have at street level where I could look up and watch the shadows of feet going past. I suppose there was something comforting about it. I was down there warm and dry and they were out in the rain with people and places to hurry to and be late for.