Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

When Billy visited the moors just before the millennium, he had been attempting to put Trevor’s story into some sort of context — the very one that Trevor himself had claimed for it — but his journey had also been undertaken in a spirit of recognition. In a sense, he had been demonstrating solidarity, paying tribute. The pictures of the murdered children that appeared in the papers looked like the pictures his mother had taken of him and Charlie when they were little — the same dated black-and-white, all shadows and smudges, an eerily prophetic pattern of erasure and concealment. Those children belonged to the same generation as he did. They were his exact contemporaries. We were all damaged by what happened, he thought. We were all changed.

Imagining he heard a sound outside, Billy moved across the mortuary and listened at the doors, then he undid the locks, pulled the right-hand door open and put his head into the gap. It was late now, after three in the morning, and the corridor had a deep stillness, an almost supernatural hush: if he had seen a fish sliding soundlessly through that watery green air, somehow he wouldn’t have been surprised — or the boy in the black swimming-trunks, his skinny body doubled over, hair dripping…As Billy stood in the doorway, Raymond’s voice came to him, Raymond in that pub in Cheshire, talking to the beautiful girl. I almost drowned him once.

There were people things happened to. Billy knew that because he’d been one of them himself — for a while, anyway. The boy in the swimming-trunks had been another. So, for that matter, had Trevor Lydgate. What was the quality they shared? Were they unlucky, or naive, or were they simply weak? He couldn’t decide. Nowadays, of course, they would be called victims. Not a word you’d ever think of applying to Raymond.

Halfway through their European holiday, while they were exploring the chilly, urine-scented passageways of the Colosseum, Raymond started telling Billy about the next stop on their itinerary. There were some volcanic lakes to the north of the city, apparently, where Roman emperors used to bathe. He thought these lakes ought to be worth a visit.

They caught a train to Bracciano, then hitched a ride in a lorry that was loaded with gravel. The man behind the wheel had bloodshot eyes and stubble. As he drove he drank red wine from a huge, clear, pear-shaped bottle. A piece of rolled-up rag served as a cork. He offered Raymond and Billy the bottle, and because it seemed expected they had several large gulps each. The wine was inky and brackish; Billy was sure he could taste the man’s saliva. “Grazie tanto, signore,” Raymond said as he handed the bottle back. “Molto gentile.” The lorry-driver grunted, then spat out of the window.

They had to walk the last two miles down a white track, and before too long their shoes were pale with dust. “Una strada bianca,” Raymond said, half to himself. Billy wondered where Raymond had learned the language. They didn’t teach Italian at school.

The sky had clouded over, but it was hot, and the cicadas were so loud that Billy felt as if they were actually inside his head. He hurled a stone at the trees, and the chattering stopped abruptly. Just as he was about to congratulate himself, though, it all started up again, even louder and more grating than before. He glanced at Raymond, but Raymond seemed quite oblivious, his hands in his trouser pockets, his fedora tilted jauntily over one eye. He had picked a purple flower, Billy noticed, and threaded it through his lapel.

After about an hour, they saw the lake below them, away to their left. From above, it looked circular, and hard as well, somehow. Like a lid. A path curved steeply down through dusty woods. At the top two cars were parked side by side. One had its headlights on, which Billy found slightly sinister.

Raymond set off down the path, and Billy followed, the trees offering some welcome coolness. Billy paused to remove his shoes and socks. After taking a few steps in bare feet, he called out to Raymond.

“It’s so soft, like powder. You should try it.”

Raymond glanced at him over his shoulder, but kept going.

At the bottom of the hill they came out on to a wide, pale-yellow beach. They appeared to be the only people there. Perhaps the weather was too cloudy for the locals, Billy thought — or perhaps they were all indoors, having siestas. He could see no houses, though, not even one. The place excited him, and he was glad Raymond had suggested it.

“This is great,” he shouted.

He rolled up his trousers and walked slowly into the lake. The water seemed sensitive, as if every movement that he made could be felt out in the middle, and on the far shore too. At the same time, it had a stealthy quality, a kind of silkiness. Something to do with volcanic ash, no doubt. Or lava. Hearing a cry, he turned round. Raymond was waving from further along the beach. He was trying to drag a boat down to the water and needed Billy’s help.

The boat was a miniature catamaran, with two moulded plastic seats and two sets of pedals. Though rusty, it looked as if it might still work. Taking one side each, they pushed it into the lake, then scrambled on board and started pedalling. The sky seemed lower now, and strangely green; the day had darkened. Billy wondered whether there was going to be a storm. What if lightning struck the water? Would they be killed? He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” he said.

Raymond took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. “Why don’t you have a dip?”

Billy eyed the surface of the lake, opaque, impenetrable. They were a long way from the shore. Though he was still sweating, a shiver passed through him. “I don’t really like deep water,” he said. “I never have.”

“Just lower yourself over the side,” Raymond said, “and then hold on. You’ll be fine.”

Billy wasn’t sure.

“It’ll cool you down, won’t it?” Raymond said. “And when you’ve had enough, you can climb back into the boat.”

Billy nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”

As he undressed, he was aware of Raymond watching, and he felt embarrassed by his body, so big and white and clumsy. He hurriedly stowed his T-shirt and jeans behind his seat, then, wearing nothing but a pair of Y-fronts, lowered himself backwards into the lake. He gasped with shock and pleasure as the water took hold of him. It was colder out here in the middle, far colder than he’d imagined.

He gripped the side of the boat with both hands, as Raymond had suggested. It wasn’t easy. The wet plastic was smooth, slippery.

“It’s fantastic, Raymond,” he said in a voice made thin and breathy by the cold. “You should come in too.”

“Why don’t you swim?” Raymond said. “That’s what the Roman emperors did.”

“All right.”

As soon as Billy let go, Raymond began to pedal away from him.

“Raymond?” he called out. “What are you doing?” The gap between Billy and the pedalo was widening, and he knew he had no chance of closing it. He’d never been much of a swimmer. “Come back.”

Raymond was looking at him over his shoulder, but he was still pedalling.

“Please,” Billy said. “I’m not joking.”

The water in front of him had a terrible blackness to it, and he couldn’t allow himself to think about what might be under there, or how deep the lake might be. His chest had tightened: he couldn’t breathe properly. He stopped trying to swim, but treading water felt worse. He saw his body dangling, as if from below. It was the point of view of something that lived on the bottom — or something that had died.

His legs were moving in slow-motion; they were slender, feeble, pale as roots.