‘Here,’ said Pepe, putting a finger on the figure on the right. But Dryden had already spotted the family resemblance, disfigured only by the meagre diet of the camp.
‘They had a garden,’ said Pepe. ‘Dad always said it kept them sane as well as fed. They sold some in the town – a surplus, so I guess they were good at it. Il Giardino – that’s why he chose the name.’
Dryden was looking at the smiles. The teeth gleamed, but this was no synthetic effort for the camera. The eyes glittered too, and each man’s arm was hitched to that of his neighbour, in a gesture of friendship and solidarity – and perhaps something else. Conspiracy?
‘They shared the work, the six of them.’
‘Six?’ said Dryden.
Pepe shrugged. ‘I guess the sixth took the picture.’
7
The Tower Hospital stood a discreet distance from the town, a position reflecting its original function as a workhouse. The mean neo-Gothic buildings crowded around a single turret which bore an illuminated clock face. The bricks exuded sorrow and lost lives, its thirty years as a workhouse having been followed by nearly a century as a mental institution. But now a million pounds had been spent on its refurbishment by a private-sector medical health company, an investment which failed to obliterate its tragic past. It was, and would always be, a monument to Victorian melodrama, a statement in brick of power and menace, its serried mullioned windows picture frames for lost faces. A half moon hung from the corner of the turret as Humph swung the Capri through the open iron gates and braked theatrically on the gravel drive.
The cabbie killed the engine and fished in the glove compartment for one of his airport miniatures. Selecting a Grand Marnier, he passed Dryden a Bell’s whisky. This tiny ceremony, the pre-visit drink, was one of the rituals which held their lives together. Humph, unable to stop himself, readjusted the picture of his two daughters which hung from the rear-view mirror, an eloquent reminder that they had both, in their own ways, lost a family. Dryden flipped down the vanity mirror and ran a hand through his hair. His face, medieval in its austere symmetry, was usually enlivened by his vivid green eyes, but now they were dimmed by the approaching ordeal of the daily visit.
‘When will you see them next?’ he asked, nodding at the snapshot as he swigged the whisky.
Humph tapped the picture: ‘Sunday. The zoo.’
It was always the zoo. Humph was a man of set routine and little adventure. His wife had deserted him five years earlier, running off with a village postman. The cabbie had, unsuccessfully, contested her attempt to gain custody of the girls. The last time the family had held hands had been on the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand: a brief show of solidarity for the sake of the children. Now Humph saw them once a month, at his wife’s convenience, for four hours. The girls, Humph indicated, found him an increasingly eccentric and peripheral character. One day, and perhaps one day soon, he would leave them to the rest of their lives without him. In the meantime he comforted himself by attempting to knock postmen off their bikes on a largely random basis.
‘So which zoo animal do you feel most affinity with?’ asked Dryden, reaching for a second bottle.
Humph gazed at his friend and sighed. ‘Guess.’
‘Gazelle?’ suggested Dryden.
‘Correct,’ said Humph, punching the play button to start his language tape and closing his eyes.
Dryden considered the brightly lit foyer doors of The Tower. Inside, the defining characteristic was plush silence, aided by the thick-pile carpets. Laura’s medical bills, which were considerable, were still met by the life insurance company following the accident at Harrimere Drain. They had had little choice but to pay for the best for their client since Laura’s accident had been front-page news across Fleet Street. As an actress who had enjoyed a brief spell of fame in the prime-time soap opera Clyde Circus, Laura attracted the ‘rat pack’ up from London as soon as the TV company’s PR firm had leaked the news. Her condition only added to the media frenzy. Locked In Syndrome (LIS), a recently diagnosed phenomenon, was big news too. The victims remained conscious to some degree, while their physical shell remained inert, often as the result of extreme psychological trauma. For several months the tabloids had feasted on the story, from ‘Cinderella soap star battles for life’, through to ‘Clyde star may never speak again’. Eventually interest waned, especially after she was written out of future episodes when it became clear her recovery would be protracted at best. All that was left was the annual anniversary story in November, around the date of the original crash.