The Moon Tunnel(65)

But this wasn’t a childhood game.

He’d lost them quickly that day, as he increasingly did, and knew with a sickening certainty that they had contrived an escape. Which meant only one thing, that they were what he hoped they would never be.

But he didn’t have the key, so he knew where they’d be. He’d crept to the woodstore and sat in the grass, soaked in sunshine. At first he’d heard only the whispers: lips pressed to ears, obscuring what meaning there was. Then the sound of clothes slipping to the floor, a zip, a shirt drawn over shoulders and hair. They were out of sight, on the floor and then he heard the sound of a cork, not freshly drawn, but twisted out by hand. But no sound of the wine pouring, just the drinking from the neck, and the smack of a hand passed across wet lips.

The jealousy made him dizzy, so he sank down on his knees and closed his eyes. When he looked again he could see them: and it was worse, their mouths locked and her long pale fingers searching over his dark naked body. Summer: so a single ribbon of sunlight from the missing tiles in the roof crossed their backs, from the muscles of his thigh to the cool curve of her breast. He watched the bodies, moving awkwardly at first, but then with the twin powers of lust and youth.

His own excitement rose, giving him something of his own from their betrayal of him. He touched himself, only briefly, but the release was almost immediate, and although he caught the cry before it broke free he knew he’d made a noise, a whimper for the loss of his self-respect.

Hidden in the stifled cry was a name: Louise.

But they were deaf to the world outside the foetal bundle they had made of each other, the human jigsaw puzzle without a gap. He saw her arch her back when he came, and the redness of her breast darkened amongst the shadows of the woodstore. The silence was luxurious and intense, and he heard his own heart beating within it.

Then, guiltily, he slunk away into the long grass beyond the garden, his passion gone, only to be replaced by the jealousy of Cain.





Wednesday, 27 October



27


Dryden woke aboard PK 129; woke with a shout, the nightmare robbing his breath. He gulped air but the feeling of imprisonment and suffocation remained, making the muscles in his arms and legs jerk in spasm. He looked at the cabin roof panels and willed himself to remember where he was: on a small boat, on a great river, under the vast canopy of the Fen sky; but when he drew back the cabin blind he saw only the early morning mist and the bleak black surface of the water. He covered his face with his hands and remembered the night, remembered Etty. He could still feel her skin, and the subtle flexing of her thighs. Then he heard the cathedral bell toll, and the guilt made him sick. He listened as each hour passed in summary: seven chimes in all.

‘Get up,’ he told himself, knowing that without movement and action a dark depression lurked, ready to stifle him like the sand of the childhood beach of his dream.

He’d asked Humph to pick him up at 7.15, so he rolled out of the bunk, showered, dressed and made coffee, taking the enamel mug up on deck. The mist was still light and fresh and Dryden, breathing in deeply, found it was free of the metallic poison which normally laced the midday smog. There was a vague circle of light and warmth to the east where the sun rose. The press conference had been called for 8.00am at California, and he hoped for news on Mann’s arrest, and even – hopelessly – for the finding of the missing Dadd.

He heard the Capri rattle over a cattle grid in the mist and the exhaust hit the wet clay with a thud and a clang. He took coffees down to the car and was rewarded with his habitual early morning sandwich, although the usual crispy bacon had been tactfully replaced with egg mayonnaise, an innovation which had prompted Humph to double the rations. As the cabbie ate his breathing came in whistling gusts, as if he’d run to the boat from town.

‘You need more exercise,’ said Dryden pointlessly, cracking his knuckles.

They were at the site by 7.50am. In the gloom the white tent the team had used to sort artefacts glowed with an interior, ghostly light. It had been commandeered as a press centre. Inside it, plastic school chairs were set out in lines, a portable convector heater churned out dry warm air and the TV cameras were already in place on a plinth in the centre, nicely obscuring the view for the print journalists. There were about fifty people in the tent, drinking free coffee and scattering plates of biscuits over a green baize refreshments table.

Dryden grabbed a chair next to Alf Walker, a wireman who covered the local courts for the Press Association. Alf’s passion was bird watching and Dryden noted that his notebook was open at a sketch of what looked like a Canada Goose. The detail was exquisite, and Alf was just shading in some of the tail feathers. Alf’s talents extended to shorthand, an effortlessly fluid transcript flowed from his pen at 180 words per minute, which made him the ideal person to sit next to at a press conference – especially after a night without much sleep.