Road of the Dead (2 page)

“Probably.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know, love. I’m not sure it matters what I think. You know what he’s like when he sets his mind on something.”

“What do you think he’s planning to do?”

“Find out who did it, I expect.” She looked at me. “He wants to find out who killed Rachel so we can bring her back home.”

“Are you sure that’s all he wants?”

“No.”

I looked around the kitchen. It’s always been my
favorite room. It’s big and old and warm and there are lots of things to look at. Old photographs and postcards, pictures we’d drawn when we were kids, china ducks, flowery plates, vases and jugs, trailing plants in a large bay window…

I watched the sunlight streaming in.

I wished it wasn’t.

“Do you want me to go with him?” I said to Mum.

“He won’t want you to.”

“I know.”

She smiled at me. “I’d feel better if you did.”

“What about you?” I asked her. “Will you be all right here on your own?”

She nodded. “Business is pretty quiet just now. Uncle Joe won’t mind staying over for a couple of days to keep an eye on things.”

“I didn’t mean the business.”

“I know.” She touched my arm. “I’ll be all right. It’ll probably do me good to be on my own for a while.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again. “Just keep in touch—OK? And keep your eye on Cole. Try not to let him do anything stupid.” She looked at me. “He listens to you, Ruben. He trusts you. I know he doesn’t show it, but he does.”

“I’ll look after him.”

“And see if you can get him to agree to you going. It’ll make things a whole lot easier for both of you.”

I knew he wouldn’t agree, but I gave it a shot anyway.

When I went into his room he was sitting on his bed smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and his jacket was draped over a small leather backpack on the floor.

“Hey,” I said.

He nodded at me.

I glanced at his backpack. “Going somewhere?”

“The answer’s no,” he said.

“No what?”

“No, you can’t come with me.”

I went over and sat down beside him. He tapped ash from his cigarette into an ashtray on the bedside table. I smiled at him.

“It’s no good looking at me like that,” he said. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”

“D’you think you’re the only one who can read people’s minds?”

“You can’t read minds,” I said. “You can’t even read a newspaper.”

He glanced at me, then went back to smoking his cigarette. I looked at his face. I like looking at his face. It’s a good face to look at—seventeen years old, dark-eyed and steady and pure. It’s the kind of face that does what it says. The face of a devil’s angel.

“You need me,” I told him.

“What?”

“If you’re going to Dartmoor, you need me to look after you.”

“Mum’s the one who needs looking after.”

“So why are you going, then?”

“I’m going to get Rachel back. That’s my way of looking after Mum. Your way is staying here.” He looked at me. “I can’t talk to her, Rube. I don’t know what to say. I just need to
do
something.”

A flicker of emotion showed briefly in his face, and just for a moment I started to feel something, but before I could tell what it was he’d regained control of himself and blanked it out. He was good at blanking things out. I watched him as he put out his cigarette and got up from the bed.

“How are you going to do it?” I said.

“Do what?”

“Find out what happened.”

“I don’t know yet…I’ll think of something.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

He shrugged. “I’ll find somewhere.”

“How are you going to get there?”

“Train.”

“When are you going?”

“Whenever I’m ready. Any more questions?”

“Yeah—why don’t you want me to come with you?”

“I’ve already told you—”

“I’m not stupid, Cole. I know when you’re lying. You know as well as I do that Mum doesn’t need anyone to stay with her. What’s the
real
reason you don’t want me to come?”

He went over to a table by the window, grabbed a couple of things, and shoved them into his backpack. He fiddled around with the bag for a while—tying it, untying it, tying it again—then he stared at the floor, and then finally he turned around and looked at me. I don’t know if he was going to say anything or not, but before he had a chance to speak, the phone rang downstairs.

We both turned to the door and listened hard. The ringing stopped and we heard the faint murmur of Mum’s voice.

“Is that Dad she’s talking to?” asked Cole.

“Sounds like it.”

“I need to speak to him before I go.”

He picked up his backpack and headed out of the room.

“See you later,” I said.

“Yeah.”

He walked out without looking back.

I wasn’t worried. I knew what he was going to do.

While Cole was speaking to Dad on the phone, I checked out a few things on the Internet and quickly packed some
clothes into a bag. Then I stood by the bedroom window and waited.

After a while, Cole came out of the house and headed across the yard toward a pile of old cars. He was wearing his jacket and carrying his backpack. He took a key out of his pocket and opened up the trunk of a burned-out Volvo that was stacked at the bottom of the pile. After a quick look over his shoulder, he stooped down and rummaged around in the farthest corner of the trunk. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. He put something in his bag, something else in his pocket, then he straightened up and shut the trunk and walked out of the yard and away down the street.

I waited until he was out of sight, then I picked up my bag and went downstairs into the kitchen. Mum was waiting for me.

“Here,” she said, passing me about £200 from her purse. “That’s all the cash I’ve got at the moment. Is that going to be enough?”

“Cole’s got plenty,” I told her.

“Good. Do you know what train he’s catching?”

“He didn’t say, but the next one to Plymouth leaves at eleven thirty-five, so I’m guessing he’ll be on that.” I folded the cash into my pocket. “How’s Dad?”

“He’s OK. He sends his love.” She looked at the clock. It was ten forty-five. She came over and gave me a hug. “You’d better get going.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

She ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry about me. Just try to keep Cole out of too much trouble. And make sure you both come back in one piece—OK?”

“I’ll do my best.”

The sun was still shining as I left the yard and headed down the street. I wondered what the weather would be like on Dartmoor. I wondered what
anything
would be like on Dartmoor.

A black cab was dropping someone off at the end of the road. I waited for the passenger to get out, then I got in the back and asked the driver to take me to Paddington Station.

T
he traffic around Paddington was all snarled up, and by the time I’d gotten out of the taxi and bought a ticket and scurried around the concourse trying to find the right platform, it was almost eleven thirty-five. I got on the train just as the guard was shutting all the doors. It was fairly busy, but not overcrowded. I waited while all the other passengers were sorting themselves out—looking for seats, stowing their luggage, aimlessly wandering around—and then, as the train pulled away from the platform, I started looking for Cole.

It was a long train, and as I made my way slowly through the cars, I found myself thinking about Dad.

He’d told me once that the first thing he could remember was standing by a water trough watching a horse drink. That was it. That was his very first memory—standing on
his own in a field of long grass, watching a horse take a drink from a trough. I’ve always liked that. I’ve always thought it must be a really nice thing to have in your head.

Dad used to love telling us stories about his childhood. I think it brought back good memories for him. He was born and raised in an aluminum caravan—or trailer, as he always called it—that he shared with his parents and two older brothers. “It was the finest trailer on the site,” he’d tell us proudly. “Fancy little mudguards, a three-ply stable door, a chrome chimney with a cowl on top…” He’d start smiling then, remembering more details—the paraffin lamp fixed to the ceiling, the painted queen stove, the solid oak dining table, his mother’s crystal ornaments…

Sometimes he’d remember things that didn’t make him smile, like the night a group of locals had set fire to the trailer while they were sleeping, or how his father would sometimes get drunk and beat him with a thick leather belt studded with rings. I often wondered if that was why Dad had become a bare-knuckle fighter—to somehow get back at his father, or the locals, or anyone else who’d caused him pain when he was a kid. But I knew I was probably wrong. It was a lot simpler than that. As Dad always said: Gypsy men are born to fight; it’s in their blood.

I eventually found Cole in the very last car of the train. He was sitting alone at a table seat, staring blankly through the window. He didn’t look at me as I moved along the car
toward him, but I knew he was aware of my presence. I could feel him watching me inside his head. He continued pretending to ignore me until I’d walked the length of the car and stopped right next to him, and even then he didn’t say anything, he just turned his head and gave me a long, slow look.

“All right?” I smiled.

He didn’t say anything.

I nodded at the empty seat opposite him. “Is anyone sitting there?”

His face remained blank, his eyes sullen and hard, and I knew what he was feeling. He was feeling the same as he used to feel when we were little kids and I used to follow him around all over the place—forever getting in his way, getting on his nerves, never leaving him alone. He didn’t want me hanging around then because most of the time he was up to no good and he didn’t want me getting involved. He could never bring himself to say it, but he cared for me, and he was scared to death of seeing me hurt.

Now, as I sat down opposite him, I knew he was feeling exactly the same. He didn’t want me with him because he knew he was heading for trouble, and the only thing that worried him about it was me.

“Shit,” he said eventually.

I smiled at him again.

He shook his head and looked out the window.

I shrugged and gazed around the train car. It was about half full. The other passengers were all fairly quiet—reading books and magazines, talking in low voices, staring silently through the windows. I wondered where they were going, and what they were going to do when they got there…and I wondered if they were wondering the same about me.

“We should be at Reading soon,” Cole said to me. “You can get off there.”

“I’m not getting off.”

He looked at me. “I’m not asking you, Rube, I’m telling you. You’re getting off at Reading.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do if I don’t? Pick me up and carry me off? Throw me onto the platform?”

“If I have to.”

“I’ll start screaming if you do. Everyone’ll think you’re abducting me. The guards’ll stop the train and call the police and you’ll get arrested.” I smiled at him. “You don’t want that, do you?”

He breathed in heavily and sighed. “Does Mum know you’re here?”

“Of course she does. I wouldn’t just leave her without saying anything, would I?”

“Did she tell you to follow me?”

“No.”

“But she didn’t try to stop you.”

“She’s worried about you. She knows what you’re like.”

“Yeah? And what am I like?”

“You remind her of Dad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You
know
what it means. She doesn’t want you ending up like him.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Come on, Cole,” I said brightly. “It’ll be all right. I can help you.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“There isn’t going to
be
any trouble. All I’m going to do is take a look around and ask a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

He sighed again. “I don’t know yet.”

“I’m good at thinking up questions.”

He rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“And when it comes to thinking,” I added, “two heads are always better than one.” I grinned at him. “Especially when one of them’s yours.”

He looked at me, exasperated. He’d had enough. I’d talked him into submission. He shook his head again and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I told him, pointing out the
NO SMOKING
sign on the window.

He looked at it, looked at me, then put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

“Shit,” he said.

After that, we let things ride for a while. Cole just sat there looking out through the window, and I just sat there sharing his silence. I was
with
him now, and I could feel the presence of Dad in his heart. It was a good feeling, good and strong, and it made me feel safe. But I could also feel the lack of feeling that Mum had mentioned earlier. The deadness. The missing stuff. The stuff that neither Dad nor Cole seemed to have—the stuff that makes us care about ourselves and whether we live or die. I knew it was a necessary deadness, the kind of nerveless detachment you sometimes need in order to get by in the world, but I also knew what could happen if the deadness took over, and it worried me to feel it in Cole.

I could feel him thinking about Rachel, too. He wasn’t aware that he was thinking about her, because he’d been thinking about nothing else for the last three days and his thoughts had become automatic. Like breathing. Like walking. Like living. When he thought about Rachel now, he thought with something that didn’t belong to him. He thought with the core of his mind. It thought
for
him. Searching the darkness, trying to find her, trying to picture her face—her eyes, her hair, the way she once smiled and lit up the world…

But it was no good. It was all too far away. The pictures wouldn’t come to him anymore. The only thing he could see now was the naked corpse of a girl he didn’t know.

He couldn’t see Rachel anymore.

I wondered if that’s what was driving him.

As the train passed through Exeter and on toward Plymouth, the surrounding countryside began to change. The brown earth became red, brick became granite, and the sunlight seemed to lose its brightness. Sad-looking hills loomed in the distance, casting cold gray shadows over the passing fields, making everything look mournful and empty.

“It’s a long way from Canleigh Street,” I said to Cole.

“It’s not so different,” he murmured. “It’s just another place.”

“You reckon?”

He turned away from the window and stretched his neck. “What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. “Two-thirty. We should be in Plymouth in about half an hour.”

Cole stretched again. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?”

He looked at me. “About Rachel.” He rubbed his eyes. “This girl she was staying with—Abbie Gorman. Do you know much about her?”

“I thought
you
knew her. She was at school with Rachel. They were only a couple of years above you, weren’t they?”

“I was never
at
school, was I? And even if I had been, you know what it’s like at school—a couple of years is a lifetime. Rachel wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to
me. Come on, Rube—you must know something about Abbie. You were always talking to Rachel about her friends and stuff.”

I hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if he’d realize what he’d just said about Rachel not being caught dead…but thankfully he didn’t. So I told him what I knew about Abbie Gorman.

“She used to live on that big estate at Mile End. Rachel met her in grade school, then they went on to secondary school together. I don’t think they were
best
friends or anything, but they used to hang around together a lot. Abbie came around to our place quite often. I think she even stayed over a couple of times.” I looked at Cole. “Are you sure you don’t remember her?”

He shook his head. “What’s she like?”

“I’m not sure, really. I only spoke to her once or twice. She seemed OK—friendly enough, pretty, a bit edgy…”

“What do you mean—
edgy
?”

“Like she could take care of herself if she had to. You know…she had that look about her.”

“Like Rachel?”

“Yeah…come to think of it, she looked like Rachel in lots of ways. Same height, same size, same kind of face. They could have been sisters.”

Cole ran his fingers through his hair. “How did she end up living on Dartmoor?”

“Her mother lived there. Abbie was brought up by an
aunt or something. I don’t know why. A couple of years ago her mum got cancer and Abbie left London and moved down to Dartmoor to look after her. I think she must have been about sixteen or seventeen then. She met this local boy—I don’t know his name—and when her mum died, he moved in with her, and then a few months later they got married. Rachel went down for the wedding—remember?”

Cole shook his head again.

“Yeah, you do,” I said. “She had that cream-colored dress and the big hat and everything—you
must
remember. When she came back she showed us all the photographs and the video…” I suddenly realized that Cole was upset with himself for not remembering, so I shut up about it and changed the subject. “We’re nearly there, look.” I pointed through the window at the approaches of a sprawling gray town. Cole made a show of looking, but I knew he wasn’t interested. His face had died. It wasn’t that he cared about Rachel’s cream-colored dress or her big hat or the wedding photos or the video, he was just sad that he’d forgotten a moment when she was happy. He’d been there, and he’d missed it.

He’d lost it.

We got off the train and made our way out of the station to the taxi stand. There was a long line and no taxis. I followed Cole to the end of the line and watched him light a cigarette.

“You ought to give that up,” I said.

“I ought to do a lot of things,” he replied, breathing out smoke and giving me a look.

A taxi trundled past us and stopped at the front of the line. A woman with a trolley full of suitcases loaded up and got in. The taxi pulled away and the line shuffled forward.

“You’re not sending me back then?” I said to Cole.

“I will if you don’t stop yakking.”

It wasn’t much of an invitation, but coming from Cole it was about the best I was going to get. He still didn’t like it, but I think he’d realized that if I was determined to be with him, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And besides, he liked being with me. He always had. He’d never admit to it, but I could feel it—buried deep down inside him.

He was keeping a lot of other stuff buried, too—but most of it was buried so deep that neither of us knew what it was.

I didn’t mind.

As long as we were together, that was enough for me.

I kept my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself.

Half an hour later we were sitting in the back of a black taxi and the driver was asking us where we were going. I looked at Cole, wondering if he’d given it any thought.

“Police station,” he told the driver.

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which police station d’you want?”

Cole hesitated. He
hadn’t
given it any thought.

“Breton Cross,” I told the driver.

He nodded at me and pulled away, and I settled back and looked out of the window. Cole didn’t speak for about a minute.

Eventually he said, “I suppose you think that proves something, do you?”

“What?” I said innocently.

“There’s no need to look so pleased with yourself. I would have gotten there in the end. It just would have taken me a bit longer, that’s all.”

“Right,” I said.

“How do you know which police station we want, anyway?”

“I looked it up on the Internet. Breton Cross is the main one. It’s where the officer in charge of Rachel’s investigation is based. That’s who we want, isn’t it?”

Cole looked at me. “What’s his name?”

“Pomeroy. He’s a Detective Chief Inspector.”

Cole nodded. He almost said thanks, but then he remembered who he was and just nodded again instead. I looked out the window and allowed myself a secret smile.

Breton Cross Police Station was a five-story building that looked as if it had been dipped in shit. God knows what color it was supposed to be. It was the kind of color you get
when you mix up all the colors in your paint box. A shitty color, basically.

Cole paid the taxi driver and we went up some steps and through some doors into the reception area. There wasn’t much going on. A ratty-haired drunk woman in a long nylon coat was sitting on a plastic chair staring at the floor, but apart from that, the place was empty.

I followed Cole up to the glass-paneled reception desk. The reception clerk—a fat old man in a thin white shirt—was pretending to be busy. He was writing something really important in a really-important-looking ledger. It was so important that he didn’t even have time to acknowledge our existence. It didn’t bother me, but I knew Cole could only take it for so long, so I wasn’t surprised when after thirty seconds or so he raised his hand and gave the glass panel a sudden hard slap.