Road of the Dead Page 2

  “He’s a gypsy,” Mum said simply. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, I just thought…I mean, I’m aware that certain cultures have certain beliefs regarding funeral arrangements…” His voice trailed off and he looked at Mum, hoping she’d help him out. But he was wasting his time. She just stared at him. He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cause any offense or anything. I’m just trying to understand why you want to bury your daughter so quickly.”

  Mum stared at him. “My husband’s a gypsy—I’m not. He’s in prison, as I’m sure you’re aware—I’m not. I want to bury my daughter because she’s dead, that’s all. She’s my daughter. She’s dead. I want to bring her back home and put her to rest. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “No, of course…I’m sorry—”

  “And if you’re that concerned about my husband,” she added, “why don’t you let him out on compassionate leave?”

  “I’m afraid that’s in the hands of the prison authorities. If they think he poses a risk—”

  “John’s no risk.”

  Merton raised his eyebrows. “He’s serving a sentence for manslaughter, Mary.”

  Cole suddenly stood up. “Come on, Mum, let’s go. We don’t have to listen to this shit. I told you it was a waste of time.”

  Merton couldn’t help glaring at him. “We’re doing our best, Cole. We’re trying to find out who killed your sister.”

  Cole looked down at him and spoke quietly. “You just don’t get it, do you? We don’t care who killed her. She’s dead. It doesn’t matter who did it or why they did it or how she died—she’s dead. Dead is dead. Nothing can change that. Nothing. All we want to do is bury her. That’s all we can do—bring her home and get on with our lives.”

  Cole didn’t say anything on the way back, and Mum was too tired and empty to talk. So, as we walked the familiar backstreets through the hazy May sunshine, I just soaked up the silence and let my mind wander around the things I knew and the things I didn’t.

  I knew the Dead Man had killed Rachel.

  I didn’t know who he was, or why he’d done it. But I knew he was dead.

  I didn’t know why he was dead.

  And I didn’t know what it meant.

  I hadn’t told any of this to Cole or Mum yet, and I didn’t know when—or if—I was going to.

  I didn’t know what that meant, either.

  But the biggest thing I didn’t know was how I felt about Rachel. After that night in the back of the Mercedes, when all I’d felt was blackness and nothing, my head and heart had been invaded with all the feelings in the world, some of which I’d never felt before. I was sick and empty and full of lies. I wanted to hate someone, but I didn’t know who. I was nowhere and everywhere. I was lost.

  When we got home, Cole went straight up to his room without saying a word. I followed Mum into the kitchen and made us some tea, then we sat down together at the table and listened to the muffled sounds coming from Cole’s room. Measured footsteps, drawers opening, drawers closing…

  “He’s going to Dartmoor, isn’t he?” I said to Mum.

  “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 sa
y 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.

  Three

  The 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.