Blood Atonement

Epilogue

The rain came down in great waves, as if the sluice gates had been opened. Foster had given up trying to keep dry and let the rain soak his head and run into his eyes. Had there not been more than a few minutes of the match left then surely the referee would have called it off, given that the pitch was starting to resemble a First World War battlefield.

Hackney Marshes was living up to its name.

That had not prevented Gary winning the game for his team on his own. They were 5--1 up with two minutes left; he'd scored a hat-trick and created the other two goals. His low centre of gravity, ball control, ability to pick a pass -- even if his teammate's ability to receive it was questionable -- and his pace over short distances marked him down as something special. There was an extra characteristic Foster recognized: hunger. The boy loved to have the ball at his feet, enjoyed the challenge of beating a man, and seized every opportunity to shoot whenever the goal came into his sight.

As his third goal went in and the smattering of parents and other hangers-on applauded, Foster had found himself giving Gary a thumbs up. A man in a large overcoat and brown woollen hat saw him do this and sidled up to him.

'Your lad, is he?'

'No,' Foster said.

'Is his dad here?'

'No. Why?'

'I'd be interested in having a word with him, that's all.

About his lad's prospects.'

'There is no dad. Or any other guardian, at the moment.

Are you a scout?'

'Something like that.'

Who for?'

'Queen's Park Rangers.'

'Really?' Foster said. 'My team, QPR.'

'So you know the lad?'

'Yeah.'

'I could give you the details. We just want him to come and train with our academy one day.'

When?'

'Saturday mornings?'

'Next Saturday then?'

The man smiled. Yeah, great. Ten a.m.'

'See you then.'

The man slipped away.

It finished 5--1.The final whistle blew, the players shook hands. His teammates all went to clasp Gary's hand or pat him on the back. Even the defeated opposition. Foster let him go to the changing rooms and get dry and dressed. He waited in the car, feeling the water drip down the back of his neck, and the cold seep into his bones.

Still, he couldn't stop himself smiling. The boy could play. Maybe he'd come and watch him even when a new foster family was found.

Gary came out a few minutes later, drinking a can of Coke, swinging his bag around. He climbed in the passenger seat. He gave Foster a big grin.

Well, what do you think?'

'Not bad,' he said. 'Think there were a few times when you could have used the ball a bit more wisely.'

The boy's face fell.

'Usually when you passed it to one of your mates rather than keeping it yourself.' He ruffled his hair.

The kid grinned.

'No, you were different gravy today' He started the engine. 'I've got some news for you.'

Was it that bloke I saw you talking to second half?'

'Him? No, nothing to do with him. This is much more important. I got a call during the first half. Guess who from?'

'Chelsea?'

'You wish. No, it was from the Law Enforcement Agencies in the USA. They've made a few arrests in the small town I told you about, the one where Leonie lived.'

Yeah?' A look of suspicion crept across his face.

Well, they've also spoken to Leonie.'

Gary looked down at the footwell.

'And she's coming back.'

He looked up, face alight with joy. 'Really? Will I be able to live with her?'

We'll have to see. But as long as she's OK, I don't see why not. But there's a complication.'

'Oh.'

'She has a two-year-old baby. A boy'

He looked stunned.

'She called him Gary'

His eyes lit up. 'I'm not sure about babies, man. Could be fun. Maybe. But can we live together?'

'There's some paperwork that needs doing, and a few other bits and pieces but she should be home in a week.'

Gary punched the air.

'That's the good news,' Foster said.

Again, Gary's face fell. He looked anxiously at Foster.

Foster couldn't contain his smile. 'The bad news is that she won't be back in time to see you have a try-out for the QPR academy!'

Nigel drank his morning tea and listened to the radio. The story of Naomi Buckingham being saved dominated the headlines. Nigel turned it off, not wanting to hear.

'Oi, I was listening to that.' Heather came out from the kitchen, wearing one of his striped shirts from Pink -- nothing else - a cup of tea in her hand.

'Sorry,' he said.

'No, you're right, time to move on.'

She bent down and kissed his cheek. Three days since they'd got back from the States and she hadn't been home.

He grabbed her now and sat her on his lap.

'Mind my brew,' she said, laughing, putting the mug on the table.

They kissed. The phone rang. They both laughed.

'There's a theme developing,' he said.

She told him to answer.

It was his television producer. She was almost hyperventilating with excitement. They had heard of an unconsecrated old non-conformist burial ground that had once been attached to a chapel in Islington. The graveyard had been closed in 1863 when it contained around 15,000

bodies. Ever since it had lain unused, a prime piece of London real estate. Eventually the Council had given permission for it to be used for commercial purposes, yet only on condition that the bodies which lay beneath be disinterred, moved and reburied on consecrated ground. A company, the delightfully named Necropolis Ltd, had been hired to perform the task before the developers moved in, and had agreed to allow the production company to spend one day at the site filming for use in a short pilot that could be touted to the television networks.

He cursed. It meant leaving Heather. On the way back from the airport, they had intended dropping Nigel at his place first, before the cab took Heather back home. Nigel paid the driver off and asked Heather in for a coffee. She came in with him -- and stayed.

You said you'd explain,' he had got round to asking eventually, as they lay in his bed, morning or afternoon, he couldn't remember -- time had ceased being relevant.

About why you rejected me last summer.'

She had winced at his choice of verb. 'I didn't "reject"

you,' she maintained. 'It was a difficult time.' She told him about her mother's death, its effect on her, and how an ex had provided a sympathetic and familiar shoulder on which to lean. She hadn't felt it was the right time to start a new relationship - she'd been weak, vulnerable. 'I didn't want to burden you with it all. At times like that, an old slipper seems more comfortable than the brand-new high heel.

Not that you're a stiletto kind of bloke. More of a nice pair of trainers.'

She stroked his cheek.

He had laughed. 'Thanks. I think. But what about now.''

She had remained silent for a while, a brief few seconds in which he allowed his heart to slide as he imagined her getting up, getting dressed and walking away once more.

'Grief is a funny thing,' she had said eventually. 'You feel like life is something that's happening to you, that you're not in control, like you're watching a film of yourself. You let things happen. You cling to the familiar, what's easy and comfortable. You have to. But now I feel in charge again. You didn't pursue me, go all crazy. You gave me time and space -- I might have made a few mistakes, but I needed to make them.' She had looked at him. 'I want to make a go of it. With you.'

'But what about this guy . . . ?'

'Let me handle that,' she had assured him.

He hadn't wanted that time to end, but real life had to intrude. After the producer's call, he ventured out into the open air for the second time in seventy-two hours -- the first had been to buy milk, wine and bread -- to meet Guy the cameraman, the producer, Lysette, a sound recordist and production assistant on a back street in Islington on a cold November morning. The group of them were all smoking furiously against the cold. Lysette wrapped in hat, gloves and scarf appraised Nigel's long winter coat.

'Didn't you bring your tweed jacket?'

'And freeze to death?'

'You could have worn a jumper underneath. I don't like this look.'

Her assistant beside her nodded vigorously.

This isn't a look, Nigel thought. It's what I bloody wear when it's cold.

'The long coat covers too much of everything up.

Makes you look like a cop.'

'Sorry,' he said. You didn't mention anything about a look when you called.'

'It doesn't matter,' she said, in that blithe yet irritated fashion people adopt when nothing else could actually matter more to them. 'The main thing is that we get something on camera.' She brandished a wad of A4 paper.

'Here's the shooting script. We'll find a corpse and get some film of it. Nigel and the same worker will have a chat about either a tombstone inscription they've dug up or a brass plate from a coffin that identifies someone buried here and talk about that, preferably next to the skeleton.

On another day we can go to the parish records and film you finding the corpse's entry, how they died, their address, and take it from there. If we're really lucky, we might be able to film them reburying the corpse in the new burial ground, perhaps even find us some ancestors to attend the burial, though the budget might not stretch. Guy'll also film lots of GVs and other footage to flesh things out with.'

'Let me get this right. We've found a corpse that's identified by an inscription of some sort?' Nigel asked.

Lysette shook her head. 'No, we'll just film a skeleton.

We'll also find an inscription to give you something to go on.'

'OK. But we'll say that the corpse and whatever means of identification we have belong to different people?'

She looked at him as if he was an imbecile. Why? As long as we get some film of a skeleton we can say it's whoever we like. They all look the same. We'll cut it and make the viewer believe that the corpse belongs to the person you're tracing through the records.'

'Isn't that misleading, though? I

mean, the viewer will

think the corpse belongs to the person I'm tracing through the records, when in truth the remains are of someone completely different.'

From the corner of his eye he could see Guy raise his eyebrows and smirk.

'Nigel,' Lysette said, as if speaking to a five-year-old.

'They won't know that.'

He shrugged. 'Just seems wrong. Dishonest, even.'

'Can we just get on with it? We can discuss ethics later.'

They were allowed through the entrance to the dig, already well under way. Lysette handed him the script.

Nigel went to his mark. He read through it as he walked, committing it to memory without memorizing it so well that he merely regurgitated it verbatim. His heart sank as he scanned the text: it was the same banal and empty bilge he'd read while stumbling through Kensal Green cemetery.

Then, it didn't matter; he could have been reciting 'The Owl and the Pussycat'. But this was being committed to tape with a view to being shown.

When you're ready, Nige,' Guy shouted from his spot.

Sod it, Nigel thought. I'll read it and we can discuss its merits later. He took his first steps. The dead are around us all the time. Sometimes closer than we think. And sometimes our worlds and their worlds collide. The living need more space and sometimes the dead have to give way. The past must give way to the present. Here in Islington, an old burial ground is being excavated so a new development can be built. Thousands of bodies must be moved. We're here to find out about the people are who are lying beneath the soil, how they died, the story of their lives, and watch as they are found a new resting place ... I can't read this crap.'

'Cut!'

'Nigel,' Lysette said. What's wrong? That was going well.

You were a bit stiff, but there was a nice flow and rhythm.'

'It's the script,' he said. 'It's all wrong. "The past must give way to the present"? Why? I don't believe that for a second. The present needs to have some bloody respect for the past and stop walking all over it. Because it was the past that helped build the fucking present.'

Lysette looked both hurt and angry. 'I told you I had less than twenty-four hours to do this,' she said.

Nigel felt bad. His criticism was hardly constructive. He scrabbled around for an apology, and then had another idea. 'Look, it's OK. I like it, but I just don't agree with it.

How about if I give it my own imprint?'

'Be my guest,' Lysette said.

He returned to his mark deep in thought, not even noticing when the excavator engines fell silent. He turned, and seeing Lysette give him the nod, started walking.

'Dead men don't tell tales, so the saying goes. Nothing could be further from the truth. The dead speak to us in many different ways. And we ignore their voices at our peril. It is supreme arrogance to think there is nothing we can't learn from those who preceded us. We just have to learn how to listen. In this burial ground lie the bodies of fifteen thousand men, women and children who strived and lived a long time ago; fifteen thousand stories that have never been told; fifteen thousand dreams that may never have been fulfilled. Soon they will be laid to rest once more in a new burial place. Before the developers move in, it is our job to find out how they lived. Who were they?

How did they die? What secrets can they tell us from the grave? In this programme we hope to find out.' He stopped walking. He placed his hands, which he had been using to punctuate his speech as he walked, behind his back. He fixed the camera with his most earnest look. 'In our modern age we are conditioned to forget -- yet the past is one thing we can't ignore. The dead will not be denied.'

He finished. There was a pause.

Guy's face popped out from behind his camera. 'Good stuff, mate,' he said to Nigel, who for the first time sensed admiration rather than scorn in his voice.

Lysette was nodding happily. 'From now on, you're writing your own scripts,' she said, smiling. We'll need to do a little voice-over before and after, but that was great. Still a shame about the jumper.'

Nigel shrugged, felt his cheeks redden and warm. He never knew what to do with praise. He was about to mumble something humble when a loud cry went up from the pit behind them. The archaeologists in there had downed tools. One was running towards the olive-green portable cabin that doubled as an on-site office.

What's happened?' Lysette asked one of the archaeologists who was scurrying past, face white.

'They've found a body.'

'And? There are fifteen thousand people buried here.'

'The last person buried here was in 1853. This body's barely two years old.'

The End.