Ordinary Thunderstorms

61

ALLHALLOWS-ON-SEA. A GOOD NAME FOR A PLACE, A PLACE ON THE Kent shore of the Thames estuary. Adam stood and looked north across the mile or so of water to Canvey Island opposite, on the Essex shore. It was as good a spot as any, he thought, to claim that here the river ended and the sea began. He turned to the east and looked at the high clouds — cirrostratus — invading the sky from the south, lit by a strong, afternoon late-summer sun. Could be bad weather, threat of thunderstorms…You felt yourself on the edge of England here, he thought, surrounded by sea, continental Europe just over the horizon. The air was bright and hazy and there was just a hint of coolness in the estuarine breeze. Autumn coming, finally, this year of years beginning to draw to its close.

Adam, Rita and Ly-on had left Allhallows-on-Sea with its vast caravan-amusement park and had walked along the coastal track towards Egypt Bay. The great flat expanses of the Kent marshes, with their winding fleets, their dykes and drainage ditches, were on their left, the wide river glinted, with a nacreous sheen, on their right, and their shadows were cast strongly on the path behind them as the sun occasionally broke through the ragged, high film of clouds. They sauntered along, carrying their plastic bags that contained their picnic, Ly-on occasionally scampering down to the small strips of sand and shingle to pick something up or shy a stone into the water. Ly-on was taller and slimmer, Adam thought, since he had last seen him, his pot belly gone. He was still not sure if he was any happier, however.

When Adam had decided to go looking for Ly-on, his conscience prodding him, he had been reluctant to return to The Shaft — too many risks, too many people who might recognise him — so he had revisited the Church of John Christ, thinking that, of all places, this was one that had known Mhouse, might have some record of her and what had happened to her son. He put his badge on, for old times’ sake, and presented himself at Bishop Yemi’s office. Bishop Yemi wasn’t in, he was told, the Bishop was running late at a meeting with the Mayor at City Hall. Adam said he’d come back another day. But as he was leaving he saw that the door was being opened for the evening service by Mrs Darling, ‘John 17’ herself, who was also setting up the welcome desk, a few blank ‘John’ badges fanned out in front of her in case some potential converts wandered in.

Adam introduced himself: John 1603.

“I remember you,” she said suspiciously. “You’ve smartened up, John.”

“Do you remember Mhouse?” he asked.

“Course I do. Poor dear Mhousie. Bless her. Horrible thing that happened. Horrible.”

“Do you know what became of her son, Ly-on?”

“Ly-on’s very well, being well looked after.”

This news had cheered him, unbelievably. He felt a sense of relief wash through him that was so intense he thought he might need to sit down.

“Where is he? Do you know?”

“He’s at the Church of John’s orphanage in Eltham.”

“Can I visit him?”

“You’ll have to talk to the director — but seeing you’re a fellow ‘John’, I think that might be OK.”

“Who’s the director?”

“Hang on — I’ll get a letter with his name on.” She went and found some headed notepaper and pointed the name out: Kazimierz Bednarczyk, ‘Director of Special Projects’. Adam noted the empurpled, embossed solidity of the letter head—‘THE CHURCH OF JOHN’ and its prominent sunburst logo, its registered charity number. Some C-list celebrities were on its roster of’honourable patrons’, a devout backbencher, a chat-show host, a born-again member of a boy band. The Church of John was not sitting on its hands, that was for sure. An avenue of bright tomorrows stretched ahead for Bishop Yemi.

Later that day Adam telephoned the number on the notepaper and was told by a friendly young woman that they did indeed have a young boy at the Eltham orphanage called Ly-on. Ly-on ‘Smith’—nobody knew his last name, including the boy himself, so he’d been called ‘Smith’ pending any future adoption. Adam said he was a family friend and would like to take him out for the day, if that were possible. Oh yes, we encourage visits and trips out, he was told. There would need to be a brief meeting with Mr Bednarczyk first and of course there was a fee of £100.

“A fee?…”

“Yes, that’s the fee for a day’s outing.”

Adam had given his name and made an appointment for the following Saturday.

So Adam and Rita hired a car and Rita drove them to Eltham on the following Saturday, mid-morning. Adam had told Rita that he just wanted to see the boy again, see how he was getting on, make sure he was happy and being looked after properly. Rita said she was perfectly prepared to be their chauffeur, thought it was an excellent idea and looked forward to meeting Ly-on. They stopped on the way at a supermarket and bought food and drink — sandwiches, pies, scotch eggs, water, colas, juices — and a travelling rug and paper cups and plates, some plastic knives and forks. On a whim, passing a toy shop two doors down, Rita had suggested they buy some beach games — a Frisbee, a diabolo, some flat paddles with a ball to hit.

The Church of John’s orphanage at Eltham — Adam noticed that the claim ‘John Christ’ was more and more frequently absent in the light of the church’s new prosperity — was a detached Victorian brick villa in a large garden with a car park where the front lawn had once been. Rita said she would wait in the car and Adam went into the building for his appointment with Mr Bednarczyk.

Inside, it was like stepping into an old school, Adam thought. A smell of cooking, of rubberised floor coverings, dusty radiators and chipped paintwork. A struggling prep school that had seen better days and whose pupil numbers were remorselessly dwindling, was the image that came to mind. Through a rear window Adam could see half a dozen little boys in jeans and matching emerald-green fleece jackets kicking a football about on a piebald rectangle of grass fringed by a tall cypress hedge. He could hear a piano being played badly in an upstairs room: chords struck heavily, wrong notes amongst them. A young, hot-faced woman in a nylon overall clattered down the stairs with a mop and a bucket.

“I’m looking for Mr Bednarczyk,” Adam said.

“Down the corridor, first left.”

Adam followed her directions to find a door with a plastic nameplate: ‘K. Bednarczyk’. He knocked and a voice invited him to enter.

Kazimierz Bednarczyk was sitting at a desk covered in papers and files and behind him could be glimpsed a partial view of the orphanage’s front car park through the dangling, dusty, oatmeal louvres of a vertical blind. Adam could see their hired car and Rita walking around, taking the air, exercising, windmilling her arms. Badnarczyk’s peroxide-blond hair and neat blond beard failed to disguise the man Adam knew as Gavin Thrale. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Thrale remained utterly impassive.

“Mr Belem,” he said offering his hand. “Do take a seat.”

They shook hands and Adam sat down.

“What are your plans for the day?”

“I thought we might go down to the coast, find a beach, have a picnic.”

“Sounds delightful. Ly-on would need to be back by six o’clock.”

“Not a problem — I understand.”

“Just fill this in and sign — there.” Thrale pushed a release form across the desk towards him. “I think we can waive the fee — seeing as it’s you.”

“Thank you,” Adam said.

As Adam filled in the form Thrale picked up the phone, punched out a number and asked, “Is Ly-on ready? Good. We’ll meet him in the hall.”

They sat there looking at each other.

“How are you?” Adam said.

“I’m surprisingly well, considering. And you?”

“I’m fine.”

“The church has been very good to me,” Thrale said, cautiously. “I believe you had the same opportunity offered.”

“Yes. But it just wasn’t the right time.”

“Bishop Yemi is a most accommodating man.”

“One might say a remarkable man.”

“You’ve heard he’s standing for parliament. Rotherhithe East. As a Conservative.”

“He is a remarkable man,” Adam said.

“My friends call me Kazio,” Thrale said.

“I’m Primo.”

“What about meeting up one day, Primo? Have a drink. Talk things over.”

“I’m not so sure that would be a good idea, Kazio.”

“Yes…You’re probably right. Funny old life, eh?” Thrale said, standing up.

They walked down the corridor to the hall where Ly-on was waiting, wearing the same jeans and emerald-green fleece uniform of the other boys.

“John!” he shouted when he saw Adam, and ran towards him. Adam fell to his knees and they hugged.

“I know you come for Ly-on,” he said, smiling broadly. “Green, green peas, man.”

Adam stood up, a little overwhelmed, as Ly-on went to fetch his bag.

“You knew his mother, I believe.”

“Yes. She used to serve the food sometimes, at the church. You probably remember her,” Adam said.

“It’s all a bit of a blur, those times, I have to confess,” Thrale said, as Ly-on came back. “Enjoy your day, Mr Belem.”

“Thank you, Mr Bednarczyk.”

And so Adam, Rita and Ly-on had driven east towards Rochester and Chatham until Adam saw a sign for the Hoo Peninsula and he said, “Let’s go to Hoo. Sounds interesting.”

“Hoo,” Ly-on repeated. “Hoo, hoo, hoo.”

They followed the signs until they saw one that said ‘Allhallows-on-Sea’ and ‘Beach’, driving through the village until they came to a dead end by the caravan site. They skirted the holiday park with its rows of static caravans and its covered swimming pool and leisure centre, and parked the car where the metalled road turned into a track. Then they discovered that the various games they had bought — the Frisbee, the fat-paddled tennis bats and ball, the diabolo (or Chinese yo-yo) were missing. Rita remembered putting the bags down in the shop but thought that Adam had picked them up and stowed them in the boot. Perhaps they were still in the shop, Adam ventured — they could call back on the way home, it didn’t matter — they could improvise. So, carrying the plastic bags that contained their picnic, they walked along the coastal path heading for Egypt Bay.

They found a spot on the edge of the bay, spread their rug and ate their sandwiches and pies and drank their fizzy drinks. Adam felt he was in a kind of time warp — the flat marshlands behind him, the refulgent estuary in front, and beyond the hazy mass of the Essex shore, Canvey Island, the Maplin Sands, Foulness. Ly-on took his jeans off and changed into his swimming trunks behind a towel held out by Adam. He went paddling in the shallows, shouting out, “Remember you promised to teach me to swim, John!”

Adam looked up and down the river’s coastline. There was an empty tanker temporarily moored offshore, riding high in the water, and it reminded Adam that this was where, after the Napoleonic Wars, all the prison hulks were berthed, old, rotting, mastless three-deckers full of convicts destined for Australia…Australia — where his father and sister and nephews were living. Don’t think about it. So Adam wondered what it must have been like for the convicts in the hulks, looking out at this, their last sight of England, the flat Kent shore and the dark Cooling Marshes, their minds full of desperate thoughts of escape—

“He seems all right,” Rita said, gesturing at Ly-on. “Doesn’t talk about his mum.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “I hope so.”

Rita put on her sunglasses and lay back to enjoy the weak but warming sunshine. Adam felt in a turmoil of emotions as he sat watching Ly-on, his arms hugging his knees, and, triggered by the thoughts of escaping convicts and prison hulks, found himself wondering if Turpin’s body had made it this far downstream.

He had thought very little about Turpin since their last encounter, and suffered no guilty conscience. Sometimes he wondered if there was something wrong with him that would explain this unfeelingness he experienced about what he had done, as if his new life and everything that had happened to him over the last few months had changed him in some crucial way, hardened him. Perhaps it had — perhaps he was a different person, to some significant extent, from the man he had been. But there was nothing to grieve about as far as Turpin was concerned — he couldn’t imagine Turpin’s wives and children missing him, speculating amongst themselves as to why Vince had disappeared from their lives all of a sudden. Anyway — all he had done was tip him into the river, after all. He just hoped, somehow, that Turpin’s was one of those bodies that the river took with it, along with the rest of its rubbish, and that Turpin’s corpse had made it through the dangling southern loop of the Isle of Dogs, with its reverse currents and collecting pools, and that the ebb tide that night had carried him past Greenwich and Woolwich and Thamesmead and Gravesend, spewing him out eventually into the fathomless cold waters of the North Sea. He would bob up at some stage, bloated and decomposed, be washed up on a shingle bank somewhere, on Foulness Island or the Medway estuary, or perhaps even more further afield, on the beaches of Northern France, Belgium or Holland — but nobody would make much of a fuss about the drowning of Vincent Turpin.

He turned and lay down beside Rita and gently kissed her on the lips.

“You’re very quiet,” he said.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, and sat up. “Do you remember that murder I told you about? That one I found in Chelsea?”

Adam said he did — they had talked about it a couple of times, Adam not saying much, just listening. It just proved to him what he had always suspected: that the myriad connections between two discrete lives — close, distant, overlapping, tangential — lie there almost entirely unknown, unobserved, a great unseen network of the nearly, the almost, the might-have-been. From time to time, in everybody’s life, the network is glimpsed for a moment or two and the occasion acknowledged with a gasp of happy astonishment or a shiver of supernatural discomfort. The complex interrelatedness of human existence could reassure or disturb in equal measure. When Adam had realised that Philip Wang had played a part both in Rita’s life and his own it had stunned him at first but, as time had gone by, it began to seem almost commonplace. Who knew what other invisible couplings, affinities, links and bonds between them lay out there? Who could ever precisely locate our respective positions on the great mesh that unites us?

“What about it?” Adam said.

“Have you seen this?” She took a newspaper clipping out of her handbag and showed it to him.

It was a picture of a man, a soldier in combat gear, and the caption said his name was John-Joseph Case and he was wanted by the police to aid their enquiries into the murder, in Chelsea, of Dr Philip Wang.

Adam looked at the photograph, trying to keep his face still. This was an image of a younger man than the one he had encountered — the one he’d seen unconscious on the cobbles of the mews behind the Grafton Lodge Hotel — but the aggressive stare, the weak chin and the cleft in the chin were unmistakably those of the man who had been hunting him all these weeks and months. Ugly Bugger, Turpin had called him.

“What about it?” Adam said again, carefully.

“This was the man I arrested,” Rita said. “The one with two automatic pistols. The one who was let go.”

“Right…” Adam said, feeling the nape of his neck tighten.

“And now they want him for murder. That particular murder. Don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”

“You should tell them,” Adam said. “They had him, thanks to you, and then they let him go. Outrageous. Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”

“You’re very gung-ho,” Rita said. “Maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie. I told you what happened when I tried to push it.”

“So what?” Adam said quickly, then qualified his certainty. “Listen, it’s up to you. But it seems to me people shouldn’t get away with disgraceful mistakes like that. If he’s guilty he should be prosecuted.”

“Mistakes? I thought you said it was a conspiracy.” She thought for a second, frowning. “Maybe it explains what he was doing in Chelsea. Maybe this Wang was involved in some secret top-security thing…”

“Maybe.”

Ly-on came up from the beach at that moment with his fist clenched around something. He half opened his palm to reveal a small semi-transparent crab.

“It’s a sea-spider,” he said. “I catched it.”

Adam and Rita congratulated him and suggested he put it back in the water. He agreed and wandered back down to the shore.

Adam was thinking fast — if this John-Joseph Case man is the one they’re looking for then perhaps I might be free again. Perhaps I really am free — already, now — he thought. I could be Adam Kindred again…He looked up at the slowly gathering clouds.

“Primo?” Rita said. “Are you all right?”

“I was just thinking, dreaming, imagining something…”

Rita put the photo away in her bag, stood up, stretched, and sighed, “I just don’t understand,” she said, plaintively.

“Who can predict life’s course?” Adam said. Then suddenly he looked over his shoulder at the marshes.

Rita laughed at him. “Easy, boy.”

“I don’t know. I thought someone was watching us.”

“Oh, yeah. Some monster’s going to rear up out of the ooze and seize you — turn your life upside down.”

“It has happened before, you know.” He reached for her hands and made her sit beside him again. She lay back.

“What?” she said. “Your life turned upside down?”

“Hey, John!” Ly-on shouted from the beach. “I found another.”

“Why does he call you John?” Rita asked, kissing his neck.

“It’s just a nickname we had.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Now he kissed her on the lips, his tongue touched her teeth, his hand on her breast. She moved her thigh against his.

“Do you think we might live out here?” he said quietly, his lips on her throat. “What do you think?”

“Here?…It would be a nightmare commute, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But there’s something about this place…”

“Do you want to live in a caravan?”

“No. No, no. In a house. I was thinking: we could buy a little house in Allhallows. A cottage. Pool our incomes, get a mortgage and live out here, on the estuary.”

“Pool our incomes, get a mortgage, buy a house…” Rita drew herself back a few inches so she could look him in the eye. “Is that a proposal?”

“I suppose it is,” Adam said. “What do you say?”

She kissed him. “Anything is possible,” she said. “Who can predict life’s course?”

“Good point.”

They lay silent, side by side, on their backs, silent for a while on the turf of the Kent shore of the Thames estuary, the wide flat marshes behind them. He reached for her hand and their fingers interlocked.

“I love you, Rita,” he said quietly, feeling his enormous weakness in the face of his enormous need for her.

“And I love you,” Rita said, evenly.

He felt an inward sigh of relief and release within him. It had been said so calmly, so straightforwardly, as if what they felt for each other were part of nature, as obvious as the marshes at their back, the wide river at their feet and the clouds in the sky above their heads.

“And I know for sure your name is Adam.”

Now it was Adam’s turn to draw back and look at her.

“What did you say?”

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

She thought, puzzled at the need to repeat herself.

“I said: ‘I know for sure I had those games, I had them’.”

“Right, yes, those games—”

“The Frisbee, that tennis paddle game, the diabolo, I can’t believe I left them in the shop. Someone must have stolen them.”

“No, no, no. We were in a bit of a rush,” Adam said, reassuringly, playing for time, allowing himself to calm down. “All the stuff we’d bought. Food, drink, flasks, paper cups, travelling rug. We had masses of bags. We must have left them…”

“We’ll check on the way home.”

“Yes.”

Adam sat slowly upright, realising. She was bound to find out, he thought, not letting go of her hand. The network was revealing itself. And she was a clever young woman, a police officer, too smart and shrewd not to find out one day, one day soon, and now that they were living together there would be, inevitably, too many unsuspecting clues revealed in their casual conversation, too many candid talks, too much circumstantial evidence of another, previous life for a clever young woman not to notice, not to draw conclusions, not to deduce. Perhaps he should just tell her one day, confess…

He felt light and weightless all of a sudden, as if he might float away if he let go of her hand. He would welcome that day, he thought, it would bring an ending, a conclusion of a rather miraculous kind…He experienced a few seconds of breathless, blinding exhilaration: perhaps, with Rita’s help, he might reclaim his old life, become Adam Kindred again, whatever dangers lurked out there in the world, become Adam Kindred and make clouds yield up their rain. He had a strong sense that everything would be all right now, even though he admitted to himself, simultaneously, that he knew full well that it was impossible for everything to be all right in this complicated, difficult, mortal life we lead. But at least he had Rita, and that was all that really mattered: he had Rita, now. There was always that, Adam supposed, that and the sunshine and the blue sea beyond.

EOF