The Living and the Dead in Winsford

21

The tenth of November. Cloudy with sunny intervals and a strong wind from the south-west. Eleven degrees in the morning. I took the dead pheasant with us in a plastic carrier bag when we went for our morning walk, and threw it into a clump of thorn bushes on the way to the Roman remains at the top of Winsford Hill. I tried not to think about it — the pheasant, not the Roman monument — but it was not easy. How come that it had ended up outside my door twice? I had convinced myself that it was the same bird, in fact. Some animal must have dragged it there, I thought — on the second occasion at least, at some time yesterday evening. But what animal? There are presumably foxes around here even if I haven’t seen one, but why would a fox kill a pheasant and then leave it completely untouched?

Another bird? Various birds of prey soar overhead on the moor, but even if I don’t know much about their habits it didn’t seem very likely. Birds don’t attack other birds, surely? Not in that way, at least.

A person? I dismissed the thought.

Instead, as I struggled into the powerful headwind with Castor hard on my heels, I began thinking about that face in the window. The pale young man and the gesture he had made over his throat. What had he actually meant by that? The significance in itself was obvious enough, of course — but in this case? Was it some sort of bizarre joke? Was there an intention behind it? Something serious? Who was he? Perhaps a madman who lived in that isolated house and made the same gesture to everybody he saw? Or at least, everybody who walked past his home: there were presumably not very many who did.

I also thought about the two deaths that had taken place in Darne Lodge. Two suicides with more than a hundred years between them. Irrespective of how many normal people had lived in the house since the latest act of self-destruction, it felt macabre. But on the other hand, wasn’t every aspect of my stay here macabre? Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but something like that in any case. Something on its way out of the real world. But then, where exactly is the borderline between what we call real and what we call unreal? I had only slept in that house for eight nights by this time, and already I was beginning to experience. . well, what exactly?

Some sort of menace? Something warning of danger, something telling me that if I wasn’t careful I would find myself in a right mess?

Rubbish, I thought. Figments of the imagination.

Then again, what had I expected? I had divested myself of my old life on that Polish beach: I had put an end to it just as conclusively as one breaks a bone off a chicken. Absolutely everything had changed, nothing was the same as before. Isn’t that the fact of the matter? If you wanted, you could argue that it was Martin who had set everything in motion when he raped that waitress in the hotel in Gothenburg — or left his sperm on her stomach, at least. What I did in the bunker had simply been a natural reaction, albeit a bit on the late side, albeit a bit drastic and very much unplanned — something done in a flash, as they say. But nevertheless one thing had led to another, and there was a clearly linked series of causes and effects for the left side of the brain to revel in. . Yes indeed, there was a lot that one could maintain and think about in the back of one’s mind, surrounded by this open, peaceful moorland with bracken, cheerful-looking gorse and surly-looking heather, mud, grass and wild ponies: but when all was said and done, the biggest problem, the distressing point, was my own mind which simply couldn’t calm down and rest. Couldn’t stop producing all these words and half-baked analyses, futile and would-be wise, non-stop, every day, every hour and every minute until at the predestined moment my heart stopped pumping oxygen-laden blood into these highly overrated rantings.

The real world, I thought. I need some kind of context, otherwise I shall succumb unnecessarily. A dog isn’t enough.

And so I made up my mind to visit the Winsford Computer Centre during the afternoon. What had Margaret Allen said? Between eleven in the morning and six in the evening?

It was Alfred Biggs who was on duty. He was a mousy little man wearing clothes that were too big for him. As if he had shrunk after buying them, or inherited them from an older brother who had died in some war or other a long time ago. His spectacles with black plastic frames were also too big: I had the impression that he was trying to hide behind them, and that his smile was shy and somewhat introverted.

‘You must be that writer,’ he said when we had introduced ourselves. ‘Margaret told me about you.’

‘Is she not here today, then?’

‘No, Saturdays are mine. Margaret only works here two days a week. She works at the library in Dulverton as well.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, she said that.’

‘But I live more or less next door. I’m retired, so I have all the time in the world.’

‘I’m pleased that I can come here occasionally — I don’t have an internet connection where I’m living.’

‘You’re always welcome. That’s the point of this place. If we’re not open, all you need to do is to knock on my door — that red one just round the corner.’

He pointed in the direction of the church.

‘So this is Castor, is it?’

Castor heard his name and stretched his nose out towards Alfred Biggs, who stroked him cautiously on the head. He smiled again, and I tried to assess it. There was something odd about his teeth. Something his lips did their best to conceal. He showed me where I could sit, and asked if I would like a cup of tea. Just like the previous occasion, there was nobody else in the room; I accepted and made a mental note to bring with me some sort of biscuits the next time I came.

When I had received my cup, I sat down to check our e-mails — first mine, and then Martin’s. Alfred went back to his book. Castor settled down under my table.

There was only one message in my inbox. Katarina Wunsch. The title was: London? I swallowed, then opened it.

Hi there Maria! Something very odd happened a few weeks ago when my husband and I were in London, and I really must ask you about it, no beating about the bush. We met a woman in Hyde Park and I was quite certain it was you. We said hello but she spoke English and said it was some kind of mistake. It was very awkward. My husband and I talked about it afterwards, and I simply can’t get it out of my head. Was it really not you? It feels so odd — forgive me if I’m being presumptuous. Love, Katarina.

I don’t know how she had got hold of my new e-mail address, but I assume she’d got it from the Monkeyhouse. I don’t know how easy or difficult it is to find out information like that, but in any case I thought it over for quite a while before writing the following reply:

Hi Katarina! Great to hear from you, it’s been ages since the last time. But I really have no idea who that woman might have been. One thing is clear, of course: it wasn’t me. Martin and I have been down here in Morocco for quite a while now. He’s busy with some writing project or other as usual, and I’ve accompanied him mainly in order to avoid a Swedish winter. We’ll be staying here until May next year. I hope all is well with you and yours — let me know if you bump into me again! Love, Maria.

I hesitated for a while before writing that last sentence, but thought I might as well demonstrate that I was taking it lightheartedly. I sent it off and went over to Martin’s inbox.

Seven new messages. Four from people who were presumably colleagues of one kind or another, brief messages not requiring an answer — not immediately, at least. One was from a student complaining about the mark he had been given for an essay: it was several pages long, I’d had more than enough after about half of it and trashed it.

The two remaining messages were from Eugen Bergman and from G. I waited with G and read what Bergman had to say — I needed to write to him today as I hadn’t replied to his previous message.

My dear friend, I hope you have arrived safely and that everything comes up to expectations. Stockholm is grey and miserable: I must say I’m a bit envious of you. Any old halfwit should be able to cobble together something readable while spending winter in a nice warm place like the one you two have ended up in. The only news from the publishing world is that we’ve got our furry-gloved hands on a couple of so-called celebrity memoirs — an ice hockey legend and a reformed murderer — but they’re not the kind of thing you’d want to hear more about.

Do keep me informed: if nothing else let me know that all is going to plan.

All the best, Eugen B.

PS — by the way, some woman by the name of Gertrud something-or-other is keen to get in touch with you. Can I give her your e-mail address?

Before replying I tried to trace some previous messages Martin had sent to his publisher, but as I was doing everything via the internet this wasn’t possible. Old messages are kept for such a short time, and as usual I hadn’t taken our own computers with me this time either. Anyway, I bashed out a few lines to Bergman to say that we had indeed arrived, that all was well and that he didn’t need to worry. I was writing six to eight hours every day, and everything was proceeding as it should. The nearest town of any size was Rabat. I also said he was welcome to give my e-mail address to Gertrud, and that I thought I knew who she was.

When I was satisfied with this basic stuff and had sent it off, I opened the message from G.

Where are you? What are you up to? No reply to my last message, it’s a week and I’m getting frustrated. Please contact me. ASAP. G

ASAP? That meant ‘as soon as possible’, unless I was much mistaken.

‘What are you up to?’

I felt a little bit worried, but just then two young girls came in through the door. They greeted Alfred Biggs politely, glanced at me and Castor, then each of them sat down at a computer with their backs towards us. Alfred Biggs got up and went to help them with something.

I took a drink of my tea, and tried to concentrate. Stared at G’s message and did my best to convince myself that there was no need to worry. Without much success. I cursed the time we lived in, when it was possible for people to contact each other whenever they felt like it, no matter where they were in the world and what the circumstances were. And that people seemed to think they had a right to expect a reply no matter what. That you could contact anybody at all and demand a response more or less immediately.

And that you could even do so anonymously. Things used to be different, I thought. In the old days you could batter somebody to death in Säffle or Surahammar, or indeed in both those places, and then escape to Eslöv where nobody would be able to find you.

No doubt this G wasn’t anonymous as far as Martin was concerned, but that didn’t make the situation any easier. There was no mistaking the threat in the background, and if I didn’t reply it would presumably only make matters worse.

Or was I making a wrong judgement? I went back and looked at G’s previous message.

I fully understand your doubts. This is no ordinary cup of tea. Contact me so that we can discuss the matter in closer detail. Have always felt an inkling that this would surface one day. Best, G

That was hardly any less worrying. I sat there thinking and trying to formulate something for at least twenty minutes before managing to produce the following response:

No worries. Everything is fine, trust me. I am off to a secret place to work for six months. Will not read my e-mail on a regular basis. M

I sent it off, and just after my index finger had pressed the send-key — or perhaps just as I was doing so — I had a sudden impression of having done something rather different. That it was not a question of a centimetre-square button on a keyboard, but the trigger of a gun. It was such a totally surprising and disorientating image that for a few seconds I was not sure whether or not I was awake.

But then one of the girls laughed in front of her computer screen, and everything rapidly became normal again. Castor raised his head, looked at me and yawned. I switched off the computer and resolved to steer well clear of all inboxes for at least a week.

Just as I was about to leave the premises something occurred to me. I turned to Alfred Biggs and asked if he was well acquainted with Winsford and its surroundings.

‘I certainly think I can claim that,’ he said with his usual faint smile. ‘I wasn’t born here, but I’ve lived here for nearly forty years. Why do you ask?’

I hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t see that there was anything presumptuous in what I had in mind.

‘It’s just that I went past a house the other day, along the path that goes from the top of Winsford Hill down into the village — on the other side of Halse Lane, that is — and I saw a boy, or maybe a young man, standing in a window. A few hundred metres before you get to the pub — do you know which house I’m talking about?’

‘Just below the waterfall?’

‘Yes.’

‘An old, dreary-looking stone house standing all by itself?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘Ah yes. You must be referring to Heathercombe Cottage. It belongs to Mark Britton, poor chap.’

‘Mark. .?’

‘Mark Britton, yes. He lives there with his son. It’s a sad story, but I don’t want to spread gossip.’

He fell silent, evidently feeling that he had said too much already. If he didn’t want to spread gossip. I hesitated once again, but decided not to ask any more questions. Not to allow Pheme her say here as well. Instead I thanked him for the tea and the internet and said I would no doubt be putting in an appearance again a week or so from now.

‘Remember that you only need to knock on my door if there’s nobody here,’ he said again. ‘The red door, with the name Biggs on a plate.’

I promised not to forget. And so Castor and I left the Winsford Computer Centre with another question mark in our pockets.

Mark Britton, poor chap?