The Living and the Dead in Winsford

51

‘That stalker of yours,’ says Mark Britton. ‘What’s happened to him? You haven’t mentioned him for a while.’

We are out walking in Barle Valley. The astonishing thing is that Jeremy is here as well: he’s walking about ten metres behind us with enormous earphones on his head and his hands dug deep down into his pockets. Mark says he can hardly ever persuade him to leave the house. Castor is walking just behind Jeremy, but when we turn back shortly afterwards and head for home, they change places.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen him for several weeks. Not since I told you about him, I think.’

It’s the fifteenth of January, and that’s about right. It must be nearly a month since I last saw that silver-coloured Renault.

‘Hm,’ says Mark, kicking at a stone. I can see that he has more to say on that subject.

‘Why do you ask?’

He hesitates. Turns round to check that Jeremy is keeping up with us. Adjusts his scarf.

‘I think I might have seen him,’ he says in the end.

I stop dead. ‘What do you mean? Did you see him? Where?’

‘It was a few days ago,’ says Mark, trying to look apologetic for some reason. ‘In Dulverton. His car was parked outside the butcher’s, and he came out of there while I was watching. Got into the car and drove away.’

‘He?’

‘Yes, a man. In his sixties I’d say, or thereabouts. I didn’t get much of an idea of what he looked like, I was on the other side of the road. And he was wearing a hat. But it was a hire car from Sixt, and I noted down the registration number.’

‘Really?’ I suddenly feel all of a tremble. As if I couldn’t possibly take another step forward. He can see there’s something wrong.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that I suddenly felt dizzy.’

‘Dizzy? You don’t usually have attacks of dizziness, do you?’

‘It’s over and done with now. What did you do with the registration number?’

I can hear that he didn’t leave it at that.

He clears his throat. ‘I chased it up,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I say. ‘How?’

‘I phoned the rental firm and spun them a yarn. I said I thought the driver of that car had reversed into mine, and I wanted to contact him. They were a bit hesitant at first, but when I told them I was a police officer in Taunton and that they should come to the point they backed down. They checked the documentation, and it transpired that the car had been rented on a long-term contract by a person of Polish origins.’

‘By a person of Polish. .?’

My field of vision shrinks to a tunnel. I clench my fists and take a deep breath.

‘Yes. But surely your stalker doesn’t have any Polish connections, does he? Didn’t you say his name was Simmel? The fact was. .’

‘What was it?’

He laughs. ‘The fact was that they couldn’t read his name. It was long and Polish and awkward. But if I wanted to seek compensation I should just send them a notification of damage form. Then they would chase him up via his passport number — that appears to be the routine. I thanked them and said I would think it over. What do you think?’

‘What do I think?’

‘Yes. Surely this must suggest that it isn’t him.’

I look at him and try to take a grip of myself. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s just that I was so surprised. . I haven’t thought about him for so long.’

But just now there’s no room for anything else in my mind. That’s what happens, I tell myself: once the lid is lifted far too much comes rushing out. What would Gudrun Ewerts say about this?

I put the lid back on and we start walking again. We continue walking along the river bank, but stop when we realize that Jeremy is no longer following behind us. We retrace our steps and soon find him. He’s stopped in the middle of the path for no obvious reason. He’s standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets, staring into space. Castor is sitting beside him, just a metre away.

‘Good Lord!’ says Mark. ‘I must get myself a dog, I really must.’

I’m spending too much time with Mark Britton. It’s not for my sake I say that, but for his. I have lost count of how many times I’ve woken up at Heathercombe Cottage, but soon I’ll be leaving here. I know he hopes that our relationship will continue, even if we don’t talk about it. And a continuation must involve my returning to Exmoor. It’s naturally out of the question for him to consider moving anywhere else with Jeremy. He has made that decision some time ago, once and for all.

But I don’t want to encourage him to think I shall return. Not yet. My feeling for magic thoughts forbids it: you mustn’t be over-hasty, mustn’t jump into square seven when you are in square three. It’s possible that Mark understands this — not in detail, of course, and not expressed in that way; but he seems to have an instinct that tells him he mustn’t rush things. Not to make agreements and force me to make commitments, there would be no point. I’m grateful for that: if I had to cobble together any more detailed lies it would be difficult. What isn’t spelled out is more vital: I only have two more weeks in Darne Lodge, and after having had all the time in the world this past late autumn and winter, the days have suddenly started to become crammed full of all kinds of tasks that need seeing to.

I must finish the play. I must send off a series of carefully worded e-mails to a series of people: Bergman, Gunvald, Synn, Christa and last but not least — Soblewski. I haven’t heard from him for ages, but the day after tomorrow I shall send my (Martin’s) comments on Anna Słupka’s short story (which I’m going to read this evening at long last) together with a quite gloomy report on my (Martin’s) writing, and masses of depressing thoughts. I obviously can’t bring up that unidentified body again, but I hope that he remembers my question and doesn’t leave me in the dark.

If he doesn’t give me any kind of answer, I must seriously wonder if something is not as it should be. Or am I thinking along the wrong lines?

It’s Tuesday today, Mark and I have agreed not to be in touch until Saturday, when it’s my turn to treat him to dinner at The Royal Oak. I think we both take it for granted that we shall end up at his house, as does Castor, and perhaps even Jeremy.

Incidentally Jeremy is a welcome excuse for me not having to provide dinner in Darne Lodge. Mark has done no more than pop in through the door, and I intend to leave it at that. I have quite a few items of men’s clothing and other things difficult to explain away hanging around the house, and of course I can’t get rid of them. It is essential for me to get home with all Martin’s belongings intact.

The thought of me actually sitting down in the car and driving away from here together with Castor fills me with equal doses of exhilaration and dread. No, that’s not true: at this point the feelings of dread are greater, significantly greater; but I hope the balance will be roughly equal when the time actually comes.

*

E-mail from me to Christa, the seventeenth of January:

Dear Christa, I hope all is well with you and Paolo. Down here in Morocco, I’m afraid things are not all that good. Perhaps it was daft to come here in the first place: I’m beginning to think that Martin and I should have done the sensible thing and gone our separate ways after all those goings-on. It’s not that we quarrel, but Martin is suffering from a terrible attack of depression: he doesn’t want to talk about it because he’s such a pig-headed individual, but I’m beginning to fear that he might do something silly. I don’t want to burden you with all this, but I’ve got nobody to talk to down here. I’ll just say that it’s very hard going, and ask you to keep your fingers crossed on our account. Luckily something has turned up: the woman who is renting our house in Nynäshamn is having to break the contract because her mother has fallen seriously ill in Argentina, so there’s nothing to stop us going back home. I’m trying to persuade Martin we should do that: there’s nowhere here in Morocco where he could get decent treatment, and I really do think he should go into an appropriate institution or at the very least get professional psychiatric help. He hasn’t been able to cope with the work he hoped to do down here, and that is of course a significant cause. But as I said, please keep your fingers crossed for me, Christa, and hope that I shall be able to persuade Martin to go back home with me. Love, Maria

E-mail from Martin to Soblewski:

Dear Sob. Let’s go ahead with Miss Słupka. No doubt a real talent. As for myself, though, I have huge misgivings regarding my talent. My work is going to pieces and so am I. Fuck Herold and Hyatt. I will give it a last push by trying to write a play about it, but not sure it will work. Sorry to have to tell you this but it is unfortunately the truth. I drink too much, have taken up smoking again and Maria is very worried about me. So am I. M

E-mail from Martin to Eugen Bergman:

Dear Eugen. Thank you for your kind thoughts. I’ve gone to the dogs, and have even started smoking again. I think we’ll have to go home, I can’t go on like this for much longer. M

That will do for today. But if I haven’t got a response from Soblewski by Monday I shall have to take steps different from those I had planned. I sit there in the centre for some time thinking about that while reading news from the rest of the world without much in the way of enthusiasm. If in fact I am now going to crawl out of my hideaway, I had better make an effort to inform myself about what’s going on out there. But it’s a pretty depressing thought.

I also try — for the twentieth time since he told me about it — to come to terms with what Mark said he had seen outside that butcher’s shop in Dulverton, but only come to the same conclusion as I have reached nineteen times before.

I have never seen Martin wearing a hat.

Mark said the man was in his sixties. Professor Soblewski must be at least seventy.

I already knew that the person who had hired the car was a Pole, bearing in mind that newspaper on the car dashboard. The fact that there was also a copy of the Swedish Dagens Nyheter. . well, I decide to leave it at that.

I have no desire to dwell on the fact that these are precisely the conclusions I want to draw. The time for hesitation and doubt has passed.

And in that depressing short story by Słupka there was just one line — one single line — that jarred. The suggestion that women don’t realize they are more cold-blooded than men until after they have passed the menopause.

That was written by a young woman. How does she know? I leave the Winsford Community Computer Centre, skirt round the church and walk up Ash Lane towards Mr Tawking’s house in order to collect my two hundred pounds. It’s beginning to get dark, and is drizzling slightly. I note that this is my last Thursday evening but one in Winsford, and the village is displaying itself in its gloomiest possible guise.

I knock on the door but nobody comes to open it. I can see that lights are on in two windows, so I think this is a bit odd. To make things worse, Castor is standing beside me and growling, something he never normally does. I knock several more times and think I can hear a noise inside the house. I pause for a moment, then turn the handle.

It’s not locked, and we go in.

‘Mr Tawking?’

He’s lying on the floor on his stomach with his arms underneath him. I can see his left eye as his head is turned to one side. He gives me a terrified look, so it’s obvious he’s alive. Castor growls and keeps his distance.

‘Mr Tawking?’

His head moves slightly and he blinks.

A stroke? I wonder. Cerebral haemorrhage? Heart attack?

Or is that just three different names for the same thing?

I realize that it’s not a question I need to think about, hurry back out and ring the neighbouring doorbell. A woman in her forties answers. I explain the situation.

‘Ah well,’ she says. ‘It’s just a matter of time. But I’m a nurse, I’ll take care of the situation. Bill, take that bloody chicken out of the oven, we’ll have to eat later!’

She smiles at me and is already ringing for an ambulance. I can see that the chances of my ever getting back that two hundred pounds are very small.