Davison. I stand corrected.
Quite, absolutely.
Well, it’s just that I would dispute whether motorcycle scramble racing can be considered to be a farming activity. Harvesting is one thing, even allowing for the fact that at times it went on until two or three o’clock in the morning. Constructing a new intensive poultry-production unit is also one thing; notwithstanding one’s own personal views on the merits of such a farming method, it is still classifiably a farming activity. But motorcycle scramble racing is just quite another thing altogether, I’m sure we can agree. I mean, look, I understand the need for economic diversification as much as the next man, especially in this day and age. I really do. I just wonder whether there’s such a thing as being too diverse.
Oh, I’d hardly know where to begin. It wasn’t just the noise, although that was of a peculiarly piercing and high-pitched quality which I have to tell you was just about consistently unbearable. But noise is one thing. No, it was more the fumes, and the dust, and the type of people it brought to the area. I mean, the dust was unbelievable. The situation was extremely unpleasant, at best.
Intolerable was a word I used earlier, you’re quite right. I stand by that.
Oh, now hang on. By saying type of people I simply meant to refer to the behaviour in terms of road-use, parking on verges and blocking driveways and bringing in large vehicles which the road there simply isn’t designed to be capable of coping with. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions. Far from it. This whole thing had nothing whatsoever to do with that. It wasn’t the late-night music we objected to, nor the type of language we sometimes heard being used in the designated camping area which happened to be in the field adjacent to our garden. No. This was simply a question of the dust, and the fumes, and the overall intrusion into and disturbance of our lives.
Yes. That is my understanding of the prognosis.
Quite.
Well, yes, of course I would agree that Mr Davidson’s life has now been disturbed, absolutely. But I think that’s rather an emotive way of framing the situation, if you don’t mind my saying so. The outcome of our actions on that day cannot in any way reflect upon the reasons we felt we had for taking those actions. Look, the situation had been recurring for months. And on this occasion, with guests at the house who were able to see the situation anew and emphasise to myself just how utterly unacceptable it was; well, the phrase I recall being used was this will not stand. You know, this simply will not stand. A line needed to be drawn. I had guests in my home, and I was effectively being humiliated by the situation. And so that was the background to the decision which was taken by myself and the other three gentlemen in question.
Possibly it was an emotive decision, yes. I do accept that.
Yes. Yes I do. I do believe it was a proportional response. Clearly the eventual outcome of the resulting chain of events was tragically disproportionate. But our original actions were reasonable, I feel, under the circumstances which I’ve gone to some lengths to outline for you today. And look, you know, the criminal proceedings relating to the earth-moving equipment, and the taking without consent thereof, have been concluded to the satisfaction of the Crown Prosecution Service. So that matter is actually now closed, I believe.
Right. I understand. Indeed.
Well, look, you know, regret is a very difficult word. It’s a complicated word. Do I, in all hindsight, wish things had turned out very differently? Of course I do. We all do, fervently. Would I have undertaken an alternative course of action had what we now know to have been the outcome been clear to me at that time? Absolutely I would. But the fact remains, the outcome wasn’t at all clear to any of us at that moment in time. As I’ve said, we were operating very much on a spur-of-the-moment basis. Something had to be done. The situation was intolerable. Of course I regret what eventually came to be seen as the outcome of the chain of events which the four of us perhaps somewhat inadvertently set in motion. But I’m just not sure I can accept the premise that this means I should regret my actions at that particular juncture, or the very limited decision-making process which led to those actions. Would an expression of regret change one single iota of the outcome of that day, or the impact upon Mr Davidson and his family? Of course not. Would such an expression somehow absolve myself of the burden of responsibility which I so rightly bear upon my own shoulders? Quite frankly, I fail to see why it should.
Look, of course I feel a sense of sadness about what happened to Mr Davidson. Of course I do. But this apprehension that somehow we should all go around apologising left, right and centre for a whole host of actions which clearly we are completely powerless to go back and rectify; well, I just don’t buy it. I absolutely don’t. None of us do.
Davison. Right. Of course.
Years Of This, Now
Grantham
She sat beside the bed and watched him breathe. She pulled her chair closer, the metal legs scraping across the floor. She’d been here barely ten minutes, and already she wanted to leave.
She should be praying now, she supposed. But she didn’t know what she would be praying for, if she were to pray honestly; whether she would be praying for his healing or simply asking not to have to be here at all.
The machines beside his bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.
She tried to remember when she’d last prayed for anybody. The thought of it seemed almost ridiculous, now. She reached out and held his hand. It was warm. She held it between her two hands, and she thought she felt some small pressure in response. Was that possible? She closed her eyes. She opened her eyes and looked around. The door to the main part of the ward was open, but nobody was watching. She could hear the nurses talking in their little side-room, further down the corridor. She could hear a television beside one of the beds in the ward. She turned back to Michael, and closed her eyes. Keep him safe, she said, silently. It was all she could think to say. Keep him safe and well. Keep him on this road to recovery. Or, no; keep him.
She opened her eyes, shocked at herself.
She leaned forward and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. It was getting long again. And he needed a shave. She wondered whether the nurses would do that. She pulled the sheet a little higher up his chest. She watched his breathing, his stillness. It was a long time since she’d seen him as relaxed as this. Even his sleep had seemed restless and tense of late; his arms wrapped round himself, his jaw clamped shut, his fists clenched. The doctor had warned him, in a way; if not of this exactly then of something. You’re too busy, the doctor had said, too stressed. You’re in need of a break, in need of some exercise, in need of a better diet. In need, also, of being able to pay attention when someone who knew what they were talking about said something like that, rather than thinking he was too young or too strong or just too bloody blessed for it to apply to him.
No, that wasn’t fair. Michael had paid attention, but he’d had no idea what to do with the information. I can’t have a break, he’d insisted. How can I have a break? How would the parish go on without me, at a time like this? There wasn’t a time when it hadn’t been a time like this. She wondered whether it was a male trait, this notion of being trapped by one’s own indispensability, or if it was something exclusive to Michael.
She shouldn’t be angry. It wasn’t fair. He was dedicated to his job. That was a good thing. The world needed people who were dedicated to their jobs. That church needed a vicar who was dedicated to the parish, finally. But she was tired of it now. She was tired of being left alone while he did these things. This new parish was supposed to have been a chance for them both to take things a little more slowly. It was supposed to have been a refreshing change after the urban pressures of the last parish; a nice quiet country church to see them both into retirement. Long walks. Coffee mornings. Ladies seeing to the flowers. The occasional trip into the city to go to the gallery, the cinema, the restaurants.
Whereas instead he’d managed to find a country parish which had years of problems stack
ed up, where the church had to be kept locked and the congregation was unwilling to lift a finger and all the hard-luck stories from miles around still managed to find their way to the vicarage door.
She pictured him being alone when it had happened, laid out on the vestry’s cold stone floor. He’d managed to reach his mobile phone, it seemed, with one side of his body numbed into sudden immobility and a terrible fear clouding his brain, and when he’d fumbled for the redial button her work number had been the first to come up. It was the secretary in her department office who’d called the ambulance. I could hardly hear him, she told Catherine afterwards. It wasn’t even a whisper.
And stroke was such a strange word for someone to have given this thing. It was misleading, underhand. Not that she could see much of the violence which had been done to him. There was nothing of the awful drooping grimace she’d seen on others who’d suffered strokes. Perhaps that would come later. For now, he just looked rested. As handsome as ever, in fact. He’d always been a handsome man, his looks seeming only to deepen with age instead of sagging and softening the way hers had done. She had been beautiful once, she thought – he’d told her often enough that she’d believed him, eventually – but that was mostly gone now, her figure rounded, her hair dulled, her skin marked and lined by the years. It felt as though their pairing had grown more uneven over the years, not less. And now there was this.
Because there would be years of this, now. If she stayed. His frailty, his dependence, his doing the things the doctors had told him not to and then looking to her to stop him. Everyone looking to her. People asking her gently how he was, when he would be back at work, whether he was thinking about early retirement. Adding And how are you? only as an occasional afterthought.
She heard the low hum and squeak of a floor-polishing machine moving along the corridor. Whoever was watching the television in the main ward turned it up a little to compensate. Somebody leaned through the doorway, apologised, and disappeared. The machines beside Michael’s bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.
She tried to imagine being somewhere else. Being contacted after the fact by his sister, or a doctor, or even by some other woman. Having to decide whether to visit. Having that choice. She found it impossible to actually picture not being here with him. To picture being with someone else when, as would surely happen again, the telephone call came. Somebody saying, It’s Michael. Somebody passing on the news of Michael being in a hospital bed once more, with wires taped to his chest and an oxygen mask across his face. She wondered how that would work, when it came to it. Whether this someone else would give her a lift to the hospital, whether they would wait downstairs or come up with her, whether there would be some residual awkwardness, still, or only concern, affection, love. Would they all be friends, in fact? Is that how these things worked? Would they have, what was it called, moved on?
The someone else was the hardest part to imagine. Some other woman. Some other man. It seemed impossible, now.
And what was all this in aid of, anyway. Where was she going with all this. She should just be praying for him to get better. Instead of all this speculation. All this might be and could be. Why was she even allowing herself? Hers wasn’t the sort of life where choices presented themselves, and held equal weight, and remained dangling within reach. Other people had these lives, it appeared. Other people were able to choose not to live with regret.
This would be the most selfish thing she had done, by far. She wasn’t sure, now, whether she would be able to go through with it. But it didn’t need to be anything she was going through with, really. Not initially. She was just going on a retreat. It had been booked for months. Nobody would think badly of her for going. Michael might not even know.
Michael might not know anything again.
She wondered how long his sister would take to get here, and whether Michael would be awake by then. She imagined his sister reading the letter she was going to send once she got there; what her reaction would be, what she would tell Michael. She wondered whether she and her husband would move into the vicarage for a time, or whether they’d persuade Michael to move in with them.
She wondered whether anyone would forgive her for this, whether they would understand. She doubted it. But doubt no longer seemed like a good enough reason for not doing something.
The machines did what they needed to do. His chest rose, and fell.
She tucked his hands back under the sheet and stood up to leave, putting on her coat and picking up her suitcase and pouring him a glass of water from the jug on the bedside locker, in case he was thirsty when he woke up.
The Remains
Friskney
Are believed to still be intact. Are understood to be within an area of approximately seventeen square miles. Are believed to have been concealed. Are either partially or completely buried. Are likely to be without clothes or jewellery or other possessions. May not be suitable for visual identification. Will be treated as a critical evidential scene. Have been the subject of much intrusive and unhelpful press speculation. Continue to be a key focus of questioning. Will be located using a combination of aerial surveillance and ground-penetrating radar. May be beautifully preserved, tanned and creased and oiled, by the action of the rich peated ground. May be laid in a resting position with legs together and hands folded and head turned gently to one side. Are of course still a concern to everyone in the department. May be intact. Have continued to be a topic of periodic speculation from time to time over the years. May be crammed into a box or bag or case. May need to be identified by recourse to dental records. May be wholly or partially lost due to action by animal or animals. May be wrapped in a silken winding sheet and buried with jewellery and other possessions pressed neatly into the folded hands. Must be in a location known to person or persons as yet unidentified. Could well be recoverable given the relinquishing of certain key details known to person or persons unknown. May have been visited from time to time by the perpetrator or individuals known to the perpetrator. Are either partial or complete. May ultimately need to be recovered using a team from the forensic archaeology department. Are not currently a priority in this challenging period of strained resources. Have yet to be found. Continue to be the subject of an open case file. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by water. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by earth. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not give you what you need. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have no further purpose to serve. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by fire. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not bring her back. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found
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The Cleaning
Holbeach
He had no idea where to begin. So much had been ruined. He stood in the hallway and felt the carpet sinking wetly beneath his boots. The smell was rising, already. She peered in from the front path, her arms folded, saying she didn’t even think she wanted to come in. He waited. What did she know. She had no idea.
‘There’s nothing in there, is there? What if something’s got in?’
Of course there was nothing in there. The building had been checked and secured. But she wouldn’t come in until he’d looked. So he turned away from the door and walked through the hall into the kitchen, the playroom, the lounge. He went upstairs, keeping close to the wall as they’d been warned to, and into the bathroom and each of the bedrooms in turn. He stood at the window of the children’s bedroom, at the back. The other gardens were piled high with rotten carpets and sofas and beds. It was weeks since the waters had finally receded. It felt strange to be looking out on solid ground. He remembered the last time he’d been here, holed up with the children, waiting for the boats to come, trying to make a game of it. He looked at one of the girl’s paintings, tacked to the wall. She’d painted it a few days before the storms had come. It showed the three of them eating their dinner, him and the girl and the boy. It was spotted with mould and curled almost in half. It would have to go. All these things would have to go. He walked through to the front bedroom and looked down at her. She was stepping from foot to foot, her hands clasped together. He opened the window, and she looked up, sharply.