‘I should go home,’ she had said. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am. They’ll be worried.’
‘Sod them!’ he had said, and pulled her roughly by the arm, past the carnival floats over the dark and trampled grass to the fair. She had never liked the speed of the big rides. Even the galloping horses made her feel sick, she said, trying to make a joke of it, trying to lighten his mood. But he would not listen to her. He pulled her with him into the waltzers and sat with his arm around her, his fingernails digging into her shoulder, his head very close to hers. He seemed to take a delight in her terror, smiling when she screamed. Then he took her on to the Big Wheel. She gripped the safety rail and shut her eyes. The chair rose slowly as other riders got on beneath them. When they reached the highest point of the circle he rocked the chair violently so she was certain he would tip them both out.
The centre of the town was so choked with traffic that Hilary Masters decided to park her car at the social services office. It would be easier to walk to her flat which was in a new block close to the river. The fresh air seemed to make Theresa more alert, but Hilary walked close beside her, protectively. It took longer than she had expected to reach the town centre, she had forgotten that the park had been closed to the public. When they got there the carnival parade was already over and she was unreasonably upset that she could not show Theresa the decorated lorries.
‘Never mind,’ she had said, as if speaking to a child. ‘There’s always next year.’
‘I want to find Joss,’ Theresa said as they crossed the bridge. ‘I’m going to the fair to find Joss.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Hilary said dispassionately.
‘I’m going to find Joss,’ Theresa repeated. ‘If you don’t come with me I’ll go by myself.’
So Hilary followed Theresa on to the field. She hadn’t been to the fair since she was a child, she said. It wasn’t her scene. The place seemed fraught with danger and she looked, with her social worker’s disapproval, at two kids who were clowning around at the top of the Big Wheel.
When it got dark Edward Cassidy could stand waiting for his son no longer. He knew sleep would be impossible. He could not bear to shut the curtains because he wanted to catch the first glimpse of the headlights of Patrick’s car, but the flashing lights of the fairground threw strange shapes on the walls and everywhere he thought he saw the shadow of Dorothea, laughing at him. He knew he was exhausted, but he knew too that he could not stay in the vicarage.
He left the light on in the hall and the door open and went outside. Even in the vicarage garden the noise overwhelmed him. The screech of machinery and of amplified pop music seemed unnaturally loud. He walked down the drive into the busy town centre and was swallowed up by the crowd. He saw everything in sharp outline, heard everything clearly – distinct phrases spoken by people he passed in the street, the strain of the Northumbrian pipes which came from an open pub window. He was watching and listening for Patrick, hoping to see the familiar lanky silhouette marching up the street in front of him, hoping to catch a few words spoken in a voice he recognised. He wanted to tell Patrick that they had both been fools.
In the small house in Armstrong Street Walter Tanner lay on his bed, wide awake. The police had wanted him to move out for the night, had even suggested that they might put him up in a hotel if he had nowhere else to go, but with uncharacteristic spirit Walter had stood up to them. This was his home, he said. Body or no body in the bath. Despite the horror of it all he was happier here than anywhere else. He was too far from the fairground to be troubled by noise inside the house – he could hear the music but only faintly. Yet still he found it impossible to relax. Images whirled into his mind like the figures on a carousel. There was his mother, peevish and complaining, holding taut between her hands the wire she had used in the shop to cut the cheese; there was Dorothea, dressed as she had been on one of her visits to him in a white sleeveless sundress, held up only by thin straps at the shoulder; there was Clive Stringer, moronic and cunning, bent double with laughter. Walter got out of bed, walked to the window and opened it, thinking some air might help him to sleep. As he pushed against the rusty catch, there must have been a lull in the music, because when the window finally swung wide open he quite clearly heard a woman scream, and then there was silence.
Ramsay walked quickly but at the end of the bridge he stopped to call Hunter again to see if there was any news about the warrant.
‘They’ve been seen!’ Hunter said. He was very excited. ‘In the fair. But it’s a madhouse in there and our blokes lost them in the crowd.’
‘That’s all right,’ Ramsay said. ‘Pull all our people out and cover both ends of Front Street. They’ll have to come that way and it’ll be easier to get them on their way out.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Hunter asked. Ramsay knew his sergeant would like to be there for the arrest. He would hope for some dramatic chase so he could show off in front of the crowd.
‘Supervise the search,’ Ramsay said. He sensed Hunter’s disappointment but insisted. Hunter would be mercilessly thorough and he still thought they would need Dorothea’s belongings to secure a conviction. ‘Get in touch if you find anything.’
Suddenly he felt very tired. He longed for it all to be over. The whole town, it seemed, was a madhouse. Two women in fancy dress walked towards him in the middle of the road. Each had an arm around the other’s shoulders, and they did a shuffling dance which ended when they collapsed into giggles. Somewhere, someone was singing ‘The Blaydon Races’, tunelessly, very loud.
He walked on, ignoring his own advice, pushing through the crowd on to the fairground. On the dodgems boys in black leather did battle in earnest silence, leaning forward over the driving wheels, bracing themselves for the shock of collision. The cars squealed as the boys braked and turned and blue sparks cracked at the end of the power lines. Some of the smaller stalls and the roundabouts for young children were being dismantled, but the crowd seemed reluctant to leave. Still people queued to ride the Pirate Ship, the waltzers and the Big Wheel, and while they were prepared to pay the fair stayed open. Ramsay stood by the Pirate Ship, scanning the faces and watched as it began to rock, at first slowly like a large version of an old-fashioned swinging boat, then more deeply in sickening plunges until it made a complete revolution. He turned away, no longer interested, certain that there was no one on the ride he recognised.
Ramsay saw the two figures at the top of the Big Wheel from a distance, and thought at first that they were children messing about. He wondered angrily what sort of parents allowed their bairns to be out at a time like this, then thought he had no right to judge. If he and Diana had produced children they would probably have been uncontrollable. He walked on, moving backwards and forwards over the litter-strewn grass to cover as much ground as possible, scanning the crowd at head height, vaguely aware that the Big Wheel was moving. He came back to the Big Wheel from a different angle just as it was stopping again. The operator, a short, square man with huge hands was shouting:
‘Last ride, please, ladies and gentlemen. Last ride.’
And there was a jostle in the queue as they all pushed forward anxious not to miss out. Very slowly the wheel moved round to allow people off two at a time and the new riders on.
Ramsay walked down the length of the queue, looking at the faces, then began to move away, thinking he would join his colleagues in Front Street. He had an irrational fear that without his supervision they would make a mess of the arrest.