Thirty minutes later, Julianne arrives and waits for me to change.
‘I tried to call Helen,’ she says, adjusting my collar and doing up the buttons I’ve missed. ‘Nobody is answering.’
‘She’s probably at work.’
My left arm and leg are twitching involuntarily.
‘What about your medication?’
‘At home.’
She holds my hand, making it go still. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
In the car, watching the sunrise. Hills lost in the morning mist. The drive from Bath to Wellow takes only fifteen minutes. We have lived in the village for three and a bit years, having moved out of London at Julianne’s suggestion. Cheaper houses. Good schools. More room. It made sense. It makes less sense now that we’re not together.
The locals are friendly enough. We chat over the tops of cars at the petrol station and queue for milk and bread at Eric Vaile’s shop. They’re decent, conservative, obliging people, but I’ll never be one of them. Being single doesn’t help. Marriage is a passport to respectability in a small village. My visa has been revoked.
The sun is fully up. The cottages and terraces of Wellow seem whitewashed and scrubbed clean. It reminds me of where I grew up - a pit village in the foothills of Snowdonia - although it wasn’t so much whitewashed as coated in coal dust and full of mining families with lung diseases.
‘Can we drive past the Hegartys’ place?’
Julianne glances at me, hesitantly, her sharp fringe touching one eyebrow.
‘It won’t take a minute.’
She turns the corner and heads down Bull’s Hill. Ahead of us there are police cars, five of them. Two of them unmarked but sprouting radio aerials. They are parked outside Sienna’s house, almost blocking the road. In the midst of them I notice a familiar rust-streaked Land Rover. It belongs to Detective Chief Inspector Veronica Cray, head of the Major Crime Investigation Unit. MCIU.
They must have called her at home. Woken her. There are some supermodels who won’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand pounds. DCI Cray doesn’t stir unless someone is dead, defiled or missing.
Julianne’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
‘Can we stop?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘I want to know what happened.’
She shakes her head.
At that moment Ronnie Cray emerges from the house and lights a cigarette. Through exhaled smoke her eyes meet mine. Diffident. Unsurprised.
We’re past the house now. Julianne drives on.
‘You should have stopped.’
‘Don’t get involved, Joe.’
‘But this is Sienna’s family.’
‘And the police will handle things.’
There is an edge to her voice. A warning. We’ve been down this road before. We’ve had this argument. I lost.
Three minutes later we pull up outside the terrace. The engine idles and she takes a deep breath.
‘I’m going to let Charlie stay home from school today.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
Softening, she tells me to get some sleep and to call her later.
‘I will.’
Even before I pull out my keys I hear Gunsmoke whining and pawing at the back door. Walking along the passage to the kitchen, I unlock the side door and step into the garden, where the Labrador leaps and cavorts around my thighs, licking at my hands.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come home,’ I say, rubbing his ears.
He frowns at me. I swear. Then he dashes to the rear gate. The rabbits are waiting. Don’t I want to chase them? Hurry up.
First I need to shower and take my pills - the white one and the blue one. When the twitches are gone, I can hold my hand steady on the razor and lace up my boots. Buttons will find buttonholes and zippers will close easily. The body tremors are under control, although occasionally my left arm will launch itself upwards in my own Mexican wave.
In the six years since I was diagnosed, I have come to an understanding with Mr Parkinson. I no longer deny his existence or imagine that I’m the stronger man. Recognising this truth was a humbling experience - like bowing to a higher power.
My condition is not advanced yet, but every day is a balancing act with my medication, requiring meticulous timing. Too much Levadopa and I’m rocking, dipping and diving, incapable of crossing a room without visiting every corner. Too little and I grind to a stuttering halt like an engine without oil.
Exercise is recommended, which is why I walk every morning. Shuffle rather than stride. Not in all weathers. I avoid the rain. Dragging a sweater over my head, I step outside and pull the door shut. A tractor rumbles up Mill Hill Lane pulling a box trailer. The driver is Alasdair Riordan, a local farmer. His forearms are vibrating on the wheel.
‘Did you hear the news?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ray Hegarty is dead. They say his wee girl stabbed him. Fancy that, eh?’
Breath glides out of him in a pale cloud. He shakes his head and releases his foot from the clutch, jerking into motion. This passes as the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Alasdair Riordan - a man of few words and fewer thoughts.
Gunsmoke has already disappeared down the hill, doing forward reconnaissance through the undergrowth, sniffing at trees and holes in the ground. When I reach the bridge I see the police tape laced around tree trunks and snaking along the banks of the river. I remember finding Sienna and carrying her this far. It seems like weeks ago. It was less than twelve hours.
In a field on the far side, Gunsmoke lopes after a skittering rabbit that is far too nimble, jinking left and right before disappearing down a hole. He did once catch a rabbit, which seemed to surprise him so much that he let it go again. Maybe he’s opposed to blood sports, which would make him a curiosity in these parts.
Occasionally, he comes back to me, loping down the hill, pink tongue flapping, awaiting instructions. He gazes up at me as though I am the wisest of the wise. If only my children were so in awe of my intelligence. Reassured, he takes off again, sniffing at every cowpat and clump of grass.
Gunsmoke has made the past couple of years easier. He doesn’t judge me like I judge myself. He’s gets me out of bed. Makes me exercise. Eats my leftovers. Babysits Emma and initiates conversations with people.
I walk for a mile across the fields, following the old railway line, before turning and retracing boot prints on the dew-covered grass. I keep thinking about Ray Hegarty, a man I barely knew.
I once saw him drawn into a fight at the Fox and Badger. Six bikers came into the bar one Friday evening just after the rugby club raffle had been drawn. Ray had won the meat tray and was sitting with his prize. The lead biker stood over his table and asked him to move.
‘Plenty of spare seats,’ Ray replied.
The biker sized him up and liked what he saw. He was mistaken.
Leaning over the table, he casually spat in Ray’s pint of cider. Before he had time to straighten, one of Ray’s hands had shot out and gripped him by the neck as the other smashed the pint glass and pressed the jagged base into his throat.
Calmly, Ray whispered in his ear, ‘There are six of you and one of me. Looking at those odds, I’m going to die, but here’s the thing . . . you’ll be dying first.’
A thin trickle of blood ran down the biker’s neck, over his Adam’s apple, which was rising and falling as he swallowed. Another liquid trickled over his boots and on to the worn floorboards.
The scene stayed that way for maybe twenty minutes until the police arrived from Radstock. It made Ray a legend. Hector bolted a special plaque at the corner of the bar, which said, ‘Reserved for Ray’ and guaranteed him at least one free pint every time he dropped by.