Burial

But he kept getting back on to it. Asking if I believe in ghosts.' 'In ghosts?' 'In ghosts.'

'And have you seen him since?'

'A couple of times.' 'And?'

'More of the same. He's, like, really depressed. Drinking heavily.

Absolutely fixated on Elise. I kind of convinced myself he was just a weirdo. Maybe things had gone wrong for him too -- after the party.

And he'd been stuck there ever since. Does that sound stupid?'

'Not at all. Do you still think that?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Look, I don't know about this sort of thing. But I started thinking about it. Bob coming back -- from wherever he'd been. It seemed so unimportant back then. But now. Jesus. I don't know. Do you think jf'know?'

She didn't answer.

He said, 'I feel embarrassed, talking about this.'

Outside, a bus went past.

Jacki said, 'Are you sure you know what you're doing here?'

'Absolutely not, no.'

You're setting wheels in motion. They grind slow at first, but once there're going, there's no way of stopping them. If--if-- it should ever happen that Bob Morrow was charged with something, then the lies in your statement will be important. That means Holly will find out you were at Mark Derbyshire's party. Can you deal with that?'

'What else can I do?'

'I told you this would come back to haunt you. I told you that years ago.'

'What can I say ? You were right.'

She took his hand and squeezed it, once, then let go.

'You got plans to see him again?'

'Tonight.'

'Then see him.'

'I don't know if I can.'

'You have to.'

'Do I have to wear a wire or something?'

She laughed at that, with more pity than scorn. 'I'm just - I don't know. I need to think about this. I need to check Bob Morrow's form and go over his statement. Probably there's nothing in all this. Almost certainly there's nothing in it. But if there is - big if-- then I don't want him freaked out because you haven't shown up. So see him tonight.

Make your excuses, leave early. But see him. We'll talk tomorrow.'

'I don't know if I can be in the same room as him.'

'You have to be. For Holly. In case there's something to this.'

Before leaving the pub, she shook his hand.

Secret talks were held about changing distributor once a year. Most of the personnel involved, including Nathan, pretended not to notice this.

After the meeting, Justin shook Nathan's hand and told him how well he'd done. Nathan said they should go for a drink, sometime soon.

At work, he splashed cold water on his face then went to attend his scheduled meeting. Secret talks were being held about changing distributors.

In the late afternoon, there was a marketing meeting pre-meeting.

He got through it, and later in the afternoon he dealt with a couple of difficult customer calls. At 6.15, he checked he had everything. He said goodbye to everyone in the office - he didn't know why, they only did that at Christmas. Then he went to get his car.

At the wheel of his car, he had an anxiety attack. He thought he was dying. He grabbed the steering wheel. He pulled over, on to a double yellow line, and listened to the radio until it had passed.

36

He parked outside Bob's house. He sat at the wheel, wondering if he could go through with it. On the radio, they were playing songs from the 1980s - Rick Astley, Mel Kim. It was stuff he'd despised at the time, but now it filled him with acute and painful nostalgia. He wondered how he'd come to be here, in this car, tonight. He listened to the beginning of the 7 p.m. news bulletin. He looked at his wristwatch.

At best, his timings were approximate. At worst, they were arbitrary.

Justin would have called what Nathan was doing 'winging it'.

Bob answered the door. He'd shaved, but his hair was a tangled mess, greasy at the scalp.

Clutching his briefcase, Nathan allowed himself to be led inside.

He trudged down the hallway in Bob's heavy, flat-footed wake, saying, 'Have you even left the house recently?'

'To get milk. Why?'

'You need some fresh air, mate.'

Bob snorted like a bull, and they went downstairs.

The bedsit was different. All the clutter had been pushed to the edges. So had most of the furniture. The carpet had been ripped up and dumped, half-rolled and folded, in the kitchenette. Bob had taken up the grey underlay. Patches of it still adhered to the concrete floor. On the concrete, Bob had drawn a large chalk circle. Outside the circle he'd etched a series of glyphs. They were elaborate, possibly zodiacal. Into the circle he'd moved a sofa and the television.

Nathan said, 'What the fuck is this?'

'It's protective.'

'Do I have to do anything, before I can step into it?'

Bob contemplated Nathan as if he were an idiot.

'No.'

'Okay.'

Nathan opened his briefcase, taking out a bottle of Laphroaig. ['Drink?'

'We need a clear head.'

He showed the bottle to Bob.

'This is fifteen years old.'

Bob considered it.

Nathan said, 'I can't do this without a drink, Bob. So please yourself.

; He walked to the counter. Earlier that day, he'd dissolved thirty tablets of temazepam in the whisky. Then he'd gone to a great deal of effort to hand-solder the bottle's metal seal, working on his knees in the front seat of his car. He now saw the job was not a good one: large globs of solder were visible at the joins. But he wanted Bob to hear the faint crack as the seal broke, so he turned to face him as he twisted it, like people do when opening champagne.

'There's no ice.'

Nathan poured Bob a tumbler, topping it up with a dribble from the tap. Then he poured himself a tiny measure. He filled the glass to the brim with water.

He stepped into the circle and passed Bob the glass.

'Cheers.'

Bob downed half the drink. He was surly and red-eyed. Nathan took the tiniest sip possible. He held it in his mouth. When Bob looked away, he spat it back.

'This tastes weird.'

'It's the peat. It's a very peaty whisky.'

Bob swirled the dregs in the bottom of the tumbler.

'It's got an aftertaste.'

'It's fifteen years old.'

'Whatever.'

Once again, Nathan spat back into his whisky as Bob drained his drink and set down the glass.

'Right. Let's get this over with.'

He walked over to the filthy bed. Stooped down and rooted around underneath. From underneath, he dragged an old Samsonite suitcase.

'You're going to put her in a suitcase?'

'What do you suggest?'

Nathan couldn't think of anything. A suitcase was the least suspicious thing in the world.

He shifted his weight a little and fished in his pocket, making sure the latex gloves were there, balled up. He took out his pack of cigarettes.

It was empty.

'I'm out of cigarettes.'

'Smoke mine.'

'I'll be back in five minutes.'

'We need to do this.'

'I can't do it without cigarettes.'

'Fine. Whatever. Hurry the fuck up.'

'Five minutes.'

'Okay. Whatever.'

'Lend me your keys?'

'Leave the door on the latch.'

Nathan clenched his teeth. Then he made his fists relax.

'Fair enough. See you in a minute.'

He walked upstairs. He left the front door on the latch. At the gate, he lost control. He began to shake.

He sat on the low wall until it had passed.

He walked to the corner shop. He fought the urge to hurry, even to run. It made his legs hurt.

He wondered how he'd ever get hold of the keys.

At the corner shop, he bought two packs of Marlboro Lights. He noticed the security camera, in the corner above the counter. A small monitor showed him in black and white, foreshortened. It exaggerated his little bald patch. He hoped the shopkeeper erased the videos overnight.