Later, just after nine, there was a modern version of Great Expectations on BBC, starring Gwyneth Paltrow. Banks liked the original Dickens novel, and he liked Gwyneth Paltrow, the way she sort of lit up the screen when she walked on.
Besides, he found watching television – anything on television – a great way of sorting out his thoughts and coming up with new hypotheses. The TV seemed to numb a part of his mind and leave the rest free to wander and make wild connections without too many inhibitions. At least that was the way it felt to him, and it had worked before.
Mark waited by the roadside for five minutes until he was certain Clive was gone, then he opened the wallet. It contained two hundred and fifty pounds in cash, all in nice crisp twenties and tens, fresh from the Cashpoint, along with credit cards, photos of a smiling woman and three blond children – Clive’s family, no doubt – and a number of receipts for petrol and meals. Nowhere did it say that Clive was a doctor, and Mark guessed he was probably just a traveling salesman. And a pervert. Worried that the police would be after him after the incident, though, he thought of striking out across open country and avoiding the roads. But there was no way, he realized, that Clive was going to report what had happened. Even if he said Mark just attacked him in order to rob him, Mark could make enough noise to cause problems. And maybe others would come forward. Clive must know this; Mark doubted he was the first victim. And there was that smiling woman with the three blond children to consider. No, he thought, he was safe for the moment.
It was getting dark and he still had a long way to go. The moors became even eerier as the light faded and mist settled in patches. He knew he’d get lost if he headed for open country, probably die of exposure. Mark thought he could hear a dreadful howling in the distance. Weren’t there ghostly hounds on the moors? Or werewolves? He thought about that film again, the one where the American tourist got bitten by a wolf on the moors and turned into a werewolf, and realized he had seen it when he was back with his mum and Crazy Nick, not at the squat. Or seen some of it. When Crazy Nick saw Mark was enjoying the film, he declared it was rubbish and switched to boxing. After that, Mark pretty much lost interest in television. There was no point, as he never got to watch anything he wanted anyway. He shivered and started to walk toward the nearest village, Helmsley, which he didn’t think was very far.
When he got to the village, the lights in the houses and pubs were all on. It looked like a twee, tourist sort of place from what Mark could make out as he walked down the main street. He checked for Clive’s car in the main car park and by the roadside, but thankfully couldn’t see it. He laughed at himself, not sure why he was so paranoid. Clive had taken off like a bat out of hell and he wouldn’t stop until he got to Scarborough. Mark had scared the shit out of him. Mark looked around to see that no one was watching, then he stopped and dropped Clive’s wallet, minus the cash, down a grate.
There was a newsagent’s shop still open at the corner, and Mark went in and bought a packet of cigarettes, twenty Benson amp; Hedges, seeing he was so flush, and a copy of the evening paper, just to see if there was any news about the fires. He was hungry and the cafés were all closed, the way they always seemed to be at teatime, so he ducked into a friendly-looking pub. He went first to the toilet, where he was able at least to clean up his hands and face and brush some of the muck off the suede overcoat. It was badly stained from his fall on the wet grass, though, and there was nothing he could do about that. Other than the overcoat, which he took off and carried over his arm so no one could see the stains, he reckoned he didn’t look so bad.
Nobody paid him much attention as he sipped his pint of Guinness and ate the ham-and-cheese sandwich, which was all he was able to get there in the evening. The newspaper didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. The second fire was a caravan, and another man had been killed. Nobody would come right out and say it, but Mark could tell they thought it was deliberate, and that it had something to do with the fire on the boats.
It was half past six. The pub was warm and the log fire crackling in the hearth made him feel drowsy. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to go anywhere. He lit his first cigarette in ages and inhaled the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Heaven.
But what to do next? He knew he was about fourteen miles from the nearest railway station, back in Thirsk, but thought maybe he could get a bus from Helmsley to Scarborough. He’d have to find somewhere to stay when he got there, though, and that could be a problem if it was late and dark, especially as he was alone and without luggage or transport. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, even though he was almost a hundred percent certain Clive wouldn’t report him to the police. He also had the killer to worry about, he realized. Somehow or other, he might have found out where Mark was, where he was going. He would have to be careful.
Then he saw the notice behind the bar: “B and B.” The landlord had been friendly enough when he served Mark, even apologizing for the lack of hot meals, so Mark walked over to the bar and asked if there were any rooms vacant.
The landlord smiled. “It’s not often we’re full up at this time of year,” he said. “I suppose it’ll be a single you’re wanting?”
“Yes,” said Mark.
“I think we might be able to accommodate you. Rachel.”
The woman helping behind the bar came over.
“Show this young lad the single, would you? Number six.”
Rachel, a pretty young woman with fair hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion, blushed and said, “Of course, Mr. Ridley.” She turned to Mark. “Come on.”
Mark followed her up the narrow creaking staircase. At the top she opened a heavy door. The room looked magnificent to Mark, and he realized he must have been standing on the threshold with his mouth open. Rachel was expecting him to look around and say something.
“How much is it?” he managed to ask.
“Twenty-eight pounds, bed and breakfast,” she said. “Breakfast’s downstairs, between eight and nine o’clock. Well, do you want it?”
“Yes,” said Mark, reaching in his pocket for the money.
“Tomorrow, silly,” Rachel said. “You pay when you leave.”
“Oh. Right,” Mark said, amazed that someone would trust him not to run off without paying.
Rachel handed him the key and explained about the various locks and how he had to make sure he was in before they closed up the pub. He didn’t even think he was going out, so that was no problem.
“Where’s your rucksack?” she asked.
“Don’t have one,” he said.
She looked at him as if she thought he was daft, then shrugged and left, shutting the door behind her.
It was the nicest room Mark had ever been in in his entire life. It wasn’t very big, but that was all right; he didn’t need much space. The wallpaper was a cheerful flower pattern and the air smelled of lemons and herbs. It had a solid bed and a dresser and drawers for clothes and stuff. There were also a television and facilities for making tea and coffee. But best of all, there was a bathroom/toilet.
It had been difficult managing without running water on the boat. Once a week they went to the public baths in Eastvale, next to the swimming pool, but most days they did the best they could. Mark had found a bucket and a nice big enamel bowl in a junk shop, and usually he would walk half a mile west along the canal bank to the taps installed by the tourist board for the boaters, campers and walkers and get fresh water there, which he would carry back and heat on the stove. It was a hassle, but it was better than being dirty.