Ritual

'Why did you crucify him?'

'Why did I crucify him?' He gave a hollow laugh. 'That, Mr Policeman, is between me and him.'

'It's a strange thing to do.'

'Yes,' the Walking Man said calmly. 'And it's a strange thing for a man to rape an eight-year-old child. To rape her four times in three hours and then, when he had finished, to kill her.'

Caffery opened his eyes. The Walking Man sat in the same position, clutching the cider, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. A taste of metal came into his mouth as he wondered whether the Walking Man could see the death of his only child without closing his eyes. He himself had always been able to see Ewan's death, so why should it be any different for the Walking Man?

'And?' he said, after a minute or two, when he was sure his voice would come out more or less even. 'What then?'

'Then I went and called the ambulance.'

'You were calm on the tape. The prosecution said you were talking as if nothing had happened.'

'That's right.'

'And Evans was screaming in the background.'

'Yes. He was screaming. Do you know what he was screaming? You couldn't hear it on the tape and it never came out in the trial — but do you know who he was screaming for?'

Caffery hesitated. He closed his eyes again and let himself sink deep, deep down inside, feeling a pull somewhere in his chest where he knew truths were. 'I don't know, but I think…'

'Yes? You think?'

'I think he was asking for his mother.'

In the darkness the Walking Man let out a long breath. 'You're right. He was screaming for his mother.'

38

Night had come. Flea sat in the study staring at the screen, not stirring to switch on the light or close the window. Hours went by as the electronic discussion played itself out, the computer bleeping each time a new message sprang up. Andy Pearl was trying to explain how it felt to get to the first air stop on his line, to scribble a frantic message to the support diver, who didn't have through-water coms, that Crabbick was dead, and to get instead a shake of the head, a gloved hand pointing in the direction of the surface. No, Crabbick wasn't lying at the bottom of the sinkhole. He was alive and clinging to the line several metres above them in the dark.

He had conquered the narcosis. Somehow — and no one was sure what alchemy had choreographed it — he'd hit the bottom, spent seconds there, then started back to the surface. Yes, he was in a poor way, and when at last they got to the top, ten hours later, he had to be pulled out of the water by support divers. He was pale, with broken veins in his eyes and round his nostrils, said Andy Pearl, and his breathing was as if he was trying to blow up an old airbed, laboured and slow, but he was conscious. He was alive. Able to talk for a few seconds before he was taken by the medics to hospital. And what he said to Pearl was what had made Flea's hand crab round the mouse. On the stretcher Crabbick had turned to his dive buddy, reached out a hand and said, in a blood-thickened voice, 'The Marleys. I saw the Marleys stuck on a ledge near the bottom.'

She put her hand to her head, massaging the roots of her hair, trying to picture what Crabbick had seen. She imagined the sound of breathing through cylinders, the solitary torchbeam: imagined a skeletonized hand appearing in the swirling silt below. Mum and Dad, on the slopes of Bushman's Hole. Somewhere, she realized now, she'd been keeping a little light of hope alive: an illogical dream that they might have escaped the accident, that Thom and the support divers and the ibogaine had all been mistaken, that they'd found a way out of Bushman's Hole and had somehow got to safety.

She wanted to type — she wanted to ask questions: Is Crabbick sure it's the Marleys? Did he take a photograph? Have you any idea of their coordinates? And, most importantly, how near is the ledge to the bottom? Five metres? Ten metres?

But Pearl wouldn't be able to answer. She could see that from the way he was responding to the questions. Crabbick was still in hospital, unable to talk. Shall we give the guy a break? he kept writing on the forum when anyone asked him for more information. Give him some space to recover — at least let him get his butt out of hospital — then ask him?

She looked through the posts, trying to work out how long ago it had happened. The first garbled report that they'd been spotted had been two days ago. Two days, this had been sitting in the public domain, and she hadn't known. She hadn't known, yet somehow she'd dreamed Mum warning her about it. This time they'll find us.

She rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling cold. It wasn't possible, was it? Uncovering memories — ideas she'd never quite vocalized — yes. But actually speaking to the dead? Wasn't it more likely she'd gone into this site in the last two days and forgotten because of the ibogaine? She forced her mind back through the memory: Kaiser had been using the computer, she remembered him tapping away on it. Had there been a moment when he'd left the house and had she, working from instinct, got up from the sofa, gone to the computer and got into divenet? Kaiser, she thought, as the moon crested the line of cypress trees, Kaiser, what would you say? If I said I'd been talking to the dead, what would you say?

She pulled out the mobile phone and dialled him. He was usually awake at this time of night, pottering around the outbuildings, hammering in nails, and often didn't hear the phone. So she gave him time to make his way back to the house, letting the phone ring thirty times, counting it off in her head, but still he didn't answer. She hung up and went to get Thom's car keys. She'd have to take his car and drive over there. She was putting on her coat when a sentence came back to her.

Thinking they're going to speak to the dead because they inject some shit into their arm…

Tig, she thought. How about you? What would you think? As she was pulling on her coat she dialled his number. He answered after six rings. He sounded out of breath, and she pictured him with his mother, slouching in her bedroom, doing her lonely thing with her dreams and the police scanner and Freeview TV.

'Yeah,' he said, swallowing to get his breathing down. 'Yeah, what?'

'Tig.' She zipped up her coat. 'Something weird's happened.'

There was a moment's silence, then he sniffed. 'I'm glad you called,' he said tersely. 'I'm glad because it's what you said you'd do. Always nice to see you doing what you say you're going to do.'

She hesitated, taken aback. Had she promised to call? And then she remembered: the last thing he'd said after Mabuza's was 'Please call', and she'd said, 'Yes, I promise.'

'I've been waiting.' She could hear Tig moving around at the other end of the line, clanking things, as if he was in the kitchen. 'And now you're calling me. It's good, that's what I'm saying, it's respectful of you.'

She finished doing up the zip, feeling beaten. 'I'm sorry.'

'How's your filth boyfriend? Suited and booted and out for a little action?'

'What?'

Tig laughed. 'He likes his laydees very compliant, if you know what I'm talking about.'

'No, I don't know.'

'Ask him how he's settling into the area. Ask him if he needs a tourist guide — take him down City Road and show him around a bit.'

'Tig, please. I called you because I needed you — really needed you. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier but, please, talk to me like a human being. Not in code. Or let's stop talking and do it another day. I'm going out now.'