THREE
24
I left the Samos material untouched for over a week. I also wondered whether I ought to get rid of it all, take it out onto the moor with a can of petrol and burn it up somewhere; but I decided that would be a bit overhasty. Perhaps it would be useful eventually, even if I wasn’t at all sure what was meant by ‘useful’ and ‘eventually’. Another couple of concepts had been robbed of their usual meaning, but that’s the way things seemed to be going. I was now living within the framework provided by the hours of the day and the borders of Exmoor. I carried on reading about John Ridd and Lorna Doone, and I went for walks with Castor for three or four hours every day, all over the moor, but especially in the region of Simonsbath and Brendon, where heaven and earth kissed. At least, that’s what it said on a little memorial stone where I parked the car one day: Open yer eyes, oh, ye lucky wanderer, for near to here is a playce where heaven and earth kiss and caress.
The weather was consistently pleasant, several degrees above zero, relatively gentle winds and hardly any rain. I made my own dinner every other evening, and every other evening drove down to The Royal Oak Inn. There was no sign of Mark Britton, and even if that made me a little disappointed every time, there was nothing I could do about it. I exchanged a few words with Rosie, Tom and Robert about the weather and about Castor, but that was usually about all. When I got back to Darne Lodge I lit the fire and played four games of patience. Switched off the bedside lamp before eleven and slept until I was woken up by the dawn. Castor would be by my feet, under the covers.
No more dead pheasants appeared in front of the door, and I had gradually got used to thinking that we would go on living like this until one of us had an attack of thrombosis during the night and died in our sleep. Either me or Castor, but preferably both of us the same night. Why not? Why was it necessary for one of us to outlive the other? Would it be possible for me to convince Mr Tawking that I could rent this modest dwelling indefinitely?
But on the twenty-fifth of November I visited the Winsford Community Computer Centre once again. Something had told me that it was high time. Over a month had passed since that remarkable walk, but it could just as easily have been a year. Or several, it seemed so far away in the past.
Everything that wasn’t here and now seemed to be so far away in the past, and I suppose that’s how it must feel for anybody who only takes account of hours that pass and walks that are undertaken. I hadn’t even realized that it was Sunday when I stood rattling the door of the centre, but I was duly informed by Alfred Biggs when I took him at his word and knocked on his red-painted door just round the corner a few minutes later.
That was no problem, no problem at all. Alfred Biggs unlocked the door for me, and helped me to set up links with the outside world. Then he apologized and said he had a job to do in the church, but he promised to come back again in about an hour. If I wanted to leave before then, all I needed to do was to switch off the lights and make sure the door was locked behind me. If anybody else wanted to come in and access the web, I should let them in so long as they signed their names in the visitors’ book.
Before leaving, he naturally made sure that there was a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on my table. And that Castor had a bowl of water and a handful of treats that his missus could give him as she considered appropriate. I thanked him for his kindness, and when he had left I sat absolutely still with my eyes closed for half a minute before opening our mailboxes.
Mine first, that already seemed to be the routine.
Just one message. I couldn’t pin down the precise reaction I felt. Relief or disappointment? It was Katarina Wunsch again, in any case. In three lines she apologized for upsetting me with her doppelgänger story, and hoped that I would enjoy a pleasant winter down in Morocco. I wrote an equally brief reply, closed the box and feeling somewhat uneasy I turned my attention to Martin’s e-mails.
Ten new messages: I could ignore seven of them straight away. The remaining three were from that student about that incorrectly marked essay again, from Bergman and from the person calling himself G. After a little thought I decided to ignore the student as well, and instead looked to see what Eugen Bergman had on his mind.
He said thank you for my (i.e. Martin’s) previous message, wished me all the best with regard to the work and the time down there in general, and he had a question. A journalist from the Swedish magazine Svensk Bokhandel was on a journey through north Africa and would very much like to call on me for an interview. Bergman didn’t think Martin would be interested, but had promised to ask. I wrote a response in which I (Martin) confirmed that we were totally uninterested in any kind of contact with journalists, and that work was going according to plan. Then I drew a deep breath and opened the message from G.
Your last e-mail made me more than confused. Did you have a stroke or are you just trying to avoid the issue? I’m coming down. What is your address? G
I just sat there for a minute or more, trying to absorb the implications. My last message had obviously not calmed G down at all. He was more than confused. Trying to avoid the issue? But what was the issue that Martin was trying to avoid? What was so important that he needed to meet Martin?
And who was he?
I realized of course that Martin must have told G about our plans for spending six months in Morocco, and presumably also that the purpose was to write something involving Hyatt and Herold. Something to do with the years before her suicide. And that this had disturbed G so much that he felt he must put a stop to it. Isn’t that the case? I asked myself. Surely that’s the way the land must lie?
Unfortunately I was unable to dig out the message Martin must presumably have sent him, and as I nibbled away at my biscuits and sipped my tea I wondered how hard it would be to sort out something like that. My knowledge of computers and IT had always been as limited as my interest in such matters, but I could see that it shouldn’t be too difficult for anybody with a bit of competence in the field.
But I was also only too aware of the fact that I would never be able to bring myself to take that step. It was not certain that Martin’s old message would in fact throw any light on the matter, and in any case it was distinctly possible that I would find the key anyway. Surely it must be somewhere in the remainder of the material from Samos and Morocco, the two-hundred-and-fifty pages or however much it was that I hadn’t yet got round to reading. If there was something as important as G was alleging, it could hardly escape my notice, provided that I could raise enough strength to sit down and read the stuff. It seemed highly likely that G himself would feature in the material, but if he wasn’t in fact the Russian Gusov, I didn’t think I had come across him yet. Where I got that feeling from was not something I could answer for.
On the other hand, wasn’t it possible that there would be no risk involved in simply ignoring G? I had already tried to give him a reassuring reply, which had obviously not worked, and if I now simply ignored him, what might the consequences be? Why should he be so important? What was it that shouldn’t see the light of day? In any case, so long as he didn’t have our address in Morocco he couldn’t very well go there looking for us. What other possibilities were open to him? Contact Bergman? That couldn’t be excluded, of course, but I needn’t worry about such an eventuality as in that case Bergman would certainly be in touch with me.
Wouldn’t he? I sat there for quite a while, trying to think up various strategies and assess their validity, and in the end I chose a sort of middle way. I wrote a brief reply to G, thinking that it ought to calm him down a bit at least temporarily — there is nothing that annoys hot-tempered individuals as much as not receiving replies to their questions, that was something all my years at the Monkeyhouse had taught me. Any reply at all was better than no reply, and my impression of this unknown G was that without doubt he was an impatient devil.