Fathers day, p.1
Father's Day, page 1
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Prologue
‘It’ll be kids messing about. I guarantee it.’
‘What, at gone four in the morning? Out here? I reckon it’s something weird to do with Midsummer’s Day. Some bunch of re-enactment nutters more likely. You know, druids kind of thing. Like at Stonehenge. The sun’ll be up soon, judging by this light.’
‘Yeah, well, switch your torch on anyway. It’ll be darker once we get inside those walls.’
The sergeant slammed the patrol car door shut and began walking with the PC towards the amphitheatre. The ancient structure crouched menacingly in the dim pre-dawn light. It reminded him of a massive animal that was asleep.
‘I always forget how big it is,’ he said, choosing the nearest of the two entrances cut into the curving banks of turf. ‘We did a project on it when I was at my secondary school down the road in Cirencester. The Romans didn’t do things by halves. You could get thousands of people in there watching wild animals, gladiators, slaves, you name it, tearing each other to bits.’
‘Sounds like the last Swindon Town–Bristol City game.’
Laughing, the pair passed through the south gap in the amphitheatre walls and into the auditorium. The sergeant had been right: the high-tiered banks that swept around them in a great oval were blocking out the light that glowed steadily along the eastern horizon.
‘See? Torches on.’
The two-thousand-year-old monument to pagan pleasures was deserted.
‘What did they tell you over the radio?’
The PC shone her light onto her notebook.
‘Not much. Some bloke leaving for his early shift at the bakery says he heard some odd noises coming from here, kind of yelping and screaming. He lives in the street where we parked. At first he thought it must be a fox, but then he saw a beam of light pointing up into the sky, waving around before going out again. Heard more screams. He said he’d have taken a look but said he couldn’t risk being late for work.’
‘Spooked, more like. Okay, let’s wander over the turf. Maybe whoever or whatever it was left something behind.’
They moved further into the amphitheatre, slowly weaving their torches from side to side on the ground in front of them.
‘Nothing I can see. I reckon that we probably… Oh, hang on. What’s that?’ The policeman aimed his beam straight ahead. ‘There. Right at the centre.’
His companion shook her head. ‘Dunno. Some kind of tree?’
‘Nah, no trees in here. But it does look like something wooden. Come on.’
The object took shape as they drew closer.
‘It’s an X. A big old wooden X. It must be eight feet high. What the fuck’s that doing here?’
The PC shook her head. ‘God knows. And what’s keeping it upright?’
The sergeant twisted the focus ring on his torch and grunted as the beam narrowed. ‘There… see? There’s some sort of prop attached to the middle and angled back into the ground towards us.’
She nodded. ‘I reckon you called it right. About this being some kind of ceremonial thing, I mean. But they’ve obviously buggered off.’
‘Let’s take a proper look, shall we, seeing as we’re here.’ They moved steadily closer. ‘What’s that on all four ends of the thing? It looks like gaffer tape, silver gaffer tape.’
By now the two officers were only a few paces away. Two-inch wide heavy-duty tape was wound tightly around the points of the cross. The beams themselves were closer to ten feet long than eight, and almost a foot wide.
‘What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it. I reckon—Sharon? What’s wrong?’
The young woman was gripping her colleague’s arm.
‘I think we’re looking at the back of it, Tom. I think there’s something tied to the other side. Look.’ She shone her torch on the ground directly beneath the cross. The grass there was darkened and glistening.
He nodded slowly and gently loosened her hold on him. ‘You wait here. I’ll do this first, okay?’
She swallowed and nodded in the growing half-light. ‘Okay.’
‘Right.’ He took a deep breath, then stepped carefully around to the other side of the X.
‘Holy mother of mercy. Jesus Christ.’
PART ONE
One
Im so glad we found each other, Lucy. I knew straight away wedbsoulmates. Same age, same kinda school (even tho we’re at opposite ends of t country!) even our 1st (and last!) boyfriends had same 1st name! Lol!!! (I still cant believe I went out with a Gavin, can you? What losers we r!) And I love we can share all t bad stuff, all t shit that pulls us down every day. If only I had someone here I could talk2 I’m sure I wouldn’t feel so bad. I bet u wish that too. I get so fucking TIRED of being sad all t time.
But at least we hav each other now. Let’s promise 2b there4each other, anytime, day or night. I never turn my tablet off. BTW I have a different email address for my tablet than I use on my iphone because my stupid dad spies on my phone messages. He doesn’t know I have the tablet so that’s why Ive only given you that address. Noone else can see what we say 2each other, promise.
Im going to sleep now, Luce (can I calluthat?) I nick some of mum’s temazepam every few weeks. Shes too out of it to notice and Ive got quite a stash no, so at least I don’t have to worry about sleep. Maybe 1day Ill just take the lot and never worry about anything again! #tempting!
Nite nite, from ur Rosie. Xxx
Two
Nick switched on the TV just in time to catch the opening titles of Newsnight. The presenter – he had no idea who the man was, Nick rarely watched the programme – was running through the items they’d be covering. What everyone in the media was calling ‘The Cotswolds Crucifixion’ was second in the running order (Brexit topped the list, as ever). Nick pressed the remote’s red record button and went into the kitchen to make coffee.
When he got back the crucifixion story had already begun so he scanned back to the studio link. It told him nothing new, so he scanned forward again to what looked like the main studio interview and paused it, taking his time, sipping his coffee, settling comfortably into his chair. Then he pressed play. Sound boomed out, too loud. Nick was the only person in the house, but he lowered the volume anyway. Force of habit. Consideration for others. ‘—professor of classics at Bristol University, and author of several books on Roman Britain. Good evening, professor.’
‘Good evening.’
The man looked like the twat he was, Nick thought, with his wispy beard and rimless glasses. A caricature of a university don. Nick had read all three of his books. Derivative rubbish mostly, pinching ideas and analysis from others. He, Nick, knew ten times what this poseur pretended to know. Still, it was worth a watch, if only for a laugh.
‘Would you describe this as a classic Roman crucifixion, professor?’
The other shook his head. ‘No, because there’s no such thing. Obviously the fact that it took place in a second-century imperial amphitheatre is significant but as to the method… Well, the Romans weren’t fussy about how they nailed people up. They used poles, planks, T-shaped crosses, X-shaped crosses, trees, even roofs. In fact—’
‘Yes, but the so-far unidentified victim in this case was crucified upside down, wasn’t he? Isn’t that how Rome executed St Peter?’
The professor smiled. ‘At St Peter’s own request actually. He said he didn’t feel worthy to die in the same physical position as Christ. It was an act of extraordinary humility. But that happened in Rome under Emperor Nero. Somehow I doubt the same… er, sensitivities were in play last night in Cirencester’s amphitheatre.’
Nick smiled. The prof was definitely on the money there.
The interviewer inclined his head. ‘We don’t know that, do we? Roughly how many crucifixions were there in Roman Britain?’
The academic looked surprised. ‘None, as far as we know. It’s thought that Boadicea used her own crucifixion techniques against captured Romans during her campaign of resistance in AD 60–61, but Rome didn’t retaliate. This one may well be the first Roman-style crucifixion in British history. It’s very exciting.’
The host raised his eyebrows. ‘Exciting? It’s a brutal murder, professor.’
The man opposite him flushed slightly.
‘Er… yes, well, of course, yes. I was speaking purely from a historical perspective. Obviously this is a tragedy.’
Nick drained his coffee and spoke aloud.
‘Really? That depends on who it was who died yesterday, my friend, and why. You’re not very bright, are you?’
Three
Nick Wychwood – or Nicholas Wychwood, as his name appeared on his novels and screen credits – considered himself, by anyone’s reckoning, a happy man. He and Elise had seized their moment and, not without qualms, quit London for Cornwall five years earlier. They soon agreed that it was the wisest decision they’d ever made apart from the one to get married and soon after try for a baby.
Lucy was four when they’d pitched up in the Cornish Riviera town of Fowey. The difference between house prices in north-west London and south-west Cornwall was so marked that they were able to swap a three-bedroom Victorian semi in Hampstead Village, opposite an ugly Edwardian block of flats, for a six-bedroom Georgian detached house high on the banks of the River Fowey. Most of the front windows had views across the old town, river and quayside and, if you squinted carefully through the wrought-iron railing of the master bedroom’s balcony, there were glimpses to be had of writer Daphne du Maurier’s former home, Ferryside, fronting onto the water almost directly below.
‘My muse,’ Nick would invariably say, gesturing at the white walls and bright blue shutters of the du Maurier house whenever he and Elise drove onto the car ferry that crossed the river to the town on the other side. ‘Her spirit hovers over this spot. It inspires me.’
‘You used to say I was your muse,’ his wife replied. ‘How soon the heart forgets.’
‘Not your fault, darling. You’re not a writer, are you?’
‘Of course I am. I’m a GP. I write prescriptions.’
‘I don’t think “500mg Amoxicillin three times daily” is quite on a par with Jamaica Inn, do you?’
‘Maybe not, but it’ll cure a strep throat. Suck on that, Daphne.’
By the time Lucy was at school it was obvious that her conception had been a one-off. Elise was unable to fall pregnant again. Neither she nor her husband knew where the problems of fertility might lie, or with whom, but they were content with the hand that fate had delivered hem.
Nick would forever remember the day they quietly agreed this; a relaxed discussion at their breakfast table on a muggy July morning.
Because a few hours later something happened.
And everything changed.
Forever.
* * *
The crossing from Bodinnick to Fowey took just a few minutes, depending on the tide. The Wychwoods always relished the short voyage, in fair weather or foul. Today the sun shone from a cloudless Cornish sky after days of murky, persistent sea-mist.
‘God, this is why I love this place,’ Nick said as he and Elise leaned over the safety rail and looked out across the water. Lucy stayed in the car, sulking after an argument with her mother. ‘Look at that.’ He pointed across the estuary.
Little sailboats and motor launches were patrolling up and down the estuary, sunlight glittering and sparkling off their wet decks and hulls. The rippling wavelets of an incoming tide made the water appear to be seething with darting, leaping, shining life.
‘It looks like a million silverfish swimming upstream,’ said Elise. ‘Beautiful. We’re so lucky, Nicky.’
He turned and smiled at her. ‘Well, up to a point. We made our own luck, didn’t we? It was a big deal leaving London. That’s a one-way trip these days. If it hadn’t worked out down here, we’d never have been able to afford go back, however much we wanted to.’
‘True. But I don’t want to. Ever. Neither do you. And Lucy adores it here.’
‘Yeah, just look at her now. Having the time of her life.’ He waved at their daughter. Lucy scowled and turned away.
Elise laughed. ‘She’ll be okay. Her blood sugar’s low because she skipped breakfast in a sulk. She’s just a thirteen-year-old in need of a sandwich.’
* * *
‘We should have walked, Nick, taken the foot-ferry. You can barely get this thing through the streets, they’re so narrow. It was tricky enough in the Volvo. I’m sure you’re going to scuff it and it’s not even a week old.’
Nick gritted his teeth as he wrestled with the steering wheel of his pride and joy, a brand-new glossy black Range Rover. Beads of sweat trickled down from his forehead and stung his eyes.
‘It’ll be fine. You see these bloody Chelsea tractors driving through Fowey every day. Anyway, we’ve got a lot of shopping to do after lunch. It’d have been stupid to walk. There’ll be loads to carry.’
‘Including a tin of black spray-paint if you don’t take this turn a bit wider. You’re going to scrape that cottage wall.’
‘Do shut up. I’m trying to concentrate.’
Lucy, sitting behind them, stared out of the window and said nothing. Elise had confiscated her iPad earlier (‘You’ve been on it since you got up, two hours nearly, Luce. I’m sorry, but it’s not healthy!’) and Lucy was still furious.
A few minutes later they were approaching the tiny quayside car park in the centre of Fowey. There were barely a dozen spaces and usually by lunchtime all were taken. Nick or Elise unfailingly offered a polite prayer to their personal deity, the parking angel, for divine intervention. The joke had started when they lived in London, but here in Cornwall, weirdly, the prayer actually seemed to work. Now it was more superstition than joke.
Today it was Elise’s turn to make the ritual plea. She tilted her head to look heavenwards through the open sun roof and chanted their mantra.
‘Parking angel, parking angel, in whom we place our faith, be a sweetie, give a treatie, provide us with a space.’ Lucy usually giggled at this, but today she was silent. Elise sighed and mentally prescribed her daughter a large portion of cod and chips.
Nick drove a short way past the car park entrance before putting the automatic into reverse and backing in carefully – it was easier to manoeuvre into a space that way – but today the parking angel was busy elsewhere. All the bays were taken.
He carried on reversing slowly past the parked cars towards the quayside. Elise twitched, as she always did when this happened.
‘Careful, darling. It’s a sheer drop into the water and the tide’s in.’
‘I know, I know, don’t worry, I’m going dead-dead-dead slow… there.’ The rear wheels of the Range Rover dipped into a shallow drain gulley, and the car rocked gently to a halt. ‘We’ll get a space in a moment when someone leaves. Trouble is, I’ll have to go in front-wise. Good job it’s me driving. You still haven’t taken the wheel of this one, have you? I think you might find it a bit tricky.’
His wife’s mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’. ‘What? So what if I haven’t driven it yet? I’m a much better parker than you in anything and you know it! Just for that, you two can go round the corner to Sam’s Place and get us a table. I’ll park! Bloody cheek!’ She leaned in towards Nick and whispered: ‘And it might give the darling daughter some space to cheer up too.’
Nick nodded and murmured back: ‘Good idea.’ He raised his voice. ‘You’re right – it’s only just gone twelve but everywhere fills up so fast in summer. Lucy and I’ll grab a table. Don’t forget to close up the sunroof and windows.’
Elise elbowed him in the ribs. ‘I’ll close you up if you don’t stop patronising me! God, I hate it when we get a new car. You get so controlling and obsessive. Go on, out with you. Let me slide across.’
He grinned. ‘Sorry, ’Lise. I get it from my dad. He wouldn’t even take the dealer’s paper mats off the carpets for weeks and the factory polythene wraps stayed on the seats for at least a year. I’m pathetic, I know. We’ll see you in Sam’s. Come on, Luce.’
Father and daughter climbed out of the car and Elise slid behind the steering wheel. She gripped it appreciatively with both hands and leaned out of the driver’s window.
‘Actually, I almost forgive you, Nick,’ she called after him. ‘It does feel pretty special.’
They turned round and Lucy allowed herself a tiny smile.
‘Suits you, mum,’ she said. ‘Looking good!’
Elise grinned, gave a double thumbs-up and gunned the engine in reply.
It was still in reverse.
The shiny black Range Rover shot backwards, plunged over the side of the quay and pitched end-first into the river below.
Nick and Lucy screamed and ran to the brink. The car had only been in the river for moments, but it was already three-quarters submerged as water gushed through all four open windows and the sunroof. Elise’s face, expressionless, could be seen through the windscreen but, a second later, she disappeared from view as the entire vehicle vanished below the surface in a seething, churning froth of dirty bubbles and spouting diesel oil.
Newspapers would later describe it as a ‘five-second catastrophe’.
For Nick and Lucy, it was the beginning of a life sentence.
Four
