Shining Lights Read online

  ‘So, you think the reference in the message is about him?’

  ‘I guess so.’ I hesitate as memories slipped towards me from the depths of the past. ‘To be fair to Eric, we were actually quite good friends for a while in later grammar school years. He wasn’t all bad all the time. And he had a lot to put up with. He was always in Isaac’s shadow, always struggling to get the credit he felt was due to him. Not an easy background, either. Not like Isaac.’

  ‘And you,’ Wendy notes.

  ‘Yeah, although we were never serious rivals, so it was easier for him to be with me. I was never serious competition. Not in the things that mattered to him. He was always envious of Isaac, though. Then there was the sad business with Sandra Buchan…’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Wendy asks.

  ‘Long story. There was a bit of rivalry, but Sandra only had eyes for Isaac.’

  ‘It seems likely the reference is to him, then, don’t you think?’ Wendy brushes back a strand of hair and rests her arm on my shoulder. ‘I mean, it’s a shared reference that he’d be sure you’d recognise. Perhaps you ought to check out Eric Redmayne and see what he’s been up to.’

  ‘It’s another one for Google,’ I beam. ‘What would we do without it?’

  I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with monolithic multinationals. But Google is unfortunately indispensable for someone in my profession.

  I reach for my laptop, and prepare to consult the oracle, when Wendy interrupts me with another question.

  ‘Why do you call him Tillerman?’

  I can’t resist a sheepish grin.

  ‘My fault. Isaac was a law unto himself. He was never one to follow the crowd. A group of us were engaged in a serious bout of underage drinking. We’d be about fourteen or fifteen, I guess, and we’d been drinking far too heavily for a bunch of lightweights like us. I was about to order another round of drinks when Isaac stopped me. I want a cup of tea, he announced. We laughed, of course, and I was about to buy him the same as he’d had all night, when he stopped me. I’m serious, he said. I really feel like a cup of tea. Two sugars.’ This was Sefton back in the nineties, remember, and not a place renowned for its progressive attitude towards non-alcoholic beverages. Isaac leaned back and called across to the landlord. Any chance of a cup of tea? There was a rush of sarcastic laughter from around the bar, then the landlord… I can’t recall his name, but he knew us well because we were frequent visitors. Well, he grinned across at Isaac and got in on what he thought was a bit of harmless nonsense. In a china cup? he asked. Perfect! Isaac said. Thanks, Eddie. Was he called Eddie? I think perhaps he was. Anyway, Eddie turned from the bar and, with a parting grin, went out into the back. Everyone thought he was joking until he came back five minutes later with a napkin and a tray on which he had set a cup, saucer and a floral, one-cup teapot. It took me a second to catch up with what was happening but when I did, I just said, Right, it’s the same for everyone else, and tea for the Tillerman.

  Wendy nods. ‘After the Cat Stevens album. As he was known in those days.’

  ‘Yeah. My dad was right into it. Playing it often, recalling his lost youth. So it was fresh in my mind. Anyway, there was a brief pause and then everyone raised a glass and shouted, Tea for the Tillerman! And that, as they say, was that. I think it quite flattered him, to be honest. Even the locals in the bar called him Tillerman.’

  ‘Well, it’s a better nickname than Dog, that’s for sure.’

  That sets me thinking. We took nicknames for granted in those days, but it must have been hard for Eric Redmayne, being the Dog Star to Isaac’s Moon. It was enough to make anyone bitter and envious, even if they didn’t have Eric’s head start.

  ‘Will you go?’ Wendy asks, bringing me back to the subject in hand. ‘I think perhaps you should.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I should. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need my help.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I think maybe tomorrow or the day after. I’ll have to clear it at work, but that should be okay, lockdown permitting. Is that’s okay for you?’

  ‘Of course. I’m intrigued. I want to know what it’s all about. Where will you stay? Nowhere is open at the moment. Covid restrictions.’

  It’s a good point. Few places will risk anything as unsavoury as a visitor in the current climate, and few visitors want to risk a hotel. Motorhome sales are booming. Until the long-awaited vaccines roll out, everything is as tight as a convent door. No doubt the string on the lockdown yo-yo will lengthen as the summer approaches. The economy will stamp its feet and people will demand their right to a week in the sun, but at the moment, everything is on hold.

  ‘Tent on the beach?’ I suggest.

  ‘We haven’t got a tent, and it’s November.’

  ‘Ah.’

  At that precise moment, the computer announces another message.

  It’s a photograph of a small block of wind-blown flats on the Fylde coast seafront. They have balconies on the first and second floors, and gardens at the front. A sign of their salty seaside heritage is visible in rust lines descending directly to the ground from anything metal.

  There’s a black cross drawn on a first-floor window.

  Yours from tomorrow, the message reads.

  Wendy reads it over my shoulder.

  ‘That’s scary,’ Wendy says. ‘It seems he reads minds, too.’

  ‘I’d better pack. He might be watching or listening in.’

  Chapter 4

  It takes me a while to find the flat, Isaac having omitted from his message anything as useful as an address. It’s better than I expect; but, having walked the promenade for three or four miles south of the Fleetwood end of the Knott End ferry in the rain with a printout of the photo in one hand and a suitcase in the other, anything is going to be acceptable. I press an intercom button on the outside door and wait for a few minutes. No-one answers. I press another number and inform a suspicious, elderly voice that I’m the new occupant of Flat 4. She grunts something incomprehensible and the door beeps, which I assume means I can enter.

  I ignore the lift; I don’t trust them. A fairly high percentage carry the unmistakable odour of stale urine. This place looks classier than that, what with its open reception area, non-slip vinyl flooring, comfy chairs and potted plants. But you can never tell, can you?

  Besides, it’s only one flight of stairs to the first floor and I’m young, healthy and adventurous, and I’ll enjoy the challenge.

  Up the stairs, I find another cosy little area awaiting me with a trio of substantial pot plants, an elegant, hard-wearing carpet, some nondescript watercolours of the town, and a window which overlooks the promenade. Flat 4 is at the far side of this comfortable little nook, directly opposite the front door to Flat 3.

  I pause at the door.

  Next comes the tricky bit. In the absence of any instructions regarding access, I’ve assumed that Isaac has left the flat open for me—it being in a relatively secure spot by Fylde coast standards—and that I’ll simply walk in.

  But life is never that simple, is it?

  The door is locked, and I face the urgent need to access Isaac’s train of thought. After an hour of stumbling along the promenade, I’m also in need of the bathroom, and the need is becoming more pressing—literally—by the moment. I cast my eyes back towards the lift door, conveniently positioned along a corridor to my right.

  You’re better than that, Philip. Clench, my boy. Clench.

  I check around the door frame in case Isaac has taped the key there. Nothing. I try to ease back the edge of the carpet, but it’s immovable. That leaves me with a few pictures on the walls, or maybe the potted plants.

  I find nothing. This feels like one of Isaac’s infuriating riddles and, as I squint despairingly behind two radiators and under blinds and curtains, I realise there is only one choice open to me. I take a deep breath and knock on the door of Flat 3. I reason that if the owner doesn’t have a key, they might, even in these Covid-ridden times, at least allo
w me to make use of their bathroom, if I promise to wear a mask, and wash vigorously on entry and exit. It’s that or one of the pot plants will have to suffer.

  A thin, wrinkled face peers round the door frame about eight inches below me. She squints at me from beneath hair so fine it would be quite at home in the corner of my shed with the spiders and the dust. About sixty-five, I reckon. I’m about to speak when she interrupts me.

  ‘Name?’

  Her voice is remarkably strong, considering the wiry body from which it emerges.

  ‘Philip Tyler.’ I try a friendly smile, but it slides off with no effect, like porridge on a polished wall.

  ‘Password?’ she demands.

  I think I’m on confident ground now.

  ‘Tillerman,’ I say with assurance.

  ‘He said you’d say that. You’re wrong. Try again.’

  ‘The Dog Star?’ I ask, with rather less confidence.

  ‘He said you’d say that, too. Wrong. Try again.’ Her eyes narrow but from beneath her grey lashes there’s a hint of humour; the sort of humour you indulge when someone slips on ice. ‘Three wrong guesses and you sleep out here,’ she says. ‘That’s what he said. Do you want a clue?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Teacher,’ she says and her eyes narrow, weighing up the likelihood I’ll be spending the night beneath a potted plant. The door closes by another few inches, and now I have the feeling she’s reaching behind it for something; a pensioner-sized baseball bat, perhaps. Maybe she’s a hit-pensioner, preparing for a kill. This might be my last chance.

  I decide to go with a gut response; the teacher outside whose class we first met.

  ‘Mr Bright,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Is that your final answer?’ she cackles. Then, before I have time to make an appropriate response, she hands me a key, and the door shuts.

  ‘Thank you,’ I call, but I reckon she’s already stirring the cauldron she left a few minutes earlier. Either way, she doesn’t answer, and I turn and let myself in to Flat 4.

  And wow!

  Behold: an open-plan lounge and kitchen diner with three doors off. The whole place sits on elegant vinyl flooring with cream rugs. There’s a soft, grey leather sofa with pastel cushions, matching lace curtains and rich red drapes for added darkness. Against the walls: a pine dresser and cupboards. At the far side of the lounge, I can see a balcony which overlooks the front of the building. You reach it via double doors through which, in the distance, I can see a grey sea and rolling waves. Tucked in one corner of the room—glory of glories—there’s a sparkling, well-stocked minibar.

  Throw into the mix a television screen the size of a country house fireplace, several bookshelves and an extensive, and not wholly tasteless, CD collection and you’ve got the picture.

  I can barely contain my excitement. But then again, I can hardly contain my bodily fluids either. So I dart into the bathroom.

  Ah, the relief.

  When I return, I notice there’s even a landline.

  I check out the bedroom. It’s the last word in plush comfort. I could fall into a comfortable sleep just looking at it. Pillows that could suffocate you.

  And the kitchen… Everything seems to function at the wave of a hand; there’s not a switch anywhere. I spend a few moments wondering if it has its own supply of holographic food. If you have difficulty picturing it, imagine a starship control panel and let your imagination rip.

  I pass a few minutes smiling at the cupboards—in case they function based on some advanced facial recognition system—before I open them the old-fashioned way. I find enough food to last a battalion of hungry squaddies for a month.

  After another few minutes unpacking my meagre possessions, I set a framed photo of Wendy and Noah on the bedside table. Then I wander around again, like a child at Christmas, trying everything out.

  Only two disappointments. The doors to the balcony are locked, and the lace curtains are tacked to the frame. Obviously, someone is telling me to stay out of there. Maybe it’s to keep me hidden, or maybe they think I might jump. Either way: not the most reassuring implications. Oh, and the phone only takes incoming calls, so I’ll have to use my mobile to share with Wendy my unbridled joy at the accommodation Tillerman has provided.

  It can’t wait; I call her straight away.

  ‘Dimmer switches,’ I tell her. ‘And a remote to close the curtains. I’m so excited. I’m sitting here with a brandy in one hand and my penis in the other.’

  She squeals in disapproval.

  ‘I’m only joking,’ I hasten to tell her. ‘It’s way too early for a brandy.’

  ‘Has Isaac been in touch yet?’ she asks, diverting the conversation in a more salutary—and sanitary—direction.

  I tell her about the woman in Flat 3.

  ‘Ex-Stasi, I’m convinced of it.’

  The landline phone rings, 1980s style. Loud and jarring.

  We sign off with the usual exchange of loving words and warnings before I lean across to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s a silence at the end of the phone, broken only by the sound of someone breathing.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeat.

  Another silence, then a hushed voice.

  ‘Is that you, Phil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ the voice says. ‘Remember what I asked?’

  ‘Of course. Walk that stretch of the promenade. You’ll find me.’

  ‘Good,’ the voice repeats. ‘Start tomorrow. I’ll be there when I can. And Phil…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Better to not use your phone.’

  And the line goes dead, leaving me in a stunned silence, glancing around the room, looking for hidden cameras.

  Early or not, it’s time for that brandy. I’m relieved I was only joking about my penis.

  Chapter 5

  I spend the evening slipping casually from the sofa to the minibar and back like a character from Wodehouse. Occasionally, as an idea enters the vacant space that constitutes my mind, I wander over to my laptop and make some preliminary searches and notes.

  Top of the list: Eric Redmayne. Dog. The Dog Star.

  I’m right about his progress at Cambridge. Google informs me he got a double first in sciences followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in some obscure branch of genetics. Then another equally obscure PhD, and a lecturing job in his old college where he remains for several years, contributing to publications with titles which would repel all but the hardiest of scientific nerds and which have me gasping for breath before I’ve finished decoding the first paragraph. It’s a scientific equivalent to Finnegans Wake by James Joyce.

  Then, a move to a research-based biopharmaceutical company in the US, before he disappears, leaving little trace, absorbed no doubt into the greater corporate body. Occasionally, like a swimmer in a stormy sea, his head rises above the surface, usually in association with some recent development in the mysterious world of biopharmaceuticals, only to disappear once more a moment later. The only thing I glean from these sporadic mentions is that his title seems to grow in significance over time: assistant, lead, programme director…

  What next? Managing director? President? Prime Minister? Pope? I doubt even that would satisfy him.

  God. The God Star.

  Then a move to Europe. Then nothing. Not a word. Not a mention for the last six years.

  Curious. I dig a little deeper, still find nothing, and then turn my attention from academia and science to the grim, purposeless world of social media.

  He has no Facebook page, no Twitter account and no Instagram. As far as I can see, he has no social media accounts of any description. Unless he’s using a different name, which is a distinct possibility for Eric. Anonymity would give him the freedom to troll to his bitter and envious heart’s content. Yeah, I can imagine that. He’d love it.

  I spend a futile hour trying to discover something more before I give up and return to my sofa and minibar.
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  Digging into this will take a better man than me, and I reckon I know just the candidate; my colleague Jon at the Sefton Independent loves things like that. But that’s for later. For now, it’s time to indulge myself.

  After my second shower—man, the heating in that place is so good they must have constructed the block of flats over a magma lake—it’s Isaac’s turn. What has he been up to since he left Sefton?

  Oxford, then a double first in politics and economics, a foray into the world of modern history, and then… I gasp. The army? Tillerman joins the army? My friend Isaac joins the army? I mean, Isaac is probably the last person I can imagine going down the military route.

  Army record. Rises to major rank, and then… packs it up and disappears.

  That’s more like it. Isaac was never one to stand on ceremony. I can imagine him suddenly pausing in the middle of some military operation, looking around as if assessing the value of what he’s doing, deciding that he’s rather bored with the whole business, and walking away, discarding his military equipment as he goes.

  This is all rather tedious, don’t you think? It’s time for a change.

  But like Eric after his biopharmaceutical years and his return to Europe, everything after Isaac’s army career is inexplicably blank. For over six years, he hasn’t appeared on any form of modern social radar. Nothing. Not a mention in any newspaper. Not associated with any social media account. Not named as a representative or an employee or a director or an investor in any business.

  It’s as if he and Eric agreed to disappear at the same moment.

  Intriguing. Is it a coincidence? Maybe it’s a competition where each of them is waiting for the other to reappear first. I think about the poem in which the old couple who, having argued about whose job it is to shut the door, agree that the first to speak will have to concede. It takes a considerable time—weeks, maybe even months—but eventually, inevitably, the old man loses.