Shining Lights Page 3

  ‘The one that is the first to speak gets up and shuts the door.’

  Been done as a folk song a few times, too.

  I sometimes wonder how I come to know something daft like that, but can’t tell you the name of the Australian Prime Minister or spell diarrhoea without a spellcheck.

  Wasted years, I guess, and the fruits of a Sefton Grammar School education.

  But despite my meanderings, the question remains. Why did they both disappear at almost the same time?

  Are their periods of exile connected or merely coincidental?

  I decide, despite my distrust of coincidence, that in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I’ll keep an open, or vacant, mind.

  I can ask Isaac when I meet him.

  Chapter 6

  The following day, just as the darkness of a February evening descends on the town, I set out to wander the promenade. There’s a wind coming in from the sea which has its origins deep in the Arctic, so there are few people about; just a handful of hardy dog walkers with their leads and green poo-bags. I see a young couple, too; arm in arm, dressed fashionably and scantily like it’s mid-summer, and I reflect on the sacrifices the young will make in order to maintain appearances. I also reflect that it will take more than love to keep them warm on a night like this.

  Out on the beach, the tide having withdrawn like testicles in frost, a group of lads in their late teens are playing football with an assortment of cans, no doubt emptied especially for the occasion. Something for the middle-aged litter pickers to complain about tomorrow.

  A handful of cars pass, which I scrutinise closely, hoping I’ll glimpse Isaac’s familiar features, but mostly they contain couples, heading somewhere warm. For a moment I think of Wendy, back in our own cosy little house, and Noah asleep, hopefully, in his nursery, and a surge of loneliness catches me. That’s where I should be on a night like this; snuggled down on the sofa with Wendy’s head resting on my shoulder, watching some crap film on Netflix. I shake away the feeling of remorse and walk on.

  An hour later, having reached the eerily quiet town centre with no sign of Isaac, I turn and set off back, wandering along the increasingly deserted promenade like a tragic and friendless nomad. Where the hell is he?

  To make matters worse, rain now gathers to accompany the wind, which, obligingly, turns to the north so it can blow directly into my face. It collects around me, rather in the manner of those old flash mobs where dancers appear out of nowhere and perform something in front of an amazed crowd, waiting for their burger and chips. Only less welcome.

  Head down, I make my way stoically back to the flat, where I discard my soaked clothing, take yet another shower, pour yet another drink and open my phone to call Wendy. I don’t care what Isaac says about not using the phone. I don’t even care if he’s listening in somewhere. I’m asserting my independence.

  Yeah!

  Besides, I reckon I need to elicit some well-deserved sympathy from Wendy after my cold, wet, boring walk. She does her best, bless her, but I feel that she’s had a teething day, and longs to slip away to bed. She keeps yawning.

  ‘Am I boring you?’ I ask at last.

  ‘Kind of,’ she tells me. ‘I’m tired.’

  The next night isn’t much better, although mercifully the wind drops and the sky clears. No rain. By the time I get back, still with no sign of Isaac, a light frost is forming on any patch of grass or wall top it can find. Frost was considered healthy when I was growing up. My mum was a great advocate of the maxim that a good frost killed ninety-nine percent of germs, rather like a well-known brand of disinfectant. I can remember many a frosty morning when I was driven outside shortly after dawn to freeze my marrow in pursuit of a perfect constitution. The same happened to my friends. It explains a lot about our generation.

  By the time the third night comes and goes, I’ve grown decidedly bored with the entire business. Even the minibar, the television, the shower and the heating system have lost their appeal. There’s only so much pleasure I can get from sharing luxurious furnishings with no-one but myself. Wendy, many miles away on the end of a phone, has difficulty sharing my enthusiasm. I try to tell Noah about the flat, but he’s uninterested.

  Then the fourth night comes and with it a tightening of the lockdown rules, as the latest wave of Covid flares up. I think—and I may need to check this to ensure I’m safe from censure by the moral majority—the rules inform me I can only speak to other people through a megaphone and a mask and that I mustn’t go out of my way even to do this. I must also, under penalty of death, avoid being ill, because the entire medical profession is preoccupied with Covid and has absolutely no time for a dying hypochondriac like me. Besides, if I go near any medical practitioner, my chance of acquiring the virus dramatically increases. When it comes to being ill, it’s a case of better the devil you know…

  In addition, everything is shut, so there’s no point in going out unless the journey is essential or undertaken during the hours of darkness when no-one will see you.

  Given what I perceive as the essential nature of my journey and the total lack of risk of any sort, I set out at my regular time just as dusk approaches, expecting another lengthy and increasingly tedious walk followed by a hot shower and a stiff drink.

  I reach the traffic lights where the road slips inland from the promenade through the centre of Bispham. There, I spy, some distance down the road, the welcoming glow of shop lights. Given the recent announcements about the penalties for doing anything which might suggest an open shop or a café serving food, curiosity overcomes caution and I wander down towards it. I’m hoping beyond hope that perhaps a fish and chip shop owner has braved the pandemic restrictions to provide suitably distanced sustenance to the lonely traveller.

  I’m surprised—more than surprised—to find a small café offering the prospect of a hot coffee and a cheese toastie.

  There’s only one person inside. He’s sitting at a table close to the window, and he’s engrossed in a newspaper open on the table before him. A man of Asian origin, suitably be-masked, is keeping shop. He leans on the counter, his arms folded, watching the news on a small television. He doesn’t look happy. But then, no-one does nowadays. Blackpool is no place to be on a February night during a national lockdown.

  I check my pockets to make sure I’ve brought my mask and wallet and, reassured by their comforting presence, approach the door. As my hand reaches towards the handle, the man by the window raises his eyes towards me and fixes me with a stare. It’s not a welcoming look at all; in fact, it verges on hostile. He looks like he wants the place to himself, free from any fear of infection, and undisturbed by someone like me, who might be contagious. I feel a tremor of doubt about proceeding and decide to pass on the toastie.

  I’m about to turn away when I hear someone step towards me. A strong hand grasps my arm, rather too firmly for comfort, and pushes me forward into the café. The door closes and, almost immediately, the lights go out. I’m bustled under emergency lighting towards a door at the back, which the Asian owner thoughtfully pushes open.

  Once inside, the door closes, and a bright light illuminates the room. I see a table and two chairs. One is empty. Mine, I assume.

  On the other, leaning his elbows on the table, is the unwelcoming customer from the café. I feel myself pushed down onto the chair by a second man; the guy from outside.

  ‘Hello, Mr Tyler,’ the customer says quietly, with something that passes fleetingly for a smile. He raises his head and stares at me, all pretence of friendliness as distant as my dreams of a toastie. His face is expressionless, his eyes cold. ‘What precisely are you doing here?’

  Chapter 7

  I take a deep breath. To say he speaks the words with a chill worthy of a disaster movie emphatically underestimates their effect, especially when the second figure stands menacingly close, just visible from the corner of a nervous eye. My heart rate rises into the danger zone. I imagine claxons howling out a warning. Cardiac arrest immin
ent.

  I drive away the feeling of imminent collapse.

  ‘I fancied some fish and chips. The light was on and it carried me forward on a wave of optimism. I was salivating outside the door when your friend here bustled me inside.’

  I turn to look for the Asian guy, but he has already closed the door behind him and disappeared into his own world. The iceman smiles at me with as much humour as a cold water enema. He removes a business card from the top pocket of a smart blue suit. He wears a shirt, and a pale pink tie flecked with gold. Sharp. Creases on his trousers you could slice cooked meat with. About fifty, I’d say. Grey hair combed back. Eyes the same grey.

  He hands me the card.

  ‘My colleague has a similar card,’ he tells me.

  ‘It’s cheaper buying them that way.’ I smile. ‘Bulk orders.’

  Then I read the card, and the smile evaporates. If I was standing up, my knees would buckle.

  Peter Forrester. MI5.

  ‘I’ve not met somebody from MI5 before.’ I struggle to display nonchalance, and fail. ‘I can’t wait to tell my wife. She loves those television programmes you’re in.’

  My bravado has as much effect on them as a paper tissue on a frozen windscreen. They know what’s happening just behind my eyes. They’re trained to smell fear. At least I hope it’s fear they can smell. My bowels feel ominously loose.

  Forrester removes a file from a brown briefcase which is tucked below the table. He opens it to remove several neatly typed A4 sheets, which he scans with a professional eye.

  When he removes a photograph of Wendy from the folder and sets it before me, I quake. He places a second sheet next to it, with a photograph of me. Head and shoulders, a smiling face. It’s surrounded by small print, which looks like a comprehensive resume of my life. I pick up the sheet of paper and pretend to scrutinise it, but it’s hard to mask the tremor in my hands, and I have to rest my forearms on the table. Casual and unconcerned is the look I’m going for; something befitting a professional, investigative journalist with a developing reputation, capable of handling himself in a situation like this.

  ‘Let me ask you again, Mr Tyler. Why are you here, in the middle of a pandemic, walking the promenade in all weathers, when you should be safely tucked up in bed, at home with Wendy and your little boy? Noah, isn’t it?’

  The words feel like a threat. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Have I broken some lockdown rule?’ I ask. ‘Is that what this is about?’ I lean forward, feigning enlightenment. ‘I get it. The shop, what with its lights and its appealing menu in the window, is there to entrap unsuspecting passers-by. That’s it, isn’t it? A kind of culinary honey trap. Okay, you got me.’ Here I hold out my hands, dramatically awaiting handcuffs. ‘I should have known better. No cafés or restaurants or pubs allowed. I know. Call it a moment of weakness.’

  The guy behind me moves quickly and draws up a chair. He’s about twenty years younger than Forrester, and dressed casually in jeans, a jumper, a gilet, black shoes, and a frown. He displays all the impetuosity of youth.

  ‘We haven’t got time to play games, Mr Tyler. Why are you here?’

  I’m tempted to remind him that two metres is the safe distance recommended by scientists, and that none of us are wearing masks, but I think better of it. If he’s infected with Covid, it’s already too late. There’s nothing I can do about it.

  ‘I’m following a story,’ I tell him. It’s time to think quickly. ‘There’s a guy in town who organises illegal raves, even at times like this. I want to get the inside track, see what makes a moron like that tick, maybe meet some of his dough-brained clientele. It’ll make a great article, maybe earn me a few pounds. Freelance work is hard come by at the moment.’

  Forrester’s unnerving stare, coupled with the silence from the guy beside me, casts an oppressive weight which I can almost feel crushing me. My mouth has gone dry and I want to swallow but I can’t, because I don’t want to make any movement which would reveal my anxiety.

  ‘What does the name Eric Redmayne mean to you?’

  I’m glad I choose to look down towards the table top before that question hits me. It gives me time to collect my thoughts and frame a non-committal reply.

  ‘I went to school with a guy of that name. Is that who you mean? We were rivals in the grammar school debating society.’ I shrug. ‘It was an old-fashioned school with old-fashioned ideas of status. Rugby union and definitely no football, a uniform straight from a 1950s public school, cold showers and more than its share of paedophiles. You know the kind of place. The debating society was high status and high profile. I moved on to it in the fourth form when I grew out of the railway society.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Redmayne?’ Forrester asks. He ignores my futile attempt at humour, removes a blank sheet of paper, unfastens an elegant fountain pen, and writes in an immaculately neat hand. He clearly bypassed grammar schools and went straight for the private sector. I’m thinking Eton.

  ‘In sixth form,’ I explain. ‘I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘When did you last hear his name spoken?’ the guy next to me asks.

  That’s a better question and more difficult to deflect, so I pretend to think.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘We were never close. The Sefton Grammar School Debating Society did that to you. The competition was savage. Real cut-throat stuff. There’s no reason I would have thought about him, let alone mentioned his name, since I left the place.’

  ‘So, to be clear, no-one has contacted you recently about him.’

  That’s the guy next to me again. There’s something about his proximity and the low tone of his voice, which makes it really difficult to lie. I guess it’s a skill they learn at MI5 school, and it’s particularly effective in a pandemic. I’m not used to people getting this close to me, and this guy makes it his business to ensure I know that he’s watching every movement I make. Forrester stares at me, waiting for a tell. They’re a double act.

  I firm up my expression, eliminate any risk of blinking or swallowing, and speak casually and clearly with only the slightest of tremors.

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘No-one has mentioned him in years. What’s this all about?’

  ‘What did you think of Mr Redmayne?’ Forrester asks, ignoring my question.

  It’s time for another shrug.

  ‘I tried not to think about him at all. He was a super-intelligent sociopath with all the charm of a lanced boil.’

  Forrester risks a half smile. ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘Not particularly. He was arrogant, sneaky, self-obsessed, totally indifferent to the feelings of others, cold, calculating… Shall I go on?’

  Forrester continues writing. ‘But highly intelligent,’ he says. ‘You’d agree he was exceptional.’

  ‘Yes. We were friends for a while, but we didn’t have that much in common. It fizzled out.’

  ‘Did you come here to meet him, Mr Tyler?’

  Forrester pauses and pins me with one of his stares; but this is a much easier question to deal with. Bewilderment is easy to simulate.

  ‘Why the hell would I do that? I couldn’t stand the guy by the end of our school years and I haven’t seen him or heard anything of him since. I’d be perfectly happy to continue in complete ignorance of him for a lot longer.’

  ‘So, why are you here, Mr Tyler?’

  ‘I told you. It’s a story about a guy who organises illegal raves…’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Forrester writes and smiles. ‘What was his name, this man?’

  Easy ground again.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. You know the form.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Tyler, you must protect your sources, and an individual like that would not appreciate you sharing his name with the likes of us.’ He pauses. ‘We have a similar ethic.’

  The guy next to me shuffles closer. ‘Does the name Lingard mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Think carefully, Mr Tyler.
Imagine your life depends on the answer.’

  My raised eyebrows and quizzical look elicit no response from him. He continues to stare at me without blinking. Forrester leans forward and rests his jaw on the back of his hands. I can feel him measuring my response to a microgram.

  ‘Lingard,’ he repeats. ‘Have you heard the name before?’

  ‘No. What or who is it? It sounds like a brand of Nordic Chocolate. They could call the dark variety Nordic Noir. What do you think?’

  Nothing, evidently.

  Forrester relaxes back on his chair. He reaches over, removes another picture from the file, and sets it before me.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Isaac Thurber,’ he says, tapping the photograph with a stocky forefinger.

  It’s time for another shrug. I’m heading for sore shoulders if I carry on like this.

  The picture is Isaac alright, wearing a slick suit, polished black shoes and an immaculate haircut. He stares at the camera with only the hint of a sardonic smile. He’s about ten years older than when I last saw him, but still the muscular, chiselled enigma he always was. Even the smile carries a variety of mixed messages. Impossible to interpret.

  ‘I haven’t seen him since school, either,’ I say, which, technically speaking, is true. I haven’t.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the guy next to me growls. ‘Think hard.’

  I scrunch up my eyes until my forehead creases. No good.

  ‘I think I’d know, don’t you?’ I risk leaning the chair back on two legs and turn to face him. Another Covid danger moment. ‘You have a card like his, don’t you?’ I ask him, nodding towards Forrester. ‘You didn’t show me. It’s always nice to know who I’m being interrogated by.’

  ‘Dan Mather,’ he says bluntly. ‘Take my word for it.’

  ‘Has Mr Thurber been in contact with you?’ That’s Forrester, cool as the proverbial, unflappable. It’s a more difficult question and I’ve always been a bad liar, but I keep telling myself that, strictly speaking, I can’t be certain the message came from Isaac, so I keep that in mind and, with surprising comfort, look straight at him and say a convincing no.