The Fire Baby Read online

  ‘Dryden. My witness. I lied.’

  She raised a hand. ‘Lyndon?’ He came forward from the shadows and folded long tanned fingers around hers, enveloping her wedding ring, which had caught the light like a candle in the darkness in the shadows of a church.

  ‘We all lie,’ he said, and Dryden noticed a glance of complicity with Estelle.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lyndon,’ Maggie said. ‘It was your life. I stole your life and ended it. Matty didn’t die, Lyndon. He’s never died. I lied. I lied to the coroner. To the police. To…’ She fought for breath for the first time and Lyndon made to get help. ‘No. Stay, please stay. This is all I have left to do. I lied to give you a different life. You’re Matty… You’re my son…’

  There was silence as Lyndon half-knelt again at the bedside. Estelle sank back into the shadows, regrouping as the fixed points of her life were scattered by a single confession. She had a brother now, not a yard away, while she’d been putting flowers on the grave of a stranger for twenty years. And Lyndon? He’d gained a mother, on her deathbed, and lost a father he’d loved as a hero, but had never touched.

  Dryden thought about Maggie’s confession. She said she’d given Matty away to give him a new life. Could that really be all that had driven her; driven a new mother to give away her only child? What was so terrible about the life he would have had? From what did Maggie want to save her son?

  Maggie struggled to say more. She turned to Estelle and offered a hand. Dryden watched her daughter’s arm rise up, as if from under water, to clasp the fingers. And Dryden saw fear for the second time in Maggie’s eyes. But this time the fear was specific and had an edge. The whites of her eyes were oddly vibrant in a dying face as she scanned their circled faces, pleading, searching. She had more to say, more she had to say, but she couldn’t say it. Like a scream for help in a nightmare, the sound wouldn’t come. Estelle kissed her mother’s head and held her tight. But still there were no words.

  Lyndon went for the doctor and a nurse gave Maggie more morphine, despite her feeble struggles.

  ‘She’ll sleep now,’ said the nurse, so they went outside to take in lungfuls of cool air. Then Lyndon and Estelle went back and sat by the bedside again. But when Maggie spoke it was only with the echo of a whisper, so they didn’t hear. There were just two words, spoken as she died that morning at 3.30am.

  ‘The tapes,’ she said.

  Saturday, 7 June

  12

  The cathedral clock tolled four, a cold light tore the black edge of the horizon, and rooks rose in a cloud over the town. But it was the nightmare which woke Dryden. Always the same, and always in red. The gurgling blood, slipping past, with Laura clutching for his hand. He stretched out but never reached her, screaming silently for her to reach out to him. But she never did. Her eyes just asked a question: ‘Why did you leave me to die?’

  He jolted awake, his heart racing, and the fear so vivid that his hand still stretched out for Laura’s.

  Dawn greyed the hospital’s Gothic tower as two orderlies carried Maggie Beck’s body out of the foyer on a sealed stretcher. The silence and the lack of urgency told Dryden all he needed to know. He got out of the cab and stood, shivering, as the ambulance crept past.

  Lyndon Koskinski walked behind it to the gates and then stood, watching until the curve in the road must have taken it finally out of sight. They were twenty feet apart but in the stillness of dawn they could almost whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden.

  Koskinski’s shoulders sloped, and his hands fluttered to his face, pushing back hair, and rubbing eyes.

  ‘She should have told us. Before. She should have told us,’ he said, walking closer.

  ‘It was her secret.’

  ‘It was my secret,’ said Koskinski, his voice suddenly angry. ‘She should have told me. At least. What can I do now?’ he asked, wanting an answer.

  ‘Look after Estelle,’ said Dryden.

  He laughed then, the sound of a cynical lover rather than a grieving son, and Dryden’s skin crept.

  ‘Estelle,’ said Koskinski, pulling out a letter from his pocket. He stood holding it, uncertain what to do. ‘Maggie left this for you. I must go back,’ he added, looking up at Laura’s room with dread.

  Dryden took the letter. ‘Can I do anything?’ he said.

  Koskinski laughed again. ‘No one can do anything. Believe me. No one.’

  Dryden sat on the iron bench and opened the letter. It was in Maggie’s elegant copperplate.

  My Dear Philip,

  When you read this I shall be dead, a thought which I’m forced to admit is not entirely repugnant to me. I have felt that my life is at its natural end for some time. I have made a dreadful mess of things, Philip, as you must now know. My illness has shortened what could have been a joyless old age. I have made my peace with God. As your mother knew, that is the most important thing.

  There were many things I wanted to say in person before I died to the people whose lives I have disfigured. That is the word I have decided on, Philip – and it is the right one. I am conscious that I have done many wrongs, to many people. I have tried to deal with each. I have discharged my two secrets. They have weighed me down, Philip, and I shall be glad to be free of them.

  There is one further matter left. What I have to say to you is best written. It is, after all, your medium. I want you to do something for me. Yes. Something more, I’m afraid, than the many things you have done already.

  This letter concerns Lyndon’s father. For the sake of absolute clarity, and I am aware this is a legal document, I am talking about his natural father. I know that this man, whom I once loved, has never been far away. I have not seen him since 1976. Indeed, I have made sure of that. But I have watched his life, at first with some satisfaction, later with misgivings and a growing sense of my own guilt.

  At first his identity was well known, at least within the family, although I doubt if they ever uttered his name after Matty was born. I certainly never did. We expunged him from history. I will not name him here, but for more complex reasons than shame and anger. I feel now that he deserves his anonymity if he wishes to keep it. He is a victim too. The only person who can rightly name him is himself. I tried to keep his name from Estelle, with success I think, and he deserves his obscurity still, if he wishes to keep it.

  Whatever his faults, and believe me they were grievous, I have robbed this man of his son. I want to give him a chance to recover some of the life he could have known had I not done what I did. I admit, freely, that I do this more for Lyndon than for his father. But never mind. Both will benefit and it is time for charity and forgiveness. If you meet him, Philip, tell him I am sorry. Ask him to forgive me if he can.

  Philip, we have often talked about the value of truth and I know that newspapers can carry the truth to many. I want you to tell my story. Tell everyone I lied. Tell everyone that Matty did not die in the air crash at Black Bank. I believe that his father will come forward. He loved Matty and I know that, if it was as strong as mine, this love will have endured and even deepened over the years. But I know I may have killed that love with my lie. So I want you to say, Philip, in the newspaper, that if he comes forward he will be eligible for a portion of my estate. In many ways I cheated him out of it in 1976. I have set aside the sum of £5,000 for him alone. It is not much but in his present circumstances I think it is enough. The solicitors dealing with my will – Gillies & Wright – are in a position to confirm his identity. They will hand over the money only in the presence of my son, and only in person.

  I know these requests are onerous and may seem baffling to you but please carry them out without change or delay. I would wish the story you write to appear after my funeral, the details of which I have set out separately for Estelle and Lyndon.

  And one final request. The memorial stone marking the site of the 1976 crash carries Matty’s name. I have no wish for it to be removed, but please see to it that Lyndon Koskinski’s is added. My solicit
ors will find the sum of £100 in my will to cover the costs of the stonemason. I shall lie in the same graveyard as that child, whom I wronged so completely. I shall have to deal with the consequences of that if, as I hope, there is life after my death.

  Your loving friend, who will always be in your debt

  Margaret Alexandra Beck

  Witnessed by John R. R. Gillies, solicitor

  1 May 2003

  13

  Nothing moved on the Jubilee Estate except the burglars returning home after a good Friday night’s work. Kettles whistled and pots brewed as bags of third-rate jewellery and fourth-rate silver were excitedly examined by bedside lamps. Outside No. 29 Wissey Way Humph had parked by his own front gate and, flipping open the glove compartment of the cab, he exhibited no desire to travel the last three yards to his own front door.

  Dryden was equally overcome by the need to go nowhere. Humph passed him a bottle of Bell’s whisky and then switched off the interior light. This was a minor ritual in their relationship, allowing them to view the world outside without being seen themselves.

  A white cat with a collar that sparkled like the glitter-ball in a cheap dancehall selected the middle of Humph’s blistered lawn to expel a sizeable pond of piss, the black creeping lake expanding stealthily several feet in all directions. On the other side of the road a couple shouted at each other beneath a bare lightbulb in an upstairs bedroom.

  ‘… fucking Cymbeline…’ shouted the man. But surely not, thought Dryden.

  Humph tried to weigh up whether Dryden’s silence was due to Maggie Beck’s death, but as he was silent most nights it was a difficult call. ‘Nice old girl then,’ he said eventually, judging the moment badly.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dryden, swigging the tiny bottle and accepting another. He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. He told Humph about Maggie’s confession. ‘But there was more, I think, something else…’

  ‘Perhaps it’s on the tapes,’ said Humph, who knew as much about Dryden’s present life as the reporter did himself.

  ‘The tapes,’ said Dryden. ‘I guess they’re Estelle’s. Yes. You’re right. It must be on the tapes.’ Dryden had given Maggie a tape recorder to let her tell at last the story of her life, and to encourage her to talk out loud for Laura’s benefit. He’d never imagined the result would be a vital testament, a key, even, to the real mystery of Black Bank: Why had Maggie Beck given her son to strangers?

  He stretched out his legs and took out the letter, handing it to Humph. Then he took out that night’s section of tickertape torn off the COMPASS machine. As he read each foot of the tape he passed it over to Humph, tearing it off along the dotted lines. The cabbie was a crossword puzzler of strictly limited ability, but Dryden valued the double check. If he ever missed anything he could always blame Humph. He read the first take and passed it over, wordlessly, to the cabbie.

  DHFVIUROIF SUFJJF SUFT DKJOO J J INDIGA

  FGJGF

  SHFDUTH ABABYGHTUKDN FHGFHFO SHOSJ

  Dryden searched in his jacket pocket for the chocolate bar he had bought earlier that day.

  Humph squirmed in his seat. ‘A baby?’

  ‘Maggie said she swapped the kids on the night of the Black Bank air crash. The one that survived – the Yank pilot – is her son.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Humph, actually turning in his seat. ‘How does Laura know?’

  Dryden considered this: ‘I guess she heard Maggie using the tape recorder. If that’s the baby Laura means.’

  The last torch had faded three hours ago and Emmanuel had wanted to cry then. Others did. He heard them when the lorry stopped and killed its engines. But the fear had shut them up.

  No one talked now. The blackness was total. But that wasn’t why they were afraid. They were afraid because of the heat, and the way it seemed to be stealing away the oxygen they craved. Emmanuel’s chest hurt as he breathed, and he had to suck the air just to stop the screaming pain in his lungs. He pressed his forehead against the coolness of the metal walls and he tried to do what his father always said: ‘Emmy. Act your age.’

  Sixteen. He was proud of that. A man at last in the village. Just in time to leave.

  He felt the self-pity well up so he thought about home: his touchstone. Almost thirty-one days now, counted out and marked up in his diary. He’d written down what he’d missed most; the way the dogs barked at night and the cool, overwhelming presence of the great river. He’d spent his childhood feeling it slip by, never ending, perpetual. Their lives depended on the river because his grandfather’s boat meant they could all eat. He ferried the foreigners to the mine and back, and Emmy could hear, even now, the high intoxicating whine of the outboard motor. But it hadn’t been enough. First his father had left and sent money. Now he too must send money home.

  He reached out a hand and touched an arm. It jerked away. None of them were friends now. He felt the indignation swell into tears. They were supposed to look after him. There was Kunte, Josh and Abraham from the village. His guardians, his grandfather had said, in front of everyone. The village would never forget what had happened to Emmy, but then he thought they might never know. Could that really happen? Could he die and no one would know?

  The fear had started at sea. The panic swept over them with the first big swell, which piled them in a thrashing heap against the food boxes. When the lantern failed Emmy felt better: he couldn’t see the faces of the others. He had been a lucky child to live so long and never see betrayal in another’s eyes. But he saw it then.

  He’d seen England for the first time that day sometime just before dawn in a lay-by on a busy road. At least it was busy to Emmy. In the village they’d come out to watch the oil tankers go by, and the cars driven by the well-fed Americans. Here the cars were perpetual like the river, not cool and comforting, but alien – harsh.

  In the lay-by the driver’s torch beam blinded them. They hadn’t been let out. Something was wrong.

  ‘There’s no choice,’ the driver said.

  They let them have the air for a moment and then crashed the tailgate back down. A fight started as the bolts shot into place. Emmy touched his fingers to his forehead later where someone’s nails had clawed and he felt the stickiness and smelt the hint of iron on his fingertips.

  They’d driven on and then Emmy had heard the sound of gates opening. Then silence. How many hours now? The driver got out and a car started up. Then nothing.

  The night had gone, Emmanuel knew that. Now the sun was rising. Just beyond the thin aluminium curtain which kept him from the air.

  He wasn’t the fisrst to panic. Even in the dark he knew it was Abraham; he’d known him all his life. He heard his fists hit the walls. Then everyone moved. Blindly in the dark. And Emmanuel felt the pain across his chest, and as he panicked too he knew, with the true insight of the living nightmare, that this was just the beginning of the end.

  Nine Days Later Monday, 16 June

  14

  Aboard PK 129 Philip Dryden had not slept. That was the lie he always lived with: the truth was that he had slept, but could not face the nightmares which proved he had. Who said you cannot dream in colour? The blood was red and Laura always bobbed to its surface. She floated past his outstretched hand, each time a little nearer, but each time he could not reach, and each time he shouted out her name until he woke himself free from the torment of repeated failure. This time his anxiety had been doubled by the presence of Maggie Beck in his dream, still curled in her deathbed like an aged foetus, but floating on the sticky surface of the blood.

  As always, with the dawn, the darkness lifted like the lid on his chest of guilty secrets.

  He went up on deck with a mug of coffee to watch the sunrise from his deckchair. When he’d bought PK 129 shortly after Laura’s accident it was chiefly for the unspeakable romance of the small teak plaque in the wheelhouse which read ‘Dunkirk: 1940’. The deckchair was less romantic. Tired of repeated efforts to put the thing up he had nailed the wooden stays in position and fixed the
legs to the deck with steel brackets.

  The sun wobbled free of the horizon and Dryden felt some joy seeping back into his heart. He liked his floating home: it combined permanence with mobility and a pleasing sense of the temporary. And if he ever got bored with the view he could just pay for a new mooring. She was a steel-built inshore naval patrol boat for which Dryden had extracted £16,000 from the joint savings account he’d held with Laura. He would have paid twice that for the plaque, but money management was not one of his strong suits. He had few determinations, but one was to make sure his life wasn’t pinched by a lack of pennies.

  He made a fresh batch of coffee in the galley. Two cups, tin. Through the porthole he spotted Humph’s Ford Capri parked up at Barham’s Farm. He laughed out loud at Humph’s biggest joke: the only cabbie in Britain with a two-door taxi: a triumph of indifference over reality.

  An automatic irrigator sent a plume of water back and forth across the intervening fields. The first rainbow of the day formed and appeared to end in Humph’s cab. Dryden doubted it ended in a pot of gold, recalling instead the murky glass specimen bottle the cabbie had collected to make sure the occasional call of nature did not result in him having to leave the car.

  Dryden looked up and checked his watch: 8.10am. He’d arranged to get to Black Bank early. The call had been difficult: they were busy, said Estelle Beck, arranging for the next day’s funeral. He sensed animosity in her voice, even fear. Getting up early suited him. It was press day for the Express and he wanted to run Maggie Beck’s deathbed confession and the plea for Matty’s father to come forward. He was happy to follow Maggie’s stipulation that his story should run after the funeral – but he still needed an interview, and a family picture, to make sure it got the space it deserved.