Decay Inevitable

White pinned down the land for miles around. A distant line of trees looked like stubble on a corpse’s face. Sean had to stop for a moment to gulp down air and try not to let the space tear him away from his position. Ten years in London had failed to inure him to the vertiginous sprawls that existed beyond the city. For a moment, he was terrified by the lack of motion, the conviction that nothing around him had altered in a thousand years and that, if he didn’t move soon, he would be fixed in the scenery for another thousand. He felt vulnerable, exposed, targeted. Vomit charged his clenched teeth and he let it come, as quietly as possible. Darkness crowded him, the sun blotted. Let it be a cloud, he hoped, rising in expectation of some grim-faced, leather-clad ape ready to beat him senseless. But the eclipse had been imagined. Pale sunshine bleached the sky, turning it into a reflection of his surroundings. Getting a grip of himself, he moved towards the rear of the house, scanning for windows all the while. Of those he saw, only one – high up – was without a curtain blocking the view. He tried the back door. Locked. What was he going to do if it was open?

They were talking about the dreadful murder of a local girl. That’s all.

And yet, and yet...

Sean retreated, wondering why his suspicions were so high. Could it just be guilt that was driving him to such extreme behaviour? Was he so desperate to atone for his mistake in London that he would follow any lead, no matter how tenuous? If that was the case, he reasoned, trudging back to the car, then he would destroy himself within weeks, or find himself up before the magistrates on a charge of harassment. In the driving seat, Sean was able to relax, away from the panicky reaches of land, and relish the fresh snap of cold air that had locked itself inside with him. He watched the house for a little longer, hopeful that he would witness them dragging a body outside, but nothing so theatrical occurred. Wondering how he might quash the compulsion to act on behalf of a dead woman– the first girl he had kissed–and suspecting that this visit to Warrington had been ill-thought-out, he started the engine and trundled the car down to the main road.

Seconds later, accelerating back towards town, an oncoming car passed him. In the mirror, Sean watched as it turned into the driveway he had just vacated. Pulling over to the side of the road, Sean’s eyes found themselves in the mirror. They were wide and worrisome. Whatever doubts he had had were spirited away as his lungs begged for him to release the hold on his breath.

One of the men he had seen at the funeral. Tough, barrel-shaped bruiser with tufty white hair.

CHAPTER FIVE: GIRL

EARLY MORNING, HIS run took him on a rough circle past the school on Lodge Lane, down to Sankey Valley Park, under Seven Arches and on to the dual carriageway that snaked west, beyond the cooling towers of Fiddler’s Ferry power station and onwards to Liverpool via Widnes and Runcorn.

Sean headed east, back towards town, barely registering the growl of traffic or the slap of his feet on the wet pavement. The night before, he had returned to the farmhouse and hung around as night gathered and the temperature plummeted. Towards midnight, Barrel-chest and the driver Sean had followed left in the white van. Sean took after them, certain he was solidifying from the cold, his hands and feet sluggish on the controls of the car, his mouth a blue-grey slit that flashed itself to him in the rear-view mirror as streetlamps swung by.

They had pulled up outside a disused ironmonger’s shop. The shredded awning bore the name BOUGHEY’S. He watched the barrel-chested man get out of the van and wave to the driver. Words followed him through the door: “See you tomorrow, Salty.”

So. He had a name. He had an address. He did not yet have a reason. He had reason for few things. Bitterly, Sean had turned the car back towards Ripley Street, quelling the urge to follow the white van on another journey. White van, he felt, played penny whistle to Salty’s big fat tuba.

Now, Sean pulled the hood of his track suit over his head and jogged backstreets, angling towards that ironmonger’s once more. He was almost distracted by some of the memories that leapt up at him; every corner rounded was another half-turn on an unseen winch hauling him back through time.