That was quick! he remarks.
Nobody home, I lie.
Oh. Well I had a thought while you were gone, he says, pointing towards a partially dismantled chest of drawers which is lying on its back close by on the lawn. I found it in the shed, he says. She was planning to chop it up for kindling but in the meantime
I go over to inspect it.
Well need some kind of
Already thought of that
Oh yes. Genius.
Inside the upturned chest is the cover of an old sewing machine.
Its a perfect retreat, he says, theres a little hole in the front, the exact size he needs custom made, almost! I filled the insides with straw. Hell need food and water then hes set up. Obviously youll want to bring him indoors at night or the badgers will suck his brains out.
I wince. The badgers really are they really are the most awful blight.
Its milking time, Pemberton continues, in a loud voice (stiffly, awkwardly, almost as if delivering the lines of a bad play). He stands up. But before I head off
He gives me an intense, one could almost call it a meaningful look.
Is there a problem? I ask. What an extraordinary man he is! So messy. Like hes been drawn with a broken brown crayon by a bored child with an excess of imagination.
You made Carla cry on the beach the other day, he tells me (very quickly, garbled, almost). As he speaks, I suddenly feel myself fading (or is it him? Is he fading?). Exhaustion. Lack of food, I suppose.
I dont understand what happened there, he continues (he almost looks fierce so big, so decent, all that dark hair, the red beard), but I do know that in all likelihood it was Carla who left the shark under your bed. Its just He shrugs.
There follows a period of what I can only describe as white noise, static, and the most I can decipher is Sword of Truth and Web of Artifice. He gives me a ten pound note and then passes me the rabbit.
The cow will probably kill me now, he says.
The cow? Sorry? The cow? Is he referring to Miss Hahn? Someone else? Mrs Barrow? His sister? His mother? Is this simply all about his being late for milking? For milking the cows? I wish I could but the sweep of noise like a giant a giant wave crashing. A Lear jet flying at low altitude. A malfunctioning washing machine perpetually stuck on its spin cycle rocking its way across the kitchen tiles.
Uh
What a strange man he is! Look at him! Look at his lips working! Like the mouthparts of a giant wasp a bee in astonishing close-up! So hairy huge confused
Bumbling! Yes. Intense! Certainly. Deluded? Hmmn. But he seems decent enough (journalists first instinct. Gotta try and trust my initial gut ), uh
Okay okay, yes, the way he immediately knew where that missing bulb could be located. Highly suspicious. And the custom-made planks in the hedge by the Look Out? Strange. His desperate need to get shot of me for a while (Miss Hahns mother and the giant, German rabbits? I know for a fact a fact! that rabbit isnt even kosher). Yup. Hes got an agenda a mile wide, Id have thought.
Did Miss Hahn ever actually date him? It seems an improbable union. And what about the signal lack of any documentary evidence (photographic, earlier testimonial etc.) to this effect? And the parrot? Which parrot? Whose parrot?
What is he? Who is Clifford né Rusty Pemberton? What does he amount to, narratively? Is he a mere nothing? A nobody? Is he a missing link or a red herring? A loose cannon? A pointless distraction? A blind alley? A freak? A fanatic? A fantasist?
Because why would he be so determined to push Miss Hahn into the fray if he wasnt (all of the above none of them)? By outright accusing her? Why would a friend a protector feel the urge to behave in that way? So disloyal so ungentlemanly. I mean I wont pretend that I hadnt suspected her myself before. But now? No. Now, shes the only person I dont suspect! Our dear Mr Pemberton on the other hand Oh-ho! With friends like these, Miss Hahn, who needs ?
Perhaps Ive been slightly rash in confiding in him? Shouldve kept up my guard. Stiff upper etc. Although if hes as strange and as skittish as he appears, then why would local people believe anything he says?
He prepares to leave.
Oh dear. Did I really make Miss Hahn cry the other day? On the beach?
We attempt to shake hands but this is rendered impossible by the ten pounds and the rabbit. So instead he kind of he sort of curtseys.
Once hes gone I sit down for a minute to try and gather my thoughts together. After about ten or so seconds the white noise diminishes. Well thank God for that! But then another sound neatly replaces it. Barking. Yes barking! followed by a series of profuse apologies. A womans voice. Then Mr Pemberton Rusty saying, Its fine. Its absolutely fine. It isnt deep. I actually I I sort of expected it, to be perfectly honest.
13
Miss Carla Hahn
Poor old Rogue is no more. Which is terribly sad. But worse still is the knowledge that I yes, me! am going to be chiefly responsible for burying the body. Tatteh is too busy focusing on the onerous task of preparing a brief funeral oration and gathering together Rogues favourite toys to be buried alongside him (I note that several of these are items I have given to Tatteh myself among them a Clarks sandal, a Johnsons cashmere scarf and a little, plastic flamingo which I bought to commemorate the arrival of a lone bird of that species on Pett Pools in 1978, 1979 or some time thereabouts).
I have a fork and a spade, but the ground is pretty hard. And space is limited because numerous other dog corpses have been deposited here in years past. Upwards of thirty and counting, Id have thought.
And Rogue was so huge! The sheer depth required to cover his bulk, and the terrible likelihood that if he isnt buried deep enough the foxes will dig him up again haunt me as I work. I have bound up the thumb which aches horribly. In fact I am unwinding my makeshift bandage (consisting of a mesh washing-up cloth) and attempting to reapply it when Clifford Bickerton comes charging into the garden.
I saw your bike out front as I was driving past, he puffs. Your dad says you dislocated your thumb.
Rogue had a heart attack, I explain. I was climbing over the side gate and my pesky belt got snagged on a piece of wood
Rusty takes off his work coat, folds it over his arm in order to put it down and grab the spade and commence digging, but as he does so a clementine (satsuma? Tangerine?) falls out of the pocket and rolls into my partly dug hole.
I stiffen.
Then after Id been hanging there a while, I continue (more halting, now), some big goose some some Smart Alec happens along and and without warning they untied my trousers. I fell head first on to the gravel below. Dislocated my thumb. Then they buggered off.
Bloody hell!
Rusty looks shocked, then ruminative (not quite the reaction Id have expected). His eyes briefly de-focus.
I reach down and retrieve the satsuma, once again remembering quite clearly that very strong smell of tangerine. Or clementine. Or satsuma. From earlier. I proffer him the fruit.
Keep it, he suggests, Ive been eating the bloody things all morning. Mum bought a giant sack of them for the B&B-ers. Ive actually got a little ulcer on my tongue.
As he speaks, I notice a patch of dried blood on his forearm.
What happened to your arm? I ask.
Uh I was bitten by a dog. He scowls. Up at Mulberry. A setter. It belonged to some woman who was tending the girls shrine.
What were you doing up at the cottage? I ask, scowling.
Uh
Again the uncertainty. Uh Mrs Barrow called me.
He starts to dig, chin burrowing into his breastbone, almost ashamedly.
Why? I wonder.
Because
As he begins to respond (still digging) a hedge-cutter roars into life in a neighbouring garden.
Sorry? I place a hand to my ear.
Mr Huffs wife died, he roars, just as the hedge-cutter is turned off again.
What? I take a small step back, blasted (in two senses) by this news.
He continues digging but offers no further information.
When did she die? I ask, shocked. Oh Please God Let It Be Today! Let It Be Yesterday!
About three or four days ago.
I do the sums. My heart plummets. He continues to dig.
But then why would Mrs Barrow ? I persist, struggling to piece the thing together to my complete satisfaction.
I dont know, he says, still digging. I dont think she wanted to bother you. After the landslip and everything. The underlying tensions with Mr Huff
But then why why would she call you of all people? I finish off. I mean why wouldnt she just call Mr Barrow? Is Clifford Bickerton now part of some new, UN-sponsored Pett Level Peace Initiative I know nothing about?
To help, he says (as if this is the most obvious thing in all the world).
With what? I ask.
A missing bulb. He shrugs. A broken window. The rabbit hutch.
Rabbit? I echo.
He nods. He digs. I watch, rotating my sore thumb, thinking about Mr Huff. Thinking about his dead wife. At the same time, I try and imagine Clifford Bickerton unfastening my trousers and letting me drop like that. Making those weird noises. Running off. No. No! I just cant. I cant imagine it.
Clifford pauses for a moment to catch his breath. He was married to that photographer, he explains, the one who the one who got burned.
Sorry?
The photographer. His wife. Kimberly someone. Hes her husband. Although I dont think