house in the middle of the factory, it was a bit creepy actually, just the two of them, surrounded by all those empty buildings.’
‘And Martyn needed help?’
‘Yeah. He wasn’t cute. I’m not an expert in educational needs but he definitely needed help. I interviewed the father – briefly – just to see where we could find him a place.’
‘So, nasty, violent?’
She nodded. ‘He came to our attention – isn’t that a dreadful euphemism – thanks to the police in Whittlesea. There’d been nothing in the village, or at least they said there’d been no complaints, but you can never tell with a place as close as Jude’s Ferry. But he was one of the kids we taxied over to the college, and that’s when the problems started. His dad kept dogs on the factory site and Martyn had cats, mice, a ferret, you name it. Bit of an animal nutter. Vegetarian too, which you know, for the Fens, is like as weird as it gets.’
‘So what did he do – steal a goldfish, couple of pound of curly kale?’
‘Not quite. There was a pet shop in the town and apparently Martyn went in and complained about the conditions, said it was cruel the way they kept the rabbits in small cages. He’d turn up most afternoons and berate the owner in front of the customers. Then the police got called and they chucked him out, told him to keep clear of the shop.’
The hair on the back of Dryden’s neck had begun to bristle. ‘What’d he do?’
‘One night he got himself a milk bottle and a tin of paraffin and made a Molotov cocktail, which he lit and lobbed through the window of the owner’s flat above the shop. When he ran out Martyn sprayed floor polish in his eyes.’
‘Jesus. So then what happened?’
They heard a groan from the driver’s cab as a small alarm pulsed, and a round, bald head appeared with sleep lines in red running across one cheek.
‘Juvenile court and a spell in a secure unit. That’s the last I heard of him, I’m afraid. There were psychiatric reports too. They didn’t throw the key away or anything, people wanted to help. But in terms of life chances I think Martyn’s were running out fast. I don’t think a happy ending was on the cards, do you?’
She ushered Dryden out of the door as the driver ran the back of the container up to reveal a row of butchered sides of beef hanging from hooks, the meat red and bloody where the circular saw had split the bodies open, the bones caressed by the ice which hung in the refrigerated air.
21
The first time he saw them together it felt like a dislocation; bones parting in the socket. Laura hadn’t been on the gallery in the sun, enjoying solitude in a wicker chair. Instead he’d been directed down through one of the wards to the unit where the patients were taken for physiotherapy. She was on a weights machine, lying flat, trying to raise the bar hung with circular lead cogs which crossed her feet.
And he was beside her, the man they’d fished out of the river, the man who didn’t have a past. He was talking into her ear, his wheelchair pulled up and braked, the wounded hand held on his lap like a parcel, the fingers swaddled to form a mitt. Even in a dressing gown he looked elegant, the arms drooping languidly from the rests of the chair. The kind of man, Dryden imagined, who would shoot the cuffs on a suit.
Something about the attitude of his neck, the slightly bowed head, suggested confession.
It was the first time since the accident he’d seen her talking to someone he didn’t know, someone who wasn’t from his world. A good sign, he reasoned; she was getting better, putting together an independent life, building her own world as best she could.
Laura said, ‘Hi,’ the syllable clearer, sharper than he’d heard since the speech therapy had begun just six months earlier.
‘Hi,’ said Dryden, fighting an urge to apologize for the intrusion. ‘Humph and I are off to the coast,’ he said. ‘We could do the beach – I’ve got an interview in Lynn. We thought you’d come.’
The man released the brake on the chair and a uniformed PC whom Dryden had not noticed stood, ready to escort him back to his room. But Laura raised her hand, struggling to control her face. ‘This…’ she said, and then they laughed. ‘This is the man who does not know his name,’ she said, each word contorting her face with effort, but each sound now distinct, articulated.
They all laughed this time, but Dryden thought he was somehow outside the joke. Laura’s face was flushed with effort and something else, something close to joy.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was there when they got you out of the river. My name’s Dryden. Philip Dryden.’ He took the proffered good hand, noting again the handsome face, the crisp line of the jaw, and the complexion Dryden always associated with money. ‘I work for
He shrugged, laughing, the green eyes searching Dryden’s. ‘Not really – just fragments and they seem to belong to someone else, someone who isn’t me, at least not yet. It’s a really bizarre experience. I can remember everything about life – you know, how to operate a coffee machine, or send a text message, or find Radio Four – but nothing about
‘How’d you feel, inside – emotionally?’
The man looked at Laura. ‘Scared, to be frank. Anxious. I don’t know what happened at the bridge. I can’t be sure someone didn’t throw me in – so, yeah, scared. How would you feel? If they’re out there, this person, these people, then they might try again. So I feel a bit hunted, a target.’
The voice was modulated, unhurried, with the self-possession of a BBC newsreader.
‘Anything… do you not remember anything?’
‘I’m writing it all down in a diary, but it’s just feelings really. And some inconsequential fragments from a childhood, the childhood of this other me I suppose. I can see a garden with all these exotic plants – palms, not spindly Cornish ones, hundred-foot ones. And I can see an ocean, with boats on it, thousands of them, and this
