‘What was that, Nicolas? You’re going to need to tell me. You turn up here, looking like death I might add, and lay into one of my patients like it’s a personal vendetta. Just what the bloody hell is going on?’
‘You watch the news, Jason?’ York asked without hesitation.
‘Aye, sometimes, why?’
York leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘There’s a maniac running around London, cutting the hearts out of his victim’s chests and eating them. I believe that man to be Julian Faulkner.’
‘My god.’ McCullick sank into his seat. ‘But he seemed like such a quiet guy, pleasant almost. Are you sure?’
‘Pretty much. By comparison, Arthur Faulkner is a teddy bear. His son is dangerous and we need to find him. I figured your patient might’ve been able to help.’
McCullick shook his head from side to side. ‘Arthur’s been out of it for years. He was never going to be able to help you.’
‘What about you? How well did you know Julian?’
‘I didn’t,’ the Scot admitted. ‘He used to visit his dad once a month or so, but I haven’t seen him in two, maybe three years now. Strange guy, very quiet, but always courteous. Some days he’d sit with Arthur for hours. Not even talking, you know. Just sit there as if he wanted only to be in the man’s presence. I wasn’t the only one here who found it a little weird. Some other carers were unnerved by him. He was quite a big man in relation to his father, broad shoulders, big arms, and he carried with him this intensity you couldn’t ignore. But we never had any trouble from him. He’d turn up, visit Arthur, and leave.’
Intense, thought York. It was the second time today Julian Faulkner had been described that way. ‘What did he look like? Can you remember?’
‘Not really,’ the carer admitted. ‘He was fairly plain looking as I recall. I probably have a photograph of him somewhere. As part of the therapy here we take pictures of some of the patients with their family members to encourage familiarity. We show the patients the photographs and hope they can associate. It wasn’t very successful in Arthur’s case. He was still living in that POW camp, still is actually. He has no memory of having a son.’
‘Could I see the photographs?’
‘Aye,’ McCullick replied. ‘Not the case files, though. You’d need a court order for those.’
‘Just the photos.’
McCullick left the room and returned moments later with a large file, Arthur Faulkner stencilled neatly onto the front. Delving inside he dug out two snapshots and handed them over. ‘That’s Julian,’ he said pointing out the unsmiling man standing next to Arthur Faulkner. He was taller than his father, broader, wearing plain blue jeans and a white polo shirt. There was nothing joyous about the picture, only deeply etched sorrow of a broken family.
York froze. ‘Oh shit,’ he murmured.
‘What is it?’ asked McCullick. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Are you sure this is right?’
Hoping to god there was some kind of error he examined the photograph again, traced his finger along the tall man’s face.
‘Aye, that’s definitely him, no mistake. Like I said, I met him a few times.’
‘In that case,’ York muttered gravely, ‘I’m no longer chasing ghosts. This man is very real. And I know who he is.'
52
The Indian Ocean, 2011
‘Still no sign of Eric,’ said Abbey quietly.
‘He knew something was wrong last night,’ James said. ‘We need to find him soon, that front doesn’t look pretty.’
Following his edifying discussion with Danielle, Oli had surfaced and took over watch. During the switch the student had been completely non-responsive, his caramel skin ashen. He wouldn’t tell James what was wrong, only that he couldn’t stop throwing up. Afterwards, James had managed to get a solid three hours of sleep before Abbey woke him with fresh water and fresh concern. Hanging over the horizon was a thick bank of menacing cloud. In the last twenty minutes, it had grown larger. Or nearer.
‘If this storm is anything like the one that brought the plane down it’s going to rip the beach apart. The tents aren’t going to be any kind of shelter.’
Shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, Abbey looked like she had something to say.
‘You alright?’ James asked.
She couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘About last night…’
‘Forget about it.’
‘I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I was tired, a little vulnerable, and I shouldn’t have put you in that position. But you know, if ever you need a late-night drinking partner again, I’d love to oblige.’
‘You have some competition,’ James revealed. ‘Just so you know.’ Abbey narrowed her eyes. ‘After you left, the girl came and sat with me for an hour. Her name’s Danielle. Apparently Eric’s been talking to her for a while.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘She’s intelligent,’ he added. ‘Quite the sassy little charmer.’
For the next couple of minutes he plugged some holes of information, filling Abbey in on Danielle's story. As he talked he realised how low he felt, the lowest since the crash. There was no one thing causing it. It was a general amalgamation of a mild hangover, the storm coming in, the missing survivors, Oli’s illness; all paled in comparison, though, to Abbey’s rejection. His heart felt flattened, his chest tight. Never in his adult life had he felt like this. It should have been liberating. Instead he felt trampled and discarded. He wanted to say what was really on his mind, what he really thought of Abbey. But when the full Danielle story was out, he clammed up, the words he wished he could say boxed securely somewhere in a remote corner of his littered mind, and without the correct key, that’s where they would stay.
*
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