caring where I was heading, wanting only to keep moving.
I stepped off the kerb and jumped back as a horn blared deafeningly to my left. I stumbled back on to the pavement as a trolley car rattled past inches in front of me, its windows bright splashes of light in the darkness. As soon as it had passed I hurried across the road, taking turnings at random. It had been years since I’d been to Knoxville, and I had no idea of where I was and even less of where I was going.
I didn’t care.
It was only when I saw the stretch of blackness beyond the streetlights ahead of me that I finally slowed. I could feel the river even before I saw it, a moistness in the air that finally brought me back to myself. I was drenched in sweat as I leaned on the railings. The bridges that spanned the tree-lined banks were skeletal arches in the darkness, dotted with lights. Below them, the Tennessee River sedately idled past, just as it had for thousands of years. And probably would for thousands more.
What the hell’s wrong with you? Running scared just because of a cheap perfume. But I felt too wrung out to be ashamed. Feeling as alone as I ever had in my life, I took my phone out and scrolled through my contacts. Jenny’s name and number were highlighted on the illuminated display. I held my thumb poised over the dial key, badly wanting to talk to her again, to hear her voice. But it was the early hours of the morning back in the UK, and even if I called her, what would I say?
It had all been said already.
‘Got the time?’
I gave a start as the voice came from beside me. I was in an area of darkness between streetlights, and all I could make out of the man was the red glow of his cigarette. Belatedly, I realized that the street was deserted. Stupid. All this way just to get mugged.
‘Half past ten,’ I told him, tensing for the attack that would come next.
But he only gave a nod of thanks and walked on, disappearing into the dark beyond the next streetlight. I shivered, and not only because of the damp chill coming from the river.
The welcoming yellow lights of a taxi were approaching on the lonely street. Flagging it down, I went back to my hotel.
The cat is your earliest memory.
There must be others before it, you know that. But none so vivid. None that you take out and replay time after time. So real that even now you can still feel the sun on the back of your head, see your shadow on the ground in front of you as you bend over.
The soil is soft and easy to turn. You use a piece of wood broken off the fence, a piece of white picket starting to soften and rot. It threatens to break again, but you don’t have far to dig.
It isn’t deep.
You smell it first. A cloying, sweet stink that’s both familiar and like nothing you’ve smelled before. You stop for a while, sniffing the damp soil, nervous but more excited. You know you shouldn’t be doing this, but the curiosity is too great. Even then you had questions; so many questions. But no answers.
The wood hits something almost as soon as you continue digging. A different texture in the soil. You begin to scrape away the final covering of earth, noticing that the smell has grown stronger. Finally, you can see it: a cardboard shoebox, its sides soaked and rotting.
The box starts to disintegrate when you try to lift it, wet and sagging from the weight inside. You quickly set it down again. Your fingers feel clumsy and strange as you take hold of the lid, your chest tight. You’re scared, but excitement easily outweighs your fear.
Slowly, you remove the shoebox lid.
The cat is a dirty mound of ginger. Its half-closed eyes are pale and dull, like deflated balloons after a party. Insects are crawling in its fur, beetles scuttling from the daylight. You stare, rapt, as a fat worm coils and contracts, dripping from its ear. Taking the stick, you prod the cat. Nothing happens. You prod again, harder. Again, nothing. A word forms in your mind, one you’ve heard before, but never really comprehended until now.
Dead.
You remember the cat as it was. A fat, bad-tempered torn, a thing of spite and claws. Now it’s… nothing. How can the living animal you remember have become this rotting clump of fur? The question fills your head, too huge for you to hold. You lean closer, as though if you look hard enough you’ll find the answer…
…and suddenly you’re jerked away. The neighbour’s face is contorted with anger, but there’s also something there you don’t recognize. It’s only years later that you identify it as disgust.
‘What in God’s name are you…? Oh, you sick little bastard!’
There is more shouting, then and later, back at the house. You don’t try to explain what you did, because you don’t understand yourself. But neither the angry words nor the punishment wipe away the memory of what you saw. Or what you felt, and still feel even now, nestling in the pit of your stomach. An overwhelming sense of wonder, and of burning, insatiable curiosity.
You’re five years old. And this is how it starts.
CHAPTER 5
EVERYTHING SEEMED TO slow down as the knife came towards me. I grabbed for it, but I was always going to be too late. The blade slid through my grip, slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. I could feel the hot wetness of blood smearing my hand as my legs gave way under me. It pooled on the black and white floor tiles as I slid down the wall, soaking the front of my shirt.
I looked down and saw the knife handle protruding obscenely from my stomach and opened my mouth to scream…
‘No!’
I bolted upright, gasping. I could feel the blood on me, hot and wet. I thrashed off the sheets, frantically trying to see my stomach in the dim moonlight. But the skin was unmarked. There was no knife, no blood. Just a sheen of clammy sweat, and the angry welt of the scar just under my ribs.
Christ. I sagged with relief, recognizing my hotel room, seeing I was alone in it.
Just a dream.
My heart rate was starting to return to normal, my pulse ebbing in my ears. I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and shakily sat up. The clock on the bedside cabinet said five thirty. The alarm was set for an hour’s time, but it wasn’t worth trying to sleep again, even if I’d wanted to.
I got up stiffly and switched on the light. I was beginning to regret agreeing to help Tom with the examination of the body from the cabin. A shower and breakfast. Things will look better then.
I spent fifteen minutes running through exercises to strengthen my abdominal muscles, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I turned my face up to the hot spray, letting the needles of water sluice away the lingering effects of the dream.
By the time I emerged, the last vestiges of sleep had been washed away. There was a coffeemaker in the room, so I set it going as I dressed and powered up my laptop. It would be late morning in the UK, and I sipped black coffee while I checked my emails. There was nothing urgent; I replied to the ones I needed to and left the rest for later.
The restaurant downstairs had opened for breakfast, but I was the only customer. I passed on the waffles and pancakes and opted for toast and scrambled eggs. I’d been hungry when I went in, but even that seemed too much for me, and I managed less than half. My stomach was knotted, though I didn’t know why it should be. I’d only be helping Tom with something I’d done myself countless times before, and in far worse circumstances than this.
But telling myself that didn’t make any difference.
By the time I went outside the sun was coming up. Although the car park was still in shadow, the deep blue of the sky was paling, shot through with dazzling gold on the horizon.
The hire car was a Ford, the subtle differences in style and automatic transmission a further reminder that I was in another country. Although it was still early, the roads were already busy. It was a beautiful morning. Built-up
