'I don't care about Howard.'
'Well you fucking should. He's worth a hundred of you. A thousand.
A million.'
'Be that as it may. They didn't give me severance pay. I'm out without a penny in my pocket.'
'Because you were sacked for gross misconduct. You tried to hit me at my own party.'
Nathan sighed and said, 'Why are you doing this? Surely you need all the friends you can get?'
'You're not my friend. You were my employee. Now you're not even that. Right now, I need the station to love me. And if I can save them a few quid by firing you at no cost, and pulling in some work experience fuck who'll work twice as hard for fuck all, then that's what I'll do.'
'You're unbelievable.'
'Yeah. Well. Wake up and smell the monkeys.'
'But I haven't got a pot to piss in. Or anywhere to live. What am I going to do for money?'
'Listen. Good luck. Really. But I need to keep this line clear, so I'm going to hang up now. Okay? So fuck the fuck off But he didn't hang up. He was lost and alone and scared and desperate for somebody to talk to. Even Nathan.
Who said, 'But I need money.'
'Don't we all.'
'Listen, Mark. Just listen for one minute. Please?'
'One minute,' said Mark Derbyshire. 'Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty eight seconds. Fifty-seven seconds.'
'I've been fired,' said Nathan. 'Not made redundant. Which means I can't even claim benefit for - I don't even know. Months. And I've got to leave my flat because I broke up with my girlfriend. And don't say I should kick her out, because it's her flat. Yesterday a tabloid journalist phoned me. I don't know how they got my name or my number, but they were willing to pay me - and I'm not kidding here -- they were willing to pay me a lot of money.'
Mark Derbyshire stopped counting down.
'Pay you money to what?'
'Talk about you.'
There was another, longer silence before Mark said, 'Talk about me, how?'
'I'll say whatever they want to hear,' said Nathan. 'I can't afford not to.'
He didn't even feel empty. He felt like he didn't exist.
'Jesus Christ,' said Mark. 'How much do you want?'
'Thirty grand.'
'Fuck you. I haven't got it.'
'Sell something. They offered me fifty.'
'And if I pay? How do I know you won't go to the papers anyway
'Because I'm telling you I won't. You have to trust me.'
Three days later, 30,000 pounds was credited to Nathan's bank account.
The same morning, he stuffed some belongings into a black nylon holdall.
He paused to look at what he was leaving behind: his CDs, a few books, some videotapes. His television, his stereo, his sofa.
None of it meant anything. It seemed strange to think that it ever had.
He left the flat and checked into a seaside bed-and-breakfast hotel: the kind of place that shouldn't have existed since about 1975. It was a backdrop for repeated sitcoms, for laughter-tracks behind trapped lives in a bygone England.
But it was real. He dumped his bag on the single bed, and slept with the lights on.
Three weeks after Elise disappeared, Nathan endured the sight of her parents and her sister on the local television news, making a plea for her safe return. He stared at the screen.
The family knew Elise wasn't coming back. He could tell by the way they looked at the camera. By the way they looked through it, and directly at him.
In the early weeks of March 1998, it was leaked to the press that the police were interviewing Mark Derbyshire in connection with the case.
It got a lot of coverage. On television, Nathan saw it announced that an 'item relating to the case' had been found on Mark Derbyshire's property. This didn't sound remarkable to Nathan; everyone knew that Elise had been there. God knew what she might have dropped or left behind. But whatever the item was, it was enough for the police to take Mark in for questioning.
Once again, Mark Derbyshire's past was rehearsed in every newspaper and on every news report.
Mark was released after questioning: he was never charged. But the country knew he'd done it, even if nobody was legally allowed to say so. And so Mark Derbyshire's long career finally ended.
The police didn't find Elise's body, and nor did anyone else.
Nathan couldn't imagine why; he didn't think he and Bob had done such a terribly good job of burying her.
Perhaps the police were simply looking in the wrong place.
Every morning, he woke and immediately turned on the radio expecting to hear an announcement that her body had been found.
But the announcement never came.
11
That spring, he bought a rucksack and a six-week European travel pass. But he took Elise with him.
He was too old to be sharing late-night trains with gap-year students. After six weeks, he found himself alone at 3 a.m., dangling bare, tanned legs over the dock on Icaria. He'd sat all night outside a restaurant, alone with a book he was pretending to read, half-hoping somebody might strike up a conversation. But nobody did.
Since leaving England, he'd barely spoken, except to order a drink, or dinner. His orbit was marked by something dark. People didn't come too close.
He pretended to himself that he wished he'd gone to America instead, that he'd chosen this cheap travel pass because he was trying to conserve money. But that wasn't true.
When Nathan was eighteen, he'd come to the Greek Islands with Chloe, his girlfriend. It was their first and only time away - and for its three weeks they were happy-sad, because they knew this trip was an extended goodbye. They were about to start at different universities, and they knew that what was to come would change them. There was no way to maintain their relationship - Chloe had seen her two brothers make that mistake, and it had brought them nothing but unhappiness.
Now -- alone on the dock at Icaria -- he saw that over the last few weeks he'd followed almost exactly the route he and Chloe had taken, when he was a child who thought himself nearly a man.
He spat into the dark and watched it loop and spin into the lapping, oily Mediterranean. Then he got up, brushing the grit from his arse and slinging the rucksack over his shoulder. He found an all night bar and sat in the corner drinking Amstel until the sun came up. Then he slapped a pile of euros on the bar, didn't wait for his change, and walked out to greet the early morning ferry. His flip flops slapped to the rhythm of his feet.
He watched the ferry dock. It was rusted and ponderous, weathered as a coastal rock.
At length, it discharged blinking, fuzzy-headed young backpackers, American and German and Dutch, British and Canadian and Australian, on to the dock. Some of their faces were still marked with the weave of the ferry's dirty carpet.
Nathan was one of three or four people to embark. He sat in a patch of ringing sunlight, cooled by the sea breeze, and stared past the corner of a lifeboat, into the ferry's frothing wake.
In Goa, he saw a Hindu funeral. The corpse, draped in white, garlanded with roses and jasmine and marigold, was carried on a stretcher to a riverside pyre. On the pyre, it was arranged with its bound white feet facing south - the direction of the dead.
The chief mourner walked round the pyre three times, sprinkling water. Then he put the pyre to flame.
Nathan watched the body burn. The perfumed smoke, billowing, diffusing against the sunset. The yellow flames. The brown river.
