ignored for many years. Beggars could not be choosers, though. He
was not wagering on Bob’s body ever reaching the sea.
Stepping carefully down the steep banks of the ditch with a
crunch of the iced grasses at each tentative pace, he finally reached the water’s edge. The surface was solid. Roy estimated that at this, its narrowest point, the ditch was about two yards across. It would have to do. Holding on to a thin branch of a tree that grew at
forty- five degrees from the bank, he brought the heel of his boot
down experimentally on the frozen surface. He met resistance. He
tried once more, with greater force, and broke through. A gush of
cold brackish liquid covered his ankle as he slipped slightly. He
steadied himself and pulled his foot out of the water. Fetching the crank handle from the lorry, he set about enlarging the aperture, in which he intended Bob’s body to reside. It was makeshift, he knew,
but there was nothing else for it.
With both hands, Roy dragged the blanket to the edge of the
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ditch and positioned it carefully, before pulling on one side. Bob’s body toppled down the bank, rolled and with a plop fell into the
water.
The surface settled and the body rose slightly, floating but sitting low in the water. Roy could see clearly Bob’s back, pierced by the
square hole, his hands and his feet. He scrambled down the bank.
There was nothing he could use to weight the body down. It was
something he should have considered before he placed it in the
water. He did what he could, nudging the body into the side of the
channel less visible from the road and covering it with icy fronds of undergrowth that he managed to tease away from the bank.
The effect was not professional but just, just might suffice. The
body would probably only be found in a determined search, which
was unlikely provided he managed things appropriately in the next
hours and days. Anyway, the die was cast and he should not fret. He had done his best. He tried to blow warmth and life back into his
frozen hands as he walked back to the lorry. The moment of the
next decision was upon him.
He decided he must dispose of the motorcycle. He could not risk
attempting to start it again and ride it back to the village. No one could see him, on a motorbike or otherwise, and imagine he was
Bob Mannion. If, however, he could get the truck motor started, he
should have the time to implement the plan that he was already
sketching out in his mind. If not he would have to trudge those
miles back to the nearest house and then improvise.
He walked over to the motorcycle and inhaled the heady strong
smell of petrol. Righting the machine, he tried to kick- start it, without success. There was only one thing for it. The channel where he
had deposited Bob’s body was far too narrow to accommodate the
motorcycle with any semblance of disguise. He walked along the
road to which the channel ran parallel, searching for a point at
which it broadened. About half a mile away, at the next intersection of roads, the channel fed into a wider, perpendicular body of water, which had already begun trickling.
Roy was conscious of precious time slipping through the hour-
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in the next phase. He paused, and spoke to himself in the silence,
his breath wreathing away into the mist. Panic never does any good.
Risk is life. Just function.
He returned to collect the motorcycle. Leaning his weight against
the handlebars, he pushed. His boots slipped on the ice and he bent further and heaved, achieving first a tiny movement, then greater
momentum. Shortly the truck disappeared from view behind him
as if it had never existed and none of it had happened. Except that he held the evidence to the contrary in his hands. He pushed on, his shoulders and thighs aching with the effort, deliberately mindless
until he had reached the point he had set himself. He was punctili-
ous in not stopping short of the mark even though it was arbitrary.
A yard or two wouldn’t have made any difference. But it would have
made a difference in his mind.
It was raining harder and he was becoming wetter. The channel
here was much wider and deeper. The water was beginning to flow
again, bit by bit. The thaw seemed to be setting in, and quickly.
Roy wheeled the motorcycle to the edge of the bank and pushed
it with a heave. It clattered down the steep bank and hit the water at speed. The front wheel dug in and the motorcycle somersaulted.
Most of the frame disappeared from view, but both wheels pro-
truded from the water.
He sighed. There was nothing else for it. Angrily, he pulled off his boots, socks and trousers and scrambled down to the edge of the
water. It was shockingly cold, though he had to wade in only a couple of paces in order to reach the motorcycle. The water came up just
above his knees. He pushed hard and shortly the motorcycle keeled
over on to its side, invisible now. It was the best he could hope for.
Clambering up to the roadside and carrying his clothes and boots,
he ran and slithered on the ice back to the truck as quickly as he
could. Using those parts of the blanket that were not already dirtied and dampened by the spillage of Bob’s body matter, he wiped himself off as best he could. He put on all of his clothes and his boots and sat on the step of the cab briefly, shuddering violently. But this was survival and he had to move.
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checking that the gearbox was in neutral. He turned the handle
twice to prime the engine before climbing into the cab. The vehicle had a choke control, which he pulled to halfway. He knew this was
guesswork, and he knew equally that this beast might well rebel,
fling the handle in the opposite direction and break his arm as he
tried to crank it. His only other option was that long walk in cold, wet clothes.
This was the moment. Despite the cold he took off his overcoat
and cap to permit the best possible attack and bent in position carefully before grabbing the handle and turning it with as much force as he could muster. Nothing. He tried a second time. Again nothing.
The third time he tried, the vehicle seemed to rock slightly as if something might have happened, though Roy was unsure what. At his
fourth attempt the engine spluttered, coughed, fell and then splut-
tered again. Roy leapt back and jumped into the cab. He jabbed the
accelerator with his foot and throaty, hesitant life came to the motor.
Keeping his foot on the throttle, he eased the choke control in. The throatiness disappeared gradually and the petrol engine whined. At
length he decided he could safely remove his foot from the acceler-
ator. The engine idled safely enough. He felt joy. The plan was still on.
He tossed the filthy blanket in the ditch where Bob’s body lay and
retrieved the crank handle before climbing back into the cab,
depressing the clutch and clunking the gearstick into first. He
applied a little throttle and gently, ever so softly under his heavy boots, released the clutch. The wheels began to sp
in at first but then found traction. The truck moved forward and, gingerly, he turned it so that it faced down the road towards town. The manoeuvre was
not straightforward on these narrow roads. It was difficult, given
the cold that numbed his body and his state of high alert, to sum-
mon the necessary deftness of touch on throttle and clutch. He
succeeded, however, and then, edging forward and eventually reach-
ing a moderate speed, he drove to Essenham.
Yes, flooding. That was all it had been. Bloody flooding.
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7
Mr Cole and the driver were drinking tea in the garage.
‘Got her going, then?’ said Mr Cole in that facile rustic drawl.
‘Bob, was it?’
‘Bob never turned up. I fiddled under the bonnet and got her
started on me own.’
‘Where’s Bob, then?’
‘Search me,’ said Roy. ‘I waited ages. Then gave up. You sure
someone went to his place?’
‘Course I bloody am. Me bloody wife went over there. Mrs Man-
nion said she’d get him up.’
‘I reckon he’ll still be in bed. Anyway, all’s well.’
‘You look bloody freezing. You’re shivering. And wet.’
‘Yes, well. It has been a bit cold in case you hadn’t noticed. And
it’s been raining for the past hour or so.’
‘The thaw’s started, then?’
‘Maybe. Anyhow, I’m going home to warm up and get a bath.’
The driver grunted without gratitude as Roy handed over the
keys. He felt some anticipatory pleasure at the man’s confusion and displeasure when eventually he discovered that his blanket had
disappeared.
He did not go directly home. If challenged, he would have said
that he had gone to check whether Bob was still in bed. As usual the Mannions’ back door was unlocked. He opened it and called cautiously, ‘Anybody home?’
There was no reply. The Mannions, staunch attenders, would be
at church. He had reckoned on this and, looking at the kitchen
clock, calculated he might have twenty minutes. The warm fug of
the kitchen was enticing and the aroma of roasting beef beguiling,
but after a further precautionary shout and having warmed his
hands briefly on the Aga, Roy was on his way upstairs.
It was as if Bob had just risen. The covers were pulled across the
bed untidily, crumpled sheets and a pillow crushed in the corner
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candlewick bedspread had been tossed to the floor. It felt cold, yet his smell remained, that distinctive aftershave he wore each day, to Mr Cole’s amusement, among that indefinable mixture of male
sweat and pheromones. Clothes were scattered around and on the
glass- covered top of the incongruously feminine dressing table were a pile of old newspapers and some loose change. Bob Mannion had
not been a tidy person.
Roy pulled a battered suitcase down from the top of the ward-
robe, conscious that these might be the most perilous moments of
all. He loaded the case with a selection of Bob’s clothes, chosen at random. At the back of the wardrobe he found an old shoebox.
Inside were a number of letters, which he scanned without interest.
Most, which he discarded, were from Sheila. He stuffed what letters there were from the bank into his jacket pocket, together with the
chequebook he found in the box. In his pocket he already had Bob’s
house key and wallet containing four pounds and his driving licence.
Now, the difficult part. He searched among Bob’s belongings for
a scrap of paper and eventually found a small pad of Basildon Bond.
He knew Bob’s handwriting well, from the invoices and receipts
that he had written out very deliberately and with evident concen-
tration at the garage. Thankfully, Bob was not a proficient writer.
Roy would have described him as semi- literate at best. Rather than attempting copperplate, Bob had always written in laborious capital letters, which were relatively easy to mimic. Roy kept the message
short:
SORRY. GONE TO WORK AT MR HURSTS STABELS.
COUDNT TELL YOU OR SHEILA. PLEASE LET HER NO. I
HAVE TO DO THIS. DONT FOLLOW ME. SORRY AGIAN.
YOUR SON ROBERT MANNION
That would do. Roy knew of no Hurst’s stables, but that didn’t
matter. It would make the job of investigation impossible if, as he surely would, Mr Mannion elected to try to find his son.
Roy tidied the bed, put the remaining clothes in a single pile on
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the floor and placed Bob’s key on the note, which he left on the
dressing table.
It was time, once he had secreted the suitcase at the garage, for
that bath and some sleep.
8
The thaw was upon them and temperatures rose to the low sixties.
It was a bizarre feeling, having survived that winter and emerged
into a life once more.
Roy did not return to the remote location where he had left Bob’s
body. Nevertheless he fretted. The thaw had led to a swelling of the rivers and waterways. He feared each day that Bob’s body might float away in the flood and drift downstream, washing up somewhere. He
awaited the knock on the door. He had no story for this eventuality but thought that a repeated assertion of total ignorance might just see him home. If the police interviewed him it would be tempting to paint in some detail that might lead them to conclude that Bob had
been waylaid by person or persons unknown – some hint at strange
voices in the area where he had been waiting patiently by the lorry, for instance – but he knew this would be unwise.
As he had anticipated, Mr Mannion quizzed him on Bob’s state of
mind before his disappearance.
‘No, there was nothing unusual, though it was odd he didn’t turn
up Sunday morning. He’s usually pretty reliable.’
‘Did he talk to you about wanting to be a stable boy?’
‘Yes, I know all about him and horses. He did talk about it a lot,
to tell the truth, but I didn’t take an interest.’
‘Did he ever talk about going to work for some Hurst?’
‘Hurst? Nah, can’t remember. Doesn’t ring a bell. He talked about
Cheltenham, though. Thought it was the usual pie in the sky, if I’m honest. In one ear and out the other.’
‘Was he having second thoughts about getting married?’
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‘Yes, now you mention it, he did say he felt marriage was a bit like a noose around his neck. Have you thought of going to the police?’
He knew he must sit tight, ticking over the minutes and the hours
and the days and the weeks. After three weeks, he took a few days
off and, saying that he had to visit an aunt in Weston- super- Mare, took the long train journey to London and from there to Cheltenham. He found a boarding house, where he was on his most
charming behaviour and took a room for two nights, paying in
advance. Over breakfast he told the landlady that he was from Lon-
don and considering taking up an executive post with the local
council.
‘Would you object to receiving mail for me until I move up
permanently?’
‘No, Mr Mannion, not at all,’ she had said.
‘There’s no need to forward anything. I’ll be back regularly to
pick stuff up. There’ll be nothing urgent.’
He opened a new account at Lyons Bank in Cheltenham in the
name of Robert Mannion, giving his newly acquired address. He
showed the clerk Bob’s driving licence and chequebook as evidence
of identity, together with the letters and statements he had gathered from Bob’s room. At Martins Bank, just down the same street, using
the name Mannion again, he said that he was moving permanently
to Cheltenham to work with horses, and requested that his account
be transferred to the local branch.
Back in Essenham, there was still no word of Bob Mannion’s
whereabouts. When he saw Roy in the pub that weekend, Mr Man-
nion told him conspiratorially that his wife wept every evening.
Mr Mannion was spending much more time in the pub now than he
ever had.
‘At least we got a postcard this morning. From Cheltenham. It’s a
relief. At least he’s alive.’
‘I should still contact the police if I were you,’ said Roy.
‘No. He obviously doesn’t want to be here. The agony his
mother’s been through, though.’
Nearly four months after Bob’s death Roy was ready to make his
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move. Summer had arrived, days that seemed almost never- ending.
The skies across the Fens were unimaginably large and the high,
long clouds that dashed through did not threaten rain. He gave his
notice to Mr Cole in a low- key fashion and said he was going to try his luck in the Smoke, paid his landlady, packed his belongings in a small suitcase, newly purchased from Parke’s department store in
King’s Lynn, and took the evening train to Liverpool Street.
Having found lodgings in south London, he paid a brief final visit
to Cheltenham as Robert Mannion, to transfer his remaining funds
from Bob’s Martins Bank account to the new Lyons Bank account.
He left instructions to transfer that account and its funds to its Clapham branch. He relayed the bad news to his prospective landlady