Chapter 47
Jake walked down the path towards the car. Marcus had his eyes closed and was moving his head back and forth in rhythm to music blaring out. Jake got in the car and switched the radio off.
Marcus opened his eyes. ‘I was enjoying that,’ he said glumly.
‘That was weird,’ said Jake, looking back at the house.
‘Classical music is not weird. I know you’re a jazz man yourself, but you really need to broaden … you’re not talking about the music, are you?’
Marcus started the car and moved off as Jake recounted the conversation with the old man, including the mysterious mention of the old oak . ‘Wasn’t exactly helpful, was he?’ muttered Jake.
‘Then why did he invite you inside?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jake said wearily. ‘Let’s head for the airport.’
Marcus unexpectedly turned off onto a stretch of road unfamiliar to Jake. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
What Jake wanted to see was the back of this place and the back of Marcus. ‘I thought you were anxious to get back to London?’
‘I am,’ said Marcus, ‘but I’ve been driving around all morning not knowing what the hell is going on. So,’ he grinned, ‘it’s my turn.’
Jake wondered what he had let himself in for, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped down in his seat and watched the world go by.
‘Here we are.’ Marcus pulled into a carpark, put the handbrake on and switched the engine off.
Jake turned in his seat to look at Marcus. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’
‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head and got out of the car.
Jake sat for a moment, staring at the row upon row of gravestones. Marcus tapped on his window, making Jake jump. Marcus waved his hand for Jake to get out.
Jake opened the car door. ‘How did you even know where this place was?’
‘When things looked bad, we discussed it, remember? The family did, for Eleanor, as her final resting place.’
Jake remembered now.
‘So, one day I came to have a look.’ Marcus stared off in the distance. ‘It’s bigger than I remember,’ he said, striding off.
‘Ok, so what are we doing here?’ Jake called after him.
Jake followed Marcus in the direction of the most recently departed. By the time Jake reached them, Marcus had already walked off in another direction.
Jake peered at the sticks. They were numbered, with no names – the graves so fresh that memorial stones had yet to be erected. Jake glanced at the row of brand new memorial stones behind these, which were dated the previous year. Jake looked up and spotted Marcus a little way off to his right, talking with what looked like the gardener or caretaker. He was shaking his head, no.
Marcus walked back towards Jake, rubbing the side of his head. ‘Gardener wasn’t much help.’
‘So what?’ The surroundings were not conducive to Jake’s mood, or to his holiday, come to that.
‘I think I was hit by a damn acorn or something.’ Marcus nursed his head.
‘An old oak.’ Jake suddenly recalled the old man’s parting words. He started walking towards the massive tree that Marcus had just been standing under.
Marcus said, ‘Yeah, tell me about it. This isn’t called Old Oak Cemetery for nothing. Damn tree!’ he added. ‘The gardener will only say the same thing to you that he said to me,’ Marcus said, mistaking Jake’s intention.
Jake ignored him and walked over to the tree. He stared up at the massive branches overhead, hiding a dozen gravestones from the bright sunshine.
Marcus hung back out of the range of the falling acorns. ‘I’d be careful under that thing if I were you.’
Jake looked about him at the gravestones under the big oak tree. They looked old. Some of them had not fared well, and most of the inscriptions gone, worn away by time.
‘What are we looking for?’ Marcus
Jake worked his way along the gravestones, glancing at the inscriptions and reading where they could be read. He had no idea why he was doing this. It occurred to Jake that the old chap could have been referring to something different entirely when he’d said, visit the old oak . He passed one gravestone after another.
Marcus gingerly stepped under the tree and started to examine gravestones, every now and then glancing at the tree as though it were going to sprout legs and make a beeline for him.
‘I’ve found something,’ said Marcus.
‘What is it?’ Jake weaved his way through the memorial stones to where Marcus was standing.
‘I think I’ve found your man,’ said Marcus, tapping the top of a decaying memorial stone with the palm of his hand.
Jake stopped in front of the memorial stone. He looked at the name carved on it and then back at Marcus. This was not Arnold Wright’s gravestone.
‘Read further down – there’s a newer inscription. Must be a family plot,’ Marcus said.
Jake squatted down in front of it, pulling out a fistful of dead flowers and weeds at the base of the stone. He was just about to toss them away when he caught the disapproving eye of the caretaker. Jake placed them carefully to one side and read the inscription, then the date. Jake stared at it; there was the proof, if he needed it, that Lawrence and his damn computer had been right all along, which meant … someone had to be impersonating a dead man. Unless …
‘I need to get back to the hospice right now.’ Jake couldn’t get up fast enough and couldn’t get moving soon enough; he’d just had an epiphany.
‘Why – what’s going on?’ Marcus was blocking Jake’s way through.
‘Don’t you see?’ Jake’s eyes were wide. ‘Arnold can tell me about Eleanor. No,’ he stopped, turning wildly back to the memorial stone, ‘he can go get her, bring her back with him. I could see her, talk to her. She might be dead, but it doesn’t mean we can’t—’
Jake turned back just as Marcus’s fist connected with his right temple, sending him keeling sideways, his feet slipping on the wet dewy grass. He lay clutching the side of his face in shock.
‘That’s for putting up that memorial stone at The Lake House, you son-of-a-bitch,’ Marcus seethed. ‘I should have done that a long time ago. I don’t care about the word you put on it. I don’t care if you believe what I say happened when we were skiing last Christmas or not. What I do care about is my sister,’ he paused, ‘and you.’ Marcus stared down at Jake. ‘We’ve all had our ways of coping after the accident, but yours – yours beggars belief. How could you! How could you do it? Why did you erect a memorial stone in her name, and have the word Chosen inscribed on it – why, dammit, when she isn’t dead! Answer me!’
Jake lay very still on his side. He had a clear, stark revelation. Marcus was right: they’d each had their ways of coping with what had happened up there on the mountain. Marcus’s coping mechanism had been to turn to drink and drugs; his had been to convince himself that she was dead; to put up that stone in the grounds of The Lake House.
After what they’d discovered had happened to her, once they’d pulled her out of the snow, she might as well be dead. And the family had kept the outcome of the accident from the press, the public. That had further enabled him in his delusion.
He opened his eyes to see Arnold Wright’s memorial stone, at a ninety-degree angle, rearing over him. He didn’t attempt to get up. He didn’t attempt to move. And he was scaring Marcus. ‘Jake.’ he could feel Marcus’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Jake.’ A hand brushed his temple where he’d been hit. ‘Jake – can you get up?’ Marcus’s voice was becoming more insistent. But it wasn’t a case of whether he could get up; Jake was quite sure he could get up. The question was, did he want to get up – ever? If he could just lie there quietly for a while, perhaps all the hurt would go away.
‘Jake?’
Jake suddenly became aware of his shoulders shaking – heaving, almost. For the first time since Eleanor’s accident, he was actually crying. There had been no time to grieve – he’d made sure of that, and this was the end result, lying on the cold, damp ground in front of a stranger’s grave, sobbing his heart out.
‘Oh god, Jake – I’m so sorry.’
After a while, when the sobbing had subsided, he thought he heard some stranger’s voice – the cemetery gardener’s, perhaps – telling Marcus that he had better call an ambulance, and Marcus telling him to get lost, which, for Marcus, was quite restrained. Jake would have expected a few choice swear words the old gardener had probably never heard of.
Bizarrely, the thought of Marcus attempting to be polite made him smile. He could still feel Marcus’s hand on his shoulder and his knees pressing in the small of his back. He guessed Marcus was kneeling beside him; he was going to ruin those beige chinos. A chill ran through him. He suddenly felt cold – so cold. He began to shiver.
‘Come on.’ Marcus said gently. ‘Let’s get up before you catch pneumonia.’ He squeezed Jake’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got something for you in the car.’
Marcus helped him up. To his own and Marcus’s surprise, Jake pulled Marcus close and hugged him fiercely, then let go and walked back to the car. He got in. He could see Marcus still standing where he had left him, rooted to the spot, momentarily stunned.