Chapter Forty-Two
Walker
Walker fixed his eyes on the small strip of beach in front of him.
Sun shone on the water beyond, for as far as he could see.
In the middle of the loch, St Serf’s Island was spotted with sheep set out there to graze for the summer.
Nobody lived there, but he could still see the tumbledown white stone remains of a monastery.
It was colder in Scotland, but it was not just the temperature difference that made him shudder.
He hadn’t been back to this spot since the day Murray died.
When he left Honeybridge the day before, he knew where he was heading but he was scared to arrive. He had to revisit the scene to do what he was going to do. He had to be where he had failed, in order to make amends.
Seven hours’ non-stop driving had got him to Scotland.
He’d sped along motorways with his foot to the floor, eventually turning off when he hit the border and cruising the smaller roads, crossing the Firth of Forth on the old bridge.
He had thought he might go to stay at his parents’ but shunned the idea as he got closer.
How could he turn up in this state? They’d be worried out of their minds to see him like this.
The anxiety in his stomach grew with every passing mile.
The closer he got to home, the less he wanted to reach his destination. Finally, he arrived late afternoon.
He drove around the surrounding villages, past his old school and the public pool where he learned to swim. He hiked to the top of a nearby hill and from there he could see the loch in its entirety. He sat on a rock, his breathing ragged, overwhelmed with memories.
He and Murray had cycled round the loch once on Murray’s birthday.
Walker remembered the day – they’d biked the perimeter, thirteen miles to match his thirteenth birthday.
It had only been a matter of weeks before Murray died.
He remembered watching Murray riding ahead on the wooded paths, without his hands on the handlebars.
More than twenty years ago and yet he could remember it so well.
All that energy Murray had, the infectious laugh that made his eyes water.
And Walker had taken the rest of his life away from him.
He couldn’t bear the view any more and ran down the hillside, stumbling over rocks and tripping on tussocks of grass.
He drove straight to a pub in a nearby village and drank for the rest of the day.
He hadn’t eaten, or slept the night before, and the drink soaked into him like blotting paper.
He drank himself through sorrow to shame and slept in the car outside when the landlord rang last orders.
He woke late the next morning with a sour taste in his mouth and a crick in his neck, to one abiding thought echoing through his mind. He was still alive – and Murray wasn’t.
He’d walked for hours, his mind and vision a blur. He lost track of time, and day, his memories overtaking him with every well-known view or building that he saw. His anchor to the here and now felt loose. He swayed between the past and the present, unable to see any future.
Now, finally, whatever day it was, he was there, hungover and exhausted but determined to see things through.
The beach marked the halfway point between his old home, a grey-stone cottage, and Murray’s smart, red-brick house.
He slammed the car door behind him and forced his feet to walk out onto the sand, towards the water.
He couldn’t put it off any longer but his skin crawled as he felt the sand shift under his feet. He was close. He was so close.
The rowing boats were still where they used to be, beached on the shore.
Nobody was there, so he lugged one himself to the water’s edge and pushed the boat out far enough until it started to float.
The shock of the freezing water stole his breath as it hit his ankles and shins, soaking his jeans and leather boots.
It seemed to draw him on, and he welcomed the numbness it brought.
Was that what he was looking for? Escape? A cold black nothing?
Walker climbed in, lifting the oars and beginning to row, keeping his eyes fixed on the shore.
How far out had he and Murray gone? He remembered the fizz of excitement as they walked off the shore on the ice.
The feeling of solidity under their feet surprising them, delighting them.
It was safe to go on. It had to be, when the ice felt like that.
He pulled another stroke, and the boat cut through the water towards St Serf’s.
He’d rowed the loch before, with his parents, his sister, with Murray.
They’d dipped their skinny white bodies in the water at every opportunity, sometimes staying in until their fingers and toes went blue.
He shook his head. The image was too much, but it was too late.
He was suddenly imagining the water under the ice.
Would it be light enough to see through that white ceiling?
Or would it feel like being under a capsized boat, dark and enclosed?
Would the temperature have stopped Murray’s heart before he swallowed any water?
Walker sobbed at the thought of it, the terror hitting him full force.
Usually, these images only surfaced when he was asleep.
These were the thoughts that haunted him in the dark, but now there was no escaping them.
He gritted his teeth and rowed again. Glancing over his shoulder at St Serf’s, he realised he was halfway in between land and the island.
This must be close to where it happened.
The boat drifted in the current, turning in a slow semi-circle, and Walker became aware of how loud his breathing sounded in the still air. He was there.
He stared at the water around him until it faded away, replaced by ice. This was what he saw in his dreams: Murray ahead of him, his red hat bobbing as he slipped and skated away from him.
This was it. He could feel it in the panic rising in his chest. This was as far as he had got.
And it was as far as he could ever go. He was stuck here and had been for more than twenty years.
The only way out of it was into it. He levered himself to standing and the boat rocked sharply in the water.