dinner and sat talking about nothing in particular over cups of coffee – only marginally nicer than the wine – until it was time for him to find Diana a taxi and catch the bus home. Dozing off in the warm fug, he found himself in a half-memory, half-dream of himself and Jenny walking arm in arm down the pier at Brighton with the sea pounding beneath their feet so that they could feel it through the soles of their shoes. When they reached the end of the pier, the sea had calmed, and they stood watching the sunset, the scudding pink clouds . . .
The revving of the engine woke him, and he sat up quickly, self-conscious and feeling dizzy and disconcerted, as if he’d suddenly found himself in the middle of a tightrope walk, a long, long way from the ground.
*
This sensation, or at least its uneasy aftermath, returned the following morning, when, on the way to the station to catch the train to Suffolk, he encountered a solemn-looking elderly bloke with a soup-strainer moustache who was wearing a sandwich board reading, ‘The End is Nigh’. On the back it said, ‘God Wants You’, which made Stratton think of Kitchener. The old boy was being followed by a tramp with a beard so densely matted that it looked like felt, and whose lack of teeth and missing shoelaces made him, with the tongues lolling out of his boots, appear to have come undone at both ends. ‘How can I find Him, then?’ he was shouting. ‘Has He got a telephone number? You got His number, have you? Eh? Eh?’ The God bloke, clearly embarrassed by the noisy attention, was hampered in his efforts to escape by the board, which hung down to his knees. After watching for a moment, Stratton intervened, identified himself, and sent the tramp on his way, much to the relief of the God chap, who shook his hand repeatedly and started talking about Billy Graham.
‘I’ve been,’ said Stratton, attempting to free his fingers.
‘Ah,’ said the man, ‘then you
know
.’
‘You’ve got the wrong bloke, mate,’ Stratton muttered, as he walked away.
As the train pulled out of the station and picked up speed, Stratton stared out at the dirty backs of houses, gapped with bomb sites where the past had been knocked down and the future hadn’t yet arrived. That’s assuming that there’s going to be a future, he thought. Who knows?
As the tunnels of blackened bricks and the backs of houses gave way to flat-roofed asbestos prefabs and finally to countryside, spooling past him through the carriage window, Stratton reflected that the more you thought about religion, the less sense it made. That stuff about having ‘sure and certain hope of the Resurrection’, for example. It simply wasn’t possible – hope, byits very nature, was neither sure nor certain . . . Still, if you puzzled over that sort of thing too much, you’d probably end up as barmy as Lloyd had evidently been. It was all far too bloody complicated. Shame about the weather, he thought, looking out at muddy fields and waterlogged thatch, but it’s nice to get out into the country – and he wasn’t half pleased at the prospect of a drink and a chat with Ballard. He’d telephoned his former sergeant before he’d left, and, behind the ribbing about Stratton’s encroaching on his patch, he’d sensed that Ballard was looking forward to their reunion as much as he was.
Soothed by the rhythm of the train, he leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Standing in his back garden, Detective Inspector Ballard could see, over the wall, a large stone angel on a pedestal, her head bowed low in prayer, and, on the far side, brown fields, some still dotted with pillboxes, vanishing over the horizon. His wife Pauline hadn’t liked the idea of living so near a graveyard, but as Ballard had pointed out, at least their neighbours were quiet, and Katy, their daughter, enjoyed playing in there.
There was no doubt that moving to Suffolk had done her good. Now a sturdy six-year-old, there were
The revving of the engine woke him, and he sat up quickly, self-conscious and feeling dizzy and disconcerted, as if he’d suddenly found himself in the middle of a tightrope walk, a long, long way from the ground.
*
This sensation, or at least its uneasy aftermath, returned the following morning, when, on the way to the station to catch the train to Suffolk, he encountered a solemn-looking elderly bloke with a soup-strainer moustache who was wearing a sandwich board reading, ‘The End is Nigh’. On the back it said, ‘God Wants You’, which made Stratton think of Kitchener. The old boy was being followed by a tramp with a beard so densely matted that it looked like felt, and whose lack of teeth and missing shoelaces made him, with the tongues lolling out of his boots, appear to have come undone at both ends. ‘How can I find Him, then?’ he was shouting. ‘Has He got a telephone number? You got His number, have you? Eh? Eh?’ The God bloke, clearly embarrassed by the noisy attention, was hampered in his efforts to escape by the board, which hung down to his knees. After watching for a moment, Stratton intervened, identified himself, and sent the tramp on his way, much to the relief of the God chap, who shook his hand repeatedly and started talking about Billy Graham.
‘I’ve been,’ said Stratton, attempting to free his fingers.
‘Ah,’ said the man, ‘then you
know
.’
‘You’ve got the wrong bloke, mate,’ Stratton muttered, as he walked away.
As the train pulled out of the station and picked up speed, Stratton stared out at the dirty backs of houses, gapped with bomb sites where the past had been knocked down and the future hadn’t yet arrived. That’s assuming that there’s going to be a future, he thought. Who knows?
As the tunnels of blackened bricks and the backs of houses gave way to flat-roofed asbestos prefabs and finally to countryside, spooling past him through the carriage window, Stratton reflected that the more you thought about religion, the less sense it made. That stuff about having ‘sure and certain hope of the Resurrection’, for example. It simply wasn’t possible – hope, byits very nature, was neither sure nor certain . . . Still, if you puzzled over that sort of thing too much, you’d probably end up as barmy as Lloyd had evidently been. It was all far too bloody complicated. Shame about the weather, he thought, looking out at muddy fields and waterlogged thatch, but it’s nice to get out into the country – and he wasn’t half pleased at the prospect of a drink and a chat with Ballard. He’d telephoned his former sergeant before he’d left, and, behind the ribbing about Stratton’s encroaching on his patch, he’d sensed that Ballard was looking forward to their reunion as much as he was.
Soothed by the rhythm of the train, he leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Standing in his back garden, Detective Inspector Ballard could see, over the wall, a large stone angel on a pedestal, her head bowed low in prayer, and, on the far side, brown fields, some still dotted with pillboxes, vanishing over the horizon. His wife Pauline hadn’t liked the idea of living so near a graveyard, but as Ballard had pointed out, at least their neighbours were quiet, and Katy, their daughter, enjoyed playing in there.
There was no doubt that moving to Suffolk had done her good. Now a sturdy six-year-old, there were
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