In the picture they were at a restaurant table, no meal in evidence, so they must have handed the camera to the waiter as they first sat, asking him to snap the happy family. All of them were smiling as required: Look at how we’re enjoying ourselves.
Pictures were the things of happy memories. They were also the instruments one used retrospectively to avoid the truth. For in Kerra’s small face, Ben could now read the anxiety, that desire to be just good enough to stop the wheel from turning another time. In Santo’s face, he could see the confusion, a child’s awareness of a present hypocrisy without the accompanying comprehension. In his own expression, he could see the gritty determination to make things right. And in Dellen’s face…what was always there: knowledge and anticipation. She was wearing a red scarf twined through her hair.
They gravitated towards her in the picture, all of them slightly leaning in her direction. His hand was over hers, as if he’d hold her there at the table instead of where she doubtless wished to be.
She can’t help herself, he’d said time and again. What he’d failed to see was that he could.
He took the picture from her and said to his wife, “It’s time for you to go.”
She said, “Where?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “St. Ives. Plymouth. Back to Truro. Pengelly Cove perhaps. Your family’s there still. They’ll help you if you need help. If that’s what you want at this point.”
She was silent. He looked from the photo to her. Her eyes had darkened. She said, “Ben, how can you…? After what’s happened.”
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Please,” she said. “How will I survive?”
“You’ll survive,” he told her. “We both know that.”
“What about you? Kerra? What about the business?”
“Alan’s here. He’s a very good man. And otherwise, Kerra and I will cope. We’ve learned to do that very well.”
SELEVAN HAD FOUND THAT his plans altered once the police came to the Salthouse Inn. He told himself that he couldn’t just selfishly head out with Tammy for the Scottish border without knowing what was going on and, more important, without discovering if there was something he could do to assist Jago should assistance be required. He couldn’t imagine why such assistance might be necessary, but he thought it best to remain where he was?more or less?and wait for further information.
It wasn’t long in coming. He reckoned Jago wouldn’t return to the Salthouse Inn, so he himself didn’t wait there. Instead, he went back to Sea Dreams and paced in the caravan for a while, taking a nip now and then from a flask he’d filled to see him on the trip to the border, and finally he went outside and over to Jago’s caravan.
He didn’t go within. He had a duplicate key to the place, but it just didn’t feel right, although he reckoned Jago wouldn’t have minded had he entered. Instead he waited on the top of the metal steps, where a wider one played the role of porch and was suitable for his bum.
Jago rolled into Sea Dreams some ten minutes later. Selevan got creakily to his feet. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walked over to Jago’s preferred spot to park the Defender. He said, “You all right, then, mate?” when Jago got out. “They didn’t give you aggro down the station, did they?”
“Not a bit,” Jago told him. “When it comes to the cops, a small measure of preparation is all that’s needed. Things go your way, then, instead of theirs. Surprises them a bit, but that’s what life is. One bloody surprise after another.”
“S’pose,” Selevan said. But he felt a twinge of uneasiness, and he couldn’t exactly say why. There was something about Jago’s way of talking, something in the tone, that wasn’t altogether the Jago he knew. He said warily, “They didn’t rough you up, mate?”
Jago barked a laugh. “Those two cows? Not likely. We just had a bit of a conversation and that was the end of it. Long time in coming, but it’s over now.”
“Wha’s going on, then?”