The Long Way Home

*

“Gimme a bacon butty,” said Constable Stuart. He said it as a Wild West sheriff might’ve ordered a shot of whiskey.

He took off his jacket and smoothed his wet hair.

“What happened to you, boy?” the waiter at the breakfast bar asked, as he wiped crumbs off the melamine surface.

“What do you know about that garden down the road?”

The circular motion of the damp rag slowed. To a stop. The elderly man considered the constable.

“It’s just a garden. Like any other.”

Stuart got up off the round stool. “I’ll let you think about that answer. When I get back I’d like a better one. And that butty. And a black coffee.”

In the men’s room Stuart used the toilet, then washed his hands and scrubbed his face, trying to get off the dirt and grass ground into his skin. Some of the dirt turned out to be bruises and he stopped scrubbing.

He gripped the porcelain sink and leaned toward the mirror, staring into his wide eyes. He knew that lawyers were taught never to ask a question unless they were prepared for the answer. They did not like surprises.

But cops were the opposite. They were almost always surprised. And rarely in a good way.

Robert Stuart wondered if he was prepared for the answer that awaited him.

*

Clara sat at the laptop Jean-Guy had brought over when they’d arrived.

Coffee had been made and poured, and now she brought the computer out of sleep mode.

There on the screen was a home page.

“What is it?” Clara asked. “It can’t be just a normal garden. Not with a name like that.”

“We didn’t have a chance to read much about it,” said Reine-Marie, bringing a chair over to sit beside Clara. “We wanted to get here as quickly as possible. All we know is that it’s not far from Dumfries.”

The men also brought over chairs and sipped coffee and read about a garden of cosmic speculation.

*

Constable Stuart swung his leg over the stool. A bacon butty and black coffee awaited him, but there was no sign of the elderly waiter. Or anyone else. But he did hear voices from behind the swinging door.

He took a huge bite of the grilled sandwich. It was warm and the smoked bacon crackled and tasted of his settled childhood. Reluctantly he put the butty down and looked around to see if anyone was watching. But he was alone in the diner. He walked swiftly and softly over to the door.

“What’re you going to tell ’im?” a woman’s voice, elderly and difficult, was asking.

“The truth.”

Stuart recognized the waiter.

“You ridiculous old man, you don’t know the truth any more than I do. There is no ‘truth.’”

“There is. Look, at least I’ve been there. You haven’t.”

“You went there to shoot hares. Nothing cosmic about it.”

“I didn’t say there was.” Now the old man sounded petulant.

“You’ve bored enough people with your drunken tale. Now get out there before he steals the condiments,” said the cook. “I know the type. Sneaky.”

Constable Stuart stood up straight, miffed, then sneaked quickly back to his breakfast.

*

Clara scrolled through image after image of the garden on the website. In one, several huge DNA double helixes rose from the ground as though expelled. In another part of the garden, bold sculptures representing various scientific theories mixed with tall trees to form a forest. Man-made, nature-made. Almost indistinguishable.

And then there were the checkerboard patterns that swooped up and down and in and out, bursting through from another dimension.

The photographs on the website had been taken in daylight, in sunshine. But still there was something disturbing about them. This was no temporary sculpture garden. This one felt old, enduring.

It felt like Stonehenge or the haunting hilltop shards of Bryn Cader Faner in Wales. Their meaning obscured, but their power unmistakable.

Why? Clara asked herself. Why had someone created this garden? And why had Peter gone there?

*

“Never met the owner,” said the elderly man, whose name turned out, unexpectedly, to be Alphonse.

“Should I call you Al?” Constable Stuart asked.

“No.”

“Did he create the garden?” Stuart asked.

“With his late wife, aye. Nice people from what I hear. Did it just for themselves, but when word got out, they decided to open it to the public.”

Stuart nodded. He knew that much. And he also knew it was open for only one day a year.

“Not a day,” Alphonse corrected. “Five hours. Once a year. The first Sunday in May.”

“Is that when you saw it?” Stuart asked, knowing the answer.

“Not exactly. I went there in the evening.”

“Why?”