Acheron Writes

Clive drank deeply from his water bottle as he stared at the remnants of the Saxon king’s crypt. After a thousand years, tumbled white stones were all that marked the warrior’s death. More than will mark mine, he thought.

As he resumed his tramp, a breeze ballooned the loose long-sleeved shirt draping his shoulders. Freshly fallen leaves painted the trail ahead. Nature’s silence surrounded him, only broken by his bootsteps. The chill English morning mist burned off, and sunshine broke through the forest canopy, dappling the track.

Nine hundred years ago, this had been the pilgrims’ path to Canterbury Cathedral and Thomas Becket’s shrine. Before King Henry VIII created his own church. And destroyed Becket’s bones. And outlawed pilgrims. In his youth, Clive had been Catholic, or pretended to be. Now seventy-eight, he was surprised those childhood teachings retained their grip.

Last night, Clive had lodged at The Dirty Habit, a historic pub. The bawdy image of a nun, her skirt hiked high, had been carved into its ancient door. Having tramped over a hundred and thirty miles in seven days, Clive enjoyed the pun, the beer and the bed.

He didn’t have much farther to go. His route along the chalk hills of the North Downs would end at the English Channel, at Dover. He’d seen few hikers on the track all week, but as he pushed along a twisted ridge, a flash of yellow, a half mile back, caught his eye. He saw it twice more over the next hour. Gaining.

‘On your left, old man,’ said a voice behind him — a woman’s lilt. Clive was tall, old and withered. She was short, young and lithe. She wore a yellow T-shirt and a red baseball cap. Muscled legs extended below her khaki hiking shorts. Dancer’s legs. She swooshed past, a navy-blue pack with yellow accents strapped on her back.

‘Watch your step, little girl,’ Clive called to her. She snorted in derision. In moments, she had disappeared, her presence reduced to fading footfalls.

Maintaining a steady pace, Clive would reach Dover in the afternoon. He and Marion hadn’t visited their childhood home since they’d married shortly after his twentieth birthday. Now with a year left to live, according to his doctors, he’d felt the need to return.

Marion hadn’t joined him on this hike, protesting she was too busy arranging their upcoming holiday to his favourite places — a farewell tour. A touch of melancholy hit him. Marion, the love of his life. Their remaining time together much too short.

After another hour, his sharp eye caught a hint of yellow off the trail. Investigating, he discovered the girl’s pack shoved behind a tree. Clive returned to the trail and dropped his pack. Rummaging inside, he retrieved a chocolate bar and slowly munched it. The girl appeared soon after.

‘What are you doing, old man?’ she asked when she spotted him, a note of agitation in her voice.

‘Just making sure you’re okay, little girl,’ he answered.

‘Worry about yourself,’ she sniped, zipping a plastic bag into a pack pocket.

He chuckled. ‘Thought maybe you’d tripped.’ He took another bite of candy.

‘I’m not the ancient scarecrow stumbling down this track,’ she shot back as she hoisted her pack and settled it on her back, cinching its waist belt.

Must weigh almost twenty kilos, thought Clive. Heavy for the petite girl. His pack weighed less than half that. Moments later, she stepped around the bend and was gone.

He soon followed. The grassland and forest were lovely this time of year, but he mostly thought about Nigel. He’d last seen his friend on Dover’s White Cliffs. The night Clive turned twenty. The night Nigel jumped into the swirling waters of the Channel far below.

Clive was still a half hour from Dover when he took his next break. He chose a comfortable log and sat in the shade, munching raisins. Another hiker strode by, headed towards Dover. Instead of hiking boots, the young man wore fashion trainers with tight black jeans. Atypical for the trail. A scar on his left temple amplified his ill-tempered expression.

‘Afternoon,’ said Clive.

The guy grunted and kept walking. He wore a navy-blue pack with yellow piping. The way it rode, it carried some weight.

Clive stared at the hiker’s back, noting a dusting of white on one of the pack’s flaps. The girl’s backpack hadn’t had that smear. Maybe two hikers having similar packs is just a coincidence. But twenty years as a CID officer in Bristol had taught Clive a critical truth. There are no coincidences.

With a sigh, he donned his pack and headed back the way he’d come, scrutinising the trail and studying the terrain to either side. He spotted the drops of blood first, then signs of disturbed grass led him towards a small stand of trees thirty meters away. He found the girl’s body, face down, her baseball cap gone, blood matting her red-blond hair. He felt her neck, detecting a feeble pulse.

Clive had stopped carrying a phone when he retired from the police, but he desperately needed one now. He patted the girl’s pockets, hoping he’d find her phone. But it must have been in her pack. A clear plastic bag containing a residue of white powder lay nearby. He dragged the tip of his pinkie finger across the powder and touched his tongue. The girl might be an addict. Had a drug deal gone bad? He shook his head. Not his job anymore.

But the girl was, and she needed prompt medical attention. She’d been left for dead. Delay long, and she would be. He stowed his pack where he could find it again when he returned the next day.

Cutting cloth from his shirt with a pocketknife, he crudely bandaged the girl’s head before hoisting her over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. Despite her small stature, he wondered whether he had the strength. He counted steps as he walked. He just needed to find someone on the trail with a phone. At times, he staggered, her weight throwing off his balance. He managed a half hour before stopping, his breath fast and deep, his pulse pounding. He checked the girl. She still breathed. Angry at the absence of other hikers, he resumed his trek. The ache in his muscles and bone-weariness warned him not to stop again.

His mind played tricks on him. One moment laughing, ‘Give up, old man, you’ll never make it.’ The next, telling him, ‘Dover’s just around the next bend.’ Tears welled in his eyes when he reached the heights overlooking the city and began his shuffling descent.

Still high up, he spotted a workman painting a blue mural on the side of a building. Clive’s exhausted mind crystallised around a single idea. Just reach that man. He’ll get help.

Staggering the last ten yards to the workman, he yelled for help but only produced a raspy whisper.

He discovered he was a fool. The man wasn’t painting. He was painted. Standing on a ladder. Chiselling one gold star out of a circle of twelve. Must be about damn Brexit!

Clive gently laid the girl at the mural’s base and collapsed beside her. Tears formed when he realised she still lived. He’d convinced himself he’d been carrying her dead body the last half hour. He flagged down a passing motorist. Soon medics and police arrived, and Clive gave a statement. He didn’t mention the plastic bag. He’d carefully placed that piece of evidence with his pack. He’d decide tomorrow whether to give it to CID for fingerprinting.

An hour later, Clive relaxed in a pub, scarfing down shepherd’s pie and quaffing two pints as he recovered from the harrowing walk. He’d made it. And the girl survived. The burst of pride he felt reminded him of the emotional high of solving a murder.

He’d planned to visit the White Cliffs the next day, but the lovely sunset drew him to those chalk bluffs. Excavating memories, he stared into the Channel waters where Nigel had disappeared.

Clive, Nigel and some friends had been drinking on these cliffs almost sixty years ago. They’d even built a small fire, something you could never do today. They were celebrating Clive’s turning twenty and Nigel leaving the next day for France. As the evening passed, people drifted home, leaving Clive and Nigel sitting beside glowing orange coals in the darkness.

Clive’s mind dug deeper, unearthing memories he hadn’t realised he had. His last conversation with Nigel played in his head, undiminished by the years. He’d been so happy that night and too drunk to hold the news any longer. He’d blurted it out. ‘I’m the luckiest fellow you know, old boy. I’m marrying Marion.’

A surprised look swept Nigel’s drunk face. ‘Guy, you don’t mean that.’

‘Yeah, I do. I’ve asked her. She wanted to think about it but promised me an answer tomorrow. I know what she’ll say.’

Nigel rocked back and forth a few times. ‘Come on, Clive. You can do better than Marion. She’ll break your heart.’

He’d refused to let Nigel dampen his spirits. ‘Just you wait and see.’

‘Look, I’m telling you as a friend. Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Don’t be an arsehole,’ Clive snapped. ‘Bet you fifty quid she says yes!’

‘You fool!’ Nigel yelled. ‘Do you know where Marion was last night? In my bed, that’s where!

‘She’s going to France with me. She’s home packing right now. There’s your damn answer!’

‘You gutless liar!’ Clive yelled, throwing a drunken punch while sitting.

Nigel slapped his fist away and shook his head. ‘Go home, Clive. You’re too damn drunk to reason with.’ Nigel stood and walked over to the cliff, staring into the night. Clouds had cut the moon to a faint glow in the black sky.

Furious, Clive headed home. The following day, he heard that Nigel had never returned. His body washed up at the Port of Dover. The police concluded he’d jumped or drunkenly fallen off the cliff.

Clive had waited an extra day before seeing Marion. He didn’t ask about her strained face, her puffy eyes. He just asked for her answer. She’d said ‘yes,’ like he knew she would. They were married a few weeks later.

Standing on the cliffs now, staring at the waters below, Clive remembered something he’d forgotten all these years.

Nigel hadn’t jumped.

Clive realised his hike for what it was: an act of contrition.

Discomfort touched his chest, a mustard seed of pain. It grew as if layers of tissue were hardening around that seed. He rubbed his chest. The pain didn’t leave; it grew. He started to turn back to the walkway but found he couldn’t. He’d lost control of his muscles. Clive pitched forward, falling past white chalk, on his way to turbulent waters.