supposed to be there, but I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know what I’m looking at half the time. It’s like trying to solve a multidimensional crossword puzzle with most of the clues missing, and the clues that aren’t missing are written in a language I don’t understand.”
Cole nodded again. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me. “Pretty weird stuff,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yeah.”
“But it’s real?”
“As real as anything else. It doesn’t lie.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re sure about everything.”
“No.”
“Are you sure about Rachel?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about the Dead Man?”
“Yeah, I’m sure about him. I just don’t know any details.”
“What about the stuff in your dream? Was that real?”
“I think some of it was…but some of it was just a dream.” I closed my eyes, feeling the fear of the dream again—the coldness, the darkness, the death. I looked at Cole. “You don’t feel anything when you’re dead, do you?”
“No,” he said simply. “That’s what death is —feeling nothing.”
“And if there’s nothing to feel, there’s nothing to fear, is there?”
“Nothing at all.”
We finally drifted off to sleep again just as the first light of dawn was beginning to color the sky. My last waking thought was of Rachel. I could see her quite clearly: her sleeping skin, her shining black hair, her face on the pillow beside me.
Go home, Ruben , she whispered again. Let the dead bury the dead.
Go home.
Seven
I ’m not used to silence in the morning. I’m used to the clatter and grind of the breaker’s yard, the groan of car crushers and scrap magnets, the drone of traffic on the East London streets. So when I woke up that morning and everything was quiet, it took me a while to realize where I was. When I finally did realize where I was—Dartmoor, farmhouse, bedroom—I also realized how tired I was. I’d only had about an hour’s sleep all night. My eyes were thick, my body ached, my head was all tight and buzzy.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but I knew that I wouldn’t. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, birds were singing…everything was too quiet. I could hear too much: Abbie and Vince in the kitchen downstairs, Cole in the bathroom, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. And now the smell of breakfast was beginning to drift up the stairs—bacon and eggs, toast, coffee…
It was all very nice—but I wished I wasn’t there. I wished I was at home—in my house, in my room, in my bed, smelling my breakfast.
After a minute or two, the bedroom door opened and Cole came in.
“Come on, Rube,” he said, “it’s time to get up. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
I didn’t move.
I could feel him looking at me, then I heard him crossing the room, and then I heard myself swearing at him as he yanked the duvet off my bed and threw it on the floor. I was only wearing a pair of boxers, and the sudden blast of fresh air on my skin was shocking.
“Shit, Cole,” I snapped, sitting up straight. “I might have been naked .”
He didn’t even look at me. He just turned away and went over to get something from his bag. I watched him, remembering when he’d left the house yesterday morning and removed something from the trunk of the smashed-up Volvo in the yard. I tried to see what he was doing now, but he had his back to me and was keeping the bag out of sight. I knew what he was doing, though. I made a mental note to bring it up with him later, then I got out of bed and started getting dressed.
“What’s the plan?” I said.
“I want to go into the village and poke around for a while, see what I can find. See if anyone’s got anything to say. Then I might go up to the gypsy camp.” He retied hisbag and turned around to face me. “I don’t understand what they’re doing here.”
“The gypsies?”
“Yeah—I mean, there’s nothing here for them, is there? No
Cole nodded again. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me. “Pretty weird stuff,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yeah.”
“But it’s real?”
“As real as anything else. It doesn’t lie.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re sure about everything.”
“No.”
“Are you sure about Rachel?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about the Dead Man?”
“Yeah, I’m sure about him. I just don’t know any details.”
“What about the stuff in your dream? Was that real?”
“I think some of it was…but some of it was just a dream.” I closed my eyes, feeling the fear of the dream again—the coldness, the darkness, the death. I looked at Cole. “You don’t feel anything when you’re dead, do you?”
“No,” he said simply. “That’s what death is —feeling nothing.”
“And if there’s nothing to feel, there’s nothing to fear, is there?”
“Nothing at all.”
We finally drifted off to sleep again just as the first light of dawn was beginning to color the sky. My last waking thought was of Rachel. I could see her quite clearly: her sleeping skin, her shining black hair, her face on the pillow beside me.
Go home, Ruben , she whispered again. Let the dead bury the dead.
Go home.
Seven
I ’m not used to silence in the morning. I’m used to the clatter and grind of the breaker’s yard, the groan of car crushers and scrap magnets, the drone of traffic on the East London streets. So when I woke up that morning and everything was quiet, it took me a while to realize where I was. When I finally did realize where I was—Dartmoor, farmhouse, bedroom—I also realized how tired I was. I’d only had about an hour’s sleep all night. My eyes were thick, my body ached, my head was all tight and buzzy.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but I knew that I wouldn’t. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, birds were singing…everything was too quiet. I could hear too much: Abbie and Vince in the kitchen downstairs, Cole in the bathroom, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. And now the smell of breakfast was beginning to drift up the stairs—bacon and eggs, toast, coffee…
It was all very nice—but I wished I wasn’t there. I wished I was at home—in my house, in my room, in my bed, smelling my breakfast.
After a minute or two, the bedroom door opened and Cole came in.
“Come on, Rube,” he said, “it’s time to get up. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
I didn’t move.
I could feel him looking at me, then I heard him crossing the room, and then I heard myself swearing at him as he yanked the duvet off my bed and threw it on the floor. I was only wearing a pair of boxers, and the sudden blast of fresh air on my skin was shocking.
“Shit, Cole,” I snapped, sitting up straight. “I might have been naked .”
He didn’t even look at me. He just turned away and went over to get something from his bag. I watched him, remembering when he’d left the house yesterday morning and removed something from the trunk of the smashed-up Volvo in the yard. I tried to see what he was doing now, but he had his back to me and was keeping the bag out of sight. I knew what he was doing, though. I made a mental note to bring it up with him later, then I got out of bed and started getting dressed.
“What’s the plan?” I said.
“I want to go into the village and poke around for a while, see what I can find. See if anyone’s got anything to say. Then I might go up to the gypsy camp.” He retied hisbag and turned around to face me. “I don’t understand what they’re doing here.”
“The gypsies?”
“Yeah—I mean, there’s nothing here for them, is there? No
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