Oh Marina Girl

As I approached the flagpole, I noticed Mark Twain waiting for me on the bench and all my speculations that I had just delineated so diligently started to unravel. Perhaps Will wasn’t the kidnapper, after all? And, if not, did that mean that he was dead? Was Mark Twain the kidnapper? Perhaps he was Will’s messenger?

This latter speculation seemed the most plausible when, without words, Mark Twain rose as I approached and beckoned me to follow him.

It was only then that I remembered presenting Will with a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for his seventh birthday. It had been a favourite book of mine ever since I’d been sent it as a childhood present myself, and I’d duly presented it to Will with an inscription expressing the hope that it bring him as much pleasure as it had brought me.

Twain led me round behind the flagpole and along a muddy path to Hill 60, through mature oak trees to allotments where a sprawl of broken-windowed greenhouses and assorted storm-damaged sheds bordered rows of cultivated vegetables.

‘Are you the messenger?’ I asked him. He nodded and pointed to a ramshackle shack constructed from rusted sheets of corrugated tin located in the far corner then turned to leave.

‘Is this goodbye?’ I asked. Again he nodded. ‘You never did tell me your real name,’ I said. I don’t know why – perhaps, as a consequence of my mounting trepidation, I was seeking to stall my meeting with Will – but I felt compelled to strike up a conversation with him.

‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, turning to leave again, before changing his mind and calling, ‘Guy Fall.’

‘So, why the pseudonym?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll need to ask “him”.’ ‘Who’s “him”?’

He shrugged again. ‘He never told me his name and, having asked once, I learned quickly not to ask again.’

I watched him disappear over the brow of the hill then approached the shack with caution. Swinging open the creaking door, I peered inside. It was dark and stank of stale cabbage, bruised Brussels sprouts, turnips and other rotting vegetables.

‘Will?’ I heard my voice asking in anticipation. There was no reply but I heard a shuffle in the shadows. I cleared my throat and tried again.

‘Will?’ I repeated, louder this time. There was a muffled cough and then I heard a gruff voice from within the midst of the darkness:

‘How d’you know?’ I asked.

‘I’ve read his suicide note,’ said the disembodied voice.

‘Have you seen his body?’

‘No.’

‘Then how d’you know he’s dead?’ The voice coughed and I listened to its laboured breathing.

‘I don’t have to see his body to know he’s dead. I’ve read his suicide note. You know he’s dead too.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes, you do. You might not want to admit it to yourself; you might try to kid yourself that the fact that his body was never found means that somehow he’s still alive – and, knowing how your mind works, you’ve probably conjured up some fantastical scenario in your head to explain to yourself that William’s the kidnapper – but, deep down, you and I both know that he’s dead.’

The brutal truth of these words slashed open my scars of grief to lay bare the wounds I’d hoped had healed over but which were now revealed to have been festering all this time.

‘Speak for yourself,’ I said in a last ditch attempt at denial. ‘Who are you anyway? And what makes you think you know how my mind works?’

The forced breathing stopped and a figure marched with precision from the shadows into the murky light as if obeying a command.

His erect posture, standing to attention with puffed-out chest and chin aloft, expressionless face staring me straight in the eye, as if presenting itself for inspection, suggested a military bearing.

He held my gaze for an instant before jerking his head involuntarily. This twitch, which I interpreted as a physical manifestation of some psychological torment, was to recur at irregular intervals throughout the remainder of our conversation.

Dishevelled and clothed in threadbare military fatigues, he wore a worn blue beret and a flesh-coloured eye patch. Despite his attempt at striking an imposing presence, there was no disguising the fact that he had been through the wars and was in a poor physical and mental condition.

I was reminded of the recent spate of photographs and reports of a brutally executed campaign of ethnic cleansing that had so disturbed me and sensed that the individual before me had been living what I’d been reading.

‘I’m the kidnapper – ’ he declared, letting slip a slight American twang that triggered a desperate search for recognition in my head.

‘ – I thought as much,’ I interrupted.

‘ – And the hostage,’ he finished, catching me off guard.

As soon as he spoke these words, there was a distinct degeneration in his demeanour.

It was as if he’d relieved himself of an unbearable burden and forsaken the willed maintenance of a facade of vitality. His forced breathing resumed, he twitched several times in rapid succession and started to shrivel before my eyes, his back becoming bent and bowed, his hands trembling.

I watched this metamorphosis impassively as I struggled to comprehend the implications of his revelation.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I managed eventually, inviting him to spell it out for me.

He flashed a grotesque grin, with the express purpose, I suspect in retrospect, of revealing to me the bloody gap in his gum from where his missing molar had only recently been uprooted.

‘What don’t you understand?’ ‘Anything.’

‘You really don’t know who you are, do you?’ he said.

I certainly didn’t understand this remark – it struck me as platitudinous – but I was about to.

‘Let me enlighten you.’

He never once told me his name and, having asked once, I learned quickly not to ask again...