The Firebird

He didn’t look tired, but I knew he’d driven several hours already down from Scotland, and we had another five at least ahead of us. I’d booked us on the Eurotunnel shuttle, which was faster than the ferry, but it also meant Rob wouldn’t have much time to relax and rest while we were crossing over to Calais.

He said, ‘I’m fine, I like to drive. I’ll not need rest.’

‘Must you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Answer questions I haven’t asked.’

‘But you did ask it.’

I said, ‘Not out loud.’

Rob apologised. ‘Sorry. It all sounds the same, to me.’ Keeping his eyes on the road he asked, ‘Is it not that way for you? When my dad was mucking about with ye there, you answered him as though you’d heard his voice.’

‘I did. I mean, I do. But I’m not used to having somebody else do it to me.’

‘I must have done it all the time afore,’ he pointed out. ‘You never mentioned that it bothered you.’

‘Yes, well, it’s been a while.’

Rob seemed to find this curious. ‘Your grandfather must do it, though.’

I shook my head, and thought of those few times when, as a child, I’d reached my thoughts to him and with a frown he’d brusquely pushed me out. ‘He never talks to me that way.’

Rob drove in silence for a moment, then he said, ‘He likely hears you, though.’

There was a kind of certainty to how he said the words that made me turn a little in my seat to look at him. I nearly asked him whether he was speaking from experience, but just then I was saved by a demanding ringtone from my pocket.

Rob’s eyes rolled. ‘I hope he pays you well, this guy.’

‘He pays me very well.’ I fished my mobile out and answered, ‘Yes, Sebastian?’

I wasn’t awake when we drove into Ypres.

My eyes drifted open to a sudden awareness of silence. Somewhat groggily I realised we were parked, and it was late at night, the softly amber street lamps casting glittering reflections over cobblestones along a narrow curve of street with old-style houses shouldered tightly to each other.

It had rained. The water pooled and glistened in the low uneven places at the edges of the road, and as I turned my head to look at Rob a low branch of the tree above us caught the wind and dipped and flung a spattering of drops across the windscreen.

Rob was securing the car with the handbrake. ‘Heyah.’

‘When did that happen?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘When did I fall asleep?’

‘Ten minutes out of Calais.’

‘Oh, no. Rob, I’m so sorry.’

‘For what?’

It seemed obvious. ‘Letting you drive all that way without company.’

‘I had the radio, it was no problem. You did say the Novotel?’

I gave a nod. ‘On Sint Jacobsstraat.’

‘Good, because that’s where we are.’ When he opened his car door the cooler night air flooding in brought me fully awake, so when Rob told me, ‘I’ll get the bags from the boot,’ for the first time I noticed what I hadn’t noticed before.

Neither of us was speaking out loud.

I let it pass, because although he didn’t look tired I expected he must be, from driving all day, and it seemed likely that he didn’t even realise he was doing it. The same way he’d reached out his thoughts to mine last Thursday morning, when he’d still been half-asleep. Could that have only been four days ago? It seemed much longer.

‘Here,’ I said, using my proper voice this time as I got out, too. ‘Let me carry mine.’

‘I’ve got it.’ His spoken voice was sure.

‘Yes, well, chivalry is very nice, but you don’t have to—’

‘I’ve got it.’ He stubbornly tightened his grip on the handle, and steered me towards the hotel entrance, just a few steps up the street, its façade a warmly backlit line of modern glass and metal that stood out against its older-world surroundings. I couldn’t even hold the doors for Rob; the glass slid open automatically, inviting us to step inside an open-plan interior with lounge and restaurant shadowed for the night.

Rob waited by the lifts while I sorted out our reservation at the long wood curve of the reception desk, and took his key card from me while we rode the elevator upwards. When we had reached our floor he followed me, still carrying the luggage, and he only set my bag down when he’d had a quick look in my room to satisfy himself that it was safe.

His room was next along the corridor. I heard the deadbolt lock of his door click just after I’d turned mine, and heard the water running as he washed and brushed his teeth, and heard the creaking of the bed as he lay down. I half-imagined, hours later, I could hear his quiet breathing as I watched the play of shadows on the ceiling overhead. He might as well have been beside me.

Still, I much preferred to put my restless, fitful sleeping down to having slept those hours in the car while we were driving, and at first light I gave up the effort altogether. Through the gauzy curtains at my window I could see the Gothic tower of an old church rising close against the red-tiled rooftops of the houses next to the hotel, its pointed spire set off by smaller pinnacles.

The sky looked flat and uninspired, a wash of watercolour grey that dulled the courtyard grass below me and the deep green tops of trees that showed beyond those same tiled roofs, in front of where the church was, but just as Rob had gone out on his own at Cruden Bay in search of Anna, so I reasoned it was only fair if I went first this time to find the convent.