They drove without speaking to the railway station in Patrick’s car, Peter sitting in the back seat, and when they got there, Patrick parked at the gates of the Granville.
‘Here’s as good as anywhere,’ he said when Ted, glancing at Peter’s tense expression, protested. ‘The road gets crappy further up.’
Neither of the other two men missed the malicious glitter in Patrick’s eyes.
Peter forced himself to look towards the old mill; the long rows of broken windows flashed, disparate shapes in the high glare of the sun. His eyes wandered along each storey of the building. The place still looked as intimidating as before. He shivered, thankful he would never have to set foot in the place ever again.
‘Let’s go.’ Ted nudged him. They ran, the old, ridged concrete crunching under their boots, the wooden platform hollow.
The sound of their footsteps brought the ticket inspector to the entrance of the station. ‘What the heck? What’s going on?’
None of them stopped to explain. Jumping down onto the line, they crossed over to the sidings, pushing through the brambles and weeds tangled around the couplings and wheels of the wagons.
‘Here, you can’t do that.’ The man waved his copy of the Bradlow Gazette at them as each of them chose a wagon and hoisted themselves up the side. ‘I’ll call the coppers.’
Ted stopped for a moment. ‘We’re looking for my daughter. She’s missing,’ he shouted, ready to leap into the next wagon. ‘Have you seen anyone hanging around here with a little girl?’
‘No, mate, I haven’t.’ The ticket inspector folded the newspaper and pushed it into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go round the buildings and check while you’re doing that. Forget the cops. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you.’ He adjusted the peak of his cap and squinted, looking up and down the railway lines. ‘Watch out though, there’s a train due in twenty minutes.’ He disappeared into the waiting room.
‘Anything?’ Ted shouted to Peter who’d just emerged from the last truck in the line.
‘No.’ For a few seconds when he’d climbed into the wagon, Peter thought his heart would stop. A pile of clothes were bundled in one corner. But when he reached down to move them, he saw they were damp and mildewed and obviously untouched for a while. ‘Vagabund … a tramp … he must have slept here,’ he muttered, not knowing if he was thankful or disheartened. ‘Nothing.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Nah.’
As they climbed back onto the platform the ticket inspector appeared at one of the doors. ‘Sorry. No sign of anybody being in that shouldn’t.’
‘Thanks anyway.’ Ted stood, arms dangling by his side, shoulders drooping. ‘Best get back to the house then.’
They walked slowly back to the car.
‘I am sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I should not have raised your hopes. It was only an idea.’
‘Stupid idea,’ Patrick scoffed.
‘We had to try,’ Ted said. ‘Anything’s better than doing nothing.’ Slumping against the car, both arms on the roof, the sobs erupted.
The two other men stared at each other. Peter knew the turmoil on Patrick’s face, the uncertainty, must be reflected in his own. He stepped forward and rested a hand on Ted’s back. Ted turned and held onto him, desperate tears shaking his whole body.
The last time Peter had held a man in his arms was when he was leaving the farm and he’d hugged his brother. The contact had been brief, cursory, both men relieved when it finished. This time he tightened his grip, wanting to put strength into Ted.
Patrick turned away, unwilling to show his own misery. He blinked rapidly.
Eventually Ted’s sobs subsided. Peter let his arms drop to his sides.
‘Sorry about that.’
Peter lifted his shoulders, careful not to show his embarrassment. ‘It is fine,’ he said.
Patrick was staring at the old mill. ‘What about the camp?’ he said and then contradicted himself. ‘Stupid idea, the mill’s closed up tight as a duck’s arse.’ He spoke rapidly, covering up his wretchedness. ‘Those gates must be ten foot high. And with all that fucking barbed wired on top … daft idea.’
‘They mended all the fences last year,’ Ted said. ‘Linda wouldn’t have been able to get in there.’
A train rattled past on the line with a whoop of its whistle, leaving behind a thick trail of grey smoke. In the long silence that followed they stood dejected. ‘Unless,’ Peter said, ‘someone has taken her in there.’
Ted cried out in despair.
The blood pounded in Peter’s ears. He twisted around to look at his old prison. All that was left of the look-outs were wooden platforms interwoven with ivy and pink-flowered weeds. If he didn’t know what was behind them he could almost think they looked attractive. But beyond he could see the mill with the crumbling roof and broken jagged glass in the windows and it resurrected the fear that still lurked in him, the stuff of his nightmares. Bad memories rushed through his mind: the bullying from the guards, the intimidation of the Nazis and the cruelties used to dominate the other prisoners. One would live with him forever. The time Frank Shuttleworth shot him.
But then he remembered a summer day, leaning against the wall of the mill, eyes half closed, the rugged line of the high moors in the distance shimmering in the heat. That was the day when he’d become conscious that he loved Mary.
And she loved Linda.
He stared at the gates. Only a few moments ago, he thought he would never have to go in that place again. Now he knew he had to. ‘We must look,’ he said.