The Rainbow Man Page 3

  Wondered what he would see when he looked into his eyes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHOREPOINT POLICE STATION was only a little smaller than its hospital.

  Just as the community here didn’t need to cater for that many sick and injured, the amount of weekly crime on the island usually amounted to a cat being stuck up a tree and someone’s bicycle being stolen. And nine times out of ten, it turned out that the person owning the bike had simply misplaced it.

  No wonder the commotion the previous day had caused such a stir. The town… and town was pushing it for a place that was little more than a village with delusions of grandeur… didn’t receive that many strangers outside of the summer months of July and August. Certainly not ones with no easily identifiable means of arriving.

  Daniel stood outside the building, a single-storey, functional affair with hardly any character. It had been built back in the early 90s after the previous station burnt to the ground, on that exact same spot. No one had been injured, because the handful of police had managed to get out and there were no prisoners in the cells. Then, as now, there had been very little in the way of criminal activity.

  He supposed that was one of the reasons why they had no crime here to speak of, simply because everybody knew everyone else’s business. You couldn’t sneeze on one side of town without someone from the other rushing over, handing you a handkerchief and saying, “Bless you!”

  People here would welcome visitors, of course, because not only did they bring disposable money with them, to spend on items like Greg’s father’s driftwood sculptures, but they also went back to where they came from. They didn’t stay more than a couple of weeks at most, either on the minuscule “caravan park” run by Mr. Files, or in tents and camper vans. One or two mainland folk had cottages on the island, but again they typically spent only part of the summer here. Rich people who could afford to have several homes dotted about the globe, the vast majority of which were in warmer climes than Shorepoint during the Autumn and Winter seasons.

  And though it was lurching into Spring, the mentality at the moment was far from welcoming to outsiders. It was probably why Sergeant Yeats had been so eager to find out everything he could about the man who’d washed up on the beach. About who he was and where he might have come from.

  When Daniel’s mum had shouted that he was awake, perhaps Yeats thought he might get those answers. If they knew who he was, then they could try and contact relatives. But, more importantly, arrange for him to be where he was supposed to be; to go back to where he’d come from. Everything would be right with the world then.

  However, as Daniel had followed the policeman back to the hospital room where the man had been deposited, he soon realised—if he hadn’t already—that nothing was going to be as easy as that where the stranger was concerned.

  “Sir, can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Yeats was asking as Daniel poked his nose around the doorframe.

  “Sly, please. Give the poor man a minute or two. He’s only just come round.” Daniel’s mother wasn’t exactly leaving him alone, though. She was busy flitting around, checking blood pressure, pulse rate, and other vital signs on monitors which were still beeping and whirring. She came round the side of the bed, pushing Yeats out of the way momentarily so she could flash a pen-light into the man’s pupils.

  Daniel gaped, remembering the last time he’d seen this person open his eyes.

  A reflection, that’s all. Remember? Just a reflection. That and your overactive imagination. Mikey had his pirates, you had—

  The man blinked again, sitting up further in the bed and groaning with the pain. “I’ll get you something for that,” said Daniel’s mum, and nodded for a nurse to fetch the appropriate medication.

  Now that the torchlight wasn’t in his eyes, and he was facing forward, Daniel could see the colour of them quite clearly. Far from being vivid and vibrant, as he’d remembered, they were a pale grey colour, almost blending into the whites. If anything they were colour-less, the most nondescript eyes Daniel had ever seen. And in spite of the fact Sergeant Yeats was the one addressing him, when the man replied, he looked over towards Daniel in the doorway.

  Then he spoke, his words still a whisper at first, as they had been when he’d asked for help, but gaining strength with each syllable. “I… I’m afraid, officer, I don’t really remember anything.”

  “That’s not uncommon with blows to the head,” Daniel’s mother explained.

  Yet there was something about not only the tone—even, precise, and considered—but those eyes that said he was lying. Lying and still looking directly at Daniel. The direction of his gaze didn’t go unnoticed by Yeats.

  “Daniel, why don’t you come in,’” said the sergeant, obviously thinking something about the man’s saviour might jog his memory. “You… remember Daniel, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and Daniel realised right there and then just how perceptive this policeman was. And how wasted he was solving “crimes” on this little scrap of land in the middle of the ocean.

  The man nodded, wincing; the nurse gave him his injection. “Yes… I-I recall your face, looking down at me.”

  Daniel found himself slowly walking into the room, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Daniel here found you, sir. Washed up on our beach,” stated Yeats.

  “You… you found me.” The man smiled. It was a smile that should have been warm, that was an attempt at friendliness, but just tied Daniel’s stomach in knots. “You saved me.”

  You found life. You saved a life.

  Daniel shook his head, though he wasn’t sure whether he was denying the act or simply trying to take it back.

  “Yes…” said the man, smiling even more broadly. “You saved me, and for that I thank you.”

  “It was Daniel and his friends who called the rescuers,” Daniel’s mother chimed in, proudly, looking back over to her son.

  “And his friends? I see. Then I feel I need to thank them, as well.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged at some point,” said Yeats. “But turning back to yourself. You can’t recall anything at all before seeing Daniel?”

  Now the man did regard the sergeant, speaking evenly once more. “No… I’m sorry. Everything’s a bit of a blur, officer.”

  Yeats nodded. “I understand.”

  No, thought Daniel. No, I don’t think you do at all.

  “If I could just maybe arrange for a photo, take some prints and—”

  “Absolutely not,” said Daniel’s mother, a little too quickly. “Like I said before, Sly, this man needs his rest. Come back tomorrow morning.” She glanced across at the stranger. “If that’s all right with you, of course?”

  He nodded, stifling a yawn to illustrate the point Dr. Routh was making.

  “Look, see? He’s tired.” Daniel’s mother took Yeats by the arm and began to escort him out. For a moment, Daniel could see him resisting, could see the strength there in the tall policeman. If he didn’t want to go somewhere, there was no way you could make him. But then he smiled at Lorraine and nodded.

  “Oh, one last question. Can you remember your name at all?” asked Yeats.

  The man’s eyebrows narrowed over those blank, grey eyes, the bandage above them creasing. “A name…” He shook his head, then his expression suddenly changed. “Wait, wait,” he said, excitedly. It was the most emotion Daniel had seen him show since he entered the room. “John. I think my name is John.” He grinned with contentment.

  “John,” repeated Yeats, and Daniel could tell what he was thinking: one of the most common names on the planet. “Any chance of a surname at all? It’d really help cut through everything.”

  The man’s face screwed up again in concentration, bandage creasing again. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. “I’m sorry,” was all he could muster.

  “Well, at least we know now what to put above his bed,” Daniel’s mother offered, then insisted on Yeats leaving and returning tomorrow. Daniel went wit
h him, looking back over his shoulder only once at the fellow in the bed, who smirked a final time.

  There in the corridor, Daniel studied Yeats’ thoughtful expression. Was he thinking the same as him, that were was something not quite right about this interloper? Was the policeman’s instinct kicking in again? Yeats remembered Daniel was standing there and flashed him a smile, a much more genuine one. “I still need to talk to you, don’t I?” he said.

  Daniel gave a half shrug.

  “I guess that can also wait. It’s getting late and I think your mum might rip me a new one if she finds me still hanging around out here. Look, swing by the station tomorrow afternoon, will you?”

  “Okay,” said Daniel.

  “You remember where it is, right?”

  Daniel gave a half smile, to match the shrug.

  Yeats laughed a little and patted the teenager’s shoulder. “Right, so I’ll see you there. And listen, your dad would have been proud of you today. I’m proud of you, too.” He put his cap back on and motioned for his men to come with him, leaving Daniel alone in the corridor, in the hospital.

  There he remained, waiting, waiting, while his mum attended to “John.” Daniel didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa in the visitors’ area—he’d taken a stroll down there to get something hot to drink from the machine, after scoffing some of the sandwiches in his backpack—but he guessed it was a combination of not getting much sleep the night before and all the excitement of the day’s events.

  His mother had roused him and he’d jumped again. “John’s resting comfortably now. He’s doing okay,” she’d whispered to Daniel. But the rest of it had felt like a dream: walking back through the hospital to their car; picking up Mikey, who was also out cold, and returning home.

  Daniel had collapsed into his bed and slept straight through till eleven the next day, not even waking at Mikey’s cartoons. When he finally got up, his mother made him breakfast; a full English. The first time in as long as he could remember.

  “Morning bed-head,” she’d said chirpily.

  Daniel looked for empty bottles on kitchen worktop but there weren’t any. There weren’t even any more in the recycling bin that morning. And his mum couldn’t have a headache because she was whistling, actually whistling along to the radio. Perhaps it had just been too late when they got in last night?

  “I’m heading back to the hospital,” she informed him as she served up the bacon, eggs and sausage. “Could you keep an eye on Mikey for a little while?”

  “But mum, I have to go to the police station later,” he protested.

  “That’s okay, Susan will be over before then.” Susan was the twenty-year old daughter of the next door neighbours, who was studying to be a primary school teacher and welcomed the experience—not to mention the extra money—of looking after people’s kids when they needed a sitter. For a while back there, Daniel’d had a real crush on Susan, when she used to sit for both him and Mikey. But she still spoke to him like he was ten even now, so the shine had worn off eventually. It was one of the reasons he’d started noticing girls his own age more. Girls like—

  Daniel dug his mobile out, plugging it in to check for any text messages, from Greg… or Jill. There weren’t any, but then they knew how he was with phones. He thought about texting them, to arrange a meet and talk about stuff, but he didn’t really have time before heading out to see Sly Yeats. Maybe later, he told himself, once he’d given a statement, or whatever he was supposed to be doing.

  Which was why he was standing here, at the station, after being relieved of duty by Susan half an hour ago. Mikey hadn’t really wanted him to leave at all, especially as Daniel had finally agreed to play a game of Buckaroo with his kid brother. But Susan had distracted the boy with promises of ice cream long enough for Daniel to get away without too much fuss.

  “Don’t worry, Danny will be back soon,” she’d said, winking. She was the only one who called him that—Danny—and he hated it.

  Now Daniel gazed at the blue double doors, their black glass hiding what went on inside. Except he knew pretty much all there was to know about what happened in there. He should do, after all the trips here with his dad… and with Sergeant Yeats after that. He hadn’t visited for a while, but that wasn’t the only reason he felt apprehensive. He was going to have to talk about finding John, about what had happened. And he wouldn’t be able to lie, or even withhold anything, because Sly Yeats would know. That Spidey sense of his would start tingling. Daniel thought again about how the man was wasted here, when he could be making a real difference on the mainland.

  But perhaps it was the peaceful life that kept him rooted? Perhaps Yeats was happy with cats and “stolen” bikes. If that really was the case, then all this business with the stranger John would really upset the applecart.

  One of Yeats’ young uniforms, Dave McLean, arrived in a squad car. Climbing out, he began making his way towards the door, nodding a hello to Daniel. Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, Daniel walked forwards and pushed on those blue double-doors, entering the police station.

  The first thing he saw on his left was the duty officer’s desk. In most stations this was behind glass—or, depending what kind of town or city you worked in, even grilled bars—but Shorepoint Constabulary’s contact point with the public was open plan and nicely relaxed. A portly man with a shock of white hair sat behind the desk, peering through strong, milk-bottle glasses and filling in paperwork... or at least pretending to. Daniel noted that the pen wasn’t so much moving across the paper as hovering over a particular spot. Then, as he drew closer, Daniel spotted the crossword on that paper, from a newspaper folded over and sitting on the man’s desk. Officer Weeks had been part of the police force here on Shorepoint probably since before the previous police station had been built. No, that was stretching things, because Daniel knew that old station had been around since the 1800s. All the same, Weeks looked like he’d been here over a hundred years or more. Daniel wasn’t certain, but he thought he could see cobwebs running from the man’s neck to his shoulders, though it might just have been more wisps of white hair.

  Weeks looked up, spying their young visitor and catching his breath. Then he tore his eyes away and cast a wave in McLean’s direction, who was rounding Daniel and entering the central station through the small wooden swing door opposite.

  Weeks pointed for Daniel to follow. “He’s expecting you, lad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And…well, nice to see you back here again.” Weeks smiled and Daniel attempted one back. He knew what the man was thinking:

  “You know, you really do look so much like him. Especially before—”

  He’d grown up a lot since the last time he’d had cause to be here, and that resemblance was probably more pronounced now. Must have been like seeing a ghost walking in. Daniel pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and approached the door McLean had just used. You could see through into the station past this, the small barrier only reaching waist height, but the main area containing the rest of the desks was round a tight corner.

  Once Daniel had negotiated this, he saw McLean taking up his position at one of those desks, but he was the only person around. Beyond him lay an office with glass windows where Sergeant Yeats was ensconced behind his own private desk, tapping on the keyboard of his computer. Or rather tapping the same key over and over. Daniel walked hesitantly down the space between tables, past McLean, who was now busying himself in a drawer, then dawdled at the door to Yeats’ office. He was about to knock when the sergeant saw him through the glass and beckoned him inside.

  “Ah, Daniel, just the man,” said Yeats, smiling as widely as he had the evening before. “Come in, take a seat.”

  Daniel pulled the visitor chair out and slumped down

  on it.

  “So, tell me all you know,” said the policeman.

  Daniel frowned: was he being grilled? Did Yeats suspect that he knew more than he was letting on about the stranger
? That he saw—all right, might have seen—something when he first found the man? When Yeats noticed the look of confusion on Daniel’s face, he laughed. “I know next to nothing about these things,” Yeats confessed, banging the side of the monitor. “You’ve grown up with them, you must know the secret of how to get the infernal machines to work properly. Maybe you could have a go at mine?”

  Daniel could do nothing but shrug again. He might well have been born during the technological revolution, growing up as emails and laptops became commonplace, but he’d never really felt a part of it himself. In fact, he had a suspicion that computers, mobiles and anything else like that really had it in for him. He could short something out as soon as look at it, and had done so with his own desktop not long ago. If he “had a go” at Yeats’ computer then it might just blow up on the spot. “I don’t know that much,” he admitted. “But I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to keep hitting it like that.”

  “Always used to work for my old dad with the TV,” Yeats argued, doing it again, and rubbing his chin as if he couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t fixed the problem. “They’re not great at the best of times. We keep putting in for new ones, but you know how it is: small community like ours is always last on the list for things. But they’ve been acting crazier than usual since that blessed storm.”

  “Lots of things have been crazy since the storm,” Daniel said without stopping to think, then clammed up again.

  “You’re talking about our John Dee, I guess,” said Yeats.

  Daniel frowned again. “John Dee?”

  Yeats gave another little chuckle. “Dee for Doe. It’ll do for now anyway, at least until we can figure out who he is and where he belongs. I’ve already had the Mayor on at me today about that one.”

  There was that mentality again, thought Daniel. The need to ship this guy back off where he came from. Thankfully, he was in total agreement this time.

  “Not that that looks likely anytime soon, as I explained to his Lordship.” He banged the monitor once more, then the computer tower itself for good measure. Yeats went on to explain that a couple of his men had visited the hospital that morning and taken prints. They’d also asked if they could take some photos of John, which might help in his identification. But even with all that, they’d have no chance if they couldn’t get the system working, or even get onto the net. “Blast!” Yeats said again, then looked across at Daniel. “I’m sorry, ignore me… So, what did you mean just then when you were talking about crazy stuff? And why the terrified expression when I asked what you knew?”