Читаем A thousand suns полностью

It was actually a lot more pleasant inside than it promised to be from the outside. ‘Lenny’s’ was an old converted shutterboard boathouse, just down the street from the motel they were staying in. At some time in the past its timber walls had received a cheerful coating of sunflower-yellow, but the paint had flaked off in many places, exposing wood so old it could tell a story or two. A single flickering neon sign fizzed over the doorway asserting that the hut was a ‘Bar amp; Grill’.

Inside, Mark and Chris could have been in any sports bar, in any town, in any state. A juke box, a pool table and carved wooden Indian standing guard outside the toilets. Nothing changes, thought Chris. Hell, there were faux American sports bars in every new town, in every county in England. Which was even worse. Sports bars populated by spotty young Essex boys pretending to be American.

A TV in the corner above the bar was showing some football. Chris was no big NFL fan, but Mark was.

‘Good choice. You want to sit up at the bar?’

Chris shook his head. ‘Nah, not my sport.’

Mark laughed. ‘I forget, soccer’s your game, isn’t it?’

Chris shook his head wearily. ‘It’s known as “football” around the rest of the world. Anyway, listen, I want to show you something.’

‘You can show me up at the bar, can’t you?’

‘Discreetly, if you don’t mind.’

Mark nodded. ‘Oh, okay. I’ll go find us somewhere comfortable and you can buy me that beer and dinner, then.’

Chris went up to the bar and ordered a couple of Buds and two Steak Royales from a chalkboard menu that seemed to favour fish. The Royales were described as ‘grilled and seasoned with Lenny’s secret blend of herbs and spices and served with jumbo jacket fries’.

He looked round the bar as the barman pulled a couple of ice-cold bottles out of a fridge and shouted the order through a hatch into the kitchen.

It wasn’t particularly busy, perhaps no more than a dozen drinkers, mostly regulars by the look of them, all staring vacuously at the TV. There was no doubt that it was mid-week and out of vacation season.

Chris took the beers over to a little wood-panelled booth that Mark had found. He smiled when he realised Mark had still managed to keep the TV set in view.

‘Who’s winning, then?’ he said as he set the bottles of beer down.

‘The Dolphins,’ replied Mark, chugging a mouthful directly from the bottle, leaving some suds on his beard. ‘Ahhh, I needed that. Thanks.’

‘I got us some grilled steaks and fries to wash the beer down.’

‘Great. So, Chris… what’s this thing you want a second opinion on?’

Chris slipped off his shoulder bag and pulled out a manila folder. He set it carefully on the table between them and opened it to reveal a dozen black and white photographs.

‘Ahhh, you’ve developed them already.’

‘Just some.’

Chris spun the folder round so that the pictures inside were the right way up for Mark. He studied them intently for a few moments, spreading them out across the table.

‘They look good.’ He pointed to a group of three images of the body aboard the plane. ‘Nice, you definitely caught his best side.’

‘I want you to look closely at these three pictures.’

‘At what?’

‘I’m not going to say just yet. I don’t want to bias your opinion.’

Mark studied the grim images of the pilot. Chris definitely knew his craft. The photographs were high-contrast. He knew enough about the way Chris worked to know that this was deliberate. The contrast pushed the images away from various greys towards decisive whites and blacks. It made every little detail, every little bump and groove stand out.

‘Well, what do you want? A judgement on the composition?’

‘Of the de-composition more like,’ said Chris. ‘Sorry, go on.’

‘Okay… they’re striking, but I wouldn’t think they’ll make their way onto any kitchen calendars or Mother’s Day cards. You think your employers will go for them?’

Chris shook his head. ‘What, News Fortnite? Nah… It’s a little too visceral for them. This is the kind of scat image that some sick website would love.’

Mark looked back down at the images of the skeletal face. He was right. If it were just a skull it wouldn’t be quite so bad. But the few strands of organic debris clinging to the bone still looked like flesh. And the tuft of blond hair poking out from beneath the leather cap, the vertebrae of the neck descending into layers of clothing all came together to produce an unpleasant portrait of decay.

‘Let me help you a little here. Take a close look at this one,’ he said, picking up a photo and handing it to Mark. It was a close-up of the body. An image that showed the skull and the vertebrae of the neck descending into the leather flying jacket and uniform tunic.

Mark looked it over carefully. ‘No, I can’t see what you want me to see.’

Chris pointed to a metallic object half-obscured by the lower jawbone and radio mouthpiece.

‘Well, now, that looks like, what? A medal or something? ’

Chris nodded. ‘It’s a medal all right… but it ain’t a Purple Heart.’

Mark looked at it again. ‘It looks a bit like — ’

‘An Iron Cross?’