Chaz brenchley, p.14
Chaz Brenchley, page 14
My father left me very much in her care as soon as she as old enough, so that she became a surrogate mother to me well as being a sister and a friend. But she died.. His face and voice had a distant quality, focused on omething very far away. Fenner said nothing; and after a sip coffee, Linden continued. “I found her body; and that broke me. I was fourteen, you ee, and very immature, and suddenly I’d lost the only person ‘d ever loved. I had a complete breakdown at that point, and took me three years to recover. To begin to make sense of y life again.
I managed, in the end; I found a room and a oh, and built myself a new stability. But it was an empty kind life, living only for myself.
Gradually I realised that I eeded something more, I needed to involve myself with thers somehow. And I wanted to help people if I could, to top them going through the same hells that I had. So I started looking around; and finally I found the Samaritans. Found my rusade, if you like.” “And they weren’t concerned about your past?” Fenner sked quietly. “A breakdown, you said - did you mean iterally?” “Oh, yes.
Three years in a psychiatric hospital. But the amaritans would never turn anyone down on those grounds, rovided they were satisfied that you were stable now. The election procedure is quite rigorous in that respect, particurly if you do have a history of disturbance. But once they are atisfied, it can be an advantage, in a way. It’s easier to nderstand what the callers are going through, if you’ve been here yourself. And it makes you want to help. As I say, that’s asically why I joined; and you’d be surprised how many of ur volunteers start by calling the Samaritans themselves.” Fenner nodded. “Like Georgie.” “Ah, she told you? Good, that saves me having to be iscreet. Just so long as you don’t ask me what we talked bout.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The two men smiled at each other; nd went on to talk about other things: Linden’s slow, steady rogress from clerk to Assistant Manager, taking in three different banks and a half a dozen cities; Fenner’s writing, and Tina’s painting; and of course mutual friends. And at last “Really, I’d better go.” Fenner pushed himself to his feet, and peeled his wet jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ve still got to drive to Hexham tonight; and anyway, discipline or no discipline, it’s not fair on those kids to keep them waiting any longer. Do you want to tell them they’re okay, or shall I?” “No, leave it to me.” Linden smiled, and held out a hand. “I’ll read them the riot act, just a little, before I let them off the hook. Drive carefully, Paul - and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can, about those records.” Fenner looked for the words to thank him, and couldn’t find them; so in the end he just nodded, ~l’ook Linden’s hand warmly, and left.
Chapter 23
“What I reckon,” Tina said a week later, tapping the papers spread out in front of them, “is that we should sell the lot, this one included.
Use some of the money to improve the cottage, and just stick the rest in the bank to keep us going until you make us rich and famous.” He nodded, and shifted her slightly on his knee. “I had a feeling you’d say something like that. But I’m not sure, love, I’m really not. Even after all the maintenance costs we can expect, we’d still be getting a bigger income from the rented flats than we would from selling them and investing the money.” They’d been to see the solicitor Ross that morning, and he’d given them written details of the whole estate, including estimated values of all the property. They’d spent the afternoon getting away from everything, leaping on a Metro to the coast and playing at being children, paddling and building sandcastles; but now, back in the city and the flat, they were talking futures and trying to make plans. “Yes, of course we would - but who wants to be a landlord?” Tina demanded. “Especially an absentee landlord. They’re a horrible breed. Maybe you don’t know, you’ve never been a student; but honestly, students always hate their landlords. And I don’t want to be hated like that, it’s not fun.” “I don’t think anyone could have hated Di,” Fenner pointed out quietly. “Okay, so maybe she was an exception -
but even then, you can’t tell. Some students just hate their landlords on principle. And honestly, Fenner, it’d be a hell of a hassle if we were trying to let flats here and live in Wales. They’d tie us down no end. I think we should just get free of them. Take the money and run.”
She reached for the pack of cigarettes by the ashtray, shook it, and scowled. “You pig, you smoked the last of them. And that was my pack, too. Have you got a secret stash somewhere?” He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not that organised at the moment. Why do you think I was smoking yours?” He eased her off his knee onto the floor and stood up. “I’ll go up to the newsagent before he shuts. That’s if you’ve got any cash?”
“On the mantelpiece in the bedroom. There’s a fiver in that carved wooden box,; Go on, quick, or you’ll have to go all the way to the garage. Fenner grinned. “Take the money and run.” Coming out of the newsagent with two packs of Winston and some rolling-tobacco, wondering for the hundredth time just when he would hear from David Linden, Fenner saw him walking down the hill just ahead. For a moment it seemed too much of a coincidence to swallow; but all the same, it was so. Even from the back, his hair and build were unmistakable, as was the easy grace with which he moved. Fenner quickened his pace until the two men were walking side by side. Linden glanced across sharply, then smiled.
“Paul. Hinllo. I was just coming to find you.” “That’s what I was hoping.” There was only one question on Fenner’s tongue; but the answer would change things so irrevocably, whether it was yes or no, that he hesitated to ask it bluntly, here in the street. “Come on down, you can meet Tina.” Linden hesitated, then shook his head. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. Not just now. It might be simpler if we went to find a pub, and talked there.” “Okay, then,” Fenner said, “I’ll introduce you to my local. Only I’d better drop some of this through the letter-box first, or Tina’ll kill me when I get home.” So Fenner posted cigarettes through his door, and rattled the knocker to let Tina know they were there. Then he and Linden went on down, towards the river and the Green Man. They made their way into the lounge bar, and Linden said, “Look, there’s a table over there in the corner. You go and claim it, while I get the drinks. What are you having?” “Just a tomato juice, please.”
Fenner was already moving towards the table. “And a box of matches, if you don’t mind.” “Have something a bit stronger than that,” Linden suggested quietly. “You’ll want it, I warn you.” Which was the first definite indication that the news might be bad. Fenner noted it; but there would be time enough soon to pursue that. “No, I mean it, thanks.
Just a tomato juice. I don’t drink.” “Really?” Linden looked surprised. Fenner smiled, at a sudden memory of Tina’s flailing hand sending a glass smashing into a wall, scattering every surface with an amber dew. “I’m not allowed to,” he said, and headed for the table. It took Linden a few minutes to get served; watching him, Fenner thought that perhaps they had done this the wrong way round. Karen the barmaid had known him for years, since the old days, when he was in here every night that he wasn’t working, putting away endless pints and double Scotches. He could have caught her eye in a moment. When Linden did finally get Karen’s attention, Fenner was surprised to see some kind of altercation between them. As she poured the tomato juice, Karen shook her head vehemently, glanced across the bar at Fenner and said something to Linden in a sharp undertone. He shrugged and paid her, then picked up Fenner’s drink and his own pint of lager and carried them over. He seemed to have forgotten the matches. “You’re welcome,” Linden said.
“I’m only sorry I couldn’t find anything for you. But listen, do get in touch if there’s anything else I can do, won’t you? And don’t get too downhearted.. Fenner smiled, and shook his head. Linden drained his pint, stood up and said goodnight, and was gone. Fenner sat still for a few minutes, trying to come to terms with this sudden destruction of hope; then he got abruptly to his feet and headed towards the door. As he passed the bar, Karen called out to him. “Hey, Paulwho was that guy?”
“Hullo, love.” Fennergrinned at her. “He’s just someone I met, that’s all. Why, are you getting lusty?” She shook her head, refusing to smile. “It’s not that. I justwell, I thought I ought to warn you, that’s all. If you make a habit of drinking with him.” “I don’t. But warn me of what?” “He asked me to slip a vodka into your drink, on the quiet. I didn’t do it’ of course; but he might try it again, some place where the bar staff don’t know you.” For a second Fenner’s mouth was warm with the remembered taste of a Bloody Mary, innocently tomato, with the spirit hidden like a stiletto beneath the surface. He thought of the damage that even one drink could do to him now, of how precarious his safety was; and a shiver shook his body. “Well,” he said weakly, “you can’t blame him, really. He was probably just trying to cheer me up. He knew I’d be depressed by the news he had for me. And I told him I’d stopped drinking, but I didn’t tell him why. He can’t have known…”
But you did know. Didn’t you, David? You knew, all right. You’d read his book. And you’re feeling rather disappointed, as you walk slowly home. It would have been a new and novel way to destroy a man, pushing him off down the slope into alcoholism. Slower than anyhing you’d tried before, of course, but that’s not important. He’d be no threat, once you’d started him drinking again. You’re sure of that. He might have fought his way back up that slope once, but no one could do it twice.
It’s afailure that niggles at you; you should have realised that the barmaid might know him. You should have been prepared for that. But still, it doesn’t matter. Not in the long run. There’ll be other chances, other days. Or other nights: because you’re a creature of the night, and always have been. Some colours only show in moonlight.
PART FOUR
Chapter 24
First things first - and for you at least, first things are the strongest. Memory’s like a river, slow as time; caught on the same current, your childhood truths drift always in the corners ofyour eye, too ‘lose to be ignored or abandoned, too far off to be clung to. Truths like this: David sits under the table, waiting for Anne. He knows she’ll come. She always comes. He’ll hear her footsteps quick in the hall, and the door opening; and then perhaps a giggle, before she lifts the corner of the hanging lace tablecloth and peers beneath. She’ll make found-you noises, and he’ll crawl out and take her hand; and they’ll go into the kitchen together. She’ll wash his face and hands, and cook their tea. Then she’ll play with him, and maybe it’ll be bath-night before bed, hot water and slippery soap, warm towels and hugging him and laughing. So he waits in his private place until he hears a noise, which is the front door closing; and thinks this is Anne coming in. But the footsteps are slower and heavier, coming to the drawing-room door, coming in; and David is very still, only his eyes moving as they follow his father’s movements through the holes in the lace. Chair-springs creak and settle out of his sight, paper rustles, his father coughs lightly. He’ll see, if Anne comes for David now. He’ll be angry. Little boys are not to play in the drawing-room, is that understood? But he didn’t close the hall door before he sat down; and it’s not far to the door from where David is. Perhaps, if he’s very careful and very quiet, he can crawl out and not be noticed, and wait for Anne in the kitchen..
David edges one hand out into the light, and the other after it. He huddles close to the wall, letting the lace cloth slide back over his left shoulder as he inches towards the door. His father is turned away from him, reading a newspaper; David moves a little faster, seeing his path clear through to the hall. He doesn’t notice as the dangling lace tangles itself with the buckle of his shoe. He crawls one step and another; and feels something check his foot for a moment. He glances back, but jerks his leg hard at the same time, to free it. And sees the tablecloth sliding off the well-polished wood, taking with it three small porcelain bowls and a hand-painted figurine. Still silent, he watches them fall and listens to their breaking; then he looks round, to face his father. A big man, he looks bigger than ever now, rising to see. Light flashes across his spectacles, hiding his stone-grey eyes behind blank glass. Like David, he says nothing; his anger, like David’s fear, is expressed in silence. David is still crouched on hands and knees, frozen. His father crosses the room in three strides, and picks him up by the waistband of his shorts. The lace cloth hangs ridiculously from his foot. His father tears it free, and lets it fall; then drops David lengthwise along the back of a stout armchair, arms and legs straddling it. David digs his fingers into the fabric and screws his eyes shut, hearing his father unbuckle the narrow belt he wears.
Dimly, as the thin leather bites across his shoulders, David hears the front door quietly closing. A thin whimper slips from him as he turns his head. That, and the hiss of the belt cutting the air, are warning enough; when Anne appears in the doorway, she knows already what she will see. As silent as the others, she stands with one hand resting on the jamb. Her eyes find David’s, and her face counts the blows. After nine strokes David is sobbing and choking, his skin burning where the leather has marked it. His father drops him on the carpet and turns to Anne. “Well, miss? Have I not told you again and again that I hold you responsible for your brother’s behaviour?” “Yes, father.” Anne’s voice is quiet and dull, like someone who has lived with fear too long. He doubles the belt over, and slaps it into his palm. “Fetch a chair from the hall. And pull that dress down off your shoulders.” At nearly nine years old, she is too tall to be thrown across the back of an easy-chair. She must kneel and bend over the seat of an upright, her face dropped and hidden by lank blonde hair, only her knuckles for David to watch, rhythmically turning white as they clench on the struts of the chair-back, as the belt sears across her shoulders.
Chapter 25
And afterwards there are still no words for them, only a shuddering relief as he locks them into the tiily ~ck bedroom. They will go hungry now until the morning, but they are used to that; and it is no punishment for them to be alone together. He has locked himself out, and they are safe for the night. David has a truckle-bed set across the end wall, at the foot of his sister’s. He perches on the edge of the horsehair mattress, pale and shaking, his face blotched with crying.
Everything hurts. He watches Anne sink down onto her own bed. Her dress is still pulled down to her waist, and he can see blood on her shoulders, where the belt has broken the skin. She buries her face in her hands, to be private for a minute; then she looks up and holds out her hand to him. He goes over to stand in front of her, the first steps of a familiar dance. Slowly and carefully she undresses him, leaving his shirt until last, peeling it gently away from his back. He flinches, and she kisses him, patting his bare leg. “Brave boy,” she whispers; and that’s as good as a kiss, or better. She motions for him to lie on her bed, face-down. He hears the click of a cupboard door and squirms slightly, anticipating the cold touch of the cream she keeps there for nights like this. She rubs it in lightly, not pressing hard enough to hurt; and he feels the fire dying out of his skin. Then she pulls her own clothes off, and tubs the cream into her shoulders, her face showing nothing when her fingers come away streaked with pink and red. She wipes her hands on an old towel and lies down beside David, slipping one arm under his head for comfort. He puts his own small hand onto her arm and they stare into each other’s eyes, sharing pain and warmth and silence. Glad that it’s summer, and the nights hot enough not to need blankets. I’ve made myself a part of it again; and it’s a part of me too, now. If we go back to Wales tomorrow, I won’t leave the Butcher behind me. He’ll come with us, looking over my shoulder and laughing all the way. And when he kills again, next week or next month or next year, whenever, d’you think I’ll just be able to read about it in the paper, and shrug, and go out and feed the fucking goats like nothing has happened? Nothing that touched me at all?” “You might have to, in the end,” she suggested quietly. “The way he’s going, this guy could beat you all.” “He’s human,” Fenner snapped. “He’ll make a mistake sometime.” “And you’re just going to sit around and wait till he does, is that it? Wait for his next murder, and the next, and the one after that?” “For Christ’s sake, Tina, I don’t know! But - the way I feel at the moment, yes. If I have to. When he does make a istake, then the more people there are looking for it’ the etter our chances of spotting it. I could still find something hat Mike and the others had missed. And that’d make it orth the waiting, however long it takes.”
“Would it?” Tina asked. “If you wait that long, you’ll be aiting alone. I won’t be here. Will it still be worth it hen?” He looked at her, and didn’t have an answer. After a long minute, she got up and left the kitchen. He eard her walking slowly and deliberately through the flat; eard her pause on the landing, heard the rustle of her jacket she pulled it on; heard her run down the stairs and out. He ould even hear the effort she made, not to slam the door ehind her. Making a sudden decision, Fenner phoned the station, only o be told that Malone had gone home for the night. “Well, thank God for that, anyway,” he grunted, rememering the exhausted shadows on Mike’s face the last time e’d seen him. “At least he hasn’t forgotten that he’s got a ome. How long since he left?” “About twenty minutes, sir.” Fenner rung off, and started to dial Mike’s number; but he topped after two digits, and cradled the receiver. If he spoke o Mike on the phone, then in ten or fifteen minutes he would ang up and be alone again, having to face the empty flat, to find some way of facing it down until Tina chose to come back. A minute later he was clattering down the stairs with the car-keys in his hand. He’d left a note under the handle of the kettle, where she’d be sure to find it when she came in. Gone to Mike’s; back whenever. Thanks for coming home. Love, F. And under the scrawled initial he’d put two crosses, two kisses. Just to remind her - or perhaps to remind himself. But he was still thinking about that last question of hers, as he left the flat and unlocked the car; and he still didn’t have an answer. Mike answered his knock almost immediately, and led him through to the kitchen. He made Fenner a coffee, and got a beer for himself, moving with the sharp jerkiness of great fatigue, and talking nonstop, as if that were the only thing that stopped him falling asleep there and then. Susan’s still awake, she’s upstairs in bed, reading. I don’t know if she’ll come down, but I’ll take you up, if not. You must say hullo to Flick, while you’re here.” “Hullo to who?”
