by Allan Watson
Most of my memory gradually returned with the exception of those few weeks Grandfather Crone had lodged with us. The doctors had explained about my amnesia to my uncle and even to James, and it was decided that the missing two weeks should never mentioned unless I myself brought it up. I never did. I didn’t even realise they were gone.
As the years passed, thick grass grew over the graves where my missing memories resided and soon there wasn’t a trace of them having existed at all. I don’t think James ever found out the real reason why mum hung herself. He probably thought it was the strain of the trial that had made her suddenly snap. It’s strange too that he never once blamed me for the being the cause of mum’s death. It would have been easy for him to resent me, but he didn’t. He was a good little brother and remained so throughout our adult lives.
I managed to stay tuned out of my second trial right up until the point the judge was pronouncing me guilty on all three counts of murder and imposing the statutory sentence of life imprisonment. As the police ushered me from the High Courts, a blanket was thrown over my head to stop the photographers from getting the pictures that would sell their papers. Beside me Grandfather Crone walked bare headed and smiling. He did not care who took his photograph.
Since that day we have shared a cell. It is an agreeable arrangement. Grandfather Crone ensures that I am not given a cell mate like I was at the beginning. One fellow they put me in with would wait until lights out before forcing his unwanted sexual attentions upon me. When I made a complaint to the guards they laughed in my face. One morning my cell mate was found dead with his head wedged between the bars of the window high up on the wall. As it would have been physically impossible for me to have placed him there, no charges were brought against me, but after that incident I was left in solitude.
I spend most of my time reading and writing, the only pleasures I have these days. I have a small desk and above it are some snapshots of Teri, Denise, and Alice. I feel in some way they are still with me, silent ghosts who flit back and forth within my head. Beside the photographs is Denise’s drawing of the Garden of Remembrance. The smudges that once bothered me so much have defined themselves into two small figures. They are childlike representations of course, but still recognisable as Grandfather Crone and I.
I look at the drawing often. It brings me comfort when the world seems a dark, brooding place to be and gladdens me when even Grandfather Crone’s amusing antics fail to cheer me. It is a sanctuary of sorts. My own little Garden of Remembrance.
James visits me once a month and brings chocolate and cigarettes. Now Teri has gone there is no-one to tell me to stop smoking. We talk about trivial matters - the flowers in his garden at home, Norma’s night school exams, the infrequent letters he still receives from Brenda. I think he feels guilty about never confronting me with my earlier crime. In sparing me pain back then, he had allowed the madness to gather momentum, to become an unstoppable force. He feels partly responsible for allowing it to kill Teri and the girls.
Time passes and I grow tired. I think about Rita and her perfume which smelled of violets. I remember her lips and the flame colour of her hair.
I remember everything.
The End
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