‘Do you never listen to me? Haven’t I told you not just once, but at least three times? I don’t want a stranger moving into my house, snooping around, and taking notes, recording everything I do and say. I can’t believe how callous you’ve become when you know you’re the only person, I can tolerate. Why can’t you come and move in with me for a little while until I feel better? It’s not too much to ask, I don’t think. If the tables were turned, I would do it for you. I’m sure you’ve done that for others in the past.’
‘What I do with my time is my business, Mary Ann. I don’t have to account to you about anything. If you telephone me just to make me feel bad, then we should end this telephone call…’
‘Don’t you see what I mean?’ again the sound of tears had started, a very effective weapon. ‘I’m coming apart—this is not me; you should know this is not me. And please don’t say that I should have a female police officer come and stay with me—I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. My mind won’t take it. Won’t you please just move in with me for just a few days? Please, Cecelia, don’t say anything yet, just consider it. Just consider helping me out, and I will be good, I promise you. No, don’t say anything yet. All that I ask is that you keep it in your mind.’
On the other end of the phone, Cecelia was shaking her head. No, no, no. You are trying to trap me.
‘You will be free to do whatever you want. You can come and go as you please and no questions will be asked,’ carried on Mary Ann planning out Cecelia’s life and future for her with her needy and hopeful voice, it was suffocating.
‘I will do all the cooking. You can eat whatever and whenever you want to. I believe I am well versed in the type of food you eat. I have paid great attention to everything you say and dislike…’
‘Mary Ann…’
‘No, please don’t say anything yet, just listen to me. It’s an idea and a chance, and it will work if you think about it, Cecelia. Just listen Cecelia and think about it, don’t give me an answer right now. Think about it, please. Just do that for me. And if you decide that you don’t want to take up my offer, I will understand. What I ask from you, for now, is that you just consider it. Please. Just say you will consider it?’
‘I will consider it, Mary Ann,’ said Cecelia, ending the call already knowing what her answer will be. But for the meantime, she had stolen for herself some more time. A time which would be spent on finding a good excuse for why she couldn’t stay with her. But the walls were closing in on her to make that choice of giving over a week of her life impossible. It was exhausting; this woman was tiring her out, and yet she still felt beholden to her. Shaking her head after taking a few deep breaths, Cecelia telephoned Phoebe.
‘I heard the news about Alandra, it was live on television. Are you all right?’ asked Phoebe. ‘It must have been frightening for you.’
‘Yes, I’m okay, but you don’t expect this sort of thing to happen here.’ Cecelia was thinking things over, the last conversation was still playing on her mind. A big woman like Mary Ann should be able to handle herself. There was no reason for her to be afraid as there was no reason why she should feel responsible for this tall angular woman whose beautiful speaking voice ran circles around her.
‘The Detective, the one you spoke about with great affection, Detective James Patts is in a critical condition. He took a bullet near his heart, but he should make a full recovery. A brave man, risking himself to protect his men,’ then she paused in reflection. ‘I think He deserves the Los Angeles Police Medal for Valor.’ continued Phoebe.
‘He deserves it all right. So, is he pulling through? When I saw him fall, everything went silent. No one could believe that a good man like James Patts would be shot. It was one of those dreadful world-shattering moments when you know that everything from now on will be different.’
‘Poor Cecelia, it must have been difficult for you,’ said Phoebe. ‘There were lots of photographs of him through the years and all attributing him as a good and fair man. It’s the type of news which is broadcasted all over the world. Such a good man. What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m actually shattered. I don’t know what to do with myself, I’m very tired.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. Get yourself a hot drink, have a bath, and go to bed?’
‘Yes, I think I will. Thank you for telling me about Detective Patts. I’ll give you a call tomorrow to see how you are?’
‘No, Cecelia, you’ve done enough for me. One of my customers came and visited me a couple of hours ago just after you went and gave me some cooked food. She said she had gone past my shop and saw you working there while I was sitting, she reckoned that something must have happened to me.’
‘That was kind of her.’
‘Yes, very kind. I felt very spoilt. She would have stopped, but she had a dental appointment. So, there’s no need to worry about me. I have some good friends.’
Warmed by the idea, Cecelia smiled. There are a great many good people in Alandra who are overlooked by a few undesirables.
8
Now back to her project. The first people Cecelia intended to interview were Marcia Davis’s family. They lived on the other side of Alandra just on the edge of Alandra and Rosand. In those six years, Mrs. Davis had suffered a stroke and become bedridden and blind. But the family had their faith which kept them together. Two weeks later after the death of their daughter, they moved.
A dog inside immediately began barking when Cecelia rang the bell. Laying alongside the yapping was silence too loud to be quietened while the grip of waiting targeted Cecelia’s muscles and bones. The door was wrenched open to the disturber of the peace. A man of average height, and indeterminable age with straight push back grey hair stood staring at Cecelia.
‘Hello,’ smiled Cecelia holding out her hand. ‘My name is Cecelia Clark and I am a journalist, and I wondered if you would talk to me about what happened to your daughter.’
As usual, her hand was left untouched while a pair of watery blue eyes scrutinized her defensively as if she were another one of those enemies from without. It struck Cecelia with horror to understand that Mr. Davis had been crying.
‘Who is that Arnie?’ a voice cried out from a room at the back. Mr. Davis turned to look from where the voice came.
And then the door bounced open hard and out came a young mixed breed dog bounding and jumping with enthusiasm. An eager and wet cold nose pushed up Cecelia’s skirt. Get down doggie, please.
‘Yes, you’re all right, miss,’ said Mr. Davis, nodding to Cecelia as he ran his long fingers through the dog’s coarse thick hair. ‘If you weren’t, Scamp would be at your throat by now. You had better come in then.’
Around her legs, Scamp’s rusty-colored fur twisted its way before running off back to its mistress. His tail wagging confidently.
‘Arnie, who is it?’
‘Just coming mother,’ said Mr. Davis closing the door carefully behind Cecelia. ‘You’ve got to be introduced to Mrs. Davis before you do anything else. Here Scamp,’ Mr. Davis bent down holding his fingers to the responding and excited mongrel. ‘Take the visitor to mother. You had better watch that tail. When Scamp gets excited, his tail is a weapon.’
It was not a cold welcome, but neither was it a warm one. The inevitable, well you had better come in came from Mr. Davis with that awful summons of dried out grief, there was nothing that could be done to them which hadn’t already been done.
Passing into the veiled grey light with the stale smell of warmth that provided a barrier for the house as if cold were its fearful enemy. It was unnaturally warmed while April was still waiting outside. The heated smell of medicine and sickness came winding like a wafer to also see who this new visitor was.
‘Go in there,’ pointed Mr. Davis.
The parted door was lit with too brighter light that stung the eyes to make it known that anyone who entered the room was on display. A huge bed was in the middle of the room saturated with blankets and piled high with pillows for a woman
whose eyes were wide open but blind to the world.
‘Arnie, is it a woman? She smells like a woman. Am I right? Is it a woman? What is she like?’ her voice was creakily unreal as though it had been left in the oven and dried out.
‘Yes, mother. It’s a woman.’
‘Yes, I guess that by now. Tell me what she’s like? You have to be my eyes now.’ The small, shriveled woman, an animated spirit dancing in the covers wanted instant satisfaction. ‘Is she pretty?’
‘Let me tell you about her before you make up your mind.’
‘Well get on with it.’
Appraised by Mr. Davis’s eyes as he went up and down Cecelia’s body, it was intrusive and uncomfortable but had to be endured if she wanted the interview.
‘I would say she is somewhere between five feet two and five feet four.’
‘And…’
‘I’m getting to it,’ nodded Mr. Davis to his blind wife. She has long brown hair, a little wavy, but not too curled, it reaches just beneath her shoulders. Very white skin I would say…’
Scamp came across and with his nose, again lifting Cecelia’s skirt, his wet nose roaming up her legs. A trophy to be examined to see if they caught themselves a good bargain.
‘Her nose is straight and good; her lips are not too big and pouty, but not too thin either, and by the looks of her,’ he stood back. ‘I would say she has never had any work done on her. She is not one of your glamorous women, and pretty plain.’
A flush as heavy as her embarrassment rushed into Cecelia’s cheeks.
‘She is not and never will be as pretty as you mother,’ said Mr. Davis nodding gently at the woman in the bed.
The woman in the bed was a scarecrow whose once blonde hair had turned yellow, and when she opened her mouth there were only half of her teeth left. And now so skinny, her flesh was hanging off her. About to say how insulted she felt when Cecelia looked at Mr. Davis staring at his wife. It was that pure expression of love. If he saw his wife as beautiful after all they had been through, then she was beautiful. His love for her made her beautiful.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Cecelia coming forward. ‘And I want to express how sorry…’
An iron clasp was gripped around her arm, and the face of wrath stared into Cecelia’s eyes.
‘What’s that she’s saying, Arnie?’ squawked the little woman in bed.
‘She thought she might have awakened you…’
‘Wakened me,’ she chuckled. ‘I might be blind, but I’m not dead yet. So why are you here, child?’
Cecelia looked to Mr. Davis quickly, his warning eyes were upon her. And then he nodded and again looked to his wife.
‘She’s just come from John Hopkins hospital; haven’t you Miss Clark, you know, after seeing our daughter and to give us the message that Marcia is doing well.’
What was he talking about? His daughter was dead. Then that awful understanding came, Mrs. Davis knew nothing about the murder. Quickly, Cecelia nodded.
‘From our Marcia, tell me girl what did our daughter say?’ a little bit of sparkling life rejoined this woman to her earth host. ‘Is she enjoying herself in the hospital? Well, I knew there wasn’t anything that Marcia couldn’t do. Such an angel of a daughter. You will never get anyone as wonderful as our dear Marcia. She will make a wonderful doctor.’
‘She takes after her mother,’ said Cecelia trying to play the same game. A quick answerable look from Mr. Davis confirmed that she had given the correct response.
‘So, go on, what did she say?’ beat Mrs. Davis.
‘That she is sorry she hasn’t been home for a while, but she has been given a student’s place rather late in the year. She was made the exception, such a good opportunity, but they could see her genius. And now she is proving herself by studying to catch up.’
Mrs. Davis smiling leaned back into her pillows. ‘You tell Marcia the next time you see her not to worry. We are both thinking of her, and she is doing what she thinks is right. Didn’t we have a fine daughter, Arnie? Are you not as proud of her as I am?’
‘Oh yes, mother. I am very proud of her, but it’s you she takes after, not me. God gave you all the good qualities.’
In her laughter, a cough built up strength and broke into spasms of distress.
‘Time we should leave mother,’ said Mr. Davis touching Cecelia gently.
‘Give her something to drink and eat. Make her welcome,’ said Mrs. Davis between fits of coughing. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t been well. One day when I get better, I will go and visit Marcia myself.’
Mr. Davis opened the door and ushered Cecelia out before returning to his wife.
Outside, Cecelia’s discomfort was intense. Was it right to keep Mrs. Davis in the dark about her daughter’s murder when she had nearly and clumsily broken the unwanted news to her?
‘Go into the kitchen,’ Mr. Davis said pushing Cecelia in the direction. ‘I’ll give you a cup of coffee and then we will talk. I won’t be five minutes. I need to see to my wife.’
She had walked into two people’s life bringing her thoughtless needs and insensitive reasons to them. This day, life trod stupidly on gentle people. When had she become one of them? An intruder into their lives, but in the silence of the oppressed, Cecelia could hear Mr. Davis talking to his wife, cooing her down with pretty words the things that all women would like to hear.
‘Drink this my darling, I told you that our Marcia will always do well. We will go and visit her in Baltimore—we’ll find the money; don’t you worry about it. We’ll take the plane and surprise her. But perhaps not this year; give her a chance to get herself establish and by next summer… sleep my darling, I need to look after our guest.’
She should not be here; she was that flame in a paper house and with just one word, she could destroy their lives. The smell of living had its roots in death.
It was a kitchen which had lost heart feeding the people. A mug was resting on the draining board waiting to shrug off the debris of water. Beside it was some hospital equipment, a thermometer sat in a measuring cup while a kidney basin contained a swab to clean out a dried-out mouth. A kettle sat dirty and unloved waiting to be filled. Suddenly, Cecelia saw a soluble reason for her intrusion by making herself useful. The kettle needed filling to start the hot water process going, the old stove needed pushing into igniting. Mr. Davis arrived at that moment when the flames took life.
‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ a slight smile almost glimmered from some dormant appreciation. He stood for two, three seconds as if he had no idea what to do next, winking away the sadness, he was determined to be strong.
Cecelia smiled self-consciously in return. This house was steeped in heavy sadness as if happiness had forgotten its way and stayed outside. At times like this, Cecelia wondered if she should carry on in journalism. But people are people, everyone has their story to tell and if she didn’t, their lives would be lost to history and be unaccountable.
‘Sit down,’ Mr. Davis said nodding towards a chair, his mouth grim and set in disappointment and ready for more unhappiness. ‘And I’ll make you some coffee. Do you take sugar?’
‘Yes, please, two.’
‘Two,’ he said smiling as if this finding her taste for sugar funny. ‘Same as our Marcia,’ and then he shrugged again as the inevitable grief came pouring back.
She had come here for an interview, but for the life of her, Cecelia didn’t know if she could go through with it. It would be like performing an operation without any antiseptic or painkillers when this man had already suffered too much.
‘Well, you’ve seen my wife.’ He was spooning coffee into two mugs with his back towards Cecelia deep in his thoughts he was already stirring the cup without any water.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ she muttered to herself deeply regretting that she had stirred up more misery.
‘And you must have figured that she doesn’t know anything about Marcia?’
‘Yes,’ Cecelia whispered again u
nder her breath.
‘She can’t know about her,’ he said looking up catching Cecelia’s eyes again. ‘It would kill her if she did. Marcia was everything to her as she was to me. We had two children, a boy, and a girl. Three years ago, our son was taken from us. He was stabbed for no reason except that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rodin was a good boy, one of the best that’s what we thought. He never took any drugs. There was no reason for him to take them, but he was killed for it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Cecelia wishing now profusely that she never had come.
‘Two children, we lost two children. We thought we were lucky when God gave us a son, he would have been thirty-seven now if he had been alive. Our Marcia would have been twenty. We didn’t think we could have anymore and then our little girl came along.’ He smiled. ‘After seven miscarriages, Marcia; it was God’s miracle for us, and we thanked Him. But what you don’t plan for is that our blessings will be taken away.’
Overwhelmed by Mr. Davis’s huge grief, Cecelia again wished that she had never entered this house of remembrance.
‘After we lost our son, three years ago, Mary took all her grief inside. I should have realized what was happening to her, but I didn’t. I lost my son, my only son for nothing. It was so pointless. A person gets angry and believes he has the right to take away someone else’s life. Have these people no ethics, no values? Are they not taught to care for other people’s lives as they would their own?’
He stared at Cecelia. Did he expect her to answer him? She had no answers for him except to write his story. That was the only way she could give him his justice, to shout out at the outrage. He shook his head again and returned to his story.
‘The murderer is serving time now for how long, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.’ The kettle rattling on the hob reminded Mr. Davis of where he was. Without letting it boil, he took the kettle and poured the heated water into the mugs. ‘You need a lot of energy to be angry and take revenge, but that all fell to the side when we lost our Marcia. The grief you see, nearly killed my Mary. She had a fit, and this is what you see left of her now. If you could have seen Mary when we married,’ his hand went to his eyes. ‘This is all my fault. She should have married someone else; he was wealthy, he would have looked after her and provided for her.’
Sixth Victim Page 10