by Maria Goodin
I remember the day after Max’s death, watching from my bedroom window as Rocket emerged from the house opposite. He was battered and bruised, hunched over, a purple eye, a split lip, a limp, one arm in a sling… So, I thought, they didn’t kill him after all. His uncle was throwing his bags into the car. I guess he’d finally had enough.
Just as Rocket was about to climb into the passenger seat of his uncle’s old Mondeo, he stopped and looked up and across the street, as if he knew I’d be there. Our eyes met and we held each other’s gaze for a moment. I guessed he wouldn’t know about Max, but the shared knowledge of what happened at the allotments seemed to pass between us like a guilty secret. As the car pulled away, I saw Laura run out into the street. She stood in the road, watching the car drive away. We never saw Rocket again, and I never told Laura exactly what happened that night, or his role in it. I never told anyone.
Peter and Carole have never known the true circumstances of their only son’s death until now.
“I’m so sorry for my part in what happened that night,” I say, looking up at the ceiling, unable to face Max’s parents. “I’m so sorry that the choices I made…”
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” I hear Carole say, her voice croaky. I can hear she’s been crying. “What happened that night… it was just a terrible tragedy. But none of you were to blame.”
I can hear her words, but, just like Tom’s words, I can’t take them in. I don’t believe them. I won’t believe them. Because I don’t want to be free of this. Because I don’t know what it would feel like to be free of it. And I don’t think I deserve it.
“Mate, I don’t know what you heard the paramedics say about one minute,” I hear Tom say, gently, “it could have been anything. But the fact is, by the time help arrived, he’d been gone a while. I know I was yelling at them to resuscitate him, so you might have thought he’d just gone, but we… well, we…”
“We already knew,” Michael finishes. “One minute, five minutes… none of it would have made any difference.”
I can hear what they’re saying, but I can’t accept it. How can something you’ve believed for sixteen years be so suddenly overturned?
I hear shuffling behind me, feel a warm hand gently touching my arm.
“You were such a good friend to him,” Carole tells me. “I remember him running out of school on his very first day, telling me he’d made two new friends.”
“Fwends,” corrects Peter quietly.
“That’s right,” laughs Carole, “fwends, he called you. And then later, of course, he met Michael and the four of you… you were always together. Always laughing. That’s what I remember. The laughter that used to come through the ceiling from his bedroom. I used to think what on earth can they be doing that’s so funny?”
I want her to stop. I want her to be angry, to hate me. It would feel easier that way.
“We didn’t tell you what happened that night,” I tell her, “we lied to you, to everyone—”
“I told them,” pipes up Tom from behind me. “I told them a long time ago.”
So I was right; Tom was the only one to stay in contact.
“I don’t know why I said we should keep quiet about the details of that evening,” continues Tom. “That was my idea and it was a stupid one. I think I was scared, that we were all scared. The idea of the police getting involved, having to talk about it and maybe having to face those men again… it just all seemed too much. But lying about it was just another burden to carry.”
“We’ve known about what happened for years,” says Carole, “and we’ve felt anger and hatred and all kinds of emotions towards those faceless men. We’ve blamed them. We’ve wished revenge on them. But, ultimately, they didn’t kill Barclay. No one did. We’ve had to learn to let go—”
“How?” I ask, desperately, pushing my hands through my hair, unable to fathom how they, his parents, have been able to move beyond this in a way I haven’t.
“It’s been a struggle,” says Carole, calmly. “We couldn’t stay in Timpton. We tried, but everywhere we looked we were reminded of him. We visit him often, and my sister tends the grave, but we couldn’t stay there. And I know what we said to you boys the day of the funeral, about keeping in regular contact, but it wasn’t fair to ask that of you, and in the end we couldn’t have handled it. It would have been too hard, seeing you all grow up without him. It’s been nice to have the odd bit of news from Tom over the years, but I don’t think we could have coped with much more than that. Not until now.”
“But the main thing that’s kept us going,” says Peter, “is our faith. That’s what’s got us through. God forgives. And we try – challenging as it might be – to live by God’s word.”
“But if we’d – if I’d – just done things differently—”
“Listen to me, son,” Peter say firmly, suddenly appearing by his wife’s side.
He puts his two large hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him.
“Look at me,” he says.
I struggle to raise my head and meet his eye.
“Look at me,” he orders again, inclining his head towards mine.
I take a deep breath and gaze through his glasses, past the tiny smear on his thick lenses, into his green eyes.
“This wasn’t your fault,” he says, firmly. “This wasn’t your fault. We have never blamed you. And there is nothing – hear me? – nothing for you to be sorry about.”
I shake my head, looking away, a lump rising and lodging itself in my throat. I feel Peter’s warm hand wrap itself around my jaw, turning my face back towards his. I try to pull away, but he steadies me with a heavy hand on the shoulder.
“You did nothing wrong,” he insists. “Nothing.”
I tip my head towards the ceiling, hot tears springing to my eyes, but he places his hands on either side of my head, makes me face him again.
“God loves you, but he doesn’t forgive you for this, because you don’t need his forgiveness. And you certainly don’t need ours. It was just something that happened. And you didn’t – you hear me? – you didn’t make it happen.”
I exhale heavily, all the air rushing out of me, a sharp pain stabbing me in the gut as the tears escape.
“It was not your fault he died.”
I bring my hands up to cover my eyes, tears leaking through my fingers, my shoulders shuddering beneath Peter’s grasp.
I feel someone else’s hand grip the back of my neck and I’m twisted round forcefully, pulled in and held tightly.
“It’s okay,” Michael says quietly, squeezing me tight, “it’s okay.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to stem the tears that pour silently from my eyes.
I feel more arms wrapping around me from behind, enveloping me.
“It’s all right, mate,” says Tom.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, air flooding my lungs.
I let my forehead fall against Michael’s shoulder, his grip on the back of my neck pinning me in place, my tears soaking the neck of his T-shirt. I feel the softness of Tom’s belly against my side, Carole’s gentle hands rubbing my forearm, Peter’s warm, heavy hand squeezing my shoulder.
And contained firmly inside this bundle of human warmth and acceptance, I let go, feeling the pain seep out with my tears, feeling the weight finally start to slide from my shoulders.
Chapter 25
Possibilities
Following my meeting with Max’s parents, for the first time ever, I take two whole weeks off work. Scheduled jobs have to be cancelled. I have to let clients down. It’s alien to me, this lack of responsibility and loss of income. But I know this is what I need.
I take Josh out of school a couple of days before half-term starts and we drive up to the Peak District. We mountain bike, hike, take the cable car up to the Heights of Abraham, which we haven’t done since he was about nine. We eat lunch up there, looking out across the wide valley, the subtle spread of autumnal colours just st
arting to set in, the gentle sun on our faces, not talking much.
I’ve brought things in the van to start work on the millions of jobs I have to do on the cottage. Normally when I’m up here I’m fixing, mending, painting and making future renovation plans. But this time all the equipment I’ve bought stays in the van. I can’t be bothered. And for the first time ever I wonder if I should sell this place. Laura wouldn’t care – she’s never been one for the outdoor life – and as she’s told me so many times, we could both use the money. I no longer see myself moving up here. I have good friends where I am, people who care about me. Why would I want to isolate myself? It suddenly sounds like a crazily lonely existence. I’m far too young. I have my whole life ahead of me.
At night I drift off in the silence of this tiny, pitch-black hamlet in the middle of nowhere. I slumber in deep, dreamless oblivion and wake up late to the sound of tractors in the country lanes and cattle on the move. While Josh sleeps on until lunchtime, I have coffee, sitting on the brick wall in the small, hopelessly overgrown garden. I breathe in the chill country air, close my eyes and let the dappled morning light filter though my eyelids.
Josh spends a lot of time on his phone and I don’t like to pry, but I really, really want to know.
“How are things going with you and Becky?” I ask him one evening as we recline on separate sofas, eating giant marshmallows and watching a quiz show neither of us understands.
“Good,” he says, not taking his eyes off the slightly fuzzy, ancient TV, “although it sucks that she’s so far away.”
“She lives in Reading, Josh, not Timbuktu.”
“She’s actually thinking of coming down again soon.”
“Up, you mean. Do you even know where Reading is?”
“Whatever. So would that be okay? If she came for a weekend?”
“To stay?” I consider this. “Sure. I mean, I couldn’t let her… you know… I’m sure her parents wouldn’t want her staying in your room.”
“You mean you wouldn’t want her staying in my room.”
“No, it’s not… well…”
“Chill out, Dad. I already said we have a sofa bed in the lounge. For me, I mean.”
“The one with burn marks all over it?”
“Yes,” he says sheepishly, “although I’m assuming we’ll get another one.”
I almost laugh and ask him how the hell he thinks I’m going to afford that right now, but it doesn’t really matter. We’ll find the money at some point.
“So,” I say tentatively, “you really like this girl then?”
He stuffs an entire giant marshmallow into his mouth. I’m about to tell him not to do that while he’s lying on his back, that he’ll choke, but at fifteen I guess he’s probably old enough to know how to eat a bloody marshmallow.
“Umm-hmm,” he mumbles, as way of confirmation.
I wait for more, but he just gazes at the screen, where a woman’s jumping up and down and screaming because she’s won an Audi Q3.
“Am I getting any more than that?” I ask.
Josh chews lazily. “Nope.”
We watch the excited woman, who’s shocked the host by kissing him enthusiastically on the lips.
“What about you?” mumbles Josh.
“What about me?”
“Don’t you ever want to be with someone?”
This is the first time he’s ever asked me this.
“I mean, it’s probably a bit weird that you’re not,” continues Josh. “It’s not even like you’re that old really.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious though. I mean, you’re what? Thirty-four?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Same difference. It’s not, like, normal to be celibate or whatever at that age.”
I smile to myself, amused, wondering if he really believes I’ve been celibate all these years, or whether it’s just too disturbing for him to consider the alternative. When my mum told me she was having an affair, I think part of my horror was facing the fact she had sex at all.
“Talking about what’s normal,” I say, quickly diverting attention away from myself, “can we have a little chat about some stuff you clearly forgot to delete from the internet history on my laptop some weeks ago?”
Josh’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth before he recovers himself and stuffs in another whole marshmallow.
“Stop trying to avoid my question,” he mumbles, his mouth full.
“Stop trying to avoid mine,” I say, surprised by his perceptiveness.
“It is normal to look at that stuff, Dad,” he tells me dismissively, not nearly as embarrassed as I might have expected, “everyone does it.”
“It’s not the fact you’re looking at it that bothers me so much as what you’re looking at.”
He rolls onto his side and peers round the arm of the sofa at me, pointing a finger accusingly. He’s got my number. “We weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you!” he retorts with a self-conscious smile, his cheeks turning slightly pink.
“I mean, some of that stuff, Josh… you know that’s not what girls are really into, don’t you?”
“We were talking about you!” he reiterates. “Let’s talk about you and—”
“’Cause if you think that’s what sex is really like, you’re gonna have one hell of a shock—”
“You!” he shouts, throwing a cushion at me. “We were talking about you and just ’cause you don’t want to answer—”
“I mean the stuff with the cheerleaders?” I say, throwing the cushion back at him playfully. “Seriously?”
“Okay, okay, shut up!” he begs, flipping onto his back. “Although… hang on… that means you watched it!”
“No,” I laugh, “it means you watched it! I just came across it on my laptop.”
Josh clutches his stomach and doubles up with laughter.
“What?”
“Did you seriously not hear what you just said?” he laughs loudly.
“What? That I came across— Oh, grow up! You know what I meant.”
But it seems like my faux pas is the funniest things ever.
“I’m serious,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m trying to tell you something here, Josh. You know that’s not how you treat girls, right? It’s not how you speak to them, it’s not what you expect from them—”
“Oh my God, Dad, seriously?! I’m not a complete idiot, you know?”
“Okay, I’m just checking. I just sometimes worry… you know… without a mum around, without any sisters…”
“What? That I’m going to turn into some kind of perv?”
“No! Just… I don’t know. I just thought we should have that discussion.”
“Well, it was great, Dad. Thank you. I feel like I learned a lot.”
I give up and throw a marshmallow at his head. It bounces off the top, onto his stomach and is promptly stuffed into his mouth.
“Anyway,” he mumbles, “you’re not getting out of it that easily. Back to you.”
“What about me?” I ask, feigning memory loss.
“Girlfriends. Why don’t you ever have any? I mean, don’t you get… um… you know… kind of…”
I can hear he’s struggling to spit it out, and I want to help him talk openly.
“Sexually frustrated?”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat that makes me wonder if he’s about to choke after all.
“I was gonna say lonely, but whatever.”
“Oh, right.”
Do I get lonely? I honestly never thought I did. I’ve told myself that I’m too busy with work and parenting and family commitments to have a relationship, that I could never give what would be required of me. But that’s all just been an excuse. I suppose you can convince yourself of anything if you really want to believe it.
“Yeah, I guess maybe I do get a bit lonely sometimes,” I say, thoughtfully.
“So, like, hasn’t there been anyone over the years you could see yourself wi
th?”
Since she left I’ve tried to put Libby out of my head, but even with so many distractions it hasn’t quite worked. In fact, it hasn’t worked at all. I wonder what she’s doing, whether she’s okay after her split with Will, whether she’s found any work… I think about what Irena told me, and I wonder whether it was all true, whether Irena was exaggerating, or whether something got misinterpreted. But then I always decide the same thing; it really doesn’t matter anyway. I made my decision long ago about not wanting any more children, and that’s not something I feel I could be flexible about. A relationship, yes. I can maybe see that now. Perhaps I can see myself being with someone. But I can’t bring myself to want more kids. I just can’t risk that again.
At least, I don’t think I can.
“No,” I tell Josh, “there’s not been anyone I can see myself with.”
We fall silent for a while, watching as some generic ITV police drama comes on. It’s surprisingly liberating to have a limited number of channels instead of the overwhelming choice we have at home.
“I don’t think you should worry, Dad,” says Josh suddenly, “about me not having had a mum around.”
I stare at the police officer sitting in his patrol car and unexcitedly, but stereotypically, eating a doughnut.
“Of course I worry,” I tell him, “it’s not ideal, is it?”
“Not ideal,” he agrees, “but it’s been all right. I feel like I’ve had lots of people in my life who really care about me – you, Laura, Michael, Brenda, Grandad, even though he’s not quite with it anymore. I’ve always felt, like, loved and cared for or whatever. And I know loads of people with two parents who don’t have that. Plus, I think I’ve turned out okay.”
“I think you turned out great,” I smile.
“And I think maybe the fact that it’s just been you and me, and maybe the fact that you’re not, like, nearly as ancient as some of my friends’ parents, I think that means maybe we’ve been, kind of, closer? Like, I can talk to you about more stuff?”
“I hope so,” I tell him, touched. “I know I haven’t always taken on board what you’ve been trying to tell me, like about maybe putting too much pressure on you, or not letting you have enough freedom. I know I should have done better there. But I hope you still feel like you can talk to me about your worries, your feelings…”