by S K Sharp
I rest a hand on her arm. ‘Mum … Dad’s gone. I know that. And I love you; and I’m sorry I don’t like Dave, but I understand that he makes you happy, and you have every right to that. It’s my problem, not yours; and I know Dave was Dad’s best friend, and so he’d probably be happy, too. But I need to know …’ I struggle for the words. I need to know because this was a part of why I ran away from Dec. ‘I still think about it, Mum. I can’t stop remembering. I need to know the truth.’ Because if I’m wrong – if it wasn’t Gary Barclay – then not only did Mum have an affair with Dad’s best friend, but maybe that mud I remember on his jacket means that my dad was a murderer.
Mum takes my hand and squeezes it hard enough to hurt. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her purse and opens it, then takes out a picture. It’s at least ten years older than the ones on the table in front of us, maybe as much as twenty; faded, the colours all washed-out. Her and Dad and Dave.
‘I met Dave before I ever knew your dad. I was nineteen. Dad was Dave’s best friend. I didn’t think much of him at first. He sort of ignored me, and I knew it was because he liked me and I was with Dave, and Dave was his friend. I started to tease him. I don’t know why. I flirted because it made him uncomfortable. And then – and I really don’t know when or how it happened – eventually the feelings became real. I think he’d been in love with me right from the start, and I think Dave knew that, too. Poor Dave saw it all play out right in front of him: your dad and me oblivious to what was really going on until it was far too late. And you might think that would be the end of any friendship, but it wasn’t. Dave let me go, like a perfect gentleman. He was your dad’s best man at our wedding, and he was always there when I needed a shoulder and your dad wasn’t around, or when I needed … someone else. It was perfect.’
She looks at me long and hard and squeezes my hand again. I smile, because I remember.
‘Money was tight that summer when Arty Robbins disappeared. I started doing shifts at the Shelley now and then. Dave got me the work, and of course it meant we were together more than usual and … I know what you’re probably thinking.’ She shakes her head. ‘Your dad got to thinking it too, that summer, but nothing happened – not like that. But I did have a moment … And, of course, your dad picked up on it.’ Her voice cracks as tears roll down her cheeks. ‘He used to call us the Three Musketeers.’
I wince like I’ve been slapped. Me and Kat and Dec. We were the Three Musketeers. ‘What happened that night at the Shelley? After you told Arty Robbins what you thought of him?’
It takes a while for Mum to gather herself. ‘I told you, love. I went out to calm my nerves and Arty followed—’
‘After that. After you went back.’
‘I went home with your dad.’
I look her square in the eye. ‘Mum, I know it was a long time ago. I know it doesn’t really matter now, but it matters to me! I remember that summer. All of it. I remember the three days when Dad walked out as though they were this morning. I remember you both pretended everything was OK after he came back, and maybe it was, but something happened that night when Arty Robbins disappeared. Mum …’
I’m on the brink of tears. Mum’s fingers curl like claws. I think she’s wrestling with how to tell me something she should have told me thirty-five years ago. ‘Love, your dad didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Arty Robbins, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Then what did happen?’
She lets out a long sigh. ‘Your dad went looking for him. He was furious. Dave and I went outside. We went into the park. I thought I ought to tell Dave what it was all about – Arty and your friend Katherine – and I didn’t want anyone else to hear. It was only supposed to be for a few minutes, but then … Dave had an idea that something else was going on, you see. That Arty was abusing Anne, too, but Anne wouldn’t say anything and so Dave didn’t know what to do; and Arty was hurting so many people, and we both felt so helpless, because there was nothing we could do that wouldn’t hurt them even more. We were both so angry and stuck and …’
I wait for more but it doesn’t come. ‘Dave said you were only gone five minutes.’
Mum pauses to blink away the tears, then shakes her head. ‘It was a bit more than that, love.’
‘Dave said he and Dad had a fight.’
‘Your dad came looking for us, that’s all. He took me home and that was the end of it, but he knew something had happened. He knew both of us too well not to see it straight away. One stupid mistake and it nearly cost us everything. But we told him the truth in the end and he let it go.’ She takes my hand and squeezes again. ‘I chose your dad, Nicola. I chose him when I married him and I would have chosen him again every single day he was alive. Dave knew that, even when …’ She looks away. ‘I know I’m not like you, but I haven’t forgotten your father. First and last and always in my thoughts, your dad.’ She stumbles to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, love. I think I need the bathroom.’
I watch as she weaves between the chairs and climbs the steps from the basement. The actors have gone, too. Alone, I think about Dad as I flip through the photographs on the table. I remember a family picnic from when I was six, not in Wordsworth Park but somewhere else. I remember sausage rolls, and Dad trying to make me laugh by stuffing three into his mouth at once. I remember the seaside on the south coast when I was eight: some beach made of stones as big as my fists, piled up by the sea so they were almost like giant steps. I remember paddling in the water and how cold it was, and getting in so deep that it was up to my waist and the waves were breaking around my chest, and then losing my footing and feeling the stones disappear from under me, and then Dad’s hands around me, hauling me back into the light. He always used to laugh when I told him about that. You weren’t going to drown, love! The water was only shallow. But that’s how I remember it. Dad’s hands pulling me from the cold and the black. In my head, I was going to die and he saved me.
The last pictures in the second wallet are of me and Kat and Dec outside the back of the Shelley, the same place where Arthur Robbins attacked Mum ten minutes later. I start to cry. I can’t help it. We were so young, so full of what the world had to offer, so certain of everything: of who we were and what we wanted, and of what we’d become. And look at us now. Maybe Kat can say yes, it all turned out OK, but me? My lonely life with only Chairman for company, too afraid to get close to anyone because I can never forget how it hurts when I lose them. And Dec? He had so many dreams and now God knows where he is – on the run, with the police after him, facing the prospect of spending the rest of his life in jail because they think he’s a killer …
Where are you, Dec? Why did you run?
Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. I pack away the second wallet of photographs and open the third. The first pictures are of Arty Robbins giving his speech, which I know came right after the pictures of me, Dec and Kat. Then Vincent and ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, which I remember, and I know all hell is about to break loose. I flip through the rest. There are a dozen pictures of the crowd in the Shelley, a handful more of people I’ve already seen and then …
Nothing. The pictures just stop. Nothing from later in the party at all; nothing from that fourth reel of film, and I know there are more, because Kat told me only this morning.
I go back to the picture of Vincent and Arty Robbins, the one Mum mentioned to me a week ago. It’s exactly how I remember Arty, in his denim jacket, blue jeans and – yes, I guessed right to Detective Scott – a white polo shirt. He stands with Vincent, a pint in his hand, the two of them looking like they’re having the time of their lives. Mum said it was minutes after he’d attacked her, but however hard I stare, I see nothing of the abused wife in tears in another room; of a schoolgirl seduced and threatened and on the edge of a nervous breakdown; of the bruises on Mum’s neck. The more I look, the more I wonder if Kat was right and I should let it all go, if maybe I should call Gary Barclay and tell him it doesn’t matter what I know, because
actually he did the world a favour.
Good riddance to bad rubbish …
WHAM! A memory of this morning crashes in out of nowhere, like a train rushing through a station. Suddenly I’m lying on the floor, thrashing at the cloth wrapped around my face, listening to feet running away, heart racing fit to burst.
I don’t know how I’m going to go back home now, even if it’s only to pick up a few things before I go and stay with Mum.
And then there’s Dec. Maybe I could let it go, but the police won’t.
Mum comes back down the stairs, each step taken with deliberate care. She looks grim, her eyes red and puffy. I get up to help her but she shoos me away, picking her bag up from under her chair. She’s shaking, and I don’t want to be alone tonight, but I’ve done this to her. It’s my fault. I should have seen how this would upset her.
‘Mum, this isn’t all the pictures. There were more. Some from later.’
‘I don’t think so, love.’
‘But there were four films and—’
Mum rounds on me. ‘It’s hard on all of us, you know! I barely remember what Arty Robbins even looked like. I can barely even remember what your father …’ She wobbles and loses her balance for a moment. Her hand shoots for the table, looking for support but only catching the edge. It tips over. Photographs rain across the floor.
‘Mum!’ I rush to her but she bats me away as I try to steady her.
‘Leave me alone, Nicola. Just leave us alone!’
I back away, powerless, as Mum rights the table and picks up the scattered photographs. There’s nothing I can do. It’s my fault. I’ve done this to her. And maybe a little part of me is glad, which only makes me feel even worse, but this is how it feels to be ambushed by a memory.
‘Mum, there were more pictures! From later on. You must have seen them last night.’ But she’s ignoring me, and I can see that’s the way it’s going to be; that nothing I can say will make a bit of difference, and it makes me so angry, the way she does this – just shuts down and shuts me out, the moment life gets difficult.
She stuffs the photographs back in their wallets, all out of order, stuffs the wallets into her bag and heads for the stairs.
‘Mum, for Christ’s sake! Just for once will you stop and try to listen to me? Why do you always have to be like this? At least Dad tried to understand!’
She stops for a moment. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Nicola,’ she says, ‘but you won’t find it here. I was only ever trying to keep you safe.’
‘Mum …’
There’s another film. There were four sets of negatives. Someone’s taken it. Mrs Clarke? Kat?
Out on Princess Street, she can’t stop me standing in the rain beside her as she hails a taxi.
‘Mum, I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’ A taxi pulls up. She gets inside and it pulls away, and I’m left standing in the drizzle, slowly getting wet.
I head for the nearest station. I don’t know where to go now or what to do. Go home, I suppose. Pack a bag, if I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. I need to feed Chairman. But first I have to see Detective Scott.
19
Wednesday 12th February 2020, 2.30 p.m.
Detective Scott comes into the coffee shop in Wordsworth Park five minutes after I arrive and finds me lost in a memory. It’s 2009 and I’m at Heathrow Airport, trying to manage three suitcases through Arrivals. The great experiment of America is over. I’m coming home. I’ve told Mum and Kat but I’m not expecting either of them to be waiting for me at the airport; and yet here she is, Kat, beaming, arms open to wrap me in a giant hug as she takes two of my cases, and I’m so happy to see her that I almost—
‘Where’s Declan Robbins?’ Detective Scott sits across from me at the table. He doesn’t bother ordering a coffee or anything; just gets straight to it.
I tell him I have no idea.
‘Ms Walker, if you have any means of reaching him, I implore you to urge him to turn himself in. He’s making it far worse for himself by doing this.’
I tell him I’ll do what I can. Then he asks about this morning, so I tell him about how I got home and there was someone there, and that they attacked me; and no, I didn’t see who it was but I’m pretty sure I know, because all the windows were locked and the door was locked, too, which I think means it has to be Gary Barclay, because the only other person with a key is Mum.
‘I did make some enquiries,’ says Detective Scott. ‘It seems Mr Barclay was at his place of work when the incident occurred. I’ve had it confirmed by at least one witness. I’ve got someone over there interviewing, to make sure.’
He asks who Gary Barclay is and why he has a key, and so I tell him about Kat and Chairman and how she comes over to feed him from time to time.
‘It’s once in a blue moon,’ I say. ‘The last time was six months ago.’
‘Was anything taken?’
I tell him about the photographs. I show him the delivery confirmation email and tell him about the second set that went to Kat’s mum; and that Chloe Clarke, Kat and Mum all looked at them together last night.
‘You think I’m making it up?’ I show him the bruise on the side of my head where I hit the wall.
‘About your intruder?’ He shakes his head. ‘Of course not. Do you have somewhere else you can stay for a few days?’
I shake my head. ‘I could find a hotel, I suppose.’ After this afternoon, staying with my mother is not an option.
‘If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that whoever broke into your flat came at a time when they expected you to be out. You caught them by surprise. The most likely motivation behind the assault was simply escape.’ He raises a hand before I can protest. ‘I don’t mean to belittle your experience, Ms Walker. What you’ve described is a serious criminal offence, and I can assure you it will be investigated as such. If you feel yourself in personal danger then I can recommend—’
‘I’ll just find a hotel,’ I snap. I wonder if he realises how patronising he sounds, and I still half expect him to tell me I’m crazy or making it up, but then he surprises me. ‘Ms Walker, I’ll be the first to admit I was sceptical when you gave your initial statement. And as for your second … this fight between Arthur and Declan Robbins? Frankly, a lot of us think you made that up to make our lives difficult.’
‘I—’
Again he holds up a hand. ‘I believe you.’ He smiles and, for once, I think he actually means it. ‘It was the bit about the boots. It was a rattlesnake, Ms Walker. It would have been helpful to Mr Robbins’ case, though, if you’d told us everything right at the start, so I do need you to be straight with me. It can be off the record for now, but you need to tell me what you know – all of it. Then we can talk about whether you need to give another statement. Let’s start with what’s in these photographs. What is it that you think we’re missing?’
‘I won’t know until I see them.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘I might see what I can do.’ Then he cocks his head and peers at me. ‘You didn’t mention the sexual abuse of Katherine Clarke in your previous statements. Why was that?’
‘I didn’t know.’ It’s tempting to point out he didn’t ask.
‘But you do now? How?’
I tell him how I saw Arty Robbins sneaking into the back of Kat’s house, how I thought he was seeing Kat’s mum, then about Mrs Clarke’s diary. I tell him about the conversations with Kat that I remember from the party and then last Saturday by Dad’s grave. ‘She says she never told anyone, and that no one ever knew. I’m not so sure. Mum did. Look—’
‘Gary Barclay.’ He snaps his fingers as he stares into space, reaching for a memory. ‘I knew that name rang a bell. Gave a statement to your Constable Simmons at the Mary Shelley in 1985. Claimed to have seen Arthur Robbins shortly beforehand, heading off into the park.’
‘Wait – he said that back in 1985?’
‘Yes.’
‘But … No!’ Kat said it was Dad. ‘You’ve
not spoken to him since?’ Oh my God, that’s why they think Arty was still alive when Declan left to go back to the Shelley …
Detective Scott shakes his head. ‘He’s hardly going to remember it better thirty-five years later. And, I have to say, the case against Declan Robbins remains pretty strong.’ He makes a sour face. ‘Despite your best efforts.’
‘Even if Gary has an alibi for this morning, that doesn’t mean he didn’t push Arty Robbins into that pit. He knew Kat was seeing someone else. He threatened to kill whoever it was. I heard him.’ But if it wasn’t Gary in my flat, then who was it? Kat?
Kat could easily have taken her mum’s photographs, too. The missing envelope …
No. No, no, no.
Detective Scott sighs. ‘We’ll take a statement, Ms Walker. Let’s wind this back. You returned home shortly before nine this morning. Your front door was locked. Moments after you entered, you were assaulted by an intruder. You didn’t see who it was and they made good their escape. On recovering from this incident, you discovered that a set of photographs you believe to have been delivered the previous afternoon was missing, and there was no sign of forced entry. Is that correct?’
I nod.
‘You didn’t see the intruder at all? Not even a glimpse?’
‘I saw them, but I didn’t see their face. I didn’t see who it was.’
‘Can you be sure the intruder was a man and not a woman, Ms Walker?’
I stop and think about this for a few moments. I heard a noise. I turned and saw a shape, obscured by the dressing gown. Then a hard shove and running footsteps. ‘Are you suggesting it was Kat? I called her only—’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Ms Walker. I’m trying not to make assumptions; but as far as I can tell, your contention that the intruder was Mr Gary Barclay is based purely on the assumption that the intruder had access to a spare key, and we’re fairly confident it couldn’t have been him. So? Man or woman? Can you say for sure?’