by A K Reynolds
I took a deep breath.
‘Yes, I was with him, Mrs Duggan, that is, er, Clara.’
It was her turn to take a deep breath. ‘I’m so glad he was with someone he cared for. It might have been a comfort for him.’
I felt myself welling up. Charlie had been a nice person from what little I knew of him, and although we only met once a year, I felt something for him. Forcing myself to be strong, I held back my tears and did my best to say something to make things better for Clara. ‘If it helps, he didn’t appear to be in pain. He passed away peacefully as far as I could tell.’
She shook her head. ‘He must have fooled you,’ she said. ‘But he couldn’t fool me.’
I desperately wanted to end the conversation and get her, and the memories she was dredging up, out of sight and out of mind. At the same time, I was curious to know more about Charlie. He’d told me the game was up. Why had he said that?
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was hiding something.’
My insides turned cold. I knew of at least one thing Charlie had been hiding, and I didn’t want it to get out. That said, I wanted to know how much Clara had found out. ‘Do you have any idea what?’
She repositioned herself in the chair and I hoped she wasn’t making herself too comfortable. ‘No, only that it was something serious. My son was a troubled man. He’d been such a happy boy, but it all went wrong in his teens.’ She gave me a stare which made me feel like I was looking directly at the business end of a drill-bit. ‘Something happened to him, I don’t know what. You were part of the gang he used to knock around with. Do you have any idea what happened to my Charlie?’
Sometimes when I took statements from clients they’d tell me about shocking crimes they’d committed. There was, for instance, the gangster who nailed a rival’s hand to the floor. At times like that, I’d assume an air of icy professional composure no matter what I was feeling inside. It had become second nature with me in those situations. I used the skill to blank Mrs Duggan.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ I lied. ‘It’s as much a mystery to me as it must be to you.’ My hastily constructed stonewall wasn’t enough to stop her relentless line of questioning.
‘Did you notice the change in him?’
I assumed a pensive expression as if reaching into the depths of my memory. ‘It was a long time ago. I can’t be sure.’
‘I did, and whatever changed Charlie stayed with him. What’s more, the day he died he was worse than ever, very agitated.’
I could guess why – he probably got the screaming abdabs every year, same as me, at about the time the school reunion came up. I couldn’t let on to Clara, of course, so nodded blandly.
‘Then he died,’ she continued. ‘So I’ll never get to know what was troubling him. That’s what hurts me more than anything. I wish someone could tell me why my son was such a troubled soul.’
Someone can, I thought, but I’m not going to, which is awful of me, but I have to protect myself. She needed to know her son’s secret to set her mind at ease. Or did she? Would the knowledge help her, or make matters worse? ‘I can’t, and I’m not sure anybody can. I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Clara.’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘I wanted to know what happened to my son, now I never will,’ she said, resignedly. ‘He’ll always be a mystery to me.’
I stifled the relief I felt as I got to my feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’
‘Thank you. If you hear anything, or remember anything that could help me, please get in touch. Here’s my number.’ She handed me a piece of paper with her name and a mobile number scribbled on it.
‘I will. Leave it with me, Clara.’
When I’d taken her to the exit I closed the door behind her, and stood with my back to it, breathing deeply, while wondering whether she’d continue with her enquiries, whether she’d get anywhere, and whether she’d find a way to bring the whole dirty wall of silence which protected me crashing down around my ears.
Somehow I managed to convince myself there was no point in worrying about something I couldn’t do anything about, and returned to my desk with its overflowing in-tray. But my fears about Clara hadn’t left me permanently. They soon came flooding back, along with all my other worries. The things that’d happened in the recent past, and the distant past, including my drink problem, my relationship problems, the fact I felt my job was slipping away from me because I couldn’t handle it any longer, and even little things like the pile of dirty washing in my laundry basket began to get to me. Soon I was such a nervous wreck that I couldn’t do so much as a stroke of work. It took all my inner strength and then some just to sit at my desk and pretend to be working until lunchtime.
At 1pm I left my office, went for a walk, and didn’t go back. Instead I called in sick.
‘I’ve had to book an emergency appointment with the doctor,’ I told my secretary.
‘I hope it’s nothing serious,’ she replied.
‘It probably isn’t,’ I said bravely.
‘I’ll hold the fort for you till you can get back in.’
‘Thank you, Camilla. You’re a star.’
I headed home thinking I’d call in the eight-till-late on the way for three bottles of red wine. I reckoned I’d need that many, because I had a lot of hours to get through – most of the afternoon, as well as the evening. But when I got to the eight-till-late I managed to get a grip and walk right by it.
You have to stay on the wagon till your AA meeting on Thursday, Jaz, I told myself. At the end of the street I muttered: ‘Easier said than done,’ turned around, and headed back to the eight-till-late.
I spent the next three weeks avoiding work and AA meetings. Bernie, my AA counsellor, called a few times but I refused to pick up when he did and deleted his voicemail messages without listening to them, and his texts without reading them. Those twenty-one days passed by in an alcoholic blur. I recall very little of them beyond the fact I didn’t venture out except to get food and drink – most of it wine – and I ate a lot of takeaways.
I rolled downstairs in my dressing gown one day and made a coffee, noticing while I was in the kitchen that it was Monday 26 March. It would soon be time to turn the calendar on the wall to a new page. When I looked at the worktop I saw that some considerate person had gathered up three weeks’ worth of mail and deposited it, unopened, in a neat pile, next to the cooker.
The considerate person must’ve been you, Jaz, you dope, I said as I poured myself a generous mug of coffee, my usual prelude to a day of oblivion. I looked at the clock. It was 10am, too early to start drinking, even for me. I liked to try to postpone it as late in the day as possible, which in practice meant the back-end of the afternoon at the latest. The rest of the day could be filled in with walks, television, reading, and fretting, not necessarily in that order.
Two of the letters caught my eye. They were from Womack and Brewer LLP. I opened the envelopes and picked up the first, dated the 12 March 2018. It was from the senior partner, and he was enquiring whether I was okay, and asking me to ring in and let him know the reason for my absence. That was nice of him.
The later one was dated the 20 March 2018. This one was also from the senior partner, and it informed me that when he’d had no response to his earlier letter dated the 12 March, he’d called me and we’d had an interesting conversation during which I’d insulted him, sworn at him, and told him where to stick his bloody job. All-in-all he was none too impressed with my attitude and the top-and-bottom of it was I’d been sacked for gross misconduct.
In my drunken state I must’ve been unable to stop myself from telling him how I truly felt about representing guilty criminal types and getting them off. Too bad I hadn’t been able to be more diplomatic.
I must’ve been completely off my head when he rang, because I couldn’t remember talking to him.
Anyhow, I’d handed in my notice, in a manner of speaking, before I was ready to go. I had no other job to go to, and I’d blown it as far
as getting a good reference went. So if I did interview well for a new job, there was a chance I wouldn’t get it because my references from Womack and Brewer LLP would stink the place out.
Naturally I panicked, wondering how I was going to pay my bills. Then I reasoned I didn’t have to worry, not yet, anyway, because I had a credit card I wasn’t yet maxed out on and a generous overdraft limit, and could probably hold out for six months without a salary. Then the crunch would come. But being as the crunch was still over the horizon, I could put it to the back of my mind and focus on my more immediate woes.
I sipped my coffee and watched some-or-other mind-numbing breakfast show, padded upstairs, had a leisurely bath, and got dressed. Somewhat illogically, not having a job began to feel better than having one, and lifted my spirits.
This could be a fresh start for you, Jaz, I told myself. You could retrain and be a nurse or something, work in a capacity where you help people who deserve it.
As I reflected on those happy possibilities I heard the doorbell ring and went downstairs, wondering who my visitor was. I never had visitors, so it was a mystery. It occurred to me it might be Bernie chasing me up about bloody AA. If it was, I’d tell him politely I liked drinking more than not drinking, and didn’t want to go anymore. Then I speculated it could be the postman dropping off an item I didn’t want – another baseball bat, perhaps, or some other deeply unpleasant reminder of my past. The thought made my heart shoot up to the roof of my mouth and cling to it tightly.
When I got to the small hall at the front of my house I saw, through the frosted glass in the middle of the front door, that whoever was there was wearing a uniform. It was a policeman. What was happening now? Was he here to arrest me for my hit-and-run crime? Fear gripped me so ferociously I nearly keeled over. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t in, but that would only be delaying the inevitable. In any case, it was too late to give him the slip. If I’d seen him, he’d seen me.
I opened the door a crack, as if that would help, because he wouldn’t be able to fit through the gap I’d left. Sticking my head in the narrow gap, I said, ‘Can I help?’
He was a huge man, maybe six foot four, with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch. ‘Good morning, madam,’ he replied, his face giving nothing away. ‘Are you Ms Jasmine Black?’
This sounded very much like the preliminary to an arrest. My skin prickled with anxiety. ‘Yes, I am.’ My eyes probed his for indications of whether he might be in any way hostile, but he remained impassive.
‘Can I come in please, Ms Black? I’d like to talk.’
I brushed a few stray strands of hair from my eyes. I’d not been to the hairdresser for weeks, and it was beginning to show. I was getting to look like the bag lady I’d seen rooting through my bins. ‘What about?’
‘It’s about your friend – the late Mr Charles Duggan.’
My body relaxed, making me aware of the tension I must’ve felt, worrying he was here to arrest me for killing a young man. I was relieved this was just going to be about Charlie. Then I had an unpleasant thought. What if he was going to probe into Charlie’s past? What if he had done already? What if he intended to get to the bottom of the crime we were all involved in eighteen years ago? I wasn’t out of the rough yet. I’d have to be on my guard. I opened the door fully.
‘Come in,’ I said, leading him into the front room. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ I thought I might as well try to ingratiate myself with him.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He had a layer of flab under his chin which wobbled disconcertingly when he spoke.
‘I won’t be a minute.’ I went to the kitchen and made us both one, using the time to breathe deeply and get into a calm frame of mind to deal with whatever pointed questions might come my way. When I returned to the front room he was holding his notebook and pen, his huge bulk completely filling one of my armchairs.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I need to ask you about Mr Duggan.’
I twisted my features as best I could into the very picture of unsullied innocence. ‘Fire away.’
‘How much did he drink the night of your school reunion?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A lot I guess, but I couldn’t tell you exactly how much.’
‘Did he take anything?’
My face became a question mark. Take anything? I have no idea what you might mean. I’m not that kind of girl. ‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, did he take any drugs of any kind. You’re a solicitor – you work in the criminal courts defending perps. You must know what I’m talking about.’
Oh dear, slipped up there. I should’ve known a local copper would know how I made my living. ‘I didn’t see him taking any drugs.’
‘Was he a drug user?’
‘No, they never interested him. His recreational drug of choice was scotch on the rocks.’
‘Did you have reason to believe someone might have tampered with anything he ate or drank on the night he died?’
‘No. What’s this about, constable?’
He closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. ‘I’m just pursuing lines of enquiry, Ms Black. I’ll show myself out.’
He finished his coffee and left, and I cupped my mug in both hands, wondering what on earth was going on. When I finished my coffee I did some tidying, watched some TV, had a walk in the park and a mooch around the shops, and by the time I got back to my house I was able to crack open my first bottle of wine of the day with a clear conscience.
The next week or so passed by in a blur. Each morning began the same way with me getting up hungover, checking the calendar, and making a coffee while still in my dressing gown, then showering and getting dressed, and eating a late breakfast before the drinking began.
One thing stood out from my drunken haze: a body was found in a wood way out of town. It belonged to a young man who lived locally: Sean Price. I was drunk when I heard the news, having consumed one-and-a-half bottles of wine. I sobered up right away. It was the most sober I got during my month-long binge. Actually, it was more than a month.
Sean Price. How had my hit-and-run victim ended up dumped in a wood miles away from the place I’d run him down? Had I somehow imagined the entire episode? Surely not. Had I identified him wrongly? Definitely not.
Either I’d moved his body myself during my blackout, or someone, for some bizarre reason, had decided to help me by covering up my crime.
Neither possibility seemed likely, but one of them had to be true.
It made my head hurt just thinking about it.
Eventually I put the matter to the back of my mind, along with all the other stuff that was bothering me, and polished off the remaining half-bottle, and I probably opened a third and got stuck into that, too. I was well and truly back to my old bingeing ways.
April 3, 2018: I’d just rolled downstairs after showering and getting dressed when the doorbell rang.
‘Fucking hell, Jasmine,’ I said. ‘What is it this time, a delivery man with another reminder of the past, the postman with more bad news, or the copper again come to arrest me?’
When I got to the hall I saw through the door that my visitor, whoever it was, wasn’t in uniform, which ruled out a policeman or postman, and moreover he wasn’t wearing the sort of high-viz jacket favoured by delivery men. With feelings of relief I opened the door.
My relief lasted precisely the amount of time it took me to get it open enough to see who my visitor was. It was Clara Duggan, Charlie’s bereaved mother.
‘Jasmine, can I come in, please?’ she asked. I wanted to say no, and slam the door in her face, but hadn’t the heart to do that, so instead, against my better judgement, I said, ‘Yes, of course, Clara. Follow me,’ and led her to the kitchen.
‘Take a seat,’ I said. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
I made a mug for her and one for myself before joining her at the table. Her puffy cheeks were pale instead of pink, making her face seem a chalky white when viewed against her unnatura
lly red hair.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
She nodded, then changed her mind and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here. The police have had a toxicology report done on Charlie. He didn’t die of natural causes.’
I’d assumed Charlie had suffered a heart attack or stroke, or possibly overdosed on Valium, or something. I suppose we all did. Now she’d teed up the question I had to ask it. ‘What did he die of, Clara?’
‘He was poisoned. Some sort of date-rape drug.’
Charlie was one of the few people I’d known at school who hadn’t, to the best of my knowledge, ever taken recreational drugs. He stuck to booze and fags. If he’d been depressed, he might’ve taken a prescription drug if his doctor had written him a scrip. He’d never have self-administered any kind of date-rape drug. It wasn’t in his nature to do that kind of thing.
‘Could he have taken it himself to get a high?’ I asked, wondering if Charlie might’ve started taking substances without letting on.
‘Definitely not. My Charlie never took drugs. The police have searched his flat and haven’t found any trace of what killed him among his things, so they think someone might have given it to him on the night of the reunion. But, like you, they also said it’s possible he took it for recreational purposes. He didn’t.’
She stared me in the eye with an unwavering gaze which felt like an accusation.
‘You don’t think I gave it to him do you?’ I asked.
‘No, but you must’ve seen something, even if you didn’t know at the time it was significant.’
I shook my head. ‘The police have asked me what I saw, Clara. I couldn’t help them because I didn’t see anything amiss. Maybe someone gave it to him before he went to the reunion.’