by Graham West
“I would like to meet you. Get the story from your angle. Nothing much happens here in Tabwell. It’s kind of…slow. If Joe Soap changes his Ferrari it pretty much makes the front page.”
***
The following afternoon, I was back behind the wheel heading for Tabwell. Dennis Blakely was going to stand me a light lunch at the Lakeside Hotel, which, as the name suggested, overlooked Tabwell Water, the very spot to which my librarian friend had directed me several weeks ago. I’d remembered the rather quaint hotel, with its manicured lawns sloping down to the path that ran the perimeter of the lake.
I followed the signs and swung onto the cobbled drive of the hotel, lowering the volume on the radio as it belted out a Stones number. It wasn’t a rock ’n’ roll hotel, that was plain to see. I was fifteen minutes early—time to get myself a soft drink and find a seat in the corner.
The bar door was to the left of the main reception. I was pleased at not having to explain myself to anyone. I felt invisible, and that suited me fine. This could all go horribly wrong. Blakely might be out to make me look like an idiot at best and an irresponsible parent at least. It wouldn’t be difficult. But then, I was tempted to believe that I was meeting with a small time hack after a ghost story that would sell his paper and draw in some much-needed revenue from local businesses.
I knew about the press, but I had also read my locals; there was a different attitude. You kept the stories straight and kept the readers happy. Rule number one: don’t shit on your own doorstep.
My mobile rang. It was Blakely to say he was pulling up in the car park and wanted to know where I would be. Corner window seat to the left of the main door. I was wearing a dark brown corded jacket and a cream shirt. He told me he’d be there in five.
I hadn’t formed a picture of Tabwell’s local hack in my head yet he still took me by surprise. He was slim, stood at about six-two and wore a suit which hadn’t been bought off the peg. He was good-looking with just the faintest shadow of stubble, which gave him that Hollywood movie star look. His handshake was as strong as one would imagine.
“Mr. Adams,” he said, grinning broadly and revealing that he had spent quite a bit of money on his teeth. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I replied. “Can I get you a drink?”
Blakely shook his head. “I’ll go get some menus. Then we can talk.”
If Blakely’s physical appearance had unnerved me, his manner had allayed any disquiet. I watched as he chatted at the bar, drawing admiring glances and occasional giggles from the two young girls who served him with a lime and soda. He returned, unaware of the eyes following him.
“Nice kids,” he said, glancing back over at the bar.
“You been here before, then?” I asked, making small talk.
“Several times. I eat here quite regularly. The restaurant is a little expensive but the bar meals are quite reasonable and really good.” He smiled. “I think you’ll agree.”
He passed me a menu. It was limited; he told me the owners preferred to go for quality, but he was sure I would find something I liked. Blakely chose the grilled salmon and, wanting to look as if I, too, was a lime and soda man with a love of healthy food, went for the same.
“So, how long have you worked for the Herald?” I asked him.
He smiled, taking a sip of his soda. “A couple of years,” he said casually. “It’s small time, I know, but I don’t want to get into the cutthroat national scene, so I guess this suits me.”
I looked at Blakely. Okay, you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, but this guy looked like a shit-hot go-getter with the looks and the charm to carry him a fair way before he’d even have to put his brain into gear. He looked the part—the image that the business world craved these days. I just couldn’t see this man settling for life on a local paper.
He sensed my apprehension but obviously decided to ignore it. “Anyway, your story. It sounds fascinating,” he said, pulling out a tiny recorder and placing it in the centre of the table. “Do you mind?” he asked.
I shook my head and he pressed the button. There was a loud, old-fashioned click.
“Right,” he said. “In your own words, Mr. Adams. From the beginning…”
***
We were interrupted only by the arrival of the waitress taking our order and subsequently delivering the food. At that point, we took a break and ate heartily. The food was, as promised, beautiful. Apart from that, Blakely remained silent as I related the tale from the moment Elizabeth and Hanna died to our meeting at the Lakeside Hotel. When I was done, Blakely reached over and clicked the off button on the recorder.
“Fascinating,” he said. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“You think you’ve got a story?”
Blakely nodded. “You know, of course, that Allington founded a school here?”
I told him I was fully aware of the reverend’s altruistic exploits.
“Not just that, but he founded a home just outside Tabwell which is now an exclusive retreat for victims of domestic violence. It receives extensive funding from businesses and local government.”
I didn’t know that. “You say exclusive?”
“Set in its own grounds. Rooms well above the standard you might expect. Because of its roots, they put a Bible in every room—funny, but that still puts troubled people at ease—even the atheists and agnostics.”
“So it receives funding?”
“Yes. Because of its church affiliation, certain businesses like to be associated with the name, particularly as it is a rehabilitation centre, and everyone likes to be seen doing their bit for society.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
Blakely frowned. “Allington has his name on a school and a refuge centre. I’m not sure that everyone will want that name besmirched. It’s just a warning, that’s all.”
“But surely it would not affect the work? I mean, the centres wouldn’t close. All this happened so long ago.”
Blakely ran his forefinger around the rim of his glass, staring down at the table. “No, they wouldn’t, Mr. Adams.” He looked up. “And, of course, you’re correct. All this was many years ago. But if this becomes a story—how the founder of the refuge and the school not only knew about a young girl virtually imprisoned in an attic, but raped her and stole her baby…” Blakely stopped. “His picture hangs in the foyer of the refuge and in the main hall at the school. They would have to go… Any reference to the man will be erased. I think there will be people who would rather you let sleeping dogs lie—you get what I’m saying?”
***
I drove back home thinking about Allington’s legacy. How could a man who had involved himself in caring for his community have raped a young girl and callously taken her baby? What desperation would force such a man’s hand? I hadn’t asked Blakely when the story would run, so the moment I arrived home, I found the number of the Tabwell Herald’s desk and called it.
A young woman answered.
“Could I speak to or leave a message for a Mr. Dennis Blakely?”
A pause. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Sorry, my name is Robert Adams. I’ve just been interviewed—”
“One moment, please.”
I listened to Elgar for about forty seconds.
“Hello, Mr. Adams?” It was the desk girl again.
“Yes.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“Dennis Blakely.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Mr. Adams, we don’t have anyone of that name working at this paper.”
I felt my chest tighten. “But I was just speaking…”
“Did he have any ID?” she interrupted sharply.
“I didn’t ask,” I replied, feeling foolish.
“Then I can tell you for sure, he wasn’t from the Tabwell Herald.”
I replaced the phone and slumped in my chair.
“There must be some mistake,” I found myself telling Sebastian ten minutes
later. “Maybe the girl who took my call was new.”
The old professor sighed. “Or you’ve been warned off,” he said, telling me something I’d already suspected.
“I’m not interested,” I replied, feeling increasingly agitated. “I want my daughter back. It’s as simple as that.”
There was a pause. “I know, Robert, I know. But whoever this Dennis Blakely really is—he’s already made the first move. He knows the story. He knows what you’re about. He knows what you’re trying to do.”
I Googled Blakely’s name but the search engine turned up nothing. I had to try, even though I knew that I’d probably been given a false name anyway. I called the paper again and asked to speak to someone who might be interested in my story. I was put through to the editor, a young woman called Helen Pace, who became interested when I mentioned my meeting with a phantom reporter who I’d suspected wanted the story buried.
She promised to get back in touch and, checking the battery on my mobile, I headed over to The Keys. Lou greeted me at the bar and we chatted for a few minutes before he invited me to let myself into the flat. Josie was heading into town with an old school friend. “A girly day’s shopping and some posh nosh,” he told me.
I felt a tinge of jealousy. I wanted her to myself. I needed a listening ear. I rapped gently on the door and entered. The TV was on. Down the hallway, I heard the shower and Josie singing over the sound of the water. I waited, picking up a magazine and flicking idly through its pages. There was an article about a girl who killed her father in self-defence. I began to read; the girl had never forgiven herself despite having suffered abuse for so many years.
I suddenly sensed someone behind me. I turned. It was Josie, wrapped in a white bath towel. She grinned, as if she knew exactly how irresistible she looked. “You been waiting long?” she asked, holding the towel tightly over her chest. I nodded, almost winded by the desire I felt. She saw it my eyes and reached out her hand and gently touched my lips. The towel fell to the floor.
“Jo, we can’t,” I said as she pulled me towards her.
But we could. And we did. I had no room for guilt.
We made love behind a locked door, silently entwined, our breathlessness drowned by the sound from the TV. It was over all too soon and we talked while Josie dressed and prepared herself for her trip. “I don’t want you to go,” I told her.
She smiled through her reflection in the mirror. “I have to, hun,” she said. “But you know I’d rather be with you.”
She turned. “Be careful, sweetheart. I know you’re not exactly tangling with the Mafia in Tabwell, but it sounds like there’s at least one person who would rather you didn’t make a big deal out of this story.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to put a bullet through my head, do you?”
Josie grinned. “No, but just be careful, that’s all.”
I drove back home feeling Jo’s call for caution was a little ironic; we’d just made love in a room above the bar at which her husband was serving drinks. What would Jenny think? I thought about my daughter. I knew where her body lay but where was her mind—where was her soul?
***
My heart beats in time with the footsteps I hear on the stairs. I know immediately that the minister is alone. He knocks and waits, but his anger spills before him. “Amelia!” he calls. There is hatred in his voice—the devil’s voice. The door opens and I see him, his frame fills the doorway. His lips are moving but I hear no sound. His face, reddened with rage, looks as if it might burst open.
Sarah rises from her chair and moves to my side. I try, I try to read his lips but cannot. The only sound I hear is that of a rushing, fierce wind. The minister continues to move toward me, his hands outstretched. Sarah steps between us. Then I see her falling backwards. Now the reverend is upon me, his rage unabated. His hand is on my neck. I smell whisky on his breath as I fall back onto the desk at which I have learned all I know of this world.
I am going to die. I feel something on the desk…metal. The blade Sarah used for the apples she picked from my father’s tree. The handle seems to roll in my hand as I fight for breath. I raise my arm high. Our eyes are locked. That hatred, I see it so clearly. For a moment, I leave the world, everything turns an unholy black. It is only for a few seconds, but the hands around my neck lose their grip. I open my eyes. Blood pours from the Reverend Allington’s chest. The blade is embedded to the hilt. I withdraw it with ease and he falls backwards, his eyes staring in fear. Fear of dying—fear of his God. He splutters blood. I stand and watch the father of my child…a child I will never know, slowly drift away.
***
I woke the following morning and poured myself a coffee. My mobile flashed up a message. It was Josie.
Fancy coffee? Tea? Me?
I thought for a moment. Our previous physical encounters had never been planned, and for some reason, I liked it better that way. It felt more like a crime of passion, and I could ride the guilt. I punched in a reply. How about dinner?
Sounds good. Where?
I was hungry. Pizza sounded good. Antonio’s?
Yum. 8ish
You’re on!
It was a date. We would taxi there, eat pizza and maybe get a little drunk. I imagined the conversation drifting from Jenny to Elizabeth and my future without her. But I was to learn something about Josephine Pamela Duxbury that I could never have foreseen in a lifetime.
***
I stand, transfixed. Having seen little of this world, death has come to my room. Sarah holds a hand to her breast. She is pale, and I fear she will faint. Me? I have no future, not now, but then, have I ever had anything to live for, imprisoned in this place? An institution awaits, or maybe the noose, I do not know. I follow my instincts and flee, my eyes fixed ahead, the thunder of my feet ringing in my ears.
No one sees me as I pass through the lounge with the knife in my hands. A fire burns in the grate. At last, I reach the door. How cold the autumn air feels. How wonderfully fresh and bracing. I am still running—running through the lawned spaces towards the woods where I would wander with my father.
I need to rest. I need time to consider. My life is in my own hands, and I have the right to choose, but first, I wish to sit and enjoy the freedom of my final moments on this Earth.
***
The house wine was good enough. We ordered a mushroom starter and two medium specials with extra toppings from the waiter. Jo had something on her mind, and I guessed what it was.
“The other day,” I began tentatively, sipping my wine. “I…I should have felt guilty. But I didn’t.”
I waited. Josie smiled. “You shouldn’t,” she replied. “Not really.”
Her indifference troubled me. “Don’t you?”
“There are certain aspects of it—of what happened—that might seem a bit sordid, but…”
“A bit?” I said, unable to disguise my concern. “Lou’s my friend. Okay, maybe not joined at the hip, but, well…I was still screwing his wife in his flat while he was serving drinks one floor down. I mean, that’s a pretty shitty thing to do to anyone!”
Josie avoided my eyes. “There are things you don’t know, Robert,” she said softly. “Things I’m not sure I’m ready to tell you yet.”
“What? Your husband doesn’t understand you?”
A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. “Lou is a wonderful man. He understands me perfectly, and I understand him. That’s why we’re still together. We’re a good team—a partnership.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the mushrooms in garlic. The waiter seemed to linger longer than he needed to, almost as if he had caught something Josie had said and his curiosity was getting the better of him. Josie smiled. “Thank you. This is fine.”
The waiter half bowed and left us.
“You were saying?”
Josie took a sip of her wine. “We’re fine,” she said. “That’s all you need to know.”
I frowned. “But how can you be so
casual about us? We had sex, Jo.”
“I know. Like I said, there’re things you don’t know.”
I felt as if the book was being closed. No more questions. We drank more wine, ate pizza and managed to laugh, but the whole thing with Lou was bothering me. We ordered another bottle and talked about the old days. If Lou had not called Josie up, I’m not sure the subject would have arisen again. She took the call without a flicker of guilt in her eyes. “Hi, darling…”
There was a pause. “Yes, the cleaner is at the back of the cupboard. Okay…” Another pause. “I’m still in the restaurant. Won’t be too late.” Jo’s eyes darkened. “Before you go, I think Rob needs to know…about us? You okay with that?” There was another pause. “Thank you. Love you, hun. Bye.”
The affection was real. There was no doubt about that. Josie caught the look of confusion in my eyes and smiled.
“So?” I said, taking a gulp of wine that stung my pallet.
“I’m not sure where to begin.” Jo looked wearily at the two huge slices of pizza left on her plate. “You see, Lou and I…well, we’re partners…”
“I know,” I replied impatiently.
Josie shot me a half-hearted smile. “I mean partners in the old sense of the word, before political correctness kicked in.”
“What? Like business partners?”
“That’s it. Well…in a way, but close friends as well.”
“So it’s not like a marriage?”
Josie drained her glass and replaced it. “Fancy a brandy?” she said. “I could use one.”
I nodded. “Go on…I’m intrigued.”
Jo sighed. “Lou and I have been divorced for over a year.”
“What? But why?”
Jo smiled softly. “Robert, I’m not his type—”
“But you’re beautiful—”
Josie smiled. “He doesn’t go for beautiful—he prefers handsome. Robert, I’m trying to tell you Lou’s gay.”
***
The darkness envelops me like a shroud, hiding me from the world. I am cold, but the temperature is bearable. I have found a nook in the wood where no one will find me easily, although I’m sure they will come looking. Just a day, another day maybe—perhaps two. Hunger and thirst will have overtaken me by then, dampening the sense of freedom I am feeling.