The Blame Game

by C. J. Cooke

The plane descends over the city, the Thames’ grey ribbon and the Lego model streets and bridges shift gradually to human scale. I can make out tufts of black smoke rising from a large building on the outskirts of the city. Ever since the fire at the bookshop I’m hyper alert to fire hazards. Before, I never really paid much attention. When I went camping in my teens I always found it hard to get a good fire going, had to slip a few fire lighters beneath the logs on the sly. And even then, it would go out in the slightest gust of wind. But now, I look at a match and want to throw up. I see people lighting candles on their mantelpieces, people smoking, and I have to close my eyes.

  When Mr Dickinson rang and said there was a fire at the shop I imagined a bunch of teenagers smoking out the back had triggered an alarm. Maybe one of them had set fire to the wheelie bin. Worst case scenario, I’d left a heater on and it had started a small but containable fire that we’d put out with a fire extinguisher before it did any significant damage.

  Of course, that’s not what happened. Helen and I drove down to find what seemed like an inferno, the windows all aglow with flames and thick black smoke rolling out from under the door like a carpet. All I could think about was saving the books. I even did a quick mental calculation of my most precious stock: first editions of Oscar Wilde and Black Beauty with a wooden frontispiece, some nineteenth-century folios with gold endpapers, a box of Victorian letters gifted by a local man in his will. I ran up the stairs to the small room at the back where I stored all the collectibles and antiquarian stock but the smoke was like a wall, or an actual living entity that plunged its fist inside my chest and pulled out my lungs. I can still feel that pain, months later. Like drowning or having a heart attack. I was blinded, stumbling down the stairs in a blind frenzy and dropping all the books I’d grabbed. So stupid. I could have died.

  Helen pulled me out and we lay on the pavement outside, gasping for breath as flames chewed up everything we’d worked for. I’ll never forget that sight. Only once before have I felt so completely helpless. That was a long time ago. It felt like Luke’s death all over again. As though I’d never be free.

  The plane bumps on to the runway. My family’s faces flash across my mind. Helen. Saskia. Reuben. I came to in the army truck after the crash and looked over them all. I was lying flat on my back. Helen’s head was on my chest and Saskia was laid out beside me, along my arm. Reuben was huddled in a corner, crying. I cupped Helen’s face and she woke up. I told her everything was going to be OK. I told her I’d protect her and the kids.

  But the distance from them now almost crushes me. I wish I could be with them so badly it almost turns me inside out.

  In the terminal building I duck into a toilet to splash water on my face. I passed out on the plane and when I woke I felt like I’d been drugged – my vision was blurred and I was literally seeing stars, a bright crescent of them framing everything I looked at.

  The mirror throws back a version of myself with a black eye, cuts on my forehand and blood encrusted around my nostrils. No wonder people on the plane kept asking if I was alright.

  I pump soap from the dispenser and lather it across my face and under my armpits with warm water. My beard’s too long, it makes me look aggressive. I need to shave it off. Suddenly I feel a shooting pain in my left side, just under my ribcage. It’s like being burned, as though someone’s driving a hot poker right through me.

  The passport queue is about a mile long. Everyone looks miserable. I watch the officers at the desks as they check the passports, all of them stern-faced. This was a bad idea. They’re going to take one look at my passport and haul me off to a cell. The family in front of me have a toddler, a little boy about eighteen-months-old with a Gruffalo backpack who is screaming his head off. His dad bends to pick him off the ground but he kicks him square in the face. When he recovers, the dad yanks the boy up into his arms and signals to an officer who has been strolling up and down the queue with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Isn’t there a line for families with young children?’ the man asks. The toddler starts to shout again and the mum steps in, wrapping the boy’s legs around her waist and pressing his face into her neck. He subdues.

  The officer shakes his head. He mutters something about flight delays and six planes landing at once. When he walks on I feel his eyes on my face, taking in the state of me. I can’t let the fact that my legs might buckle at any moment give me away. I need to come up with a story about why I look like I’ve been beaten to a pulp.

  Finally it’s my turn. I slide my passport to the officer and try not to let the stars in my vision distract me too much.

  He’s about thirty, stares at me, visibly trying to work out why the hell I look like I’ve been the victim of an elephant stampede. I point to my face and grin.

  ‘Came off my bike,’ I say. ‘Don’t know who came off worse, me or the pavement.’

  A flicker of a smile. Hands me back the passport.

  ‘Have a great day.’

  Relief floods me. A second later I want to throw up all over the counter.

  Luckily, though, I don’t, and I make it all the way out into the terminal. A scree of familiar signs greets me: Boots, Dune, Costa, WH Smith. Out here, in the bustle of last-minute toothpaste and paperback holiday read buying, no one looks at me. But high above the heads of all the travellers are scores of CCTV cameras, and they’re watching everything. At every exit there are at least three security guards, and walking towards me are two uniformed police officers. One of them frowns as he makes eye contact. I try not to look but his stare brings me out in a cold sweat and I have to sit down on the bench nearby. I pull out my phone, pretend to be checking emails. I wonder if I’m about to be arrested. But he keeps on walking.

  With trembling hands I flick through to the image of the letter again. The address is there when I zoom in:

  Haden, Morris & Laurence Law Practice

  4 Martin Place

  London

  EN9 1AS

  Google maps says the route involves two tube changes, a bus, and a bit of a walk. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to London and everything looks different. As I head towards the train platform a memory of Helen rises up in my mind. We first met around that trip to Mont Blanc in our early twenties and after that I had never expected to see her again. But then, at a train station, I had seen a girl on the platform opposite, reading. Blonde hair in a side ponytail, a yellow scarf, navy mini skirt showing off those amazing legs. The familiar stance – her right leg placed slightly in front of her and bent with the foot tucked in at an angle. I remember my insides turned to jelly. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. It was like being split right down the middle. Half of me wanted to yell out, call her name, the other wanted to run in the other direction. Instead I froze. Right as she looked up and saw me her train came screaming into the station and she was gone.

  From the moment we had left Mont Blanc she had haunted my thoughts every single day. I had tried so hard to find her. This was long before social media so finding someone was virtually impossible back then. I had had a few relationships but they all petered out because I was so disinterested. I kept trying to find someone like her and failing miserably. So one day I had an idea to call every dance school in the country. She’d said she was a ballerina, quite a decent one at that, so surely someone must know where she lived?

  It took thirteen phone calls. Finally I got through to a receptionist at the dance school in Leeds who’d heard of Helen Warren. ‘I only work two days a week,’ she said. ‘The other girl who’s usually here, Tessa, she knows Helen. She might have a forwarding address. She’ll be in tomorrow.’

  I got on the first train to Leeds. The next morning I turned up at the dance school with the biggest bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. I told Tessa I needed to give them to Helen Warren in person, and acted disappointed when she said Helen was no longer coming to the dance school. She was hesitant but didn’t want Helen to miss out on the gift, so she quickly wrote down the
last address she had for her. I thanked her profusely and headed back to the train station. I changed at Birmingham New Street. My train from there was delayed, so I bought a book and waited on the platform. Then something made me look up.

  A girl was standing on the platform opposite. Helen. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I ran to her and wrapped my arms around her. She was so taken aback that she jerked away until she saw my face. Then she stared at me for the longest time, before breaking down into tears and pulling me into a tight embrace.

  The train for King’s Cross pulls up. I have 6 per cent battery left and it takes all my strength not to call Helen, not to tell her where I am and what I’m doing. But they’ve probably bugged our phones. And I know exactly what she’ll say. She’ll tell me not to. It’s why we haven’t spoken about it all these years, isn’t it? It’s why she hid the letters. We risked losing the kids. If anyone found out what happened on Mont Blanc it would tear our family apart.

  But that has already happened. There’s no going back now.

  Martin Place is a row of old six-storey Victorian buildings carved up into offices. The pain in my side is flaring again and my head is flooded with blinding, crushing pain. A couple of brass plaques on a doorway list the tenants. Accountants, a literary agency, a number of legal firms. None of them called Haden, Morris and Lawrence. I spot the name ‘Morris’ in one of the other firms – Morris and McColl – and press the buzzer. A receptionist answers. I explain that I need to speak to Mr Morris.

  ‘Who?’ she says.

  ‘Mr Morris. I’m guessing he’s the partner of the firm?’

  ‘That would be Judy Morris,’ the receptionist says. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘My name’s … David,’ I say. ‘David Ashworth. I need to locate the new address for the Haden, Morris and Lawrence law firm. It’s urgent.’

  ‘I’ll check if she’s free.’

  Ten minutes later I’m in a swanky office being offered a cup of tea by a secretary. I gladly take it. The office is old money – a solid mahogany desk with captain’s swivel chair, towering bookcases in the alcoves and a marble fireplace. The woman who walks in and introduces herself as Judy is older than I expected. Late sixties. Short black hair, penetrating blue eyes. A black cowl-neck jumper and black trousers.

  ‘You’re looking for Haden, Morris and Lawrence, I believe,’ she says, taking the seat behind her desk.

  I nod. ‘Yes. They made contact quite some time ago and … I thought maybe you might know where they’ve relocated.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t employed by that legal firm, despite my surname.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I can tell you they didn’t relocate, however.’

  I perk up. ‘They’re still here?’

  She shakes her head. ‘They dissolved. About five years ago, after two of the partners passed away.’

  My heart sinks.

  She cocks her head. ‘Is there something I can help with?’

  I glance up at the portrait of Winston Churchill behind her. He’s sitting on a chair, both hands on the armrests and his jaw tilted slightly upward, as though he’s about to get up. It’s a restless picture, the portrait of someone who wasn’t keen on sitting down and staying still.

  ‘Someone tried to burn down my shop,’ I say. ‘I think they’re trying to harm my family.’

  She gives me another quick scan, checking out my face. ‘I see. Is there a particular reason why someone would want to harm your family?’

  Now I hesitate. Am I ready to say it aloud?

  ‘A friend of mine died some time ago.’

  She waits. ‘And I’m assuming you had something to do with it?’

  I hesitate. ‘Do you know of someone called Luke Aucoin?’ I say. She clasps her hands, eyes her telephone. ‘Is he alive?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t believe I know of anyone by that name.’

  I have no idea whether she’s telling the truth. ‘I believe that someone related to Luke has been searching for me ever since the … incident. They sent threats via the Haden, Morris and Lawrence law firm. There was a signature at the bottom. K. Haden. I was hoping I could get in touch with the client, but if the law firm has dissolved …’

  She holds up a hand. ‘Keith was a colleague at another firm,’ she says. ‘He’s dead now, I’m afraid. But I can try and contact his wife. Perhaps if you leave it with me I can send her a message?’

  I nod. A flick of a smile.

  ‘It won’t be until tomorrow, I’m afraid, as I’ll have to search for her number. Perhaps if you come back around noon?’

  I rise from my seat and stretch out my hand to thank her. She hesitates before taking it.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she says, narrowing her eyes. ‘David, was it?’

  ‘Yes. David. David Ashworth.’

  She smiles but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  I buy razors, scissors, a new outfit, food, and dressings for the cuts on my arms and face, then check into what appears to be the last hotel room in London, which is basically a cupboard at the top of a sliver of a Victorian terrace in Covent Garden. There I shave my beard, trim my hair, then fall into the deepest sleep imaginable.

  I don’t dream, but my mind circuits all night. I think of the Churchill portrait I saw in Judy’s office, and from there I spiral into deeper trenches of memory. I recall something about Churchill’s wife. She owned an estate that Luke’s parents bought. I remember Luke saying it, that Churchill used to sleep in his bedroom. He joked about his ghost stomping up the stairs and that’s why he never went home. It was an excuse he peddled to his mum, too, when really we both knew it was because he didn’t like his stepdad.

  I wake with a start.

  I have to find that house.

  19

  Helen

  2nd September 2017

  Jeannie and I are in Dr Gupta’s office Skyping a special branch of the CID at Northumbria Police, talking to Detective Sergeant Jahan, a young, sharp-eyed man with slick black hair, and Detective Chief Inspector Lavery, a Geordie woman in her late fifties with cropped grey hair and severe red glasses.

  ‘The van driver has made a serious accusation against Michael,’ Jeannie says, once I’ve filled them in on everything else. ‘They said he paid for the other guy to crash into their car. It’s ridiculous, not to mention bloody frightening. I know it sounds a bit out there but it really feels like the police here are trying to blame my sister and brother-in-law for the crash.’

  ‘They emailed us scanned transcripts of the interviews they had with you and the driver of the van,’ DS Jahan says. ‘We had to twist their arm a bit but we’ve got them now.’

  ‘What about the other driver?’ Jeannie says. ‘Have they charged him?’

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve already let him go,’ DS Jahan says, and I give a loud gasp.

  ‘You’re not serious,’ Jeannie says. ‘They let him go?’

  I think back to the CCTV footage, and the man behind Michael who I suspected was forcing him out of the hospital. ‘When did they let him go?’ I ask.

  ‘In the last hour,’ DCI Lavery says. ‘The law in Belize only allows them to hold detainees for a certain length of time. They either have to charge them within twenty-four hours or release them.’

  So it’s unlikely that the man in the footage was the van driver.

  ‘But … why would they release someone who admitted to taking money to deliberately smash into another vehicle?’ I say. ‘How can they not charge him?’

  ‘We have our concerns about this for a number of reasons, one of which is of course that Michael went missing right after the accusation was made against him,’ DS Lavery says. ‘We’ve got some notes here from chatting with Jeannie that you saw a man prowling around your rental accommodation a day or so prior to the accident. Is that right, Helen?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The night before we left, in fact.’ Then, ‘Maybe if I saw a photograph of the van driver I could decide whether
he was the man I saw.’

  ‘Leave that with me,’ DS Jahan says, and I feel momentarily heartened that I’m contributing to a resolution, that I can put an end to even a fraction of the chaos that I’ve been plunged into.

  ‘Just to clarify,’ DCI Lavery asks. ‘The man you saw in the CCTV footage from the hospital – do you think it was the same man you spotted outside your beach hut?’

  I falter. ‘I don’t think so.’

  My head feels close to bursting. Saskia flashes across my mind. Her sweet face bouncing up to mine with excitement at the park close to our house. Her lips pursed as she blows a dandelion clock. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she lies on the tarmac surrounded by blood and glass.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to Michael?’ DC Lavery asks.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I say, pressing my hands to my forehead. ‘Right before the crash, I think. We were talking, and …’

  Suddenly I hear the van smashing into us, a sickening crunch that seems to repeat over and over again on a loop. My own screams for help. Then something I hadn’t remembered before; another sound unfurls in my mind, fresh and bright, as though it has edges. Michael. He spoke to me.

  ‘I remember Michael saying something,’ I say weakly. ‘He said something right after the crash. Before I crawled out of the car. I must have blacked out straight after.’

  ‘What did he say?’ DS Jahan says, pen poised.

  I strain to listen to the memory in my head. It feels like trying to hook on to a cool wind, or something scrambling to get away … But then, I seize it and the scrambled sounds come together. It wasn’t just a moan of pain. Michael spoke. He said something.

  I have to protect you.

  Words uttered from far away, as though at the bottom of a tunnel.

  ‘This may well require a trip over to Belize,’ DC Lavery says. ‘Sounds like Michael Pengilly had some serious injuries, so it’s important we get a search going out there,’ she continues. ‘We’ll review the possibility of travelling over there in a week or so, if he hasn’t made contact.’