He turned towards the uniforms.
“I would first of all like to thank, from the bottom of my heart, Chief Constable Hardacre and his whole team, and indeed all the police forces, from Austria and Italy and elsewhere, across the continent, who have been working tirelessly and with admirable devotion to attempt to discover what misfortune or ...”
He paused and shook his head and for a moment he looked devastated.
“... or to attempt to resolve this horrendous, agonising mystery which has brought such suffering and pain to... to myself and to everyone who loves Sarah... and God knows... everyone who knows her can only love her”.
He brushed a finger below his eyes.
Paul realised there was a strange clenching, tightening sensation in his stomach. For a moment, he tried to imagine what it must be like for Neil Morgan. He tried to put himself in the man’s shoes, as Sarah’s husband, standing there, talking to the world’s radio and TV and the internet and print media about the disappearance of his wife, of the person he loved more than anything in the world... Sarah... asking for their help, for their understanding, expressing his deepest feelings... What would he say? How would he act?...
He didn’t know, but he knew it wouldn’t be like this.
“I would just like to say how much I love my wife... my wife of just one day, 19 hours and 27 minutes... oh yes... I have counted the minutes...”
He took a deep breath... and a pause... He had the whole assembly spellbound. His hands came together in prayer...
“Sarah, my darling... my sweetheart, my beloved, apple of my eye, love of my life, my reason for being, my soul-sister, my angel, my goddess... I miss you...”
You bastard, Paul thought. You utter bastard...
“I pray that you are safe and well, wherever you may be... and that whatever may have happened will soon be over and if I am... in even some tiny, tiny, minuscule way... responsible for this tragic situation, then know that I am damned and I shall never forgive myself and please, please, please... please come home soon.... I love you my darling, and I appeal to anyone... anyone who can help... please... help!”
His whole body slumped and he managed to lower himself into his seat and he held his head in his hands and the Chief Constable put his hand on his shoulder but Neil hadn’t finished, he’d forgotten something.
“Oh yes, and I must say that my thoughts are with Sarah’s wonderful, beloved mother in this difficult, trying hour, and I am at present discussing the formalities regarding a reward for any information that may lead to the resolution of this appalling, tragic situation. Thank you... Thank you... Thank you...”
There was murmuring and mumbling and frantic exchanges of whispered comments and Paul looked around to see the reactions on people’s faces. He couldn’t believe it... it looked as if they were lapping it up. He heard a “Not bad!” and a “Wow!” and even a “The poor bloke!”
He felt nauseous.
Chaos set in as arms were flung up and questions were shouted out and Chief Constable Hardacre called for order and he couldn’t take it any more. He stood up and squeezed through a crowd of frenzied hacks screaming and yelling and frothing at the mouth and he walked out and gulped down a breath of fresh air and he marched into the first pub he came to.
In his professional capacity he might, if pushed, have described the Red Lion as “authentic, unpretentious and convivial”. Which basically meant it was “decrepit, run-down and full of loud lushes”. It was a drinkers’ pub and he was seriously thinking of getting into the swing of things and going on a major bender. He was feeling confused... His thoughts were muddled and fuddled and he didn’t know why...
He hadn’t been totally convinced by Neil Morgan’s sincerity, for want of a better word, and he wasn’t really sure what that meant.
Had his gut feeling been a warning? And if so, a warning of what? Did his unease over the missing heiress’s devastated spouse and his public performance really suggest he had doubts about the man? Or did those burgeoning doubts strike closer to home? Within himself... Was he losing it? Was his judgment failing him? Was he having second thoughts about what he was doing there and why? Was he perhaps nothing more than a sad obsessive living in the past? ... A 33 year-old man hanging on to a memory that by rights should have been erased long ago and been replaced by something else... a life, perhaps, as Linda Deighton had suggested? Was he chasing rainbows? Tilting at windmills? Or... was there actually something fishy about Neil Morgan, who apparently had to delve into Roget’s Thesaurus to find the most pertinent and à propos expression of his love for Sarah Hartley? And employ a hackneyed battery of ‘Acting 101’ tricks to seduce his audience?
All he knew for sure was that he had an urge to go and see the man and talk to him, face to face. He had a question for him... perhaps...
But that impulse was tempered by the unsettling thought that he might end up at the door of Calderwood Hall in much the same position he had found myself some 17 years previously, when the same urge to ask the same question had brought him nothing but trouble.
Chapter 10
Halifax, Friday July 5th 1997
It’s early July 1997. School’s out, more or less. The GCSEs are done with and I’m bored out of my mind. I’m sitting in the garden beside the Cottage, looking up at the Castle… drawn to it, repulsed by it… wanting to know what’s going on in there, not wanting to know, not caring, needing to care… Someone heard someone say that someone else saw Sarah in town the other day and I’m wondering if she’s here. It doesn’t feel like it though, I can just tell. The Castle’s a shell, an empty shell, with Mrs Rebecca Hartley, the resident hermit crab, curled up on the davenport in a flowery satin dressing-gown, sucking down G&Ts, glued to day-time soaps while Greville counts his money.
The King suddenly appears on the back terrace, dressed for golf, all checks and pale pastels, limbering up with a few knee jerks and windmill spins before the ritual 18 holes with the Mayor or his Chamber of Commerce flunkies or whoever it is he bribes to let him win.
I haven’t seen Sarah for almost 2 years. Two years and counting…
I’m 16 years old, I’ve started shaving. I’m going to have the same thick, dark beard my old man has. 5 o’clock shadow at noon. One day, maybe. For now, it’s scraping over spots and pimples and wispy tufts.
I’m itching to do something: to move, to get away, to shed my skin, to be somewhere else, to be someone else. To see Sarah. To be with Sarah.
The King sees me staring at him and nods, vaguely. Even from 80 yards away I can see him sighing. I decide to confront him.
I step through the gate and walk over to him across the lawn, determined to hold my head up as I approach, climbing the steps to the terrace as he bends down and touches his toes a few times. Pretty limber, I have to give him that.
“Morning, Paul”, he says, glancing up at me.
“Where’s Sarah, Mr Hartley?”
He sighs, a pantomime sigh.
“She’s not here, if that’s what you’re wondering”.
“I didn’t think she was. Where is she?”
“She’s overseas. She lives abroad now, you know.”
“I have the school holidays coming up, maybe I can go and visit her”.
He humphs. A terse mocking snort. A sneer.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why can’t I see her? Look, Mr Hartley, we were best friends… it might sound childish, I know, but it’s just not fair…if she doesn’t want to see me, then fine, I’ll say no more, I won’t trouble you again, but I’m not even allowed to talk to her, or her to me, and…”
“Fair doesn’t come into it. Life isn’t fair. Things change, that’s all. Sarah’s life is a long way from here now. She’ll be continuing her studies abroad and no doubt working abroad too, when the time comes. There’s nothing for her here any more”.
“There’s me, Mr Hartley”, I say. “And your money”.
His eyes narrow at my impertinence, but then they wrinkle
a bit at the sides and I see his teeth as he grins.
“You never were short on cheek, lad, were you? But let me put it this way… There’s a bit of a difference between you and my money, as you put it. My money isn’t actually here, it’s in investments and projects, all over the place. It lives and works and travels and multiplies a long way from where you’re standing, and it has a bright future too… whereas you… you’re just standing here. What are you going to do? Where are you going to go? What are your projects? Where’s your bright future?”
I don’t know what to say. Or maybe I do, but I just decide to say nothing.
He flexes his hands and brushes something off his trousers.
A blackbird hops out of a bush to one side and we watch it flutter away towards the rose-beds.
“Is she well, Mr Hartley? Is she happy?”
I can feel the corners of my mouth tightening and a lump in my throat.
He looks at me for a long moment before he speaks. There’s grey in his hair I haven’t seen before, and he looks up at the sky as if he’s fearing rain may put paid to his game.
“She’s very well, Paul, and she’s very happy. I’ll tell her you said hello, how’s that?”
He purses his lips together and tilts his head to one side: the “I can’t do better than that” look.
I hate him.
“Where is she?”
His eyes darken.
“Don’t push it!”
And with that he turns away and walks towards the French windows where Mrs Hartley is glaring at him, having heard every word of our conversation.
I’m still looking over at the Castle three hours later when the phone rings. I go inside. Mum and Dad have gone to the races somewhere, or so they said, and the cottage is empty. I pick up the phone.
“Paul, it’s Dave”. Dave Middleton, my best mate. My only mate.
“Game on… 7.30, Rob Hardcastle’s. Wilko’s got some E, we’re pulling an all-nighter, you up for it?”
“I’m up for a fucking tiddlywinks marathon, mate, I’m pulling me hair out here. What shall I bring?”
“Get some of them extra-strong lagers, the 12-degree babies, you know the ones?”.
“Right. I’ll see you there. So long”.
It’s ten o’clock and we’re sitting in someone’s living-room listening to Oasis, cranked up loud… almost loud enough to drown out the raucous laughter and shrill fits of giggles brought on by a fierce skunk bong someone’s produced. We’ve been to three other places since Rob Hardcastle’s Mam threw us out and we’ve picked up a dozen or so fellow revellers along the way. We’re all nicely toasted and the E’s starting to kick in, so things are getting a tad touchy-feely. Some of the people I know, some I don’t. I’m not bothered either way. I just want to get legless and numb, and feel something… anything. Or is that contradictory? Do I want to feel something, or do I want to be numb? What the fuck!
Tracy Booth walks in with her brother Terry and a couple of low-life hangers-on caught between last years Goth and next years Gangsta look. She sits down next to me and rips the tab off a Red Stripe.
“Hiya, Paul, how you doing?”
I shrug and pass her a spliff.
“I hear Princess Hartley’s back in town”.
“News to me,” I say.
She takes a deep drag on the doobie and blows smoke in my face. She’s wearing a blue denim micro-skirt with shiny black thigh-high stockings and I can see black bra straps under the swell of a lacy V-neck blouse.
“Really? I thought you knew everything about her. And I mean everything…”
She rolls her eyes and spits a flake of tobacco onto the carpet.
“Nobody knows everything about anybody”, I say, wishing I hadn’t.
“Fuckin’ hell, listen to it. You need to chill, bwana. Get over it. She was always a stuck-up cunt anyway. Too good for the likes of you. But her shit stinks, mate, just like anyone’s. Believe it…”
She stands up, bending over to give me an eyeful of her cleavage. She winks at me and spins round, swinging her arse from side to side, laughing. I see Terry standing by the CD-player watching me, his gaze seriously fogged over: barbies and Strongbow no doubt, his staple diet.
I take a long gulp of Amsterdam Maximator and try to get my head round the Gallaghers’ lyrics:
“Coz I'll be you and you'll be me
There's lots and lots for us to see
There's lots and lots for us to do
She is electric, can I be electric too?”
It’s past midnight and me and Dave are leaving the Copacabana, squeezing through a crowd of under-aged Friday night party people, dripping sweat, chugging down fizzy water, laughing our arses off. We’re off our heads and it’s a good night. As good as it can get. For me, anyway. We’re with a new bunch of people now. At the last place, the party split into three groups; talkers in the kitchen, druggies in the living-room and shaggers in the bedrooms. The Booths and their cronies split and things mellowed down a notch. We followed some kids from Bolton or somewhere to the club and danced like mad. Some decent techno, old Northern Soul, even the Spice Girls.
I never dance. But I danced.
I’m feeling good. Buzzed. Alive.
It’s warm for Yorkshire. I can feel the sweat drying on my face and taste salt when I lick my lips. I can hear the breeze rustling the leaves in the poplar trees along the canal and the water sluicing over the weir down by the White Hart. There’s a big yellow moon in the sky, blinking and winking off a hundred windows in the grand old textile mill across the canal, now a Greville Hartley development with ‘executive suites’ and ‘bijou studios’ for yuppies and upwardly mobile rich fuckers. A vision of Sarah flashes in my head and I look at Dave for a moment, wondering if he knows what I’m thinking about. He’s lighting a fag. I can hear girls laughing and turn to see a trim brunette up ahead. She spins round, smiling and flicking her hair like a picture-perfect model in a shampoo commercial, looking at me. She’s called Linda Deighton, apparently, and she’s invited us to her place, a big house up Kenilworth Close. The posh district.
Dave takes me into the shadows by the bookie’s on Hebden Street and gives me a little blue pill.
“Happy birthday, mate”.
“It’s not my birthday”.
“I know, but this’ll make it seem like it”.
He pops one in his mouth and I do the same. He hands me a Special Brew and we alternate swigs until it’s done.
The girls up ahead are singing “Wannabe”.
“She’s pretty fit, that Linda”, says Dave.
“Who is she?”
“Private-school-girl. Used to be a big mate of Sarah Hartley’s, riding-school and what not. Her Dad’s a lawyer. Huge house apparently; snooker table, tennis court, the full bit”.
“She knows Sarah?”
“So I’ve heard”.
There’s some shouting and squealing in front of us and I see Terry Booth and a couple of his mates who’ve appeared from nowhere trying to cop feels off the girls; Linda and the two others. Terry’s wasted and can barely stand up and I can see he’s about to switch from playful to abusive. Linda pushes him away and walks off, linking arms with her mates. Terry catches up with her.
“Where are you off to, love? What’s the rush?”
Linda keeps walking. Terry grabs her arm.
“You girls shouldn’t be walking around alone this time of night. You never know what might happen. Maybe we should walk you home.”
One of his mates says something and Terry looks back in our direction.
I look at Dave and he looks at me.
“Oy! Dick-features!” Terry shouts, pointing at me. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at! Piss off!”
We keep walking forward.
Terry lets Linda go and weaves towards us, his mates two steps behind him.
I’m thinking Terry’s going to get tough and start making threats and tell me what kind of violence he’s going to wreak on me but he doesn’t
; he just lumbers forward and swings a fist and lands a punch on the side of my head. I stagger back and Terry blunders past me with the momentum.
I see Dave take a stance as Terry’s mates move in.
“Back off!” he says to them. Dave’s big and the others are scrawny little twats. They back off.
Terry’s smiling. Drool’s dribbling from the corner of his mouth. I can see ketchup or mustard or curry sauce stains on his Motorhead T-shirt. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Stanley knife, his fingers working the blade.
“About time somebody fucked you up, you cunt”, he says.
I can feel the blood surging through my veins, hot and thick and roiling. My ears are buzzing. I realise I’m grinding my teeth.
I know there’s only one thing to do, so I do it. I step forward and kick Terry in the balls as hard as I can. Time slows down in that instant and I’m perfectly aware that I can feel the resistance from his jeans and his zipper and then flesh and then bone… and I’m glad I’m wearing Doc Martens.
Terry doubles up and pukes on the pavement. It stinks. Alcohol and curry. He falls over, gasping for breath, moaning. I stand over him, fists clenched, muscles tense and taut like wire. I’m electric, I think, for some reason, music playing in my head.
I’m about to kick him in the face when Dave pulls me away.
Terry’s mates shuffle to one side, not knowing what to do as we walk past and join the girls, huddled together, looking scared.
We walk on. A car drives past, windows open, music pouring out into the night: “Ever Fallen in Love” by the Buzzcocks. And then it’s gone. Dave hands me a lit cigarette and I take it. His eyes are bright and gleaming and he’s smiling and I’m glad he’s there. I’m glad he’s my mate.
I need a drink.
The King's Shilling Page 7