With a smile she dismissed the group of women she was chatting with and stepped back to talk to me.
‘Daniel.’ Ridiculous, I know, but I still get a thrill from hearing her say my name. ‘You’re out, then.’
‘Just getting some shopping for Dad. Haven’t seen you since the business at the exhibition.’
‘Yes, well. I spent some time with Michael while you…’
‘Were in prison.’
‘He seemed really well. He enjoyed himself so much with the comings and goings of the weekend. It was being with people again, I think. It brought out the best in him. It was an amazing night. So nice to see Michael at the centre of everything again. And the paintings looked incredible. I didn’t know if I could bear to see them again, but the truth needed to be told, didn’t it? That’s what those paintings were about: understanding. It’s just a shame you don’t understand any of it, do you?’
The women she had been talking to had not moved away. They stood as a group at my shoulder and watched us talk. Then one of them leant over to whisper something to Sarah. She did not look at me. Sarah nodded and the woman touched her arm before taking her place back with the other women in the audience.
‘Maybe you could explain to me,’ I said. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea? I was just heading back now. Dad would be pleased to see you.’
‘I can’t right now. We’ve got some things still to do.’ She gestured to the waiting women. One of them smiled at her. ‘I’ll get in touch with Maggie and sort something out for later in the week.’
‘You scared to be alone with me too?’
She paused and then looked straight into my face for the first time.
‘Yes, Daniel. Of course I am. And don’t look so surprised. I’d have to be stupid not to be terrified, wouldn’t I?’
The women closed around her in a single movement and Sarah was gone.
I don’t know how I got home, but I made it. Dad was hollering about something and pulling at the dressing the nurse put on his arm the other day. Tatty was fussing to go out. I ignored them both and headed for the whisky crate. Half a bottle down and I’m feeling much more peaceful.
All I tried to do was love them, Mab.
Daniel
20th April
The police station
Dear Aubrey –
They’ve been letting me check in over the phone since the trouble over my letter to Alice. I fed them a line about Dad needing me at home. But I guess I overplayed it, because they insisted I come in person today. I’m waiting to be seen. It seems there is to be another interview. I was hoping it would be a case of signing or stamping something and then sending me home. I can’t think that I’ve done anything wrong, but then I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong before. I’ve certainly not made any contact with Alice. I’m not sure whether that’s due to fear of the police or fear of Mab, but it’s kept me safe.
It’s truly horrible to be back here at the site of all my unhappiness. Not that anyone else is happy to be here either. They’ve sat me next to a small reception desk on a plastic upholstered chair. There is a policeman behind the desk, studiously avoiding eye contact and occasionally answering the phone. Every now and then someone is brought to be booked in and they either stand with their head hanging while the policemen chat and jolly the odd word out of them, or they kick and swear and the police hold them down and grimace. Those I class as the drunks, but it may be drugs. One girl stood and just cried; she kept repeating ‘I’ll never do it again’ over and over. She looked very young. Another woman broke all my rules by laughing and joking with the man behind the desk and her arresting officers. I classed her a regular. She seemed to know everyone and peered curiously at me. I was glad to be out of place in her world. She looked filthy. She even asked my name. I was tempted to give yours.
(Later)
There is talk of further evidence and proceeding investigations. I am instructed to keep to the house as much as possible and avoiding talking to or disturbing anyone who might be considered a witness. I must say they are very good-natured about the whole thing. I forget of course that this is just their job; they don’t actually hate me. But I do wish they’d stop accusing me.
It felt too strange to just leave and go home, so I came back here to my chair by the reception desk. It seems right to be a part of the passing traffic. At least no one here will be called at my trial. My trial. It still doesn’t seem real. I can’t talk to her, but maybe you can do something about Alice? Her address and her number are on file. The records are a little patchy, but if you find anything missing just let me know. Yes, I held on to a couple of pages of notes. Just as you suspected. But I couldn’t bear sharing her at the time. I was stupid. Now are you happy? Now will you help me?
I just want to know what she thinks she’s doing to me. Oh, I don’t know. You’re always telling me you can change anything you put your mind to. Well, now is definitely the time to prove it. Go to her house if you need to. You can play the concerned shrink. Just convince her to drop the charges and – if you can – to get in touch with me. If you think about it, this situation is as bad for you and the business as it is for me. We need to take some action. I can’t do anything from here without them threatening to lock me up again. So it’s up to you, Aubrey.
I don’t mean to teach you – your own methods always seem surprisingly effective – but if I were you I would go with the sympathetic line. I tried confronting her in my letter and she reported me to the police. Don’t underestimate her. You’ll be tempted to do that when you see her house. It’s all Arts and Crafts: mismatched second-hand furniture and hand-painted details on the shelves and skirting boards. Can you believe I ever thought that kind of nonsense was charming? It all just seemed so comfortable and feminine. I think there might be a housemate, but I never met her. Maybe she’s responsible for the touches around the house, but I doubt it. The whole place reeks of Alice.
Oh, Aubrey, is there any hope for me? All I ever did was try to love her. Just as I loved Sarah.
Do your best for me.
Daniel
21st April
The Studio
Dear Mab –
Why haven’t you written to me? Did I not manage to sound desperate enough in my last letter? Also, we are running low on funds. I tried to contact Claggy about the portrait sales, but I can’t get past her assistant. Surely there must be some serious money coming our way? Or should I say your way? I suppose I’m out of the picture now I’m the accused.
Dad’s not doing too well at the moment. I’m worried that we might have a recurrence of the urine infection. He’s not acting crazy or anything, he just seems quiet and out of sorts. He and Tatty sleep all day. I don’t have the energy to keep him up. The problem is, he’s then up all night, knocking about in the dark. I’ve made sure the doors are all locked and bolted before I go to bed. I keep the keys in my room. There’s no chance of him getting out into the street. Still, it’s quite unnerving coming downstairs in the morning. He’s usually broken something or hurt himself. And then he goes to sleep in the most unlikely places. I found him curled up in a pile of washing this morning with Tatty tucked in at his belly.
I guess I haven’t been the best son lately. My own problems have been so overwhelming I don’t seem to have anything left over to give him. There has been no word from Maggie or Sarah, despite their promises to call. We are so isolated here. So completely alone. I could do with some help. And the whisky supply is running low.
Daniel
30th April
The Studio
Dear Dad –
You’ll probably never read this letter. You’re in hospital. They’ve warned me you’re not likely to return. It seems I’ve let you down. It’s strange here. Maggie took Tatty away, so it’s just me and the walls.
Mab wrote to me at last. She might be there with you on the ward now. She told me not to write to Freya any more. I’ve only sent silly little letters to her from Tatty. Well, you know all about them; you wa
tched me write them. I knew she would love that dog. I am not to contact Mab either. The women have closed me off and left me behind.
I can’t return to Manchester. It doesn’t seem right while you’re still here. Alive, if not kicking. That’s more or less what the nurse told me over the phone. I pretended to be your nephew; I wasn’t sure whether they’d let me know anything if I gave my real name. I am too disgraceful to deserve any information.
There is too much light. I’ve drawn the curtains, but it creeps through and squats on the rug. Impossible to ignore. It’s this damn spring, bringing more hours of daylight every day. I am much happier in a gloom, both figurative and literal. I wait until dark before leaving the house. Thank goodness for the late-night shop under the bridge. And the bored exchange of girls behind the counter. That’s where I get the papers. I suppose I should ignore them – it was inevitable that someone would pick up the story – but I don’t see why they had to drag your name into it. None of them is above the intrusion. There’s this from the local rag:
Not a Pretty Picture: Laird Family Rape Allegations
The son of famous artist Michael Laird was arrested earlier this month following his father’s triumphant comeback exhibition.
Charges of rape and harassment were levelled at Daniel Laird following complaints from an unnamed source. Sources suggest that these alleged crimes took place in Greater Manchester, in which area he had previously resided. Thanks to publicity for his father’s PORTRAITS showcase, police were able to track Laird and conduct the arrest.
Laird, since released on bail, was born and schooled in Upchurch. He was described by Mr J. Hunting of Upchurch High School as a ‘large, awkward boy’ who ‘kept himself to himself’. Not much is known of his movements since his return to the area, though rumours suggest that several other women have come forward since Laird’s arrest was made public.
The Laird family are keen to distance themselves from possible scandal. Michael Laird was too unwell to comment, but Mabel Laird (the artist’s daughter from his first marriage) pleaded for ‘privacy at this difficult time’.
Nice to hear that things are difficult for Mab. No real mention of what it’s like to play the monster of the piece. Well, it’s not much fun, let me tell you. And the picture they included is far from flattering. I suppose they could have used one of your portraits of me. One should be grateful for small mercies.
I’m drinking too much. I’m finishing off what’s left of the whisky. And I don’t have your excuse. I’m perfectly aware of my actions. I know how tragic my situation is. In fact, I’m even guilty of enjoying it. I can see it as the opening scene of a movie: the camera panning from the drawn curtains to the man in his chair. A glass by his side, smeared with greasy fingerprints. The man is unshaven and his clothing creased. When he’s not writing on the pad of paper in front of him, he stares forward and his lips move. The changes of expression suggest he’s rehearsing some conversation. Some argument he cannot win. I’ve dabbled with the idea of a soundtrack, maybe something classical and baroque, but I don’t think it’s necessary. The set-up is clichéd enough without music. Let the viewer struggle to make out what the man is saying and what he is writing. Let them be content with the small shuffle of pen and cuff against paper.
Not much of a beginning, but I must be content with the cards I have been dealt. I have to make the best of things, isn’t that what Maggie would say? Do you know what she left me, as a house-leaving gift, when she came to get Tatty. A cyclamen. It’s sitting next to me now. Dark red blooms with sharp waxy leaves, balanced on an open hand of rounded stems. I considered using it as an ashtray, but I couldn’t bring myself to stub out my cigarette in the soil. It will die soon, I’m sure – there’s not enough light in here – but for the moment it is healthy and fresh. I’ve even watered it a couple of times on my way back from the bathroom. An unlikely pool of life in this dour room, and my only companion.
Maybe a plant is a safer pet for me than Tatty, but I miss the excuse to take a walk. There is nothing more anonymous than a man with a dog. I miss you too, of course, but Maggie was right. I wasn’t taking care of either of you in the right way. I must learn to accept my punishment. It may not be long until they put me back in a prison cell. I suppose I should get used to solitary.
The new complaints to the police. They haven’t told me, but it has become pretty clear where they’re coming from. Another gift from Maggie was to give me Sarah’s name. The betrayal was overwhelming. To claim that our night together all those years ago was anything but the fulfilment of both our desires. And to think she carried such hatred and bitterness towards me. I am so stupid. When I first came back here, it was you I was afraid of, but, all the while, lies were breeding in the minds of those I thought to love. Despite all my research and work, I played the game wrong. Another punishment to shoulder.
Mab was very strange in her letter. There was more written there than the simple order against contact. She managed to destroy not only our future relationship, but our history as well. I don’t understand any of it. She said that she was forced to go into league with Aubrey to get rid of me when I turned up in Corsica. She even claimed to have paid him to keep me ‘safe’ – whatever that means. Now he’s proved himself unable to complete that one task, their understanding is at an end. According to Mab, I don’t have a job to go back to. And I don’t have her to run to. I have nowhere else to be. Nowhere else where I am welcome. This room is my only refuge. So I must sit in it alone and learn to be grateful.
(Later)
I walked to the shop under the bridge. The girl behind the counter smiled at me and said hello as I walked in. Obviously not a big reader. I just went in to pick up a couple of TV dinners; I had to ask for the bottle of whisky.
‘Big night?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was a joke. A bad joke.’
They were the first words I’d spoken aloud for five days. I’m sorry. And I’d chosen to share them with the girl with the bad haircut and bitten nails who was scanning my macaroni cheese. Maybe I should settle down with her, I thought. Maybe if I could just make her smile again, then we could start to chat and she could tell me about her family and her troubles. We could hold hands over the counter. Exchange chaste kisses while people browsed for their breakfast cereal and emergency pints of milk, separating only when they came to the till. They’d smile on us – the passing custom – and think us oh so sweet. I’d bring her presents. Maybe some kind of capsicum pepper solution to paint her nails with. Thoughtful things, wrapped up in bright paper.
‘I just love to watch your face when you open them,’ I’d say.
‘You shouldn’t spoil me.’
But I would spoil her. I’d bring her chocolates and homemade peppermint creams – to keep her blood sugar up on the long night-shift. On our weekly anniversary, I’d play at being the customer and she’d tell her joke and I’d laugh and give her red roses, one for every day I’d known her. It would be beautiful.
This was what I was thinking as I walked home in the dark. I was forgetting to keep to my urban fox route, in the shadows. And that was when I met Maggie. She tried to ignore me at first, I think. But I called out to her and asked her how you were doing.
‘He broke his hip. He’s still in the hospital, what do you think? And where you should be, if anybody thought to ask me, is by his bedside like a proper son. You need to start acting right, Danny. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Mab won’t let me be there.’
‘And when have you ever listened to that sister of yours? And whose fault is it that the poor man is in that bed in the first place? When I think of what you put him through, with me round the corner and just a phone call away. Sweet Jesus, I’m so angry I can’t even look at you.
‘And here you are. Look at the state of you. You look and smell like you’ve slept in those clothes. And you are not one of those men who can wear a beard. I’ve told you. Is that what you’ve been doing back there, w
allowing in self-pity? Well, I tell you, there are more people out there deserving of your pity and some of them not so far away.’
They say:
I didn’t take care of you.
It was my fault you fell.
Without Tatty’s bark and howl, they would never have known you lay on the bathroom floor. The neighbour would never have found you with your face pressed against the break in the lino, your breath shallow and faint. You were still trying to pull the pair of clean dress trousers over the split catheter bag, over your shattered hip. I don’t know where you could have found them.
They found empty bottles around the bottom of my chair and no food in the fridge.
No one could wake me – not even the ambulance men – to tell me what had happened to you. When they tried, I got abusive. They left me a note and let me sleep it off.
There were marks on your body. Cuts, abrasions, bruises and sores. There was a dark, angry rash on your lower leg where the urine had soaked into your skin.
They had to cut Tatty’s fur to get the filth out. Special solvent and special food had to be bought to get her back to her normal self.
I should be prosecuted.
I should be in prison.
You wouldn’t treat a dog that way.
I shouldn’t have treated a dog that way.
I say:
I seem to have lost myself somewhere in everyone else’s opinion.
I have only ever tried to do my best. To be the best man I could be. The best son, the best brother, the best lover, the best friend. I have never managed to be the best at anything.
I misjudged you. You were the one I should have turned to. You were the only one who could have understood me.
I lose everything that I love.
How You See Me Page 15