‘I do happen to know the difference.’
‘So why do you insist on doing strange things all the time? All this shooting off for hours on end to God knows where, making outlandish and absurd accusations, making sandwiches and a flask of coffee at night, even.’ Her eyes softened. ‘Look, George, in spite of what you think, and in spite of what I said to you, I am worried about you. We all are.’
He studied her unblinking eyes intensely. ‘Like hell you do. Get out of my way, Amelia.’
She closed the door. ‘Wait…’ she said.
‘I’ve gotta go somewhere.’
She ran a hand through her hair, took in a deep, open-mouthed breath. ‘Look, there is more to all this. Stuff about mum and dad you don’t know…’
‘So why don’t you enlighten me?’
‘Because…’
‘Because?’
‘You want to know the truth about that Sylvia Tredwin woman? That harlot?’ Her eyes were suddenly twin cold spheres of marble.
‘She was no harlot. That’s all gossip.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Well maybe you’d like to believe that, build her up into something she isn’t, like a virginal Madonna. Pretty little Sylvia Tredwin. Harmless little Sylvia. Well I know better, George. She thought nothing of breaking up families. She was about to break ours up.’
He blinked, his lips mouthing words he didn’t say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She was planning on stealing away our father from his wife and child, that’s what she was doing.’
‘That’s absurd. Dad was a good ten years older than her.’
‘That’s the truth, George. I heard them arguing about it – mum and dad – late one night, in their bedroom. I was aged about twelve at the time, just about to turn thirteen. It was nearly a year after Sylvia Tredwin had been found. She was in hospital at the time, or some place where they tend to people with those kinds of emotional difficulties. Anyhow, I’m still at that age when it’s not nice listening to your parents fighting. A kid still, kind of terrified that they were going to split up.
‘Sure they tried to keep their voices down, but the walls here are pretty thin. I hated it when they argued, which seemed to be getting more often. So I got out of bed to see what was the matter, went to their door and was about to knock when I heard them talking about Sylvia Tredwin. Mum, at the time was heavily pregnant with you, eight months gone, and I heard her say to dad she didn’t want him to go, didn’t want him to leave her. She was angry with him, but mostly she couldn’t talk because she was in tears. He told her she was being ridiculous, it was her condition that was somehow affecting her. He had no plans to run away with Sylvia. Never had. She was being hysterical, as usual.
‘But you could hear it in her voice; she knew something had been going on. She told him he’d been seen with her, a couple of times, and he says it’s harmless and not what people think. And then the argument took different routes, like they do, dredging up stuff that had happened years ago. It came round to dad asking her how the hell she’d got pregnant when they both knew how bad it had been for her with me. It came out she said she allowed herself to get pregnant with you, in spite of the doctor’s warning, and all to hold onto him, to give him the son he always wanted. I guess, ultimately, because she thought he’d ignore Sylvia Tredwin and stay with her. Dad blew up like a volcano, accusing her of stupidity, jealousy and possessiveness. I heard him coming to the bedroom door so I scuttled back to my room. I heard him stomp across the landing, mum following him, sobbing like mad. Pleading.
‘That’s when I heard her scream and fall. The sound of something tumbling down the stairs. I dashed to my bedroom door, stood at the top of the landing. Mum was in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, dad kneeling down beside her. I was horrified, and for a second dad and me just stared at each other. Then I screamed, and dad told me to look after her, and he ran outside to the phone box – we didn’t have a phone in the house then – and he called for the ambulance. I stayed with mum. Her nightie was covered in blood.
‘They said they held out little chance for both mum and the baby – you. It had been a near thing before, giving birth to me, but the fall had made things far worse for her this time round. They said the baby at one point had been deprived of oxygen and that it’s brain might have been damaged, but in truth we were more concerned about her. She hung between life and death, and was very ill and weak for a long time afterwards. Things were never the same between mum and dad after that. The closeness had gone. Dad, I guess, always felt guilty about what happened to her, how he’d brought it all on. So he stayed with her. Anyhow, Sylvia Tredwin came back from hospital such a batty mess that it must have put an end to any sordid little affair they’d been having.’
So that’s all he’d been to his mother, George thought. Nothing more than a tool for her to hold onto her husband. An emotional snare with which to trap him, to keep him from Sylvia Tredwin. And that’s why his father had always hated him. The kid that bound him to a woman that maybe he didn’t love anymore. Amelia had simply absorbed that hatred towards him from her beloved father.
‘Dad would never have even looked at someone like Sylvia,’ he defended weakly. ‘Despite what he was like with me, he wasn’t that kind of man. It’s a lie. There has to be something more to all this.’
‘You didn’t know Sylvia like I did, George. I saw her in those days. She was young, leggy, very attractive, wasn’t afraid of showing herself off to the world. Dad was a normal, red-blooded male, flattered by her. It happened. Or something happened between them…’
He shook his head. ‘You love this, don’t you? Sinking more of your venom into me.’
‘I think you needed to know the truth, George. But sometimes the truth hurts. I know, because it hurts me. Look, you were starved of oxygen at birth. It did something to you, to your head that you can’t control. That’s why Cameron’s inside there. It’s not your fault. None of it is. But can’t you see how crazy you can be at times? Now you know why…’
He barged past her, opened the door. ‘Fuck you, Amelia. I’m not crazy.’
‘I didn’t say you were crazy, exactly, just mixed up.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said.
‘Tell me you don’t talk to Cameron still,’ she called to his back. He didn’t reply.
He was still fuming when he got in his car and gunned the engine. But by the time he arrived at the Tredwin place and pulled up outside, he’d pushed the brief altercation to the back of his mind. All his sister was doing was what she’d always done, and that was to make him feel inadequate, responsible for everything wrong that ever happened, crazy. He fought her words down like bile.
In its place was a rising excitement at seeing Amy again. He couldn’t explain it, but when he’d been in her company, even for that short amount of time, he had never felt so relaxed, so himself. And, what’s more, Cameron had stayed well out of the way, which made him feel a whole lot better about himself.
But he was also filled with mounting trepidation as he went round to the back door with his backpack containing the flask and box of sandwiches. What if she’d not believed him? Thought he’d immediately ring the police on getting home? What if she’d done a runner? The thought horrified him. He had to see her again.
‘Amy?’ he said, knocking politely at the back door as he slowly pushed it open. There wasn’t a reply and his heart sank. ‘Amy – you there? I brought you some things like I promised.
The candle wasn’t burning. The place was in complete darkness and under a deadening shroud of silence.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Amy, peering round the living room door frame and leaning on the architrave, folding her arms.
He sighed in relief, a little too loudly, he thought. ‘See, I brought you a flask of hot coffee and a few sandwiches.’ He held out the bag like a trophy.
‘What kind of sandwiches?’
‘Cheese,’ he replied. ‘Is that OK?’ He felt as nervous as a kid on a firs
t date.
‘What kind of cheese?’
‘Jesus, you’re picky! Cheddar.’
She nodded her approval, took the bag and went into the living room. She plonked the bag down, took a candle from a sideboard and placed it on a plate on a dusty coffee table. She lit it.
He was surprised how attractive she was. Her long dark hair framed a face that looked younger than its years, thought George. The candlelight painted dots of brilliance in the whites of her large eyes as she sat down on a sofa and began to take out the flask and box.
George looked about the room. There were still some bits of furniture left in the room, and a bookcase bearing a line of paperbacks. He rose and went over to it, pulled off a mildewed book and looked at its cover. It was an old thing – 1960s, he thought – the title in blood-red lettering, The Night of the Big Heat. He remembered the movie. An old science fiction thing from way back when. They’d been here all this time, he thought. Ever since he first came here as a kid.
‘Feel free to borrow one,’ said Amy, snapping open the box of sandwiches and setting about eating one with gusto. ‘Charges may apply if you’re late returning it,’ she said, crumbs dropping from her puffy red lips.
He put the book back on the shelf and pulled up a chair to sit on. He could smell the dust, and the cushions felt damp despite the warm summer weather.
‘Are they OK?’ he asked, watching her. She nodded. It was obvious she hadn’t eaten properly in a long while, the sandwiches soon disappearing. She poured herself a coffee. ‘I half expected you to have disappeared.’
‘I did consider it. I thought you might shop me to the police,’ she said. ‘I packed what little I have and made a dash for it as soon as you left. But after a while I thought better of it and came back.’
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘You don’t strike me as being that kind of guy. You sounded OK. And it seems you are.’
It was the first time in ages anyone had had anything good to say about him. He felt himself swell with the compliment. ‘I can get you more food,’ he said.
‘This is fine for now,’ she returned, holding the plastic mug of coffee up in salute.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’
‘After a while she said, ‘So you like books?’ She indicated the bookshelves with a quick nod.
‘I write them,’ he said proudly.
‘Really? I’ve never met a real author before. What do you write?’
He lowered his head fractionally in embarrassment. ‘We’re just like normal people,’ he said. ‘Same kinds of worries and things. I write…’ He thought about it. ‘I’m thinking about a change of direction. Something a bit more meaningful.’ He expected Cameron to have something to say about that, but strangely he remained silent, as if he’d left his head entirely. George felt unaccountably relieved. ‘Yes, I’m starting a new chapter in my life, that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Good for you,’ she said. Her eyes studied the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Whose funeral was it?’ she asked.
George noticed how her voice changed. A hint of emotion in it.
‘My father’s.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No need to be. Him and me, we just didn’t get on. I’d prefer it if they were all dead, every last one of my family. I’d do the deed myself if I had the courage.’ Then he realised what he’d said and smiled an apology.
‘That’s so harsh. And sad.’ Her tone was genuine. ‘You know, the only thing worse than having a family is not having one.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he dismissed. ‘So what were you doing there? At the church. Funerals aren’t exactly fun things to be around.’
She placed the cup on the table, twirled it round. ‘I was twelve when they buried my dad. I loved him to bits. I guess that’s when it all started to go downhill, for mother, for me. I miss him terribly. He was like a rock to me. You know, like one of those big rocks they build lighthouses on? Even the strongest seas can’t wash it away. But my dad was washed away. Nothing could stop that.’ She looked at him, smiled wanly. ‘I guess it hurts me to see other people hurt. Your father’s funeral reminded me of my own father’s, I guess.’
‘You said it went downhill after he died. How’d you mean?’ He was being sucked into those eyes, could feel himself being absorbed by them.
‘I was never very good after that. I didn’t handle it well. Depression, tablets, bad behaviour, finally shoplifting… Spent most of my youth in one kind of centre or another for off-the-rails delinquents. Got into more trouble when I got older. I spent time behind bars once. Briefly.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Naughty girl, eh?’
‘Is that why you’re living rough? Are you on the run from somewhere?’
She smiled, but it was a thin affair. ‘I’ve told you enough already. I don’t get why you have that effect on me. Maybe it’s because you’re a writer and I’m star struck.’
‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘That would be a first. Nobody’s ever been star struck by me.’
‘You say it like you feel nobody likes you.’
‘Do I? I didn’t mean to. I hate feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Surely there must be someone.’
He shook his head. ‘Just me, and I don’t like me either.’
‘Seems we’re two of a kind, huh?’ she said.
He smiled warmly at her. ‘You know, maybe we are.’
And still Cameron remained unaccountably quiet.
23
Imagined
It was after midnight when George finally arrived home. His mind was buzzing with recollections of his time with Amy. He could not describe what was happening to him. He’d never felt anything remotely like this for anyone. It was as if the woman – a woman who had been a complete stranger but a few hours ago – had kick-started a throbbing desire to live life again, like a monstrous, vibrant, powerful engine that he wanted to let roar. He lay in bed that night, hardly able to sleep, like a kid on Christmas Eve awaiting Santa Claus. The barbs of his sister’s words and their implications were removed, and he felt as if he were floating in a pool of inexplicable elation, warm and comforting.
When he woke up the sunlight was streaming in through the thin curtains, lighting up his old bedroom with a bright, cheery glow he’d never really noticed before. His first thought was of Amy and how he’d like to see her again.
This is ridiculous, he told himself. She came from God knows where, and on the run from God knows what. She might not be who he thinks she is. She might be a damned murderer for all he knew.
But he loved her!
He was surprised at his admission. Can you fall in love so fast, so wholly? It was an alien experience for him, but he could not deny that it was like a drug rushing though his system, making every inch of his being fizz with excitement, aching and longing.
He looked at his bedside clock. 12.20 p.m. Christ, he’d slept in longer than he’d anticipated. But he felt good for it, he thought. As he sat on the edge of his bed, threading his legs into his trousers, there was a light knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he said, quickly zipping up the fly.
His mother poked her head around the corner of the door. ‘Good morning, George,’ she said, her voice the equivalent of someone testing how cold the water was with the tip of a toe. ‘Did you sleep well?’
He regarded her with mounting trepidation that wiped the edge off his good humour. ‘Sure,’ he said, turning away from her to get his shirt.
‘A parcel came for you this morning,’ she said, handing him a Jiffy Bag.
He took it, glancing at the postmark. It had to contain the Sylvia Tredwin tapes sent by Patricia Talbot, he thought. ‘Thanks.’
‘George…’ she said.
‘Yes?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing. Nothing, really. I… we’d like to have a word with you, when you come downstairs.’
‘We?’
‘The family. Your Uncle Gary and Robert are her
e.’
‘What for? What do you need to talk to me about?’
She maintained the warm but decidedly forced smile. ‘Oh, just a few things. When you’re ready.’
Puzzled, he finished getting dressed and ripped open the packet. There were two audio tapes inside – the old-fashioned kind, the sort he used to use to record stuff from the radio when he was a kid. There were no markings on them, no letter or other information included with them. Looking for somewhere safe to put them, he slipped the tape-cassettes into his coat pocket that he’d slung over the back of a chair in the bedroom, thinking about how he might play them. Tapes had gone out of fashion a while ago. He thought he remembered seeing an old hi-fi unit up in his father’s loft. That had a tape deck. He wondered whether it still worked or not.
He went downstairs to the kitchen. Sat around the table were his mother, both his uncles, and Amelia.
‘What’s all this, the Spanish Inquisition?’ He didn’t smile or even acknowledge them properly. He went to a cupboard and took out a box of cereals.
‘George, I think it’s time we all sat down and talked,’ said his Uncle Robert.
George swung the fridge door open, grabbing the milk. ‘Go ahead, talk, I’m not stopping you.’
‘With you, George,’ said Amelia.
‘I’ve said all I’m going to say to you, sis,’ he returned abruptly. He saw his mother and Uncle Gary exchanging glances.
‘We’re worried about you,’ Gary ventured. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Well there’s no need to be worried,’ George said, feeling himself getting all heated up inside, though he tried to tamp it down. ‘I’m perfectly fine. In fact I’ve never felt better. I’ve met someone…’ It slipped out before he had chance to even think about it.
‘His mother said, ‘What do you mean you’ve met someone?’
He turned and faced them all. Their four faces stared at him like a bank of lights in a football stadium. ‘A woman. I’ve met a woman. I like her. I like her a lot.’
‘What, back home?’ his mother said. ‘You never told me.’
FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) Page 19