The English Boys

by Julia Thomas

  Daniel followed Carey through the house, ready to bolt. They went out the back door and saw the two girls sitting in the grass. Emma was older than he’d imagined, even at ten; somehow the image of a six- or seven-year-old child had rooted itself in his subconscious. A ten-year-old was another matter. She was more youth than child, with a face that looked wise beyond her years. Surely that had to do with being raised by parents of a mature age rather than knowing the circumstances of her conception and birth.

  Emma stood when she saw Carey and started toward them. As she approached, he took in every detail, scrutinizing Emma for similarities to her mother. Unfortunately, there were few. She was taller than he had expected. She had beautiful dark hair and flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Daniel almost felt that he had seen those eyes before, but he couldn’t remember where. Her mother’s eyes had been as brown as a loch in autumn. He noticed her pink patterned cardigan and the heart on the end of a thin silver chain around her neck. Her hands were her mother’s, in miniature, and she wore plastic rings on her fingers. When she reached them, she threw her arms around her aunt.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, never taking her eyes off Daniel.

  He tried to smile. “Hello there.”

  “I know who you are,” Emma said. “My friend Laura’s big sister has your picture on her wall.”

  He flushed at the comment, once again regretting his choice of career and the ridiculous manifestations of it that sprang up at the most uncomfortable of moments. Architects or butchers didn’t have their faces splashed across the pages in Hello! magazine.

  “This is Daniel,” Carey said, taking things in hand. “He’s my friend. Say hello properly.”

  “Hello, Daniel.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Emma. I’m sorry we’ve interrupted your … ” He paused, not having any idea of how to talk to a ten-year-old.

  “That’s all right,” she answered. She looked up at Carey, her affection obvious. “Are we going home early?”

  “If you like. I decided to come home for the weekend. You can stay with Marina, if you’d rather, and come to the house later.”

  “Will you be doing lots of grown-up things?”

  Daniel tried to imagine what she was talking about. Pubs, perhaps, or shopping? Or maybe she meant spending time with him instead of with her niece, as though he were a proper guest who needed to be entertained.

  “Probably.”

  The girl shrugged. “I’ll come with you.”

  “That sounds good, darling.” Carey planted a kiss on the top of her head.

  They watched her turn and go back to her friend. A few minutes later, the three of them got into the car and headed back to the Burkes’.

  “Did your mother keep Tamsyn’s room after she moved out, or has she turned it into Emma’s?” Daniel asked after they pulled up in front of the house and Emma ran inside.

  “She kept it, actually.”

  “Really? I’d like to see it, if that’s all right.”

  “You might as well,” she answered. “We have no secrets now.”

  They went upstairs to the first floor, and then up another narrow staircase to the top of the house. Daniel hadn’t expected to find that Tamsyn’s childhood room still existed, and he steeled himself as Carey reached for the knob on the old door, its blue paint peeling in places. This was it, the last of her, he thought. This was all that was left of Tamsyn Burke. The skirts and jeans she’d left behind at Hugh’s weren’t a permanent part of her, but this room, where she’d gazed out to make wishes on stars when she was a child, held, he was certain, the magic that made her who she was. And then something darker occurred to him; it was also the place where she’d faced her crucible after the rape, the place where she was when everything in her life changed forever. He knew the second the door opened that Miranda Burke had kept Emma because of her undying love for her eldest child, even though it would in the end make them strangers.

  He followed Carey into the room, the floorboards groaning under his feet. She turned on a lamp, and he could see that the room seemed older than the rest of the house, perhaps because it had been suspended in time. There were cobwebs in the corner and a thin film of dust on the furniture. It had been cleaned, but not for a few months. The posters on the wall bore fading images of Green Day and The Killers and a hard-looking Victoria Beckham who stared into the room with piercing eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Carey asked. She was holding a doll, smoothing the ruffles of the dress thoughtfully.

  “Are you?” he countered. He looked around for a few minutes, reluctant to touch anything in this unfamiliar, girlish environment.

  “What’s this?” he asked, picking up a thick book with a cover of green Chinese silk and a bookmark that appeared to have been made from a dandelion stem.

  “Her diary,” Carey answered.

  Daniel paused, the book held aloft. He was unaccustomed to things like diaries. Neither he nor his brother had been interested in recording the minutiae of their ordinary existence, but girls, he knew, were different. They seized upon nuances and ideals and trains of thought, desperate to chronicle it to make sense of their daily lives. He turned it over, examining the front and back. There was a water mark in one corner, and bent pages.

  The dandelion stem had left a pale green stain dried upon the paper. Had she meant it to be a fanciful hex against the interference of fairies and elves? He didn’t dare read it, not with Carey observing his every move. After a few moments, he held it out to her, wondering if Tamsyn had written about the rape or the pregnancy, or about her decision to leave her child in the care of her parents and start over in London.

  Carey hesitated and then took it from him, holding it between her palms. He turned and went over to the window. The street below was silent; everyone was settled in their homes, thinking about that night’s lamb or takeaway curry, reading the newspaper, watching the telly. He wished he were in one of those houses, safely tucked away, reading a book or going into the kitchen to stir a pot next to a pregnant wife, tasting the stew and teasing her by adding pepper. Anything but standing here, thinking about this, aching from the reality of it all.

  “This one was the last—” Carey started.

  She left the statement unfinished. Then he realized what she said.

  “This one,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “So, there are others.”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  “Good God!” he cried. “Have you read them?”

  “Of course not. They’re private!”

  “Nothing’s private after a murder! What about your mother? Has she?”

  “I don’t think so. She rarely comes up here. It makes her unhappy.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “In the desk drawer, on the left.”

  Daniel walked over and pulled the drawer open, revealing four other similar Chinese silk–bound notebooks in various stages of disrepair. He thumbed open one of the covers and saw that it was marked “#3.” A short glance at them all showed they were numbered in order, all written in a girlish scrawl he recognized as hers.

  He put them back where he’d found them, unopened, and turned to Carey. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think it will tell us anything that would have to do with her death? I mean, that would be pretty unlikely, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it would.”

  “But I wonder … ”

  “What?”

  “Well, some of the people at the wedding knew her when she was writing these. Certainly Nick and Ciaran Monaghan and some of the bridesmaids. Do you think anyone might have harbored some sort of grudge for so many years?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Carey sat down on the edge of the bed and he sat next to her.
Without a word, she handed him the last journal. “Go ahead and look through it. But I don’t want to right now unless there’s something you think I need to know.”

  She stood and went over to the wardrobe and began looking through a trinket box, examining the small collection of rings and bracelets and lonely charms. “Emma might like some of this,” she said, pouring it out onto the desk for a better look. “She’s not allowed in here.”

  Daniel held the book unopened. “Are you sure it’s all right?” he asked.

  Carey sighed. “No, I’m not sure. That’s why I don’t want to do it myself. It’s too much like a post-mortem.”

  Something in her tone made him think of the quote on Shakespeare’s grave: Blest be the man that spares these stones / And curst be he that moves my bones. A shudder went down his spine. Sighing, he turned the fat little book over in his hands and then opened the cover. “#5” was written inside. No other name or marking was made there. No “This is the property of Tamsyn Burke,” or “Keep Out,” or “For My Eyes Only.” No, she had made no safeguard against prying eyes. Somewhat relieved, he turned to the first page.

  Twenty-Seven

  No doubt Tamsyn’s handwriting had spurred many a teacher to lecture her on its illegibility. If it hadn’t been so familiar, Daniel would have given up. He thumbed through the diary and saw that she had written on both sides of each page and had filled them as full as possible. He went back to the beginning and began to read.

  March 12

  I told Ciaran he couldn’t come round tomorrow, but he will anyway. He always does. I think I like it, even though I don’t want him to know it. He usually just wants to talk. He asks so many questions. Serious stuff. About life and if I believe in heaven and things like that. I’m not sure what to say sometimes, so I just don’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to mind. I like that about him.

  March 15

  Tomorrow is my birthday. Mum is making sponge cake, which in no bleeding way is a proper birthday cake, and Aunt Lynne and Uncle Brian are coming over with the monsters. I wish I could skip it and go to London for the day. Cara B. says they have the best shops in the world. Not that I would want her sort of clothes, but I bet I could find some really fab things. Too bad Mum would never let me …

  March 18

  Boring birthday as usual. Carey fell and almost broke her arm, which ruined everything. And Nick followed us everywhere we went. Boring, boring, boring!

  April 3

  Too busy to write lately. Besides, who wants to write when you could spend the time kissing Damian Jones.

  April 8

  Forget Damian Jones. Wanker.

  April 9

  I think I spoke too soon.

  April 9

  No, I didn’t.

  April 11

  Mrs. Cadogan said she liked my poetry today. Always liked Mrs. Cadogan.

  April 12

  I took a walk this afternoon and found a good tree to sit under to write poems. Good, interesting stuff, like Emily Dickinson, who we are discussing at school. Too bad mine all turned out complete crap. Mrs. Cadogan must be wrong. They sounded fake and silly. Maybe I’m trying too hard. Or maybe I’m just no fucking good.

  April 13

  Now I know I’m no good, because Ciaran liked my poems. I told him to read Emily Dickinson and he would see what I mean. He said he would never read Emily Wanking Dickinson. We laughed until he snorted Orangina out his nose. He looked like a human juice squeezer. I’ll never drink Orangina again.

  April 21

  It’s Thursday and I want fish and chips. Greasy, gooey ones with vinegar.

  April 24

  I like how Emily Dickinson’s poems are so pretty. I just don’t understand why some of them don’t rhyme. Roof and laugh aren’t even close. But I do so like to think of rain dropping on things, and how there must be plenty of apples for everyone and the air is cool and fall has arrived. Her poems make me feel things.

  April 26

  Hannah had a new jacket today and I want one just like it. It was black leather, but not fat and ugly. It was thin and short and she wore it over a green tartan skirt with boots and it didn’t even look stupid. Christ, how I want to go to London.

  April 26

  Maybe I should ask Dad to buy me one. He might even say yes.

  April 27

  Nick’s family came over for dinner. I asked Mum if I could go to Diana’s to get out of it, but she said no. We were forced to listen to Mr. Oliver’s snorty laugh and Mrs. Oliver sat there like a stone. Why don’t we know any cool people? Are there any cool people in Wales?

  April 28

  The Killers are playing at Glastonbury next month. I wish I could go! Brandon Flowers is BEAUTIFUL.

  April 29

  Ciaran says we should just hop a train and sneak over there. I would DIE if I could go to that concert!

  April 30

  I am SO ready for the holidays. I hate school, especially History. I can’t believe I’ve lived through nearly an entire year of dreary Mr. Percy droning on and on about “Britain Through the Ages.” Dull, dull. Mrs. Cadogan did pull me aside though and recommended that I read some T.S. Eliot when I have a chance. Or is it Elliott? I can never remember. She loaned me a book and told me to bring it back next fall. He was weird, though. An American who liked to think he was British, or something like that.

  In Virginia Woolf’s chummy little club. Maybe I should look that up.

  May 1

  It’s Saturday. What wonderful things does this day hold?

  May 1

  Well, evidently nothing. I had to help Mum with the shopping. Her back was out again. Why isn’t Carey big enough to help with anything? They treat her like a baby.

  May 3

  I bicycled down to the pier by myself this morning. It was cold and no one else was there. I like to walk down to the end and stand where I can’t see anything of the promenade or the town, just the sea. It stretches out forever. I’ll cross it one day and go somewhere special, like New York. LIFE is on the other side of that sea. And even though it’s cold as hell, I like it best when I have the entire place to myself. It makes me feel lucky. Anyone could enjoy it, but no one else does. Just me.

  May 4

  I took a look at the Eliot book that Mrs. Cadogan gave me. It’s WEIRD. Weird, weird, weird. I don’t understand the title, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

  Where did the name Prufrock come from? And drugged patients on the table? The words he uses are so creepy, like muttering and licked and insidious (I looked it up). It gives me tingles. I don’t know if I like it or not.

  May 8

  I’ve been too busy to write. For ONCE, we actually did something great. We went to Cardiff for the weekend, and I got to pick out some new clothes! I got the greatest pair of boots! Tall ones with a buckle around the ankle. SO cute! I love them. A few ordinary things Mum made me get, but I also got a leather jacket that is even better than Hannah’s. It’s so sophisticated and grown-up, like a picture in Vogue magazine. I LOVE

  shopping!

  May 10

  Ciaran met me at the graveyard at St. Hilary’s and we read some of Eliot’s poems. Well, I did. Ciaran mostly sat back against the headstones and listened and smoked cigarettes. But he couldn’t really talk about them. I don’t think he likes Eliot. I’m not sure I do, either. I think I want to find another poet I like as much as Emily Dickinson.

  May 16

  Carey lost my favorite pen, stupid cow. Little sisters are the pits.

  May 17

  Mum and Dad had a row today. It wasn’t loud or anything, but they were cross with each other all day, not speaking. Old people are stupid. I’ll never pout about anything when I grow up.

  May 20

  Hannah and I went to see the new Harry Potter at the movies today. I hate Hermione’
s hair, but it was a good, scary, fun movie and Hannah screamed a lot. She’s a baby. I didn’t scream at all.

  May 21

  I want a boyfriend. So, here’s my perfect man: Tall, handsome, smart, reads Emily Dickinson, sexy (of course), and hair like Rufus Sewell. In fact, I’ll take Rufus Sewell. Too bad there’s no one like that in real life.

  June 1

  Life is over. Shit. SHIT.

  June 10

  Two will suffer. One will die.

  Daniel started, nearly dropping the book. Was she implying that she knew who had raped her, upon whom she would exact a deadly revenge?

  He went to the window and pulled back the curtains. Small white pom-poms had been sewn along the edge of the gingham by a childish hand, probably Tamsyn’s. He looked down onto the yard, where he saw Carey sitting with Emma. Carey was listening to the girl, who was animatedly telling a story. She wasn’t to know that her unexpected visit to Marina’s had been due to his arrival; or, in fact, his insistence at coming along to find out more about Tamsyn. Well, he had achieved that, he thought, and in the process created more pain for Carey and her family.

  Looking back down at the page, he saw a final entry a few pages later, without a date:

  I’ll find those bastards, and I’ll take care of both of them.

  That’s the way it’s going to be.

  Disconcerted, he closed the diary and put it in the drawer with the others. The world, as he knew it, had changed, even though the appearance of things remained the same. He knew things about Tamsyn now, things even Hugh didn’t know. Should he tell him? Certainly not when his friend was grieving, but later, when the shock had passed?

  Daniel glanced around the room one last time, to memorize it, perhaps, wishing he had never come. Victoria Beckham’s sly smile caught his eye once again and he walked over to the poster. The edges were curling from the decade or more that it had been taped to the door, and he ran a finger along the edge of the poster where it puckered. It looked as if something had been tucked behind it.

  “What are you hiding, Victoria?” he murmured to himself.