‘I’m going back to work,’ he said, as the window went down. ‘Hanging in, like you said. See you tea-time.’
I stared. He’d found me crouched in a cow field crying and he knew I was demented with worry about our son, not to mention that he knew Angelo was in all kinds of pain and trouble too, but he was going back to work? On the other hand it suited me. I didn’t want him listening in when I talked to Angelo. I nodded and turned to put my key in the door.
He was lying on his bed. Of course. The same trackie bums and baggy sweatshirt he’d worn all weekend. Earbuds in, curtains closed, the little room fugged with his sweat and farts and the snacks he’d been living on. For once, I said nothing. I’d rather live with my head in his armpit than have him sitting in a hospital, silent for decades.
‘Hiya,’ I said, sitting.
He plucked out one of the earbuds and regarded me stonily. ‘Your turn, is it?’ he said. ‘Dad’s already been in and had a go at me.’
‘I want to talk to you.’ I ignored the eye-roll. ‘I need to hear what happened, Angelo.’ I ignored the sigh that was almost a groan. ‘I know what you said about the day at the Mercat Cross isn’t the . . .’ truth, I wanted to say ‘. . . whole story,’ I settled for.
Out came the other earbud and he switched off the iPod. ‘What is your problem?’ he said. ‘I told you that like you were a friend. And now you turn round and— What is wrong with you?’
He pulled his legs up, knees to chest, so fast I thought he was going to kick out at me to get me off his bed but he was only preparing to spring up and make for the door.
‘Angel, I’m talking to you!’ I said. ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me.’
‘I’m going for a piss, Mum,’ he said. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Was I supposed to know that?’ I said.
But he had slammed the door. By the time he came back I had got a hold of myself again. The stories are crap but the pain is real.
‘You’ve got a point,’ I told him. ‘I’m sorry. I really am grateful you opened up to me that night. But I’ve got to know everything that’s going on, Angel. I’m your mum and I want to protect you. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s happening. Can I?’
‘Protect me from what?’ He sat down at the head of his bed and put his feet up on the end of his desk, joggling it, piece of flat-pack crap that it was, so his laptop stirred to life.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Your dad loves you and he’s trying to do his best for you. And for me. But he doesn’t always know best.’
Angelo snorted. ‘No shit!’
‘So,’ I said, treading carefully, ‘why not tell me what really happened?’
‘You first,’ Angel said. And then, after the silence had gone on so long that the air had turned dead between us, he added, ‘Yeah, I thought so.’ He stood up again. ‘I need a shower,’ he said. ‘I need to think. Let me go and have a shower and maybe I’ll tell you when I get back. Okay?’
And he was gone. I heard the bathroom door lock, then the water turning on. His laptop went back to standby, turning the dim room almost to darkness. I reached out to shake the desk and bring it life again. For the light. Swear on my life, swear to God, it was only for the light. It never occurred to me until after I’d done it that he was logged in to his messages.
The shower was running. I stood up and bent over the lighted screen. There was nothing. Not a single message in his inbox and nothing saved. Nothing in the sent file and the trash was empty. My heart was cantering. He had cut himself off from everyone.
Was this really happening? My son had started hanging out all alone at a deserted ruin and he’d seen a human hand sticking up out of the ground and instead of coming to me he turned to a psychiatrist. And the story she’d told him about the dangers of letting little things loom large was what he served up to me as a sop. To make me stop asking him questions.
Could this really be true?
I stared at the screen. Something was wrong with a teenage kid who didn’t contact anyone for days on end. I hadn’t seen his thumbs at rest for three years before we left our real house and came here. Then a simpler explanation hit me. He might have been using the landline when he was in the house on his own. The shower water was still running, so sitting quickly in his desk chair I called up the browser, found the British Telecom homepage and entered our details. It loaded slowly and I heard the water go off before the first page of itemized calls was complete, but it covered more than a week and I scanned them, noting incoming from 0800 numbers and one or two back and forth from Marco’s mobile, one or two back and forth to mine. There was only one number I didn’t recognize and there were five calls to it, the last one just today, not even an hour ago. I whipped out my phone and dialled it with one hand, shutting down our account and paging back to Angel’s message page with the other.
It rang three times and then the familiar voice answered with a recorded message: ‘You have reached Tamara Ferris’s out-of-hours line. If you wish—’ I killed the call.
By the time he opened the door again, bringing a wave of Lynx and warmth in with him, the laptop had gone back to standby.
‘Right,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Here goes.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re right, darlin’. I need to go first. What is it you want me to tell you? I don’t know where to start and I don’t want to overload you, but ask me anything. What is it you want to know?’
‘Just . . .’ he said. ‘Why do you never talk about it to me? That’s all, really. I’m supposed to be a part of this family too. But you and Dad never even mention it in front of me. It’s like your private . . . Is it too special? Is it like I’d spoil your memories?’
I stood, opened the curtains, then the window. If I didn’t let some air in, I’d faint. He had no idea who we were, Marco and me. How long had he spent thinking we were this tight little unit of two sharing everything, keeping him outside?
‘Angelo,’ I said, ‘I swear to God, I didn’t think you knew. We decided not to tell you.’
‘What the fuck, Mum?’ I could see the pale disc of his face and the gleam of his eyes in the light coming through the window. ‘Of course I know. What are you talking about?’
‘When did Dad tell you?’ I said.
‘What are you on about?’ said Angelo. ‘Dad didn’t have to tell me. I was there. I remember.’
‘What?’ My voice was no more than a whisper.
‘I remember your fat belly and the room with horses on the mobile and the bed that was even smaller than my bed. And then you were away and I bought a present and brought it to the hospital but you were asleep. Then . . . then Dad said I wasn’t supposed to talk about it because it would make you cry. And you did cry. I remember that. Every night you cried. And then we were at the beach and it was sunny every day.’
‘Australia,’ I said. ‘But you were three. You were a baby. Wait, you’re saying you came to the hospital?’
‘But you were asleep,’ he said again.
‘I didn’t even know you’d been.’
‘And then you just kept it all to yourselves. Like I wasn’t even . . .’
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not right.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Mum,’ he said. ‘How can you deny it? I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. I don’t even know if I had a brother or a sister.’
‘Oh, Angel,’ I said. ‘You never had either. There wasn’t a baby. But . . . yes, if things had been different she would have been your sister. But she never was.’
Angelo’s voice was a breath of breeze in the room between us. ‘I don’t even know her name.’
You and me both, I wanted to tell him. Her ‘name’ was Baby Girl McGovern. We hadn’t chosen one in advance and then there was no point. ‘Sylvie,’ I said, for no reason at all except that I couldn’t tell him something so cold and make him think I didn’t love her.
For a long moment, we sat and looked at each other, then Angelo nodded, slowly and rhythmically, more as if he was bo
bbing his head to music than trying to communicate something. When he finally spoke again I couldn’t make any sense of it.
‘I knew it was someone from now,’ he said.
‘Sylvie?’ I said, panic flaring in me.
Angelo frowned. ‘What? No. I knew it wasn’t a monk, over there, in the ground.’
‘Huh. Right. Sorry,’ I said. Then: ‘How?’
‘Because he had a watch on,’ said Angelo. ‘But the police don’t know that.’
Now I was doing the rhythmic nodding and it helped me like it had helped him. It helped me swallow what he was telling me, like it helped him swallow his sister’s name, suddenly.
‘Where is it?’ I said at last. ‘You need to get rid of it, Angel.’
His breath was a thin gasp. ‘I haven’t got it!’ he said. ‘I didn’t take it. I didn’t even touch it. It was too weird and minging. I just saw it.’
‘So . . .’ I said. ‘Maybe the police do know and they’re holding it back. So they can sift the time-wasters from the serious witnesses.’
‘What?’
Of course, he didn’t watch drama or read novels: he wasn’t as up on all the tricks as me. ‘Yeah, that’s what they do, see?’ I said. ‘If someone comes along and says their brother had that belt and those jeans and Armani specs and he’s been missing for years on end, they’ll ask about the watch to double check.’
But Angelo was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’d want to ID him, wouldn’t they?’
Plus, I thought, Lars’s friend hadn’t leaked the watch either.
‘So what kind was it?’ I asked him. ‘Could you tell?’
No,’ he said. ‘But I took a photo.’
My blood seemed to clench inside me, thick and sticky. ‘There’s a photograph of the hand on your phone? Angel, that phone’s at the police station. They’re bound to go through what’s on it eventually.’
‘It’s not on my phone,’ he said. ‘I’m not an idiot, Mum. I emailed it to myself and downloaded it.’
I glanced over at his laptop. ‘Why?’
‘It was the coolest freak show I’d ever seen,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘It was a laugh.’
My hand shot out and grabbed his arm without me willing it. ‘Angel, who has seen the photo? Who have you shown it to?’
‘What?’ he said, shaking my hand off and giving me the look of wounded outrage I knew so well. I’ve done my homework; you said I could borrow it; everyone else is getting to go. But this wasn’t kids’ stuff now.
‘Don’t even try playing the daftie,’ I told him. ‘How is it a laugh if you don’t show someone? How is it cool if no one knows you’ve got it?’
He was staring at me, his eyes darting around my face and his jaw clamped so tight that a muscle was flickering in his cheek. ‘How can I show anyone a picture on my laptop in my bedroom?’ he said.
‘Email. You think I zip up the back?’
‘Mum, I haven’t shown anyone the picture!’ he said. ‘I swear on . . . What do you want me to swear on? Sylvie’s grave?’
‘She hasn’t got a grave,’ I said.
‘Fine, well, her memory then. I swear on—’
‘Don’t,’ I said. I didn’t know whether I hated the thought of the real Sylvie sitting calmly in her room or my faceless angel, gone before she was ever called anything. I didn’t want either of them mixed up in this. ‘You don’t need to swear. I believe you. Now, let me see it, eh?’
I saw his shoulders sag as he relaxed. He’d got away with something. He’d managed not to lie to me. Technically.
Chapter 18
There were three pictures. One dark from the flash failing, one fuzzy from the phone shaking, and one, like Goldilocks, just right. I thought I was ready but still I gasped when Angelo clicked it onto the screen in front of me.
It was nothing like the skeleton hands from medical models, white and shining. This one was streaked dark, with leathery twists of gristle still in its joints and jagged tags of fingernail still hanging from the thumb and the middle finger. And the watch, of course. It had fallen down the arm as the flesh rotted away from around it so it was half submerged in the soup of mud that the bone stood up from. I clicked and zoomed in, too close at first so the details were gone, then too far out, then – Goldilocks again – just right, the watch clear and huge on the screen and all of the body out of the shot except two brown lines that could be anything. I swallowed hard, then squinted at the letters visible under the glass, half of them lost in the flash but three of them as plain as day. MEX.
‘Timex?’ I said, turning to Angelo. ‘Does any other kind of watch end with M-E-X?’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘We did this in Design and Tech. It’s not a prestige brand so nobody would want to make knock-offs.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Timex, then.’
‘Kind of makes you wonder why the cops kept the watch quiet instead of the specs,’ said Angelo. ‘There’s got to be tons more men wore Timex watches than . . . what was it specs? Dolce and Gabbana?’
‘Armani,’ I said. ‘And I really don’t think they did.’ I tested the idea and it didn’t break. ‘I think someone was there after you took the picture but before the police came. And that person took the watch away. Angel, when did you take the photo?’
‘Two nights before the cops came. I told you.’
‘The Sunday, right,’ I said. ‘And did you look on the Monday after school? On the Tuesday?’
‘I didn’t go over on the Monday. I was in Dumfries getting my phone stolen, remember?’
I fingered the receipt in the pocket of his coat. Why was he lying to me? Then I felt a flood of relief. ‘She’s got a car!’ I said. ‘She picked you up after school in her car and took you to the Centre. And brought you back here later. And you bought her a Coke.’
‘Have you been spying on me?’ he said.
‘No,’ I blurted. ‘Else I’d know if you went back and saw the hand again, wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, stop nagging me about drinking Coke and let’s talk about the – you know – murder.’
‘Good scheme. Right. Sorry. Okay, then.’ I clicked the zoom back out again until we could see everything. ‘What else? Is that a left hand or a right hand? It’s a left hand, so the guy was right-handed. And can we tell if he bit his nails?’ I moved the cursor, then clicked in again. ‘Hard to say. Ange? What do you think?’ He was silent, so I turned again, to find him staring at me.
‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘Why are you getting all Sherlock?’
‘What do you think I’m doing? Even if you didn’t see anyone, I think someone was over there and took the watch. And the sooner this guy’s identified the sooner the cops will stop bugging you as if you’ve got something to do with it. So here’s what I’m thinking. Can you print this out with no marks on the paper that would show that it came from your computer?’
‘What marks?’ Angelo said. ‘It’s a piece of paper. What are you on about?’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘And then we can send it to the cops. Anonymously.’
‘What’s the point of that? Mum, what are you playing at? This is getting daft.’ His voice had risen and there was a faint flush on his cheeks too.
‘We need to wipe the paper in case there’s prints on it from when you filled the tray,’ I said. ‘And wipe the envelope. And for sure not lick the stamp. Then we send it to the cops from somewhere in town and they’ll never know it came from us. Will they?’
‘You can’t be serious. You don’t think they’ll be able to work it out? After I’ve admitted that I saw a hand? They’ll be round here with a warrant for my printer quicker than—’
‘Well, put it on a flash drive and I’ll print it somewhere else,’ I said. ‘At the library.’ He snorted, which I deserved. ‘Or at work.’
‘At work!’ Angelo’s eyes were as round as when I’d read him bedtime stories about the tea-time tiger or the Gruffalo; like two little roasted hazelnuts, I used to tell him. ‘You can’t get them mi
xed up in this, Mum.’
Protecting his doctor from the trouble I’d cause her. I reached out and brushed the hair back from his forehead. It had almost dried after his shower, soft black silk lying in feathers. ‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘Sorry. But I’ve got to say this, Angel. I don’t think you should see her again. At least not until all this is—’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ I said. ‘Put it on a flash drive for me, I’ll print it out, give it to the cops, and we’ll never talk about any of it again.’
Of course the neighbour was getting off the bus, on his way home from Kirkcudbright, and we could hardly ignore each other. In fact, I couldn’t help putting out a hand to help him get down the last big step and steady on his feet on the pavement. The look he gave me, wary but ready to fight, brought a flush of shame.
‘Hiya,’ I said. ‘Sorry about earlier. I think we’re all feeling a bit tense.’
‘My conscience is clear,’ he said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘That was an olive branch. Did you have to crack it over your knee?’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean,’ he said, his voice beginning to sound thin as his temper flared.
‘Hey, Missus!’ the bus driver shouted, leaning forward and peering out at me. ‘Are you getting in or no’?’
‘Sorry, pal, I’m just coming.’ I stepped round the neighbour and boarded. Then, at the last minute, as the thought struck me, I leaned back out and asked him softly, ‘Have you got a watch on?’
‘Eh?’
‘I wanted to know the time. But I haven’t got my watch on. Have you got a watch on by any chance?’
He gave me a look of such blank bewilderment that I just waved a hand at him and turned to scrabble out my bus fare. No one who’d snatched a watch from a corpse’s hand in the last week could have pulled off that innocent face. So, even though the guy lived as close as we did, and had it in for Angel, and pissed me off every time I clapped eyes on him, I didn’t think he was guilty.
The Weight of Angels Page 21