by Matthew Cash
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Shane whimpered with shock.
Jennifer pulled the waist of her pyjama bottoms down and revealed her naked hip.
“Showing you the scar where me and Angela were separated.” she ran a fingertip along a pale pink line that ran down ten inches of her hip. “They sliced us apart here. For as long as I can remember Angela has always been able to know when I’m about to jump out on her, what I’m about to say, and sometimes if I’m gonna hurt myself. She says she feels a tingling sensation down her scar whenever I’m near her, like they cut too close and left some of me in her.”
Shane thought this was ridiculous but didn’t say so, he had seen a documentary once that investigated the connections between identical twins. It was a case study of Sam and Simon Shrimpton, who were both in their seventies and had lost contact with each other sixty-five years previously. In the documentary the two men were reunited and the program unearthed some shocking similarities between them. Even though they had both been born in Somerset they had both ended up living in the West Midlands. Unbeknownst to them, most of their life they were less than fifty miles apart. They also had similar careers, one a bookseller, the other head librarian. They had both married women called Claire within five years of each other, they drove red cars, had three children apiece and, most disturbingly, had been hospitalized at the same time when they had their appendixes removed. Finally they were both diagnosed with type two diabetes in the nineties. Shane wondered if it was all fabricated for the television program at first, but over the years he had heard quite a few stories with similar similarities. So, even though he was too sceptical to believe in psychic bonds between people, a part of him, albeit a mere molecule, always doubted his beliefs.
“Do you remember your dream?”
Jennifer looked at him with emphasized seriousness, and then averted her gaze as though she were ashamed.
“There was a guy in a brown leather jacket and really greasy long hair. He had a massive conk, like this,” she held a hooked finger over her nose. Shane didn’t like where this was going. “He was constantly chain-smoking and he wasn’t making sense. He kept saying you must lead Uncle Shane to ‘The Whistler.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Shane shook his head and waited to see what else she had got to say.
“He kept whistling, except it wasn’t a proper whistle, it wasn’t a natural noise someone should be able to make with their mouth. You know when you’ve been too close to a really loud speaker, or if your ears pop? Kind of like that but it hurt, Uncle Shane. It felt like it was going to melt my brain.”
Shane felt numb all over. Was she describing his tinnitus and Malcolm? He peered at her face; her eyes looked heavy and swollen with unsatisfying sleep. He believed her. But how could this be possible? His diaries? Had she been through his diaries?
The idea left an elephant in the room and from the sound of it Jennifer had dried up, she was waiting for him.
“It’s probably from reading my diaries Jen,” he said trying his best not to sound like he was scolding her for doing so.
Jennifer shook her head defiantly and wrapped her arms around herself.
“No, no it wasn’t anything to do with the diaries. This man in the leather jacket said something else too.
“Johnny’s not happy about what happened to Daria and if this isn’t over with soon there’ll be even more lives lost.” Jennifer wiped away tears as soon as they had surfaced. “Not just Gran and Granddad’s.”
Shane could feel the anger rising in him, what the hell was this deluded little bitch going on about?
“My father died from lung cancer that he failed miserably to keep a secret, from the amount of crap he smoked, and my Mother had a massive stroke that shut down her system and kissed her ‘goodbye’! There is no connection between my friends’ disappearance and their deaths!” He had gone too far, he knew it, but couldn’t contain it.
The close knit community was a facade, coffee mornings, school fetes, fucking bric-a-brac Blue Peter bring and fucking buy sales. It was all fake.
The old fuckers who couldn’t handle an ounce of change, who wouldn’t let the past stay buried. Their precious little hamlet was forever tainted by his black history and for as long as he was alive he would never be allowed to forget it. He let out a bitter laugh which scared Jennifer, but he didn’t care. How ironic that he was to be forever reminded of something he couldn’t remember? The poison in this place that had spread throughout the village via newspapers, news bulletins and old fucking housewives tales over garden fences was etched into the roots and foundations of every tree and building in this place.
Brantham, ‘burnt home’, its name couldn’t be more fitting. He knew what it was like for his parents afterwards, they were blamed, and he had fucked off as far away from the village as he could, yet they remained in the place they called home. But it was a burnt home, the black smouldering scorch mark he had left on this village had not only condemned his own soul to the abyss but his blood’s as well. Father of a murderer, mother of a murderer, sister of a murderer, nieces of a murderer. Where would it end?
He doubled over and stuck his head between his bony knees, and calmed his breathing.
“Look, I’m sorry for snapping. I’m sorry for coming here. I wanted to prove a point. I thought I was doing the right thing. It’s just I wished people understood how frustrating it is to be blamed for something when you don’t know whether you are guilty or not.”
Jennifer crouched and put her arms around him.
“I believe you when you say you don’t remember, and despite what you may think, we’ve always stuck by what you’ve said. People haven’t forgotten, and neither would you if you had lost children, and if the person they held responsible was living as normal, wouldn’t you be livid?” Her words were wise beyond her years and yet again Shane felt like he’d found the sister he thought he had lost.
“People will always want to know want answers, look at Jack the Ripper.”
“So now you’re comparing me to him!” Shane said with a half-smile despite himself.
“No. But people are always going to have theories about who did it or what actually happened, but like Jack the Ripper they aren’t going to get answers unless new evidence comes to light or Doctor Who whizzes back and has a look.”
Shane laughed properly at that and fought the urge to start a conversation about everyone’s favourite Time Lord.
“There’s one other thing,” Jennifer said, puzzling over how to say it. “The man in my dream, Malcolm, said something about a Karl wanting you to help him with the rabbits.”
Shane stood up too quickly and felt his head rush, he held onto Jennifer’s shoulders and stared wide-eyed. “Of Mice and Men.”
“Well, this Karl also said that he tried to stop you.”
“Stop me from doing what?”
“He didn’t say,” Jennifer shrugged.
It must be reading the diaries, Shane told himself, and yet he couldn’t explain how Jennifer knew about Daria’s death when he only found out today, and it happened before she was born. From what he could remember he had never even mentioned Daria in the diaries at all.
Shane held his niece close to his chest and thought about his Mother’s funeral the next day and how half the village would be there. He kissed the top of Jennifer’s head.
“I wish I could remember what happened.”
Chapter Eleven
July 2006
The media milled around the gateway to the cemetery. Shane was glad they were keeping their distance for his sister’s sake but he knew their cameras could pick up the tiniest detail even at this distance.
Shane stood with an unconvincing sombre expression on his hot face. He fixed his stare on the rectangular hole in the earth. Tiny particles of soil, dried by the sun, sprinkled down the sides into the chasm. A bumblebee landed on the green covering at the side, its legs bulging with big thick balls of yellow pollen. He watched as its front two le
gs rubbed together.
The service was taking forever. Several people sniffled.
Shane couldn’t understand why the entire village was at his mother’s funeral. Perhaps it was because they had nothing better to do, or out of sheer nosiness. All he knew was that when people got to a certain age there was nothing they loved better than a good funeral and free food.
He straightened his neck to ease the stiffness that had taken hold of it from staring at the ground for too long. When he looked up, a little weather-beaten man gave him a nasty look. Shane averted his eyes and regretted standing with his back to the sun.
The vicar was the only one who welcomed Shane warmly. David Matthews had been the vicar of Brantham’s church for as long as he could remember and never forgot a soul. When he first clamped eyes on Shane he grasped his hand and pumped his arm vigorously saying ‘Hello’ in his deep voice that reminded him of the actor Christopher Lee.
Shane looked to his left. His sister stood with Jack, who had his arm around her. She was crying openly. Angela had her face buried in Jennifer’s shoulder. For the first time in his visit they were dressed identically, maybe it’s what his Mum would’ve wanted.
Finally, thought Shane, as they lowered his Mother’s coffin onto the grave.
The vicar gestured for the deceased’s family members to sprinkle soil onto the coffin. Catherine gave him a wry smile as he gently dropped his handful of dirt. The worst was to come, for he knew that every one of these scowling faces would follow his sister to the wake. As they moved away from the grave towards the cars, the man with the weather-beaten face spat on the grass and then it dawned on Shane who he was…
October 1986
As the bus swung round the corner, Shane threw his heavy rucksack over his shoulder and walked down the aisle between the seats, pressing the stop button on his way. His mind was racing with thoughts of his day at college.
When the bus groaned to a standstill he jumped off and walked into the night. He loved winter nights, the way the cold air made everything seem clean and new. He zipped up his parka, pulled on his gloves.
Shane always walked on the side of the road next to the fields and not the houses. It was more peaceful, and he took pleasure in seeing the dark expanse laid out beside him like some vast apocalyptic wasteland. He refused to walk next to those houses, for that was where his ‘lost’ friends lived.
At first their mothers’ cried and begged at his door. They wanted him to tell them what had happened to their sons. After time they just leered and one even spat at him whenever he walked near their homes, as if he would curse them all and scatter the remaining pieces of their broken families.
It was when he was opposite Malcolm’s parents’ house he heard someone shout, “There he is!”
Oh no! he cried inwardly as he spotted the figures of Gavin, Malcolm’s older brother, and Thomas, Freddy’s younger brother, racing across the road towards him.
Shane thrust his arm through the other strap on his rucksack and started to run as hard as he could towards his house.
“Hey, wait Shane. We only want to talk to you” one of them sniggered. Shane saw the driveway of his house up ahead and spurred himself on. He heard the footfalls of the boys gaining on him as he skidded onto the dirt driveway. He didn’t think they’d follow him onto his father’s property, but they did. He was about thirty feet from the back door when one of the boys pounced on him. Shane yelped as he landed on the ground. The boy, Thomas, rolled him over, straddled his waist and grabbed the collar of his coat and punched him on the nose. He felt blood trickle from his nostrils. He pleaded with Thomas to stop. Gavin caught up with them and leant over and spat on his face.
“Where are our brothers, you bastard?” he shouted down at him.
“I don’t know!” Shane cried out loudly in hope of rousing somebody from the house. “I can’t remember!”
“Well maybe this’ll help you.” Thomas said and slammed his fist into Shane’s left eye. Shane wondered just how much of a cliché Thomas’ line was.
Eventually Thomas stopped using him as a punch bag and the two boys took it in turns to kick him in the ribs.
Shane curled up in to a ball as tight as he could. He thought the beating would never end but the floodlight on the outside of the house came on and he heard his father’s voice.
“That’s enough!”
Shane looked up through swollen eyes at his father’s stern face. He wore his slippers and had his shirt sleeves rolled up. Gavin and Thomas stopped immediately, looked at each other for a second, then turned and ran.
Shane’s father bent down, put a hand around his son’s arm and hauled him to his feet. He gave him the once over but he was okay apart from his bloody nose and the bruises that were just blossoming.
“You alright boy?”
Shane nodded stiffly and his father helped him into the house where his mother made a fuss of him.
July 2006
Brantham Village Hall was to be the venue for the wake, much to Shane’s surprise. He expected just a close friends and family get together at Catherine’s house. As the car drove through the village he tried to think of any excuse not to go to the wake.
“What do you remember the best about your mum?” Jennifer asked.
“I told you to be quiet,” Jack shouted spontaneously at her. “Don’t speak unless you are spoken to!”
She shut up immediately and looked out the window. Shane felt sorry for her; she was only showing an interest. He noticed Jack’s dark eyes glaring at him in the rear-view mirror as he followed the line of cars to the hall.
Catherine too, was a different person around her husband, quiet and nervous and obedient. Even though Shane had neglected his family, deep down he did love them, so he tried not to wonder whether Jack raised his fists to any of them. What could he do if he did? He knew Catherine was not the sort of person who would simply put up with it, right?
The cars finally pulled up outside the hall and people started to get out of them. Thomas Lucas, the man whom he recognised at the churchyard, walked up to the entrance of the hall and through the door.
Catherine and Jack led the girls into the hall as various villagers offered their deepest condolences to Catherine and nodded primly at Shane as they passed.
A simple homemade buffet was spread along one wall of the hall.
He felt out of place and did not want to be there. As he took a seat at a table where Catherine gestured, he seriously considered leaving and going back to London straight away.
Instead he sat down alone as Catherine, Jack and the girls greeted people who approached them. He poured himself a glass of water from a jug on the table. An ice cube plonking into his glass and he drank deeply.
“Hmmph, I’m surprised you’ve come back!”
Shane looked up to see a lady in her late sixties. She was dressed in a black two-piece skirt suit and hat decorated with blackberries.
“Mrs Lucas isn’t it?” He made an effort to smile and held out a hand, “How are you? It’s been so long?”
Mrs Lucas, mother of his lost friend Freddy and Thomas, the man who had beaten him twenty years previously, looked distastefully at his hand as though she might catch something. He dropped it.
“How do you think I am? My Fred would have been thirty-six today, and you arrive on his birthday just to add salt to the wounds.”
Shane rolled his eyes and sighed, “Well, I’m sorry to cause you further grievances Mrs Lucas, but unfortunately I couldn’t plan when my mother’s funeral was going to be.”
“As if you care about your mother, the grief and trouble you put her through. She was a nervous wreck by the time you left here!”
Anger began to boil up inside Shane.
“The only reason my mother was a nervous wreck was because you and half the bloody villagers hassled her into a nervous breakdown repeatedly asking her questions about my lost friends!” He growled, attempting to keep his voice low, to avoid creating a scene.
“Well everyone knew that she was protecting you, she should have kicked you out in the street after what you done!” Mrs Lucas said, raising her voice and attracting attention.
“And what did I do pray tell?” Shane said, looking down. He clenched his fists and tried his best to keep calm. People were eyeing them with interest now. Mrs Lucas saw that she had people’s attention. Two of his other friend’s mothers were staring unashamedly at them.
“Murdered our sons!”
“You tell ‘im Irene,” someone called from the back of the congregation. A woman shushed him.
Shane stood up; all eyes in the room seemed focused on him. Just before he spoke he saw a young woman at the back of the hall with a camera and dictaphone in her hand. How the hell did a reporter get in here? He smiled sympathetically at Mrs Lucas. He was so tired of this shit.
“As I’ve told you time and time again, I did not murder your sons.”
All eyes went back to Mrs Lucas who seemed lost for words for a second or two but then a fire lit in her eyes.
“How do you know what you did, if you can’t remember?”
Heads shot back to Shane, waiting for his answer. He didn’t know what to say. All the years of being put on the spot on TV news programmes and he had done fine, but now in a village hall up against an old lady he was stumped.
“Err… the truth of it is I don’t know. Maybe I did kill them!” a series of gasps rang out.
She opened her mouth to speak but Shane raised his voice above hers.
“But then there would be evidence, wouldn’t there? There’d be bodies or finger prints or something!”
He paused to think. “All I know is that I loved my friends just as much as my family and I would’ve done anything for them. Why would I kill them?”
Mrs Lucus shook her head. Her face was pink and she tutted with impatient disbelief. It only fed his anger.
“Why would I kill them?” He insisted “What has happened has happened and nothing is going to bring them back. Over the years I have hired private investigators to try to trace them. Seeing as there were no bodies, I thought they might still be alive and that maybe I wasn’t to blame for their disappearance after all. They couldn’t find anything. My friends vanished without a trace. We may never find out what happened. For all any of us know it could have been Freddy, or Karl, Malcolm or John that was responsible-”