by Sarah May
‘If my phone rings again, you leave it alone. I don’t want you touching my phone.’ She stayed by the window, uncertain.
‘Who is he?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll go down and I’ll ask Nan. I’ll tell them he phoned.’
‘No you won’t,’ Laura said, crossing the room and grabbing hold suddenly of Martha’s wrist, twisting it hard. ‘Don’t you dare do that. His name’s Jamie Deane, and he’s dad’s brother.’
Martha, shocked, pulled her arm away. ‘Dad’s brother? You’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying,’
‘I never even knew dad had a brother. How come I never knew that?’
‘He was in prison – for a long time – that’s why dad never said anything. He didn’t want you knowing.’
‘What was he in prison for?’
‘Beating somebody up – badly.’
‘How long for?’
Laura hesitated. ‘Twenty years.’
‘For beating someone up?’
Pulling absently on her necklace, Laura turned away from Martha and walked back towards the window. ‘The person died.’
She stared down at the street and saw Don on the drive, washing her car. She could hear him whistling as well, breaking off to say something to the McClarens who were emerging from the garage at number six – an endless stream of children and bikes. The McClarens spent most of their weekends in Lycra – involved in pursuits that were good for the cardiovascular.
The McClarens didn’t shy from Don, on the drive washing Laura’s car, because a disappearing husband wasn’t the kind of thing to dent the social confidence of people like the McClarens – people who spent their summers, en famille, re-thatching remote village schools in places like Tanzania.
There was a camping table at the end of their drive with a sign sellotaped to it:
DAISY’S PERFUME SHOP. ROSE PETAL PERFUME ONLY £2.
The jars of rose petal perfume – made by the youngest McClaren, Daisy, were lined up on top.
‘You’re scared of him,’ Martha said suddenly.
Martha was right – Laura was scared. She wished Bryan was there only Bryan wasn’t.
Breakfast was eaten in silence. Each one of them in turn tried to think of something to say, but in the end only Don succeeded – with a flaccid observation that the garden furniture needed a new coat of oil, which did little to initiate further conversation.
So they continued to eat in silence, aware that if Bryan had been there still, Doreen would never have cooked breakfast in Laura’s kitchen.
With Bryan’s disappearance, Laura had become their daughter again.
She needed them.
After years of there being nothing to do except stand on the sidelines and marvel at the life Laura and Bryan had built for themselves – now, at last, they had something to do.
After breakfast, while Don and Martha looked for Roxy’s lead and got ready to take her down to the beach, Doreen – who was virtually blind – knelt on all fours in front of the oven with some wire wool, arguing with Laura about the amount of Nytol she was taking, and what she was mixing it with.
They were still arguing when Martha, hooking her arm through Don’s, let Roxy lead them down Marine Drive past neighbours who’d barely been aware of her before (apart from Mr Thompson), but who had since heard about Bryan, and who now stared at her – Martha Deane, the girl whose father had gone missing.
She held tightly onto Don, pressing her face into his jacket, which smelt heavily of soap and aftershave.
‘I don’t like people staring,’ she mumbled.
‘They’re not staring,’ Don said lightly.
‘They are,’ Martha insisted, keeping close to him until they’d crossed the main road onto the dunes where she let Roxy off her lead.
Don threw a couple of sticks for her, but she just watched them arch through the air and fall onto the beach ahead while continuing to pant expectantly.
‘Daft dog – they’re for you, they are,’ he yelled, above the wind, hurling a stick into the sea this time. Roxy watched as the stick meant for her was pursued by an excited Border Collie who went crashing into the waves after it.
Don and Martha stood at the water’s edge along with Roxy, watching the Collie in the sea attempt to retrieve Don’s stick.
After a while Martha said, ‘Why did nobody ever tell me I had an uncle?’
‘An uncle?’ Don said, not denying it so much as surprised to hear it put like that.
‘Jamie – Jamie Deane.’
Don looked at her then shook his head. ‘Who’s been talking to you about Jamie Deane?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Oh, well, it was going to come out at some point.’ Don sighed and put his hand roughly on top of her head, wobbling it from side to side.
‘Is it true he beat somebody up so badly they died?’
Don thought carefully about this.
‘He’s a bad lot, that’s all.’ Then, because this sounded too much like a judgement, and he wasn’t one to judge, he said, ‘That lad never seemed to have any luck.’ He shook his head, laying Jamie Deane to rest because he didn’t really want to think about Jamie Deane.
Martha, still able to hear Jamie’s voice in her head, decided to let it rest as well. She could have asked Don more, but what Don had said and how he’d said it had taken the fear out of last night’s call for her.
Now, standing on the beach in broad daylight with Don beside her, she just felt vaguely sorry for this uncle she’d never seen. Part of her even wondered – hoped – if he’d try to contact them again.
She pulled Don’s hand out of his pocket and took hold of it, swinging it gently – aware of all the calluses on it, and how hard his hand felt in her own small hand. It was a hand that had seen decades of hard labour, and it was the gentlest hand she would ever hold. They stared out to sea, half expectantly – towards the horizon.
Neither of them was thinking about Jamie Deane any more.
Don slipped his hand out of Martha’s, putting his arm round her instead and pulling her close as she started to cry.
‘I want him to come back.’
Don didn’t say anything, he just held her even tighter, rubbing at her arms.
After a while she pulled away, looking up at him. ‘Your hair.’
‘What about my hair?’
‘It isn’t moving. I mean, it’s like gale force down here and your hair isn’t moving at all.’
Don ran his hands over the Brylcream sculpted Teddy boy cut he’d had since before he started dating Doreen even, and smiled.
When they got back to Marine Drive, Bryan’s car was being towed onto the drive at number two, watched by Inspector Laviolette who was leaning, relaxed, against the open door of his own car, smoking.
He stood up when he saw Martha and Don approach and started to walk towards them, sombre but smiling, his focus mostly on Martha – concerned that it might in some way be upsetting for her to see her father’s car returned in this way.
‘Alright, Martha?’
She nodded, waiting, pulling Roxy back hard to heel.
Behind them, Sergeant Chambers was talking to the man in the cab of the tow truck.
Laviolette had seen the CCTV footage yesterday and nothing had come up. He’d watched Bryan Deane park his car opposite St George’s Church and get out, stretching and looking around him. He’d seen him get into his wet suit, lock up the car and take the kayak off the roof. Then Bryan Deane had watched the sea for four minutes, which was a long time, before making a phone call.
This was the phone call to his wife – Laura.
Laura had told them about it.
He made the call at 15:37.
Then he made another call – the missed call to Martha, who hadn’t picked up – before putting the mobile in the boot of the car, and after this the camera lost sight of him as he disappeared down the cliff path, past the redbrick building housing the
Toy Museum and Balti Experience – down onto the beach, Laviolette presumed.
He would like to have seen Bryan Deane on the beach; he would like to have seen Bryan Deane talking to Anna Faust on the beach, and kept watching half expecting – ir rationally – to see the beach and Bryan and Anna because that’s what he really wanted to see.
He watched hours of footage after that . . . the Bank Holiday traffic on the roads and pavements gradually decreasing . . . the parking wardens checking the ticket in the windscreen of Bryan Deane’s car and booking it . . . twilight . . . the close of day . . .
Bryan Deane never went back to his car.
‘You’re done with it, then?’ Don said, looking at Bryan’s car, uncertain.
‘We didn’t find anything,’ Laviolette said carefully, aware of Martha watching him intently.
He smiled blandly at her, thinking about the footage he’d seen and how his mind had picked up on something sub consciously – something important; something to do with the second phone call Bryan Deane made, the call to his daughter.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said to her, smiling still. ‘Your dad tried to phone you Saturday afternoon, didn’t he?’
Martha nodded. ‘I already told you that.’
‘That’s right,’ Laviolette agreed. ‘I was just wondering – I know you spend most Saturdays with your grandparents . . .’ he nodded here at Don, who was staring warily at him ‘. . . and then you go home Sunday morning?’
‘That’s right.’ It was Don who answered this, not Martha.
‘Is it usual for your dad to phone you at some point?’
Don turned to Martha.
Martha was thinking about Laviolette’s question – seriously considering it because it was a very good question, and one she had the impression Laviolette felt he should have thought of asking earlier.
‘No,’ she said after a while, looking directly at Laviolette. ‘He never usually phones me while I’m at Nan’s. In fact,’ she added, ‘Saturday was the first time I think he’s ever tried to call me.’
For some reason this realisation made her smile – and warm to Laviolette in a way she hadn’t until then.
Laviolette smiled back at her – he didn’t doubt her and ask if she was sure, or ask her the question again. He didn’t do anything other than nod silently.
‘Dad phoning me – is that a good thing or,’ Martha hesitated, ‘a bad thing?’
Laviolette deliberated over this for what seemed like a long time because now he knew something about Bryan Deane that made him increasingly certain of one thing: Bryan Deane’s disappearance was deliberate. He briefly revisited the idea of suicide while continuing to smile lightly at Don and Martha, but in the end pushed it aside.
‘We’ll see,’ he said finally, in answer to Martha’s question.
Martha stood gripping her bike’s handlebars, listening to the sound of the TV through the walls as the garage door started to rise; the smooth electronic mechanism failing to conceal the sound of her mother’s laughter. Don and Doreen had left at around three o’clock and now Martha, who’d finished her doll and decided to make a present of it to Anna, was cycling over to the Ridley Arms in Blyth.
Fifteen minutes later – barely aware of the long, slow sunset taking place around her – she turned into Quay Road, got off the bike at the entrance to the Ridley Arms and pressed on the buzzer for Flat 3. She buzzed another two times, but nobody answered so she crossed over to the other side of the road where the Harbourmaster’s office was and, looking up, saw that the entire building was dark. There were no lights on inside the Ridley Arms.
She tried calling, but Anna didn’t pick up, and was about to leave when the lights along the quayside came on. Turning instinctively towards them, she saw the Inspector’s car parked where Anna’s yellow Capri usually was, facing out to sea.
He must have seen her at the same time because he got out of his car and gave a broken wave. All Laviolette’s physical gestures looked sad, Martha thought, watching him at a distance – like a succession of small, incomplete finales.
He waited by the car as she wheeled her bike over, unsure whether she was pleased to see him or not, but smiling anyway – a small, defeated smile.
‘She’s not in,’ he said.
‘I know – I just tried. She’s not picking up her phone either.’
They looked up at the windows to Anna’s apartment then Laviolette said suddenly, ‘Was she expecting you?’
Martha shook her head. ‘How long have you been waiting here for?’
He seemed surprised at the question then smiled at her again. ‘Only about ten minutes or so.’
Martha didn’t believe him. She didn’t know why, but for some reason he was lying to her. ‘Why did you want to see Anna? Nothing’s happened, has it?’
‘Why did you want to see Anna?’ he asked.
A trawler with its lights on was making its way between the pier heads and into the harbour, and every now and then a single voice could be heard clearly above the sound of the engine.
‘I’ve got something for her.’
The Inspector was watching the approaching trawler as Martha undid her rucksack and brought out the porcelain doll, holding it carefully in her hands while smoothing the hair down.
He stared down at the doll. ‘You made that?’
She nodded, continuing to stroke the doll’s hair.
‘For Anna?’
She nodded again then turned to face him.
The Inspector smiled, and was completely unprepared for what Martha said next.
‘You think dad’s committed suicide, don’t you?’
‘No – I don’t think that.’
‘Yes you do.’ After a while, Martha said, ‘They argue all the time – mum and dad. She lied on Saturday when you asked her if everything was okay between them and she said everything was fine. It isn’t. They’ve got no money and everything’s pretty much going to shit. The other night she was going on and on at him because she was drunk – she’s always drunk at the moment. She went on and on at him until he shouted back at her . . . I heard him . . .’ light tears were rolling down her face, but she carried on speaking as if unaware of them, ‘. . . that he’d be better off dead.’ Martha paused, staring intently at the doll. ‘What if she forced him to do something?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Martha said, exasperated. ‘But you should consider it – as a possibility.’
Laviolette pulled up the zip on his coat ‘These things have their own rhythm, and right now the focus is on the search and possible appeal.’ He started to look in his pockets for his car keys and when he found them said suddenly to her, ‘Have you got lights for that?’
Martha shook her head.
It was dark now.
‘I’ll drive you home – we can put the bike in the boot.’
‘What’s this?’ she said as he started up the engine and the car filled with the sound of choral music.
‘Miners – singing.’ He didn’t tell her that it was an old recording and that one of the singing miners was his father. ‘The thing you need to keep in mind,’ he said, a few minutes later, ‘is that there’s only one person who really knows what happened to your dad – and that’s your dad.’
‘Your car’s tidy.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I’m not talking about that sort of tidy.’
‘How many different sorts of tidy are there?’ He smiled through the windscreen at the road.
‘I don’t mean tidy like clean and tidy. I mean empty tidy, like even if you wanted to make it untidy, you wouldn’t be able to because you haven’t got enough stuff to litter it with. See what I mean?’
Laviolette, amused, thought about this – still smiling – then said, ‘Yeah – I do.’ He paused. ‘You’re right.’
They drove in silence for a while after this, Martha watching the wind move through the grasses on the dunes as the car crawled along. Then she turned to
him and said, ‘You’re not married, are you?’
This time he took his eyes off the road to meet her gaze. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know – it just feels like there’s only you.’
‘You’re a very astute young woman. I used to be married.’
‘When?’ she asked, interested.
‘A long time ago – I wasn’t much older than you are now.’
‘Like mum and dad then – they married young.’ She stared out the window again, glad she was inside the car and not out in the night on her bike. ‘What went wrong?’
‘Well, we should never have married in the first place – so it was more a case of nothing was going to go right anyway.’
‘So why did you – marry?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
Martha leant back in the seat, turning her head to watch him. ‘Are you still in touch?’
‘No – no.’
‘Vehemently said.’
Laviolette laughed.
‘What? Did I say something stupid?’
‘I can’t imagine you ever saying anything stupid. Vehemently,’ he repeated, trying not to let the fact that he was unsettled by her interest in him, show. He wasn’t used to people being interested in him. ‘I haven’t heard that word in a long while.’
‘It just came to mind.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure if I like it – as a word.’
‘Me neither.’ Then Laviolette said quietly, ‘I’m not even sure if she’s dead or alive.’
‘Your wife?’
He nodded.
‘Why would she be dead?’
‘She was a heavy drug user. Heroin.’
‘Is that why things didn’t work out?’
‘It wasn’t the drugs I had a problem with – it was the part of her that needed them.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
Laviolette gave her a quick look.
‘I’m never getting married.’
‘You’re only fifteen.’
‘I don’t care. I’m never getting married. Whatever’s there in the beginning – it always turns out the same. Look at you – mum and dad.’
She put her leg up on the dashboard, distant from him now.
‘There’s a moment – and it’s hard to say when exactly it happens because it happens so gradually – when life becomes about owning rather than just being, and that’s when things get complicated.’ Laviolette paused. ‘At your age, people don’t expect you to own anything – they don’t even expect you to own yourself.’