by Karen Botha
When she has recovered her composure, she says simply, ‘keen,’ and I have to admit, I’m bewildered. Do girls not want commitment? All the films show them dreaming of white cakes and taffeta before the first date, so what did I do that’s so funny?
‘What?’ My brow is furrowed in confusion.
‘OK.’ She gets up, ‘It’s home time,’ and she moves to show me out of her rotten front door.
‘But what did I say that’s so funny?’ I need to understand.
She glances at me in that second I notice a deeper understanding of me pass over her features. Her eyes change from exhibiting sharp edges of panic and soften, warmth spreading through them. She reaches to lightly peck me, a relaxed smile curling her lips upwards as she steps down from her tip toes.
‘Men are normally the ones running to the hills at any sign of commitment. I wasn’t expecting such blatant eagerness that’s all. I like your honesty.’
‘Oh good,’ is all I can manage, a flood of calm tempering my heightened senses.
‘Let’s make a pact.’
‘OK…’ this seems to be going my way, so why not?
‘Total honesty between us, no games.’
And I agree with a silencing kiss. I ignore the nag, doubting how it’s ever going to be possible and instead focus on the moment. I revel in the tenderness of my tongue reaching for hers, relishing the headiness as wild explosions of blood awaken an unwelcome hardness once again within my pants. I’d love to use it. But not today. I could linger in this moment forever, but right now I’m not interested in going too far. I have to do everything right and so I pull away once more. She can feel my tension as I steel myself.
I gaze into her eyes, ‘Erm… OK then… well I’ll err call you.’ My voice is trapped by light panting. I close my mouth in a bid to calm down.
‘OK,’ she rests her forehead on my chest as she takes a moment to adjust to the sharp reality of me leaving. One arm reaches away from the back of my belt and releases the handle downwards.
As I reverse off the drive, she’s still standing in the doorway waving. It makes me smile. I drive off and park up around the corner.
PAULA
‘The evidence file is empty.’ Mo has been doing some digging. ‘Well, apart from an enamel box she kept her pills in. I remember that, it made me go cold. It was embellished on the lid with, true love never dies.’
It’s no surprise, but there’s still that familiar sinking in my chest, closely followed by my posture. I always hope.
‘Is there a coroner’s report?’ I rub at the throbbing in my temples.
‘Yep, open verdict, but it’s all fairly standard stuff considering her illness. She overdosed on her pills, had associated renal failure, nothing that rings any valid alarm bells. The bump on her head is also inconclusive. They reckon it was from the same day, but they can’t tell more than that. She could have done it herself whilst struggling to get help or something.’ He sighs down the phone, and it rattles in my ear. ‘This is going to take some real detective work, even the coroner couldn’t commit to it being misadventure or otherwise. We’ve got our work cut out,’ I can hear his smile trying to lift me - and probably himself as he delivers his news.
‘Yeah, so many people overdose on their pills every day without it being a red flag for foul play,’ I agree.
‘It’s frustrating and not helped by the Officer in charge of this case being too overloaded with work to investigate it properly. You've worked for Steve, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I gasp, caught off guard, my lungs feeling like they've been attacked with an ice cream scoop. Gunshot flashes of memories invade my conscious thoughts, adrenalin dumping into my veins. I shake my head: focus!
‘He was in charge of this case. We had so much on, we were too stretched. It all came back to me when I acquainted myself with the file again. I remember when he was forced to tell us the file would have to close and be ruled suicide if we didn’t obtain more evidence - bad day.’
‘And that’s what happened I guess then?’ My chest still moves too fast.
‘Yeah, there was no choice, it was costing too much. Evidence wasn’t presenting itself and we didn’t have the resources to go out and hunt it down. It’s a sad fact, more so now than when you left, and that's only a few years ago. If you’re clever enough, you can get away with heinous crimes even though we know in our heart we’re not seeing the complete picture.’
‘Yeah, it's no-ones' fault, just a symptom of the cuts. I’ll mull it over.’ I make to sign off.
The news is what I expected, but still my heart is a lead weight. ‘Thanks for your help Mo.’
‘Sure thing, shout if I can do anything else. Like I said, this always felt like there was something a bit off so, really, anything at all…’ He leaves it hanging.
I shelve the call, and distractedly pull my laptop toward me, forcing away the memories of Steve's flesh sealed with mine. I concentrate; let’s see what the Internet has to say about Mr Giles Harrington.
The keys clack as I type in enough wording variations to deliver a satisfactory result. It takes a while to find him on social media. His profile picture is a close up of an eye which is the type of evasiveness that strikes me as shady. My opinion of him is not improving.
Once located, there’s sadly nothing much to report. Everything is just a bit too run-of-the-mill. Pictures of nights out with friends, a few smiling family shots, some old school photographs with a board balanced in front detailing the teacher’s name, class and school; no red flags. But it’s often like that. What strikes me as odd though, is there’s no history with his wife. She doesn’t feature in any of his pictures. It’s as if she has been wiped clean, like fingerprints from a glass. I tap my fingers on the side of the keyboard lost in deliberation.
In a bid to uncover more information, I type in ‘Steph Harrington murder,’ nothing. ‘Steph Harrington unsolved,’ again nothing. Then, ‘Steph Harrington death,’ bingo! A series of articles. I scan for the most credible, I'm too keen, like a kid eating sweets before they get caught. I rewind, blow my cheeks out in a long sigh and transport myself back to my detective mindset. Back to the top. I work my way down like a logical woman not personally involved in this case - if it is a case, I remind myself.
I study a series of successive articles, each like the last. They use a standard head shot lifted from the earliest piece. One though does present some interesting background. More people than I would expect have been interviewed. There seems to be quite an array of women with comments to make about how lovely the couple were and how awful this tragedy was. I make a mental note of their names but one is a neighbour, and another must be family as she is also called Harrington; Penelope.
There’s also an interview with his best friend from school. Apparently Giles was sent to boarding school in the UK when life in Zimbabwe got a little too unpredictable. He’s been friends with this Hugh Bradley since. There’s no more on it, but it’s a lead. My brain is buzzing with newly acquired information and associated possibilities. My grey matter doesn’t process data as efficiently as it used to. Fly tipping isn’t taxing like this, I need to pace myself, rebuild my stamina. Time for a coffee to tame the collisions causing my head to ache.
I check the time on my phone even though I’m wearing my watch. 8pm. I dial Lucy anyway, unsure whether she will pick up or be with clients who visit in the evenings after work. She answers quickly.
‘Hey.’ I wasn’t really expecting her to answer so I’m a bit off kilter.
‘Hey you,’ her voice is warm and I can she's wearing a wide grin.
‘How are you, how was your date?’
‘Well, funny you should ask.’
‘Why?’ I fiddle with a loose thread on my top.
‘It went really well.’
‘OK, that’s not enough, spill the beans,’ honestly, she can be so cagey. I smile, aware this makes my voice sound lighter than I am. If I’m honest, I’m more interested in the loose thread.
/> Eventually I drag out as much detail about her previous evening as I can stand. It’s fair to say she’s enchanted.
‘I really didn’t want him to leave, but I’m glad he did because he saved my honour,’ and I hear the sweet tinkle of her happiness. I can’t help but be warmed.
‘So, you’re well in love then?’ I’m not really expecting a serious response.
‘Haha, well it’s a bit early for that.’
‘What!’ I scream. ‘Oh no, what am I to do with you?’ To myself, I ask, am I not happy with this situation because of Giles or Lucy?
Enough! Even if there is the slightest chance that my friend is in danger I’m going to do my utmost to prevent it.
PAULA
I’m playing the journalist today. My premise being, I’m researching English boarding schools, asking whether it is the school that made the pupils, or the other way around.
This particular one, Giles’ old boarding school, was more than happy to participate which was massively lucky. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find out, anything hidden beneath the surface of masked normality that will provide an inroad. It’s often like that, you’re not sure what you’re hunting out until you fall upon it. Sometimes, even then, you don't make sense of it until other pieces start slotting into place.
I can see why some of the best pupils would want to come here. It’s stunning. The sun helps of course, blue skies interspersed with wispy clouds make any view beautiful, but this building needs no help in being impressive.
Typically English, red brick carved in the days pre-dating machinery. A sculpted turret flying a flag of allegiance to the country on whose land it proudly sits. Leaded windows form regular view points onto never ending lawns from ground, right up to roof cavity.
Despite myself, I can’t help but take a calm moment to breathe in this place. My entire collection of research on this school suggests its pupils have both breeding and background. Its appearance, to my eyes, confirms this.
I pull myself together and proceed towards the ivy clad entrance. A flurry of black robing suddenly emerges, billowing in the wind created from two flapping arms.
‘Hello there, you must be Paula?’ I’m welcomed as the robe's owner bounds out, hand outstretched expectantly.
‘Mr Parson, I am indeed.’ He clasps my hand in his, shaking it with such vigour I worry for my shoulder joint. Warmth floods my soul upon meeting this eccentric character. His wild hair, broad smiles and warm eyes can do nothing other than draw you into what I figure is a very happy life.
‘I’m so glad that you are writing about us. We don’t tend to get too much interest you know, so many people only want the big names that we tend to disappear into the background somewhat.’
I slip into character and adopt my role as journalist.
‘I agree, and it’s so important to give a true account.’
With that, he fills his entire face with another charismatic grin and turns on his heel. Assuming I am to follow, I trot on behind through echoey, oak clad corridors.
‘Let me show you around, you surely must have a few minutes to indulge me?’
‘Of course.’ I’m more than happy to take a tour of this wonderful building. We head off shoes clacking.
‘Hello Mrs Pertree,’ he holds up an arm, palm facing forward as a formal, middle aged woman passes with files pressed to her bosom.
She smiles back, ‘Hello,’ and nods as she carries on her way.
‘This is the dining hall.’ He stands in the doorway and ushers me through he is indeed correct. We used to call it a refectory at college, but this is most certainly a dining hall. Huge stained glass windows cast lights resembling precious stones across the vast room. He’s not one for hanging about though. No sooner have I poked in my head for a quick look and he’s whisking me off down the corridor again. His arm shoots out pointing to impressive classrooms filled with studious pupils, specialist teaching spaces for IT, (which are surprisingly modern) and finally the peace-de-resistance; the library.
A tremendous, triple height space with books floor to ceiling housing essay ready teenagers bent horizontal over huge oak desks. I find it strange that there are still places where not all desks have computers and of all places one of these would be a school, where they are assigned to a corner out of the way.
‘Are the computers in only one location for visual or educational purposes?’
‘Ah, a bit of both if I’m being honest with you my girl, keeps the system organised if things are in the same place and all pupils have their own laptops now anyway, so this way they maintain space on the desks.’
Eventually, we reach a large messy room with albums stacked on every available space. He passes to the other side of a rickety old desk which sets off the most amazing window seat with views over the expanse of green lawns that encompass this rich building.
‘I’d like to browse your yearbooks then if possible please?’ I’ve already briefed him on the basis of my work, but I quickly recap. I remind him how I’m hoping to follow random pupils up today to see how life panned out. By doing this at a few of the best schools, it should give me an interesting viewpoint for my imaginary article.
‘Of course, of course.’
‘I can’t wait to start,’ I grin encouragingly at him.
‘Well, all of the books you need are here in this room,’ he spins his arm round as he speaks. I take a cautious seat within the window. It may be pretty but it is also marvellously uncomfortable.
‘Wow, OK,’ I nod slowly, standing again. ‘Good job I’m choosing students at random,’ when really what's running through my mind is, ‘how on earth is this place organised, please help me?’
Mr Parson obliges. ‘Indeed, indeed my dear. The female students are here although they started a little later than the boys.’ His arm swings in the general vicinity to the left of the window, ‘and the males are here.’ The other side, gesticulated with his right arm.
‘Excellent stuff, because although I’m looking randomly, it would be good to get a spread of not only male and female, but also from across the different time periods…?’
‘Fabulous idea my girl, you’ll see them in chronological order,’ he turns to face that dazzling window again. ‘These are the older records, and then towards here,’ he flips on his heel flamboyantly, ‘by the door, are the most recent.’
‘Great, I’ll get started...’ Once we’ve sorted out lavatory arrangements and refreshments he’s gone and I’m left alone in this magnificent room. The floor boards creak as I head over to pull out one of the year books. The shelves appear physically lighter as I relieve them of this small additional load.
I open the book to gain an idea of where I am at chronologically, and systematically make my way through the appropriate shelving. A shard of glorious sunshine catches the watch I bought myself as a present when I left work. I’m momentarily distracted, as I admire the understated oyster dial embellished with tiny diamonds on each hour. I can’t believe the time. There’s something calm about this room with its documented history. No grey, purely black and white.
I daydream a little, flipping the pages of the book that lay open on the old desk. My school years were a stark contrast to these perfect images, mine recording a scrappy bunch of reprobates, and then me; perfectly turned out, not a hair out of place. I wouldn’t have been bullied so much had I fitted in with a different, more book-wormish crowd such as these.
I consider how many people have sat in this space over the years, perhaps also being at peace. I’ve been so lucky with these year books, they’ve really transported me back to their original time. Being before data protection took a strangle hold on the freedom of information, they not only display a neatly arranged mug shot of every embarrassed student, but they also detail subjects studied; their school houses and family details which were dropped in later editions.
Giles was here when it was a boys' only school. During that time period, it seemed to specialise more in the science and technolo
gy streams. Giles majored in maths and science, winning a chemistry award in year 4, was in house H. His brother attended the same school and whilst his Mother appears to be a house wife, his Father was a physicist. Despite myself, I am very impressed. He’s obviously genuinely bright. I caution myself, this could be the ringing of a warning bell. I reflect back to what he told us about him coming over to the UK and mull gently over the whys and wherefores whilst gazing out of the picture window.
Having taken photographs of the pages I expect to need, I head off back down the corridor to find Mr Parson. He’s not in his office at the end of the walkway, so I head off to investigate a little further passing an array of glass cabinets containing all manner of accolades. It’s all a bit stuffy, but impressive nonetheless.
My attention is drawn to another window, narrow and arced at the top, framing a different but equally beautiful view of the grounds. My heart soars with possibilities as it always does when filled with natural beauty. Then something catches my attention, my stomach back-flips. A picture on the wall, one of many but it demands a second look. It’s Giles being presented with a trophy. My eyes hone in on his face, studying the details. I actually think it could be his brother, Wyndham, but I’m not sure and a mark obliterates the initial on the golden plaque below the frame.
‘Nice picture isn’t it?’ I turn to see Mr Parson, returned from wherever he had been hiding.
‘Hi, yes it is, was it a special award to end up on the wall?’
‘Yes, this was for the best IT project - in the days before IT,’ he clarifies with a proud smile.
‘Oh, wow, leading the way then, he looks like one of the pupils I picked out, but I’m not sure if it’s not his brother?’ Nothing wrong with asking.
‘This is Wyndham Harrington, who did you choose?’
And with that, we’re back to my imaginary journalistic project. I resist the urge to bury my head in my hands for deceiving this kindly man.