by Lauren White
Now, I feel guilty. Kerry is a bit of a sight. He is probably frightened of her.
Her name is Kerry and she is a witness to a crime. That's why she is here. She is really a very nice person, even though she might look a little unusual.
A little muddy, he corrects me.
Yes, I concede, a little muddy.
I watch him, carefully. Despite my misgivings, he seems to be dealing okay with her bizarre appearance. Children are so adaptable.
Is Bim a witness to a crime too?
How on earth does he know her nickname?
Yes, that’s right...She...
And, you're investigating?
Exactly!
I'm hoping this will put an end to the subject.
Are all your witnesses dead?
That stumps me for several seconds. He seems to have gone straight to the fault line running through everything I'm doing – my reason for not being. If they're dead and I'm dead, why are we bothering with any of this? Y-yes, I admit to him, hesitantly.
Dead like you?
Will there be no end to this? Yes, dead like me.
His large brown eyes skewer through me. Why can Caleb and I see dead people, and Sam and Mummy and Daddy can't?
I-I don't know....Mummy can hear me sometimes, I think, in her dreams, I quibble
But, she can't see you like me and Caleb.
No.
Nor can Sam, or Daddy.
No. It probably has something to do with age, Jethro, I say, trying to head off his next question. You remember I told you that death was like going back to where we came from?
He nods, his fringe falling across his eyes. It definitely needs trimming. Why doesn't Carrie notice?
Well, young children are closer to that place than older children, and adults, of course, so they can see dead people better.
But, my friend Mikey is the same age as me, and when he was here the other day he couldn't see you.
He glances at the clock through a fine haze of hair. Mercifully, it is almost time for him to go to school.
Who's Mikey, I wonder, idly, before confessing: I don't know why that was, Jethro. I can tell from his face he is disappointed. I'm sorry.
That's okay, Auntie Kate.
His kindness makes me feel worse. It could just be because we're flesh and blood, I suggest. But, that can’t be so because he can see Belinda and Kerry too. Or perhaps some children are more sensitive to these things than others. You and Caleb might have a special gift.
For seeing dead people?
It doesn't sound like much of a gift, the way he says it. Yes! I beam back at him to compensate for his lack of enthusiasm.
Does it mean that me and Caleb are going to die soon? Is that why we can see you?
I move around the table to give him a hug. No, of course it doesn't mean you're about to die. I'm not sure he feels my arms, but I hope he does feel how much I love him.
You promise?
I nod and stroke his face.
Cross your heart and hope to die?
I struggle to keep a straight face. Yes, of course. Now finish your breakfast, it is almost time for your lift to school. I notice a holdall in the corner of the room. Have they changed the day for football practice, Jethro?
No, I'm staying over with Mikey, tonight.
I wish he'd mentioned it before. I would have liked the chance to vet this Mikey first. What does Mummy think about this?
It was her idea.
It was? That's peculiar. She hates them being away from her since I died.
She wants us all out of the house tonight – even Caleb.
Did she say that?
Yes, to her friend, Kay, yesterday, on the telephone.
How do you know that?
I was listening at the door.
Jethro! That's naughty! You shouldn't listen to other people's private conversations.
He smiles to himself as he waits for me to ask my inevitable question.
Okay, what else did she say?
She is going to tell Daddy she wants a divorce.
My heart leaps. Then, I think of Jethro. Does he know what a divorce is? And, what do you think about that?
He shrugs.
Do your brothers know?
No
I hear the toot of a car horn outside, followed by pandemonium as he and Sam run about grabbing their school gear. They go to say goodbye to their mother and race outside to catch their lift. Two minutes later, the next door neighbour knocks. She is going to walk Caleb to nursery school with her own little son. The house resonates with silence as soon as they've left. I sit at the breakfast table watching Carrie pour herself a cup of coffee. She has lost a lot of weight but at least the dark shadows under her eyes are slowly beginning to fade. She must be sleeping better. And, plotting too, apparently. I remember her telling Phil yesterday that he had to be home tonight because there was something they needed to discuss. I thought it was the kids. They will soon be breaking up from school for the summer holidays. Maybe that's what he thought too. I wonder whether he'll bother to do as she asked. The perfunctory Okay, okay, he gave her, might mean anything.
Have you asked someone to be here when you inform him you want a divorce? Like an army? Please tell me you are not going to be here on your own.
She looks about her. She has started sensing my presence but she cannot see me.
Kate, Kate, she coos. Are you here? I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell him I want a divorce.
You were supposed to move into my flat and then let the lawyer tell him about the divorce. That is what we agreed while I was alive so why change the plan now?
I don't care if he hits me. It will just make my case easier. That's what the lawyer said.
Hits you? Are you saying that bastard has been hitting you? And, when did this start? I knew she was scared of him, I absolutely knew it! Why the hell didn’t you do this while I was still around to help you? I can’t believe your lawyer could be so stupid. I can’t believe you’re daft enough to listen to her. You must have a death wish. You’re gambling that if Phil hits you, you’ll survive. If you’d seen as many domestic murders as I have, you wouldn’t take that risk.
I have to do something about this but what? I retreat to my oldest nephew’s bedroom to think about it. I need to make sure someone else is here when Carrie talks to Phil. But, how do I get them here? The only thing I can come up with is to write a letter to Nigs. I bash it out on Sam’s computer.
Dear Detective Goldstein, I’m Kate Madding's sister, Carrie. She always spoke very highly of you when she was alive and it's for this reason I'm turning to you now. There is something I need to talk to you about, urgently. I realise it is short notice but I wonder if you could call at my house this evening. Any time around eight o’clock would be fine. It isn’t possible for me come to you because I have to take care of my three young sons. I hope you don't mind me asking you to do this, but since my sister died, I don’t have anyone else who could help me. Yours sincerely, Carrie Hamilton, nee-Madding.
Getting Nigs to read my letter is going to be tricky. He hasn't yet heard of the paperless office. When I arrive at the police station to drop it off, I find his desk piled high with paper. It looks as though the waste paper bin has been upended on top of it. I have to wait until he goes to the coffee machine to clear a space.
Who's been playing about with my desk, he complains, the moment he returns. Did you do this Fester because it isn’t funny? I won't be able to find a thing now.
Not me, mate.
Nigs picks up my letter. Who put this here?
One of the uniforms, probably, Fester replies, without looking up from his Daily Mirror. When Bixby is away the boys like to play.
As soon as Nigs has read the letter, he shows it to Fester. What do you think that’s all about?
I guess we’re going to have to ask her that ourselves.
I can go on my own. You have that darts match to go to.
Fester rubs his bald
head. He does this when he is thinking. You masturbating again, Bixby usually shouts across the office when he sees him. No I want to, for Kate. We owe it to her, don't we?
We could stop by after our shift.
Fine by me, mate, Fester agrees.
I knew they wouldn't let me down. I kiss them both on the cheek. Fester doesn’t react but Nigs sniffs the air with a dopey expression on his face.
Twilight falls early, bringing a drizzly end to what’s been one of those peculiarly British summer days in which weather from all four seasons has come and gone. Dinner is eaten in silence. Carrie is wearing a figure-hugging, dark navy dress. It is a sensible choice for asking for a divorce, I decide - sober with a hint of sexy to foster regret. I only hope she has put as much forethought into what she is going to say to him.
She waits until Phil pushes his empty plate away before dropping her bombshell. Predictably, the moment she mentions the word divorce, he is on his feet screaming at her.
If you think you're going to take my kids away from me, you're even dimmer than I thought. He stabs the air with his finger. You're an unfit mother, you are. You're mentally unstable. You’ve done nothing but cry since Kate died. That’s what’s caused this. You’re having a breakdown. My mother will back me up and my sister.
He is standing over her, preventing her from getting up from the table to escape him. Her lips are trembling and tears are streaming down her cheeks.
Through the window I can see Nigs and Fester pull up outside. I go out to meet them. It is not yet eight o’clock. Phil came home earlier than I anticipated. What am I going to do to get their attention? They are never going to hear him shouting out here - a vigorous breeze is agitating the canopies of the beech trees opposite the house, making the leaves rustle like pouring gravel.
I go back inside to see what is happening.
My brother-in-law has his hand around Carrie’s throat. He lifts her from the chair like this and pins her against the wall. Her body slumps as though she is drowning on dry land. He is choking the life out of her.
Don’t just stand there! Kick him in the balls! Poke his eyes out, Carrie, I yell to galvanise her but each shallow rasping breath she manages to take is a struggle for her so I turn on him, instead.
Leave her alone. Leave her alone, I wail.
It sounds lame even to me.
I will kill you, if you hurt her, I shout in his ear.
He slackens his hand a little and backs her along the wall out of the kitchen and across the passageway into the living room.
You think you're going to divorce me, do you? I'll see you dead first, you stupid bitch.
He slaps her face, gently, at first, like it is a game, but gradually the blows get harder.
She doesn't make a sound. Not even when he throws her to the floor. She is too scared. I can feel her terror in my own soul and I can’t bear it. Somewhere behind me there is a strange cracking noise. It sounds like ice breaking under foot, but louder. Phil hears it too. He looks around him to see where it is coming from? Before he can figure it out, the room starts to vibrate. Everything around us seems to be moving in slow motion as though caught in a strobe light. Suddenly, there’s an almighty explosion and the air fills with a maelstrom of glass. Carrie screams and Phil doubles over, covering his face with his arms and shielding her from the worst of it. Then, an eerie silence descends. I can see the shock in my brother-in-laws’s eyes as he gazes towards the windows. Every single pane of glass has shattered.
Outside, Fester and Nig’s footsteps are thudding up the front path. I go to let them in.
Mrs Hamilton, Mrs Hamilton?
Fester peers around the living room door. Nigs is right behind him. The front door was open, he explains, to my startled brother-in-law.
The hell it was. Was it you two who broke my windows? Get out of my house. I’m phoning the police.
We are the police, Nigs says, showing him his identity card and going over to my sister to help her up off the floor. Are you all right, Mrs Hamilton?
No, she is not, I answer for her, as he eases her onto the sofa.
You can't just waltz in here, uninvited, Phil tells him.
Like I said, the door was open. And, your wife looks upset.
Why wouldn’t she be, someone just smashed our bloody windows.
Nigs looks from Carrie, to him. Have you been drinking Mr Hamilton?
What’s that got to do with you? And, how do you know our name?
Fester crouches down in front of Carrie on the sofa. Mrs Hamilton, can you tell us what happened?
I recognise you two, now. You were at my sister-in-law's funeral, weren't you?
Mrs Hamilton?
I thought he was going to kill me, Carrie finally manages to gasp. He grabbed me by my throat. I couldn't breathe.
I've never felt so proud of her. I'm brimming over with sisterly love. I want to make everything in her life better for her. Then, I notice the way Nigs is staring at her and I change my mind.
There's a copy of a post mortem report on my desk when I return to my office. A note, from Bim, (I know, I know, but now Jethro and Kerry are both using her nickname, I feel strangely left out) is attached to the inside cover. I came across this at the police station, she writes. Poor Bim, I've been so preoccupied with Carrie and Kerry, she has been virtually working her own case. It is your post mortem report. I thought you might be interested to read it. There are some case notes at the back which I've printed off for you too. Maybe it will help. xxx Bim. What does she mean, help? Help what? I scan the file, quickly, to see if I can tolerate learning more about the accident which killed me. My memory of it is fleeting, a few stills - the road, tyres, blood. Some deafening noises too: the revving of an engine, screeching, and a dull thud. That is pretty much all and I have a prejudice it might be better to leave it this way but, as usual, curiosity gets the better of me. I start to read and seconds later I'm completely gripped. To my astonishment, I discover I was run over twice. My thoughts about this crystallise slowly because the only explanation I can come up with is unbelievable. I was murdered! Someone must have hit me with their car and then backed over me, presumably to make sure I was dead. It is with relief, therefore, I realise, as I read further on, that the forensic evidence doesn't bear this out. I was struck by two vehicles. The first was possibly a truck but I survived the impact of that. It was the second one which actually killed me. What are the odds of that - being struck twice by two different vehicles and neither of them stopping to report it? I go upstairs to get an A to Z of London. I need to be able to locate what happened to me as the first step in trying to understand it. The post mortem report doesn't record where I was when I died but I remember Carrie mentioning the place to one of the neighbours. Hanswell Street, I think she said it was. Yes, here it is. I know this street, which surprises me only because my memory has previously blanked that out. I never knew the name but the area, where it is situated, is familiar to me. It is a rat run between two main roads. There's an estate on one side, with a fairly unsavoury reputation and, on the other, a pub called The George. I go there sometimes or I used to. Was I there that night? I've no idea. It is still a blur. A photograph falls out of the file. I have to turn it around this way and that to make any sense of it. God, I was a mess! And, this was taken after they cleaned me up. The report says I was thrown to the ground by the first impact which smashed my ribs, puncturing a lung. Then, the lower part of my spine was crushed as the back wheels went over me. The second vehicle was a car. It drove over my neck and that was it, lights out. According to the pathologist, who wrote this report, the two impacts occurred, one immediately after the other, as though the car was following behind the truck. Could it have been a police chase that went wrong? No, the police would have reported it. What about an illegal race? That would join up all the dots. I turn to the case notes, Bim has printed off. An investigation was launched the day after my death but there was no CCTV evidence and the only person who saw the vehicles hit me was on t
he top floor of a block of flats some way away. He said the car that killed me looked like an old one - a Ford Fiesta he thought. I flick through the rest of the case notes. My car was found in the pub car park but none of the staff remembered me being there that night. There is also a mention of an analysis of some red paint found on my body. Is that here? No, I can't find it. I try and convince myself I should leave this here, I don’t need to know everything. It is not exactly going to change the outcome. But, it is no good, I’m hooked.
I have to take myself off to the police station that dealt with my death to track down the missing analysis. I enter an empty office, looking for a computer terminal. Someone is already signed in to one, which will make it easier for me to access the information I want, but it also means I'm going to have to be quick about it, because they have probably only stepped out for a moment. I bring up the analysis of the paint found on my body and scan through it. It appears to confirm that the vehicle which killed me was an old Ford Fiesta, probably manufactured between 1995 and 2000. Something flashes into my memory. The last thing I saw before everything went blank was a partial number plate. Three letters: TUL. Yes, that’s right. Wait a minute, am I fooling myself? No, I am right. It is becoming clearer to me. I lifted my head from the road and saw the number plate. I even started to memorise it but I ran out of time. The thing which bothers me most about this memory is that I'd previously assumed the screech I’d heard was the screech of brakes but that’s not true. The screech was the noise the wheels made as the car turned into the street, at speed, and accelerated over me.
The door opens and a uniform enters. I try to close the window I've been looking at, before she reaches the desk and sees it, but in my panic I make a mistake and manage to crash the whole thing. Swearing under her breath when she sees the dead screen, she puts down the evening paper she is carrying so she can reboot the computer. Kerry’s picture is on the front page.
I read the caption. The body recovered a few days ago from a golf course in Bromley has been formally identified as belonging to missing student, Kerry Doughton.