Thicker Than Water

by Anthea Fraser

  Pam snatched the paper out of Jilly’s hand before they could read more. Glancing anxiously at three deathly-white faces, she said rallyingly, ‘That seems to clinch it, wouldn’t you say? He couldn’t bear the guilt any longer.’

  PART V – THE RECKONING

  Seventeen

  It all started with Mum’s death. Funny, in a way; death’s always thought of as the end, but it proved a beginning for me – the beginning of something Mum could never have foreseen – nor me, neither, come to that.

  At that time I’d been at Stockford Grammar three years, and liked it well enough. I got on with the other PE staff, and on the whole the lads I coached were fairly biddable. And I’d hooked up with Patty, who taught modern languages. It wasn’t a grand romance or anything, and though she hinted often enough that she’d like to move in with me, I’d managed to fend her off. The flat was my private domain, and if I had my way, that was how it’d remain. Granted, she stayed overnight at weekends, but I wasn’t ready for anything more permanent. Valued my independence too much.

  Mum hadn’t been well for a year or two. Nothing specific – leastways, nothing she let on about – but she was in her sixties and she’d not had an easy life. So my sister Hayley took to visiting more often – did her shopping, drove her to bingo, that kind of thing, and I’d look in from time to time and take her for a pub lunch. Then she had this fall, and after that, she went rapidly downhill.

  It was a Saturday morning the call came – early, about seven. Me and Patty were still in bed, but the tone of Hayley’s voice brought me quickly awake.

  ‘Bry, you have to come to the hospital at once! It’s Mum – she’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘The General?’ I asked quickly, through the constriction in my throat.

  ‘Yes. Ward Nine. Please hurry.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I said, and rolled out of bed.

  Patty’s head appeared above the sheet, tousled, eyes half-shut. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mum. I have to go.’ I was already on the way to the bathroom.

  I hate hospitals. Always have. Something about the endless corridors and the smell of disinfectant and past meals, and the trolleys rushing round corners.

  Mum’s bed was at the end of the ward, screened by a curtain, and I pushed it aside to find Hayley sitting holding her hand. Mum was propped up on God knows how many pillows, and her face was as white as they were. I felt a stab of foreboding as I bent over to kiss her cheek. It was cool and damp.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ I asked, with forced jollity.

  Mum smiled weakly, but Hayley said, ‘She has something to tell us, Bry. Something important.’

  ‘OK.’ There was a chair on the far side of the bed, and I went and sat down. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘This isn’t easy,’ Mum began, and her voice was so faint we had to lean closer. That alarmed me some more, but I hoped it was just that she didn’t want anyone else to hear. ‘It’s – about your dad.’

  Hayley and I exchanged a puzzled look. Dad had died when we were kids; I’d have been about eight, Hayley only six.

  ‘I don’t know how much you remember,’ Mum went on, in that thread of a voice, and Hayley seemed to realize this was a question.

  ‘Well, just that he was taken ill, and went to hospital, and – died.’

  Mum half-lifted her hand, as though in contradiction, then let it fall, and Hayley went on more uncertainly. ‘We left home soon after, and went to live with Uncle Bill and Auntie Madge. And wasn’t that when we changed our name, from Spencer to Reid?’

  Mum closed her eyes. ‘Did you ever wonder why? Later, I mean?’

  We looked at each other, but found no answer in each other’s faces.

  ‘Couldn’t afford the rent?’ I ventured.

  ‘I meant – the name change.’

  ‘Well, Uncle Bill’s name was Reid. Living with him, it made things – tidier.’

  ‘And it used to be your name, and all,’ Hayley added. ‘Before you were married.’

  Mum shook her head feebly. Seemed we weren’t doing too well. She tried another tack. ‘What do you remember about Dad himself?’

  ‘He was a gardener,’ I said promptly. ‘Used to take me with him sometimes, after school.’

  ‘You remember going to the Big House?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I had a mental picture of a long, sloping garden, with a playground in the far corner. ‘We used to clean the lady’s car,’ I added. Memory stirred. ‘Didn’t something happen to them, the family? A car crash, or something?’

  Mum let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘That’s right. Mr and Mrs Sheridan were killed. Someone had tampered with the car, and it went out of control on the lake road.’

  Her hand tightened round Hayley’s, gripping it so that her knuckles stood out like pebbles. ‘And your dad was accused of their murder,’ she finished in a rush.

  The shock went through me like a lightning bolt, and I saw it reflected on my sister’s face. There was a long silence, while we tried to get our heads round this totally unbelievable statement. Mum was lying back against the pillows, her eyes closed again, as though that last sentence had sapped all that remained of her strength.

  Then Hayley said incredulously, for both of us, ‘Dad?’

  Mum’s eyes trembled open. ‘A more mild-mannered man than your father would be hard to find, and there wasn’t many he didn’t get on with. But Mr Sheridan was always one for criticizing and finding fault. Months it had been going on, and that last day, Jack finally lost his temper. You were there, Bry, though you probably don’t remember. Any road, there were words – some of them overheard by the housekeeper – and the upshot was he got the sack. That night in the pub, he drank too much, started mouthing off about what he’d like to do to Mr Sheridan. And the very next day, the man died.’ She drew a deep breath before adding flatly, ‘They found gravel from your dad’s shed in the brake fluid.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean anything!’ Hayley objected, indignant tears in her eyes. ‘Anyone could have put it there!’

  ‘Point is, love, they couldn’t. That shed was kept locked, so the kids couldn’t get at the weed-killer and such. Your dad had the key.’

  My heart was pulsing in my throat as I put in my own two penn’orth in Dad’s defence. ‘But he’d never have done a thing like that.’

  ‘Course he wouldn’t.’ Mum’s voice was briefly stronger. ‘But the worst part – the absolutely worst – was that they locked him up, and you know he couldn’t stand that. Remember how we could never shut doors in the house, no matter how cold it was?’

  She smiled briefly. ‘Even at the pub, his pals grumbled they had to sit outside till they were near frozen, and when forced to go in, he always sat by the door, so he could get out quick if need be. Claustrophobia, they call it. I tried to tell them at the police station, but they thought I was making excuses.

  ‘He was never charged, mind you, only on remand, but it was double murder so they wouldn’t grant him bail. And he’d made a scene when they took him to the cell, lashing out, like. It was panic, of course, but they called it “assaulting a police officer”. I swore to him it wouldn’t be for long, that I’d get up a petition, but he was near out of his mind, shut up like that. And next thing, he – he went and hanged himself.’

  We both stared at her, our world falling apart and reforming in a totally unfamiliar pattern.

  ‘They’d taken away his belt,’ Mum went on in a whisper, ‘even the laces from his shoes, but he were that desperate, he ripped the sleeve out of his shirt and tore it into strips. Didn’t take much – his feet were only two inches from the floor.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Well, they took that as proof, didn’t they? Remorse, they said, and no matter how often I explained, no one believed me. They closed the case and never even looked for no one else.’

  ‘You mean—’ Hayley’s voice croaked and she started again. ‘You mean the real killer never came forward? Let Dad take the rap for it?’


  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. One thing’s for sure: whoever killed the Sheridans also killed your dad. As surely as if they’d knotted that sleeve round his neck.’

  Her words hung on the air, bitter and accusatory. Then, heavily, she went on. ‘So – we packed up and left Scarthorpe. I wasn’t having people pointing you out as a murderer’s kids, and I changed our name for the same reason, apologizing in my heart to Jack. But “Spencer” was on everyone’s lips, and I had to protect you.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Hayley said softly, tears raining down her cheeks.

  ‘I tried to get Bill to do something . . . clear Jack’s name . . . but he didn’t want the bother.’ She was speaking less fluently now, with pauses between words, as though she needed to keep building up her strength. ‘Said he was . . . doing his bit . . . giving us a home . . . and anything else . . . was a waste of time . . . and wouldn’t help Jack any road. He might have been . . . my brother . . . but him and Madge made it . . . clear . . . we were a nuisance. As right enough we were . . . the three of us, landed on them. But it weren’t for charity. We paid our way . . . even though it meant keeping two jobs going.’

  Her words brought back those cramped quarters over my uncle’s pub, the noise in the evenings when we were trying to sleep – bellows of raucous laughter, singing, and sometimes raised voices and the sound of crashing glass. Mum worked day shifts in a shoe factory, and as she helped out in the pub in the evenings, we hardly ever saw her. She’d come late at night into the room we all shared, white with exhaustion, and just fall into bed. As kids, we’d accepted it as part of our changed lives, never realizing the agony that lay behind it.

  I put my hand over her free one. ‘You did us proud, Mum,’ I said, my voice choked, and she gently squeezed mine in acknowledgment.

  The curtain was pulled aside and a nurse stood there, frowning down at us.

  ‘Your mother’s tired,’ she said briskly. ‘She needs to sleep now. We’ll let you know if there’s any change.’

  Reluctantly, since we couldn’t argue the point, Hayley and I stood, bending from opposite sides of the bed to kiss Mum goodbye. I glanced back as the nurse held the curtain for us, but her head was turned away and her eyes shut.

  Realizing Hayley was sobbing quietly, I took her arm and led her down the long ward past the rows of beds, some of whose occupants stared at us curiously. Out in the car park she dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Can you come back to ours, Bry?’ she asked. ‘We need to talk this through.’

  I’d been thinking the same thing. I pulled out my mobile, pressed the button for Patty’s, and her still-sleepy voice answered me. Patty would have stayed in bed all weekend, given the chance.

  ‘I’m not coming straight home,’ I said. ‘I’m going back to Hayley’s. Can you let yourself out? I’ll give you a bell later.’

  ‘OK.’ Always acquiescent, was Patty, accepting anything I said. Most of the time I liked it, sometimes it irritated me. ‘How’s your mum?’ she added.

  ‘Not good,’ I said briefly, and rang off.

  My mind was spinning as I followed Hayley’s blue Focus out of the hospital car park and along the crowded Saturday streets, where market stalls narrowed the pavements, and people wandered heedlessly on to the road. We’d been hit with two shocks in the space of as many minutes – a double whammy. First, Dad had been accused of murder – shy, quiet Dad – and second, he’d topped himself. Neither seemed even remotely possible. And added to all that was a gnawing worry about Mum; she’d looked so much worse than when I’d last seen her, some ten days since.

  Ten minutes later, we were drawing up outside the little semi where my sister lived with her husband and kid. There was a trike in the small front garden, and an abandoned doll. Hayley, going up the path ahead of me, stopped and retrieved the doll, carrying it with her into the house.

  As we came into the hall, Gary appeared from the kitchen, a tea towel in his hand. Good about the house, was Gary; Hayley always said so.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked, putting an arm round his wife as she stumbled against him.

  ‘Pretty poorly,’ she replied, ‘but that’s not the half of it.’ She looked at me over her shoulder, and I knew she was asking permission to tell him what we’d learned. I nodded; Gary had been part of the family for the past seven years.

  ‘Where’s Jade?’

  ‘In the back garden, playing with Jasmine.’ The kid next door, and Jade’s best mate.

  We moved by mutual agreement into the kitchen. Through the window, we could see the two little girls in the Wendy House, having what appeared to be a toys’ tea party. Gary and I sat at the table while Hayley made instant coffee. None of us spoke until she joined us at the table, distributing mugs.

  Then Gary, looking from one of us to the other, said, ‘Well, what is it?’

  Hayley reached for a handkerchief. ‘You tell him, Bry.’

  So I did, watching his brows draw together and his eyes darken with concern.

  ‘What a God-awful thing to have happened,’ he said, as I came to the end.

  We nodded sombrely.

  ‘And you never had an inkling? Wonder why she told you now, after keeping it quiet all these years?’

  ‘It’s because she thinks she’s dying,’ Hayley said unsteadily, ‘and she wants to set the record straight.’

  Gary looked sharply at her, then at me. ‘And is she?’

  I nodded wordlessly. There wasn’t much doubt.

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Still, not wanting to criticize or nothing, I reckon it’s a bit hard, lumbering you with it all when there’s nothing you can do. You’d be better not knowing.’

  Hayley started to cry again, and Gary comforted her as I stared into my coffee. Whoever killed the Sheridans, Mum had said, also killed your dad. Not only that, I thought; he’d completely sabotaged our lives. If Dad hadn’t been wrongly accused, we’d have gone on living happily in the little house in Scarthorpe. Mum would have continued doing shifts at the supermarket, not injuring her health by working all the hours God sent and having to be grateful to Bill and Madge. Now memory had been stirred, I recalled often hearing her softly crying in the night.

  Nothing you can do about it, Gary said. Those two sentences, Mum’s and Gary’s, kept repeating themselves in my head. And I thought that it wasn’t right this unknown killer should get away with it, not only the car crash and making those kids orphans, but with causing Dad’s death and Mum’s ill health, and a totally changed life for me and Hayley.

  The hospital’s second call came that evening, as we were preparing for another visit, but by the time we got there, it was all over. We were told Mum had slipped into a coma soon after we left, and never regained consciousness.

  ‘So the last thing she knew,’ said the kindly doctor, ‘was the two of you by her bedside. That would have been a comfort.’

  How could we tell him that her last thoughts would have been far from comfortable?

  Over the next week or two I felt somehow suspended, on a different plane from everyone else. People made allowances, putting it down to bereavement; as, of course, it was – partly. But as well as grieving for Mum and shedding tears at her funeral, I reckon me and Hayley were also crying for Dad, knowing what we now did.

  And all the time, below the level of consciousness, a resolution was hardening inside me, a resolve to find out who really did cause the crash and all the devastation that followed. And if he was still alive, to track him down and force a confession, clearing, however belatedly, my dad’s name.

  By the time these internal workings came to the surface, they’d evolved into a firm commitment. I didn’t mention it to Hayley, not wanting to get her hopes up; in all probability the real culprit was dead by now, and beyond my reach. Twenty-three years is a long time, especially if he was a hardened criminal. For all I knew, he might have been caught and served time for something completely different.

  Yet, on reflection, that seemed unlikely. The more I thought about it – and I did,
constantly – the harder I found it to fit the crime into any category. That it was personal was beyond doubt, but it was also frighteningly haphazard: it could so easily have caused more deaths – the car crashing into another, or mounting the pavement and hitting a pram, a group of kids, old-age pensioners. Most personal grudges were settled more immediately, by mugging or a knife in the guts. This one was curiously remote-controlled; in fact, hardly controlled at all.

  And something else occurred to me; the police had assumed Dad targeted Sheridan, because of the bad feeling between them. But since Dad hadn’t been the perpetrator, there was no knowing whether in fact it had been Mr Sheridan or his wife who was the intended victim. Admittedly it had been his car, but she might also have driven it. So who was meant to die – him, her, or both of them?

  Pondering motives had become an obsession, but there came a point when pondering wasn’t enough. Half-term was approaching, bringing with it a week’s freedom. Patty and I had talked of going away, but nothing was finalized, and when she brought it up, I told her I’d made other plans, firmly ignoring her disappointment.

  And I wasn’t lying – I had made plans; I’d decided that the place to start my search was where it all took place – up in Scarthorpe. The thought of going back there after all these years was exciting, unsettling. Would anyone we’d known still be there, some of the kids from school – Pete, for instance? Even if he was, would we recognize each other?

  Alone in the flat in the evenings, I began to make lists of who I should contact for information. The local newspaper was the first step; their archives would contain reports of the crash, the inquest, and so on. Next, the people now living at the Big House. I still thought of it as that, couldn’t for the life of me remember its real name. There might have been talk at the time they bought it, which could contain a germ of truth.

  In any case, I’d a hankering to see the place again, try to recreate it in my mind as it had been all those years ago, and at the same time check, for instance, if there were other means of access to the locked shed. It was a faint hope, but might give me a push in the right direction, and it would be a nostalgia trip at the very least. Then there was the local vicar; he might know what had happened to the kids, who might, in turn, have some memory that hadn’t been thought important at the time.