Local Poet

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Local Poet Page 8

by Paul Trembling


  “Nice!”

  “It certainly was. Mickey and his DI have been summoned to HQ to explain themselves. No doubt he’ll manage to talk himself out of it, smooth git that he is, but in the meantime you’re in the clear.”

  “Great. Well, thanks again, June. I definitely owe you that dinner.”

  There was a pause. “I was just joking about that, Rob. In fact, it would be best if we didn’t have any contact at all after this. The force has strict rules about relationships with members of the public that we meet in the course of our duties. Unprofessional conduct. I’m already way over the line. I can’t let it go any further.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, of course. But maybe when this is all over?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. We’ll see. But not now, OK? And try not to be obvious when you leave. There shouldn’t be anyone around at this time of day, but slip out the back way.”

  “OK.”

  “Bye, Rob. Take care of yourself.”

  She broke the connection before I could say anything else. I was disappointed that I couldn’t arrange a real date with her – but she’d said “perhaps”, and perhaps wasn’t no.

  As soon as I got home I fired up my laptop and revisited the first two books, re-reading the poems with a new point of view, trying to see anything that pointed to her father’s dodgy dealings. But if it was there, it was too subtle for me to spot.

  There was still her third and final collection. She’d called it Being Seen, and the significance of the title was clear from the first piece. It was about giving a performance; about standing up and literally being seen, being watched and judged by an audience. “I Would Like to Read for You” was insightful and honest and amusing, very Laney, and described the experience in typically fine detail. All her fear, her nervousness, the sheer riskiness of putting herself up there.

  But also the drive, the desire to share what she had, the passion to let the words out and show to the world the things she saw and felt. It wasn’t just her physical presence that she wanted to be seen; it was her spirit.

  As I read on through the collection, I realized that it wasn’t just about Laney being seen.

  There were kids, playing. They were seen. Laney saw and recorded their exuberance and joy, their total absorption in their game. She also saw the bullying and selfishness, the pecking order, the little power structures they developed. Their humanness was seen.

  She turned her attention to other groups as well. Shoppers, drinkers, workers, ramblers. Office staff on a lunch break, teachers in a staffroom – she saw them with a searing honesty that exposed to the world things about themselves that they probably had never been aware of. And probably wouldn’t want to be.

  Definitely wouldn’t in some cases. She was scathing about some people. Politicians who traded principles for votes. Businessmen who put profit before people. Celebrities who were all about glamorous lifestyles but gave no thought to the effect that had on others; she spent two pages describing some starlet’s hair, clothes, and make-up before finishing with a line that undermined it all:

  And is it any wonder that our young eyes are so dazzled by your light,

  That we fail to see your shadow world, which is all of us and most of you.

  Laney had moved on in her writing, I thought. The first two books were primarily about her – her situation, her feelings. Now she was turning her gaze outwards, seeing more of the world around her. Seeing more into the world around her.

  I caught myself thinking that thought and shook my head in bemusement. Laney hadn’t moved on as far or as fast as I had. A week ago I had been a man who barely glanced at newspapers, and now I was reading a poem that talked about hair and clothes and jewellery. Not only reading it, but trying to understand it.

  Trying? I thought I was doing a pretty good job of getting a handle on Laney’s words. But how much of Laney herself was I understanding?

  I wasn’t sure. The person came through clearly enough – passionate, insightful, caring – but the events that made that person were much less clear. From the first book I had felt a sense of lostness, loneliness even. The second book was a return, a homecoming, a new start. In the third, someone more settled, more assured, able to look round and take stock, came across. But there was no hint of anything criminal in her past. No reference to Andrew Grey.

  I decided to try another approach, and Googled his name. It didn’t bring up much – not about the Andrew Grey I was interested in – but after following a lot of links, I eventually came across a newspaper article about him. From the same local paper, in fact, that had done such a comprehensive job of trashing me. So I was inclined to take their reporting with a large pinch of salt; but in fact there wasn’t much to it. Just a straightforward summary of the judge’s sentencing. Andrew Grey had gone down for ten years.

  I dug around a bit more. The sentences all related to an armed robbery. A series of them, in fact; all with the same MO. Quiet little banks and village post offices were targeted. Just before closing time three masked men would burst in with shotguns and pistols, threatening the staff and any customers present, and make off with whatever cash was on hand. It was fast and frightening, and the gang had pulled it off at half a dozen places all round the country.

  But it wasn’t very lucrative, it seemed – or not sufficiently so. Having perfected their technique, the gang moved up to a city centre bank with richer pickings. And that was when things went wrong. City centre meant more people around, more staff to be threatened, and more money to collect. Which all took a little longer and attracted more attention. As the gang made their escape, a crowd gathered – then dispersed rapidly as shots were fired. Into the air, initially. But then a copper turned up. A young PC on his beat, unarmed of course. It was never entirely clear if he had challenged them or had just been trying to get people to safety. But then there was another shot. The PC took a pistol bullet in the heart and died almost at once.

  The gang made their escape, but a huge police operation followed. The getaway car was found within a few hours, and witness reports indicated it had been abandoned only a short time before. Police flooded the area. Every door was knocked on, every vehicle was searched; every garage, shed, outhouse, and lock-up in a five-mile radius was opened up.

  They found the money and the weapons buried on a council allotment, less than a mile from the car. The guns had been wiped clean, but a partial fingerprint was developed on a brass cartridge case in the revolver. The same weapon that had killed the PC. The fingerprint gave a name, which led to a location and a string of other suspects. They made the first arrest forty-eight hours after the robbery, and had the entire gang in custody within a week.

  The cop killer got life. Twenty years apiece for the other two with guns. Andrew Grey had got off lightly, it seemed. He’d been the driver, and had never handled the guns – at least, that was his story. The prosecution alleged that he had planned everything, had obtained the guns, and recruited the others – but they hadn’t been able to prove it. Even so, ten years seemed a light sentence under the circumstances. The reporter speculated that Grey had done a deal, but they had nothing to back it up with. And I wasn’t inclined to give much credibility to anything I read in a newspaper.

  I wondered how all this might have affected Laney. She would have been about four when her dad went off to prison. Young enough to miss him; too young to understand what was going on.

  I searched for any indication of his release, but that’s not the sort of thing that newspapers usually report. A man convicted of a crime is news: a hardened criminal released into the community isn’t. But if he’d served his full term, Laney would have been fourteen when he got out. She’d done most of her growing up without a father.

  Fourteen… that rang a bell. Something else had happened when she was fourteen.

  I racked my brain, but the connection didn’t come. I knew where I might find it – on Laney’s website – but I was reluctant to go there. The hammering I’d got on the forum last ti
me had been bad enough. I didn’t want to think about what the Laney fans would be saying now, let alone read it.

  June’s warning against social media came to mind. I hadn’t given it much thought at the time, since I wasn’t actually on any social media. I tried it once, but there were only so many pictures of cute, fluffy animals and other people’s meals I could cope with. Perhaps I had the wrong friends.

  On the other hand, I didn’t need to go on the forum at all, let alone actually post on it. I just needed to research her history.

  I’d bookmarked the page. One click took me straight to it.

  Unfortunately, I’d bookmarked the forum, and before I could stop myself I’d read the new banner that topped the page: “A MESSAGE FROM THE WEBSITE MODERATOR. PLEASE READ BEFORE POSTING ON THE FORUM.” I hadn’t realized that the site had a moderator. I had assumed that Laney had run it herself, and that without her it would simply remain as she’d left it. Obviously I was wrong.

  The message continued in a smaller font:

  As the webmaster and moderator of this forum, I consider it my responsibility to maintain it in a way that makes it a fitting tribute to Laney. I have tried to do this with a light touch, as she always valued different viewpoints and encouraged lively debate. However, a number of recent posts have gone well beyond this and have demonstrated a degree of anger and a viciousness of attitude that Laney would have found unacceptable.

  I am referring in particular to some of the things that have been said since the recent newspaper article naming Robert Seaton as the van driver involved in the accident. As it happens, I have met Mr Seaton, and can assure you that he is not at all the sort of person depicted in the article. Far from being an uncaring killer, he has been deeply affected by Laney’s death and has brought flowers to her memorial at North Street Library. And it should also be remembered that as far as is known at present, Laney’s tragic death was a complete accident. While this will not be officially confirmed until the inquest, there is absolutely no reason to believe that Mr Seaton was in any way to blame for what occurred.

  I do understand the pain and deep sense of loss that many of you are feeling. I fully share it. But that does not justify the level of vitriol that has been directed against Mr Seaton on this site. I am quite certain that Laney herself would not have wanted this. Moreover, some posts have verged on incitement to violence, which could be a criminal offence.

  I have therefore removed all those comments which I believe to be offensive, inaccurate, and demeaning to Laney’s memory, and I will continue to do so. I have also written to the editor of the newspaper in question to complain about the article and to suggest that it owes Mr Seaton an apology.

  Please remember that this site is about Laney and her poetry. Let’s keep it appropriate to her memory, in words and in attitude.

  Thank you.

  I sat back. It had got difficult to read towards the end, as the words started to blur and I had to keep rubbing my eyes. It was nice to have someone on my side. Two someones, counting June. And there was Colin as well, come to think of it. A fan club of three! Not huge, but it felt vastly better than me against the rest of the world.

  But who was this person? The author was shown as “BookLady”, and I’d come across her before. She’d made that mysterious comment about the black gull, which I still hadn’t found any reference to. However, the real clue was the mention of the library memorial. The only person who knew I’d left flowers there was the librarian who’d been on duty that day – and anyone she’d mentioned it to.

  Such as her colleague, Sandra. I’d talked to Sandra about Laney. She’d known her well. And “BookLady” obviously fitted. Perhaps I should go and have another talk with her.

  Wondering when the library opened, I was shocked to realize that it was half past four in the afternoon. Laney had stolen another day from me. I’d had nothing to eat since toast and bran flakes at June’s, and I didn’t have much in the house. I decided to skip the library and go shopping. Maybe go for a run later.

  The clouds were gathering again. I felt the first few drops as I was walking home with my shopping, and got back inside just in time to avoid a soaking. No running tonight. Perhaps I should get a treadmill like June’s? Not that I had space to put one. Once again, I thought about moving. The idea was becoming more and more appealing.

  I stood at the window, watched the rain hammering into the rubbish-strewn back yard, and wondered how I could have lived here so long without noticing what a dump it was.

  There was a feeling of change in the air. Or maybe in me. A sense that something was inexorably shifting into a new pattern. Laney’s passing had begun a process that couldn’t be stopped, and I was caught in the middle of it.

  DAY 7: THE BLACK GULL

  I slept in late again. However, this time there was a plentiful supply of caffeine and sugar to kick-start my brain with. After a proper breakfast, I felt bold enough to check the local news and was relieved to find myself no longer part of it. As predicted, the big headlines were made by juicier stories: infamy was just as fleeting as fame itself.

  Outside, the heavy clouds were finally breaking up and some sunshine was getting through. “‘Forceful sunbeam, intent of purpose, muscling past the ineffectual grasp of bouncer clouds, gate-crashing through to Earth’,” I said aloud, remembering something Laney had written. Then shook my head, bemused. Quoting poetry now?

  Neither the Corsa nor the Range Rover was there. Of course, that didn’t preclude there being another copper around somewhere, but I hoped that if the surveillance was back on, June would have let me know. Not that it mattered; I was only going to the library.

  With the improving weather, I walked the mile or so, and was pleased to see that Sandra was on duty. And she was gratifyingly pleased to see me as well. As she finished stamping some books she glanced up, saw me, and gave me a wide smile.

  “Mr Seaton!”

  “Is it Mrs Deeson?”

  “Yes, but I hate it. Not being Mrs; just being called it. Sandra, please. I don’t do formal very well.”

  “OK, and I’m Rob. But are you also BookLady?” “You’ve been on Laney’s website? Silly question. Obviously you have. How did you know it was me?”

  I explained my deductions. “I really wanted to thank you for your support. You’ve no idea what it meant to me.”

  Sandra smiled and nodded. “I understand. That article was horrendous. The reporter… well, I know his work, he’s got a reputation for being able to squeeze a story out of nothing, but this time he went well over the top. And I told the editor that.”

  “Thanks again, but these people seem to do whatever they like, regardless.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. I know the editor, as it happens, and I often have letters or articles printed. They do listen if you make the right noises, and I think he understood that he needs to keep his rottweiler on a shorter leash. They should stay off your back now.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “We’ll see.” she said it firmly, making the words into a promise. “And how are you doing with Laney’s poems?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” I said with some pride. “I’m on her third book now, and I think I’m really getting a handle on them. But there was something I meant to ask you about. You put something on the forum about a black gull? Only, I can’t find any reference to a black gull anywhere in her poems. So where does it come from?”

  “Ah, yes.” She glanced over to where Laney’s memorial was still evident, though the pile of flowers seemed to have been set in better order, and older bunches removed. “Let’s go and sit over there.”

  We settled ourselves in chairs opposite the memorial. “She used to sit just there when she was giving readings.” Sandra spoke softly, staring at Laney’s chair as if she could still see her in it. “When I could, I’d come and listen in. One time, she was talking to a group about symbols that poets used, and how they often might be quite unique and individual to that writer. So to r
eally understand what the writer was saying, you had to understand their symbolism.”

  “The black gull is a symbol?”

  She nodded and continued. “Gulls in general were special to Laney. She told us about going to the seaside and seeing the gulls for the first time. She loved the way they flew, and the way they followed fishing boats out to sea, and the way they glided low overhead when she was out on the pier. Of course (she said) she knew now that they were just looking for food, scavenging for scraps. But to a child, they were all about freedom. And that’s what gulls symbolize in her writing. Freedom, life, wonder, beauty.”

  “I can see that. It was in that poem from her first book. The one with the injured wing, so it couldn’t fly – that was about freedom being taken away!”

  Sandra smiled at my excitement. “You’ve got it.”

  “But the black gull?”

  “Getting to that. Laney also told us about another childhood experience. She was feeding a flock of gulls, scattering crumbs for them, when this huge black bird flapped down and started to steal the food, driving off all the gulls. It was probably a crow, or even a raven, but little Laney shouted to her mum to chase away ‘the big black gull’. And after that, the ‘black gull’ was her symbol for evil, for bad things, for death even. She used to have nightmares about this black gull pursuing her.”

  “I see. That’s what you meant in your post. But she never actually used it in any of her writing, did she? Or have I missed something?”

  “No. It’s not in any of her published work. But there’s some of her writing that didn’t get into the books. One piece in particular, which might have been the last thing she ever wrote…” Sandra’s voice trailed off. She found a tissue somewhere, but didn’t use it; just sat and stared at it.

 

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