The Runner

by P. R. Black

  She had expected an orange jumpsuit, too – perhaps even black and white stripes, or arrows up and down the arms – but he was dressed in a pair of jeans, a blue pullover with a blue shirt collar creeping out above the neckline. In terms of prison movie clichés, what he did have was a huge, muscular build, of the kind that Freya usually associated with juicers working on the doors or preening themselves by the free weights in the gym.

  His head was shaven, which did not suit him at all, but he had a thick, black but well-kempt beard, which did. He might have been an old-time wrestler – British, not American, the stuff of celebrity appearances on ancient Sunday matinees and mean-spirited nostalgia TV retrospectives. Freya could picture old ladies sat in the front row, roaring at him.

  Those eyes were unmistakable, though – liquorice-black pupils, almond-shaped eyes above a thin, slashed brow. These eyelids contracted as he sat down, and gazed at her with cool intensity, his hands folded on the tabletop.

  Freya folded her own arms in response, to hide the fact her hands were shaking.

  He spoke suddenly, and she flinched. His voice was somewhat muffled by the effect of the microphone, but it was smooth, with a hint of languor. He might have been a sardonic, embittered schoolteacher smacking his lips over some stupidity among his charges. ‘I have to say, if you’re a fake, you’re a good one.’

  ‘I’m not a fake.’

  ‘You look incredibly like my older sister. Which is to say, you look incredibly like me, and my dear dead mummy.’

  ‘Of course I look like you. I’m your daughter.’

  ‘So you say. You going to introduce yourself?’

  ‘I’m Freya. You going to shake hands?’

  He studied her for a moment through the glass, balefully, then snorted laughter. ‘All right, that’s a point to you. Good stuff. We might make some progress, here.’ He leaned forward, and without blinking, placed a hand on his own chest. ‘Gareth. Pleased to meet you. Now that we’ve got that out of the way… what can I do for you?’

  ‘Do for me?’ Freya was stumped. ‘I don’t want you to do anything.’

  ‘I mean if you’re looking for money, or…’

  ‘I’m not looking for money,’ she said, sharply.

  ‘Or a place to stay…’ He grinned, and gestured around about him. ‘I’m all out of spare rooms.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not looking for anything.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why are you here?’

  ‘Because… I’m your daughter.’

  He sniffed. ‘And…?’

  ‘And nothing. That’s why I’m here. I only found out in the last few weeks, after my mother died. She told me you were the father. You’re named on the birth certificate. I wanted to make contact with you. I’ve a right to speak to my own father.’

  ‘Yeah, and this intrigues me. I’ve never heard of you before. What did you say your mother’s name was?’

  ‘Mary Bain. She worked at the Jetty pub, in Rimesdale. You were passing through, but you ended up living with her for a few months. You had a relationship; you left when she became pregnant. It’s possible you didn’t know.’

  ‘Mary Bain… it does ring a bell. And Rimesdale? I stayed in Rimesdale for a fortnight, I think, maybe three weeks…’

  Anger flooded Freya. ‘It’s you. Don’t waste time denying it. You and Mary were together. I’m your daughter. I’m giving you basic facts.’

  Solomon had continued to speak over her, a finger placed on the dark hair mossing his chin. ‘…So many women, you understand. I mean you’re an adult, right? Full-grown? I didn’t always look like an extra in a grindhouse biker movie, I was a good-looking guy. You’ve seen the mugshot, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the mugshot. It’s not hard to find. As you’ve just admitted yourself, we’re a close match.’

  ‘You’ve made it hard to tell, in a lot of ways. With the eye make-up. Very striking. You know who you remind me of? Siouxsie Sioux. You know her?’

  ‘No. I’m a full-grown adult, but I’m not geriatric.’ She paused a moment, enjoying his bemusement. ‘That was a joke. Of course I know who Siouxsie Sioux is. Thanks for the compliment. I think.’

  ‘Ah, a comedian! A girl after my own heart. In a manner of speaking.’ Solomon drummed his fingers on the tabletop. She couldn’t remember him blinking or looking away from her once. ‘It is a great big thumping coincidence in terms of times and dates, I must admit. And you do share a few of my features, my little cherub. Good strong jaw. The eyes, of course. Minus the mascara. Fancy that? I’m a father. Call me “daddy”. This is a happy day for me, isn’t it?’ He angled his head towards the prison guard stationed over his shoulder, but the man remained totally impassive. ‘You guys should break out the bubbly!’

  Freya wanted to leave. As fishing trips went, this was a strange endeavour from the start. She had been primed for hostility, or outright denial. Instead, she felt she was being treated to a performance. She had no desire to play a bit part.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘mummy dearest died, did she? Of what?’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Terrible way to go.’

  ‘Not as terrible as some.’

  ‘Quite quick, was it?’

  ‘Reasonably. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.’

  ‘A blessing,’ he said, all the levity disappearing. ‘I’ve seen a couple of the guys in here get it. Smokers, you know. Idiots. You smoke, you know what’s coming. But they can’t stop. And don’t want to. They just shrivelled up and died. Took eighteen months, in one case. One guy had throat cancer. Big tough guy, shoulders like a bison. He looked like something you’d crowbar out of a sarcophagus, by the time they let him out on compassionate grounds. If you get spared that, then it’s something, believe me.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Mary Bain dying. You were together a little while. I presume you liked each other.’

  Gareth Solomon sighed. ‘This was all so long ago… I don’t say this to hurt you or to get a reaction from you, but I struggle to recall. I moved around a lot at that time. Driving jobs here. Labouring there. Casual work in pubs – that’s how I met her, I guess. I was a bit of a rover, and you can take that pejoratively if you like.’

  ‘You don’t remember her? Like… nothing?’

  He raised a hand, sensing her growing distress. ‘I think I remember her. Quite short? Blue eyes? Blonde? Or, she would have been blonde, at the time. Very good-looking. Cute – like a little dynamo? Long blonde bob, at one stage?’

  ‘That’s right. She preferred being a redhead, though. Colour changed now and again. But she had that style all her days, the bob. Right up to the end.’

  ‘Yes, I remember her. She was…’ He struggled for the word. When it slipped out, it felt grudged. ‘Lovely. She was just… lovely. It was a great time. The Nineties, eh? Doesn’t the time fly? The mid-Nineties already feels like it was a million years ago. Summer of Britpop, that one. Very warm out, July or August. Pulp and Blur and Oasis. The Spice Girls a half-formed thought in some executive’s head. Still to happen. Still to explode. Who were those boys – Supergrass? They were lots of fun. They’ll be in their forties. They could be grandads by now. Great times. Is it me or is music rubbish nowadays? I don’t get to hear much of it, but what I do hear… aw.’

  ‘I don’t mind Britpop. Not as good as some people say. Lot of landfill.’

  ‘Landfill! I like that one.’

  ‘Quite egalitarian, in a way… lots of girls in bands.’ Freya was babbling, trying to make sense of what she’d been told, how the missing pieces fit in her own self-image. ‘Did she ever visit you? Mary?’

  ‘Not once. Absolutely not. Never wrote to me, either.’

  ‘Do people write to you?’

  ‘Sure. I’m not stuck for female contact, I’ll say that much. Colin Lucas Stewart is one of my china plates in here. You might know him as the Sou
th Side Strangler. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, as it goes. But he is so bloody jealous over the sheer number of letters I get. You wouldn’t believe it. I should hire a secretary. Married women, aunts, grannies, girlfriends. The things they say.’

  The idea repelled her. Freya had come into this in a very natural state of curiosity, but not naivety. She wondered if younger people than her had tried to get in touch with the Woodcutter. ‘Do you write back?’

  ‘Well… I can’t talk about my case, really. I’ve no idea who I’m talking to. Could be a copper or someone like that. Or even a relative of some of those poor people.’

  ‘Poor people?’

  ‘You know.’ He shrugged. ‘Victims.’

  ‘Your victims?’

  He smiled, and rubbed his chin again. ‘Ah, let’s not get into that. My lawyer says I’m not allowed to. Even if my long-lost daughter shows up.’

  ‘This to do with your appeal?’

  ‘Yep. All in hand. The law’s changed. They’ll let me out this time.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh, they will,’ he said, without a pause. ‘I know they will.’

  ‘You seem very confident about that.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that, too.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll break a rule. I’ll go against what my lawyer said. Her name’s Levison. Cheryl Levison. L-E-V-I-S-O-N. Get in touch, if you can.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just listen carefully. Put the name in your phone. Or write it down, if you’re old-school like me. You can find her on the internet. She’ll fill you in.’

  ‘About your appeal?’

  ‘About the whole thing. And the reason why they’ll let me out.’

  ‘Any reason you can’t talk about that now?’

  ‘Not in any detail. But I can tell you the very simple reason that they’ll have to let me out: I didn’t do it. I’m not the Woodcutter. They’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘Time’s up,’ said the guard, at Solomon’s side. He checked his watch, and the guard accompanying Freya mirrored the gesture.

  ‘Gotta go. It’s been fascinating. I guess you get to call me daddy.’ Solomon grinned for the first time, showing even, if yellowed teeth. ‘Remember: I didn’t do it. I’m not the guy. And I will get out of here. We could meet up – spend some quality family time together.’

  His facetiousness irritated her. As she got up to leave, she said: ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be back. There’s something that I have to know about you.’

  He frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The truth.’

  And something changed in him, at that moment. His expression did not soften, exactly. It was as if his sardonic aspect had dropped, just for a second or two. Freya understood that his attitude and his manner were simply a defence, and possibly a flimsy one at that. He nodded at her, eagerly, and suddenly he looked unhappy. ‘I’ll tell you everything. In time.’ He turned to the guard and nodded. The interview was over.

  6

  Back at the flat, Freya stared at the number at the top of her notepad.

  She hesitated for longer than she would have liked to admit. Her hand poised over the phone, she remembered when she had first phoned a boy as a teenager; the feeling that her heart might have migrated to her ear, the sound waves of her pulse perhaps perfectly audible as the boy’s father answered.

  ‘Levison, Duke and Redman,’ a woman on the end of the line said.

  ‘Cheryl Levison, please,’ Freya said.

  ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’ After Freya gave her name, she heard the clicking of a computer keyboard. ‘You’re in luck. She’s in. She’s been expecting you. I’ll patch you through. One moment.’

  The holding music was far too loud. Freya held the handset away from her ear. Finally, an exasperated female voice cut it off. In the background there was social interference – loud voices, some of them raised in merriment. Was she in a pub?

  ‘Ms Levison, I’m Freya Bain. I’m calling on behalf of my father.’

  ‘You’ll have to narrow it down, honey.’

  She was abrupt, and Freya swallowed her diffidence and annoyance. ‘I’m Freya Bain. My father is your client, Gareth Solomon. The Woodcutter.’

  A brief, but significant pause. ‘Wait there just a moment, would you? Don’t go anywhere.’ The holding music didn’t return. Instead the background voices were muted, after a door was closed on them. Then came the sound of steady, assured footsteps, echoing up a long corridor. Freya imagined a dusty old courtroom, a space with cornicing and elaborate masonry that hadn’t been cleaned for a while, staircases spiralling down to the cells below, or to hell. Then Levison spoke. ‘The Woodcutter’s daughter. Are you absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Certain of it. I’ll happily prove it, if I can. He had an affair with my mother. She died a little while ago. She never told me who my father was. It’s there, in her will.’

  ‘I will need proof – what was it, Stella?’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘Freya. Always liked that name. Always liked Stella, too. You know this is… Interesting. Very interesting. I’m preparing Gareth Solomon’s appeal right now. This could be a very interesting thing. Well. Whether we can prove it or not, I’d be very pleased to meet you, Freya. You could be very helpful indeed.’

  *

  Freya knew not to trust her imagination. It had placed Cheryl Levison in a severe business suit, possibly still with her wig and gown on. Even so, she had expected someone severe, perhaps intimidatingly tall, like a female vicar but not one who would ever get invited on to do Thought For The Day.

  Because of this, Freya walked past Cheryl Levison at first. They had been due to meet at a pub – a cocktail bar, in fact – which seemed quiet enough at lunchtime, but bore the signs and in some cases the scars of somewhere livelier once the sun went down. There was literally no one inside except for one girl behind the bar who never once looked up from her phone while Freya looked around. After a minute or two of confusion, Freya went back outside. Levison was there, at an outside table fenced off from the street. She was smoking, with a mobile phone held to her ear.

  ‘Right back with you,’ Cheryl Levison said into her phone. Then she hung up, and got to her feet, waving. ‘Hey? Is it Freya?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Come on up, honey.’ She gestured to an entryway, usually roped off but left open in the afternoon sun. ‘Don’t be marching up and down the street all day on my account.’

  She was intimidatingly tall – that part was correct. She also looked as if she was ready for a day out at the pub, in a black dress that seemed a little too short for the office. Freya wondered if she had been out all night, although the hair and make-up were too sharp for a dirty stop-out.

  The lawyer was about fifty, and had looked after herself; she was blonde, with hair a little on the Nineties side, but it suited her. She was draped and garlanded with rings, brooches and chains that caught the light in painful slices, like morning sun on broken bottles. Good-looking, with warm dark eyes at odds with the harsh angles of her chin and cheekbones.

  ‘Well, let’s get a look at you,’ Levison said, after shaking hands. ‘Yep, I can see the resemblance, all right. Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to speak to me.’

  ‘Not a problem. I can’t stop long – got a meeting with a client just after two. I hope you haven’t travelled far?’

  ‘Train trip,’ Freya said. ‘Quiet, for a Wednesday.’

  ‘Are you off work?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Ah. Compassionate leave.’

  ‘No… Not really. I was made redundant, got a bit of money. I’m keeping my head down for a while. Checking out my options.’

  ‘Oh. What’s your line of work?’

  ‘Phone farm, if I’m honest.’ A giddy sense came over Freya; a chance to blurt out the truth. So she did. ‘If I’m being double honest, I’m using this time to run. I’m a runner. Just for fun, not an athlete
, or anything. It’s an addiction, I guess. Something to help me get through the past little while.’

  Levison had unlocked her phone already, and was texting while keeping up the flow of patter. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’

  Freya nodded.

  ‘Now… exactly what is it you want?’

  ‘Gareth said to contact you. Plus, I’m curious.’

  That got her attention. Levison looked up from her phone. ‘Go on.’

  ‘About whether or not he did it. He says he didn’t. And I can’t be sure if he’s lying or not.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You’ll forgive me if I ask you one or two questions, before we get into that. You say you’re his daughter. And – this was a little bit of a surprise – he says you’re his daughter.’ Levison peered at Freya. ‘He seemed certain. I’m prepared to believe it. But I’d like to prove it, first.’

  Freya shrugged. ‘DNA is the key, isn’t it? I can take a test. You got somewhere you want me to spit?’

  Levison laughed, delighted. ‘In fact, yep, I do – right here in this test tube. Better still, run the swab inside your cheek for me.’ She fished out a sturdy vial from her handbag, unstoppered it, gently pulled out a swab, and handed it over.

  Freya glanced at it, not sure if this whole scenario was a joke of some kind. Levison didn’t even look away as Freya did as she was told. ‘Excellent,’ she said, resealing the test tube and sliding it back into her bag. ‘You didn’t hesitate. Well, not too much. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘There’s no reason for me to hesitate. I’m his daughter.’

  ‘How did you get on when you met him?’

  ‘It was a little weird, as you’d expect. For him as much as me. It would have been weird in any case. Even if he wasn’t in jail for murder.’

  ‘He didn’t commit murder,’ Levison said, flatly. ‘I can answer that question right now. He was fitted up for just one murder. There is no evidence to connect him with any others.’

  ‘I understood there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him. He was plenty connected to it, though.’