Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  ‘Thanks, Linda. I’ll study it tonight.’

  The search was hardly necessary now, Julia murmured to herself. She was still trying to keep everything dark in her head, trying not to embrace what she’d just remembered. The swan. The Touchstone. There, they were both too strong to be dismissed but she had to be firm. She had to carry on. They were vital clues but they had to be verified.

  So far, today had been a disaster. She’d even lost the bail application for her new drugs client. And there’d been no time yet to pop into the Hidden Gem, something she had promised herself she would do today.

  Hearing a tap on the door, she looked up to see Ben walking towards her.

  Quickly she opened a file on her desk. ‘I’m terribly busy, Ben. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

  He walked round the desk and stood beside her. ‘You look ill, Julia. Surely you can tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘We must both be overworking.’ She closed the file. ‘Okay, but please make it quick. I’m really pushed for time.’

  He cleared his throat, then edged closer until he was almost touching her.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so hasty about the trust,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what you want. I’ll talk to Fred Kennedy first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Julia gaped at him. She could feel her eyes widening to the limit. As though they were going to pop clean out of her head.

  ‘What’s wrong? I thought you wanted the money in a hurry.’

  ‘It’s . . . too late,’ she said, in the squeaky voice that always manifested itself when she was under stress, but which she never recognised as her own.

  ‘You look terrified. Too late for what?’

  ‘I mean . . . ’

  ‘Julia?’ He grasped her shoulders. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  She tried to pull away. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I just don’t need it any more.’ Later I can explain, she thought. If he wants to dissolve the partnership, he can. I won’t care what happens then. I’ll have paid Smith. He’ll be safely out of the country, keeping his mouth shut, starting his new life.

  Abruptly Ben let her go. ‘So what was all that fuss about needing the money so urgently?’ His voice had hardened.

  Right now all she had to worry about was getting through tomorrow. She remembered that the pistol was still in her desk drawer, and she’d have to get it out before she went home tonight.

  ‘I’ve thought about it since,’ she said, improvising as she went along. ‘I was over-reacting. I wanted the best for Nicky. But I see now that it’s far too soon to be committing the funds in that direction.’ Too damn right, she thought, it was a daft proposition from the start. But oh how calmly I am lying. And he looks as though he believes me. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Ben, I’m busy. But thanks all the same.’

  She punched in Linda’s internal number. ‘Linda, have you got my messages now? And Mrs Jackson’s file, please.’

  She stood up and leaned on the desk. In spite of the practised play-acting, her hands were shaking.

  Ben stared at her. ‘You need a couple of days off. We can all cover for you.’ He had pity in his eyes and Julia hated anyone to feel sorry for her.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Anyway, I had a break at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh! Really. Where did you go?’

  ‘Paul Moxon took us to White Pool Farm.’

  Ben’s mouth opened as though someone had hit the back of his neck. Without a word he turned and marched out of Julia’s office.

  - 89 -

  Julia found she had a magical twenty minutes to spare between dealing with her messages and her interview with Mrs Jackson. She made a quick decision - crazy, but she had to do it.

  Taking nothing with her, not even her handbag, she left the office. She ran down Deansgate and into Brazennose Street. Glancing at Lincoln’s accusingly sober face with its metallic stare, she darted through the leafy square with its picture-view of the Town Hall’s soaring tower. And then, like some shrine beckoning her, there it was:

  The Hidden Gem. She stood rock-still and gazed at the church in awe. She had hurried past it hundreds of times, never dreaming it was here that she and her brother had been thrust into the nuns’ arms by a frightened young girl, who’d told them nothing but her name.

  Approaching through the covered archway between Brazennose and Mulberry Streets, her heart began to beat faster as she visualised the frantic young mother, unable to see for the tears filling her eyes, hesitating, then finally walking up the four stone steps, holding tightly to her swollen breasts the newly born babies.

  At the top of these steps Julia stopped. She looked down at the mosaic floor of the porch, at the words Ave Maria in blue letters that Victoria King must have read in those last few moments of being a mother.

  She pulled open the stained glass door. She let her fingers linger on the brass handle, which Victoria King had grasped as she steeled herself to enter the church, comforting her babies as they cried.

  She stood just inside the door listening to the organ music playing softly in the background. She smelled the incense, gazed at the rows of gleaming onyx marble pillars, the life-sized marble statues and the altar where two tall slender candles in twisted brass holders flickered in the dim light. Exactly as Victoria King had seen them . . .

  ‘Can I be of assistance?’ a soft voice said behind her.

  She spun round. The nun had clear, pale skin and the kindest deep indigo eyes that smiled as she spoke.

  ‘No thank you,’ Julia said. ‘It’s all right. I was just looking. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been to our church?’

  ‘No, but, well, it’s a long story, and I so much wanted to ─ wanted to find out . . . ’

  ‘Come, my dear. Let’s sit down over here.’

  Holding Julia’s arm the nun led her to a pew at the back of the church, and before Julia knew what was happening she had poured out the whole story. ‘I’ve come because it’s the only place I know for certain that my mother has been. But I can’t help wondering what made her choose this place.’

  ‘Even in those days this was a well-known church,’ the nun said in hushed tones. ‘The oldest post-Reformation Catholic foundation in the city. The doors are open every day, all day. And even if she’d left her twins in the porch outside, she’d have known they’d be found immediately because every day there’s Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. People from all over Manchester and far beyond use it.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t necessarily have lived here in the city?’

  ‘She could have lived anywhere. The buses have always come into Deansgate and Albert Square.’

  Julia looked into the nun’s kind eyes. ‘Do you think she’d have been ─ very poor?’

  ‘No. Not at all. In those days, in certain circles, it was still not socially acceptable for a young girl to have a baby out of wedlock. The higher the social position of the family, the higher the disgrace would have been perceived. She may still have been studying, or promised herself in marriage to some other man. There are so many possible scenarios it would be impossible to guess.’

  She took Julia’s hand. ‘But one thing we can be certain of, my dear. The abandonment of her babies was an act of desperation. She will have felt that there was nothing else she could do. Your mother was a very brave girl, who must have suffered a great deal but did what she did in order to give you and your brother the best possible chance of a good life.’

  A good life? Perhaps for only one of us, Julia thought.

  For a few moments they sat in silence while she soaked up the atmosphere which for the young Victoria King must have been so painful. Here, perhaps on this very spot, she had given away her babies, never to see them again.

  Julia thanked the nun. She marvelled at the compassion she had shown to her, a complete stranger. She wished she could have stayed longer, but she had an appoin
tment to keep.

  Outside the church everything looked normal. But for Julia it would never again be the same. In front of her she could still see her mother. She is placing the two babies into the arms of the nuns. Then she is turning and pushing through the stained-glass door, her eyes blinded with tears, her breasts bursting with milk. Out into the city streets. Alone.

  TUESDAY

  - 90 -

  It happened without warning, as it always did. First it was just the hills moving in the dawn sky. Then the ground beneath him undulating like a silent slow-motion earthquake, with the sound of the wind and the beating of his heart muffled as though he were plunging deep into the ocean.

  And then the floating sensation, the one he always got when Ada called.

  He heard her voice again. Shrill and demanding. ‘Sam!’

  He would have to go in the end. Maybe she’d give him a drink. She might also give him food, and then he wouldn’t have to steal those three-day-old sausage rolls from the corner bakery . . .

  And there she was, grasping his wrist and dragging him to the caravan, her straggly blonde hair flying in the wind, her voice rattling through him.

  ‘I told you to come, you scumbag.’

  He felt the pain of the cigarette sear his stomach. He screamed, then quickly, before she burned his arms, he began the ritual. It was great the way the pain melted away. And if he didn’t actually look at the burn marks, he could swear he’d been making it all up in his head.

  He watched the two bodies, slippery with sweat, making disgusting slapping noises. Her eyes were closed. She was yelping like a dog and digging her claws into the man’s back.

  Sam lay quietly, feeling sick, knowing what was still to come. Knowing the caravan was locked and he couldn’t get out. When the man had finished he got up, kicked Sam in the head and then turned him over. Sam lay still, his eyes tightly closed, his face screwed up, making the pain go, waiting, waiting until the man had gone. And when he had gone he heard the voice in his head. And very quietly, so that Ada would not hear him, he slid the knife out of his pocket and thrust it deep into her back.

  Slowly his vision cleared. His body felt so good that he sat up and looked through the open door, focusing on the bleak moors beyond the barn. Dark burnt heather close by, then dark green and grey, then pale grey meeting the dark grey of the sky. Fading to nothing. Life was like that, he thought. In the end it fades to nothing. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered. It was all going to end anyway.

  He reached for the plastic water bottle. He could finish the lot, but knowing what that did to him lately, he tilted it slowly so that only a few drops touched his tongue.

  His clothes were a mess. Hung on him like a scarecrow’s. The last of the precious clean clothes, the ones Joe had given him before he’d thrown him out, were still in the plastic bag, being saved for the big moment.

  Julia. How people changed. He didn’t trust her further than he could throw her now. Yes, okay, she promised she’d give him the money today, but he didn’t believe her any more. It was her lies that were forcing him to do this. He didn’t want to do it, but there was no other way. Nobody cared about him, so why should he care about anyone else? So far, nothing he’d done to frighten her had made her see sense. Mrs fucking solicitor thought that if she kept him waiting long enough he would just walk away and forget the whole thing. Then she could walk away too.

  He’d have done things differently if she hadn’t stuck that hatpin in his guts. This whole fiasco was her fault. He could keep the pain away for a day or two longer but he wasn’t fucking ignorant. He’d die if he didn’t see a quack soon, but he needed big money for that. Needed it now. She said she’d have it today but he couldn’t trust her any more . . .

  He was all set. And he knew exactly what time the children came out of school.

  He sat as still as a statue. Conserving his energy. He watched the sky change from grey to pink. Soon he was floating just above the floor of the barn. He didn’t have long to wait now.

  - 91 -

  Julia opened her eyes, remembering with a surge of excitement that exactly two days ago at dawn, she’d been with Paul in his hotel room. With each hour that went by, with each new stab of fear, she realised how much she needed him, and yet the crazy thing was that despite what Jessie had said, she knew it was wishful thinking to imagine it could ever work.

  How she’d have loved to have had dinner with him last night. But she couldn’t have eaten a thing and he’d have wanted to know why. And now today loomed before her like a sheer mountain face, without a comforting ledge in sight. Duty solicitor. Smith’s phone call. Smith’s deadline for handing over the money. Nicky’s extra ballet class . . .

  Touchstone . . . Swan . . . Who is Smith? Who hit Mr Spencer with the lamp? Was it me or Nicholas? Without positive proof you have to give him the benefit of the doubt . . .

  She clamped her hands over her ears, trying to shut out her inner voice which was becoming more intense and more intrusive each day. Thank goodness nobody else could hear it. It was a form of talking to herself that was making her increasingly suspicious about her mental stability, but without anybody to confide in, who else was there to talk to?

  She swung her legs over the bed and dropped her feet into her slippers. Tiptoeing to Nicky’s room she peeped in, then went downstairs to make the tea. She patted Duchess, put the kettle on and took a bowl of milk to the utility room for Kitty. With a steaming mug in front of her she sat down at the kitchen table. Okay, Julia. Think logically.

  Right. Smith. He was abandoned. Shoved from pillar to post. Real date of birth unknown, but someone will eventually have picked a date because the system says, well, you must have a date of birth. The same thing went for his name. He could have gone through life with this name, Sam Smith and this date of birth that everyone accepted, and it could all be fictitious.

  She put a slice of bread in the toaster and waited for it to pop up. If I wanted to, I could call myself Madonna. Born on April the first. And if I said it often enough it would get written down in records. The information the police have on criminal records is what you tell them, apart from exceptional circumstances where they do a thorough investigation into a person’s antecedents. What’s your name? Sam Smith. Your date of birth? Let’s have a set of your fingerprints. Fine. So right from the age of thirteen, when he was first arrested for burglary, he got fingerprinted, and the name and date of birth were whatever he told them they were.

  The toast popped up. She spooned a dollop of marmalade on top of it. She felt sick and frightened but knew she had to eat. He had said once that he was into astrology or she’d never have told him her date of birth. Perhaps, after she’d eaten, this trembling would stop. She took a bite of toast, then pushed the plate away. She sipped her tea, staring into space.

  Think. Close your eyes. Think about that day at Strangeways when he chatted about astrology . . . the smell of fresh paint . . . his eyes . . . their voices . . .

  ‘They all told me you were the best. You’re real smart the way you suss things out, aren’t you, Julia.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘It’s no wonder you’re such a good lawyer.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You got all it takes. You can do anything. Remember things. Think of lots of things at the same time, and you’re always like . . . unruffled.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Ada used to tell fortunes too. She taught me how the stars affect people’s personalities. I could tell you lots more about yourself if I knew when you were born. When were you born, Julia?’

  ‘December.’

  ‘What date?’

  ‘Fifteenth.’

  ‘I knew you were a Sagittarius. Have a look.’ He points to his file.

  To please him she pulls it towards her and spreads it open on the table. ‘What an amazing coincidence,’ she says, smiling. ‘Same as mine. Fifteenth of December.’

  She opened her eyes, broke
off another piece of toast and forced it to her mouth, trying desperately to remember the year of his birth. It was not something she normally bothered about. She didn’t need to memorise a client’s date of birth unless it was relevant to some legal aspect of the case, because she knew she could always find it in his file if necessary. She’d only remembered the 15th December bit because it was the same as hers, but she hadn’t registered the year. Or did she deliberately forget it?

  But even he doesn’t really know when he was born. Or what his real name is. Not everyone has a nice cosy label attached to him from birth to death. There are loads of people whose identities are false.

  She poured another mug of tea. She heard a whimper and bent down to stroke Duchess as she climbed sleepily from the basket. All I have to do is get his file out. And check his year of birth.

  She studied her face in the kitchen mirror. The oval shape. The widely spaced, round blue eyes. The broad forehead. She turned, squinting to get a side view of her eyes, and stopped.

  Why did no one ever tell me they are far from deep set, she asked herself. To know the truth. To know the whole ghastly truth might be so awful that I might not want to go on living. Perhaps the same protective mechanism that made Sam Smith forget that he had cut off Joanne Perkins’ nipples is still protecting me. Yesterday, sitting in the car, suddenly remembering, was bad enough. It was better when I knew nothing about him or my past. Now, apart from one detail I’m unable to pinpoint, one excruciating detail on that fateful night that keeps eluding me, everything seems crystal clear. How I wish Jessie had not told me he was still alive. Or that his name was Nicholas King. Or that he’d done something so wicked that he had to be sent to a special place for evil children. Nameless and faceless as he’s been all these years, I could have spent the rest of my life dreaming about what he might have been.

  But now it is all different.

  Now I want to know, she told herself. But also I do not want to know. For so long I’ve waited to find him. Wanted to find him. Loved him. Now I don’t know what I feel. Fear, disgust, sorrow, pity, love, remorse . . .