She smiled with almost childlike delight. “It’s such a pleasure to cook for my boy. I only wish Peter—”
She broke off. Jamie sucked in a breath. They knew what was coming.
“How can you wish such a thing, you ungrateful woman?” Victor Tinsley demanded. “Our son was chosen, Margaret. We’re the lucky ones.”
“Oh, yes.” Now she was flustered. “Yes, of course I know that. Sometimes, I just wish that Peter could be here, just for a few minutes.”
Jamie watched his father nod. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to make a scene. Not today. Not on Easter Sunday.
“So long as you’re not questioning God’s will,” he murmured, spearing a roast potato.
“Of course not.”
Silence descended once more. All Jamie could hear was the occasional chink of cutlery on plates and the angry thump of his heart.
He wanted to shout and scream at his father until he saw sense. Which side was God actually on? Of all the senseless killings in Afghanistan, who was to say that God was on the side of the British or the Americans? God hadn’t chosen Pete. Even the young Afghan who’d planted the roadside bomb that killed Pete and one of his colleagues hadn’t chosen him.
Everything in this house, from the weather to blasted wars, was God’s will.
Jamie had been six when he’d first seen his father hit his mother. That had been God’s will too. It wasn’t his father behaving like the bully he was. Oh, no. It was God who wanted this tall, strong man to raise his hand and knock his wife to the floor.
Pete had understood Jamie’s anger, but he’d never shared it. He’d been the special son, though, so he’d had more freedom and, therefore, more opportunities to make friends. People had laughed at their parents, and Pete, always the joker outside these four walls, had laughed with them. Jamie had simply cringed with a mix of anger, embarrassment and humiliation.
He’d spent years wishing his father dead. He looked at him now and imagined him clutching his chest, exactly as people did in films, before falling headfirst into his beef and gravy. Better still, he imagined him having a stroke, of being paralysed and being taught to eat again in an anonymous nursing home.
Sometimes, he even fantasised about killing him. He’d give him a lethal injection perhaps. Once, he dreamed that his father fell down the stairs in this house and broke his neck, dying instantly. Years later, he could still remember the feeling of disappointment when he’d woken to find it was nothing more exciting than a dream. The bastard would live forever out of spite.
“I’m getting a dog,” Jamie said.
Cutlery was stilled. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the clock.
“It’s a collie crossbreed,” he said. “It’s the image of Ben.”
“Have—have more potatoes.” His mother pushed the bowl toward him. “A growing lad like you—”
“And how do you plan to fit that in your life?” Victor laid down his knife and fork. “As things stand, you’re even too busy to visit your own mother. How will you find time for your mother, and for worshipping our Lord, for studying His Word? Hmm?”
“Plenty of people live good, honest, decent lives and have pets,” Jamie replied.
“Some people do, yes. Not you though, James. You proved that you’re incapable of such things, didn’t you?”
In his imagination, Jamie was upending the table, sending plates, cutlery and food flying in the air. “I was fourteen,” he was yelling at his father. “I was a fucking kid, that’s all.” In reality, his father was waiting patiently for his response, and his mother was holding her breath and in all probability praying to God that they didn’t have a fight on Easter Sunday of all days.
“I’ve grown up since then, Father.” He couldn’t look at the man whose blood ran in his veins. “I made a mistake and I learned my lesson.”
A nerve twitched near Victor’s right eye. The world seemed to stop turning for a beat.
“I hope so, James. I would hate to think that you could bring yet more shame on your mother’s head. You’ve disappointed us enough over the years, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Father.”
“You’ve not been fit to be called son, have you?”
“No, Father.”
Victor blew out a considering breath before, finally, picking up his knife and fork. “I’m sure you’re keen to read to us when we’ve enjoyed the Lord’s offering.”
Jamie longed to scream Fuck you! but, although he’d grown up and learned to take care of himself, he couldn’t bear to see the bruises that would appear on his mother’s face if any disagreements raised their ugly head. “I am, Father.”
“Then let us eat.”
To get the food past the wedge of anger lodged in his throat, Jamie lost himself in his imagination. By the time the apple pie and custard appeared in front of him, he’d already seen his father smashed to a pulp by a speeding train and drowned in a bubbling bath of acid.
Die, he silently urged him. Just fucking die.
Nothing happened, of course. Jamie was more likely to get struck by lightning or win the lottery than watch the bastard die.
He often thought his birth must have been the only thing in his father’s life that didn’t come under the God’s Will category of events. Jamie must have been a mistake. Unplanned. His arrival in the world must have occurred at an inconvenient time because never once had it been attributed to God’s will.
Pete, on the other hand, had come along five years later and been hailed a gift, a blessing from God. None had welcomed his arrival more than Jamie. He’d loved his brother dearly and his death was still a raw wound that wouldn’t heal.
The pain was almost as raw as that of losing his beloved Ben. Pete’s death he could accept. The dog’s he couldn’t.
Jamie helped his mother tidy up and, when the table was clear, he took the old Bible from his father and sat to read. After half an hour or so, his voice grew a little croaky. At least he didn’t stutter though. He spoke slowly, forming each word in his head before daring to give it sound.
“That will do, James. I’m sure we all feel better.” Much to Jamie’s surprise, Victor rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Goodbye, James. I trust we’ll see you more often in future. And, please—” his expression was pained, “—think about the shame your mother has to bear before you act unwisely.”
“Yes, Father.”
He was going out. Jamie couldn’t believe it. His father was actually leaving the house. There should be drum rolls and fanfares. Birds should sing out and rejoice.
Jamie heard the garage door being opened and the old car being reversed onto the drive before chugging off.
“Where’s he going?” he asked.
“Church. He and several of the elders have a meeting today.” His mother patted his arm. “Let’s go into the garden. The sun’s shining and it would be a shame to waste it.”
“Good idea.” Jamie followed her into the kitchen, a warmer, sunnier room, and out into the back garden. “Lunch was lovely, Mum. Thank you.”
“I just wish you came more often,” she said.
“I can’t.”
She stopped walking to look at him. “I know. I know you can’t.”
Jamie would have liked to hold her, to comfort her, to take her away from this sad, dreary place. It would make her even more nervous, though. This was the only life she knew.
She sat on the wooden bench that had been there for decades. “Sit yourself down,” she said, patting the space beside her, “and tell me what you’ve been doing. I know you’re working hard, but what about everything else? Haven’t you met a nice young girl yet?”
“One that I could bring here? No.” He watched her eyes cloud and wished he hadn’t spoken so harshly. “Actually, there is someone. Susan. Sue. She runs an animal sanctuary in Dawson’s Clough. She’s nice.”
“Really?” Her face became animated once more. “And does she feel the same about you?”
“I hope so. I like to think so.”
He was about to tell her about how the dog had been dumped at Sue’s gate, but changed his mind. They never spoke of Ben. The reminder was always there, though. Off to Jamie’s right, too painful to look at, was the shed where the loyal sleek-coated pet, the best friend Jamie had ever known, had crawled to die.
“Peter was the one who would have been bringing young women home,” he said instead. He knew how much she longed to talk about Pete and how she wasn’t allowed to. “The girls all loved him.”
“Of course they did. He was so handsome, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Especially in uniform. They would have formed a very lengthy queue.”
She smiled, her expression dreamy as if she were picturing her dashing son leading beautiful debutantes across a vast ballroom. “He was clever, too, wasn’t he?”
“Very clever.”
Not clever enough to get the exam results Jamie had. Not clever enough for university as Jamie had been. But he’d been bright, funny and lovely.
“I write to him.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Sorry?”
“Peter. I write to him.” She wasn’t looking at him. “Your father doesn’t know, of course, but sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I come downstairs and write him a letter. I can’t talk to him so I—I write to him. I keep the letters at the back of the airing cupboard.”
Unsure what to say, and too filled with hatred for his father to speak anyway, Jamie patted her hand.
“I suppose it sounds crazy,” she said.
“Of course not. It’s all part of the grieving process.”
“Yes. I don’t think your father would understand though.”
Jamie was damn sure he wouldn’t. Victor Tinsley didn’t grieve. “Probably not. It’ll be our little secret, eh?”
“Yes, that would be best.” Her expression changed. “You must always remember that you were the son born out of love, James.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just that. Nothing more.” She held his hand and he could feel her trembling.
“But what—?”
“Hush now.”
The way she’d spoken, he, Jamie, had been born out of love whereas Pete hadn’t. That was madness, surely. Pete had been the favourite son.
Something jolted in Jamie’s stomach. “He didn’t rape—”
“Hush!”
“Oh, no.”
She shook her head in denial. It was clear she would say no more on the subject.
“Is that to be another of our secrets?” he asked.
Her throat worked, but her lips trembled and her face was ashen. “You’re a good boy, James.”
So good that he allowed his own mother to live like this. Soon, he would return to his own home. Normality. He would see normal people. Talk to normal people. She couldn’t even do that.
Despite his longings and fantasies, Jamie knew his father wouldn’t die for years yet. Not from natural causes, at least. The man enjoyed remarkably good health and didn’t take risks. Besides, it was a well-known fact that the devil looked after his own.
God wasn’t planning on putting an end to Victor Tinsley’s overbearing, bullying tactics so someone else would have to. Jamie would have to.
He patted his mother’s hand. “It won’t always be like this. I promise.”
It was a promise he intended to keep.
Chapter Nine
“I’ll go.” The dim red light on the alarm clock showed 3:21 a.m. Unfortunately, Dylan’s daughter hadn’t yet learned to distinguish between social and unsocial hours. And this was definitely unsocial.
“She probably wants feeding.” Bev’s voice was muffled by bedclothes.
“She was only fed an hour ago.” Dylan had been awake ever since Bev had crawled back to bed and put ice-cold feet on him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Dylan groped around in the dark for his jeans, pulled them on and crept out of the bedroom. He closed the door behind him, switched on the landing light and padded into the nursery.
Nursery was a grand name for the spare room, the one that had been piled high with junk until they’d had the shock news of Freya’s imminent arrival. Dylan had been given the task, just before Christmas, of putting up wallpaper. Instead of tasteful pastel shades, the room was now a riot of scarlet giraffes, sky-blue monkeys and yellow elephants. It was no wonder the poor kid couldn’t sleep.
“Okay, Trouble, what’s the problem?” The light on the landing allowed him to see his daughter in a tangle of bedclothes. He lifted her out of the crib. “What you need is a tot of fine whisky. A wee dram of Lagavulin would have you asleep in seconds. She’d smell it on your breath though, and then we’d both be up a certain creek without a paddle.”
Freya, as if pondering his words, fell silent. She could keep this up all night. She’d scream for all she was worth until someone lifted her out of her crib. Behaviour would then be exemplary until someone tried to put her back.
“Tell you what,” he said, carrying her down the stairs, “I’ll have the Lagavulin and you inhale deeply. Maybe that’ll do the trick.”
It was cold in the kitchen and he flicked the switch on the boiler and listened to the satisfying clicks as pipes and radiators warmed up. It was amazing, he thought as he poured himself a drink, how quickly man could adapt to operating with one hand. There were few things you couldn’t do with a baby in the crook of your arm.
He pulled a chair close to the radiator and settled himself down. There were worse ways to pass the small hours than enjoying a drink in the company of a beautiful girl.
A creak on the stairs made him think Bev hadn’t gone back to sleep after all, but Luke came into the kitchen.
“Have I reared raging insomniacs?” Dylan asked.
Luke grinned and helped himself to a glass of milk and a piece of cake. “She’s great, isn’t she?”
“She’s beautiful. But why are you still awake?”
“I’ve got the room next to hers. Vicky—Vicky says she’d wake the dead.”
The hesitation made Dylan smile. His mother thought the title “Gran” made her sound old so she insisted that Luke call her Vicky. The poor kid still couldn’t get used to the idea.
“She’s probably right,” Dylan said.
“When do you think she’ll fit into her pyjamas, Dad?”
“Sooner than you think.”
Dylan had taken Luke shopping to buy a present for his new sister and all Luke had wanted to buy was a baby pair of Arsenal FC pyjamas. Even Dylan had to admit she’d look pretty cute in them. In another nine months or so.
Freya, little angel that she was, was fast asleep. Perhaps he’d bored her sufficiently. Dylan wasn’t about to risk lowering her into her crib yet, though.
“So how’s it going, Luke? Are you and your mum all right?”
“I suppose so. It’s better when Gran’s here though. Vicky, I mean. Mum’s pretty snappy.”
Dylan knew it. “She’ll soon be back to normal. Babies are tiring. She was the same when you were born.”
That was an out-and-out lie. When Luke had been born, Bev had been blessed with more energy than was decent for one woman. She’d raced everywhere, desperate to be the perfect mother, eager to show off her beautiful boy to everyone who stopped to look. Now, she had no energy whatsoever and even less enthusiasm. She was quiet, moody and irritable. In fact, Dylan had mentioned his concerns to his mother.
“My God,” she’d said, “you’ve actually noticed that your wife has problems. Wonders will never cease.”
“How long did it take to perfect your personal brand of sarcasm, Mum?”
She’d laughed. “It comes naturally, love. And don’t worry about Bev. I’ll do as much as I can to help. I expect she’s just tired. She might even have a touch of postnatal depression. It’s early days. Goodness, my granddaughter’s not even a fortnight old yet. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Dylan was worried. This was u
nlike Bev.
“Imagine what it’s like, Luke, having no sleep. One night without sleep is bad enough but when it goes on for a week or more—”
“I know, Dad. It’s cool. Everything’s cool.”
Dylan knew it wasn’t but Luke shared his own what-can’t-be-changed-must-be-endured philosophy on life. There was nothing either of them could do about the situation so they’d have to put up with it until things changed.
“What time are you leaving in the morning?” Luke asked.
“Not too early.” He felt guilty now. While Bev was depressed or tired or whatever she was, and while Luke had to cope with it, Dylan was swanning off to Lancashire. He’d had a long weekend at home, and that had been good, but tomorrow was a bank holiday. He felt he should be at home. “I wish I didn’t have to go, Luke, but I really need to.”
“I know. Gran—Vicky told me all about it. Did he kill her, Dad?”
Dylan groaned inwardly. Was it normal for a woman to tell her grandson grisly murder stories? Of course it wasn’t, but while Dylan’s mother was a lot of things, sadly, normal wasn’t one of them. He could picture her, high on dope, embellishing the story too. Not that he supposed she smoked suspicious substances in front of Luke. That wasn’t the point though.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Possibly. Probably. I don’t know and that’s the whole point, Luke. If there’s even a slim possibility that he’s in prison when he should be at home with his family, then I have to do all I can to help. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah. No worries. I think it’s cool, Dad. I just wish I was old enough to be your sidekick. I will be soon though.”
“I thought you were going to play for Arsenal.”
“Well, yeah. That too.”
“Footballers get paid more. A lot more. I’d concentrate on that if I were you.”
“We’ll see.” Luke nodded at his sister. “She’s great when she’s asleep, isn’t she?”
“She is.” He ruffled Luke’s hair. “And so are you. Time you were back in bed.”
“I’m out of here.” Luke had one more long look at his sister, then went back to his room.
Silent Witness (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 7