Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  I lay on top of Joe’s Doctor Who rug and stared at the ceiling. I’m sorry, Joe.

  Eventually the chime from the door roused me. It was exactly one and I smiled at Jonathan’s familiar punctuality. But it wasn’t Jonathan; it was my dad, his face more gaunt than the last time I’d seen him and any anger I held slipped away.

  ‘Hi Dad, come in.’ I stepped sideways.

  He held a package wrapped in brown paper and offered it to me. ‘Hope I’m doing the right thing.’

  I took it from him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The day Joe stayed at our house ...’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Really, I don’t.’

  ‘Joe did some paintings,’ he pointed to the package, ‘I thought you and Liam would like to have them.’

  I placed the package on the hall table. ‘I can’t look. I can’t.’

  ‘When you’re ready, love.’

  ‘How are you? And Margaret?’

  ‘We’re all right. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Come through.’ We sat down. ‘You should have told me.’

  I did want to talk about it.

  ‘I know.’ He leant onto the table, wedged his elbows on its edge. ‘There’s something I do need to tell you.’

  I waited.

  ‘You wanted to know why Michael came that day, to see Margaret? Because he did go only to see Margaret. There’s something your mum and I have never shared with you. There was no point. It wasn’t relevant. But you should know. Margaret looked after Michael when he was very young. Full-time. Sam and Bridget were building their business, your mum had left her job as a teacher to have her own children ... but she didn’t fall pregnant. So she looked after Michael.’

  ‘What?’ Was I really surprised?

  ‘Then you were born and she stopped. Caused a lot of aggravation between your mum and Bridget. Truth was, Bridget didn’t like having a kid, it suited her to palm Michael off onto Margaret, then Margaret having a baby – you – inconvenienced her.’

  ‘Margaret looked after Michael?’

  ‘As I said, often. He stayed over, it worked. I travelled a lot, then, with my job.’

  ‘Michael came over to our house when I was growing up. I used to tell you but you chose not to listen.’ I looked up at him. ‘Not often, but he came.’ I turned my eyes away towards the window. ‘Did you know he came, Dad, to visit?’

  He shuffled in his chair. ‘Of course, I knew he came occasionally. But there’s nothing alarming in that, is there?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Well ... as I said, your mother did look after him, so I don’t think it’s that strange.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Soon after she stopped taking care of him he got meningitis. It changed him, even after he recovered. He became odd. That’s what we all put it down to, the meningitis. Sam did as much as he could, but Bridget wasn’t the best mum. Not unkind, just not cut out to be a mother. It was Sam who wanted a child, not Bridget. That was why they only had one.’

  ‘Margaret hasn’t been the best mum, either.’

  ‘She’s tried. She wanted you, was desperate for a child.’ He placed a clammy hand on top of mine. ‘You two clashed from the minute you were born.’

  I knew there was a part of that statement that was true. We clashed from the minute I could question her.

  ‘Why did she give up teaching?’ I remembered why I’d been so upset the day Joe disappeared, and it wasn’t just about Liam’s suspected affair, it was more about not being able to work. But the two were connected. I’d felt he could do whatever he liked, and I could not. ‘Maybe if she’d carried on with her job ... she wouldn’t be the way she is.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He wriggled in his chair. ‘Michael has always had a sort of love/hate relationship with your mum. I think he missed her.’ He looked up at me. ‘He became aggressive towards her on the one hand, but he wanted her, loved her, if you like, on the other. I kept out of it. The day he visited, after you’d dropped Joe, I was called on to do something unexpectedly for work. I knew you wanted me around when you left Joe with us ... I knew that, so I didn’t tell you I’d been out all day when you picked him up later that evening.’ Guilt passed over his features as it did mine, I was sure. ‘Michael had taken the coach down from Chester for the day, that’s what he told us.’

  ‘You should have told me when I picked Joe up. And you should have told Tom about this.’

  ‘There’s no point telling them anything now, Rachel. It’s over. Michael came to see Margaret, that’s all. Nothing sinister.’ He watched me. ‘Just as it wasn’t sinister if Michael came over occasionally when he was growing up. No matter what we know now, he was my nephew. Someone who’d spent the first part of his life with us. I’d always felt a bit sorry for him, despite his history with the police, but now ... the guilt eats at me every day.’

  ‘Dad, he spent the whole day with Joe.’

  He seemed to tuck into himself and then stood, tears forming in his eyes. ‘Your mother was trying to be nice; she knew he had no relationship with Bridget, that Sam found his son difficult.’

  ‘Margaret trying to be nice?’ I rubbed my finger in a small well of water left on the table. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  Margaret wasn’t nice. That would never be a word I’d use to describe her, although I accepted that she portrayed that image to many people. She was active within the church, did a fair amount of voluntary work. People didn’t love her, but our small community held her in respect.

  She was different outside the four walls of her home. I knew it, and my dad knew it too. I touched my scar and a memory floated to the surface.

  I think it was the summer after the auspicious Boxing Day when I went on my first school trip. Two nights in the Peak District, camping. The highlight of the trip, apart from frying bacon every morning around a campfire, was visiting the Blue John Caverns. I’d missed my dad but loved being away from home and my mother. The school bus was due back into Birmingham and the car park of our school at 6 p.m. It was a Thursday, I think. The teacher had made a call from the service station to the lead parent (no one had mobiles then) saying we would be on time. We arrived back at 6.10 p.m. Margaret was picking me up. My dad was away with his job. My teacher and I were still waiting at 7.30 p.m. No Margaret, and no answer on our phone at home. We waited. Still no Margaret at 8.30 p.m. Everyone had gone; it was just the teacher and I left. Eventually, he took me home. Margaret answered the door in her dressing gown, a copy of Madame Bovary in her hand. I don’t remember what she said to my teacher; not a lot I’d guess. My teacher didn’t know what to say. I think he mumbled an apology for disturbing her – she had that effect on people – and he left as quickly as he could. She didn’t say a word to me, only looked at the heap of my rucksack and the plastic bag that held wet and dirty clothes. I took everything up to my room trying desperately not to cry. I pulled out the Blue John brooch that I’d bought her from the gift shop and put it in my bin. I felt so stupid.

  When, finally, I went back downstairs to the quietness of a house that always felt so empty without my dad around, I realised my mother had gone to bed.

  So I did, too. Hungry, sad and still cold.

  Now I watched my dad making his way to the kitchen door and away from me, if he’d ever been with me. Without Joe, whatever we shared had come to a full stop. In that moment loneliness engulfed me completely.

  ‘This is all too much for me, love,’ he said. ‘We can’t change what happened.’

  ‘Why do you love her, Dad? How can you love her?’

  ‘She is who she is. I’ve always stood by her, through everything.’

  ‘She doesn’t love me; she didn’t love Joe. I don’t understand.’

  He didn’t even try to contradict me. ‘Some people, people like your mother, are difficult to understand, but it doesn’t stop me from loving her. And she did love Joe, in her way.’ He stopped, looked defeated. ‘And I love you.’

  ‘Did she love Michael?’

  He peer
ed through the kitchen window. ‘I think she did.’

  A sharp pain stabbed at my stomach. ‘I can’t see her again, any time soon.’

  ‘I understand. Look, I’ll come around again next week, to see you and Liam.’

  I nodded, followed him through to the hall and watched him amble down the driveway. As I closed the front door, I noticed the package on the hall table and picked it up. Walking towards the cupboard under the stairs, I opened the door and placed it at the back unopened.

  I made my way to the kitchen and sat at the table. Loneliness was becoming a part of me but perhaps that was a good thing.

  Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang again. Jonathan. I was looking forwards to talking to him – seeing as Liam and I were hardly speaking. Charlotte had said it would take time, but I knew no amount of time would heal what was between us. The strange hunger I’d felt throughout Joe’s disappearance, which abated during the trial, had returned. The thought of the closeness between my mother and Hemmings had unsettled me. Should I tell Tom Gillespie about my mother and Hemmings? But what good would it do? That part was over.

  I walked back towards the front door, let it off the latch and opened it.

  ‘Hi, Rachel.’

  ‘Jonathan, good to see you, come in.’

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘Just seen your dad, sitting in the car, down the road. Has he just been?’

  ‘Left about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘He looked upset.’ He caught hold of my hand. ‘You look upset.’ He followed me into the kitchen. ‘I think he was crying. He didn’t see me.’

  ‘My dad’s always been the one person I could trust, but I just don’t know anymore.’

  ‘It’s only been a few days since the end of the trial; it’ll take months for things to settle. Give yourself, everyone, time. Has Charlotte gone to California?’

  ‘Yes, yesterday.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have gone with her?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ I flicked on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Would prefer tea.’

  I pulled out a dusty teapot from the back of the cupboard. It was never used; neither Liam nor I liked tea. ‘I’m not sure what’s happening, Jonathan, I’m totally confused.’

  ‘What’s going down with your dad?’

  ‘He told me that Margaret looked after Michael for Bridget when he was young. He practically lived with Margaret and Dad before I was born. I’d no idea. But it explains ...’ I faltered.

  ‘I suppose it explains Hemmings’ visit to your parents the day you dropped Joe there?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does. It explains a lot ...’

  ‘You could speak to Tom Gillespie about this.’

  ‘It won’t change anything,’ I said, rubbing my scar.

  Jonathan leaned against the sink. ‘I know your family had little to do with Bridget and Sam in recent years, but surely if your parents had looked after Hemmings as a child, there was some bond there? I mean, did he ever visit, independent of his parents?’

  I slithered onto the floor, tucked my knees underneath my chin, and looked at Jonathan. ‘That’s the thing; Michael Hemmings did visit my mother occasionally.’

  ‘That sounds normal.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Considering that she looked after him as a kid, I think so. Did you have much to do with him ... when he came?’

  I froze. Unable to say anything.

  ‘Rachel...?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I never liked him. I was glad when he stopped coming.’ I twisted and fingered my ponytail.

  It took him a while to answer. He moved and sat with me on the floor. ‘If you plan to say nothing about Hemmings visiting Margaret, then let all this go. If you rake this up it’ll achieve nothing.’

  ‘You mean it won’t help Joe, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course it won’t help Joe.’

  ‘It feels as if my life is over. It might as well be over.’

  ‘I know, I think, how you feel. Michelle felt the same way when Daniel died. She still felt that way when I met her, and for a long time after her son’s death. I thought I could help,’ he ruminated.

  ‘I’m so selfish. How are you and Michelle?’

  ‘Still together, just.’

  ‘It’s good of you to come over to see me.’

  ‘Glad I did, sounds like you could use some company. Got any biscuits?’ I smiled and got up, got a packet from the cupboard and handed it to him. ‘Leave what Margaret and your dad have told you. You and Liam have to stay afloat. This is the hardest time, you know that.’ He flattened perfectly ironed jeans. ‘Have you talked to Liam about what you suspected?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry about you and Michelle,’ I said instead.

  ‘We’ll be OK.’

  Michelle was older than Jonathan by five years, a similar age to me. Jonathan was her second husband. She’d got divorced soon after the tragic death of her son, Daniel. I’d known Jonathan since before he’d met Michelle, and I knew that part of the reason they’d got together was through a sense of shared grief. Michelle’s because of Daniel and her divorce, Jonathan’s because of a past that continued to haunt him.

  Jonathan and I had become friends when I’d investigated ‘The Asian Bride’ case during the late 1980s. I thought back fondly of Marek Gorski, the talented cosmetic surgeon who had treated the tragic bride. She was still a girl and engaged to be married to her cousin, who was at least twenty years older than her. He had flown in from Pakistan only three weeks before the wedding date. At the end of the second day of ‘marriage celebrations’ the teenager went outside the mosque and talked to a male guest, taking a drag of the cigarette he’d offered her. When the new bride and groom returned to their flat in Northampton, the groom retrieved battery acid from underneath the sink, held down the seven-stone girl and poured it over her face. Over the next two years, I observed as Marek Gorski miraculously transformed Sorojini Jain’s pitifully burned features. Jonathan, with her approval, ran a series of articles on her, and others like her. I’d carried on visiting Sorojini long after my official role was over.

  During a visit to a pub near the London hospital where Sorojini was being treated for horrific acid burns to her face and upper body, Jonathan and I had swapped life stories.

  Jonathan’s quiet voice brought me back to the present.

  ‘When Daniel died Michelle wanted to disappear, go home, shut the door, not be with anyone. He’d been ill for so long, in hospital for the last year of his life, she just wanted to be alone. She wanted revenge, but there was no one to take revenge on. Only God. It’s why she split from her husband.’ He paused. ‘Essentially, it’s why we’re having problems now. Because of her grief. You love Liam, don’t you? Despite what might have happened before Joe went missing?’

  ‘There was no one to blame for Daniel’s death,’ I said quietly, sitting back down on the floor. ‘It was, and still is, a terrible place for Michelle to be. I don’t love Liam anymore, Jonathan.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Have you heard anything about an appeal?’ he asked, changing from one uncomfortable subject to another.

  ‘Our barrister says it’s pointless pursuing it, and I have to agree, looking at the judge’s previous sentencing, other cases, the psychiatric reports. Hemmings has a mental disorder, and theoretically it is treatable.’ I looked at him. ‘And Liam has no wish to pursue it.’

  He nodded his head. ‘I’m sure it’s crossed your mind that maybe all the reports are right. That Hemmings does have a mental problem ...’ He stopped mid-sentence, then carried on. ‘What Hemmings did, all that he did, were not the actions of a sane man.’

  ‘Or just the actions of a very bad and evil man?’

  ‘It sounds as if Hemmings was always a weird bastard, maybe Margaret just didn’t want to admit to being so close to him when he was a kid. Maybe she wants no blame for the way he’s turned out.’

  The bright light of the day that had been beaming through into the kit
chen dimmed for a moment, and again, as it had so often done since Joe’s disappearance, the memory of something long ago flickered, like an old film, through my mind.

  ‘And the day Hemmings spent at Margaret’s with Joe?’ I said.

  Jonathan sighed. ‘It was unfortunate Joe was there that day.’

  ‘Unfortunate?’

  He pulled me towards him, almost hugging me. I didn’t stop him, and a heat of something folded over me, and then as quickly as the warmth appeared it dissipated, and the guilt came again. Guilt that I was having any feelings at all other than grief or anger. Sensing my thoughts, he moved away and stood up.

  ‘Joe had met Hemmings before, you told me that. You’re focusing on this and you don’t need to.’

  ‘No, I don’t need to,’ I said, getting up too.

  ‘Maybe you should think about going back to work in the force, not yet but in the near future. You were good at your job.’ His face softened. ‘You were good with the victims, and the perpetrators. People tell you things. You’re insightful; I think that’s the right word.’ He paused, smiled. ‘You should have been a journo.’

  ‘I don’t know about that – people telling me things, about being insightful,’ I said ironically.

  ‘You helped me when I spilled my guts to you.’

  I thought back to our conversation in the pub near the hospital, all that time ago, when he’d told me about the death of his parents.

  He began to fidget and carried on, as if knowing what I was thinking about. ‘Did you keep in touch with Marek Gorski? Has he been in contact, since Joe?’

  I had heard from Marek, soon after the trial. He’d sent me a beautiful handwritten letter.

  ‘Yes, he wrote to me. He’s set up a clinic in Warsaw, specialising in facial cosmetic surgery. His plan was to help people who have been victims of violence, to charge as little as possible, but he’s taking proper paid work too, to cover the costs of the people who can’t pay.’