Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘Is this mother ... of Joe?’

  ‘Yes, it is, have you seen her before?’

  Malina sat back on the bench. ‘Why do you want know? You have to tell me.’

  Jonathan had moved from the bench and was now sitting on the cool stone of the street, facing Malina. Kacper stayed next to her. ‘I think she wants to find the man who killed her son. And that would not be good.’

  ‘My God...’

  ‘Are you talking about lady who stayed with us? Amanda?’ Kacper interjected. His English was good.

  ‘Cichy!’ Malina said sharply. Be quiet.

  ‘Has this lady been to your clinic, Malina?’ Jonathan caught Kacper’s eye. The boy hadn’t seen the photo.

  ‘I think understand what you are saying and asking, but I can say nothing.’ She peered at him. ‘I am sorry I cannot help you.’ She sighed. ‘Marek such good man ... helping me get back to medical school. He cares for both Kacper and me.’

  ‘She returned to England after leaving the clinic?’ Jonathan probed.

  Malina looked uncomfortable, a little flustered and finally angry. ‘I cannot help.’ She rose. ‘Have to get back.’ She eyed the front of her pretty home anxiously.

  ‘Of course, Malina. I’m sorry for bothering you,’ Jonathan said.

  She moved to cross the busy street, pulling Kacper by the sleeve. ‘I hope everything turns out OK for your friend.’ She seemed to falter, about to say something, but turned away.

  The wind whipped up again, and her dark hair covered her face; Kacper looked towards his mother, appearing both anxious and curious. As Malina looked first at him, then at her son, Jonathan couldn’t make out her expression.

  He was certain Malina had met Rachel, that Rachel had been a patient at the clinic, and that Rachel had been to the pretty house of Malina’s parents.

  As he walked away, heading towards the salty smell of the sea that enclosed Gdańsk, he knew his journey had not been in vain.

  The temperature had increased a few degrees and he took off his overcoat. Finally, he found a café, sat down and took out his laptop, looking at the files he’d downloaded.

  Jonathan recollected Marek’s quirky notetaking at the London hospital. U.S. still eluded him, but he’d work it out.

  If Rachel was A.M., Amanda McCarthy, and if Jonathan’s suspicions about her motives for coming to Poland were correct, and if Marek had helped Rachel knowingly, then Marek was culpable. However, Jonathan still wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that Rachel had been here, or indeed been a patient at Marek’s clinic, that she was indeed Amanda McCarthy. He needed more proof. As much evidence as possible. His intuition was telling him that Rachel had been here and had undergone some sort of surgery to change the way she looked. And if that were the case, if he was right, Rachel didn't intend on ever returning to her life.

  As he sipped at his double espresso and looked at the scenery around him he thought about Rachel. Her long skirts, her ribboned hair, as she’d taken to wearing it after leaving the force and having Joe. They’d laughed about the ribbons. He’d been aware that she missed her job but was surprised at how easily she’d embraced motherhood. Always smart and coiffured in her employment, she seemed to turn into the opposite after giving it up. He’d asked her who the ‘real Rachel’ was. She’d replied quickly, ‘the one you see in front of you’. At heart, she was a home girl. The sadness she’d taken with her from her own childhood, the lack of love between her and her mother had been channelled into becoming the perfect parent herself.

  He imagined her in the foreignness of Gdańsk, driven here by such negative feelings. He wanted to take her back to a life in which she could be happy. He wanted to help her to face her grief and come to terms with the loss of Joe. He wanted her to wear ribbons again. He wanted to find her, and help her. He wanted to be able to love her.

  Later that evening, Jonathan was sitting in an economy seat on his way back to London. The plane was between Berlin and Hamburg, the location displayed on the screen in front of him, and he tried not to check the alignment of the plane’s wing on his left side obsessively. (He hated flying.) After his second beer, his mind left the puzzle of Rachel and moved towards his own life.

  He closed his eyes. The policewoman telling him that Mum and Dad had been in a car crash ... and wouldn’t be coming back. It was a bit of a problem for the authorities, as he had no living grandparents. Mum and Dad had only one brother between them, and he had very selfishly, Jonathan had thought throughout his teens, died young. So he spent a lonely childhood with very nice but very old people, in a place far from his birthplace, the most boring place on earth: Campbeltown in Scotland. At fourteen, his great-aunt and uncle had sent him to boarding school. He’d been ecstatic, and couldn’t wait to leave. But it turned out the school was worse than living in Scotland. He was shy and unconfident, and had developed a stutter.

  He took a deep breath and then another swig of beer. The plane hit some mild turbulence and he took out a beta-blocker from his inside pocket. Only for when he was desperate. He thought about school, the bullying, head down the toilet on a frequent basis.

  Opening another beer, he attempted to extricate himself from the past; he didn’t like to loiter in that place for long, but today he was finding it difficult to leave.

  His mind flipped back to Rachel. Jonathan didn’t care what happened to Michael Hemmings. But he cared about the effect he was having on a woman who was not as in control as she thought she was. If he was right that she was desperate enough to put herself through surgery, it wasn’t a huge leap to conclude that she had a plan, and that the plan could be just as extreme, and would involve Hemmings. Whatever she intended to do, it seemed likely it was dangerous, probably illegal. He had to find her.

  Eventually, he finally fell asleep only waking when the plane’s wheels dropped from its underbelly ready to touch down.

  Jonathan held the arm rests tight, staring hard at the seat in front of him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning Jonathan slept in until seven. He’d called Sam and Bridget from Poland but had got no answer. It was time to talk to the couple again, Bridget in particular. He also needed to see Detective Chief Inspector Tom Gillespie, something he wasn’t looking forwards to after the last phone call to him asking about Rachel, when he’d been sent off with the proverbial flea in his ear.

  He made a pot of coffee and moved into his study. With blurry eyes he peered at his whiteboard, the names, the links he’d made using a red marker. The tale unfolding in front of him; slipping into place. Rachel’s mother had the capacity for violence as well as sexual abuse. But Rachel had never mentioned brutality in the household, always drawing her mother as controlled and distant.

  Had Rachel come out of her childhood unscathed? If he was right, her actions recently, he thought as he lined up paper neatly on his desk, would suggest otherwise.

  He sat down in front of the computer he used for his more ‘unethical’ work. It was ready to go, with state-of-the-art software installed. It took him over an hour to get into Doctor Patterson’s files on Michael Hemmings, which had been recently updated, he was happy to find. There were notes about Bridget Hemmings, questioning if she knew more than she’d ever admitted at the trial. A brief mention of Toby Abbs: that he’d reported to Patterson that Michael Hemmings had said he didn’t kill Joe. In red, ‘first time Hemmings has said this, to anyone’. Obviously, Patterson was on to something that should be looked into. After his visit to see Sam and Bridget, Jonathan planned to drive north and drop in on Doctor Patterson and Toby Abbs.

  He swivelled around in his chair and picked up his mobile, pressing Sam Hemmings’ name.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘Jonathan Waters.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Sam asked, his voice quiet.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Jonathan asked.

 
‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is Bridget home?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Can I come and see you both?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘I like you, Jonathan. Even though you’re a reporter. I liked you then ... and I like you now. There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘What?’ Sam didn’t sound well. His voice was thin, hollow. ‘Give me a few hours to get there. Traffic’ll be heavy on a Friday ... Is that OK? Hang on in there, Sam.’

  He couldn’t really explain why he’d said that. Hang on with what? But he felt a heaviness, a darkness, around him.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Sam hung up.

  Jonathan’s old Jeep was parked half a mile away from his flat. Bloody London parking. As he started the engine he wondered what it would be like to live outside the city, in a house, with a garage. A garden. A child. He shook his head, trying to erase thoughts about his own life.

  We are all made up of snippets from our past and the glimpses we see of our future.

  A line from his psychiatrist that resonated more now than it had when he was eighteen.

  —

  Bridget answered the door, looking unkempt and upset, her hair today hanging limply around her face.

  ‘Hi Bridget. Sam told you I was coming?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He had to go to the bakery, he’ll be back soon. Come in.’ She stepped back to let him in.

  This was his chance to ask Bridget a few things before Sam’s return. Maybe, just maybe, she might say more without her husband being around.

  He followed her through to the kitchen. ‘Is everything all right, Bridget?’

  ‘As good as it can be.’

  ‘I thought you and Sam’d be in celebratory spirits with Michael in line for a move?’ He smiled what he knew was a great journalist-type smile. ‘Will you visit him there?’ Of course, they both knew that what he was really asking was why she didn’t visit Michael.

  She sniffed loudly. ‘We’re not having a good day, Sam and I.’ She pushed past him, moving towards the kitchen table, and Jonathan smelt her; a mixture of overpowering perfume, mild body odour and fear. Sitting on the table was a set of knives and an old-fashioned sharpener. The knives of a cook. Although he supposed that Sam was a baker, it was nearly the same thing. Bridget continued, ‘Sam’s been sharpening his knives.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He picked up the biggest blade. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘His pride and joy.’ She sat down heavily on a chair. ‘Why’ve you come?’ She faltered. ‘Has Sam told you...?’

  ‘Told me what?’ he answered quickly.

  ‘Nothing –’

  The blackness he’d felt on the phone pleated through him again.

  ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Rachel,’ he said.

  ‘Sam said you’d been asking about her relationship with Margaret, last time you were here. Alan told Sam Rachel had gone away for a few weeks, on holiday.’

  ‘Can you tell me about Margaret, your relationship with her?’

  ‘Why should I talk to you? You’ve been nice to us, I know that ... but Sam’s already given you the info for the article that was never published.’ She appeared to have gathered herself.

  ‘And I appreciate that. Why don’t you visit your son, Bridget?’

  ‘He’s not bothered about me. It’s only Margaret he was ever bothered about.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Things he said ... before ... this happened. Joe...’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That Margaret had promised him that one day they’d be together again, like when he was a kid. Michael used to go and see Margaret long after she stopped looking after him.’

  ‘When did he go to see Margaret?’

  ‘When he was a teenager, after Margaret’d had Rachel. I knew he used to go and see her.’ Her eyes fell towards the floor. ‘I knew. Could always smell the bloody lavender on his clothes.’ She remained staring at the floor. ‘Then, I told myself that Michael spending a bit of time with Margaret would keep him on the straight and narrow, that she’d have some influence on him. Always a problem, was our Michael.’ She looked up at Jonathan. ‘I think he still went to see her occasionally in recent years, when he could. I don’t know, but I suspect he did.’

  ‘He told you that she promised him “they’d be together”. That’s an odd phrase,’ he waited, ‘don’t you think?’

  ‘She’s an odd woman. She has some sort of hold over him, like she has over Alan.’ She floundered, then became ardent. ‘I know I’ve been a shit mum, but I’m not as bad as Margaret was with Rachel.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It was obvious Margaret couldn’t stand her. I felt sorry for her, Rachel. Always have.’ She watched him. Tears filled her eyes.

  ‘What’s happened, Bridget? I feel as if something’s happened.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Sam’ll be back soon. Walked off his anger.’

  ‘I thought you said he’d gone to the bakery?’

  ‘He’s pissed off with me, gone for a walk.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She studied him. ‘The tribunal review, Michael going to a step-down unit, has stirred things up.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Everything.’ She slumped onto a chair. ‘You’ll never know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘About Michael?’

  A noise from the front door. ‘He’s back,’ she said quietly.

  Sam walked into the kitchen looking as dishevelled as his wife. ‘Jonathan, you got here earlier than I’d expected.’ He looked at Bridget in a less loving way than the last time Jonathan had been here. ‘Can you give us some time?’

  Bridget observed her husband with anxiety. Jonathan had assumed it was Bridget who wore the trousers in the house. From the few interactions he’d had with the couple, he’d got the impression that in normal circumstances they rubbed along nicely. The tension in the house today was tangible.

  She pulled a coat from the hook on the back of the door. Sam stood next to the table, picked up a knife and began sharpening it.

  ‘I’m off, then.’ She was already halfway across the kitchen.

  ‘Perhaps catch you later?’ Jonathan said.

  She didn’t reply, and left.

  Sam set down the knife, but carried on touching its handle in an agitated way. ‘We’ve had a bit of an argument.’

  ‘I can see that. Sam ... I’ve been doing some investigating ... into Littleworth, and into Margaret.’

  Sam opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope from its depths. ‘It’s not his fault he’s bad ... our Michael. He was always a bit odd, since the meningitis, and he might have been capable of doing something to Joe...’

  Jonathan eyed the letter.

  ‘This is from Michael.’ Sam held the knife in one hand, the envelope in the other, and didn’t look at Jonathan.

  A kernel of foreboding passed over him. He sighed, feeling as if he was moving in decreasing circular movements. Like water down the plughole.

  Sam looked up, tears seeping from his small, tired eyes. ‘I love Bridget...’

  ‘What’s happened with Bridget? What’ve you argued about?’ He felt that whatever the argument had been about, that it’d been serious.

  ‘I can’t talk about it.’ Sam faltered and began sharpening a knife again.

  Jonathan patted his shoulder; he’d wait for Sam’s revelation. ‘Can I read the letter?’

  Sam handed Jonathan the envelope. ‘I haven’t been to see him for a while.’

  Jonathan opened it.

  Dear Dad,

  I know you don’t want to hear from me. I know that, because you haven’t been to see me for so long. You remember I told you about the colours, Dad, well they’ve been getting worse. They’re going to let me out, into a less secure unit and I’m worried.

  Mum’s been to see me. She says she doesn’t want anythin
g to do with me. That I have to leave her alone. I think she wants me to kill myself, Dad. She said that would be a good outcome, make everything better, right. And while she was here, I thought about Joe. I know I did bad things to him, but I didn’t kill him. I know I didn’t. Then my mum told me I did. And I don’t believe her.

  But I might kill someone, I might kill myself. Dad, can you help me?

  I need some help.

  Love, Michael.

  ‘Fuck.’ Jonathan placed the letter on the table. ‘So Bridget does visit Michael?’

  ‘She doesn’t, and never has done. He means Margaret. How does that happen? Shouldn’t we have been told? Michael’s talking suicide...’

  ‘Maybe he’s making all this up, Sam. Michael is unbalanced.’

  ‘Something was always amiss about Michael and Margaret. I should have done something; Bridget and I both should have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean. But I’m worried about our Michael. That place isn’t looking after him properly. I should have been told if Margaret had visited.’

  ‘You don’t know if it was Margaret. It seems unlikely. Michael’s mixed up. He’s probably making this up.’

  He thought about what Bridget had told him about Margaret, and what he himself now knew. Perhaps Michael wasn’t making it up.

  ‘Do you think Michael killed Joe?’

  Sam hung his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Jonathan couldn’t see his eyes.

  The water swirled and swirled on the periphery of the plughole.

  He knew he’d get nothing more from Sam. Years as a journalist told him when the well was dry.

  As Jonathan got back in his car, he felt his internal antenna buzzing as if short-circuiting. He also saw Bridget’s face in the window of Bridget and Sam’s neighbour’s house.

  She looked absolutely terrified.

  The smothering anxiety he’d felt watching Sam sharpen his knife returned and intensified, and Jonathan shivered in the early evening sun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Two months earlier

  Beginning January 2005

  I’d been in the library every day, all day, for three days. It was an ugly 1970s building both inside and out, although I was oblivious to the décor as I trawled through microfiches while drinking diabolical vending-machine coffee.