Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘Killing Bridget was extreme. Sam wasn’t like that. It was always Bridget who was the impetuous one. I don’t understand.’

  ‘He snapped. Something went. Poor Sam. But to a judge and jury Bridget’s murder will be seen as premeditated.’

  ‘Jonathan, I feel empty, void of anything I should be feeling. I’m not Rachel anymore.’

  ‘You’ll always be Rachel to me.’

  She touched his hand. ‘Thank you for looking for me.’

  ‘I love you, Rachel, I always have.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Very much OK.’

  ‘I want to carry on looking after you.’

  ‘I need some time.’

  ‘I know. Just hold the thought in the back of your head, though.’

  ‘It’s Joe I think about, with her...’

  ‘You need to rest,’ he said.

  ‘And my part in all this? Not telling Tom the truth at the beginning. Not being there for Joe. And what I’ve always known about my own mother.’ Jonathan heard the crack in her voice. ‘Why did I bury my memories? Why did I allow Joe anywhere near her? I’m trying to forgive myself, and I’m trying because I know Joe forgives me. My son forgives me, and he always has.’ She took a long breath. ‘And my dad, God, my dad. He’s betrayed me, too, along with Liam and Margaret. More insidiously, but he has. And Joe – he betrayed Joe, too.’

  ‘I spoke to Alan when I started looking for you. He knows he’s been wrong. He knows, Rachel.’

  ‘It’s too late now.’

  ‘We blank out the unsavoury things about our families. Your dad loves you.’

  ‘It’s a tainted love, though. I can see that now. He was my dad. He should have protected Joe and I. And he didn’t.’

  He wanted to distract her from thoughts that could send her to a place from which she could not return.

  ‘We’ll talk about Alan another time.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to see him again. It’s all so clear.’

  ‘Shush.’ Gently, he took her hand.

  ‘Has Tom said anything about an email?’ she said.

  ‘He’s already moved on it, I believe. It was from you?’

  ‘I had to do something.’ She caught his eye. ‘I don’t want to be like my dad.’

  ‘Your dad didn’t know it was this bad.’

  ‘Didn’t he, Jonathan? I’m not so sure. But the worst thing? He made me believe it was my fault, that the way she was with me was my fault. I’ll never forgive him for that. Never.’

  Jonathan didn’t blame her.

  They sat together for a long time, listening to the muffled sound of Mariah Carey coming from the discarded earphones that lay on the crumpled sheet, both feeling a fragment of serenity that had eluded each of them for too long. Both feeling the peace within the room, with each other.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  One week later

  I’d spent what felt like hours speaking to Tom and Leatherby. I would be expected to give evidence at the inquiry into Hemmings’ suicide, but Tom assured me that no charges would be brought against me. Both Charlotte and Liam were to be taken in for questioning for perverting the course of justice. What did I feel about Liam, Charlotte, my dad, and Margaret? I closed my thoughts off; I had to, to survive those first few days.

  Jonathan took me home. We stopped in a motorway café that smelled predominantly of burgers; I think it was only I who smelt the popcorn. Just a hint. It was fading, as was Joe’s presence. Perhaps I’d never seen him. But what I did know was that now the truth was out, Joe was where he should be.

  My kitchen was as I’d left it and was a place I thought I’d never visit again. If I survived my last meeting with Hemmings, my plan had always been to disappear forever. To America, the West Coast. I’d already primed Razor for a completely new identity, not Rachel, and not Amanda. Someone else.

  But here I was. With Jonathan.

  I looked towards the fridge, wanting to see Joe’s picture. The door was polished, shiny and empty. I needed Joe’s sunset picture. Liam probably had it.

  I’d given Jonathan the key to the safe deposit box, and asked him to bring home the things inside, including Joe’s moonsets, and the painting of Margaret and Hemmings.

  ‘Right, coffee?’ Jonathan said softly, touching my smooth left hand.

  ‘Great.’

  He pulled a small holdall from beneath the kitchen table. ‘From the safe deposit.’

  ‘Have you looked?’ I asked.

  ‘At the painting of Margaret and Hemmings? I have.’ He sat down slowly on the kitchen chair. ‘Joe saw something even before Hemmings took him, before hearing the conversations at the squat between him and Margaret.’

  I let out a long and protracted sigh. ‘Joe saw but I didn’t.’

  Jonathan said softly. ‘Joe was special.’

  ‘Where’s Joe’s sunset picture? The one from the fridge. Does Liam have it? I want it. Do you know?’

  Jonathan looked at his watch. ‘Liam’ll be here soon. Calm down, he’ll have it, I’m sure.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’ Again I sighed and, at the same time, the doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Liam,’ he said softly.

  ‘You’d better answer the door,’ I said, my voice sounding stronger than I felt.

  He let Liam in and it seemed, at the same time, without me noticing, Jonathan left.

  Left me with a man with whom I’d shared half my life, but now I didn’t know. Did I blame him for Joe’s death? No, I did not. It was Margaret who had killed our son.

  Liam sat patiently on the edge of his chair, arms folded, legs crossed, making himself as compact as possible, as though the smaller the space he took up, the less fraught I would be.

  ‘You ought to talk to your dad soon.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  He rubbed his scalp hard, ‘Yes. He’s a mess, his wife ...’ The sentence drifted away. He began another. ‘His brother.’ That one faded, too.

  Everything I was, had been, had known, was being ripped away; and that included my dad. The raw emptiness I’d felt when I knew Joe had gone seemed to overpower me anew, like a chronic illness becoming acute again.

  I had no one. All that was left was a woman in the mirror, a woman I didn’t know. But I had Jonathan and a seed of something alien furrowed inside me. Jonathan made me feel safe.

  ‘Have you seen Sam?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been to see Sam. He knew nothing, Rachel, not until Bridget told him she’d spoken to Hemmings on the phone, and he told her Joe was there, and she heard Margaret’s voice.’

  ‘There’s nothing left to say,’ I said, glancing down at my changed body, noticing that Liam did the same. We were strangers: he to me and me to myself. If there had been a mirror to hand, I would have looked at the reflection that told me what I had done to vent my anger, find an end to my grief, and avenge my son being taken away from me.

  I laid out Joe’s painting of Hemmings and Margaret on the table. Liam eyed it enquiringly.

  ‘I never showed you this,’ I said.

  He studied the picture, concentrating.

  ‘Joe knew, even before ... that day. This painting shows he knew something, he saw something.’

  Liam turned towards me. ‘This isn’t Joe’s work.’

  ‘It is, Liam. Joe painted it the day I left him with Margaret ... and Hemmings, the same time he painted the moonsets.’ I watched him. ‘I kept this away from you. I didn’t want to upset you, I was protecting you.’ The low tone of my laugh wasn’t vindictive, wasn’t accusing, wasn’t saying, but I don’t know why.

  ‘Joe didn’t paint this,’ he said emphatically.

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘Michael Hemmings, I’d guess.’

  I studied the picture, and I knew Liam was right.

  ‘And the moonsets?

  ‘No, they were Joe’s – full of hope, of an understanding that darkness occurs as
succinctly and routinely as the lightness of day. Joe understood there’s no light without its opposite.’ He sat down on the chair, his face pale, grey, still looking at Hemmings’ painting. ‘Hemmings was talented. This is quite amazing, the depiction of his own pain ... relating it to Margaret.’

  The gnawing hunger returned. ‘You see that? Or do you only see it in hindsight?’

  He moved to touch my hand but stopped short. ‘Probably retrospectively, Rachel. If I’d seen it as you’d done, before knowing anything, I wouldn’t have seen the connection.’

  Liam moved away from the table. ‘I have something in the car for you.’

  Five minutes later he returned with a package. He handed it to me and slowly I peeled away the brown paper; I think I knew what it would be.

  Joe’s sunset painting, mounted beautifully.

  I looked up at him. Liam had written ‘Falling Suns’ at the top. ‘That was Joe’s title, wasn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Three falling suns – a seven-year-old’s metaphor for the three of us.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘We talked “painting” the day after he brought it home. You remember you’d gone out for the day to meet –’

  ‘Charlotte,’ I finished for him. This was my cue to ask him about her. Was he still seeing her? But it was irrelevant.

  He nodded. ‘I looked after him. Dad/son bonding. I asked him what he would give it as a title. I planned to mount it for you, as a surprise.’

  I watched my first love and a profound sadness reverberated inside the core of me, like the sound of a heavy bass in a small room. With Joe’s death came a change in our destinies; and neither of us had control over the paths we had taken. Liam’s heading one way; mine another. In a parallel life, with Joe alive, and with no affair, Liam would have mounted Joe’s falling suns long ago. The canvas would be hung, pride of place, on one of the empty kitchen walls. Liam, Joe and I would be travelling the same road.

  But this was not to be. It was never meant to be, as Mrs Xú had said.

  ‘The suns are disappearing, though, aren’t they?’ I said, coming back to the present, feeling sad but not as empty, not raw.

  ‘The sun doesn’t fall but emerges on the other side – Joe knew that.’

  ‘In another hemisphere,’ we said together, repeating how Joe had described his painting.

  ‘It’s us who see the suns as falling,’ Liam said. ‘Children possess so much more clarity.’ He caught his breath, or was it a quiet sob? ‘It’s just our grown-up perception, like our perception of death.’

  I knew Joe would not visit me again. Like his suns, he had slipped not downwards, but to an equal and opposite place I could not yet see.

  Liam turned to me. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did.’ I watched as his eyes moistened. ‘If I could give up my own life to change what happened, Rachel, I would.’ Looking at Joe’s sunsets he carried on, ‘He was my son, too.’

  Liam left soon afterwards. I wouldn’t see him again until Margaret’s trial.

  Jonathan returned and I smiled. I was sure he’d been somewhere near outside, waiting patiently for Liam to leave.

  ‘Would you like to be alone?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘If you’re asking do I want you to leave, no, I don’t. I like you being here.’

  ‘I like being here, too.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do.’ I was about to tell him about Hemmings’ painting but didn’t want to fracture the peace that weaved through the air, hanging like a pleasing aroma around us. I smiled as I watched him align the tea, coffee and sugar pots on the counter top underneath the window that faced the garden, a garden that was well into spring thanks to the mild winter. ‘Stop it,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You like some real coffee?’ I asked.

  He nodded and I rummaged inside the cupboard. Finally, I found an unopened packet of ground coffee.

  Jonathan took it, placing it on the counter, and then pulled me towards him. I rested my chin on his shoulder and stared through the window into the garden, at the den, locked up and unused. My eyes travelled to the Judas tree, Joe’s swing, and I remembered the happiness he’d given to me, and I hoped I’d given to him.

  But I had to move forwards; I wanted to feel the joy without the desolation – something I could not achieve if I’d walked away from the park a murderess. Joe knew that.

  I knew that.

  I felt Jonathan’s warm breath on my cheek and a tiny suggestion of toffee popcorn. I saw a fleeting sliver of petrol blue near the Judas tree; Jonathan kissed me.

  And finally I allowed my mind to empty and rest.

  Epilogue

  Sutton Coldfield Times

  3rd March 2006

  Memorial Service for Liam Dune, Local Artist and Philanthropist 1958-2006

  Born in 1958, Liam Dune overcame his disadvantaged background to win a place at the Royal College of Art. After graduation he declined offers of lucrative work in America, deciding to make his career and home in the town of his birth, Sutton Coldfield. He became a respected and commercially successful artist, selling work nationally and internationally. His paintings were heavily influenced by his roots, and the area in which he lived. Liam, together with his ex-wife, had lived in Sutton Coldfield since their marriage in 1986.

  After the tragic death of his son in 2000, Liam Dune embraced Buddhism, and was a member at the Buddhist Centre in Birmingham, taking an active role in helping other parents such as himself who had lost a child through violence.

  After tragically taking his own life on Christmas Eve 2005, Liam left both his parents: Graham and Dulcie Dune, and his older brother, Paul Dune. They attended his memorial service held on Friday at All Saints Church in Sutton Coldfield.

  His ex-wife, Rachel Waters, was represented by her husband Jonathan Waters. Other mourners included Charlotte Gayle, a family friend, and retired police officer, Thomas Gillespie.

  —

  Cross-legged on the bed in our new house in Wandsworth, I read the article about Liam’s memorial service. His death had shocked me, sending me back to a place from which I’d only recently begun to emerge: a dark and confused space that still stopped me from sleeping, and often eating.

  It was Jonathan who’d kept me stable, realigned me in my new life, and listened to me when, finally, I was able to talk about Margaret. I looked at the bedroom clock; he would be back soon. I allowed the love to drape over me as I thought of my new husband. He’d gone out to get the Sunday papers. After months of hard work his investigative piece on the corruption within Littleworth had been published. There was talk of a major award.

  I touched the image of Liam in the newspaper and then looked at the photo of Joe, Liam and I that sat on the bedside cabinet. I had not smelt toffee popcorn since the day I returned home, and Jonathan had asked me to marry him.

  The pain surrounding my memories of Joe was diminishing and finally, slowly, I was able to think of my son with joy rather than grief.

  Joe wasn’t alone, he would be with his dad, and I wiped away the tears that had been so long in coming.

  I lay back and gathered myself, then, sitting up, I leant sideways and pulled a file from underneath the bed.

  Margaret Hemmings.

  Its contents included notes on the trial, and on her life. It also included details of Rampton – where she was being detained.

  I began reading but hastily shoved it back under the bed when I heard Jonathan return.

  Another day.

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people I have to thank for their help with this book and so here goes, and I apologise if there is anyone I have left out – it is unintentional.

  Paul Bacon: mental health tribunal judge and solicitor who through numerous drafts gave his time so generously and patiently to ensure the facts in this novel are as correct as they possibly can be.

  My thanks to the actress, Mandana Jones, who talked to me for several hours explaini
ng in detail about method acting.

  My writer friends who, without complaint, always read what I had to send them. Laura Wilkinson has been an especially excellent beta reader and sounding board throughout my journey. Every writer needs a mate like Laura.

  Essie Fox, a great writer and wonderful mentor, and the most supportive friend a new writer could possibly have.

  Thank you also to David Evans – a patient beta reader, and friend. His input and help has been invaluable.

  To Caroline Green and Emma Haughton for being such insightful and patient readers.

  To my lovely friend Michelle Flood who never once doubted that I could write a novel. And to my mates Tracey Dolan and Joanna Wilson, whose initial encouragement started me off on this rollercoaster writing journey.

  Thank you to my mum and dad who always told me I could do anything I wanted to do.

  To Gillian Stern, whose discerning and constructive criticism not only helped make this novel better, but helped shape my future writing too.

  To Debz Hobbs-Wyatt, who published my very first short story, and Melanie Gow who published my first article. To Emma Darwin who is so generous and unselfish in sharing her vast knowledge. To Sarah Wagstaffe who reads my stuff and listens to my moans.

  Sally Spedding, who from the beginning has never wavered in her optimistic conviction that one day I would become a published novelist.

  To Alex Marwood who is so giving with her time and advice.

  To my friends in The Lounge, Book Frisbees, and all on Facebook – what would I do without you all?

  To my agent, Ger Nichol, who is calm, delightful and unswerving in her optimism about my work.

  My thanks to Rebecca Lloyd, my patient and talented editor, and to all the team at Accent Press, including Bethan James, Anne Porter and Emily Tutton.

  Lastly, for Steve and Rhiannon who are without doubt the best husband and daughter an aspiring novelist could wish for. Thank you for putting up with me.

  I love you both, more than the universe.