There was a rumour around town that he was still alive; all the others forgot about it, but I never did. Alive? In a coffin? Or in a room, tied up, made to eat dog shit, beaten with a dog chain, naked all the time and nothing to do, no books or TV, no one to talk to. Or drugged and dressed like a girl, hair grown long and curly, at an all girl's school, the only one without breasts. Or used as a sex thing, rented out, a rent boy who moans for love. Or do they amputate his limbs one by one to see how people cope? Does he remember me? Would I recognise him if he passed me, his face scratched and dirty from digging his way out of a grave? Would I recognize his bones if I found them buried?
I think of that limbo often. There's been others, it's not just kids, and you don't have to accept a lift, sometimes you get dragged in, clothes torn, out of your control. I hate it if I'm walking and a car slows down behind me. I would allow myself to die before being dragged in there. They could threaten to stab me and I'd say, "Do it. I'd rather die quickly here." I would. Fuck taking a chance on escape. What if they had you, kept you there, and you were in their control, you couldn't piss or shit unless they said so? What if they made your dying last a month?
That's why I prefer to drive everywhere, even just up the local shops. Or get a bus, if the bus stop is close by.
This is not just a childish fear; I have had adult experience.
Why did I keep visiting Eve as a child? Refuge. We became famous at school, after our father had been killed in such a great way. I would never talk about it; I was only nine, a baby, when it happened, but I was affected by it in an adult way.
I vividly remembered the event, but I didn't want to share it with the other children. Neither did Peter; for a while we played together, because there were no questions that way. Pammy Johnson's father had also died, but that was years before and of a disease, nothing interesting. Still, she joined our exclusive group until Peter and I lost our news value and slowly moved back into society. I dumped her then, and not too soon. She stank, was the problem, because her mother was depressed and didn't wash them anymore. Her hair was filthy, greasy. I felt no guilt dumping her. She didn't deserve me.
Mum had known Dad for a long time, longer than my years, and she cried in bed after he died. When she cried in bed, I visited Eve. But Eve became more demanding when I turned thirteen. She wanted more physicality, she wanted me to go out in public with her, and so I severed all ties. I just stopped visiting when I was thirteen. She never knew where I lived, who my mother was. She didn't want to admit I had another life. Whenever I arrived for a visit, weekends and holidays included, she said, "How was school?" Even if I hadn't visited her for a week.
So I decided not to see her again, and thirteen years passed. These adult visits were different; I was in control. She begged me to stay with her, she was lonely, she said, but no. No.
Uncle Dom showed up, out of the blue. He brought a gift for my twenty-sixth birthday. He said, "I thought I'd wander past, have a look at the old place. I have so many happy memories of it."
He really was a pitiful fellow. His times with us had been few, and, I believe, always stressful for the adults involved. It was okay for Peter and I. We got gifts and attention, and we climbed all over his big belly, played with his beard.
"I was never as happy as I was here," he said. He had always been in love with Mum, he said, and had kept away because he knew she felt the same way. I looked at my huge, grey old uncle and wondered if he had always been self-deluded, or if it had come to him with senility. My mum had worshipped my dad, never said a bad word to or about him, and she hardly ever mentioned Dom. I was angry; I said all this to Dom.
"Did you never realise how scared she was of him?" he said "And perhaps she never mentioned my name because it hurt to do so." Then the horrible man started to cry. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so I called Peter. They talked for half the night. I went to bed, because I couldn't stand it anymore. They were talking about Dad, and I missed him so much. Dom told stories of Dad. Stories I hadn't heard before.
Dom had always thought badly of Alex, blaming him for family unrest. Dominic didn't want anyone to discuss anything nasty; he liked things to be nice.
He was always the one to clear the table when they were young. He was a favourite amongst the adults because he sat quietly and listened. He had a soft voice which pleased them as well, but it meant he was never heard amongst the children.
He had a terrible fear of heights and did not like stairs. He loved dogs with more passion than any other thing. This love of dogs and fear of heights came from the one small place; an event only Dominic remembered.
To an adult, there always seems to be twice as many children in a group than there really are. Each child knows who's there, though; each child knows where they stand in that small community.
In the group of ten that day, Alex was the leader. They stopped when he bent to pick up a perfect leaf; searched the ground themselves for one to match. They asked him questions and jostled to walk beside him.
Dominic received no special treatment because he was the brother.
They reached a large, muddy hole.
"This wasn't here last week," said Mary, who would not marry and never tell her parents the true nature of her relationship with her female housemate.
"That's because it hadn't rained for months before yesterday," said Alex. He bent and measured the depth of the mud with his forefinger. It sucked and farted as he pulled it from the mud, and the gang laughed.
"Dominic, come here," Alex said. Dominic was really only there because their mother had insisted. He was not dressed for adventure. Even the girls had long pants and boots on, but he had a thin shirt, shorts, and his school shoes without socks on. Their other brother Seb spent all his time doing homework.
Children stood aside to let him through.
"Bend over and look at the puddle," Alex told him.
Dominic always did as Alex said. Alex was older, cleverer, and popular.
Alex wiped his muddy finger on the shorts right over Dominic's buttocks.
"Dom's shit his pants!" Alex screamed, and each child squealed and laughed, squealed and squealed.
Dominic had felt the caress; it made him uncomfortable so he ignored it. Now he had no idea why they laughed.
He didn't ask. He only saw the joke when his mother gave him a belt for getting mud all over his shorts.
Alex said, "I bet the river is way down low as well. I'm going to the bridge to look over." He ran ahead.
Dominic had no fear of heights at this stage. He was happy to join the others crossing the old wooden bridge which stretched between the rocks banking the river.
High above the river now, with the water so low. The children hung over the railing, staring into the trickle a long way below.
It made Dominic dizzy, but he couldn't look away. The distance drew him down, and he felt that if he let go of the rail he would be sucked into the river bed.
The terrier that loved to run wild with the children and usually ignored Dominic, barked.
"What is it, boy?" he said. He stood up from the rail and saw that, apart from the terrier, he was alone.
"Where are they, boy?" Dominic said.
He wished he had learnt the dog's name, because he could not call to him.
He stood six planks away, waiting for Dominic to move.
"All right, boy," said Dominic, "let's go."
But he could not move his foot. His school shoe was wedged between one plank and the next. He could not move.
In the next two hours, the terrier came close and sat with him. He did not look down again, and as he sat and waited for someone to realise that he was missing, he began to believe the river had put him to sleep for one hundred years (and the terrier too; how else to explain its presence?) and now there was no one left in the world. He didn't look, but he could hear the river so far below; he knew how far it was just by the noise.
When Alex finally came to get him, Dominic did not cry.
> "Why didn't you just undo your shoe?" Alex said, viciously doing so. He pulled Dominic's foot out and dragged him home, over stones, bones, all the bumps and sharpies on the way home. The terrier followed; until his peaceful death after a good meal fifteen years later he did not leave Dominic's side. His owner was never identified; his original name never known. Dominic called him Boyd, because Boy had been his name for those hours.
Dominic received a beating for losing his school shoe, even though he paid another boy to retrieve it the next day. He also received a beating for the muddy pants.
This was the reason he had not even thought of taking it off. It was why he didn't think of many things later in life; he was so scared of consequences he often didn't think of options. He became a postman; how he loved that flat-earth plodding each day, that quiet nod at the dwellers, that pat for the friendly dogs, even the quick step away from the nasty ones.
Dominic never married; another option he never considered. He retained a delight in children throughout his life.
If he had ever been close enough to discuss it with a lover or a friend, this kindness, this love for children, the answer may have been clearer.
"You are looking for the acceptance you didn't receive as a child," the loved one could say, and perhaps Dominic would feel better knowing.
No one ever said it, and he never thought it. He just visited Alex's family every now and then, bearing wonderful presents and willing to play as rough as the children liked. He would watch them jump on the trampoline for hours without wanting a turn. He could make each "Good!" sound different.
Dominic told Peter things I don't think we needed to know. He didn't need to get it off his chest.
Alex learnt some unfortunate information; something he didn't need or want to know.
It wasn't one of his cases, and the police officer who told him didn't connect the surname. He didn't imagine that Dominic Searle, the snowdropper, could be connected to Alexander Searle, the excellent, dependable cop. The station were disgusted by the details, but they loved to hear them. And realisation came to Alex, that this was his brother who had committed those crimes. He was freed soon after because the evidence could not be found.
Peter left a note on the floor by my bedroom door. "Uncle Dom will be staying with me for a while."
That was fine; Peter and Maria could have him. It was galling to hear that not only did he love their children, meaning that I suddenly became a generation older but also that Maria thought he was wonderful, and he doted on her. I didn't care if he lived or died. I hate Dom now, but he always loved us. I can't understand it. He wasn't very welcome in our house but he still came, because he loved us.
I wouldn't be seen dead in Peter's place, unless both of them begged me. Kelly and Carrie certainly wouldn't be reason for me to humble myself. Irritating, dull creatures. They listen to everything their mum says, with hardly a glimmer of rebellion and no sense of humour. I did my dress-up trick, where I just get anything and put it on weird, and they didn't even smile. Peter loved it; he was in tears. He won't ever dress up himself, but he's happy for me to do it. I think he remembers those times with Eve the garden lady, when we had to dress up. I hated it more than he did; hated being controlled. It hasn't affected me, though. I'm not going to stop dressing up because of it. Peter thinks I'm humiliating myself when I dress up. That's why he loves it so much.
He thinks I've forgotten, I've forgiven. But that's not possible.
I found an old coin, a tin lid, an egg cup and a pipe.
Dougie Page called. "Look, that list of names? Have you thought about it?"
"It means nothing to me. What does it mean to you?"
"Disappearances, some of them. A couple of murders, bodies found with souvenirs missing."
"And why on a list together?"
"Just that your Dad was part of the investigation for each of them. That's all."
"Weren't you?"
He laughed. "Yes, I was too, Steve. I told you, you should have been a detective. Look, I gotta go. I'll talk to you when you get back from…where are you going?"
I forgot what lie I told him, so hung up in his ear.
Satisfying.
I regretted it, though. I needed to know what he was doing. What he discovered. I needed to be warned in the future.
at twenty-seven
My counsellor told me I needed to sell my car.
"It has associations you don't need to continue," she said. "At the very least, you should try another form of transport occasionally."
"Is that an order?"
She closed her eyes at me. A habit of hers to block me out. "I think you should try catching the bus. To see there are other ways, other people who travel in different ways."
It was bullshit, of course, but the car needed a good service, and I wanted the dents beaten out. I could afford it, with the regular pay cheque. And one thing I didn't know before I started at the hospice; patients die and leave you stuff. Some of them are there all alone, and a single voice of kindness can make them feel loved. We shared out the bonuses amongst us all, but we all knew who wasn't pulling their weight. Ced was good. He pulled in the most.
Catching a bus reminded me of when I'd lost my licence. Sitting next to strangers, breathing the same air. The seats were in the same place and the same ads were on the walls. Once the drivers got to know you it's like having a private chauffeur. I had an iPod which didn't always work, and I played it loud loud loud.
The old lady on the bus was stout in a cuddly way, with a turkey-gobble neck, white, permedcurly hair, big pink glasses and a pink tracksuit. She always wore a tracksuit. Thought it made her young. She muttered observations to everyone; I am the only one who ever responded. She was always late on the bus and no one liked to give up their seat. Often she swayed and muttered the whole trip. Once, she got the seat opposite to mine by poking the other passenger with her umbrella. The old woman loved to talk about the tragedies of her life.
She was the age Mum might have lived to. Though Mum might have died a thousand times by now, anyway. Heart attack, run over by a bus, cancer, pneumonia, measles, stabbed, strangled, burnt, drowned. She could have been dead a thousand times over, rising from the grave to meet her next fate.
"So much death," the old lady said one day, after we'd sat opposite each other three days running. "You'd think I'd be used to it. Some people just have lives like that. Full of death. I'm Bess, anyway. Bess Colby," she said, as if it was an afterthought. I shivered.
She didn't know anything about me. But we were twins. My life is full of death, too. Right from childhood, when Dad used to show me pictures of his cases, it felt like something I knew. It felt like a brother, someone to look after me. That's stupid. But I can't help what I think. Bess had never heard of Peter. That helped. She didn't look at me differently, saying, "Oh, you're his sister." I got that a lot. He was famous, with his damn courses.
Bess was a pathetic creature; wounded and whimpering. She was slow to take offence; I didn't imagine her easily slighted. That relaxed me; I felt safe around her. She gave me the sweetest smile on the bus, as though, every time I got on, that meant her life was worth living. The first time I sat next to her she could hardly speak. No one ever sat next to her; she had that "talker" label – she wanted to tell you about her operation, about the bus schedule, about the weather. About all the people who died that week. The kind of hypnotic drone which can be so relaxing; so revealing. She leaned close when she spoke; loved touching me. The bus trip was twenty-eight minutes long, unless we missed the lights, in which case thirty minutes of solid talk without distractions. She scrabbled in her bag for a lolly, sucked noisily. Her handbag gaped openly at me; I could see tissues, wrappers, money. The bus stopped suddenly; her handbag dropped to the floor, its contents spilled.
"My dear," she said.
"Sorry?" I said. Was she blaming me?
"Ooh, not you dear." Later she stubbed her toe. "My dear," she said. "My dear." Bess fascinated me. The story
of her life had so many deaths, she was comfortable with the idea. Of other people's deaths, anyway. This was fascinating. Someone not scared of death; fascinating. She questioned me, just enough to be polite, but I didn't want my life to become part of her repertoire. So I concentrated on complaining about Auntie Ruth; her treatment of me, the way she fell down as a relative. I never discussed my grandparents.
The fifth time we caught the bus together, she said, "You must come over for dinner one night. You're too skinny to be eating well." She squeezed my arm gently, and did not release me from her grip.
"That'd be nice," I said, but the idea was abhorrent to me. I wasn't happy in other people's homes; Peter's was okay, when Maria wasn't there, and Ruth's was bearable because it was familiar; I knew what was around every corner. Instead I invited her to my place.
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