by Gerard Gray
I found my mum’s number on my mobile and dialled as I walked. It was only now that I realised that I hadn’t even told her I was coming home.
Home? I still called my mum’s house home.
The number rang out, finally going to answer machine. Something was wrong, though. Something didn’t feel right.
“You have reached the number of Detective Sergeant McDonald. I’m sorry but I’m not in the office just now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
I removed the phone from my ear and stared at it. I didn’t understand. I was sure I had pressed the number for my mum. I looked at the number on the screen for a couple of seconds before realising what had happened. I had accidentally chosen Detective Inspector McDonald’s number instead of my mum’s. As far as my phone was concerned, he was her next-door neighbour.
For a second I was about to end the call, but something made me hesitate. Detective Inspector McDonald had been the officer in charge of my case. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence. Had my dad somehow influenced me into pressing his number instead of my mum’s?
“I’m sorry for calling, but… Sorry, it’s Peter Murphy here. It’s just that… I know I thought this before, but I think I’m sure this time. I think I’ve found them. Sorry, the youths who…” I stopped myself from going any further. This was insane. The last person in the world I should be talking to about this was Detective McDonald. “I’m sorry, forget I called. Sorry for bothering you.” I hung up the phone. What was I thinking?
*
My misadventure had taken around two hours in total. By the time I walked through the door Karen was back in the house.
“You didn’t go to see your mum then?” she asked.
I walked over towards her, stepping around all the shopping bags in the process, not one of them containing food – she seriously had a problem there. For a second I weighed up in my head whether or not to lie. I hadn’t lied in 20 years – well, let’s just say you could count on one hand the number of intentional lies I had told over that period. I don’t like lies. I used to be a liar, in my youth, but the lies always came back to haunt me. Good liars need good memories, that’s what my dad used to say, and my memory was atrocious.
By the time I had walked through the door I had convinced myself that I was going to tell Karen everything, to ask for her advice, to talk to her. Now, faced with the very real prospect of instant divorce, I wasn’t so sure. Karen hadn’t exactly promised me the last time that she would divorce me, but I knew Karen, at least I thought I knew her, and I had a rough idea of what she could take. But it wasn’t even that. Just lately being with her felt strained to the point of breaking. I didn’t think she loved me anymore. And if she didn’t love me then what would stop her from walking out the door, taking my children with her.
“I called my mum, but I couldn’t get her. She might be at my uncle’s.” Now, this was a ridiculous thing to say. My mum’s brother lived in Carlisle, 100 miles away. But it wasn’t a lie, was it? I did phone my mum, sort of.
“Did she say she was going to see him? She was in a lot of pain. Do you think she’d leave the house?”
“I’ll call her back to make sure. Did Depp get away OK?”
“I just called. He’s having a great time. I said you’d pick him up tomorrow.”
“No worries. Where’s baby?” I turned around to see him sitting eating his dinner in front of the TV. He was propped up in his special seat, one you could take apart and reassemble easily to produce a miniature version of a dinner table and chair. He was eating his pudding from a bowl, his eyes glued to the set.
“Hi Ya!” he shouted.
I strolled over towards him. All the way home there had been a feeling of anxiety building in my stomach. On seeing my son I could feel the knot loosening. My children were two of the only truly good things in my life.
“G’day, gorgeous. What’s up mate?”
Michael put on a serious look and said something sober in baby talk. I took it for granted that it was an affirmative. He returned his gaze to the Baby TV.
“Has he been a good baby, mummy?”
“He’s been very good. He did a huge stinky poo-poo.”
“Did he really? That’s a clever boy.”
“What was it, Michael?” Karen asked.
“Monsta obby.”
“What was that?” I asked, surprised.
“He said, monster jobby.”
I burst out laughing. “Clever boy, that was very good.”
Michael stuck his arms into the air. He was finished his dinner. I picked him up but the chair came with him; he was getting too big for it. I stuck my foot on the seat and pulled hard. After a couple of seconds he slid free. I then carried him through to Karen. On seeing her standing by the sink my anxiety began to build once more. I needed to tell someone, but could I tell her? How would she react?
“Karen, can I talk to you about something?”
She’ll divorce you.
Karen was busying herself tidying the kitchen. She came to a dead halt. “What’s wrong?”
My thoughts stuttered. What was I doing? Did I really want to start this all over again?
“See when I was putting the bottles in the bin…’
“Oh, good, you got rid of them. I meant to tell you to take the boxes in the back as well.”
“I didn’t go to the dump. I just took them across the road to the bottle bin.”
“Oh well, I’ll need to take them to the dump this arvo.”
I cringed at her use of the word “arvo”. I never used to mind her Aussie slang, in fact I found it quite sexy once, but Depp was picking up on the words now, and he was using them like a native. Ironically, the Australian on its own was quite cool, but when mixed with broad Glaswegian it somehow lost its charm – the nursery being to blame for the broad Glaswegian. I shook the disgruntled thought from my head.
“Well, anyway, when I was out I…”
“Did you go to the shops?”
“Shops? No…”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll go later. I thought you’d’ve noticed we were out of Michael’s milk.”
“I could go now if you like,” I replied, curbing my anger.
“No worries, I’ll get it later. You were saying?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you had something you wanted to say to me?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Pete!”
“What?”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“When I do what?”
“Start a sentence and then say, “it doesn’t matter”.”
I sighed. “OK… You’re not going to like it, though.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“Go on then.”
“OK… I saw them.”
“You saw them?”
“I saw them… The youths from six months ago.”
Karen stared back at me.
“I saw them… when I went to take the bottles to the bin.”
Karen said nothing.
“They were all there, not just the blonde… Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
“I’m listening.”
“No you’re not. You’re waiting for an opportune moment to start moaning, that’s what you’re doing.” I could feel the anger rising.
“What are you talking about?”
“You never listen to a word I have to say. Always talking and never listening. Everything you say is right and everything I say is wrong.”
“What’s got into you, Pete? I’m listening. Talk to me. I’m listening.”
“No you’re not.”
Karen’s exasperated face dropped to the floor. She looked like she was scouring the ground for words, but the ground was bare. “I don’t know what else I can do,” she mumbled. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Karen gave me a tired look, about turn
ed and started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To my mum’s. She needs help choosing a dress. I told you about it earlier, remember?”
“You mean you’re going to the bloody shops?”
Michael burst into tears. “Oh baby, I’m sorry. Daddy isn’t shouting at you?” I looked back to where Karen was standing, but she was gone.
Fuck.
I tried my best to comfort Michael, but I was fuming. I eventually managed to calm us both down by singing “Twinkle, twinkle, little star”, but all the while I was cursing my wife under my breath.
I heard the front door slam. She had been true to her word.
“That’s right, off you run to the shops. As per fucking usual.
“Oh, sorry Michael, Daddy didn’t mean to swear.”
Fuck. Fuck.
A memory suddenly flashed across my eyes. It was of my dad cursing and screaming at my mum as they dragged him off to the asylum. I didn’t recognise that man in those moments. He wasn’t my dad.
“No, I’m not him. I’m not my dad.”
I wrenched out a chair and threw myself down at the computer. Every cell in my body was buzzing with static. Why was I sitting down? What I really wanted to do was get out of there, to run away. That’s what my mum used to say when I was little, when my dad’s illnesses got too much for her: I could fucking well run away.
My mind stuttered to a halt. I was staring at the screen, looking at my recent junk mail. eBay had sent me an email in the last hour. I was confused. Something didn’t make sense here. It was a message. A message from Father John Thomas.
Chapter 4
Darkness Falls
I opened up the email to reveal the strangest letter. It wasn’t from John Thomas after all, rather his brother. Apparently he hadn’t given him permission to sell the book and he wanted it back. The email said that it was personal to him and that he would appreciate it greatly if I returned it. He would reimburse me of course, for any inconvenience. In fact, he was prepared to offer me fifty quid for it. Now that’s a good return on your investment.
Karen’s tired face appeared before my eyes. I cringed, moving my head to my hands. “What’s wrong with me?” I slid my palms back and forth, back and forth across my bald scalp, and then I returned them to my lap. Without thinking another thought I reached for the phone and started to dial.
“Hello.”
“Karen, it’s me.”
Silence.
“Look, I’m sorry. You’re right. I need to forget all this nonsense. I was probably wrong about them. They’re probably just kids. I’m sorry.”
Karen remained silent on the other end of the line.
“I promise not to mention them again. Do you forgive me?”
“Sure. Is Michael OK?”
“Yes, he’s fine. You don’t sound like you’ve forgiven me.”
“We’ll talk about it later, OK? And I mean that: this time we’ll talk about it.”
“OK.”
“I’ll be back in an hour. I’m going to the shops with my mum.”
Oh, there’s a surprise. “OK.”
“I’ve got to go. Talk later.” And with that she abruptly put down the phone.
No way had she forgiven me.
I returned my attention to the email, but I was still thinking about Karen. I’ll make it up to her. I typed a reply to the email saying that I was happy to send it back to him. I’ll buy her some flowers or something. I hit send.
A couple of minutes later the brother had emailed me back. He seemed to be over the moon that I was going to return the book to him, but he wanted to call me first to discuss something. He ended the email by asking for my number. I hesitated for a second: giving out an email address was one thing, but my number? What if it wasn’t his brother? What if it were someone linked to the incident down in Sussex. What if it was the police?
I walked through to the living room and switched over the TV to the news channel. Michael wasn’t watching it so he didn’t mind. True to form the press were all over the story like a rash on a baby’s backside. I shook my head. They didn’t half know how to throw a party. I read the banner zipping across the bottom of the screen. Thank God, I thought to myself, but in truth I might have been a bit disappointed. A suspected missing fourth kid had been found alive and well, and was now in police custody.
One of the news presenters started to talk about the priest. Apparently the fourth kid had already spoken to the press – that was quick. He had told them that the priest had been abusing him for years.
Great – another Catholic scandal.
I couldn’t watch anymore, it was beginning to depress me. I changed the channel and went back to the PC.
As I typed my reply, a boy in a blue tracksuit appeared before my eyes. I had to forget him. Hopefully I would never see him again. I pushed the thought of the ned over into the gutter from whence he’d come and returned my attention to the email at hand. OK. I wasn’t going to give out my number, no way. But if he wanted to send me his then I was quite happy to give him a call.
It only took him a couple of minutes to reply. His email simply contained a telephone number. I reluctantly picked up the phone and started to dial. Michael walked up to me, grabbed me by the hand, pulling me away from the PC. He wanted my attention, which was understandable: I’d ignored him for the last half hour.
“Dada?”
“OK. Sorry Michael. Do you want me to change the channel? Are you bored with it?” But that wasn’t the problem. He went straight for the closed living room door and pointed towards the hall. He wanted to go upstairs and play.
“No, not just now,” I said, a mixture of frustration and guilt building in my gut. “I’ll take you up soon.” Michael started to push the door, banging it against the frame. He then started to cry. “In a minute,” I shouted. “After I’ve made this call.”
The phone was answered immediately.
“Steven Thomas speaking.”
“Hello, it’s Peter Murphy here. You asked me to call.”
“Thank you, thank you for getting back to me.” The accent was posh, perhaps English. I couldn’t quite tell.
“Not at all. Not at all. About the book. If you want me to send it back to you then that’s fine by me. Shall I just pop it in the post?”
The line went quiet.
“Is that OK?”
Nothing.
“I can post it first thing on Monday morning.” The silence was beginning to unnerve me. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
The word “weirdo” leapt into my head.
“You haven’t read it.”
“Sorry? The book? No, no I haven’t had time.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Sorry?”
“If you had read it, I would have known.” This guy was seriously strange.
“No, I haven’t read it. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want you reading it, OK? Not a word of it.” The tone of the man on the other end of the line had changed. He was beginning to sound quite rude.
“Don’t worry I’m not going to read it. If it’s personal then I quite understand.”
“Personal, yes, it’s personal.”
“I quite understand.”
“Good. Just had to be sure. But as I said, you haven’t read it. That’s good. Just keep it that way.”
It was my turn to fall silent. This was one rude bastard. For a second I was tempted to ask him out right if he was indeed the brother of the priest on the TV, but I didn’t. That would have been rude.
“I’ll send it to you first thing on Monday.”
“Thank you. I’ll send you the money as promised, for your inconvenience.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Just send me the cost and postage. Shall we say four pounds? You could use Paypal if you like.”
“No, I’ll send you the fifty pounds sterling, in the post.”
“OK.”
His voic
e was unsettling. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but it unnerved me. Did he sound like he didn’t believe me? Was that it? Did he think I was going to read his book or something?
“Is it dark there? It’s getting dark here. I’d prefer it if you posted it before it got dark.”
“Dark? I can’t leave the house just now; I’m looking after the baby.”
“Could you not take it with you?”
It? Was he referring to Michael? I was beginning to lose my patience with this man. “I’ll post it first thing on Monday morning, that’s the best I can do.”
“Sure, sure. Monday morning it is then.”
“Will do.” I looked down at the baby. On more than one occasion I had used my son as an excuse to get off the phone. He grabbed me by the hand and grunted, right on cue.
“I’m sorry, but my son’s getting aggravated.” I laughed at this in a bid to lighten the tension.
“Sure, sure. It’s a little boy, then?”
“Yes, a very determined little boy.”
“Must be a worry.”
“A worry?”
“A worry that anything might happen to him.” At this point Michael almost pulled me off my chair. I didn’t like this guy one bit. He had a rather unfortunate manner about him.
“Sorry, I have to go. I’ll post it to you.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Bye, then.” And with that I put down the phone.
Now that was one strange call. They’re not wrong when they say the net is full of weirdoes. I walked through into the living room, suddenly thinking about Karen again. I sighed on realising that nothing had changed in my mind, despite what I had said to her on the phone. I was convinced more than ever about the kids, which was going to be a problem.
I stopped in the centre of the room, a black anvil forming in my chest. I could feel my veins freezing, restricting beneath the skin. I was completely alone here. I couldn’t even turn to my friends. Over the past six months I had all but cut myself off from them, from the world. I didn’t want to go out anymore and I didn’t want to talk on XBOX. Only the other week some of my friends in Dumfries had asked me to go on a boys’ night out, but I had turned them down.