by A J Waines
‘No, I insist. We’re in this together.’
His eyes flicked briefly to mine. ‘Actually, this isn’t on me.’ He handed back my card.
‘Oh…’ I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
He cleared his throat, sounding serious all of a sudden. ‘Now that you’re on the boat with Blake, we’ll be able to cover one hour of therapy a day and your travel expenses to the police station, but that’s all. We can’t cover for anything beyond that or for loss of earnings…’
‘Oh, just as well it hadn’t occurred to me to charge by the hour, then!’ I laughed, but soon realised that Jeremy was looking straight through me.
I felt my stomach sink. ‘Did someone – Wilde or Claussen, perhaps – put you up to this?’ He avoided my eyes. I was bang on.
‘I see.’ I got to my feet.
His mouth twisted awkwardly to one side.
‘How very disappointing,’ I said, taking a step back. ‘So, this was designed to buy me off.’ I pushed my chair under the table. ‘It had genuinely never occurred to me to ask for a bigger fee. I made a commitment to Aiden, no matter what. That was my choice. I wasn’t doing it for the money.’
I grabbed my bag and left.
Chapter 24
When I got back, Natalie had left a note to say she’d slipped out to put on a load of washing. Aiden was gluing together a wooden stand for a ship he’d built inside a bottle. He let me hold it up to the light. The detail on the miniature galleon inside was outstanding; the billowing sails, the cotton-thin rigging, even tiny canons poking out of wooden slats in the side. As I stared at it in awe, he fumbled with the final pieces of the plinth; his fingers twitchy and clumsy like those of an old man.
‘It’s incredible,’ I said.
‘He did most of it a few weeks ago,’ said Natalie pointedly, appearing at the doorway. She pulled me to one side. ‘Making the stand is all he can manage now,’ she said in a whisper.
‘At least he’s involved with something,’ I whispered back.
Before she discreetly disappeared she insisted I call on her to look after Aiden any time. ‘He’s no trouble,’ she said. ‘It’s just so sad seeing him like this.’
I told Aiden I’d already eaten, so he put together a fried halloumi sandwich for himself while I rattled on about my father’s fascination with building tiny model aircraft.
‘He always wished he’d had a child who could have joined in,’ I told him, ‘but I’ve invariably been someone who uses my mind to work at things, not my fingers.’
I had no idea whether he was actually listening or not.
As the day wore on it got hotter and hotter. Aiden seemed restless and itching to do something. He dragged the seed compost I’d had delivered to the bow and began tipping layers into a series of small trays. I watched him painstakingly plant chicory and sunflower seeds; the idea Petra suggested to help him feel grounded. I stretched back in a deckchair on the pontoon and thought about the case, read intermittently, then fell asleep for a while.
I’d probably stayed out a little too long, because by supper time I had a headache and my skin was blotchy. Aiden dragged four fans from the cavernous space under the deck and set them whirring throughout the boat. It helped, but after the meal I needed to get fresh air again. The problem was, there wasn’t much room to sit outside on the boat and I didn’t want to park myself on the pontoon all the time knowing Aiden wouldn’t be comfortable joining me.
I was standing by the door, dithering, when he came past me carrying two rolled up towels. I wondered where on earth he was going with them. As I stepped back, he reached up and draped them on the flat surface of the roof, side by side. He then went back inside and poured two small glasses of brandy.
I laughed, pointed to the roof and shook my head in an exaggerated fashion.
‘You think I’m going up there?!’
There was a narrow ledge running around the hull only four inches wide, reserved for those with deft feet. In three steps, Aiden sprang onto it and nimbly hoisted himself up to the roof, two feet above me. There was nothing for it. Using the same footholds he had and gripping his guiding hand, I followed him up. It felt higher above the water than it looked and the boat seemed to lurch about with a mind of its own. Struggling to keep my balance, I sank down onto my backside and gratefully accepted the glass as he passed it over. I needed that first gulp of brandy. When I looked over again, Aiden was stretched out with his eyes closed. I followed suit. As the evening wore on, it brought a wafting breeze, skimming the surface of everything, soothing the bite out of my burnt skin.
When I opened my eyes I found him sitting up with his arms wrapped around his knees, looking intently into the distance. I followed his gaze and spotted a fox on the far side of the marina creeping around the recycling block. As the light faded, we watched bats dive across the water like they were on strings of elastic. They darted past us, caught on the edges of my vision, making me doubt whether they were really there or not.
Only five days ago I’d felt like an intruder on Aiden’s boat, disturbing him, invading his privacy, goading him to emerge from the internal strife he was going through. But the dynamic between us had shifted in tiny increments since then. Sitting there, I felt included. He’d invited me into his world and although he was still silent, we were part of something together. Besides, there was so much going on around us, words felt superfluous.
Once the sky had melted from a rich Persian blue to inky black, we lay on our backs again, gazing at the stars that stood out like diamonds on pins.
Although Aiden was still without words, he appeared to have warmed to me. There were times when he held my gaze without looking away, appeared to listen, the inkling of a smile on his lips. It wasn’t much to an observer, but to me it felt like a major step forward – like I’d got one foot on the moon.
At times, instead of words, we’d started using facial expressions and simple signs to ‘speak’ to each other. Aiden seemed more comfortable doing this than hearing my words and being unable to take his turn. The hand signals, half-shrugs, narrowing of the eyes, the lift of an eyebrow felt like a secret language between us. We learnt to read small movements from each other, tiny messages passed between us that others could easily overlook or misinterpret.
Aiden moved and inadvertently brushed the hairs on my arm – or so I thought. Instead of taking his hand away he left it where it was, his warmth merging into mine bridging the gap between us. I realised that he probably hadn’t been touched – with any form of care – by anyone since the trauma. Shoved around by the police, perhaps, but nothing comforting.
It dignifies someone when you touch them. Not only that, it is the most basic of human connections; it conveys reassurance, shows concern, soothes and consoles. It would have been insensitive to pull away, so I patted his arm and he shuffled closer, resting his head in my lap, just like a child.
Instantly, I held myself in check, acutely aware of my position as a professional. I heard Petra’s warning words about maintaining strict boundaries hissing in my ear and wondered what to do. I had to keep my relationship with Aiden entirely above board. If I failed to do so, I could find myself getting struck off. More to the point, I didn’t want Aiden to get mixed messages when he was in such a vulnerable position.
But to pull away after such an innocent gesture felt cruel and rude. He wasn’t making me feel uncomfortable and it certainly wasn’t sexual. I made a decision. I’d let him stay like this for a few minutes, then I’d go and make us both a bedtime cocoa.
All of a sudden I felt him shiver. The shivers turned into trembling and I realised he was sobbing. Within seconds, great convulsive waves were buckling his body. I sat up and held him, rocked him, like a mother enveloping her wounded son. As his sobs escalated into loud howls, Natalie and Didier came charging out of their boat, wondering what was going on. I put my finger to my lips and sent them away with wafts of my arm. I continued to gently hold hi
m as he let out everything he’d been bottling up for days.
Eventually he got up and pulled me to my feet. He gave me a broad, all-encompassing hug. My face was pressed into his shoulder; his arms locked around my back. For a second, I felt precarious, standing on the roof of the narrowboat, then I didn’t care. If we fell in the water, we’d fall together.
He didn’t know it but as he held me, a few of my own tears landed on his shoulder. Partly, it was relief that Aiden was finally breaking out of his dark cave. It was also a sense of privilege that he’d trusted me with his emotional outburst. Mostly, however, it was an acute recognition of my own loneliness. I hadn’t been held by a man like that for what seemed like an age.
Chapter 25
I was so hot I took a wet flannel to bed with me and laid it across my forehead. As I wrestled with the duvet, forcing it to surrender and crumple to the floor, my phone buzzed with a text from Terry.
Sorry it’s late. Hope all is going well on the boat. I’ve booked myself in for scuba diving in Malta and I’m checking up on you to see if you’ve made any progress with your holiday plans? I won’t be letting it lie…
He ended the message with a big ‘X’. He really was taking an interest, after all this time.
As I finished reading it, a call came through from Karen Foxton. She was working late.
‘We’ve found out a bit more about Aiden’s background,’ she said. ‘The hospital records are sketchy, but it looks like Coleen, his mother, was born in County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. She had Aiden when she was twenty-one, there’s no record of his father. Coleen’s parents – her father was Irish, her mother from London – were both killed in 1998 by a bomb, the year he was born. Might have been the Omagh bombing, it doesn’t say. Coleen was left alone with Aiden. He was five days old.’
I let out a sad sigh.
‘She and Aiden came to London later the same year to start a new life,’ Karen continued. ‘There was plenty of money from her parents and she bought a house in Notting Hill. But, in 2007, she sold it and went back to Northern Ireland with Aiden, who was nine by this stage. She put money in trust for him for when he reached sixteen, and more for when he turned eighteen – which was smart thinking, because the following year she had the nervous breakdown.’
‘Whoa, the impact on Aiden must have been enormous. His family caught up in the Irish troubles, his mother going over the edge and no father. No wonder he’s fragile.’
‘An aunt in Ealing became his legal guardian,’ she went on. ‘The nurse I spoke to at St Patrick’s gave the impression that this aunt was only involved because a sum of money changed hands. I don’t think she was interested in him. Anyway, he moved on when he was sixteen. He had plenty of money with so many family bereavements, so he wasn’t on the streets. Rented a small flat in Pimlico. Enrolled to do A levels; art, English and history and got into art college a year earlier than usual.’ She’d reached the end of her fact-finding account. ‘The rest, you know.’
‘Thanks for filling me in, that’s very helpful.’ My mind went back to the sand tray exercise and I recalled the protective way Aiden had blown the sand off the Snow White figure he’d chose to represent his mother. The way he’d carefully put her in his pocket.
‘There’s one more thing,’ Karen added. ‘A few senior officers have been suggesting Aiden was discounted as a suspect too soon. He could be mentally unstable too, right?’
She’d hinted at this before. Hadn’t Aiden been comprehensively cleared right at the start?
‘Are you saying you’ve found something?’
She didn’t answer.
‘As far as I’ve been told, there’s not one shred of evidence to pin the attack on him,’ I said.
‘Look after yourself,’ she said stiffly. ‘We’ll keep you posted.’
I put the light out and laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the oppressive heat. I was wearing nothing but a silk camisole vest and couldn’t bear even a sheet over me. Beads of sweat trickled behind my ears and I found my mind playing devil’s advocate, trying to seek out ways in which Aiden could have been involved with Kora’s death. I couldn’t even get the idea off the ground. Kora had one of his scarves, but there was nothing to suggest he knew her. The police said some of the artists at CCAP had heard of him, but no one had actually met him. What was his motive? He was a gentle and sensitive man, blown apart by what he’d witnessed.
I changed tack and reflected on the text from Terry. In the last couple of days, my mind had brushed over thoughts of him more frequently than I’d expected and each time it sent a smile to my lips. He was undoubtedly a good-natured and brave man. I tried to imagine him at his first scuba-dive. I could picture him looking exhilarated and pleased with himself, not letting his injury get the better of him. That was Terry; cheery and upbeat, he wasn’t the dark, brooding type. With him, what you saw was what you got. It made a refreshing change from the deep, introverted types I’d fallen for in the past.
I must have drifted off for a while when low moans coming from somewhere on the boat roused me. I sat up and listened. Nightmares, I guessed. I slipped on a long T-shirt and quietly slid the bolt back on my door, then crept toward Aiden’s cabin. He sounded like a dog in pain. I slowly walked the length of the boat and came back again, hoping he would have stopped, but the muffled cries continued. I knew I shouldn’t disturb him, but I couldn’t bear to hear any more and gently tapped on his door.
When there was no response, I turned the handle. He hadn’t locked it and I found myself standing over a bundle of dishevelled sheets on the floor. He must have fallen out of bed. The lamp was on, he never switched it off these days – there was always a slice of light showing under his door. He opened his eyes, but didn’t seem surprised to see me. He breathed heavily, still caught up in the images inside his head.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, crouching down. ‘It’s a bad dream.’
He reached out his hand and I held it briefly, then passed him a glass of water from his bedside table. He gulped it down in seconds.
‘Are you okay?’
I waited while he grabbed the sheet around him and hoisted himself back into bed. I was about to leave when he stretched forward and pushed something into my hand. An open book. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The deep wrinkles in the spine told me this wasn’t the first time he’d read it.
‘You want me to read to you?’
He nestled into his pillow, both hands under one cheek, his face primed with expectation. Given the story was familiar to him and therefore not about to deliver any nasty surprises, it was probably the ideal thing to do after his nightmare.
I sat on the edge of his bed and read to him for twenty minutes before I saw his eyelids flicker and heard the tell-tale click from the back of his throat. I left the book by his bed and crept back to my room.
Before I knew it, dawn was breaking.
Wednesday, July 11 - Day Six
Even though it wasn’t the least bit chilly in the mornings, we still used the wood-burning stove for hot water. Sacks of logs were delivered regularly and I’d noticed there were only a few chunks of wood left in the basket. I decided to save Aiden the bother of getting a refill, so collecting the key from the galley on the way, I took the basket lined with old newspaper to the end of the boat.
With my mind only half on the job, I began grabbing bundles of logs, idly wondering how long the sheet of newspaper had been in the basket. I remembered finding an old suitcase belonging to my father under the bed once, lined with paper that went back to 1959. I’d smiled at the knitting patterns for men’s cardigans, the adverts for a slide-projector and diet pills.
I uncurled the paper from the edge of the basket and realised this sheet wasn’t old at all. In fact, it was dated less than a couple of months ago. Friday, May 25, to be precise. I was so busy looking at the print that I wasn’t careful enough handling the rough logs and felt a sharp stab in my thumb. I’d pricked it on a large splinter. Before the blood ran eve
rywhere, I snatched out the sheet of newspaper and squashed it around the wound. It was then I spotted Aiden’s name buried in the print.
I straightened out the sheet and started reading an interview with him. It was a feature about how he had been asked to create an haute couture outfit in his trademark white for London Fashion Week. I was taken aback. What was something as prestigious as this doing lining his log bin? It should have been with his clippings.
I crept into the galley and found the tabloid PC Ndibi left behind a few days ago that we’d been using to start the stove. I replaced the one that had lined the basket, hoping that in his current state Aiden wouldn’t notice it was fresh. I was brushing away the stray chips of wood from the page I’d removed when I heard a door creak. I quickly stuffed the sheet under a nearby cushion, just as Aiden emerged, yawning, from his cabin.
He squeezed my shoulder as he came past me and I watched his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t look down. I stood the full basket beside the washing machine and hurriedly threw a few more logs into the fire, before he could do it himself. Then I found the first aid kit and hastily covered my thumb with a plaster.
After breakfast I brought out the sand tray again. Aiden had been doing lots of sketches on his own in the past few days, but I wanted us to have another therapeutic session together to see what came of it. After his torment during the night, he seemed subdued but in a calm, rather than forlorn kind of way. Perhaps today was the day we’d make headway. According to the big guns at Camden police, we only had one day left.
Aiden didn’t even look at the sand box. He closed it and pushed it away. My shoulders fell. He wasn’t in the mood.
I was about to abort the idea when I saw Aiden’s eye trained on the tub marked ‘miscellaneous’. He reached inside and began rummaging for something. It contained a collection of rubber bands, drawing pins, paper clips, nails and hooks. A moment later he pulled out a length of coiled wire and set it before him. It was my turn to look uncertain.