by Baker, John
What kind of man was that? Someone who lived in the shadows, who moved in silence. Even while he was squeezing the life out of her he hadn’t spoken. Not one word. When she bit deep into the flesh of his thumb he didn’t wince.
Angeles lived in a middle-class world, a world where words were the primary method of communication. She had never come across people who didn’t speak, who didn’t declare their intentions. Peasants, they say, don’t speak much, and nor do fishermen. But she was not being stalked by someone from another age. She was being stalked by someone from today’s world who wanted her dead.
It had to be a mistake. He thought she was someone else, someone who had done him wrong. And yet he had taken Isabel as well. Surely he hadn’t mistaken both of them?
‘I haven’t done anything,’ she said to Sam. ‘Why does he want to kill me? I haven’t done anything.’
Sam stroked her brow with his free hand. He didn’t answer. What could he say? Still, it calmed her. She felt herself stretching beneath the covers. The fear was still close by, but it was as if she had rolled it into a ball and put it to one side.
When he made to withdraw his hand she clasped it tighter. It was an involuntary movement, something she had not intended to do, but she felt him relax into it. Disturbing. This was not something she had wished for. She could only disappoint him. They were never going to enjoy a film together, or wander hand in hand around a picture gallery. But there were those small charges in their fingers. The quickening of her breath, the delicious fluttering of her pulse, and the heat emanating from her shoulders and the back of her neck.
If it didn’t cost freedom, that closing down of possibilities, she’d opt for love with this man. It was obvious to her that he’d be pleased to close down possibilities in his own life to make room for her. That he’d be only too ready to put all of his eggs in her basket.
‘I’m going to tell you something,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘I’m going to tell you anyway, Sam.’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything.’
She gripped his hand hard, felt her nails digging into the flesh around his palm. ‘When I was young,’ she said, ‘I was a victim, or I experienced myself as a victim, because I was blind, because I wasn’t like the other girls I knew. But there came a time when I realized that in many ways I had more possibilities than they did. I discovered that, for me, the world was a place of adventure and that I liked it like that. That I was an adventurer. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Sam nodded. ‘I knew before you told me.’
‘The thing is, Sam, that I want it to remain like that. To become more like that. I need more possibilities, not less. If I give up what I have spent my life becoming, then I’ll be nothing.’
‘I spent most of my life becoming an alcoholic,’ he told her. ‘When I gave it up I was swamped by possibilities. If you make a space in your life, then other things can happen. But if you fill it to the brim, you don’t leave space for anything else.’
She hesitated. ‘You gave up something negative, Sam. If you give up something negative, of course it makes room for positive things. But I’m worried about giving up everything I’ve won.’
He didn’t answer. She felt him loosen his grip, and this time she let him do it. She wanted to tell him that it was as much in his interest as hers. That if she let herself fall in love with Sam Turner, she’d break his heart.
After a couple of minutes he said, ‘You’re too young for me anyway.’
*
‘Jesus, it’s like Fort Knox trying to get in here.’ It was the voice of Sam’s assistant, Geordie. ‘There’s cops everywhere.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Sam said. ‘Ms Falco’s not feeling on top of the world.’
‘Sorry,’ Geordie said. ‘You have to turn the volume up with cops or they don’t understand what you say.’
‘We better go,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll call back and see you later.’
‘Thanks,’ she told him. Meaning it.
‘But I came to tell you about Russell Harvey,’ Geordie said. ‘Ms Falco’ll want to hear it as well.’
Russell Harvey, Isabel’s boyfriend. Angeles had never met him; all she knew about the man was what she had heard from Isabel and from Sam. Now she was going to learn something else.
‘He’s dead,’ Geordie said. ‘Topped himself in the cells. Tore up his shirt to make a noose. They found him this lunchtime.’
‘No,’ Angeles said. She felt tears escaping from her eyes and running down her cheeks. Tears for someone she had never known. For a minute she couldn’t stop the flow and she didn’t know why. Eventually it dawned on her that the tears were not for Russell Harvey alone, they were for her sister Isabel and for herself, and they were for Sam and the pity of it all. A terror had entered her life and she knew that that terror would be the end of her if she had to face it alone. All that stood between the terror and her death was Sam Turner, the man she had just told to keep his distance.
‘Sam,’ she said. She felt him approach the bed, but at the same time two sets of footsteps entered the room. Heavy footsteps, walking in unison. The kind of footsteps that one associates with authority.
‘Sam Turner?’ The voice was masculine, a voice that lived in a barrel chest. It gave rise to a vision of a shave that was unnaturally close.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Geordie said.
‘There’s no need for this,’ Sam said. But his comment was followed by a crash, the sound of some item of National Health Service equipment coming to the end of a long life.
Geordie again, his voice incredulous: ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Go and stand by the wall, and be quiet,’ said the voice from the barrel chest. ‘Mr Turner, if you continue to resist, you’ll leave me no alternative
Angeles heard herself scream at the top of her voice as the two policemen frog-marched Sam Turner along the corridor and out through the swing doors.
Her scream hung in the air for some time. She convinced herself that she could hear it vibrating long after it had disappeared. Every sound made her heart beat faster.
She was alone again. Under observation, they would say when people enquired.
25
George Forester did all the talking. Marie listened, but occasionally she couldn’t hold back and forced herself into the picture. The policemen at the various stations they had visited were, without exception, rude and patronizing.
Forester was the first solicitor to have retained Sam when he began making a name for himself. At first glance he was not someone you would associate with Sam Turner; he couldn’t hang loose, always looked as though he was suppressing a fart.
He wore a dogtooth Burberry overcoat, knee-length, with striped trousers and shoes that shone like mirrors. If his hair had been cut any shorter, his barber would have to qualify as a brain surgeon.
The desk sergeant said: ‘Turner?’ He ran his finger down a list of admissions. ‘Nope. Sorry, nobody name of Turner.’
‘Look again, would you, officer?’ said George Forester. ‘We were told by the desk sergeant at Fulford that he was brought here.’
The policeman took his time. His finger traced the list again, stopping every now and then at the long names, the ones with more than two syllables. When he’d finished he looked at them both and shook his head. ‘Where did you say he was arrested?’
‘He wasn’t arrested,’ said Forester, ‘he was forcibly taken from the District Hospital.’
‘Wouldn’t’ve come here, then. If he were arrested at the District, they’d’ve taken him to Fulford. Who was the arresting officer?’
‘We don’t know. There were two uniformed officers, both of whom are going to be charged with the use of excessive force.’ Forester glanced at Marie and took a breath. His voice was high-pitched and carried camp overtones but there was no doubting its authority. ‘Listen, Sergeant, I have been given the run-around by you and your colleagues for nearly fi
ve hours. I am warning you now that I have had enough. If I am not given access to Sam Turner in the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to make it my business to see you personally bounced around the courts.’
The officer looked him square in the eyes, and found not a grain of compassion. The man swallowed and his Adam’s apple squirmed under the slack skin of his throat. He forced a fleeting smile across his face. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll give Fulford a ring, see if we can sort this one out for you. It’s not my job to go upsetting the public.’ Forester glanced at his watch. ‘Fourteen minutes,’ he said. He led Marie towards a bench seat by the wall, and they sat there together. Forester took his watch from his wrist and balanced it on his crossed knee.
Marie was ill at ease in a police station. It always brought back the experience when Gus, her late husband and Sam’s first partner, was killed. The police had suspected Marie of the murder, though she was working at the time on the other side of town. It had taken her a long time to recognize that she was bereaved and at the same time suspected of being the author of that bereavement.
She had come to terms with it largely due to the comfort and friendship of Sam, and for that she would always be grateful. Sam was impetuous and landed himself in trouble because he followed his instincts rather than his, usually, good sense. That was one of his problems. Another was that he could never deal adequately with officialdom, with authority figures, or with people in uniform. He didn’t seem to understand that people apply for a job that involves wearing a uniform when they have a low opinion of themselves. And that the only way to deal with them is to massage their egos. One to one with normal men, women or children, Sam could give and take, and would emerge from the encounter with some kudos. But whenever he came up against someone who assumed an air of superiority, he’d want to fight.
And, Marie thought, being a bloody stupid man, he would fight. He’d never give in. That survival mechanism that allowed most people, after a period of pain or humiliation, to bow their heads and compromise just didn’t have a place in the make-up of Sam Turner. They could do what they liked with him down below in the cells: nail him to the wall or flay the skin off his back. He wouldn’t move an inch, call them all fools.
Which was another reason to get him out of there quickly. While he was still breathing and in one piece.
‘Time,’ said George Forester next to her. He spoke the word under his breath, almost to himself. She watched him rise from the wooden bench and move across the floor to where the desk sergeant was speaking into the phone. Forester repeatedly tapped his fingers on the counter.
‘Found him,’ said the desk sergeant as he put down the phone. He made an attempt at a smile but it foundered on the stony response of the solicitor.
‘Where is he?’
‘Clifton, sir. The lads who were bringing him in had a bit of an accident. Their car was involved in a collision.
They couldn’t get it moving again, had to sit tight until we could get a tow truck out there. Anyway, it ended up with your friend being taken to Clifton. If you go down there, you’ll be able to see him.’
‘I hope you aren’t trying to work another flanker on me, Sergeant.’ Forester fixed the desk sergeant with a stare and held it for several seconds, but the guy didn’t flinch. Either he was a good liar or he thought he was telling the truth.
Marie went out into the wind with Forester and followed him to his new white Rover; she sunk into the soft leather seat. ‘I’m getting worried,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long.’
‘He’s at Clifton,’ Forester said. ‘It’s OK, they can’t keep us running around all night. This is the last stop.’
The police station at Clifton was an older building. They were met at the door by a uniformed chief inspector with a nose like a light bulb. Fate had tried to conceal him by naming him Smith. He had been briefed and knew who they were and the nature of their business.
‘Mr Turner is with the doctor at the moment,’ he told them. ‘Just routine, no need to worry. We need to be sure he’s OK before releasing him.’
‘Chief Inspector,’ Forester said. ‘My client has been missing for more than five hours. I’m going to make sure there’s a full-scale inquiry into this whole shebang.’
‘You must do as you see fit, sir. But I can assure you there has been nothing sinister happening. A small motor accident and a series of misunderstandings, that’s all.’
‘We shall see.’
Marie went outside to use her mobile. She rang Celia and JD to tell them that they’d found Sam and would be bringing him home soon.
As she approached the steps to the front entrance of the police station, Chief Inspector Smith pushed the door open. George Forester, supporting Sam on his arm, was ushered out. The left side of Sam’s face was dark, his eye puffy and closed, crisp and brittle as a meringue. His right hand, the one already damaged by the police car door, was hanging uselessly by his side.
‘I hope you’ll be feeling better by the morning, sir,’ said Chief Inspector Smith.
Sam twisted his head back to the man. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ replied the policeman, slipping back into the artificial warmth of his station.
Marie went forward to help support Sam on his other side. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Can you walk?’
Sam grimaced. ‘Yeah, I’ll manage. They’ve done something to my knee.’ He hobbled towards Forester’s Rover and got in the back seat. Marie walked around to the other side and sat next to him.
‘What happened?’ Forester asked when he’d started up the car and was back on the road.
‘What you’d expect,’ Sam said.
‘So, there was no car accident?’
Sam laughed hollowly. ‘Yeah, there was a little bump. They hit a bollard and smashed the windscreen. Driver cut his head, but that was the extent of it.’
‘Right,’ said Forester. ‘I want you to see a doctor first thing in the morning, and I’m going to bring in a photographer. They can’t expect to get away with this kind of behaviour.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Sam said, laying his head back on the leather upholstery, closing his eyes. ‘But make it last thing in the morning, not first. I might wanna lay behind the clock a few minutes.’
Marie leaned over to touch his hand, but he drew in his breath sharply and pulled away.
‘Bit tender just there, darlin’,’ he said. ‘I must’ve stamped on it by mistake.’
‘Why, Sam?’ Marie said. ‘Why did they do it?’
‘Dunno,’ he said. She watched his shoulders rise in a shrug. ‘I only told a few bad jokes.’
When they arrived at Sam’s house, Celia was waiting by the gate. George Forester said he’d leave them to it, but he’d be back the next morning. All three of them stood and watched him drive away.
‘He’s a good man, George,’ Sam said. ‘Good to have him on »our side.’
‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Look at the state of you. They’ve made a right mess this time. I’m going to stay the night, make sure everything’s all right.’
‘There’s no need for that, Celia.’
‘And it doesn’t matter what you say or think,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I went home now, wondering if you were OK. I can curl up in the spare room.’
Sam began to protest, but Marie cut in. ‘It’s better if someone’s here,’ she said. ‘If you send Celia home, you’ll still have to lose me.’
Sam looked from Celia to Marie and then back to Celia. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘have it your own way, but I don’t want any fussing.’
When they reached the front door, they turned again at the sound of footsteps running along the street. Geordie jogged up to the fence and stopped, winded, letting his upper body flop over the top of the gate.
‘Just came to see you were all right,’ he said. ‘Jesus, I ran all the way. I’m totally fit.’ He was breathless, fitting in gulps of air between each word. ‘That’s what happens when you have a ba
by. You feel really shagged, because you’re up half the night with changing nappies and feedings and all the things you have to think about, and your eyes are half-closed all the time. But really it keeps you fit.’
‘There must be easier ways,’ Marie said. ‘I think I’d rather go to the gym.’
‘That’s just a substitute,’ Geordie told her.
Sam walked back along the path towards Geordie. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘You can’t stay the night, I’m afraid, we don’t have any beds left.’
Geordie watched him struggling along the path. ‘Jesus, Sam,’ he said. ‘You’re walking with a pimp-limp. You can’t be a PI and walk like that. People won’t take you serious.’
Sam made it down the path and stood in front of Geordie, one of them on either side of the gate. They looked into each other’s face. It was a relationship that was usually understated, kept at bay by a continuing banter of jokes and one-liners. But when the superficialities failed and the power of the thing stood forth, it felt as though sinews of blood and muscle tied them together.
Marie glanced at Celia, and Celia gave her a tight smile. ‘Hell, Sam,’ Geordie said quietly, looking at the dark bruise of his face. ‘The bastards really did a job on you.’ Sam shrugged and drew in his breath with the effort. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘In for a penny, in for a pounding.’
26
FMS. False Memory Syndrome. During the last ten years or so I have watched my illustrious colleagues discuss the pros and cons of this phenomenon. The earnest professionals on the one hand and the sensationalist press and media on the other. They’ve loved every minute of it. The righteous amongst them have been truly outraged, while the shallow and uncaring have wallowed in a hot scented bath of titillation.
Those of us who have worked with vulnerable and often exploited young people have long known that the mind, and especially the memory, is fragile and easily influenced. Left to itself, if that were possible, memory is an affair of construction rather than one of mere reproduction. But when meddled with by a True Believer in the guise of a psychotherapist, it can be twisted into a million different shapes.