Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  I didn’t tell my father about visiting the cemetery. I kept it a secret, just like the photograph. And I tried not to listen when he railed against my mother, calling her a painted whore and a scheming witch. He accused her of always flirting and showing off her breasts and brushing her hand down other men’s backs and leaning her hip against their groins. He was a hypocrite, of course. I saw the way he looked at other men’s wives and at Agatha’s friends on those few occasions she risked inviting someone home.

  I quit school at sixteen and got a job on the rigs, first as a dishwasher and later as a rigger. I worked in Africa, Australia and the Gulf of Mexico and didn’t see my father for eight years. I brought a girlfriend home with me from Miami. We hired a car at Heathrow Airport and drove to Bristol. My father was living in the same house but he’d rented out two rooms upstairs to an Afghan family, whom he despised. I remember knocking on the door for ten minutes before he answered.

  ‘So it’s you,’ he said, turning back into the house. He was pale and his hands were shaking. Sitting in a grubby armchair, he knocked back four quick beers and then he came to life, telling my girlfriend stories that belittled me.

  We had booked into a hotel. He called me ‘Mr Moneybags’ and made me out to be a class traitor. We arranged to meet him later for dinner, but he didn’t show up. A week later his house burned down, killing the tenants upstairs. My father would have died too if a fireman hadn’t pulled him out. The coroner couldn’t decide how the fire started and my father refused to give evidence.

  The sky is clouding over and the air growing cooler. I tell my father it’s time to go back. He sits on a rock while I lace his trainers, noticing the purple veins on the back of his ankles and the bony spurs on his heels.

  He doesn’t say a word when I drop him back at the nursing home. He doesn’t acknowledge my leaving. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to bring you anything?’

  Apropos of nothing at all, he begins telling me how he lost his virginity to a prostitute who had a tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder and would turn tricks at the Avon Docks. The dockers and stevedores called her the Clifton Butterfly and she worked the streets dressed in a short skirt and fishnet stockings, in all weathers, unable to go home until she’d earned ten shillings.

  ‘I felt sorry for her and gave her a charity fuck. She gave me the clap. There’s a lesson in that. Never donate to charity.’ He gives me a wink.

  I leave him lying on his bed, arms at his sides, as though waiting for the undertaker. Trembling with rage, I walk along a corridor, angry that he can remember the Clifton Butterfly, but he can’t remember my name. My conscious mind hates what I’ve become. Nature has not triumphed over nurture. Both are equally at fault.

  I notice an open door, an empty room, a bed and a handful of banknotes on a side table. The occupant is in the en suite bathroom or somewhere else.

  I slip inside and take the money, pushing it deep into my pocket.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Mrs Addison, the supervisor, is standing in the doorway. She normally works in the office upstairs and I only hear from her when the nursing home fees are owed.

  ‘What are you doing in this room?’

  ‘I got lost.’

  She knows I’m lying.

  ‘This isn’t your father’s room.’

  ‘I realise that now.’

  I feel a bead of sweat roll over my vertebrae at the base of my spine.

  Fuck you, bitch! I want to scream. You shut your mouth or I’ll … I’ll …

  21

  The balloons make the biggest impression. Hundreds of them are tied to the railings and the iron gates and bobbing from people’s wrists as they gather outside the Church of the Immaculate Conception. Harper’s schoolfriends are carrying large clown-like clusters, all of them purple and mauve, handing them out to mourners and passers-by.

  ‘Take two,’ says a pretty girl in a short black dress. She ties one to each of my wrists, while explaining that purple was Harper’s favourite colour.

  She turns to Ruiz. ‘You want a balloon?’

  ‘I’m a bit old for that.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ she says, winking at him. He holds out his hand.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She flirted with me.’

  ‘It’s “Be Nice to Pensioners Week”.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Language. Remember where you are.’

  Posters are displayed at the entrance to the church, each featuring a photograph of Elizabeth and Harper. The message above reads: ‘Celebration of Life Service’. There are more photographs in the printed ‘order of service’: Harper on her first day of school, or with a bucket and spade, or riding a donkey, or bouncing on a trampoline, or posing with her friends … Elizabeth has her own photographs that show her changing hairstyles and colours and fashions. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell mother and daughter apart.

  On the edge of the churchyard, TV crews and photographers have taken up positions on a footpath, spilling on to the narrow road where a police constable is directing traffic.

  Dominic Crowe arrives alone, wearing a black suit and tie, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. In contrast, Elizabeth’s mother has worn bright colours – a mauve blouse and voluminous white skirt. Becca walks through the gates with Francis, who is carrying the baby in a car seat. People stop, bend and smile at little George. Someone ties a purple balloon to the handle of his carrier.

  Inside the church they take a seat in the front row. An organ is playing. Becca turns and makes eye contact with Dominic Crowe, holding his gaze for a several seconds, long enough for something to pass between them.

  I’ve been to my share of funerals but this one seems wrong. Most of the mourners are young and won’t have lost someone close to them before. Standing in clusters, unsure of what to say or do, they talk in whispers and hug each newcomer. Harper’s boyfriend is with Sophie Baxter and another girl I recognise from the public meeting. Blake is wearing a purple satin jacket that makes him look like a member of a boy band. He’s sitting on the aisle, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as though expecting the drinks trolley to be along at any moment.

  Harper’s brother Elliot is being shepherded by other family members. Dressed for the occasion in a black overcoat, dark grey suit and thin black tie, he looks emaciated and strung out, his face shiny with sweat.

  The service begins with a jazzy hymn. The priest opens his arms.

  ‘The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you,’ he says.

  ‘And with you,’ is the murmured reply.

  ‘My name of Father Abermain,’ he says. ‘There are many people still outside. I know it might not seem like an occasion for making new friends, but what better way to celebrate these two lives than to embrace each other. So squeeze up, people, let others sit down.’

  The funeral is a simple, sombre affair with gospel readings, communion and prayers before words of remembrance. A friend from school talks of Harper’s artistic talent – her eye for beauty and composition. ‘She was lively, lovely and smart. She was going to change the world.’

  Elizabeth’s oldest friend recounts their first meeting. ‘The moment Elizabeth walked into a room she commanded attention. Nobody could ignore her energy, the sparkle in her eye, the spirit that said, “I am here and I will not be ignored.”’

  Dominic Crowe is the last to speak, breaking down as he tries to read from a prepared speech. Someone steps up to the microphone and helps him finish.

  ‘I am overwhelmed by the support we have received. I drove past the farm on my way here and I saw all the ribbons and the flowers and the cards on the gate. And I thought how much people must have loved Elizabeth and Harper.’

  After a final hymn, the coffins are carried outside and I can hear broken sobs from the pews behind me. Those who couldn’t make it inside the church are still waiting, lined up along the driveway an
d the road. The coffins are slid into the hearses and wreathes are arranged. The cars pull away, flanked by police motorcyclists. Most of the town seems to have come out. Some are holding posters. One of them reads: Harper We Love You. You Won’t Be Forgotten.

  I drift to the edge of the mourners and notice Jeremy Egan trying to slip away as quietly as he must have arrived.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I say.

  Egan stiffens and stands awkwardly. ‘Elizabeth was my friend before any of the rest happened,’ he says defensively. Rocking back and forth on his polished shoes, he pats at his fringe. ‘I’m sorry about the other day – the things I said about your, ah, shaking…’

  ‘I was also out of line,’ I admit.

  ‘That was very clever, how you summed up my life. How did you do it?’

  ‘Observation. Research.’

  ‘I thought you must have been reading my mail.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  Egan takes off his sunglasses. ‘You might not believe me, but I regret what happened between Elizabeth and me. It should never have started. Maybe I wanted to punish Dominic for holding back the company and costing me money. I know that’s no excuse. Elizabeth had a way of getting her hooks into someone.’

  ‘She was needy?’

  ‘I’d say greedy.’ He glances at me apologetically. ‘I guess that’s not a very nice thing to say – in the circumstances.’

  ‘No. Did your wife blame you or Elizabeth for the affair?’

  ‘You should ask her.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Afraid not. I did invite her, but we don’t do a lot together. Familiarity breeds contempt – isn’t that what they say? It’s my fault. I’m your classic example of someone who marries up and screws down. My wife is the youngest daughter of a baronet. I still love her. I just don’t fancy her.’

  We don’t shake hands when he leaves. Mourners are milling outside the church. Someone touches my shoulder. My arm twitches strongly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Francis Washburn, thinking he’s caused the reaction.

  ‘It’s not you,’ I explain. ‘I get spasms like that.’

  He nods, not understanding, but he’s too polite to ask. His face tilts at an angle and his eyes seem to focus on my mouth. ‘I wanted to apologise for Friday. Becca said you were very kind to her and I was extremely rude.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ I say.

  He smiles gratefully. ‘I don’t usually lose my temper. Becca says I’m old-fashioned. Stiff upper lip and all that.’

  We stand for a moment, sharing the view, until he talks to cover his awkwardness. ‘You’re welcome to come back to the house. We’re serving refreshments. My mother-in-law particularly wants to meet you. She seems to think you’re famous.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Well, she wants you to come. Please say yes or she’ll blame me.’

  ‘Blame you?’

  He laughs. ‘My mother-in-law is a force of nature. I love her to bits, but it sometimes feels as though we have another child in the house.’

  ‘She lives with you?’

  ‘It’s a big house. She has her own wing.’ He gives me the address on a printed card. ‘You were right about Becca – she does need help. I keep hoping the police will make an arrest and things will settle down.’

  Francis hears his name being called. Cars are leaving for the crematorium.

  ‘Two o’clock,’ he shouts behind him.

  The last of the mourners are making their way to their cars. Some are still carrying purple balloons. Others have released them, watching them float away on the breeze, as though it symbolises something they can’t put into words.

  A new one rises. Dominic Crowe is beneath it. The balloon swirls sideways in the gusty breeze and is caught in the branches of a tree. After a moment it pops and suddenly denotes something different. Dominic lowers his head and leaves quickly, walking in his own reality.

  Before he can reach the gate a scrum of reporters surrounds him. I see Bannerman among them. Shouldering people aside, he shoves a microphone under Crowe’s nose. ‘Did you kill your wife and daughter?’

  The bluntness of the question shocks everyone else into silence.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked you if you killed your wife and daughter.’

  Dominic finds the strength to ignore him and pushes through the crowd. Cameras chase him across the road and into a side street where he dodges between cars, trying to shield his face with his coat.

  Meanwhile, Milo Coleman has materialised with a camera crew. He confronts Ronnie Cray. ‘Why haven’t the police made an arrest?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks the DCS.

  ‘I’m filming a documentary about the murders,’ replies Milo. ‘We’re calling it Manhunt.’

  Cray pushes the camera out of her face.

  ‘Are you trying to avoid my questions?’ asks Milo, his left hand opening and closing at his side. ‘Do you admit that mistakes have been made?’

  ‘I have no comment to make.’

  ‘What are you trying to hide?’

  For a moment it appears as though Cray might ignore him completely but then she stops and turns, staring straight into the barrel of the camera. ‘Is that thing turned on?’

  The cameraman nods.

  Cray looks into the lens. ‘Today we have said goodbye to and celebrated the lives of two people who were the victims of a violent unsolved crime. Unfortunately some members of the media have shown they have no respect for the dead or the law. Even worse, certain individuals have actively sought to sabotage a double murder investigation. I did make a mistake. I allowed a pseudo-psychologist, Milo Coleman, to volunteer his services and gain access to confidential information. This man has jeopardised any future prosecution by releasing those details to the public. He has compounded this by trading on people’s fears and turning them against each other.’

  ‘I’m keeping them safe,’ says Milo.

  ‘You’re a pariah and a fraud.’

  ‘You can’t say that.’

  ‘I just did, Mr Coleman. I have sent a file to the CPS seeking to have you charged with perverting the course of justice.’

  She turns and leaves. Mourners step aside. Momentarily robbed of speech, Milo looks from face to face. The camera is still recording. He pushes it away. In the same breath he spies me on the edge of the crowd. Dropping his shoulder as he passes, he tries to knock me down, but Ruiz has seen it coming. He intercepts Milo and braces for the inevitable contact. The younger man goes down like a felled tree, holding his face.

  ‘You saw that,’ he yells. ‘He hit me. That’s assault.’

  Ruiz looks disgusted rather than surprised.

  ‘Get on your feet,’ he says, and then to the crew, ‘Show’s over, lads.’

  Milo is still complaining, but his colleagues ignore him.

  ‘That was some dive,’ I tell Ruiz.

  ‘I scored it an eight.’

  22

  The double-fronted house has a gabled roof with chimney pots at either end giving it a pleasant symmetry and illusions of grandeur. I grew up in a place similar to this – a large Victorian home with strange internal angles, creaking corridors and dodgy plumbing, which left behind an impression on my consciousness like a pen pressed too hard into a sheet of paper.

  Becca Washburn greets me at the front door. She is still wearing her funeral attire – a simple black dress, which clings to her heavy breasts. She smiles at me nervously and turns to the next group of mourners. I navigate along the crowded hallway and reach the rear garden where people have clustered beneath a white marquee and the shade of a large jacaranda tree.

  Trestle tables are laden with food – party pies, sausage rolls, spinach triangles and samosas. Trays of sandwiches, curling in the heat, are being protected from flies beneath muslin. Two young men are operating a makeshift bar, serving wine and beer from barrels full of ice.

  A matronly woman wields
an oversized teapot, offering me a cup. Pancake make-up pools in the hollows of her cheeks. ‘That strong enough for you, pet?’ she asks, as liquid creeps up the inside of the mug.

  ‘The man don’t wanna be drinking that,’ says her husband, looking over her shoulder. ‘Might as well be water.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my tea.’

  ‘It’s so weak it can barely crawl out the spout.’

  I leave them bickering and carry my cup into the garden. Father Abermain has a group of women around him. Like an island in a sea of black, he cuts an impressive figure in his laundered white shirt with twin golden crosses on the starched collar. Handsome, steady and a good listener, if he weren’t sworn to celibacy I can imagine a lot of middle-aged women queuing to catch his eye.

  Francis Washburn leaves another group and crosses the lawn to greet me. ‘I’m glad you came. We men are rather outnumbered. Can I get you something stronger to drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine; you mentioned Elizabeth’s mother…’

  ‘Right, yes, I’ll try to find her.’

  In the meantime he introduces me to a clutch of distant relatives who have travelled from Ireland for the funerals. They include an Uncle Ira who is so deaf he shouts at everyone, and a cousin with macular degeneration, who is showing off a much younger husband. I hover on the edge of their conversation, nodding and smiling. I am not a lover of small talk. I don’t feel equipped. One of the problems is that I discover too much about people. It’s not a conscious thing. I don’t set out to unpick their psyches or explore their motivations. The information comes to me almost instinctively. I see their clothes, how they’re groomed, where they stand, whom they speak to, where they look and the thousands of almost imperceptible tics, gestures, shrugs and mannerisms that clutter human behaviour and reveal hidden truths about them. It is not mindreading, but it feels just as intrusive – knowing so much about someone I’ve barely met.