Her sharing my conviction makes the imminent discovery altogether too real, and I turn to the policeman. “Do we really have to stay?”
His colleague scowls as if I’ve slighted her. “You were asked.”
“She doesn’t, surely.”
I’m only trying to protect Christine, but too late I hear how it sounds. “Not your partner,” I say with more of a laugh than I’m entirely able to control. “Mine.”
This isn’t too fortunate either. Who said I had a way with language? Perhaps I’m thrown by the appearance on the boat of a masked shape with flippers and black reptilian skin. It isn’t the frogman’s resemblance to a monster from a vintage film that troubles me; it’s knowing why he’s there. Christine grips my arm harder, and I think she’s about to retreat until she says “I’ll stay with you, Graham.”
Her grasp feels like my apprehension rendered palpable. I watch the frogman tip backwards into the water and vanish with no sound that’s audible above the chugging of the engine. Almost at once he grows visible again, a vague shape gliding under the surface of the lit section of the canal. He’s setting off ripples that darken as they expand towards me, and every one seems more ominous. I can just make out some confused activity around the submerged portion of the drain, and its lack of definition robs me of breath. Then I gasp, not only because Christine’s nails have dug into my arm. A head has bobbed above the water by the drain.
It isn’t the frogman. I’m put in mind of a sleepy teenager poking her tousled head out of the sheets, sulkily reluctant to be wakened by a parent. Her puffy eyes look swollen shut—-and then I realise that the face framed by hair like waterlogged brownish string isn’t discoloured just by the glare of the floodlight. Worse, she appears to have left some of her face elsewhere. I turn hastily away to put my arm around Christine’s shoulders, urging her to look away as well. “They’ve found her,” I mutter, though I didn’t recognise the face. “The Goodchild girl.”
18: A Sort Of News
“What took you down by the canal last night?”
“‘I just wanted a chance to think.”
‘You weren’t looking for Kylie Goodchild.”
“I wasn’t, no. Well, hang on, let me answer that again. I suppose I’ve always been looking for her, I mean since I heard she was missing, like anybody who did must have been. I’ve kept an eye open for her, but I didn’t go by the canal to look.”
“You weren’t expecting to find her.”
“Of course I wasn’t. How could I be?”
‘So when did you know you had?”
“I didn’t. That’s to say I didn’t know. I just thought it was best to call the police so they could investigate.”
“‘And what made you do that? What did you see?”
“Jesus Christ, Trevor.” In case this is insufficiently disruptive I add “You’re never going to put this on the air.”
“I like to get as much as I can and then edit. That’s how I work.”
“Be a bit more careful with your questions or you’ll end up with no interview.”
“I don’t think Paula would like that.”
“I’ll have to do without my sweet, will I?”
“Come on, Graham. I appreciate you must be shaken after last night, but we’re all professionals here, aren’t we? We want to get this out as soon as we can for the sake of the station. I’d have caught you earlier if you’d let us know you’d found her.”
We’re in the conference room, and the interview feels altogether too reminiscent of my interrogation by the police. I even have a plastic cup of water, because my throat keeps growing dry at the thought of the girl’s face rearing up from the canal. At least I’m beyond the reach of the sunlight that slants into the room, but the controlled temperature gives me shivers even if I brace myself. Trevor ignores the latest one and says “Ready to go on?”
Perhaps I’m being unreasonable; I agreed to be recorded, after all. “If you’ve thought of something else.”
“I’ve nearly finished with you.” After barely enough of a pause to leave him room to edit, Trevor says “How did you feel when they found Kylie Goodchild?”
Of all the questions the media ask the bereaved these days, that’s the kind I loathe most. I shouldn’t take it personally—I’m not involved in her death, after all—but I can’t help demanding “How do you think I felt?”
“I wouldn’t claim to know. People don’t all react the same.”
“Sad.” When he turns one hand palm upwards as if he’s lifting an invisible burden I say “I felt as I imagine anybody would. Sad to see a young girl go like that, losing her life for no reason.”
“And finally, do you have any message for her family?”
“Good Christ almighty, Trevor.” I’m almost provoked to shout that or worse, but instead I say “I hope the family can remember her as they knew her. I’m sure they will in time.”
I can’t be sure of anything of the kind, nor even if I should have said it. Before I’m able to make this clear Lofthouse says “Thanks for that, Graham. Let me get on with putting it together.”
“Aren’t you going to interview Christine as well?”
“She says it was all you,” he informs me and marches off with the recorder to evict whoever’s working in the news studio.
I’m heading for the water cooler when Paula appears in the doorway of her office. “Before you go public, Graham, I just want to say that as long as someone had to find that poor girl, I’m glad it was someone from Waves.”
“Only someone?”
“Not only that at all. It was nobody but you, the increasingly famous Graham Wilde.”
There are achievements I’d rather be famous for, not least my novel. I’ve yet to write down the ideas I had by the canal; I would have felt uncomfortable if Christine had observed me doing so. “Build on it, Graham,” Paula says and shuts her door.
I might have expected her to offer me a sweet if not the entire bowl. I drain a plastic cup of water and refill it before heading for Christine’s desk. “Apparently,” I say not too low for her neighbours to hear, “I’m expected to take advantage of finding Kylie Goodchild.”
Christine frowns, though not as much as I was hoping. “Do whatever you feel you should, Graham.”
I’m in the studio with my headphones on by the time the news bulletin starts. “Police have confirmed that the body of a girl discovered last night in the Rochdale Canal is that of missing fifteen-year-old Kylie Goodchild from Crumpsall…” I’m afraid that Lofthouse or one of his team may have bothered the Goodchilds for a comment, but perhaps they’re giving them time to recover if not to compose a sound bite. “The police were called by Graham Wilde, the presenter of Wilde Card on Waves Radio…” This is followed by my voice, which seems more removed from me than ever. “I suppose I’ve always been looking for her, I mean since I heard she was missing. I’ve kept an eye open for her, but I didn’t go by the canal to look. I just thought it was best to call the police so they could investigate. I felt as I imagine anybody would. Sad to see a young girl go like that, losing her life for no reason.”
At least Trevor has left out my message to the Goodchilds. Christine is in the control room, widening her eyes at me while she tilts her head. If that expresses sympathy, I don’t think I deserve it. “Save it for her parents,” I say into the microphone, but she looks puzzled if not disappointed. Sammy Baxter tells us to expect an even hotter one, and then it’s time for me.
Today is Plant A Plant Day. For no remotely useful reason I’m conscious that the words mean Children And Children in Welsh. My first caller says just one plant won’t help the climate, and remains unconvinced when I point out that it’s supposed to be a plant for every person in the country if not the world. Another listener suggests that the idea is a conspiracy of florists, and the next contributor insists that it’s the latest plot to make us all feel guilty for everything that goes wrong with the world. She’s followed by a woman who argues that if we don’t know i
f vegetation can change the worid, we should have faith and plant it just in case. Once I’ve agreed she says “Everyone who’s listening should plant a flower for Kylie Goodchild.”
“I shouldn’t think there would be any harm in that.”
‘And let me just express my condolences to you and her family.”
“Honestly, you shouldn’t do that to me.”
“You had to find her, poor thing.”
Surely the description is meant for Kylie, not for me. Now every caller seems to feel obliged to offer some commiseration, even if they name the Goodchilds before me. I’m relieved when the one o’clock news interrupts the parade of sympathisers, even if I have to listen to my displaced voice again. “Sad to see a young girl go like that,” it repeats, “losing her life for no reason. I hope the family can remember her as they knew her. I’m sure they will in time.”
It feels as though my voice has declared its independence—as though part of me has escaped my control. Christine doesn’t look nearly as disconcerted as I think she ought to be. Trevor’s gone up on the roof for a cigarette, and he hasn’t reappeared by the time Sammy Baxter tells everybody to take lots of water with the weather. “First we have Marcus from Fallowfield,” I announce. “Marcus, you want to talk about how we use language.”
“Just how you do. Half the time you don’t say what you think.”
“I’m here to play devil’s advocate.”
“The devil’s got enough support these days. You’d do a damn sight better staying clear of him.” Marcus hasn’t quite left his Lancashire accent behind, and now it’s catching up. “You’re told what to say, are you?” he objects.
“Not by the devil or anyone else, Marcus.”
“You never thought of that giri’s family till after you were told.”
“How do you know what I thought?” This sounds too much like an admission, and I don’t spare any time to breathe before adding “You aren’t going to tell us you’re psychic.”
“I’ve no need,” Marcus says as Christine blinks at me through the glass. “We all heard how you decided to say something to them on the news after everybody kept reminding you about them.”
“That wasn’t me.” I have to struggle not to let my anger carry off my words. “I mean, it wasn’t my decision. I’d already recorded the message but we didn’t put it out at twelve o’clock.”
“Didn’t you like how you sounded?”
“I didn’t think I ought to intrude.” When Marcus lets his silence lie I’m compelled to add “When you say how I sounded…”
“Folk can make up their own minds like you say you want,” he says and rings off.
More than one listener comes to my defence, protesting that Marcus shouldn’t have attacked me, at least not so soon after I found Kylie Goodchild. While I feel undeserving of their sympathy, I don’t want to offend them. I do my best to bring us back to Plant A Plant Day, which prompts a caller to suggest planting a garden in memory of her. By the time the news crowds me off the air there’s talk of opening one in Crumpsall. As Rick Till blunders into the studio, bumping the door open with an elbow while he fumbles with his tie and smooths his hair, I stalk through the control room and over to Lofthouse’s desk. “What was the trick with my interview, Trevor? Did you decide I hadn’t said enough?”
“Paula did. She wanted you to be more sympathetic.”
I’m heading for her office when the phone rings on my desk. “Somebody’s here for you, Graham,” Megan at Reception says.
Shilpa is in Delhi for a wedding, and either her replacement hasn’t learned to ask the names of visitors or doesn’t think it’s worth the exertion. Megan is examining her face in a compact mirror—I’ve heard her say the tan she’s gained from lying in the sun can’t compete with the studio product. A large man is standing with his back to her, facing the blind eyes of the zeros above the lifts, but turns as I leave the newsroom. He’s Kylie Goodchild’s father.
The features on his broad head look even more inadequate, as if they’ve been shrunken by grief-—not so much the flattened nose as the small mouth and the eyes set still closer together. A trace of a scratch near his right temple reminds me how he dragged his nails across it when Jasper claimed to see Kylie under something unspecified, certainly not the canal. I do my best to put Jasper out of my mind as I say “Mr Goodchild.”
“Robbie.” Even pronouncing his own name appears to take an effort, and he pauses in order to be able to say “Margaret wants me to say we appreciate everything you did.”
“I don’t know if I did enough.”
“Can’t be helped now.” His mouth looks close to dwindling as he adds “Nobody else did what you done.”
I’m increasingly unsure why I’m being thanked. “Did you hear what I said on the radio today?”
“No offence, but I don’t listen to you.”
I’m ashamed of presuming that either of Kylie’s parents would just now, if at all. “I was hoping all your memories are good ones.”
If possible this sounds even more fatuous than the wish I expressed on the air, and I can’t blame him for wanting to change the subject. “Can I ask you summat?” he says.
“Anything,” I say and regret it at once.
“How did you find her?”
For an awful moment I fancy he’s enquiring about her state. I do my best to fend off any details of the memory by saying “I didn’t know I had.”
“Summat must have made you call the law.”
“I just thought something might be wrong and I didn’t want to let it lie.”
Perhaps he doesn’t care for my turn of phrase; I don’t think much of it myself. Megan has added quite a contribution to the silence by the time I ask “Can you say when the funeral will be?”
“When they’ve finished whatever they’re doing to her,” he mumbles, raising his crooked fingers towards his face. I’m afraid he means to claw at it until he turns on Megan. “Are we embarrassing you, love?”
The last word sounds far from affectionate. “You are a bit,” says Megan.
“Then I’d better fuck off where they’re used to me.” He stares at her with his hand still raised, as if he’s challenging her to respond. When she returns to looking in her mirror—she might be searching for an outraged blush under the tan—he swings around and deals the button between the lifts not much less than a punch. As the numbers start to add up he glances at me. “Are you coming to it?” he says.
He can only mean the funeral. It sounds more like a demand or even a dare than an invitation, but I say “If you and your wife want me there, of course I wilL”
“She’ll want it all right”
I can’t tell whether he’s conveying her view or declaring that she’ll do as she’s told. His gaze finds me again as the lift shuts. “See you at the crem,” he says.
If that seems almost frivolous, it must be his way of controlling his emotions. As the numbers head for zero I tell Megan “He’s just lost his young daughter.”
“That’s no excuse,” she retorts, and I can’t help thinking how unreasonable girls sometimes are. Of course it isn’t only them, but until I retreat into the newsroom, professionally adjusting my expression on the way, I’m shaken by a rage I barely understand.
19: Intentions
I’ve hardly stepped out of the lift when Megan says “Paula wants to know as soon as you’re in.”
This sounds a good deal too reproving for my taste, an impression her look aggravates. Is she paying me back for yesterday’s disapproval? As she reaches for the phone I say “You can leave her to me.”
In the newsroom several people rather more than glance at me, but their expressions aren’t telling me anything. I stop at Christine’s desk to murmur “I’ve just got to go and see miss,” and knock on Paula’s door as soon as I’ve collected a plastic cup of water from the cooler. I’m about to knock a second time when Paula shouts “Advance.”
Perhaps she’s too busy to use any more words, because she does
n’t spare me much of a glance from her perch behind the desk. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Graham,” she says and stares at the computer, “unless you’re anxious to be somewhere else.”
The flabby leather seat feels more uncertain of its shape than ever. As it takes my weight it releases a sound like an imperfectly held breath. Paula’s round plump face sinks to remain level with my antics while her hair keeps as still as a helmet. As I labour to sit forward it occurs to me to say “There is somewhere I should be sometime soon.”
“Should I be surprised?”
“You might be. I’ve been asked to go to Kylie Goodchild’s funeral.”
“You’ll be representing Waves there, will you?”
“By all means if you like. I’ll let you know as soon as I know when it is.”
“You must be feeling in demand, Graham.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that. If I feel anything it’s guilty.”
“Now why should that be?”
“It’s not as if I ever knew the girl,” I say despite an odd suspicion that Paula had something else in mind. “I hardly even met her.”
“You must have made more of an impression than you like to think.”
There are surely better ways to phrase it, but I’ve said enough about Kylie for a while. “Anyway, you wanted me.”
“Our new owners will be here next week.”
“I hope it isn’t the day of the funeral.’”
“You’ll have to decide what you’re doing, won’t you?” Paula stares at me as if she expects to learn my decision at once, and then says “I hear you’ve been hiding what you are from us.”
“What in particular? I mean, what’s anyone saying I am?”
“I believe you’re writing a novel. Is that for publication?”
“I hope so when I’ve got it how I want it.” When she revives her stare I say “Are you asking whether you can tell the Frugo people about it? I don’t see why you shouldn’t if you like.’”
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