Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Did Gavin have anything to do with the Marxist Society?’

  ‘Gavin? No. He was with the other lot. The dopers.’

  ‘What do you mean? He took drugs?’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course. This was the early seventies after all, love. Not much different from the late sixties. There were very distinct groups at university, especially back then. There were the straights, of course, who went to all the lectures and wrote their essays, or whatever, and had nothing to do with the world around them. There were the politicos, usually left-wing, who abhorred bourgeois individualism, personal emotion and, of course, anything like the sort of navel-gazing you got from acid trips or smoking some really good Afghani black or Moroccan red. Those were the dopers. They were too into mysticism, the occult and Eastern religion to give a damn about the workers or the revolution. Poets and dreamers, all of them. Some of them were so introspective they disappeared up their own arseholes. They’d sit around in someone’s flat and smoke joints and listen to the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd or Stockhausen and make cryptic comments about life, the universe and everything. They could listen to John Cage’s four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence for hours on end and not get bored.’

  Gerry laughed, though she had never heard of John Cage. ‘This was Gavin’s crowd?’

  ‘Very much so. Partly mine, too, sometimes, though I never felt I fully belonged. Funny when you think back on it all, isn’t it? But you wouldn’t know, would you? Gavin was a dreamer. A thinker. A poet. Not a doer. Which is where Ronnie Bellamy comes in.’

  ‘How?’ asked Gerry, sensing the excitement of possible revelation.

  ‘He was in love with her, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Were his feelings requited?’

  Judy thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. They went out together for a while in the first term and into the second.’

  Gerry felt a tremor of excitement. ‘And then?’

  ‘It ended.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I can tell you something: it wasn’t Gavin’s idea. Like a lovesick puppy he was, trying to get back with her, until he obviously realised it was no use. It had just been a casual affair to her, a fling, but she was a doer, and he was a dreamer. Besides, she was posh, too, whatever politics she adopted. Gavin was just your ordinary middle-class boy. It could never work.’

  ‘Did they remain friends?’

  ‘No. They both moved on after a while.’

  ‘How did Gavin handle the rejection?’

  ‘Not well, really. But, you know, I think he sort of enjoyed it in a way, the misery of unrequited love. I mean in a Leonard Cohen sort of way. At least he was feeling something, even if it was the pain of rejection.’ She glanced up rather sheepishly at Gerry. ‘I slept with him once, you know, after he and Ronnie split up. Mostly because I felt sorry for him. He was very tender and poetic.’ She patted her hair. ‘I wasn’t such a bad looker myself, back in the day.’

  Gerry smiled. Far be it from her to comment on Judy’s activities back in the day, though she did wonder what a poetic lover might be like. Someone who quoted Keats and Wordsworth in bed? She hadn’t done too badly in English herself at school, an A in her A-levels, at any rate, and she thought perhaps Byron and Marvell might be more appropriate. Maybe John Donne, too. The one about the stiff compasses. Or maybe it meant that he moved in certain poetic rhythms, iambic pentameter shagging, da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum. And played Leonard Cohen records, too, because this, she reminded herself, was an age before CDs, and she hadn’t been born. Banks would be much better at having this conversation. At least he would have a stronger grasp of what Judy Sallis was talking about, like who Susan George was, for example, and John Cage. She put such flippant thoughts out of her mind and got back to business. ‘What happened to Gavin?’

  ‘He got a girlfriend he liked. Not as passionately as his great love, Ronnie, of course. But they went out together for the rest of that first year, at least. Nancy Winterson was her name. Nice girl. Good for Gavin, I thought. Sensitive, thoughtful, pretty in a pale, fragile, poetic sort of way. Bit of a pre-Raphaelite look about her, not unlike you, love, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Gerry was sure she blushed. She was also not convinced that being seen as pale, fragile and poetic was necessarily such a good thing, especially in a detective constable. ‘Did Gavin continue to take drugs?’

  Judy looked at Gerry. ‘How old are you, love?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Twenty-six. Christ. Well, you were born into a different world, where drugs are nothing but evil. When you ask if he kept on taking drugs, it sounds, forgive me, like a typical police question. One didn’t really “take” drugs or “keep on taking” them, unless they were prescriptions for some illness or other, or maybe if you were a heroin addict. Gavin smoked dope. I smoked dope. We all smoked dope—’

  ‘Except the Marxists?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Even some of them smoked dope. Ronnie Bellamy certainly dabbled from time to time, especially when she and Gavin were an item. It wasn’t all work and no play. But the point was that it wasn’t some sort of bad thing you did, or crime you committed. We didn’t see it as that much different from having a drink or smoking a cigarette. It was a part of life. So to ask if he kept on taking drugs is sort of meaningless, do you see, like asking if he kept on breathing. Or like a religion. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Like Rastas?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why they admired the Rasta culture so much, and some of the Eastern mystic sects who used mind-altering substances. Or the Mexicans with their peyote. Carlos Castaneda and all that desert magic stuff.’

  Gerry had never heard of Carlos Castaneda, either. There was a whole world back there waiting to be explored, but she doubted she would ever get around to it. ‘What about the other drugs? LSD?’

  ‘We took LSD a bit more seriously, though I knew a couple of kids who ate it like Smarties. We knew it could be dangerous, but we also knew it had been legal until not too long ago, and that it was a seriously mind-altering substance. That was what we wanted to do, had we been the least bit articulate about it – alter our minds. The Marxists wanted to alter society from the outside, and we wanted to alter the people in it from the inside.’

  ‘Did Veronica ever take LSD?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you for certain, but I should imagine so, while she was with Gavin. It’s a sort of initiation, and he took it quite regularly then.’

  While Gerry was amazed at this casual abuse of Class A drugs, she was determined not to let it show. It was, indeed, another age. These days it was ecstasy, bubble and bath salts. ‘So your crowd didn’t get along with the Marxists?’

  ‘We got along just fine mostly, though we didn’t mix that much, except at concerts and in the bar and stuff. They were all right, most of them. It was just that they were always trying to convince you they were right, like the Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone. It got a bit boring, sometimes, listening to the same arguments over and over again.’

  ‘And Ronnie?’

  ‘She was all right, too, I suppose. But she was … I can’t … wait … do you know what those American prom queens are like, the ones you see in movies like Carrie? Beautiful, rich, privileged, bitchy, aloof, always get the best-looking guys. What was it, the quarterback?’

  Gerry nodded. ‘I’ve seen the films.’

  ‘Well, Ronnie was like that. Prom queen of the Marxist Society.’

  ‘Why do you think it ended between her and Gavin?’

  ‘I reckon it just fizzled out. She probably got bored with him and all that sitting around smoking dope and navel-gazing. She wanted to be out there on the barricades. But something definitely happened. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. One day he was mooning, the next he was walking around with a face like a slapped arse.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas why, any thoughts?’

 
; ‘My guess is as good as yours, love. It was like it was on one day and off the next. If you ask me he got too serious, maybe told her he loved her or something. That would have been just like Gavin. Whatever it was, he seemed to pull himself together pretty soon, after a couple of weeks of Leonard Cohen records, and then he hooked up with Nancy.’

  ‘Do you know where Nancy is now?’

  ‘No idea, love. We weren’t that close.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Gerry. They had a name; they could always find her if they wanted to. ‘When was all this? When Gavin and Veronica split up?’

  ‘Not long after New Year, I think. Maybe late January, early February. 1972. You won’t remember, you weren’t born then, but it seemed like everyone was on strike. The miners were doing those flying pickets, you know, when a whole group of extra picketers can turn up almost anywhere at short notice. During the strike, the whole country had revolving power cuts, and I used to love it on an evening when the electricity went off. As long as you had a shilling for the gas meter, you could keep warm, and we all used to congregate in Brian Kelly’s or Sue Harper’s flat and smoke dope. You couldn’t play records, of course, because the electricity was off, but someone always had a guitar, and a tambourine, maybe even a flute or a recorder, and we had some good old sing-songs.’

  Gerry made notes. ‘So there was a marked change in Gavin’s behaviour around that time? Early February, 1972, right?’

  ‘Yes. About then.’

  ‘And Ronnie’s?’

  ‘No. She carried on much as ever. In her element. Prom queen of the Marxist Society. For a while longer at least. Like I said, I think it was a one-sided relationship, such as it was. A bit of fun for her, and a bit too serious for him. Come April or thereabouts, she seemed to fade into the background a bit more.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I mean, we weren’t close enough that we’d discuss such things. Just got tired of épater-ing la bourgeoisie, I suppose. And there were exams to think about. I mean, when it came right down to it, she was pretty bourgeois herself, underneath all that party-line rubbish. Another cuppa?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Gerry, putting away her notebook and looking at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I’d better be getting back to the station, or they’ll be wondering what happened to me.’

  ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you,’ said Judy. ‘It’s funny, opening the floodgates like that. I’ll probably start remembering all kinds of things after you’ve gone.’ She sounded rather sad that Gerry was leaving.

  Gerry gave her a card. ‘This is my mobile,’ she said. ‘Ring me whenever you like if you remember something, even if it doesn’t seem important to you.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘There is just one thing you might be able to help me with,’ Gerry said, stopping with her hand on the door handle.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘I could probably track down a list of Marxist Society members from back then, but is there anyone you remember who you think I could get in touch with. Someone who might be helpful?’

  ‘Well, there’s Mandy Parsons, I suppose. She only comes to mind because I’ve seen her on telly recently. She teaches Political Science or something like that in Leeds.’

  ‘The uni?’

  ‘I think so. Anyway, she was sounding off about the abuse of female asylum seekers and the horrors of female circumcision in the Guardian women’s section and on the local TV news not more than a month or so ago, and I remembered her from back then. She was no prom queen, but she had her ideology sorted, did Mandy. Gone feminist now, of course, but there’s probably still a bit of the old lefty in her. Marxist Feminist, perhaps.’

  Gerry thanked Judy Sallis and walked towards her car, confused in political ideology and lost in thought.

  For the second time that day, Winsome approached the house where Lisa Gray had her flat. She had been doing a lot of thinking since her earlier visit with Annie, and she had come to one or two conclusions she wanted to test out. She intended to find out once and for all what part Eastvale College played in Gavin Miller’s murder, if any, and to get the truth out of Lisa, whatever the cost. She thought she could do it with kindness, that Lisa might be ready to unburden herself, but if she had to take her down to the station and put her in a cell for twenty-four hours, browbeat her the way Annie had, then she would do it.

  It was early evening, dark, the wet leaves muffling her footsteps as she approached the tall, narrow house, and when she first rang the bell, Winsome thought that Lisa was probably out. Then a small weary voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lisa, it’s me. Winsome. DS Jackman.’

  There was a long pause, and Winsome could almost feel Lisa thinking, hear the cogs turning. She knew what the visit was about. Finally, she said, ‘You’d better come up,’ and the intercom buzzed.

  Once she was in the flat, Winsome accepted the offer of camomile tea and found its warmth and scent a great comfort as she settled into the armchair.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come back because you want me to tell you everything, haven’t you?’

  ‘It would help.’

  ‘What makes you think I haven’t?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Winsome. ‘Too many gaps in the story, maybe? Too many bits and pieces that don’t add up. I started thinking there might be good reasons for your erratic and self-destructive behaviour, for Lomax thinking you were so completely unreliable, for your withdrawal from college life.’ There was also something Annie had passed on about Banks’s interview with Kyle McClusky. Kyle had said that someone must have complained to Gavin Miller about his selling drugs, and that it was probably a woman who had been a victim of roofies and rape.

  ‘I’m glad you came by yourself this time. I didn’t like your friend. Sorry.’

  ‘Annie’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. I didn’t do anything wrong, you know. Where do you want me to begin?’

  ‘Where do you think it all began?’

  The flames cast shadows in the hollows of Lisa’s pale elfin features, glimmered orange and red in her big eyes. She took out a pouch of Drum tobacco and rolled a cigarette. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Only tobacco.’

  ‘What’s all right about tobacco?’

  ‘You don’t …? Oh, bloody hell. Do you want me to …?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Winsome. ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop someone from doing what they want in their own home.’

  The firelight caught the shape of a smile on Lisa’s face. ‘As long as it’s not illegal.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good. Because this is about the only place I can do it these days.’ Lisa lit the cigarette, pulled a shred of tobacco from her lower lip and settled down cross-legged by the hearth. ‘Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  Winsome nodded and leaned back in her chair, cradling her mug of tea. She knew that she ought to be taking notes, but thought if she took out her notebook it would ruin the mood, the rapport. If anything of value came up, she was sure that she would be able to get Lisa to make an official statement later. But this was delicate, fragile, she suspected, if even half of what she had suspected were true. It might not even be directly relevant to the case.

  ‘It was over four years ago. February. Not too cold or wet. Not like Februaries these days. A mild night. I was nineteen. I thought I was a sophisticated Goth, really I did. I had the black gear, black lipstick and kohl, the chunky crosses, rings and amulets, the music. Bauhaus, PJ Harvey, Sisters of Mercy, The Cure, Joy Division.’

  Of these, Winsome had heard only of Joy Division, and even then she couldn’t remember where she had heard of them. Banks, perhaps? Though she didn’t think he was into Goth music. One of them had died, she thought.

  ‘I’d been to a concert at the college. Wendy House. I was in my final year. There was a group of us. We’d been drinking a bit, but not a lot, and nothing more, you kn
ow, no drugs or anything. There was a boy who seemed interested in me. He wasn’t at the college, and he said he’d come up from Bradford to see the band. I didn’t know him, but he was fit, so we let him hang out with us in the bar later. When we all split up and went our own ways, he said he’d walk me home. I wasn’t drunk, and he seemed nice enough, so I didn’t mind, I wasn’t nervous or anything. We were just chatting like mates about the concert, music and stuff. Like I said, it was a mild night. I lived closer to the heart of the campus then, but it was an old house, much like this one. I had a bottle of cheap wine at home, and I offered him some, poured some for myself and went to the toilet. When I got back and started drinking it, after a while things started to get hazy. The next thing I knew it was morning, and I had a splitting headache, a dry mouth and … I … I felt terribly sore, you know, between my legs. I felt down there, and I was all sticky. I was also naked, and I didn’t remember getting undressed. I wasn’t a virgin, so it didn’t take me long to figure out what had happened. But it hadn’t happened with my consent. At least, I didn’t think so. I honestly couldn’t remember. The last thing I could bring to mind was walking back in the room from going to the loo and drinking my wine. I think there was some Wilco on the stereo. I just knew I hadn’t invited it, unless asking a boy in for a nightcap was asking for it, the way some people would have you believe. Maybe if he’d kissed me, I’d have let him. But no more. I wasn’t promiscuous. I didn’t even have a boyfriend at the time. We might have gone out together a few times and after a while, if we really liked each other, then we might have made love. But not like this. I didn’t have a chance for any of that. He raped me, and I didn’t remember a thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ Winsome said. ‘I mean it. What did you do?’

  The shadows flickered over Lisa’s face. She sucked on her cigarette, and the tip burned brighter. ‘I got myself together. It took a while. The first day I just didn’t want to get out of the bath. I still hurt, and there was some blood. When I was able to, I talked to a few people who I knew had been with us that night, but nobody remembered who he was. I thought he must have come with someone, that someone must have invited him, but I got nowhere. I honestly don’t think people were covering for him. There was no way they could have known what he did. Maybe he came up with some mates and got separated, hung with us? There was only one odd thing I remembered from the bar earlier on the night it happened.’