by K T Bowes
“Fat Brian intercepts the post.” Emma’s answer was quick.
“Phone ‘im up,” Nicky countered.
“Mo doesn’t have a mobile phone and his father might answer the house phone. He works for Fat Brian collecting debts and he’d tell him.”
“Post Mo a mobile phone and then ring it.” Nicky smiled in victory.
“Fat Brian intercepts the post.”
Nicky plopped his spoon into the bowl and liquid splatted on the table. He flung himself back in the chair in frustration. “What then? You don’t wanna do anything I think of!”
“Do you see my problem?” Emma asked.
Nicky swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and his chin wobbled. “I get it. You don’t want them to treat us like they did Little Pete. They laughed about him after the police helped him leave and said nasty things. Fat Brian took the money out of Pete’s wallet and burned it on the fire and it was a nice leather wallet from Australia.” The child’s words caught in his throat. “It’s just I maked Mo this.” From his trouser pocket he pulled a small plaster shape. It was painted in garish colours and Emma reached out to take it. Nicky handed it over with extreme care. “I chose the car mould because he likes cars. I maked it blue and yellow for him.”
“It’s beautiful, Nicky,” Emma breathed. She turned over to see the back. ‘I miss Mo’ was written in paint in a scrawling, uneven hand.
“Me ‘an New Mo had an argument.” Nicky’s voice broke and degenerated into a wail. “He maked one for me because he thinked I maked one for him. But I couldn’t give it to him because it was for Old Mo. Now he won’t talk to me anymore and Kaylee says she’s sick of us arguing.” Nicky pulled his feet up onto the chair and buried his face behind his knees, his knuckles white as he hugged his shins. Sobs racked his body and Emma paled.
“Nicky, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She covered the short distance between them and plonked herself on the chair next to him. The wooden legs scraped against the tiles as she pulled her son towards her and wrapped herself around his small body. They cried together then, two lost souls in a swirling sea of problems clinging to each other like driftwood. North or south, rich or poor; life held the same barbs for all without distinction. Everyone hurt and bled the same.
The child in Emma’s womb fluttered to remind her of its presence and her heart sank further into the mire. There seemed no end to her dilemmas and no solutions to any of them. A black cloud of depression hovered around her head, inviting her to plunge to familiar, comforting depths of darkness and despair. Emma resisted, clinging to her son and teetering on the edge. Her father’s deep, gentle voice spoke to her from the grave and the image behind her eyelids refused to be wiped away. The Reverend Harrington stood at the pulpit of his church in long black robes. An ethereal peace shone from his lined face as he held his arms outstretched and spoke the liturgy which he staked his life on. The familiar words washed over Emma’s psyche like a gentle caress from the past and then her father smiled. “Nothing is impossible for God,” he said and his smile was a reminder to his daughter.
Emma pressed her face against her son’s blonde, sweaty head and kissed it, brushing the damp fringe from his forehead. “I love you, Nicky,” she whispered. “If you know nothing else; know that.”
He hiccoughed beneath her, the spasm in his lungs forming a loud protest and he nodded without replying. Emma squeezed him. “I’ve got choc ices in the freezer,” she said, knowing food was the last thing to repair a broken heart but sensing it might help. “Want one?”
Nicky nodded and Emma stood. She collected their dirty crockery and dumped it in the old Belfast sink, peering through the window. The darkness outside was intimidating and she shuddered and turned away. “I’ll clear up tomorrow. Let’s eat choc ices in my bed and watch TV together?”
Nicky nodded eagerly and waited while Emma settled Farrell in his basket and checked the kitchen door. She bolted it top and bottom. “Keep guard, Faz,” she said, patting his head. Nicky carried the frozen treats and watched as she set the burglar alarm to cover the downstairs rooms and they went to bed early, finding comfort in each other as they had since the beginning.
Chapter 13
Emma worked many more hours than she was paid for, throwing herself into her quest to find the truth as an avoidance tactic. Obsessing over the age of the school allowed her a distraction from dealing with her crumbling life and the numbness which thoughts of Rohan induced.
Her husband stayed away and where Emma should have felt relieved, it only made her uncertainty worse, compounding her guilt for not listening to his explanation. She stumbled from day to day, making decent headway with the photographs at school and spending her afternoons in the local museum and library. Emma rushed back to school at the end of the day, collecting Nicky and heading back to their cold, dark home on the bus.
Even Christopher Dolan seemed noticeably absent and Emma sank further into a dark pit of despair, which contained only her son’s earnest face as a bright point.
“Miriam, please order more of the special polypropylene wallets for the photos?” Emma asked the secretary, poking her head around the door of the school office. “I need more A3 wallets and another stack of archival boxes too please. Hopefully they’ll arrive tomorrow by courier.”
Miriam pulled a face. “I don’t think Mr Dalton’s very happy about the cost,” she said, pursing her lips. “He complained yesterday.”
Emma closed her eyes with resignation, feeling the lack of support keenly. The previous night’s sleeplessness caught her up in a sense of exhaustion. “He buys them and allows me to do my job properly, or I quit.” Emma heard the petulance in her voice and detested its squeaky quality. “I told him what I needed before I took the job, so it can’t come as a surprise. No good archivist would put those photos back up in the attic in the same state they came down.”
“Shall I tell him that?” Mischief lit Miriam’s eyes and Emma bit her lip.
“You know what?” Emma turned to leave. “I really don’t care.”
Freda left mid-morning for a doctor’s appointment and Emma finished work and went to her usual spot in the microfiche room of the library. Her stomach growled with hunger as she pivoted on the edge of her chair and peered at old newspaper clippings detailing life in Market Harborough and its surrounding villages in the nineteenth century.
“I bet you could win prizes on a game show by now,” the librarian whispered, clearing waste paper from under the desk behind Emma. “Your chosen subject could be the price of eggs and stockings in Market Harborough during the 1800s.”
Emma’s lips moved into an automatic smile but her eyes channelled fear. She’d been careful not to reveal the reason for her search, but the omnipresent librarian had seen her combing the scanned newspapers. Emma forced herself to answer glibly. “I’m really interested in the reign of Queen Victoria. It’s interesting to see what effect educational legislation had on the town and its inhabitants,” she gushed. The librarian stared at her with a wooden smile on her face and nervousness made Emma’s lips loose. “I’m organising the artifacts and photographs at Little Arden School ready for their celebration later this year.”
The librarian narrowed her eyes. “We know who you are,” she whispered, leaving quietly on her soft soled shoes.
Emma swallowed and watched the wide skirt bloom around the woman’s stumpy legs as she strode across the library floor. Her heart pounded an unhealthy staccato rhythm. She needed to find the elusive clue in the next hour, or not at all. It was clear she wasn’t welcome.
Half an hour later, Emma glanced at her watch in frustration, her search unsuccessful. She rubbed at her tired eyes, remembering the thinly veiled spite in Clarissa Jameson-Arden’s expression. “What’s your problem with me, woman?” Emma whispered into the empty room. She leaned over to turn the computer off, unable to resist one last search. Clicking on the newspaper icon, Emma typed, “Jameson.”
The screen blinked and numerous articles
popped up, waiting patiently by title. Emma immediately noticed the most recent were accolades and achievements linked to the wider Jameson family but one near the bottom drew her attention, its title consisting of two small words underlined in green. ‘Death Penalty.’
Emma sighed, knowing the red herring was sent to irritate her further and she pulled her coat over her shoulders. Heavy rain slapped the pavements outside and hammered against the windows, filling Emma with misery at the thought of yet another arrival home, soaked to the skin. She pressed her coat buttons closed and clicked on the link as a way of killing another few minutes, curiosity calling her.
The first few lines made Emma’s eyes widen and her jaw hang slackly against the collar of her coat. Glancing at the doorway behind her and seeing the librarian shelving books inside the romance section, Emma hunched in front of the screen and read the damning words of the article. She read it four times before the relevance sank into her brain.
‘On this day in 1864, Mr Peter Humphrey Jameson Esquire, of Market Harborough in the county of Northamptonshire was sentenced to death for the murder of Mr Richard Arden of that parish, who died at his home in Scotland Road, Little Bowden. His Honour Mr Justice Aldridge presiding passed sentence, satisfied that Mr Richard Arden was unlawfully killed by the defendant. Suspicious circumstances caused the arrest of Mrs Joy Arden who was found to have had a previous liaison with Mr Jameson, but no evidence was offered against her by the Crown. Mr Jameson, formerly schoolmaster of Little Arden Church of England School was taken to Newgate Prison pending execution.’
“Jameson,” Emma muttered, her brow creasing in concentration. She half stood to peer at the tiny writing on the screen, detailing the date of the article as 12th October 1864. The breath left her body in a whoosh as her proof sat potently before her. Emma used her library card number to print the article, glancing round her like a guilty thief. Stuffing her mittens and purse in her pocket, Emma spied her article sliding gently through the rollers of the copier machine, situated metres away from the librarian’s ample bottom as she bent to shelve books.
As Emma took a step forward, the librarian stood in response to a tinkling bell from the front desk. Her eyes locked on Emma’s and she scowled. Fixing a wooden smile on her lips, Emma pretended to mess around in her coat pocket, hearing a thunk as her purse tumbled to the floor. When she looked up after retrieving it, the paper was gone. “No, no, no!” Emma hissed, moving rapidly across the red carpet squares to the machine. She checked every one of the machine’s orifices before being forced to acknowledge her proof was gone. A glance at her watch revealed too little time to start again before Nicky emerged from school, his face raking the playground for her presence. With heavy steps, Emma slunk to the front doors and prepared to accept her dousing by the relentless rain.
“Hey, what’s so important about this?” Christopher Dolan’s voice sounded muffled under his hood as he ran into the back of Emma. She stood under the porch, psyching herself up to get soaked. With a squeak she snatched the folded paper from his warm hand and stuffed it in her coat pocket.
“What are you playing at?” she demanded, her tone betraying fear and fury. “How did you get this?”
“Just took it, so I did.” With casual chivalry he popped open his umbrella and offered Emma his arm. With trembling fingers she seized it and nuzzled close, valuing the covering of the black fabric as the rain pelted it from above. Puddles pooled on the flagstone street as Christopher pulled her south towards the park and school.
“You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!” Emma chastised the Irishman as she tried to keep up with his long strides over the flooded areas. “I was trying so hard not to be noticed and then you did that!”
“Aye, well you were noticed, ya daft wee bint! What’re ya playin’ at, woman?”
“I’m doing research for work,” Emma whined. “I’m not doing anything wrong!”
“Aye but there’s people in this town would disagree with ya. Yer diggin’ up dangerous dirt, so y’are.”
“Where have you been?” Emma asked, resenting the sound of abandonment in her voice. “You’ve been gone for days.”
Christopher squeezed her arm and smiled. “Man’s gotta earn a living, sweetheart. I had a job for a few days.”
Emma stopped on the pavement and looked worried. “Christopher, if that librarian turns the computer on, can she see my searches? I never thought of deleting the history. The microfiche is fine but what about the internet searches.”
Christopher looked smug. “After I took yer piece of paper, I nipped into the microfiche room and did a little damage.”
Emma’s mouth hung open in horror. “What did you do? I was the last one in there; she’ll think I did it!”
“Ach, Emma! I didn’t burn the place down! I just uploaded a wee bug into their system on the computer you were usin’. And yes, anyone can follow you onto a public machine and see exactly what you were searching.”
“No!” Emma’s eyes widened and she looked like she might cry. “Do you think she’ll look? Is that why she behaved so oddly?”
“She?” Christopher’s brow knitted in question.
“The librarian who said, ‘We know who you are,’ in a spooky voice. I bet she’s checking my searches every day after I leave.”
“Ach, not her!” Christopher’s tone was dismissive. “Not the fat one, the other one.”
“What other one?” Emma leaned in to hear him as pain pelted the umbrella. “There wasn’t another one.”
“Aye there was.” Christopher checked the road before leading Emma across. She trusted him blindly, hanging on his every word. “The one from the big church in town sat in the periodicals section watching every move you made. She rushed into the microfiche room as I came out so she won’t be able to see what you were lookin’ at. But she’ll get the blame when the whole system comes crashin’ down, starting with the machine she’s on.” He smirked with the satisfaction of a job done well.
“So she won’t see the article I found?” Emma asked, brushing rain water from her left eye, where it blew underneath the umbrella. She shook her head, hating her technological naivety.
“No, she won’t, Em. All she’ll see is a message which says, ‘You have attempted an illegal login and flooded this machine.’ By the time she’s finished panicking, all the machines in the town council will be running a programme which looks like rising water and sending the IT department straight to her machine as the source. With any luck she’ll still be sitting there scratching her fluffy head as the techs arrive looking for a cyber-hack.” He chortled, unable to resist enjoying his own skill.
“Well, they’ll be right, won’t they?” Emma shook her head. “You hacked it!”
“Me? Never!” Christopher looked mock offended and Emma laughed.
Her face was sincere as she peered up into his. “Thank you, Christopher. I don’t know what I’m onto but whatever it is, someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep it hidden.”
They walked to school in silence, using the supermarket car park as a short cut and the alley past the back of houses to get to the park quicker. “Don’t come this way by yerself,” Christopher warned her and Emma nodded.
“Ok, I won’t.”
Almost at the end of the alley, Christopher turned his back on the entrance to the park, shielding Emma from anyone passing. He brushed drips from her face with warm fingers and she wasn’t quick enough to stop him pressing his lips over hers. Emma’s brown eyes were wide as he pulled away, holding her breath and refusing to engage in the kiss. Christopher’s eyes danced with mischief. “Keep the umbrella,” he whispered. “And stop putting yerself in harm’s way.”
Emma took the curved handle of the umbrella and stopped Christopher as he turned to go back the way they came. “Wait!” she said. “What did the woman look like? The one who checked my computer.”
Christopher smiled. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Clarissa Jameson-Arden?” Emma ask
ed. “Or the other one, Eve?”
“How about I leave ya with that little mystery, Em?” Christopher asked with a frustrating smile. “Go fetch yer son.”
“But are you back now?” Emma asked. “Are you staying?”
Christopher looked confused. “Staying where?”
“With us, at Wingate Hall.” Emma’s brow furrowed, hating her insecurity.
The Irishman smiled and his face softened, sensing Emma’s need to know she wasn’t alone. He ran his index finger down the bridge of her nose, a sensuous, slow movement meant to rattle her. “I’ll be where I always am, Emma. Takin’ care of youse.”
“You phoned and spoke to Nicky, didn’t you? You told him The Contessa was loose.”
Christopher nodded. “Aye.”
“Is she coming after me?” Emma asked, her eyes pleading for clemency. Christopher stroked her fringe away from her forehead.
“Yes, Em. Competition, retribution, yeah, she’s coming.”
A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek. “How long’s Rohan been sleeping with her?”
Christopher’s face paled and Emma watched his jaw work through his cheek, an angular line grinding through his chiselled face. He kept his eyes away from hers and withdrew his other hand from his pocket, revealing Nicky’s small plaster car. “I’ve a long distance delivery to make tonight.” He touched the side of his nose and winked, his expression sympathetic. “So don’t be waitin’ up for me.”
Emma exhaled and watched Christopher Dolan’s neat butt move along the narrow alley between the houses, the swagger in his stride unmistakeable even from a distance. Turning, she walked the remaining distance to school, jumping over puddles spreading into lakes, glad of friendship and a borrowed umbrella.
Chapter 14
“Em, can we talk?”
Emma laid the book on the sofa with an angry exhale, tossing her dark head. “Does anyone ever bother to ring the bell in this bloody place, or should I leave the front gates open and the doors unlocked?” She glared at the dog curled in front of the fire. Farrell thumped his tail on the rug and laid his head back on his paws, squeezing his eyes shut. “And you’re bloody useless,” Emma grumbled.