by Guy Johnson
But that day, after the hospital visit, it was different. It was urgent, she said. I had to do it immediately. It couldn’t wait. Along with the letter, she’d given me a ten pence piece, also from Betty, her mystery benefactor. On leaving the hospital, I headed towards the telephone kiosk across the road from the crematorium, dialled a number she had scrawled on the back of the envelope and arranged a place and time to make the handover.
Nearby, there was the derelict house; the one I’d wanted to go to with Justin earlier that day. We were not supposed to go in there. Under-no-bloody-circumstances! Mum, Dad, Auntie Stella, Chrissie and even Adrian upheld this universal law. But maybe Uncle Gary hadn’t heard of it, because when I said I’d wait for him there, he didn’t object.
Sheets of corrugated metal covered the windows and doorways, supposedly to keep you out. But I knew this house - me and Justin had been in there before – and the metal concealing the rear entrance was loose, enabling a small person to squeeze their way in. Inside, the walls were black and in the centre of the structure were the remains of a staircase, also blackened. You could get upstairs, but it wasn’t safe, as the treads were spongy, likely to split under your weight, and there were holes in the floors above. So, once inside, I stayed on the ground floor, listening for the approach of footsteps.
Uncle Gary was with me in less than fifteen minutes. Due to his wiry frame, he was able to fold himself up like a zed-bed and crawl inside.
‘Jesus, Scot, why all the secrecy?’ he asked, but despite his words, I think he’d guessed. Even through the shadows of the fire-gutted dereliction, he could read my face. ‘You’ve got something for me?’
He moved a little closer, but I instinctively stepped back. Not afraid, but cautious.
‘What is it?’ he asked, stopping where he was.
I’d been thinking things over. A lot. Trying to piece things together: the Shirley mystery; the photographs I’d found; the letter I had stolen. I’d been thinking back, too: to conversations I’d overheard; to things I’d seen; to memories I’d pulled out from the long forgotten vaults in my head. And, despite the efforts of my nearest and dearest, I’d found some answers. Not all the answers, but enough to take me on.
‘Scot?’
‘I want to know all about him.’
I said it slowly, stressing the last word, making it clear what I was asking about.
‘I want to know what you know.’
I retrieved the letter Mum had given me from the back pocket of my trousers; it was in an envelope with the single word Jackie scrawled on its front. Took it out and held out my hand, urging him to take it.
‘Tell me about Jackie.’
Uncle Gary drew in a long, deep breath. Taking the letter from me, he turned it over in his hands. He didn’t open it, though; just checked the envelope over.
‘Anything else?’ he eventually asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking I might as well get all my demands out on the table. ‘I want to know who Shirley White is.’
An hour later, I was on my way home again. Armed with the truth, but not fully armed. Yet, I had enough ammunition to proceed with an attack and declare war against the army of lies that was assaulting me on the home-front. Uncle Gary had offered to drop me off, but I needed a bit of head space in which to plan my offensive. So, on leaving the derelict house, I cut back through the amenity tip, went past Crinky’s and made my way to Church Lane. I carried on past the Tankard house, past the Checkers pub and then finished the last five minutes of my journey home in a blur of excitement, fear and panic.
I was going to set things straight! I was going to put Dad and Ian back in their places, show them I was a force to be reckoned with! Show them that they could lie and deny all they liked – I’d found out the truth in spite of them!
It was tea-time. Everyone would be home, I was certain. I entered our house via the back entrance, hoping to catch them unawares, maybe even mid-conversation.
I know who they are! That was the opening line I’d practised. I know who they are, so stop lying! But it wasn’t to be - I wasn’t to get my moment. Not yet. Because I walked into the unexpected.
I walked into chaos and bedlam.
19.
Once bedlam began, it didn’t end. It didn’t even pause for breath. Instead, it multiplied, splitting in two, then two again, like the broom in the sorcerer’s apprentice, splitting and splitting, creating confusion, mayhem and damage, until bedlam was everywhere. Ceaseless, unstoppable, bloody.
It began before my arrival. I got the account later, once calm had been restored; in the aftermath, when we were calmly calculating our losses, totting up the body count.
Della started it with her questions. She’d been out with Russell for the day: a trip into town, checking out a few record stores, followed by a picnic in Jubilee Park and then hanging out by the river near the crematorium, where she began reflecting, like the waters they were dipping their feet in.
Why had he and Ian stopped hanging out? she wanted to know. What had happened between them?
She had thought about asking before, but had been cautious. She didn’t want to stir things up needlessly, rake over coals that were otherwise cooling, particularly if they resulted in Russell backing off. Yet, by then she felt safe enough to question without concern.
According to Della, Russell had simply shrugged at first; he wasn’t sure, couldn’t pinpoint the reason. However, the question got him thinking back, trying to recall what or when it could have been. Eventually, it came to him: a small moment that had belonged to his last day as Ian’s best pal.
He wouldn’t let me in the house, Russell said. They were going out somewhere – town. Just going to hang out. When Ian came to the door, he wouldn’t let Russell in. There was a voice in the background. Male. Telling Ian to get back in. He didn’t even open the front door. Just hissed ‘fuck off’ through the glass of its window. It had seemed odd at the time, but not significant, Russell added, his tone suggesting his viewpoint might be changing.
When? Della wanted to know. When had this happened?
Last summer, Russell answered. Beginning of last summer’s holidays.
Was it a Thursday? The last Thursday of July?
Possibly, Russell said, suddenly watching his every word. Yes, it probably was, now he thought about it. What had seemed an odd, trivial end to a good friendship had suddenly transformed into a cause for greater concern. What was it? he was asking her, taking the reins on the question front. What was significant about that day?
Rushing home, her body pumped with equal measures of panic and adrenalin, Della explained on the way. Explained everything she could to Russell.
You were there, she kept repeating, over and over, a mantra of disbelief, dragging him across the road, past the derelict house where it was likely I was still waiting for Uncle Gary. Past the dump, Crinky’s, the church, the Tankards, her steps speeding up to a gallop, dragging Russell along with her. Dragging Russell to where bedlam would erupt like a volcano. You were there, Russell. That’s why he was so odd. You were there – and so was Ian. Ian was there. Shit, Ian was there when it happened. He’s was there. Shit, shit, shit!
Ian was doing something very ordinary when Della rushed in, instantly unleashing a whirlwind of accusations; a contrast that added to the madness. He was in the kitchen, scrambling eggs; teasing the yolky mixture around a pan, gently coaxing it to bubble-up. She grabbed the handle of the pan, sent it flying across the kitchen, where it slammed against the door to the bathroom, vomiting its yellow contents across the wall and floor.
Russell tried to intervene, to hold Della back – Della, calm down, Della, stop it, leave him – but her rage was too intense. It had built up rapidly as she had charged home, and, at the point of finding Ian, it was unleashed without control or fear of the consequences.
You were there! You were fucking there! You’ve known all along, all along, and you’ve said nothing. Who else was here, Ian? Who else was here with you? She had hi
m by the front of his t-shirt, grabbing two fists of fabric, pushing him up against the cooker, where the gas flame was still flickering. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? And why did you try to hide it? Why send Russell away, when he could have helped? He could have helped, Ian – but you told him to fuck off! She’s gone because of you! BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!
Della, careful. Della, leave him. Let it go… Russell tried, but she wasn’t listening. She was too busy bleeding: brain, heart, eyes, ears, mouth, all bleeding with fury, ache, disbelief, fear. Della, ease off. Della, stop it, leave him. Careful, Della. Be careful. She didn’t see the flames. That’s what she told me later. Didn’t realise it was happening. Too busy screaming at Ian, too busy pummelling his chest with those hands that had gripped and ripped his t-shirt. DELLA! DELLA! DELLA!
But it was Russell, not Ian, who cried out when Ian’s t-shirt went up.
JESUS! FUCK!
It was Russell who made the effort, pushing a screaming Della to one side. Turning Ian round and suffocating the flame with a damp tea towel. Finally switching off the gas. Picking up Della, checking her over, apologising – he hadn’t meant to push her, just to rescue Ian before it got worse.
‘It’s fine,’ Della told him, shaking off his fussing. This was where I came in, sneaking round the back way, full of plans to confront them all with what I knew. With what Uncle Gary had revealed. But Della’s prickly voice gave me reason to pause. ‘I just want the truth; I want to know why that prick has been keeping things from me.’ So, I stayed out of sight: crouched down outside the kitchen window, hidden from view by a high pile of white boxes from Dontask that were stacked under the lean-to.
‘You okay?’ Russell, asking Ian.
‘It’s sore.’
‘You got something in the bathroom? Something to cool it?’
No one answered Russell, but I heard the bathroom door open, and someone rummaged inside the mirrored wall cabinet. He was looking for something to cool Ian’s burns, I reckoned, and cool Della’s fury, thinking he was doing the right thing. But he had underestimated the heat of the fire and, the moment he was off the scene, it re-ignited.
‘I want you to answer me, you prick!’ Della expelled, pushing Ian with the flat of her hands, pushing him with the force of her demands.
He stepped back, trying to retreat, and it took him into our back room. Our squeezed in room, packed with too much furniture; a place that would give him little room to avoid her assault.
‘I want to know what happened! You were here the day Mum left! You were here when it happened! And I want you to tell me what you did! Why you covered it up! Why you lied to me!’
Ian didn’t respond, not verbally. He just pushed her hands away, and did his best to get away. But there was nowhere to go. And the oddest thing occurred: as he stepped back, she pursued him, so he stepped back again, yet still Della came forward, again and again, one stepping back, the other stepping forward, like a dance. As Della struck out and Ian retreated within the confines of that small, crowded room, it looked like a dance. And when Russell charged back on the scene, he couldn’t pull them apart. Not this time. There was no room: all the space occupied by too much furniture and a turbulent sibling waltz.
‘Della, stop it! Calm it down! Let him explain! Della, stop it!’
But Della wasn’t listening. She was too busy screaming back at Ian, too caught up in chasing his failed retreat.
‘I want to know why you lied to me! I want to know the truth, Ian! I WANT TO KNOW THE FUCKING TRUTH!’
‘WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?’
Suddenly, like a bullet the size of a cannonball, another shot of fury roared onto the scene. Appearing as if from nowhere, it filled the doorframe that linked the back room to the stairs. I couldn’t see it, only hear it, but the intense heat that came from his voice suggested our Dad was on fire, glowing wild and furious, threatening to engulf them all in his wrath.
‘I SAID, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? EH? WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THE SCREAMING ABOUT? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?’
He was looking at Ian and it calmed him, just for a moment, his roar subsiding.
‘Jesus, boy, how the hell did-.’
‘She knows.’
The first two words to come from Ian. He said them coolly, with no hint of fear in his voice, no hint of the physical pain he must have been suffering, either.
‘Knows what?’ Dad asked, but I knew that voice; his caught-out voice, the one he used when he was stalling, when he was still seeking out an excuse.
‘She just knows, Dad.’
‘She… knows…’ Dad simply repeated the words, taking them in, buying more time than I’d ever known before, his fire still at bay. And it might have stayed that way, calm might have been restored, reason and honesty may have prevailed without further fury or violence, had Russell not made his second bad move of the day.
‘Mr Buckley,’ he began, hoping to enter as mediator. He failed; it worked as another trigger releasing yet another bullet.
‘Eh?’ Dad uttered, a little confused as this new voice spoke out, noticing Russell for the very first time.
I noticed something for the first time too: the fuel source of Dad’s blazing entrance. It was in his voice, in its delayed reaction. Appearing first as just a mild slur at the end of his sentences, it began to slight his every word. Further, as Dad began to comprehend the enormity of the scene he had bellowed into, he lost control of this alcoholic fuel and the rumbling inferno it supplied.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Dad!’
‘He needs to go.’
‘Dad! Russell hasn’t done anything-.’
‘You need to leave lad.’
‘Mr Buckley, I’m just trying to-.’
‘Didn’t you hear me? I asked you to leave. I don’t want to ask twice, and I don’t want to make you either. You understand?
‘I understand, but I just-.’
‘I don’t think you do understand! Della, get him out of here, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Dad!’
‘That’s not difficult for you to understand, is it?’
‘DAD!’
‘DELLA, I ASKED YOU TO GET HIM THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! IT’S A SIMPLE REQUEST!’ Suddenly, he was the snarling, spiteful Dad who had force-fed me the salty stew, relishing the upper hand his bullish approach allowed. His onslaught would be relentless from here on; there would be no listening. He turned back to Russell, addressing him directly. ‘WANT ME TO BEAT YOU OUT THE DOOR, BOY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? IS THAT IT?!’
Ablaze, he stumbled forward into the crowded room, where the twisted sibling dance had come to a halt, reaching out to the rear of the room, where Russell was positioned. Spit sizzled on his lips, accompanying the fury that thundered from his mouth, adding to the incoherency of his speech.
‘I’LL ASK YOU ONE MORE TIME: GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, THIS IS STRICTLY FAMILY BUSINESS!’
Russell began to back off, to make his way out into the kitchen, to the back door, where I was watching, just out of sight. But Della intervened, blocked Dad’s way, fought back with a wrath of her own.
‘NO! NO! HE STAYS! I WANT HIM TO STAY! I WANT HIM TO HEAR!’
The fireball wavered, startled by her retaliation. It staggered a little, back and forth, searching for a balance that was absent from the whole vicinity.
‘You want him to stay?’ His blaze subsided, flickered, and in this brief, thoughtful pause, it took control again. ‘You want him to stay?’
‘No, Dad, no-.’ Ian.
‘She wants him to stay, Ian, to hear us out.’
‘Dad, no, don’t-.’
‘You want your boyfriend here to listen to our big, dark family secret?’
‘Dad, stop this, tell him to go. Dad! What the hell are you playing at? Tell him to leave!’
‘Yes.’ Della finally answered. ‘I want Russell to stay. I want him to know.’
The fire was still there, burning away. I could feel it; i
t was in Dad’s glare, I was certain, and I heard it in his menacing tone. He was daring Della, daring her to get just that little bit closer to the flames, tempting her to throw herself into his inferno.
‘Want him to know what we found that day? Want him to know what she did, why she’s ended up the way she has?’
‘Yes, I do! I want him to hear it, then you can’t deny it. Then you can’t cover it up, like you have other things.’
‘And that’s what you really want, the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yes, all of it.’
‘And you want him to stay? You want lover boy to hear it all?’
I didn’t hear Della’s reply, but I felt it. A nod, I was certain, a silent response. Less confident than before, as Dad’s fist of questions fingered at her doubt.
‘Okay, if that’s your wish, if you are ready, I will begin.’
Phrases flashed in my mind as I waited for Dad to start. Are you all sitting comfortably? Like story time at school, sitting on the carpet, crossed-legged, needing a wee, trying not to fidget. Like Jackanory, only the presenter was our dad, and this wasn’t just any old fairy tale. This was something darker altogether. Okay, shall we begin?
My mind flashed back over what they had said, rapidly scanning their exchange for clues. ‘Want him to know what we found that day?’ Dad had blurted. ‘Want him to know what she did, why she’s ended up the way she has?’ Della had answered him yes; yes, she wanted Russell to hear. Had she known what I knew, had she been able to align these snippets with Uncle Gary’s version of events, she might have answered differently.
Hammering at the front door interrupted Dad’s familial narrative before it even began.
‘Ignore it. Let them go away.’ From Dad.
But it didn’t stop; it just intensified. Then the hollering began, creating a twin assault on our senses. The wood thumping and the banshee-like shrieking were too much for Dad to withstand.