Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  ‘He took off for France, you say?’ asked Fran, ignoring the slur on her immortal soul.

  Miriam was still staring at the boy in the picture as if she could see satanic flames consuming him. Stark wondered if her torment was anything approaching that of Brian Bates. Perhaps they had both lost their only offspring that same night back in 1989, though only Miriam had got to say goodbye.

  ‘I begged him not to go, but he’d long since stopped listening to anything I had to say. After everything I’d done for him!’ She glanced at them as if shocked to hear herself talk so, and Stark thought he saw more than a touch of madness in her pain. ‘He wanted to start over, leave everything that had happened behind. He’d read about the Foreign Legion of all things. I said he was better off sticking it out here, finding a new college to get his exams, but he said it wouldn’t be any different – the way people looked at him, talked about him, as if he was guilty.’ She looked at them fiercely. ‘But he wasn’t! He was just a boy. He wasn’t capable of murder. He swore with his hand on the holy bible! He was tried and found innocent.’

  After three days of deliberation and by the narrowest majority, thought Stark. The crown thought they had their man but the evidence wasn’t quite there. That was justice. That was the whole point of the courts, the essence of jurisprudence. Simon, as any other, was entitled to the benefit of reasonable doubt. Stark could guess what Fran might say to that, of course.

  ‘That was a long time ago, Mrs Kirsch –’

  ‘Larson,’ interrupted Miriam sharply.

  Fran appeared to weigh that up. ‘There’s no legal record of you changing your name.’

  ‘There’s legal record of him divorcing me, but that means nothing in the eyes of the lord,’ replied Miriam, as if her words made sense. ‘He’s dead to me, dead in the eyes of Jesus. The last thing I want is his name. The only thing he left me other than a child to raise was the house, and that’s been nothing but a millstone around my neck.’

  ‘You still own the house?’ Fran asked.

  This topic did little to brighten the woman’s mood. ‘Tried to sell it. D’you know who came round to view? Damned newspaper with some clairvoyant claiming that wicked girl’s ghost was in the walls.’ She made the sign of the cross and glanced at the crucifix dominating one wall; a deep wooden cross with its tortured brass figurine pinned with real little nails.

  Stark shivered. He didn’t begrudge faith, he just found it baffling.

  ‘I thought things might get better after Simon had gone,’ continued Miriam, ‘but the graffiti, the vandalism … I had to stop work with stress. Moved in here with my mum but she died ten years ago now. I’m surprised you took so long to find me.’

  ‘Did Simon take the name Larson too?’ asked Stark.

  Miriam shook her head. ‘He wanted to leave me behind as well. He made that quite clear.’ She grew upset again. ‘The first time I’ve seen my son in twenty years is on the television, looking like some biker thug with that beard, and his hair all shaved, using a made-up name!’

  ‘Does Simon have any connection to Manchester, family history?’

  ‘No. For all I knew he was still in France. Now I find out he’s living right here, in Greenwich. Right here! And he never let me know!’

  She was becoming hysterical and Stark could see Fran had no idea how to calm her.

  ‘Might’ve been dead for all I know!’ wailed Miriam. ‘After everything I did for him!’

  Stark crouched down in front of her. If this had been on patrol he’d have removed his sunglasses and taken his hand off his weapon, but here all he had were calming words. ‘Sons never stop loving their mums,’ he said softly, ‘whatever they might say, whatever passes between them in the heat of the moment. It’s hardwired. That might even be why Simon came back to Greenwich, to be near you.’

  The words appeared to have some impact, and her sobbing decreased. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, looking pleadingly into his eyes through her tears.

  ‘The other thing about boys is we find it hard to know who is supposed to say sorry, and even harder to ask.’ Miriam smiled a little at the truth of it. ‘He may even have watched you from afar. Are you sure you haven’t seen him?’ asked Stark, showing her the photo of her son as he was now.

  It was clear she wished she had. Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘He didn’t kill those people,’ she said earnestly. ‘He’s not a murderer, whatever they say, he’s a sensitive boy. Satan won’t have him. He’ll repent his sins and join hands with Jesus. Jesus knows,’ she insisted, staring at the crucifix with a faraway look in her eyes.

  ‘Do you mind if I look around, Miriam?’ Stark smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to report that we checked thoroughly.’

  The conversation seemed to have exhausted her. She numbly showed them around the flat and then saw them out. Fran called control to request an unmarked car to sit on the place before dropping him home. She didn’t invite him to ‘help’ write up the report or thank him for giving up two hours of his first day off in forever, hours after an all-night shift. Clearly she didn’t have Harper’s permission to enlist Stark in this little outing. Perhaps she was keeping an eye on him or keeping him busy to stop him ‘moping’.

  50

  If there was any voice Stark was more horrified to wake to than Harper’s, he couldn’t name it. It took several seconds to realize he’d fallen asleep with the TV on and wasn’t in the grip of a nightmare.

  ‘– net is closing in,’ declared Harper sternly. Stark unpeeled his face from the sofa leather to face the screen, forcing his eyes open. Harper wasn’t in front of Royal Hill station, but was standing in front of the iconic rotating sign of New Scotland Yard. Superintendent Cox hovered in the background but there was no sign of DCI Groombridge.

  ‘How?’ demanded one of the reporters who crowded round.

  ‘Obviously we can’t comment on details of our ongoing investigation, but rest assured, no stone is being left unturned.’

  ‘Reports suggest there’ve been no further failed raids overnight …’ another voice taunted.

  ‘There is no such thing as a failed raid,’ said Harper in his best patrician manner. ‘Every false lead we run down only narrows our search.’

  ‘Has Simon Kirsch fled abroad?’ shouted another.

  ‘We have no reason to believe that. Border staff have been on high alert since Friday, Simon Kirsch’s picture is everywhere, and with the vigilance of the public we are sure he will be apprehended very soon. It’s only a matter of time.’ Harper stared straight into camera. ‘I say to you, Simon Kirsch … Hand yourself in. Armed officers are scouring every dark corner and hiding place. Hand yourself in, while you still can.’ The report ended on that threat, Harper’s honest, determined face with the rotating sign behind him declaring that they were Working together for a safer London.

  Pompous windbag, thought Stark, fumbling for the remote and switching it off. He clamped his eyes shut again but as he feared, sleep would not return. His blanket had slipped on to the floor and he was cold.

  Stark sat up rubbing his eyes and rotating his sore shoulder with a grunt.

  He got up and reluctantly worked through his physio exercises. As both his hydrotherapist and girlfriend, Kelly had made it her business to keep him up to the mark, but since she’d gone it had become harder and harder to motivate himself. The bike and the gym were for heart and mind, and lungs, but the physio workout was specific to his injuries and all the more painful for it. In the early days he’d attacked the mountain, but the plateau he’d reached since sapped his will. He’d long passed the point where he relished the penance of it.

  Perhaps it was some nod to Kelly that made him attack it now, given his evening plans.

  Selena was late. Stark wasn’t surprised, attributing it to the casual habit of beautiful people, passing through life with everything falling at their feet, oblivious to the labours of mere mortals. Selena was very beautiful, so Stark patiently sipped his whisky. Not as sm
ooth as ‘the good stuff’ secreted behind the bar of the Prince of Wales, but that was Kelly’s local, the staff her friends, and his no longer. The Bosun’s Mate was more of a locals’ pub, smaller, dingier and arguably more authentic. Stark had drunk in places that made this a palace, but wouldn’t have chosen it for a first date.

  ‘Oi, you’re ’im, aren’t ya?’

  Stark turned to face his accuser, a slim lad, probably old enough to be served but not by much, trendy white trainers, thin jeans, England football shirt, short back and sides, over-gelled curls on top, tattoos on both arms, thick gold-plated chain and sovereign rings. He smelled of lager, cigarettes and over-applied aftershave.

  Yob. Could be a perfectly personable young man but he presented like a yob.

  ‘It is you!’ cried the yob, delighted, clearly a few pints into his evening. ‘Here, lads, I told you it was ’im! Fuckin’ell, ’e’s famous! Fucked them Taliban right up!’

  His mates, different shapes and sizes but from the same mould, joined him in pestering Stark for handshakes and phone selfies, but fortunately had oozed back into their corner before Selena finally arrived.

  She smiled, kissed him on both cheeks and gave no mention of her lateness.

  ‘Aye, aye!’ called the yob, followed by a wolf whistle and raucous laughter.

  Selena’s smile dimmed momentarily, a cloud passing before the sun. They should move on after one drink, Stark decided.

  He asked what she wanted and turned to catch the barman’s eye, but the man was fiddling with the TV remote, flicking channels. He settled on a sports channel. There was a football match beginning shortly, but for now it was on the news so he left the sound down. Stark sighed to see Harper’s face on the screen, mouth moving wordlessly, a repeat of his earlier hollow threat. The barman came to take Stark’s order.

  Stark was about to speak when the next story caught his eye – a still photo of a soldier smiling in Dress Twos. British soldier killed in Helmand named … declared the banner line, scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Stark didn’t need the sound up. His heart had already fallen through the floor.

  ‘All right, Doris! You wiv my mate the hero, are ya?’

  Stark turned, mind floundering between the here and now and the over-there. The yob was back, a pint further into his evening, standing too close to Selena. She was leaning away, expression wrinkled with thinly disguised disgust.

  ‘I know ’e’s got a medal an’ all, but I’ve got a bigger gun!’ gurned the yob, to the uproarious appreciation of his mates.

  ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ replied Selena coldly.

  ‘Wassat? Foreign, are ya? Where you from, babe? I like a nice Brazilian.’ Laughter from his audience. Selena tried to ignore him.

  Stark tried to shake off the buzzing in his head. He needed to intervene but felt intoxicated in the worst possible way.

  ‘Got any English in ya?’ asked the yob suggestively. Anticipatory laughter from the mob. ‘Would you like so—’

  ‘Go away,’ managed Stark.

  The yob looked angry at having his punchline interrupted. ‘You what?’

  ‘We’re just here for a quiet drink. Please leave us alone.’ Not diplomatic enough. The words sounded like they were coming from someone else’s mouth and failing to defuse the situation, but Stark couldn’t order his thoughts to find better.

  ‘I’m just talking to the girl, no ’arm in that. She likes me, ain’t that right, babe?’

  ‘Please. Just leave us alone,’ said Selena. She looked to Stark to do more.

  ‘We should go,’ he said to her.

  ‘Na, don’t go!’ protested the yob. ‘Babe and me are just getting to know one annuva.’

  Stark stood. ‘Thanks, but we need to be somewhere.’ He placed himself partially between the yob and Selena so she could slip off her barstool.

  ‘Oi! Soldier boy!’ A hand on Stark’s shoulder. ‘I said I’m talking to the …’

  Stark spun and stepped right into the guy’s space, nose to nose, murder in his eyes, fists itching. ‘Walk away …’ he hissed.

  The yob flinched back but Stark followed, staying right in his face until he back-pedalled into a chair, stumbling over. A couple of his mates were on their feet, laughter gone.

  Stark checked himself, fists uncurling, leaving the yob to scramble up into the safety of his crowd. He shouldn’t have let this happen but the face on the screen still swam before his eyes. He took Selena’s arm and led her from the pub.

  The cold night air could not wash away that face. His head was buzzing.

  He should’ve heard the door open again behind them, heard the footsteps sooner. As it was he turned barely in time to see the fear in Selena’s eyes and feel the bottle smash over his head.

  51

  Fran winced, watching the figure on her laptop screen stumble, clutching his head. Blows followed and he went down, curled in a ball as the six lads laid into him with fists and feet. The girl backed away screaming soundlessly. It looked to be all over.

  But then the prone figure stood.

  How was that even possible? Like a robot, seemingly oblivious, impervious to the raining blows, he climbed to his feet. His attackers stepped back momentarily. It almost appeared sporting but was probably just group bafflement. Then, with hesitancy, they renewed their assault.

  ‘Jesus!’ Fran hissed, wincing again, earning more than one sideways glance from the waiting wounded and pasty-faced ghosts of the A&E waiting room. The CCTV footage was like a horror film; awful, spellbinding. It wasn’t balletic or choreographed like one of those ridiculous martial arts films where the bad guys wait turns so the good guy has time to deal with them one by one with stylish efficiency. Stark applied himself to whatever opening or weakness presented itself, certainly, but with ugly, relentless aggression.

  The key to violence is the readiness to act without hesitation or restraint, she’d once been told. Stark had nodded. She’d rolled her eyes. But if ever there was a demonstration in action, this was it. It was the critical distinction between the one and the six against him.

  Fran shuddered.

  She’d learned to like Stark. He hadn’t made it easy; he still didn’t. He was the younger brother who saw everything too clearly, dug his heels in at the most annoying times, asked why when you were still wondering how. She didn’t notice his scars any more. Then every now and then he did or said something that reminded you they were there. This was very definitely one of those times. A reminder that for all his boyish, stubborn charm, for all his quiet stillness, he was a very dangerous man indeed.

  Fortunately only one attacker had been seriously hurt, the instigator with the pre-emptive bottle. Bruises to more than their pride for the others – a black eye, a sprained wrist or three, they lay about winded, gasping like fish out of water. But the first guy was out cold and departed in an ambulance; broken nose, wrist, three fingers and concussion. He was already making noises about a complaint. It would not be the first levelled at Stark.

  Excessive force.

  Not from where Fran was sitting. Any reasonable person could see this was self-defence. Unfortunately an IPCC panel wasn’t necessarily a reasonable body. And Stark’s public history would send this stratospheric with the press. This fire needed snuffing out before it could roar.

  No one else had seen this footage, not even the manager of the pub whose camera it had come from or the uniform who’d recognized Stark and called her. She’d made certain this was the only copy. All she had to do was hit delete.

  On screen, the girl turned and ran out of shot as Stark stood panting in the centre of his own whirlwind, last man standing. Fists curled, shoulders back, he threw his face to the sky howling like a wolf at the moon. It sent a chill down Fran’s spine. She was never so grateful for silent CCTV.

  She’d caught up with Stark at A&E as he sat glumly receiving five stitches to the back of his head. His face was bloody but otherwise unmarked. He’d defended his head. That came with a cost. His arms, leg
s and ribs were badly bruised, apparently, but nothing broken, Stark assured her. The knuckles on both hands were bruised and split. He’d explained himself eloquently enough but she’d seen those vacant eyes, heard that flat intonation before. Shock, she’d assumed last time, though subsequent reading into combat stress had led her to wonder if it was more of a dissociative state.

  This could go wrong in so many ways.

  Her finger hovered over the delete key.

  ‘Ready?’

  Stark stood over her, bandaged and bruised. Fran knew him too well to bother with sympathy. She closed the laptop and they followed a nurse out through a back way, far from prying eyes.

  He said nothing on the journey home. She took his keys from his bruised hands and let them into his building, up the lift and into the flat. The last time she’d been here was for dinner with Stark and Kelly. A happier time, though looking back the cracks had begun to show. The flat was as tidy as ever, nothing out of place, nothing waiting to be washed, a place for everything and everything in its place. Fran shook her head, wondering how anyone lived like this. No wonder Kelly had never quite moved in.

  Stark sat wordlessly on the sofa and flicked on the television while she found the coffee. The fridge was all but empty bar essentials, takeaway leftovers, beers and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc; Kelly’s, thought Fran. She itched to open it. There was a single plate, knife, fork and whisky tumbler on the drainer. Nothing in the slim-line dishwasher, probably unused since Kelly left.

  The report behind her announced the name of the latest British soldier killed in Afghanistan. Fran glanced over. Stark stared at it blankly. How did he stand it, she wondered, the relentless news of the war he was no longer part of? The report finished and he put the TV on mute.

  Fran finished making him a mug of sweet tea and coffee for herself. She brought them over and found him fast asleep on the sofa, a grey, institutional-looking blanket over him.