by Syd Moore
The TV had been hurled across the glass top table. It hadn’t smashed but it had been cracked and would have to be got rid of. The innards of my lovely comfy sofa frothed over the carpet. Even the cushions had been slashed open. In the far corner someone had prised apart the filing cabinet. The policeman told me that the scratches on the side indicated a wrench had probably been used.
‘Don’t suppose you have something like that in the
flat?’
‘Don’t think so. There may be some tools in the loft.’
My eye glanced over the scattered papers of my research. That would take a while to sort. On the map over the mantelpiece someone had written ‘Desist’ in red scrawls. What the hell was that? A warning or an order? I pointed to it. ‘Desist?’
The policeman was saying something but I was still reeling. I made an effort to tune in. ‘Wasn’t sure if that was yours. You didn’t write it then?’
I shook my head.
‘Can I ask what line of work you’re in, Ms Asquith?’
When I told him I was a journalist his demeanour changed. ‘And what are you looking into at the moment?’
I spoke slowly, trying to process the logic of it all. ‘I’m exploring the witch hunts of the seventeenth century …’
‘Nothing current that might have got someone’s back up?’
‘Not really.’
‘Nothing anyone might want you to stop investigating? Or “desist” as it says?’
‘No. I can’t think of anything.’
Constable Wheatley nodded and looked up. ‘Well, that’ll be kids then. It’s probably the name of a computer game or a film or such … I wouldn’t give it much thought.’
I nodded at him, trying to look very much like I believed him, but there was a nugget of intense unease growing in my stomach. ‘Desist.’ That was an old-fashioned word. Why would kids spray that? Why not some sweary insult? But maybe Wheatley was right – it could be slang or some youth culture reference I had no idea about.
‘There’s obviously criminal damage here,’ he was saying, gesturing to the telly and the table. ‘There shouldn’t be a problem sorting that out with your insurance. We’ll brush it for prints and then you can chuck it. Do you know what’s missing from the rest of the room?’
I did a quick inventory and realised there wasn’t much – an old PlayStation, the DVD player, an assortment of DVDs, the stereo, CDs. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I had made the last minute decision to take my laptop to London with me and routinely kept all my bankcards on my person.
‘They didn’t get downstairs,’ Wheatley was saying. ‘Your front door wasn’t breached but the balcony window was open. We think that’s the point of entry.’
I looked at it. ‘I usually lock it before I go out.’
‘Sadly, there’s all kinds of contraptions you can purchase these days if you want to break in. Where there’s a will …’
I surveyed the mess. ‘What shall I do?’
The policeman put his notebook away and coughed. ‘Clear up. Report it to your insurance company. You’ll get a crime reference number.’
‘Yes, but will I be safe?’
‘I doubt they’ll be back. Kids like this tend to be opportunistic. They’ve got nothing else to grab here, have they? Is there anything else missing?’
I looked around once more. ‘I don’t think so.’
The constable went in to join his partner in the kitchen and shortly after that the fingerprinters arrived.
It wasn’t till later that night, as I was cleaning up the lounge, I realised that my file on the witch hunts was gone.
Just after eleven that night the doorbell rang. The tall outline of a uniformed body was visible through the dappled glass of the main front door. When I drew back the bolts and opened it I was both shocked and relieved to see Joe standing there on the doorstep. For a moment neither of us spoke, his brown eyes looked as shy as a deer’s. Then he said, ‘I thought you might want some company.’
It wasn’t like I fell into his arms and swooned or anything like that. Almost the opposite really. Though we talk about it now with some sense of humour, at the time it felt the most subdued but also the most natural thing in the world, though intense and slightly painful too. See, I did need some company and, in my heart of hearts, I think I had always wanted that companion to be Joe – I had just been clouded with so many other things I couldn’t see it. But it’s not what you’re thinking either. There was no great passionate revelation or an untumbling of our feelings, followed by mind-blowing sex. All that happened was that I took his hand and led him upstairs and then we went to bed. He in his t-shirt and boxers, and me in my pj’s. And neither sets of clothes got ripped off or anything like that. He just lay next to me and I rested my head on his chest. We were both knackered and I was still in shock, I think. And Joe understood that. And thus was I able to sleep, knowing that he was there, next to me, taking comfort from his physical presence and strength.
In the morning we had an early breakfast and then he got off to work. And though we didn’t mention anything, I think we both had an understanding that something was starting over again.
When he kissed me goodbye he said, ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.’
‘I won’t,’ I told him and smiled.
He ran a finger over my cheek and ruffled the side of my hair. ‘I’m off tomorrow for two days training at Hendon. Would you mind not buggering off with someone else this time please?’
It made me laugh and that in turn lightened the mood so I said, ‘If there’s any buggering off to do I’ll be sure to take you with me.’
How funny that I said that then.
Like I knew.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mum’s house had a stagnant atmosphere to it; as if sentient to the fact its owner had died and had therefore given up on its own life.
It was unhappy.
I’d been back to pick up post and sort a few things out a while ago. I thought this had only been a week or so ago but the stack of mail wedged up against the door indicated it must have been longer.
The burglary had heightened my sense of anxiety so I made sure, as I was checking her place, that I double locked the front door once I was inside. Of course, I’d tried to swallow Wheatley’s suggestion the burglary was of a random nature. But if it was kids, why would they take my research? After the lovely Joe had departed I spent hours in the morning searching under the sofa, at the bottom of cupboards, on top of the fridge, wondering if I had put the folder somewhere absentmindedly. When it finally dawned on me that it might have been personal – though Christ knew what they were looking for – I abandoned my search and bolted round to see if my mother’s house was all right.
The place looked okay. Well, it seemed secure. Yet it felt wrong. It wasn’t just Mum’s passing that had subdued the atmosphere. Some of the rooms felt disturbed, as if contaminated by an outside presence. Or maybe it was just that they seemed so untouched. Unloved. I thought about phoning Joe and seeing if he could come round at some point and check it, but didn’t, because I wasn’t sure if my motives were pure or whether it was just that I wanted to see him again. And I knew that he was busy today with work, then packing, then off on his course until Wednesday. I would just have to be a big girl about it all and do it myself.
Perhaps, I wondered, maybe I should start dealing with Mum’s stuff. I hadn’t wanted to since she went, yet it was a process I had to go through. If I didn’t do it then it would remain there, on my list; a chore no less, but still a connection to Mum. I’d known for a while that this avoidance technique was impractical and made no financial sense, yet I was prepared to suffer the consequences. However that afternoon, when I had a proper look at the neglected living room, with Mum’s trinkets collecting dust, it struck me that she would have wanted me to sort through them, knowing only I would treat them with the required care and loving concern. It made me feel like I’d betrayed her all over again: I had been
self-centred and selfish.
But no more.
I resolved to make a start and began with the pictures and photos that she so loved; a framed snap of her and Dan on a mountain top in the Peak District, an embarrassing portrait of me – all teeth, tits and mortar board – at my graduation, an old map of Essex detailing the various ‘hundreds’. I didn’t know when it was produced but it referred to the North Sea as the German Ocean so I was guessing it was pretty ancient.
Beside that was a print of Colchester Castle, drawn in coloured inks from a south-easterly perspective. I was so
accustomed to seeing it hang over the sofa I’d never questioned its significance or wondered how it had come into Mum’s possession.
But I did now. I read the text underneath: a neat description of the state of the castle. The ‘s’s were written like ‘f’s. She’d visited there then, I thought, and bought this as a souvenir. Must have had been a while ago – the picture had been on the wall forever and left a darker space behind it when I stood on the sofa and unhooked it from the nail. As I did I glimpsed, in the glass reflection, the face of a woman staring over my shoulder.
My eyes clamped shut reflexively and I tensed, waiting for the voice to come, the temperature to drop or something nasty to suck out my mind.
But nothing happened.
Slowly I peeked at the glass. She was still there, but with a gulp of relief I saw who it was – Circe the witch, peering out from Mum’s favourite painting. No passive victim or gnarled old woman but a beauty and a force to be reckoned with. Circe transformed her enemies into animals; Odysseus’ men she turned into pigs. There she was, head bowed, pouring her enchanted potion into the sea. I had always liked this picture. I remembered when Mum brought it
home, recounting how the owner of the shop struck up a conversation. He said he could see a resemblance there and had insisted it should be hers – she had protested poverty but he let her have it at a fraction of the price. Dad lost his rag when he heard that story and had a rant about bourgeois values and the vulgarity of the reproduction. But I think he might have been a little jealous. Anyway, the painting remained upstairs in the loft until Dad left. Then it took pride of place in the living room.
Circe Invidiosa, Colchester Castle and an old map of Essex. For a second I wondered if they were a series of visual clues but then I remembered they had been acquired over a period of years and were unlikely to be connected.
I took Circe down cautiously – it was a heavy frame – and placed her with the other pictures, resolving to find a home for them at my place.
That was it for the living room, so I made my way slowly round the house through the hall and dining room into the kitchen then upstairs, methodically taking down all decorative items.
Two hours later I was in Mum’s old bedroom. Though that was a bit of a misnomer as the bed was downstairs. Because of her illness it was more convenient to use the dining room for sleeping so the upstairs room was more of a storage space.
But it smelled of her: Chanel Number Five and Yardley – English Roses or something. I closed my eyes and remembered being wrapped up in her lap. Her skin had been so soft then. Her clothes light and fragrant. There was a rocking chair and a song she sang as she kissed my hair. Oh Mum, life is so much colder since you went away. And I thought of her and I remembered her hug and wondered what she would say to me, if I could see her.
She’d undoubtedly want me to get things done and continue on my way.
So, I put down the feeling that was about me and walked into the room. A practical, methodical approach was what was required now. I needed to shut out all sentiment. So I lifted my chin with purpose and hardened my heart. Then I went into the middle of the room.
On the opposite wall hung a huge framed map of south-east England, which had appeared about eleven or twelve years ago when Mum first got interested in walking. The exercise helped her mental health and she’d often take herself off for a couple of days. It was too big for me to handle on my own so I left it up there and turned my attention to her wardrobe.
I opened the double doors hiding the old unwieldy closet that stretched the length of the room. At the far end I came across some of her old gladrags. They were dusty, long-unused gowns of their time: a few glitzy evening dresses complete with sequins and shoulder pads; one classic black velvet number; several skirts that spanned different fashion trends; cotton maxis and some old suede coats with real fur collars.
At the back of the closet inside a plastic sheath was her wedding dress. It was a floaty romantic thing that reflected the romanticism of the seventies: a wide gathered neckline dropped off the shoulders and dripped down in light chiffon over an A-line skirt. An ivory lace, wide-brimmed floppy hat finished it off. I loved it. There was no way I was sending it to a charity shop, so I took it downstairs and placed it beside the pictures.
When I returned the room was darkening; dusk becoming night. Yet as I walked through the door I was able to see, two feet away from the open closet door, my mother’s jewellery box.
I hadn’t put it there.
At least, I didn’t remember doing so. Perhaps I had dislodged it as I rummaged through the clothes?
The lid was open. I went over and touched the ballerina set into its middle. Slowly she began to rotate. The cobwebs about her twisted and pulled free, encasing her in a dusty veil. A mechanical melody jingled through the air. I recognised the rhythm and then moments later recalled the old song:
Pale and wild pale and wild
The witch did leave the child
She watched her grow and put her down
The willow’s leaves wrapped round and round
Her evil cries filled the air
And so did end the bad affair
Pale and wild pale and wild
The witch did up end the child
For a moment I was transfixed by the song and the box, hurtling back through years. This time to a forgotten teenage scene: Mum talking about the jewellery, insisting if she were to die I take the box and … I couldn’t remember what she told me. I had been too consumed with envy, hypnotised by the sparkle of her few jewels.
The ghostly music tinkled. I looked on as the plastic ballerina turned and jerked on her spring. Bending over, I closed the lid and delicately picked it up. As I did, part of it, the base, came away and clattered to the floor.
I turned the box over to inspect the damage. A small compartment had been concealed beneath the wooden base. My fingers crept into the underside and felt around. It was a shallow slot, covered in aged velveteen. As I touched it something flimsy dropped out: a piece of paper, folded over so it was only about two inches square. Very old and fragile, I unfolded it with great care. It was a document, roughly A5 in size.
In the darkness I was unable to make out what it said. So I took it over to the door. The eco-bulb there wasn’t particularly brilliant but I could see what it was. The bluey-black ink was faded and powdery in the folds but I could clearly make out the words.
As I read them I felt my knees buckle. I grabbed on to the doorframe for support, first confused then as it sank in, stupefied with shock.
In my hands I held a birth certificate. From 1977. November 15th.
My birthday.
It chronicled the birth of a girl. But it wasn’t my name that was scrawled there. That baby was called Mercy Walker.
Blood was throbbing in my ears as I looked down to see the Name and Surname of the mother – Rose Walker. Beneath it I read, with increasing disbelief, the place of birth: Hemel Hempstead. Hertfordshire.
Then finally my eyes caught the ‘Father’ section. There was only one word recorded in the slanting black hand. I read it with anguish.
‘Unknown’.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The problem with being blown out of your mind is that, when you return to it, you find large chunks have been burnt out. I suspect that it’s a survival technique the human species has developed to prevent the paralysis of trauma. But it
is irritating in cases like this, when I’m trying to give the full picture, to find that I only have a frazzled and fragmented rag of coherent recall.
I’m not sure what happened in the immediate hours post-discovery, so I won’t guess. This is what I do know: for a while I sat in the doorway of my mother’s bedroom, endlessly turning the note over, reading and re-reading the words until they made no sense. Eventually, I don’t know when, but probably sometime before midnight, I noticed on the back an indistinct scrawl, some kind of annotation in my mother’s hand: South East, F8. I don’t think I gave it much thought. I was too busy sifting through my childhood, exploring the holes. But like I said, it’s all a bit of a blur now.
I can remember the following day, I got myself together and went to see the man I thought of as my father in the Suffolk pub he partly owned.
I remember that he was late.
More than ten minutes late, and I was boiling myself into a fury. So that when he did finally turn up, striding into his realm, greeting some of the regulars he knew so well, I had to grip on to the table to prevent myself flying at him.
He saw me sitting over by the window in the furthest, most private part of the pub, but even then didn’t come straight over. He stopped, had a word with the manager then sauntered across the lounge, greeting me with a ‘Mercedes, darling. Are you okay? I got your message. You sounded …’
He bent over to give me a kiss, but I squirmed away from his touch.
‘Don’t,’ I said, though I was bursting to say more.
Dad took a step back. ‘You okay? I’m sorry I’m late. It was Lucy’s assembly and afterwards there were coffees and you know how these things go …’
It was the wrong line to take. Though he didn’t realise it, the last thing I wanted to hear was that he’d made me wait because he was spending time with his real child. His blood relative.