The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "You're not well, Eric. You need to take the time-"

  Eric had not allowed him to finish. He had left the office, slamming the door in his wake.

  Then Susan came to see him.

  He looked through the blinds out into the darkness, cupping his whisky against his stomach.

  Of course he had met her before. Staff functions. He remembered her embarrassed presence at the Christmas parties and summer barbeques as Eric always drank more than anyone else. At first one of the oldest of the younger staff, now well beyond the behaviour and capacity of the recent teaching graduates with their Student Union drinking days not quite behind them. Jonathan Black had always noted the woman's elegance in contrast to her shambling husband. He had noted the prettiness of her gestures as she would push her blonde hair from her face as she listened to Doreen confide with her that she always hated `"these work things". But that was as far as it went.

  Susan had sat in the chair that her husband had occupied a week before with her hands folded, composed in her lap. She had asked for Eric to be allowed to return to work. Things at home were not good. Over the following ten minutes her composure had crumbled until, at last, he had found himself holding her in his arms as she sobbed against his shirt. He found himself stroking her hair absently as she cried. After she had gone, he could not stop thinking about how it would have been to have taken her tear moistened cheeks in his hands and kissed her.

  He had lasted for three days before calling her at home. That was how it began. The first time they had made love, they were like teenagers in the back of his car, parked by the river bank a few miles out of town. Within weeks, he had told her how he loved her and wanted to be with her always. She had agreed. But not yet.

  Not yet.

  There was Eric to consider. She wanted to leave him and would- she knew- soon but to leave him for another man, particularly the man that had –in Eric's mind any way- ended his career was too much to expect him to take. I need time.

  The irony was: before Susan he was content to allow his marriage to wind its way to its inevitable conclusion, doing as little damage to the kids as possible but now he would do it all, whatever it took. There were times when he felt like standing up to make his usual end of term speeches and announcing his intentions to all of them. He was leaving. He was in love and going to take his love away from this dreary little town.

  He looked at his conservative conservatory.

  He was trapped by his own position and his own convictions about how one was to live one's life. He knew that, despite the fact that Susan had left Eric, she would never move in with him, not as long as Eric was alive. She was too considerate; even to a man who had beaten her, turned up at his daughter's fourteenth birthday party pissed before vomiting down his shirt in front of her friends.

  He heard Doreen's snores from above. He went to his desk and picked up the phone. He pressed the numbers quickly. He knew them by heart. Before the phone rang he replaced the receiver. He had promised to leave her alone for a while. She needed time.

  He rummaged in his desk draw until he found a battered Hamlet cigar. He hardly smoked at all any more but the desire was upon him. He grabbed a lighter- left on his desk for such weak moments - and opened the conservatory door.

  He lit his cigar and looked out into the shadows. From his left he sensed movement.

  "Hello John," Eric Callaghan said. Black saw the blade flash in the light from the doorway as it headed towards his throat.

  6

  10.30

  Cornhill Road

  Well, well. Tom Saunders sat astride his 750 on the curve where Cornhill Road became the unofficial Cornhill estate dump. He had parked there for only five minutes before he saw the lumbering gait of the man with the empty sack heading back to the road.

  Martin Clear had been right.

  He knew that heavy, slump-shouldered walk of old: Craig Phillips: the monster of Measton High School playground: Class of '86. It all seemed so obvious now. If there was a sadistic fuck in this town, Phillips was as good a candidate as any.

  Tom remembered well the beatings he had suffered at Phillips' fat hands. Tears and begging for mercy had never stopped him. In fact, it had seemed to spur him on. Of course, like all bullies, Phillips had come unstuck at the hands of a kid that could actually fight. Who had that been? Tom frowned as he had watched the shadow pass under a street light and onto

  Cornfield Road. Phillips had failed to notice Tom. Tom had pulled up in the shadow of the trees that hung over the fence of Powell's Glass.

  He remembered that day well enough.

  The usual circle of kids that had marked the boundaries of fights since time immemorial but with none of the usual goading and chanting to accompany the scrap because this was different. One of the fighters was the most feared presence of his generation, the other was-

  No. It wouldn't come. Only his conversation with Martin Clear and lurid, sick images.

  "Where the fuck have you been?" Tom had demanded. Clear seemed unmoved. "Your family have been going out their fucking minds!" Clear had flinched at the mention of his family. His mouth opened and closed. He had blinked rapidly as though trying to clear his vision. Then the moment had passed. Clear grinned at Tom again. Tom stopped in his tracks. He had been heading towards his friend, arms outstretched, but now he felt as though he didn't want to get too close. He didn't know why but something was definitely not right. Tom faltered.

  "Well? Where have you been? People thought you were dead." Clear's grin only widened.

  "Around."

  Tom felt his anger rising. He could see Greg supporting his mother's weeping frame on the news.

  "Around? Fucking- around?" Clear held up a palm; it was filthy. Tom noted the state of the boy with growing disquiet.

  "Yes but that's not important right now," Clear had said. Tom gaped back at him.

  "Not important? Are you fucking insane, Martin? There's been a national manhunt for you. Everyone thinks you're either dead or a murderer! Your face has been on the news every fucking night!"

  Clear had walked passed him and knelt by Tyson's bowl. "All of that will be dealt with in good time."

  Tom looked through the open doorway towards his father's house, an imposing hulk of shadow. The old man was still not back but there was a phone in there. He hadn’t brought his mobile. He considered heading up to the house to call the police. Yes. The police and Greg. All in good time. Christ he didn't even sound like the Martin Clear that he knew. He turned to Martin again and noted the mud and grass stains on his jacket and trousers.

  "You been sleeping rough then?"

  "You could say that," Martin had replied and chuckled. Questions flooded into Tom's mind.

  "Where's Patsy?"

  "Right now, I don't know. Drifting around, I guess." Martin laughed as though he had made a joke to himself. Tom shook his head confused.

  "Martin. Stop fucking with my head. The whole town's looking for her. Everyone's worried sick. She-"

  "Yes, of course," Martin interposed with unexpected cynicism. "Patsy is now everyone's best friend. How the children in the playground cry as each day passes."

  "Why are you talking like that?"

  "I'm sorry, Tom." Martin smiled apologetically. It was not genuine; rather it was the face of an actor, not a good actor either Tom decided. Something was very wrong here. Martin seemed different, older. More cultured somehow. "It's this town," he continued. "I have seen it's hypocrisies for long enough to realize that grief and sympathy are as shallow as the waters over the weir."

  Tom frowned and headed for the door.

  "I don't know where Patsy is," Martin called after him. "Believe me."

  Tom wheeled around. "Did you kill her?"

  Martin Cleaver looked faintly amused, made a show of considering the question before answering: "No."

  "Fuck this! Let the police deal with it!" He stepped out of the workshop.

  "I know where your cat is, Tom," the voice called from
the workshop.

  Tom had stopped then.

  *

  Phillips strolled along the pavement with the air of a man who has all the time in the world. The sack swung back and forth from his right hand. From Tom's careful distance, he could hear the man whistling. Bastard.

  He had decided to leave the bike and follow Phillips on foot. It was strange that Clear knew so much about what Phillips had been up to; even more odd was the fact that Clear knew of Phillips' whereabouts at that precise time. When questioned about this, Clear had smiled secretively before assuring Tom that he was aware of Phillips' routines.

  "So you've been hiding down by the river, then?" Tom had said.

  Clear nodded, again smiling inappropriately.

  There had been more, a lot more. Details. Dark, unspeakable images. Walking in the shadows along Cornhill, Tom could see Clear's lips moving steadily, interspersed with vivid depictions of Phillips' nocturnal activities. His confusion over Clear's appearance and- more than that- his seeming lack of concern that he was the subject of media speculation, connected to a teenage girl's disappearance or feared dead had been replaced by a cold rage. That rage now pulsed behind his eyes as he kept his eyes fixed on the figure ahead.

  When Clear had finished talking, Tom told him to leave, to go home. Again, that cryptic smile. "Yes. I'm going home soon." He stepped out of the workshop and was gone. Tom had stood motionless looking out into the darkness dazed. The whole episode had attained a dreamlike quality the moment Clear had left. Then the images assailed him. Lurid scenes that filled him with revulsion and fury by turn. He had locked the workshop and headed to Cornhill on his motorbike and waited for Phillips. Sure enough, there he was. I am aware of Mister Phillips' routine. It hadn't even sounded like Clear.

  Phillips crossed the road to

  Shinehill Lane, the empty sack now slung casually over his shoulder. Tom followed. Halfway along the leafy back street, Phillips began rooting around in his trouser pockets. Tom knew that he was looking for his keys. Sure enough, Phillips stopped at the garden gate of a narrowed terraced house. The garden had long since grown out of control as a result of neglect. He carefully closed the gate behind him and crunched gravel as he walked towards the door.

  Tom watched silently from across the road.

  7

  10.40

  Hillview Crescent

  Susan Callaghan couldn't sleep. She couldn't focus on the words of her favourite author, Paulo Coelho, either. She usually found comfort in the author's view of the world but tonight she was unable to keep the substance of a single paragraph in her head. She pushed the quilt away from her legs and sat on the edge of her bed before walking to the window. She looked down on the darkened town, its few streetlights and vehicle headlight beams illuminating the night through the high trees that formed a protective perimeter around Crescent Apartments. She could only see what she could by virtue of the fact that she was on the seventh floor; she felt like Rapunzel; way up in the tower waiting for someone to come along and rescue her so that she could resume her life.

  Bullshit.

  What kind of weak attitude was that? She chastised herself for perhaps the hundredth time that day. At forty-four years of age with one failed (in the extreme) marriage behind her and a ridiculous situation with a married man still hanging around her neck, she knew that it was pathetic to think along those lines. The only person that could rescue Susan Callaghan nee Weaver was Susan Callaghan nee Weaver. She was sick of feeling like a victim- sick of it- and was determined to move on with her life. But that was easier said than done because in many ways she had been a victim and not simply the victim of her husband's fists and of the shame of his alcoholism but a victim of her own choices.

  But that was the same for everyone, a voice nagged. Yes, perhaps, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. Things happen, people change, sacrifices have to be made, responsibilities considered. Bullshit.

  Susan knew that she had been weak, too weak to get out when she first saw the signs. And that had been many years before she had found it necessary to stay in for three days until her face had resumed its normal shape.

  She'd had the girls to consider, she reasoned as she looked down onto the dark expanse of lawn that encircled the building. That hateful, truthful voice again: Yeah right. The girls would have missed those years of daddy being pissed at their birthday parties wouldn't they? Not to mention the unforgettable period of humiliation that had followed the discovery of his porn collection. Of course, children could be so supportive though, she derided herself, and all of their friends- his students- must have been very understanding. Of course.

  Well better late than never, she thought. It was over now, had been for some time but- and this was the joke of it- she still felt immeasurable responsibility for his well-being. Her friends had remonstrated bitterly with her over that- fuck him, he beat you…wasn't exactly a model father was he? And the inevitable: you're still young and gorgeous…you can do better.

  Why did doing better have to involve a man? This was the problem wasn't it? Even though she knew that she should be strong and get on with her own life now, she could feel the pressure from within and from her peers to start seeing someone; only then would it seem as though she had taken up the reins of her life once more. Et cetera. But again, a voice from her very being told her that such a course would be the behaviour of a weak-willed woman, waiting for Mr. Right to kick start her life after a temporary manless stall. It was weak. Hence the ridiculous fling with John Black. A good man, yes. An attractive man, undoubtedly. A married man, unhappily. But a man. That was the problem. Why should it take a man to be happy?

  She watched the dark figure cross the lawn, cutting across rather than taking the circular drive. Too far away and too dark to make out the features. She had only been at the Crescent for a month and was still unfamiliar with the many occupants of the other flats and there were many. Crescent Apartments had been a renovated Victorian Hospital in its former life. A combination of new hospital facilities across town and an astute property investor had transformed the main part of the hospital into plush des res for those that could afford; Susan couldn't afford it but had a friend that had bought one as an investment. An investment for Christ's sake. The mortgage she still shared with Eric wouldn't get paid off until well into her next life she thought grimly. She shuddered. That was one of Eric's jokes.

  The figure below went out of sight as he/she entered the ground floor foyer. If it was anyone for her, the security guard would buzz her intercom but, let's face it, it never was for her, especially at night; she would not even allow John to come here during the small hours when they had been-

  Stop thinking about men! It's just you and the girls and they were both fine, unaffected it seemed. Both at respective best friends' houses tonight on a sleepover. The fact was they hated sharing the large bedroom at the apartment so found as many escape routes as they could. It wasn't as easy as that though was it? She had been with Eric for nineteen years and – before that – she had gone through university in a steady, monogamous long distance relationship while many of her friends had taken the opportunity to shake off their teenage flames. She had been with Nick for five years only to break up several weeks after her graduation. He'd been cheating. At the time she had been devastated, betrayed; it wasn't meant to be like that. She had doted on twice weekly phone calls and fortnightly visits for three years with the assurance that this period apart was only a necessary step towards the life that they had talked about since he had taken her virginity shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Marriage, good careers and beautiful children: the dream. At twenty-two she had thrown herself into her fledgling career as a junior solicitor, specializing in conveyance (dull but regular) and had rented a small flat in Rennick. She had friends, went out for drinks, was asked on dates but had remained unattached for two years. Had it been so awful? She didn't think so.

  Susan turned away from the window and walked out of the bedroom, down
the short hallway and into the kitchen that doubled as a dining room. She reached into the cupboard above the kettle and found some chamomile tea. She flicked on the kettle and sat at the round, drop-leaf dining table and began to flick through the Measton Gazette. ANGRY PARENTS DEMAND ANSWERS, the front page headline read. Head teacher pressurized over vetting process. Poor John, she thought. There had been times over the last week when she had thought of calling him to see how he was coping but she had been at pains to put that situation to rest as painlessly as she could manage. Put it to rest? Who are you kidding? What did you say to him? Time, John. In fact, hadn't she told him that she wanted to be with him as soon as Eric pulled himself together; if Eric ever pulled himself together, she corrected. Yes she had.