SO THE DOVES

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SO THE DOVES Page 7

by Heidi James


  ‘Fair enough, it’s the least I can do. How does she clean this house all by herself? She’s got to be seventy at least.’

  ‘We manage. I think if she could persuade Maurice to leave his precious allotment she’d move down to Australia with her son just like that. Poor Joyce. I hope you don’t leave the country.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that? I don’t need to emigrate, Mother. My life is here.’ I smiled at her. ‘Besides, I couldn’t leave you.’

  She looked at me, her eyes searching my face to see if I was sincere, then reached for my hand. ‘Sit with me for a bit.’ I sat opposite her as I always have since I was a child. ‘I had the oddest experience yesterday.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘It will sound silly, crazy even. But I was in the garden, deadheading my dianthus, you know, the lovely white flowers in the front beds…’ She paused and waited for me to nod and indicate that I appreciated her fine garden. ‘And I saw this woman across the lane, and you know I think she was watching me.’

  ‘What do you mean? Like she was spying on you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, possibly. You hear about these people who prey on the old and vulnerable, watching their movements and habits so they can rob them.’

  ‘You’re not old or vulnerable.’

  ‘Hunh.’ She snorted, looking down at her hands. ‘I’m getting there.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. She saw me looking at her and she walked away. But you know what was really odd? I thought it was Melanie. It was like seeing Melanie as a grown woman. But that’s impossible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Unheimlich.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Freud. It means uncanny. Strange.’ I knew what it meant, but she always enjoyed the opportunity to educate me. It puffed her up a little: once a headmistress always a headmistress. ‘Poor Melanie. Such a shame, I suppose we’ll never know what happened to her, will we?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, not entirely,’ I said and drained my mug before standing.

  ‘Have I upset you? I’m sorry. I should’ve been more thoughtful and not mentioned it.’

  ‘I’m fine, mum. Honestly. Will you be all right? Shall I stay?’

  ‘No, Marcus, I’m just a silly old bat. Just a coincidence, that’s all. I’m sorry I even mentioned it. I’m sure it was nothing and nobody.’

  I never wanted to believe that Melanie was dead. How could she be? She was so full of life, it’s impossible to imagine that extinguished. For years I expected to run into her, standing on a street corner in New York, her hand raised for a cab, or pushing a baby carriage through the Tuilleries in Paris. Always romantic, soft-focused, ridiculous. Once, while in Madrid covering a summit on the Euro, I was drinking coffee in a pavement café when Kool Thing came on the radio, Kim Gordon’s voice fuzzy in the warm air. Perhaps it was just the music, my mind suggestible and easily tricked, but I saw her. Dark hair coiled in a bun at the back of her head, her nose and chin in profile and a slither of gold chains coiled around her wrist. I stood to get a better look and the woman had gone, stepped across the street or transmogrified into a stranger. Melanie was dead, and if she had lived, none of these lives would’ve been hers. How preposterous our futile ambitions for the dead become, freed from the limitations of living.

  There were more press at the gate this time, but no sign of the contractor Williamson and his stylish hair. I made my way towards the front. There was less activity around the burial site, but officers and forensics in their paper suits had spread out across the entire field and, bent at the waist, were searching the soil with their fingers. McMahon and his sidekick Okonjo stood watching and waiting. I looked around; there was no one I recognised, not even perky Anna.

  David’s warning to be careful had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. It was his surprise that Edward hadn’t called me, the sensation of being in the dark, out of the loop, the object of discussion and gossip. Why? We weren’t friends, but we’d worked well together over the years. I brought in stories, big ones, and he protected me, backed me up when needed. We had readers, we broke exclusives and won the odd award and that’s all that matters in this game. There are whispers, he said. Paranoia boiled up like spit on a grate, but I ignored it. Do your job, make no assumptions, I thought, I’ve rattled some cages, that’s all there is to it. It’ll blow over. Focus on what’s here, now. The facts.

  ‘You’re back again.’

  I turned to find McMahon standing behind me. ‘Looking for the story, just like you.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a story, Murray.’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re not. You’re looking for evidence, Detective.’

  ‘That’s right, I am.’

  ‘Any closer to knowing who the victim is?’

  ‘The post-mortem will be finished soon, if not already, and then a statement will be released to you lot.’

  ‘Fair enough. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a sneak preview?’

  He laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘What about a drink and a chat – just a chat? Any background information would be useful, and I’m buying of course.’

  He inhaled sharply, narrowing his eyes – assessing, considering – and nodded. ‘Sure. This evening? Six-thirty at the Queen’s Head. You know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it. See you there.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘McMahon?’ Okonjo glared at me over his shoulder. He joined her and I watched as they left in an unmarked car.

  ‘What did he want?’ Annabelle appeared at my side.

  ‘Jesus! Why is everyone creeping up on me?’

  ‘Jumpy! You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. You?’

  ‘I’m good, just got here. Been following up on those funding rumours.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not really. They’ve closed ranks. What about here?’

  ‘They’re doing a search of the whole field.’

  ‘I see that. What did the handsome policeman want?’

  ‘Nothing. Just said there’ll be a statement released tomorrow, with findings from the post-mortem.’

  ‘Oh. Good. You had lunch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Already? That was early. How about a coffee then?’

  ‘Can’t, have to do some work. Next time though?’

  ‘We could work together on this, pool resources.’

  The thing is, Annabelle...’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘Anna. The thing is, I don’t think there’s much here. Someone buried a body after killing them, and that’s awful, dreadful, sad, etc., and it’s delayed the building of a train track. That’s it. No corruption, no conspiracy. Nothing juicy here, and if there is, I don’t think it’s worth the squeeze. Sorry.’

  ‘Right. Well it seems you’ve reached your conclusion. You know best. I’d still like to have a chat. You know, maybe learn from you. I’d love to know how you’ve got so many sources to trust you and reveal so much. It seems you’re the master at coaxing secrets from people.’

  ‘I’m hardly that, Anna.’

  ‘Oh come on, everyone in the office is talking about it.’ She tilted her head to the side like a lapdog wanting choc drops.

  ‘About what?’

  She arched an eyebrow and smirked, shrugged a little. As if she’d got me cornered. ‘That you’re the best, that’s all.’

  I stepped back, putting my hands in my pockets. ‘Right, well, people talk.’

  ‘That’s certainly true. See you tomorrow at the station then.’ She turned and trotted away, jaunty, before turning back and waving at me. I was embarrassed to be caught watching her go. Did she imply…? What did she imply? Nothing.

  I got in the car and drove straight to the Queen’s Head.
<
br />   1989

  He hadn’t got away with being the new boy. What an idiot, to think that getting up twenty minutes early to do his hair and wearing Nike high tops like all the other boys would work. It should’ve been obvious that it was only a matter of time before they decided his accent and prissy ways needed a good kicking. It was only natural; it’s the way of things. Everyone gets it, eventually. Everyone is cut down to size, by the mob or death: it’s inevitable.

  ‘Oi, Marcus, Marcus ain’t it? Come over ’ere, you.’ One of the Darrens – the thick-set, muscly one with brown eyes and a thug’s nose that spread across a face covered in acne – flicked his head back to beckon him, as if he’d not heard his command and needed a clue where to go. They stood there in the lower corridor outside the toilets, four of them with Darren Shine in the middle, their hair falling into their eyes. The air stank of piss, ripe socks, sweat and Kouros aftershave.

  ‘Yeah?’ He walked over, almost green with fear, taller than them but thin and long limbed.

  ‘Where you from then?’ This time the short one with braces wrapped like razor wire on his teeth piped up.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Marcus almost squeaked.

  ‘Where you from? Which school?’

  ‘Oh, Coombe Hall.’ The sweat began to run down his back in thin streams. Other kids, passing through the corridor slowed to watch.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Shine. ‘Too good for us here then, aintcha?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ They closed in, sealing him off.

  ‘Think your shit don’t stink?’ They were tight around him, their warm bodies close. He got an erection, of course. The short one noticed, of course.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s got a fucking stonk on!’ The others laughed and looked down at his groin where his pleated trousers betrayed him.

  ‘Fucking bender! You a queer boy, Marcus? You a homo?’

  ‘They’re all poofs up the private school.’

  Darren Shine said, ‘You better not be poking that dick in my direction, fucking bender,’ then grabbed his shoulders, yanked him down and kneed him in the balls. Marcus went down like a sack of potatoes, all the wind knocked out of him and wanting to be sick.

  ‘I fucking HATE benders,’ one of them hissed in his ear. Down on the scuffed lino, he focussed on the pattern as he tried to catch a breath before they started kicking.

  ‘He ain’t a queer, you fucking idiot!’ And there she was, Mel, bent down next to him, appearing out of nowhere. Checking he was OK before pulling him to his feet. ‘You alright, babe?’ She kissed him on the lips and stroked his face, before pushing the hair out of his eyes.

  ‘What the fuck? You screwing this cunt, Mel?’ Shine turned pink with incredulity. ‘You turn me down for this poof?’ White foamy saliva gathered in the corners of his full mouth.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ Marcus gasped, barely able to stand.

  ‘The loo, where d’you think?’ She winked and turned back to Shine.

  ‘Yes, I’m seeing him. Now give it a rest and fuck off with your little gang or I’ll have a word with Charlie, shall I?’

  They stared at each other for a few seconds until Darren shifted his gaze to Marcus, and after a pause Marcus held out his hand, ‘No hard feelings, OK?’

  ‘Just stay out of my way, poof. Got it?’ Marcus’s hand hovered in the air, and as if they were of one mind the Darrens slouched off, barging his shoulder as they passed.

  ‘Oh my God! Thanks.’ Almost sick with relief and his groin feeling like it was on fire, he couldn’t believe he’d made it without getting his face smashed in. He leaned over to catch his breath.

  ‘You’re alright. Come on, I’ll walk you to your class.’

  ‘Who’s Charlie?’

  ‘Me dad. He knows Darren’s old man.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She held his hand as he limped down the corridor, past the other kids who kept their eyes down.

  ‘You know everyone will think we’re going out with each other now?’

  ‘So, they’d think that anyway. Dozy idiots think if a boy and girl are mates they have to be fucking.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘No. I quite like it actually.’ He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Give over, you old softie.’ She bumped her shoulder against him, gently. ‘Right. I’m off, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he whined.

  ‘Out. This place is doing my head in. Adios amigo!’ And off she went, walking down the corridor in the opposite direction to all the other kids, her hair swaying around her shoulders, her hands in her pockets. It seemed to Marcus that she moved in slo-mo with an iconic song playing in the background, something cultish and hip, with the light softening around her. Like in a film. It was almost one of those moments where life imitates art, except that the room was badly lit, the backing track was scraping chairs, sniffing, coughing and laughter and everything moved in real time. But still, it was one of those moments.

  ‘You really seeing her?’ Shine, being brighter than the other Darrens was in the same maths set and had taken the seat behind Marcus.

  ‘Erm, yes,’ he nodded, balls throbbing on the hard wooden chair.

  ‘Bet she’s a right goer. That’s what I’ve heard. A bit of a slag.’

  ‘What?’ He turned to look at Darren, at his smooth face, his full lips, the mineral blue eyes.

  ‘She shags around. I heard she was doing a married man.’

  ‘No she doesn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, where d’you think she goes when she’s off on her jaunts?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, she can do what she likes.’

  ‘Don’t it? I wouldn’t let my bird get about like that.’ He leaned back in his seat and ran his thick-fingered hands through his hair. A poster of a smiling Einstein was tacked on the wall behind him, and it looked like Einstein was laughing at the stupid boys beneath him.

  ‘Have you slept with Mel?’

  ‘Me? Nah, wouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘No way, she’s spoilt goods. Sloppy seconds and all that.’

  ‘Right. So if none of you have done it with her, how do you know that she’s spoilt then?’

  ‘Everyone knows, sorry, mate, don’t want to upset you or nothing but you’re new here and us blokes should look out for each other. Know what I mean?’

  Marcus didn’t have a clue, it made no sense to him, but what could he do? He played along, despising himself. ‘Sure, thanks.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about earlier, just a bit of a laugh, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’

  ‘I mean, you’re not a bender, are you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No hard feelings then?’

  ‘No, no hard feelings.’

  ‘You two going to do any work this afternoon or are you going to sit there gossiping like two old ladies?’ Mr Brooks walked towards their desks, blinking rapidly behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Marcus noticed the teacher’s watch, gold coloured with a second hand that whirred around the face in a smooth arc instead of jolting, second by second. He opened the textbook and squinted at the blackboard, feigning concentration, balls swollen and throbbing. Brooks stopped, nodded, pivoted on the ball of his foot like a dancer and walked back to his desk muttering: ‘That’s more like it.’

  No Smoke

  I found a table outside in the beer garden, a well-tended garden with hanging baskets and troughs of geraniums and rosemary bushes trimmed into shape. It was a quiet place, serving food. Not the kind of pub where kids come to get pissed, or score: a grown-up pub, for families and couples. The kind that has premium beers on tap, sea-salt and cider vinegar crisps and small jars of olives or hand-roasted cashews in earthenware pots.

 
I paced myself, drinking slowly, trying to enjoy the sun. I read a paper, not ours, left discarded on the bar. No mention of the St Clair story, or of the body in the orchard, or the DfT; either because there was no story or because it hadn’t broken yet.

  I called Edward but he didn’t pick up, so I left a message that I was meeting with a detective on the case and that I’d have something for him by tomorrow. Then I called my mother. It wasn’t like her to be fanciful and she’d seemed unsettled that morning, imagining she’d seen Melanie. I thought maybe it was the beginning of dementia or she’d had a mild stroke, but then she picked up the phone and her voice, resolute and clear, with a hint of exasperation – I’d interrupted her in the middle of doing her accounts – reassured me otherwise. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light? The brain sees what it wants to see, looking for patterns and the familiar, what we know. Perhaps that was it? We’re trapped in the wireframe of our memories, building our present from old images. But why Melanie? Why not her sister, or my father even?

  The lunchtime crowd left, leaving just me and one other drinker – an older bloke, hunched over his pint inside close to the bar, his position unchanged each time I went in for a fresh one or a piss. By six it began to fill again: after work drinkers, pre-dinner drinkers, dates. I sent a text to Edward, who hadn’t returned my call, repeating that I was meeting McMahon, and for him to call me. He replied fifteen minutes later, GREAT, IN A MEETING. WILL CALL TOMORROW. See, I thought, nothing to worry about.

  I kept an eye on the crowd, half-expecting to recognise or be recognised by someone I went to school with or who knew Melanie; while there was no one I knew in the small groups talking and drinking and eating, it was strangely familiar. The flat lull of estuary English, the dropped Ts and Hs, the jeans and polo shirts and clean trainers on the men; the clumpy wedge heels and long strappy dresses on the women. The blonde highlights and shaved heads. The smell of beer and cigarettes, perfume and hot chips.

  McMahon arrived at six thirty on the dot, showered and changed from his work suit into jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that showed his tanned, strong arms. Carrying two pints, he walked straight over as if he knew I’d be in that exact spot. Like he’d been watching me the whole time.

 

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