SO THE DOVES

by Heidi James

  ‘She just wanted to get away from here, she wanted to travel.’

  ‘She didn’t leave because of DC Burrell?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Did you help Melanie move the body?’

  ‘No. I did not.’

  ‘Did you help her leave? Because that would be aiding and abetting, you’d have helped her get away with murder. You understand?’

  I pictured her face, her dark eyes, the smell of coconut shampoo. ‘No, I didn’t help her.’

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  ‘No. She just left.’

  Callum leaned forward. ‘And you never heard from her after that?’

  ‘No. I never did.’ Time spread out in all directions. I felt as if I were overflowing, spreading out like water, that I was everywhere I’d ever been or was going to. I felt it as distinctly as I feel the seat under me now. As if I’d dissolved in the air like salt in water, mineral atoms diversified, soluble, inseparable yet distinct from my element. I gathered, pulsed and flowed. Melanie disappeared from me again.

  ‘Will you be OK? You look terrible.’ Callum walked me out of the station, down to reception. I was free to go. Free as long as I kept lying.

  ‘No, I won’t be OK, Christ.’

  ‘Marcus, I was doing my job. You understand that, but I did have feelings for you, real feelings.’

  ‘Real feelings? What are they? I know who you are and I know that you’re a part of all this to silence me and you’ve all won. You tell whoever it is that’s pulling your strings that they’ve won. I’m done.’ I pushed past his extended hand and out through the automatic doors. I walked down towards the old Library building, my keys and some change jangling in my pocket. There was a breeze, cool off the river, cutting through the summer sun. The Union Jack outside the library lifted and rippled, clanging against the pole.

  I imagined the possibility of blood, the skull cracking like a breakfast egg. The parabola of the iron, swung and dropped like a drowsy morning spoon. Her face, her hands. Small. Her dark hair, her skin; a bruise wrapped like a cuff around her wrist. Her neck. Burnt flesh. Vanishing. Burrell’s hands on her, twisting her like dough. Melanie.

  Was it possible? Making him stop. Making it stop. The wrapping up and disposing of the body, cleaning up the mess, the fear, the hysteria. Who did that? Charlie? Mel? It was my fault. And Chrissie? Where was she? I imagined the digging, listening out for sounds of discovery, the body – a dead weight, limbs flung loose and slack before rigor set in. The head lolling and rolling, the gold tooth just a lump of metal, useless, the hinge of the jaw, the bone and flesh and matter. A ring of red marks and the purple dots of a fresh bruise.

  How did I not see the trouble she was in? What kind of person was I to not see her clearly? And worse, what kind of a man was I to give in so easily, to fold and let a murderous cartel get away with profiting from terrorism? And for what? To save myself from trouble? The answer to all these questions is the same. I’m a self-absorbed coward. Actually worse than that, a narcissistic coward.

  I used to think that if I had to live around there for the rest of my life I’d throw myself in the river, but there I was. Could I stay? What could I go back to? I turned right and headed down the High Street along with the mothers in their velour track suits and their shalwar kameez and their skin tight jeans, all pushing their chubby babies in their buggies; past the pound shop and the pawn shop and the charity shops; past the withered old ladies tugging shopping trollies and the gangs of teenage boys with their legs lassoed by their low-hanging trousers. I wondered if Georgina was still here, married with kids just like she wanted, or if she was another written-off victim of the care system. I was half tempted to look for her, but what for? What would that achieve?

  People are more interesting than you give them credit for you know, I could almost hear Melanie’s voice. Give it a rest, always judging. The voice of my conscience, she had taken root in my head, shaping me, changing me in just those few months. I half expected to see her, as she was back then, hanging out round the back of the town hall where the skater boys did ollies and flips, or sitting by the river looking out down the estuary across the warehouses and docks, the dull metal sheets rusting and warping over steel frames. What did you do Melanie? What did we do to you?

  I kept walking, past a group of Danner Comp kids gathered around the bus stop, their uniforms practically unchanged from when we went there. Turning away from the river and the centre of town, I walked up the hill, through the narrow roads of terraced houses, their front doors opening directly onto the street; as I walked I could hear their TVs, their dogs barking, telephones ringing, their children crying. It’s no wonder that it seethes with barely-suppressed violence there, all those people in such close proximity, never any privacy or respite from one another. I didn’t care if they were watching me: I was done, broken.

  I think now of my father’s book, and the image of violence as an unstoppable flood that requires diverting elsewhere, rage that can only be spent by destroying someone, even if they’re innocent. It sickens me.

  I turned right by the George and Dragon pub, its beautiful Victorian arched windows boarded up, the double doors padlocked, and into the estate towards Melanie’s old house. I’d been walking for at least an hour and I was hot and thirsty. I got myself a bottle of water in the corner shop at the end of the street; standing outside to drink, I realised that I was opposite Melanie’s grandparent’s house.

  July, 1990

  Only her grandmother was home when they knocked. She let them in and they followed her into the small sitting room. A green leather three-piece suite took up most of the space; a television hunkered next to the fireplace. A large studio photo of Melanie and her brother sitting on a sheepskin rug in front of a summer-blue backdrop was in pride of place on the mantelpiece.

  Georgina had made him go, turning up at his door, red-faced and sweaty. Her fingernails were painted a metallic blue.

  ‘Hello, what’s up?’ He pulled the front door closed behind him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

  ‘Have you heard from her?’

  ‘No, no I haven’t. Have you?’

  ‘No, and it ain’t right. Something ain’t right.’

  ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘Why? What’s it matter? Melanie’s gone, ain’t you worried?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Act like it then. Come on, I’m going to her nan’s to see if she knows what’s going on, ’cause this stinks, and you’re coming with me.’

  ‘I don’t think we should, I think we should leave it to the police.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh? I don’t trust the filth and I don’t trust her mum, not after what she let him do to Mel and get away with it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him, that Steve, you know what he did, don’t you?’ She watched his face, her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know, do you? I thought you were best friends, maybe not.’ She shook her head and paused, ‘Well, you’re coming with me. And if you must know, Darren Shine told me where to find you.’

  ‘Would you like a glass of squash?’ Melanie’s grandmother had a tiny mouth and spoke as if she were up against a deadline, speaking fast and lisping a little.

  ‘No thanks, we just wondered if you had heard from Melanie. I’m worried sick,’ Georgie said, wiping her face on the hem of her t-shirt, exposing her soft, freckled belly.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure really.’

  They stood there, the three of them in the middle of the room, listening to the rumble of the bin men and their lorry outside, the squeal of garden gates as they picked up and returned the bins, and the whine and crush of the compacter.

  ‘Can you tell us where she is? We just want to see if she’s all right. We’re her friends.’

  ‘We know who you are. Georgina and Marcus, rig
ht?’ Her grandfather, tall and thin with a head of thick grey hair, walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

  ‘They just wants to know where she is,’ the old woman said, looking from him to Marcus to Georgie and back again.

  ‘Do they?’ he said quietly as he moved past his wife, gently moving her from his path by pressing on her shoulder. ‘Have you spoken to her mother?’ He sat down in the armchair opposite the TV. On the dresser behind him there was a gold carriage clock with the legend ‘Presented to Victor Shoreham, Celebrating 40 years service as Union Rep’; next to a postcard from Paris, a set of false teeth bathed in a glass of water.

  ‘I tried, but she won’t talk to me.’

  ‘And you?’ The older man turned to Marcus.

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to anyone.’

  ‘Right,’ he looked over to his wife, ‘Shirley, babe, what’s the doctor said about keeping your teeth in?’

  ‘I forgot, duck.’ She sat down on the sofa and pressed her tiny lips together.

  ‘No one knows where Melanie is. You got it? No one, not the police, not her mother and not us. Now leave it and don’t come back upsetting my wife again.’ He strode towards the front door, opening it and flicking his head towards the street. ‘Out.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Georgie huffed, trying to keep up with Marcus as he hurried across the street.

  ‘Like what?’ he snapped. Charlie would go mad if he found out they’d been there.

  ‘Oh forget it, Marcus, you stuck-up dickhead. It’s like you don’t give a shit about her, like none of you do. She could be dead out there and you don’t give a shit.’

  She turned and left him standing there, watching her go, wondering what he could’ve said to not make things worse, if he would feel less lonely if he told her what he knew.

  Sweet As

  I drained the water from the bottle and threw it in a bin. I was just walking, with nowhere in mind. And perhaps I was, but it seemed that nothing was random. Or just that in that small town, everywhere I went I would come back to her and still she will be gone. It was as if she was controlling me, watching. Exhausted, I crossed over and cut through the park towards home. Someone was controlling me, watching.

  The black Audi was back, parked across from Mother’s. Enraged, I headed over: police, hack, whoever he was, I was done, I’d had enough. I’d say anything, I was guilty, I’m a liar, I always have been, just stop. Just stop. He got out of the car and pushed the door shut, his arms loose at his sides. He was big, his shirt gaping over his belly, and he’d shaved his remaining hair to a stiff bristle.

  ‘What do you want?’ I panted, the heat was too much, I waited for him to step forward and hit me or shove me into the car. I wanted him to. I wanted someone to make it easier for me.

  ‘Easy, mate. You don’t remember me, do you Marcus?’ We stood in the road, sweat stinging my eyes. He shrugged, turning his palms up. ‘It’s me Darren, Darren Shine. Been a long time.’

  Darren. I rubbed my face with my hand, pushing out the light, the present, cutting myself off, scraping my chin. I looked up. Darren. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘You alright? You don’t look too clever.’ He reached out but didn’t touch me. He wore a wedding ring, solid gold wrapped around his finger.

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m fucked.’ A tree reached up and out behind him, a house rose up behind that, a ginger cat arched its back on a wall. I had no idea where I was, but everything was familiar. I looked up and down the road, then behind me. We were alone.

  ‘D’you want to sit down?’

  ‘What?’ I heard him, but I couldn’t think of an answer. ‘Why have you been following me? What’re you doing?’

  ‘It’s not me following you.’

  ‘Who is then?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I live around here with me wife and kids.’ He smiled, shrugged embarrassment, but the gesture was tiny, gone and I could only half process.

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Around here, yeah.’

  ‘Yes.’ He lived there; he wasn’t following me. It was a coincidence, a normal everyday occurrence. ‘You look so different, I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right then, sweet as a nut, mate.’ He shook my hand and got back into his car. I stood there. As the engine flared he put his window down. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Charlie, he’s a good ’un. A heart of gold, but you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that?’ I leaned in towards the open window; the scent of pine and new car was carried on the cold conditioned air. ‘How do you know about Charlie?’

  ‘Small town, mate. Everyone knows everyone, and everything. Charlie, he told me to give you this.’ He flipped the sun visor down and pulled a narrow envelope out from the clip and handed it to me. ‘You take care now. It was good to see you.’ And he drove off.

  March, 1990

  ‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you?’ Mel stepped back, opening the door, her face white with shock. ‘Where’s your shirt? Quick, come in.’

  He followed her through to the kitchen; a lamp was on in the sitting room and a book lay open and face down on the sofa. She was alone.

  ‘Sit down and let me see.’

  He lowered himself slowly onto the chair.

  ‘Let me guess, Darren?’ She held his chin in her hand and turned his face to the light. ‘You’re bleeding. Fucking hell.’ She turned and grabbed a tea towel from a drawer and ran it under the tap.

  ‘I’ll clean this up and then get you some frozen peas to put on your eye. Do you want me to call the police?’

  ‘No,’ he croaked.

  ‘What about an ambulance?’ She dabbed at his face, wiping the blood and grit from his cheek.

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head, and moved away to rinse out the cloth. ‘Should I call your mum?’

  He started to cry and she put her arms around him, her hair soft against his neck.

  They had been parked round the back of the football fields, behind the changing rooms and the clubhouse. No one ever went there at night, it was always safe. They were in the back seat, Marcus lying against Darren, his head against his chest. They were smoking a joint and Darren held it to his lips so he could take a puff. It was cool out, the windows had steamed up.

  ‘You need a drink.’ She got up and rummaged around in the kitchen cupboard before pulling out a bottle of brandy and pouring a couple of inches into a tumbler. ‘Here, it’ll help the shock. I’ve seen it on TV so it must be true.’ She laughed softly and nudged him. ‘Come on, you’ll be OK.’

  ‘He said he was going to kill me.’ He took the drink and sipped. It stung his lips and tongue but he drank it anyway.

  ‘It’ll be OK, I promise. These things blow over eventually, they always do.’

  They were laughing at something. It was hard to remember what, but they were laughing hard, clutching at each other. Then Darren stopped and turned his head to listen, saying, ‘What’s that?’ and out of nowhere there was a roar of banging on the roof of the car and fists pumping on the windows.

  ‘Oi, Oi! Open up you dirty boy! C’mon let’s see your bird. Oi, you little stud.’

  Darren sat up and pushed Marcus away from him. ‘Oh fuck, it’s my brother.’

  Then the door opened and several faces, shiny in the automatic light pressed, into the space. ‘Come on you little lovebirds, let’s have— What the fuck? Oh my god, you filthy queers!’

  They’d forgotten to lock the door. Marcus had forgotten to lock the door.

  They moved from the kitchen to the sitting room, Mel bringing the bottle of brandy through and refilling his glass. He still had a bag of frozen peas pressed against his throbbing face – even the teeth h
urt at the back of his mouth.

  ‘They’ll tell everyone. Everyone at school will be laughing about me; I’m such an idiot. You even warned me. What am I going to do?’

  ‘No they won’t, they won’t tell anyone. D’you honestly think Darren’s brother will want people knowing about this? Or his dad? It’ll ruin the tough guy Shine image. Trust me, they’ll keep it quiet. You just have to keep your head down and stay away from him. At least for now.’

  When he was finally able to run, Darren was still curled up on the ground, his brother booting him in the stomach. Marcus hesitated, but there were four of them, and they were bigger, tougher. ‘You sick cunts, you fucking homos. In my bloody car an all.’ Over and over, the words and the kicks, the fists. Only the first couple of punches hurt, the rest he didn’t feel, only knew that he was falling down. And once he was down he knew it would be over soon, and that it wouldn’t be so bad. Gravel and broken glass in the flesh of his cheek and side, then his palms as he pushed to stand. Then he ran, over the football pitches, past the George and Dragon pub, straight to Melanie.

  ‘Are you cold? I’ll lend you a jumper if you like?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at your face then.’ She took the bag of peas from him and touched his face with her fingertips; she was so close he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

  ‘I just left him there. I ran like a coward.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ she said kissing his forehead.

  A key in the lock and the scuff of shoes being kicked clean signalled the arrival of her mother.

  ‘What’s this?’ Chrissie stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed; behind her, watching over her shoulder was the man they’d seen at Leysdown. The one who watched them on the beach. The one who’d frightened Melanie so much she couldn’t speak. He looked even bigger than before, his shoulders hunched in wads of muscle and sinew around his neck, his head too small.

  ‘Marcus has had a bit of trouble, Mum.’

  ‘Oh right. So that’s why he’s half-naked on my sofa and you’re drinking my booze? D’you think I was born yesterday? I told you, no more of this. Didn’t I? I warned you. I bloody warned you.’ She moved over to them, dropping her bag on the armchair and gathered up the glasses and bottle of brandy.