Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  She is quiet for a moment and then replies, “Sarah”. Thom thinks there is something strange about the way she says it, almost as if she has plucked it out of the air or it is a name she has always loved and has now chosen it for herself.

  Thom manages to smile at her, despite the awkwardness and the lack of explanation. They have only managed two words but Thom feels better. After about thirty seconds of more silence, she smiles back. The gesture has clearly been thoroughly considered, something she doesn’t want to give away easily. Therefore, Thom appreciates it.

  “Hello Sarah”, Thom says, checking to see if she flinches at the name. She does nothing, just continues to stare at him as though he is an alien object that has landed in her path. When he moves his hand towards her, she jumps back. Thom points at her elbow and she understands and offers it to him. His sleeve soaks up a little of her blood and he moves it away, thinking about how much they have already shared in such a short space of time.

  “Why were you crying?” Sarah asks, surprising Thom. He had no idea anyone saw him in the garden and he wonders what she must think of him. He hesitates for a moment, his gut spinning like a Catherine wheel, shooting off in all directions.

  “My cousin died”, he tells her, feeling his tongue struggling with the words. His saliva has turned to wallpaper paste.

  “I’m sorry”, she says automatically, emptily. Thom almost laughs; her voice is like a glacier splitting his body in half. Even stranger than her tone is that he likes it. He is sick of people cooing him like a baby. Sarah is bashing him over the head with a rock instead.

  “Please come in. We can wash that”. He gestures to her elbow.

  Flicking her curls out of her eyes, she nods and Thom pulls her up.

  16 Red Mug

  “How did he die?” I ask as Thom places a mug of tea in front of me. The mug is red and I am instantly intrigued by it. Thom pauses for a second in front of me, unsure what to do with his body, unable to let go of the mug handle. I reach over to lift the mug into my hold, desperate to feel the colour pulse into me but I miss and touch his hand instead. He looks up, almost blushing and then throws him-self backwards onto the sofa. I grit my teeth. After all, it isn’t him I intended to touch; it is the colour.

  “Hit by a train”, he answers. He doesn’t say Daniel fell, or jumped or was pushed because he doesn’t know. Only I know the truth. In the papers it says the case is still open but there have been no developments. Apparently, they can’t find the footage from the station for that day. So I am still free for now. I am free and I wonder if I care either way.

  “Were you close?” I stare into my mug, without giving him any attention. I fear that looking too closely into his eyes might remind me of Daniel too much. They have the same colour eyes and the way Thom’s lips move when he speaks takes me back to that moment, when Daniel mouthed those words: right on time.

  “I’ve lived here since I was twelve”, he gestures to the room with his hands. “But, we weren’t especially close”, he admits, playing with his knuckle.

  “Why did you live here?” I am wondering aloud and after I ask, I think perhaps ‘normal’ people wouldn’t be so direct. Thom seems slightly stunned for a moment but quickly recovers; as though it is something he has programmed himself to do. I concentrate on separating the strands of my hair and examining them, waiting.

  “My parents died”.

  My head jerks up, my mouth involuntarily jarred open. “Oh God…” I moan; my features running downwards like a painting soaked with water. My stomach is jumping. I can’t believe what I have done to this man. He has experienced enough pain already. Yet I hadn’t thought of anything that day, I just killed Daniel, whether he planned it or not.

  Mum, how can I live with this?

  “Do you believe in God?” he asks softly. I wonder if he is going to tell me he is at peace, he understands that God has a plan and therefore, he is dealing with all these lost people.

  “No”, I say, no explanation.

  “Me neither”, he agrees abruptly. I wonder for a moment why he brought it up. Is it just because I mentioned the word ‘God’? Does he think I am a hypocrite for using the word when I have no belief in the concept?

  Thom takes a gulp of his tea, completely unaware of my paranoid musings and burns his tongue. “Shit”. He uselessly tries to cool his tongue with his hand and sucks in air. He doesn’t notice me moving until I’m beside him. I want to cuddle him, for his parents, for his cousin, for not cuddling Michael. Most of all, right now, I wish it was you. This is the first time I have wanted to perform this action for years and I have no idea why Thom is the person I want to do it with.

  I lift my arms and look at them as though they are not connected to me. Thom notices and forgets about his tongue for a moment, perhaps wondering if I am going to show him my wings or start a puppet show. His tongue still darts in and out of his mouth though, and I am suddenly drawn to it. I am looking at the lips that look so familiar and want to touch them, feel how soft they are.

  I lean towards him and he doesn’t move, curious perhaps. I wonder if he thinks I’m going to tell him a secret or blow on his tongue or spit in his face. His eyelashes flutter uncomfortably. I am a floodlight blinding him. Yet he doesn’t move, even when I press my lips against his. At first, it is a still kiss as though I’m trying to give him CPR but it deepens and my tongue flickers against his for a moment. It feels hot against mine and I wonder if his tongue is burning mine by proxy. His stubble scratches my lips and, as I kiss him, I think I am remembering something… a red bedspread, the stench of lavender clashing with disinfectant… then I forget.

  As I release his mouth from my hold, he uses his hand to stay upright on the sofa. Perhaps he fears he is in danger of simply falling to one side. I can see his lips trying to form words, his throat bulging with speech but he fails and only shakes his head. I start stretching out my curls, not focussing on him.

  “I think God is a comfort blanket for people”, Thom finally says. I have no idea why he is returning to the subject. It feels like the kiss hasn’t even happened.

  “It wouldn’t make you feel better about your cousin…?”

  “Daniel”, Thom reveals, not realising I already know, and adds, “no”.

  “Why not?”

  “Why did you do that?” he asks, almost aggressively and I wonder what is so offensive about my question.

  “What?”

  “Before… the kiss”, he croaks.

  “I don’t know”, I answer, honestly. I draw my legs up to my chest and rest my head on them.

  “I have a girlfriend”. Thom finally remembers.

  “Okay”, I say, surprised by how unaffected I feel.

  “Emma”, Thom emphasises.

  “Okay”, I agree, cold again. I suppose he thinks I should care but I don’t. I don’t have any real feelings for him, I just wanted to touch someone again. It doesn’t matter who he is.

  “Daniel…” Thom says, out of nowhere. “Sarah… You remind me of him, a bit”. Thom’s eyes are wide as though he isn’t the one who made the suggestion.

  “Really?” I smile faintly.

  “You surprise me”, Thom admits; his forehead growing more wrinkled with each word he says. I have no idea why he is telling me this.

  “In a good way?”

  “I hope so”, Thom whispers, his eyes focussed on something in his head. I wonder if he is thinking about what he was reading in the garden, the thing that made him cry. “I’ve only had nasty surprises from Daniel”.

  I am afraid I have ruined this man. Although when I think about it, I remember Daniel’s hint that he planned for me to push him in front of that train. Has he left similar puzzles behind for his family, particularly Thom? Am I meant to confess to save him from this torment?

  For a moment, I nearly say the words. I nearly tell Thom, his lip trembling like he is standing in the snow, it was me. IT WAS ME! I am the murderer who took him away from you. Then I think the word ‘murder
er’ is too strong and that can’t possibly be what I am. I just need to look after them. They need me. Someone needs me.

  “You’ll be okay”, I finally tell him and he stares at me hopefully, like when I was a child and you told me the gerbil wasn’t dead, he was just sleeping. And I wanted to believe you so much.

  17 The Red Stain

  When Thom waves to Sarah as she gets to the corner, he is practically in the garden a millisecond later. Yet before the notebook, he shrinks. He takes steps towards it but appears to be moving further away. It looks like a person who has jumped from a building; pages bent and twisted at awkward angles, opened with the words bare like a person’s body ripped open on impact.

  He kneels beside it, a parishioner atoning his sins, a man hum-bled by greatness. He touches the pages, feels the ink impressions that are harsh and definite and tries to press them flat. Yet, he can’t force them to retreat; they are as strong as the day they were written.

  Thom sags against the back of the house and drags the notebook onto his lap. He smooths down the pages and closes it. Even the cover isn’t familiar to him. It is brown mock leather with a circular pattern moulded onto the front cover. It has a red stain on the back, which means nothing really, as it could’ve come from the lock up where it had been buried underneath a shelf of rubbish.

  Why did he know nothing about this?

  Thom can’t read the words again, not now anyway. He just holds the notebook in his lap and traces the pattern with his fingers until he becomes aware, an indeterminate time later, that someone is in the kitchen. He grabs onto the window sill and hauls himself up, peering in through the net curtains.

  He sees Aunty Val. She is at the kitchen table, carefully counting and stacking her penny collection into even piles. Thom can already see when she will finish, the piles of coins in straight piles across the table and an odds pile in the far corner. Then she will sweep them into her hand one by one and replace them in the jar. Counting the pennies calms her and she keeps them around as a form of comfort. Thom can remember only two times the pennies were counted and taken to the bank. Once, when Daniel decided to go to university and another when Richard wanted a moped.

  The only other times Thom remembers using them is when the three of them used to play bingo together. They’d separate all the coins into even piles (or as close to); each put some in the middle and then drew cards from the deck. Thom always loved to be the caller, it made him feel grown up and responsible. Daniel hardly ever called “bingo!”, even if he had the cards. He never wanted to attract attention but he still played – why? – nobody knows.

  Thom is almost happy for a moment but the notebook grows cold against his hand, stinging him back to reality. His fingers tense around its body. It is a small snake that has slithered through his fingers and frozen in his hold.

  Thom turns the doorknob and flings the door open. As the door flies open, it smashes against the table and the coins shudder, the piles jutting out of shape like vertebrae knocked out of position. Several of the piles spray over and mix with the piles next to them. Thom feels like an artist who has ruined the paints by mixing all the colours together.

  “Sorry”, he whispers, placing the notebook on the table and pushing it towards her with one finger. It presses against the pennies and moves them in unison like one of those machines at the arcade, where you try to get your two-pence to push some money off and create a chain reaction.

  Aunty Val is silent. She is still staring at her fallen pennies. They are parts of her castle, falling down around her. Her mouth is twitching at one side and her hands are flat on the table, as though she is awaiting instructions. So Thom delivers one: “Read it”.

  Aunty Val plants her hands on top of the notebook and plucks it from the demolition, not causing a single penny to move a fraction. Her collectedness makes Thom envy her. Although, he wonders if she can retain it after sampling the contents. Thom waits as she opens the notebook to the first page with writing on, and her eyes begin to scan the words.

  Five minutes pass before she puts it down and gathers her hands together in front of her, looking up at him. “And what is this about?”

  “You’ve never seen that before?” Thom snarls, shaken by her lack of concern.

  Aunty Val shakes her head and says, “Why? Where did you get it?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that it has my name in it”. Thom flicks open to the offending page and lets Aunty Val take a quick peek before slamming it shut. “How can that be explained?” Thom demands and wishes she will miraculously have an explanation that will calm him, which will make this whole wild set of events fade into the background and leave him to move on.

  “I didn’t know you thought of yourself as a Downing, after all these years”. Aunty Val frowns, showing the first real sign of dis-tress about the notebook but Thom can’t help thinking she has missed the vital point.

  “I didn’t write that! Or… I don’t remember writing it”.

  “What do you mean Thom?”

  “I mean that I found this and I have no recollection of ever seeing it before or writing in it. Now, does that make sense to you?”

  “Maybe you wrote it when you were younger”, Aunty Val says plainly. She makes him feel like he has a splinter but is making it out to be a six-inch knife wound.

  “I did think of that but I just can’t remember doing this… at all”.

  “You were very upset then. You hardly spoke for a month and saw a counsellor”. Aunty Val pats Thom’s hand, dismissively.

  “A counsellor…” Thom thinks for a moment. “Oh yes… I did, didn’t I?”

  “At least you remember that”. Aunty Val smiles gently, a parent figure trying to encourage a pathetic attempt by her child.

  “But why don’t I remember this?” Thom slams his fist against the table and makes some of the coins jump in fright. Aunty Val doesn’t flinch though. He feels bad for acting angrily when he notices the tissue poking out of her sleeve, reminding him of how fragile she still is.

  “Did you really feel those things?” Aunty Val ventures, “the drowning, the fear we didn’t love you, all of that...?”

  “No”, Thom interjects, “well, I don’t think it was that bad”.

  “We always loved you the same”, Aunty Val half pleads.

  “I didn’t ask you about that”, Thom dismisses her and looks down to avoid seeing a tear carving its way down her cheek. Before Daniel’s death, he rarely saw her cry. Now, it is a daily event. He can’t handle it; it makes him want to run until his body twists in pain.

  “Do you think someone else could have written it?” Thom mutters, still facing the table. There is a moment of definite silence from Aunty Val.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone. Someone else”. Thom focuses on her hand that is gripping the edge of the table.

  “You’re scaring me Thom”, Aunty Val tells him. “You’ve been very quiet lately and now this. Has Daniel’s death brought up old feelings about your parents?”

  “Oh great!” Thom shouts, standing up and sweeping the notebook and coins from the tabletop. There is a sound of clinking and thudding as they hit the floor. “It’s me who’s the crazy one?” Thom spits. “There’s all this shit lying around that I don’t under-stand and you don’t notice anything because all you do is sit around and wallow for fuck’s sake!” Thom doesn’t take a breath. Aunty Val’s jaw has sagged, bringing out the wrinkles in her neck. Thom lowers himself onto the chair again. It has been years since he lost his temper this way.

  “I know you’re upset so I know why you did that. I just ask that you give me the same respect”. Aunty Val holds back the tears and gets to her feet. Thom springs up to follow her but her turning to face him cuts him short.

  “Please clean up those coins”, she says and strokes the side of his face. Thom grabs her hand and kisses it and she nods, knowing what he means. Thom feels comforted by her but at the same time, sees how her eyes
flicker under his gaze.

  Thom wonders what Aunty Val would say if he told her all the parts he knew, about the note and the lock up, and whether she would still call him crazy then. Thom also wonders why he doesn’t want to tell her, why he is keeping Daniel’s secret for him, when he isn’t even here to know about it.

  18 Red Door

  I try to return to my bedsit the evening after I meet Thom for the first time but, standing on the corner, I can make out Michael sitting in a car opposite the building. I am surprised he is wasting his time and partly touched by his presence. I wonder if Doctor Rosey is hovering too but decide she probably has better things to do.

  There is no way I can sneak in. Michael has completely cut off my access to warmth and shelter. I have no choice but to make the streets my home for the night. I wrap the scarf tighter and walk in the opposite direction.

  I think about Michael sitting in the car. Does it mean he cares about me? Or is he doing it for the good of society? After all, he considers me mentally unstable and probably dangerous. I’ll bet that Doctor’s been stirring up his fears too, putting detonators all over his mind.

  It would be so easy to walk over to his car and ask him to help me. It would be so easy to let the doctors take me back to the hospital, keep the door closed 22 hours per day, make me swallow flavourless pills until I forget my identity and forget the sadness that hovers over it.

  Yet, I am needed. Thom needs me. His family need me. They don’t realise what I can do for them. Take today for example, I made Thom forget for a moment, I made him come out of his pain and confront something completely different. This is why I know I’m meant to help that family, why I know I have something special to share with them.

  Without you, I have to find somewhere to be. You understand don’t you, Mum? I’m not forgetting our family or you.

  At the same time, I can’t deny that spending time with them may give me the opportunity to find out more about Daniel. There are so many questions about him that need to be answered. I have made no progress in discovering what he meant when he said those words, before the train smashed him to pieces. In his destruction, all the answers shattered, like a plate thrown against a wall and scattering into dark undiscovered corners. You never find all the pieces when that happens. There is always a shard some place that the eye misses.