The Camel Trail

by Merrigan, Peter J

  Martin had been given new calliper braces for his feet, designed to stretch his Achilles tendons and his calf muscles, and to aid mobility. Kevin watched as Alan crouched and adjusted the Velcro straps that circled Martin’s ankles. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘They’re fine, okay? Let’s ride the Camel before I die of boredom.’

  ‘Kevin, can you push the chair?’

  Kevin nodded his head emphatically. Pushing the wheelchair seemed like a big responsibility, even if Martin wasn’t in it at the time. They were standing outside the bicycle hire shop by the entrance to the Camel Trail, a long and winding walkway that follows the River Camel from Padstow, through Wadebridge and into Bodmin. It wasn’t so busy this time of year, even though it was the weekend, and at nine thirty in the morning only a dozen or so people had passed them in the last fifteen minutes.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Alan asked.

  Martin took a deep breath and nodded. He waddled when he walked. It was a wide and loping gait that reminded Kevin of Yosemite Sam from the cartoons. Only slower.

  At first, Martin didn’t need any help; the Camel Trail’s smooth, flat surface ensured an easy walk. He would stop and stand still when a cyclist rushed past, his arms held ever so slightly out from his sides as though for balance, and then his face would set in grim determination and he’d slide one foot out in front of himself and lope forward again.

  Kevin pushed the wheelchair along at a slow pace, keeping in step with Martin at the other side of Alan.

  ‘Brass monkeys,’ Martin said and shivered.

  ‘It’s not that cold,’ Alan said. ‘Besides, a bit of fresh air’ll do you good.’

  Martin gripped the sleeve of Alan’s coat; he was too old to hold hands. Using his teaching-assistant-come-physiotherapist for support, they walked on.

  ‘How far are we going?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘All the way,’ Martin said.

  ‘How far’s that?’

  ‘Too far,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll stop at the bend up there.’

  Kevin looked back to see how far they’d come. It felt like they’d been walking for twenty minutes, but he could still see the bicycle shop, no more than one hundred yards back.

  Martin stopped, let go of Alan’s sleeve, and rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s worse than brass monkeys.’ He started off again, unsupported, and took three small steps before he fell to his knees and dropped to his side. He cursed and thumped the ground.

  Alan was quick to his side. ‘Up you come.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Kevin could tell he was trying not to cry. He wasn’t badly hurt, he was angry. ‘Stupid legs!’

  ‘Come on, Mart—’

  ‘Leave me alone! I’ll get up myself.’

  Martin swore again. Kevin could only stand back and watch as Martin fought Alan off and struggled onto his knees before, finally, accepting a helping hand from his aide.

  ‘Do you want your chair?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘I’ll walk all the way next time,’ Martin said. ‘All the way without falling over.’

  Chapter Three

  Another night, another nightmare. Hindsight was one of Sarah’s better qualities. It settled with her in the living room like a lead weight. She cradled a large glass of white wine, watching the time tick by on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. She tucked her feet up under her on the chair, one hand gripping the cool glass, the other pushed down between her thighs for warmth.

  The nightmare—Frankie, again, laughing and cursing and beating and drinking and stinking and touching—had woken her just before three o’clock, a cold sweat on her spine, the bedclothes sodden at her midriff; had she really been that scared of him? Was she still scared of him, after all this time?

  She had pulled the covers off the bed, ran them through a short cycle in the washing machine, and now they were draped across chairs in front of the electric fire to dry.

  She found herself momentarily wondering what Frankie’s life was like now—was his cell a stark reminder that he was no longer the man he had been? Was he bullying other, lesser men than he? Or, the thought flashed wickedly in her head, was he being bullied? Had the predator finally fallen?

  She stifled a yawn. No matter how far away he physically was, Sarah knew that in her head, in her mind, he’d always be right around the next corner. His shadow extended well beyond his reach.

  It wasn’t so much his touch she feared, or his voice; it was his sheer presence. If she saw him now, standing in her living room, she knew she’d lose that iron will she had exuded in the courtroom. She knew everything would be just the way it was. As much as she hated to admit it, Frankie Catchpole ruled her life even now.

  She rubbed her eyes in tiredness and finished her glass of wine.

  Through the net curtain that didn’t quite reach the bottom of the living room window, tiny flecks of white sifted down from the leaden sky.

  ‘It’s snowing, it’s snowing!’

  ‘Kevin? What time’s it?’

  Kevin pulled back her thick woollen blanket, failing to notice the missing sheets, and knelt up on the bed beside her. ‘Come on! It’s morning. It’s snowing.’

  Sarah rubbed a hand over her face. She couldn’t remember what time she had finally crawled back into bed. ‘Put the kettle on,’ she said.

  ‘Can we make a snowman?’

  ‘Later. What time’s it?’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘Can we make one after you’ve had a cup of tea?’

  ‘What age are you?’ Sarah groaned.

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said—maybe usually meant yes—and he ran from the room.

  Sarah stretched and turned onto her side, wiping a thin line of saliva from the corner of her mouth. She focused on the clock. It had just gone seven. Whatever happened to Saturday morning sleep-ins?

  ‘Are you up?’ Kevin called up from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I’m up,’ Sarah croaked. She dropped her legs out over the side of the bed and arched the stiffness out of her back. Flicking the curtain to one side, she saw the rooftops opposite covered in several inches of snow as though someone had come out in the night and painted them all white. Somewhere in the sky, the sun was trying to push its way through the clouds, sunlight glistening off the thick sheet of snow.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’m up,’ she said again, and stood on shaky legs.

  Tessa and her husband, Graeme, hung over the fence separating their back garden from Sarah’s. ‘It’s not as if it happens every year,’ Tessa told Kevin.

  Kevin’s face fell, then almost immediately he grinned again, patting a snowball together in his hands. ‘So we’ll have to make the most of it this year,’ he said, and threw the snowball at Graeme’s head.

  Graeme laughed. ‘You missed by a mile!’

  ‘Hey!’ Martin grumbled from the other side of the fence. ‘That nearly hit me!’ Then he added, ‘Mum, I’m cold.’

  Tessa looked behind her. ‘Where’re your gloves? I thought you put them on a few minutes ago.’

  ‘They were getting on my nerves.’

  To Sarah, Tessa rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll get him inside,’ she said.

  Sarah smiled over the rim of her mug. The steam from her tea floated up around her face, warming her cheeks.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ Graeme said when Tessa had stepped down from the fence, directing his attention back to Sarah and Kevin. ‘It doesn’t snow much, anymore. And so early in December, too.’

  ‘D’you think it’ll still be snowing by Christmas?’ Kevin asked, eyes wide, hopeful.

  Graeme shrugged.

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ Sarah said. She walked around the snowman, appraising it. ‘Why’d you make his head so big?’ she asked.

  ‘Because,’ Kevin said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s Dad.’

  Sarah stared at him, shocked by the candour in his statement, her mug poised inches from her lips. He stooped to gather more snow, either unaware of her ga
ze or unwilling to acknowledge it.

  Graeme cleared his throat. ‘Kevin, why don’t you come and help Martin build a snowman in our garden?’

  ‘Okay,’ Kevin said. Dropping the snowball to the ground, he dusted his gloves off and went back in through the house.

  Sarah stood in silence a moment. Then she laughed nervously. ‘That was a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Graeme reassured her. ‘I’ll go let him in. You’re welcome to join us.’

  Sarah stared at Kevin’s effigy of her husband, the shoelace smile that now appeared to be snarling at her. ‘One caricature’s enough for me, thanks. Send him back round when he gets to be a handful, though.’

  ‘You don’t know what a handful is,’ Graeme said before he disappeared.

  The bandstand by the harbour was awash with slush. An ugly grey cloud hung across the sky, ominously threatening more rain. Martin took hold of Kevin’s arm as they climbed a step, then they made their way across to the Tide Gate with Alan to look out across the river.

  ‘Isn’t it too cold for the fish?’ Kevin asked, watching the boats crisscrossing back and forth on the other side of the pier.

  ‘I don’t think the fish mind so much,’ Alan said. ‘It’s probably too cold for the fishermen, but that’s how they make a living.’

  ‘Even on Christmas Eve?’ Kevin asked. ‘No one eats fish at Christmas and they’re not going to catch any turkeys out there.’

  Alan laughed. ‘No, they probably won’t, will they?’

  ‘I hate turkey,’ Martin said. He was in a mood.

  ‘You hate everything,’ Alan told him.

  ‘Especially you,’ Martin said.

  ‘That’s good to know. If I’m not there when you go back to school after Christmas you’ll know why.’ He blew into his hands and turned back towards the bandstand. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here.’

  ‘When are you going to take me on your bike?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Oh, you’re speaking to me again, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  Alan shrugged. ‘When it’s dry. After Christmas. I still have to buy a sidecar, first.’

  ‘You have a motorbike?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘250cc. It’s not a big one, but it gets me around when I can’t be bothered with the car.’

  ‘What make?’

  ‘Honda. But I’m saving up for an Aprilia, though. A Tuono 1000 R. You like bikes?’

  Kevin grinned. ‘Yeah. I want a Kawasaki when I’m older. I don’t want a Harley, though. Harley’s suck. My dad had a…’ His voice trailed off. Talking about him only made it seem like he was still around. His smile faded and his eyes looked down at the ground.

  Trying to bring the mood back, Alan said, ‘Kawasaki’s no good. You want a proper bike. A good strong Honda to start off on.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Kevin said. His eyes still scanned the ground, conversation halted, his smile no longer present.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Martin said.

  Sarah sat her mug on the windowsill and put her arm around Kevin’s shoulders. The lights on the scantily clad Christmas tree twinkled their reflection in the window. Outside, the snow had all but gone. Another grey Christmas, she thought.

  She yawned, but was desperate to stay awake. Kevin was old enough not to believe in fairytales, but the thrill of coming down in the morning to presents that weren’t there the night before was still there. It was selfish, she thought, continuing the rituals of Christmas more for her own sanity than for Kevin’s pleasure.

  She kissed the top of his head and didn’t get the usual brush off. ‘What’re you think about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He had been quiet all day, ever since getting back from next door, and he seemed reluctant to talk about it. As usual, when he was in one of his silent moods, she found it easier to let him get over it in his own time than to force him through it. She tightened her arms around him in a tender hug and sighed against his cheek.

  Frankie was to blame, of course. More often than not, people seem to forget about the children that are torn this way and that in the middle of domestic violence. It may have been directed more at Sarah than Kevin, but he got more than his share of the bruises and the broken bones.

  She couldn’t think of a word strong enough for the man who ruined their lives.

  ‘You’re choking me,’ Kevin said.

  Sarah loosened her arms around his neck.

  ‘It’s not going to snow, is it?’

  ‘Doesn’t look that way. Do you want another hot chocolate?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Kevin said.

  Sarah sighed again, kissed his hair again. There wasn’t a word strong enough in the English language, she thought.

  ‘Do you think…?’ Kevin began, then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  He shrugged, remained silent for a minute, then said, ‘What do you think he’s doing?’

  ‘Sarah chewed on the inside of her cheek, undecided on how to answer. ‘Right now? Sleeping, I guess. Why do you ask?’

  Kevin slipped out of her arms and began picking at the paintwork on the windowsill. His voice was soft, quiet when he finally spoke. ‘Do you think he knows? When we think about him? Does he know what we’re thinking?’

  Sarah’s throat was tight. ‘Of course not, honey.’ She touched his shoulder. ‘He doesn’t know what we’re thinking any more than we know what he’s thinking. Is that what’s bothering you? Did you think about him today?’

  Kevin nodded. ‘I was with Martin and Alan and we were talking about motorbikes and—’ He broke off, tears glistening in his eyes, his lower lip quivering ever so slightly.

  ‘Come here.’

  She took him back into her arms and held him tight while his tears subsided. It made her angry, this feeling of complete helplessness, that her growing child could be reduced to a nervous wreck at the mere thought of his father. She squeezed him tight.

  When his breathing had reduced to a slow, tired intake, his sniffles fewer and further apart, he looked across the room at the carriage clock and hugged Sarah tighter. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. ‘It’s after midnight.’

  Sarah smiled. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘One black fake-leather wallet—’

  ‘Hey, that’s genuine. Says so inside.’

  ‘—containing two credit cards, a—what’s this?—a store card? Also containing forty-five pounds in two twenties and a fiver. A small square of paper with what appears to be a London phone number written in blue ink. A till receipt from Boots. A small photograph—’

  ‘That’s my boy. Takes after his old man. Or he will, one day.’

  ‘I look forward to incarcerating him.’

  ‘Just hand it over,’ Frankie said.

  The warden pulled back. ‘Don’t snatch. You’re not on the outside yet. I can just as soon lock you up again.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘For being a pain in the ass,’ the warden said. ‘One Siemens mobile phone, black flip-top model with a cracked screen.’ Frankie was about to protest. ‘Says here it was cracked when you came in,’ the warden said. ‘Sign here.’

  Frankie signed.

  ‘Francis Anthony Catchpole, you are hereby granted early release from HM Prison Wandsworth on this, the eleventh day of January—’

  ‘Can I go?’

  ‘Go. And don’t let me see you back here, all right?’

  Frankie left. When they let him through the outer gate, he paused, filled his lungs with fresh air, and smiled. Robert was there to pick him up.

  ‘Nice to see you again, mate,’ Robert said.

  ‘Where’s the nearest strip club?’ Frankie asked.

  In the car, Robert said, ‘How come they let you out, anyway?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Prison was full, or something. Maybe they reckoned I wasn’t a threat to society.’

  ‘They reckoned?’

  ‘Good behaviour,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Who did you bribe?’
r />   ‘Let’s just get a move on.’

  Robert started the car. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Enfield.’

  ‘She’s not there, mate. Listen, Mum’s ill. She had another fall the other day. Why don’t we—’

  ‘Enfield. The house is still there, isn’t it? The neighbours are still there.’

  Robert stared at him. Finally, he said, ‘It’s your call.’

  ‘Too damn right it is,’ Frankie said. His smile had returned and it stayed on his face the whole way around the M25.

  Chapter Four

  Sarah sat with a steaming cup of coffee in Tessa’s living room and watched Alan pushing and pulling on Martin’s legs. Kevin lay on his back beside them, lifting his own legs in the air and stretching them in time with Martin.

  She couldn’t help but notice Martin’s oversized calf muscles, indicative of his strain of muscular dystrophy, as he lay there placidly in his shorts and T-shirt. The muscles didn’t look deformed as she had first expected when Tessa mentioned them; they just looked developed, like the gym-enhanced calf muscles of an adult on otherwise skinny ten-year-old legs.

  Alan pushed on the balls of Martin’s feet as though he was trying to get his toes to touch his knees. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You can stretch more than that. Give it some welly. That’s better.’

  She liked Alan. He was clever. And funny. And good with Martin. And ten years her junior, as if that had anything to do with it. She blinked and sipped her coffee.

  And he was good looking, too, in a rugged, permanently stubbled, permanently tousled kind of way. The sort of personal trainer you’d find working lithe young blondes into size eight dresses, not making a living from stretching disabled limbs.

  He caught her staring at him and he smiled. She looked away, biting on her lower lip, and felt a blush spreading out across her face like the tide swallowing up the shoreline.

  ‘Right,’ Alan said. ‘That’s it. Cocktail time.’

  Kevin sprung to his feet and everyone waited while Martin rolled onto his right side and worked himself into a kneeling position, then gradually pushed himself to his feet using his hands against his knees and thighs.