by Martyn Ford
‘You believe she’s dead?’
‘Wha— I . . . They’ve arrested Francis.’ Again, he appealed to Isabelle. ‘You’ve arrested him. And I understand the intention is to charge . . . ’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Just . . . reading the room. Watching the news.’
‘When was the last time you saw Robin?’ Sam asked.
‘Um – a few weeks ago. I was babysitting. I picked her up from school.’
‘The Clarkes don’t trust many people to take care of their daughter.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘You collected her, then what, walked back to their house?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Fine, we went through the park. She picked some flowers, played on the slide. I cooked her turkey dinosaurs in the oven. She had two blobs of ketchup, like eyes on the plate. They’d run out of peas, so I gave her sweetcorn. We sang along to the radio. Shall I go on . . . ?’
‘How did you get into the house?’ Isabelle wondered.
Daniel looked over to her. ‘I’ve got a . . .’ And then he stopped. Dead in his tracks. But he’d gone too far to turn back now, he had to finish this sentence. ‘I have a key.’
During a second or two of silence, Daniel closed his eyes and went to speak but, again, no words came out. He sighed.
‘Do you know what a crying Hecate is?’ Sam showed him the picture on his phone.
Shrugging, Daniel said, ‘Sure . . . it’s a religious thing. About demons or something. Why?’
‘Not many people know about them.’
‘I know lots of things . . . Sam, seriously, what’s going on?’
He didn’t respond, instead he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the e-fit of the old scarred man Iris Parker had described. The narrow face, mottled flesh down the cheeks and nose and up across the forehead. Long grey hair, scraggy, digitally sketched from the new neighbour’s memory.
‘Do you know who this is?’
Daniel didn’t look. ‘Tell me, why are you asking?’
‘This man was seen parked outside their house exactly a week prior to Robin’s disappearance.’
‘OK?’
‘I think he planted digital evidence – some incriminating searches, using their router. I believe this person is somehow involved.’
‘Sam, buddy, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – this case, you need to ease up. Shall we just apply Occam’s razor? Whatever you’re imagining, is it really the simplest explanation?’
‘Answer the question, Daniel.’
He finally looked at the piece of paper. ‘No,’ he said, his eyes drifting slowly back up to Sam’s. ‘I do not know who that man is.’
Despite everything he knew about the craft – the nuance, the rhythm, the subtle tells like those he’d seen just moments ago – Sam had absolutely no idea if this was the truth, or another one of Daniel’s excellent lies.
Chapter 27
A familiar living room. We see the sofa, the back of a head, the modest collection of World War II memorabilia on the left-hand wall. The crucifix shrouded in symbols – an altar, a tribute to conflict. Today the music is classical, it’s Italian – instrumental, light strings, fast fingers – all wrong. The kind of sounds that serenade diners, outdoors in cobbled squares, beneath canvas parasols and late summer sun.
Gregory Marston paces up and down, up and down, in front of the large TV.
‘Where is he?’ Gregory checks his watch. ‘Cards on the table, Henry, I am spooked.’
‘He’s coming.’ Henry Marston Senior’s half-electronic vocal cords are deep and gravelled.
A noise. The front door creaking shut. ‘Thought we weren’t meant to be meeting like this?’ Max says, striding casually into the living room.
Passing his hand over his bald head, Gregory shows teeth. He lurches for his twin brother, grabbing the much slimmer man by the scruff of his jacket and slamming him against the wall. ‘You said he was eighteen.’
Max laughs, his jacket bundled around his chin, and looks to Henry. ‘I got the years mixed up,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Year eight, year twelve, year twenty, I don’t know, fuck – I can’t remember school.’
‘Let him go,’ Henry says, standing up.
He is by far the largest of the three men – tall and fat. Clearly though, beneath it all, he has a substantial amount of muscle. Gregory comes next on the size chart, followed by Max, who, with his long, plaited ponytail and his blood-rat eyes, looks to be the runt of the siblings.
A final shove and Gregory steps away, sits on the sofa to the right and rests his face in his hands. Like before, he wears a shirt and a loosened tie. Whereas Max is dressed in an off-white vest and baggy camouflage trousers. There’s objective menace in the way he smiles, the way he moves.
‘You were swinging that crowbar too,’ Max says. ‘And you broke protocol – we weren’t meant to speak.’
‘I was telling you to stop.’
‘I’m still not getting what the problem is here? Aside from the fact we didn’t finish the job . . .’
‘Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger.’
‘What?’ Max says. ‘That doesn’t fucking mean . . . Don’t quote that shit at me . . . Fine, OK, I’ll admit it was an unpleasant thing to do. But it has to happen – we have to square it up. You can go back to your boring little life, and I’ll finish it.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘We’ve done worse. I mean, come on . . . Why are you so wound up about all this?’
‘There’s a . . . a detective, asking around for me,’ Gregory mumbles at the floor. ‘Some woman.’
‘Well, yeah, that’s how all this started.’
‘Not about North Serpent,’ Gregory says. ‘About what you did to that . . . child.’
‘We.’
‘Pardon?’
‘What we did.’
Max seems totally unfazed as he sits opposite his brother and puts his laced leather boots on the coffee table. Still standing with his back to the camera, Henry glares down at him. Max hesitates, then places his feet flat on the carpet.
We can assume then that this property – this visibly wealthy home – belongs to Henry Marston Senior, who looms high in a pale suit.
These three men, all at least forty years of age, appear to be too old for this. We see it most starkly on Gregory’s face. He looks worn, as though he’s been plucked from normality and dropped into this situation against his will.
The music has now moved further back in time, but up in terms of tempo. Violins. Is it Vivaldi? This shuffled playlist continues to surprise.
Well dressed like tall, suited Henry, Gregory retains some level of sophistication. It’s unrepentant Max – fearless in the face of all consequences, be they mortal or otherwise – who appears the odd one out. The black sheep, least fitting of this decor, this music. The worst, as we’ve heard, of these siblings.
‘Relax, Greg,’ Max says. ‘It was smooth. Apart from your momentary lapse, it was clean.’
‘Clean? Your fucking giant pupils. I told you to be sober – what was it?’
‘Ah, just a little one of my own recipes, just to take the edge off.’ Max’s wide eyes mock him. ‘I’m on my way now. Brothers, I’m going to the moon. You should come along.’
‘I did say we should consider alternatives,’ Henry croaks, sitting back down.
‘Diane knows,’ Gregory whispers, his voice deeper than usual. Filled with regret.
Alarmed now, Max turns to his larger brother. ‘Why? Did you tell her?’
‘She still has contacts – in the force.’ Henry leans over to the coffee table and picks up a small tumbler. He drinks it in one.
‘Is she angry?’
The glass bangs back on to the wood and Henry’s fingers return to his throat to speak. ‘What do you think?’
‘So, thi
s woman . . . ?’ Max shuffles and fidgets on the sofa. He’s agitated, twitchy. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Gregory says. ‘But Alexandra called me – said a detective came to her office, trying to track us down, asking about everyone.’
‘How is that fucking horrible bitch?’ Max smiles. His teeth are sharp and brown.
‘Still lying for us.’
‘Oh, I doubt that. Far as I can see, Greg, you’re the only risk. You work in a call centre – obviously they’re going to find you. Grow up.’
‘This isn’t a joke.’
‘Then why am I laughing?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘How’s your boy?’ Max says, turning to Henry.
‘Not good.’ He coughs, wheezes. ‘This will be difficult for him.’
‘Is he going to recover?’ Max asks. ‘Or is he, you know, a bona-fide spastic?’
Rising, Henry snatches the glass and throws it hard at his brother – it misses, shattering on the wall behind him. ‘That’s my son,’ he tries to shout, though it comes out raspy and seems to cause genuine pain. A gag – he grabs his own neck, swallowing, gasping for air.
‘Hey, hey.’ Max sits up again, having ducked for cover. ‘Let’s be civil.’
Henry returns to his seat, in the centre of the frame.
‘Listen, it’ll go like this,’ Max says. ‘Gregory will get called in, no comment, no comment, fuck off, la, la, la. Then all this will blow over.’
‘And what about the rest?’ Gregory says. ‘The shit they found at the Clarkes’ house? They want to speak to Diane.’
‘It. Was. The. Dad,’ Max yells, jutting his splayed hand at the TV.
‘They’re still looking for her.’
‘Again, relax. Diane’ll be fine. Even if they track her down, what are they gonna do? Anyway, it’s as good as over. You should watch the news. Maybe that shifty fucker read something Diane posted online? Maybe he wants to lock swords with the darkness.’ Max puts on a low, comedic voice, lifting his hands above his head like a zealous preacher. ‘Command the Lord’s bright light – drive the fiends back from whence they came. Who cares?’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Gregory says. ‘He wouldn’t have the doll pointed at his own house.’
‘OK, someone else put it there.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know – this has nothing to do with me.’
‘But what if it does?’
Max flexes his face, scrunches his eyes – moves his hand fast as he speaks. ‘OK, OK, OK, not that it matters. But what’s the alternative? Come on, come on.’ He clicks his fingers. ‘You’re thinking someone from the church? Who? And-and-and fucking why?’
Henry clears his throat, a guttural roar of a cough. Max creases his nose in disgust – he’s becoming more and more animated. Speeding up.
‘There’s an artist’s impression that Diane’s contact has kindly shared,’ Henry whispers, as he pulls his mobile from his inside pocket. ‘A suspect. Someone they want to speak to about Robin Clarke.’
‘Oh yeah? Yeah? Does it look like the dad?’
‘No.’
‘Why haven’t they released it – hmm? Hmm? Riddle me this.’
‘I don’t know, maybe, like you, they’ve got their sights set on Francis Clarke.’
‘Hmm, yes. Oh yeah. Yes.’ Max is now bouncing in his seat. ‘That’s been my theory all along. I said it. Do you remember?’
They ignore him.
The camera can’t see Henry’s phone screen – but when he shows it to his brothers it’s clear they recognise the man.
‘Well . . .’ Max lifts his eyebrows, does an almost camp double take. ‘That is interesting.’
‘Think if we give them a name, they’ll leave us alone?’ Gregory asks.
‘Great minds.’
‘Oh, boys,’ Max says. ‘This is good. Like a game of chess. I feel, in my heart, an enormous sense of peace. Here. In my heart. Is that God?’
‘No,’ Gregory shakes his head. ‘That’s drugs.’
And Max smiles. ‘Sorry I was so blasé about everything.’
‘It’s OK.’ Gregory sighs. ‘As you say, hardly the worst thing we’ve done.’
‘It’s just, I find it fascinating. You guys – you still think you’re going to heaven.’ Max’s smile is open and he’s emitting a high-pitched sound. ‘But,’ he waggles his index finger, ‘it’s too late for that.’ And now he’s standing, shouting, ‘It’s too late for that.’
The music is carrying him – he’s matching the rhythm. The strings taking us fast towards some climax – towards the end of winter.
‘Sit down.’
‘A serpent, a saviour – a black land beyond.’ He sings, ballroom dancing with an invisible partner – sidestepping, turning, turning. ‘All that is righteous and all that is fond, to your heart, sing, sing, my little frogs, sing.’
‘Max.’
‘Shall we pray? Dear Lord, let us pray.’ And, with immediate purpose, Max stops, relaxes and sits back down. He crosses his legs and strokes his chin. ‘This will sound sentimental – maybe even outright gay – but you guys are my favourite people. And I’m glad we’re together. Honestly, I have missed you two.’
His brothers just stare at him.
‘Ah, no.’ Max points. ‘I know what the feeling is. Here, in my heart. This isn’t God. It’s love.’
Chapter 28
On the afternoon of the following day, Isabelle came to Sam’s flat. Unlike before, he didn’t rush to meet her outside to guide her gaze away from the chaos inside. It wasn’t just that he was past shame, he also felt Isabelle deserved him at his most transparent – his most open self. And what better place can one learn such details about another than in the untouched privacy of their home.
Robin had been missing for almost a week. Six days of questions and silence. On the scale of decades, however, or the scale of Ethan Clarke, this was no time at all. A millisecond rolling from zero to nine. And yet, in this blip, Sam had grown fond of Isabelle. Her tired eyes, half dipped, serene but glassy, and bloodshot at the edges. The bone almost visible on the bridge of her nose. Her stately shoulders, the wisdom she exuded with nothing more than her spine and a moment’s thought before every word she spoke. These were all well and good. But, above allure, he respected her – therefore, attraction was impossible. What did this paradox say about his self-esteem? That the instant he cared about someone they were no longer eligible for affection.
A sudden memory, Marilyn sitting on the kitchen floor, against the fridge, crying.
‘You’re gone, Sam,’ she’d said. ‘I know you loved me once. But there’s nothing left to burn.’
They saw it happening – they stood by and watched as the signs appeared, as it fell apart, as all derelict things do. The only difference was that he recognised the inevitability. Marilyn mistook this candour for apathy. But Sam was just self-aware. He knew that, like the momentum of a wheel, the faster he went, the more stable he was – anything besides total devotion to a single goal was tantamount to stopping. And Sam had believed nothing hurt more than that.
Although now, the collateral damage – flesh to bait the truth from its nest – was becoming equally intolerable. A marriage, a career, even his own health – they had all been on the menu.
But Freddie, having to take his first steps a second time. Not between sofas, not between the open arms of his cheering parents, but in a hospital gym, holding railings, telling a nurse that he can do it himself. This was a price Sam had not been willing to pay. Here was the limit.
Maybe the tumour too. Maybe this malignant growth, the rogue tissue, wasn’t a random turn of fate as the doctor had said, but these flaws manifesting physically – literal obsession and failure, his body trying to make abstract things concrete. Unaware of just how dangerous they were.
And this hopeless, final instalment was beginning to throb. It ached in his skull – a completely new pain. A sharp pain. He’d felt somethi
ng similar lingering over the last six months or so, but nothing this persistent. Usually, he could blink away the shorter stabs. But not even scrunching his eyes shut and pressing his temples was affecting it now. He suspected he would feel this way, or worse, until he went to sea.
Funny, Marilyn had once whispered, from a midnight doorway, beyond the glow of his study lamp, ‘Ethan Clarke will be the death of you.’
Perhaps the truth lay behind this curtain. Perhaps it wanted everything.
Isabelle came into the hallway, placed her keys on his breakfast bar, then turned towards the rest of his apartment. If she was shocked by what she saw, she hid it well. Her eyes passed over Sam’s noticeboard, his stacks of boxes, folders, all piled up in his small, lonely home. Yet more remnants of failure.
Some paperwork was brand new. Sam had spent the night trawling through everything he could find on Daniel Aiden. He’d replayed that moment – Daniel, barefoot, standing in his cold living room next to his memento shelves, looking at the e-fit. There had been a flicker, a micro shift in his face. Although for less than a tenth of a second, and contaminated by the repetition and diminishing returns of memory, it was starting to look like recognition.
‘I’ve been speaking to an associate of the Marstons,’ Isabelle said. ‘An ex-girlfriend. Quietly disgruntled. And I’ve got an address for Diane.’ She handed him a Post-it note.
‘Is this an invitation?’
‘No. I just thought you should know that I’m making progress. You seen the news?’
‘Bits and pieces.’
Tomorrow morning, first thing, time would run out. They would have to release Francis or charge him with murder. Sam could imagine the coverage was, as always, redefining sensationalism. A surreal idea – what if he pleaded guilty? What if he’d killed Ethan too? Daniel had suggested Occam’s razor. The public consensus cut a similar line. Simple explanations.
‘They’ll go to the wire,’ Isabelle said. ‘But . . . unless we find something within the next sixteen hours, they’ll charge him. It doesn’t mean it’s over.’
‘Come on. Can you see a jury ruling anything else? They’ve already made up their minds.’