A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘Are you for real?’ Damaris let out a little scream of frustration. ‘Sex offenders are the lowest of the low in prison. Even I know that. He was a target every day he was in there. He was scarred with boiling water. Nearly murdered by a cell mate…’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There’s this new thing, Mother, called the internet…’

  ‘Don’t you use that tone with me.’ Claire was on her feet.

  ‘What tone should I use to a liar and a thief?’ Damaris shouted.

  They were face to face and it was all Damaris could do not to strike out at her mother.

  Footsteps sounded behind them. Then she heard her father speak, his voice a little breathless as if he’d run up the stairs.

  ‘Claire,’ Roger said as he walked into the room. ‘It’s time for the truth. Damaris deserves that, doesn’t she?’ After the recently raised voices, his quiet tone brought the energy in the room down a notch. ‘If we want to move on as a family we have to talk about this. Truthfully.’

  They all sat.

  ‘I hated that stuck-up bitch,’ Claire said quietly. ‘She always ignored me. Nose up in the air like she owned the world. She blanked me too many times to mention.’

  ‘Claire,’ Roger said with a hint of warning.

  Claire took a deep breath, as if fighting for control. ‘When you came in that day you were crying. Sore. Upset. And at first I really did think Dave had … hurt you. Even the doctor said your injuries were consistent with a sexual assault. I was furious that man had hurt my little girl. Made you cry so hard. I phoned the police without thinking. And then … it all kind of spiralled.’

  ‘It all just grew and grew,’ Roger said. ‘It was terrifying how fast it all happened.’

  ‘And then we couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t tell the truth or we’d be locked up and lose our house, and lose you.’

  Damaris looked from one parent to the other, feeling utterly betrayed by them and wondering how much of what they were saying now was real.

  ‘But you did lose your house,’ she said.

  ‘Business was bad,’ Roger said, his head low with shame. ‘We over-reached with the mortgage, and the holidays.’

  ‘And I just loved that place on first sight. I had to live there,’ Claire added.

  ‘One of the newspapers reported that you had plans to write a book,’ Damaris said. ‘What happened to that?’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘The internet really has everything,’ Damaris said, and cringed at how much of her young life was detailed there. It amazed her that it wasn’t widely known that she was the girl at the centre of this event that just a few years ago had the whole world talking. Although she was never mentioned by name, her mother was, and it wouldn’t take a genius to make the leap from mother to daughter.

  ‘I … couldn’t.’ Claire was staring down at her hands. Twisting her fingers.

  Damaris had a flash of insight. ‘That’s the first time in this con­versation I’ve seen anything from you that might resemble a guilty conscience.’

  Claire looked over at her, and in that moment Damaris read her mother’s reaction as she slowly turned from her, cringing away from her past actions, unable to bear her daughter’s scrutiny.

  ‘I’m a horrible woman. A truly…’ Claire started sobbing. Neither Damaris or Roger moved to console her.

  Damaris left the room and came back minutes later with a couple of full plastic bags.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Claire looked up at her, and Damaris was gratified to see that her eyes were puffy and red.

  ‘I can’t be with you. Either of you. I’m going to live with Chris­sie for a little while.’

  ‘But … honey…’ Roger began.

  ‘Please. Don’t.’ Damaris looked over at her parents. They boo­kended the large sofa, both wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Faces heavy with regret and contrition. And fear at what might happen next.

  ‘Don’t get in touch. I don’t want to speak to either of you. I can’t even look at either of you.’

  ‘Honey,’ Claire began.

  ‘Leave her, Claire,’ Roger said. ‘She needs the space.’

  ‘And I’ll tell you what else she needs,’ Damaris said. ‘To clear Dave Robbins’ name. Either you guys go to the police or I will.’

  Chapter 59

  While Dave stood at the door of the crematorium, bearing the good wishes and condolences from friends and colleagues of his father, Amelie stood quietly at his side. Every now and then he’d feel her there; a touch on his back, a hand on his shoulder, as she helped him deal with all the people who had attended his father’s funeral.

  Dave was gratified at the turnout. He was aware his father was widely admired, and as the service progressed he could feel there was a lot of love in the room for his old man. Despite Dave’s infamy people wanted to show their appreciation for the kind of man his father was. Only a few of them were willing to shake Dave’s hand, though.

  ‘I’m going to miss him.’ An old man was now in front of him. Dave recognised the hook nose, heavy-framed spectacles and wild brush of white hair. Martin Walker. This guy had known his father through the city’s Chamber of Commerce.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He had a lot to bear in these last few years.’

  Dave heard a tiny gasp from Amelie but took the comment on the chin and moved to the next in line. Margaret Brady. She’d been with his father in the firm for years.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Dave. If it hadn’t been for your father I don’t think I would have got through to chartered status. I owe him so much.’ She wiped a tear from her face with a white cotton handkerchief. ‘Stay strong, son,’ she said quietly. ‘Your father be­lieved in you and that’s good enough for me.’ She gripped his forearm pushing a wave of loss up from his heart.

  ‘Thanks,’ he managed to whisper through the grief clenching this throat.

  Dave noticed with immense relief that he was coming to the last of the mourners. A man stepped in front of him. He was tall, bald, and was wearing a dark overcoat. His tie was at an odd angle, like a child who had just come home from a hard day in school.

  ‘John Warner. Daily Observer,’ he said. He raised his hand and Dave automatically held out his. But then he realised this man wasn’t looking to shake hands; he was holding out a mobile phone. ‘Do you think your father’s heart attack was a result of your con­viction for paedophilia?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Dave was momentarily confused.

  ‘Enough,’ Amelie said, stepping between Dave and the journal­ist. ‘This is a funeral service. How dare you?’

  ‘And you, Miss Hart,’ Warner said undeterred. ‘Where have you been? You weren’t standing by this convicted sex offender for years. But now you are?’

  ‘Okay.’ Margaret Brady had returned. She took Warner by the arm and led him away while speaking in a determined voice. ‘You’re going to leave. You’re going to write your shitty column in your shitty rag and you’re going to leave this man alone.’

  ‘You alright?’ Amelie asked Dave.

  He gave a small nod, although he certainly wasn’t. ‘Not looking forward to the funeral tea, to be honest.’

  Amelie took his arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go to the car.’

  They left the crematorium building and walked down the steps to a black limousine. The moment that the red, velvet curtains had closed played again in his mind. A heavy bullet of grief shot through him. He stumbled. Almost fell.

  This was so unfair. What had his father ever done to anyone. A sob burst out of his mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ Amelie said, holding a hand out for him.

  Dave looked up at her, but his attention was snagged by some­thing across the street, beyond the cars. A young girl was standing there, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed. Her stillness and her evident posture of respect surprised him. Did she know his father? She li
fted her head up and met his gaze, and with a start Dave recognised her. Of course, she was a little taller now, but that had to be Damaris Brown.

  ‘Sir,’ the driver said. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked to the driver, and then back to the girl.

  She opened her mouth, just a little, as if she was about to shout something across to him, but stopped herself. She held a hand up, and in that simple gesture she looked so forlorn and lost. The movement bore a deep sympathy that almost had Dave sob again.

  She turned and walked away.

  In the backseat they held hands. The warmth of her skin, the strength in her grip, and the ballast of her affection added layers of confusion to Dave’s care-worn mental state.

  How was he going to bear this additional assault on his life?

  ‘Thank you for being here,’ Dave said, afraid to look into Amelie’s eyes in case his love for her was too apparent.

  When she’d turned up at his door the day before all his old feel­ings for her had crashed through him like a tidal wave. He’d asked her how she knew about his father, while feeling a burr of shame that he hadn’t been the one to tell her.

  ‘I have an alert in my emails. Set it up years ago when I was searching for fame.’ She gave a small self-deprecating smile. ‘When­ever I’m mentioned I get a notification. Don’t know why I keep it going, it’s been nothing but bad news for years. Anyway…’ She shook her head a little, flicking her hair away from her face in a gesture he knew so well. ‘I read that Peter had died. Contacted the office and they let me know about the funeral.’

  ‘You should have phoned. I would have picked you up at the airport.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she looked into his eyes, ‘what kind of reception I might get.’

  ‘Have you booked into a hotel? Cos you’re welcome to stay…’

  ‘I’m at the Hilton.’ She smiled, and there was a wariness there. ‘But thank you.’

  Now in the backseat of the limo, on the way to a local hotel for the funeral purvey, he felt overwhelmed with loss and confusion. What he’d gone through the last few years was surely more than any one person should have to deal with.

  He sneaked a look at her, saw the light tan and glow of her skin, the clearness in her eyes, and thought she looked better than ever. There was no way a woman this beautiful didn’t have anyone in their life. He moved his gaze to her hands. No ring.

  He thought about the little black box in the cabinet at the side of his bed, and felt his neck heat with embarrassment that in a moment of desperation back then, he was prepared to propose to her.

  Then he remembered why he’d forced a distance between them; refused to allow her to visit the prison. The relationship had been over. She had moved on emotionally, and had surely only kept in touch with him, and then his father, out of some sort of guilt or misplaced sense of duty.

  What an idiot. He should forget about looking for any possi­bility of a reconciliation.

  Friends.

  That was all they’d ever be now.

  Dave got through the tea as best he could. Watched people as they ate the sandwiches and sausage rolls, and drank anything from coffee to whisky. Thankfully only a handful of people came. Most of them who’d attended the service were there in memory of his father and the impact he’d had on their lives. He was sure most of them thought his father’s abrupt death was a result of his convic­tion and despised him for it, so he was grateful that most had decided not to come along to the hotel afterwards; it would only have caused friction.

  After allowing for a decent interval he went around those who had attended and thanked them. Then, spotting Amelie being all but pinned to the bar by Martin Walker, he went over to them.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Martin,’ he said and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘The world’s a sadder place the day, son,’ Walker said, barely taking his eyes away from Amelie’s face.

  ‘It sure is,’ Dave replied and then, hands in his pockets, just looked at Martin, waiting for him to walk away. When he did, Dave turned to Amelie.

  ‘I need to go. This is…’

  ‘You shouldn’t be on your own,’ she replied, reaching across the space between them and touching his forearm. ‘I’ll come home with you.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  She smiled. ‘Sometimes you just have to accept help and support whether you want to or not, Dave Robbins.’

  Back at the house, Dave noticed the large gate to the drive wasn’t closed properly, but he dismissed it, thinking he’d had too much on his mind when he left that morning to be worrying about gates.

  In the living room Dave sat on an armchair, Amelie on the sofa. He noticed her shiver.

  ‘I’ll turn the heating up,’ he said, thinking how awkward he felt and wishing she hadn’t offered to come over. He just wanted to go through to his bedroom in the flat with a large whisky. This house was just too big without the energy of his father.

  Turning away from the thermostat, he offered Amelie a drink.

  ‘Any wine?’ she asked as she followed him into the kitchen.

  ‘Nothing that will be anywhere near the standard you’re used to,’ he replied. He’d heard about the vineyard she’d been working in.

  ‘As long as it’s wine-flavoured and red, that’s good enough for me.’

  Dave stopped so abruptly that Amelie almost walked into him.

  He turned to her, tearing his eyes away from an object on the kitchen table that shouldn’t have been there. That just that morning had been in pride of place on the mantlepiece. Before leaving for the service, he’d touched his lips, then briefly pressed his fingertips against its polished surface.

  ‘Have you…’ He was confused. ‘Have you been in here, Amelie?’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Have you … did you move anything?’ He was aware of the rising panic in his voice.

  ‘What are you talking about, Dave?’ She touched his shoulder. ‘I came in. Sat in the living room with you and I’ve only now walked into the kitchen. With you.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What’s going on, Dave? You’re freaking me out here.’

  He looked around wildly. Walked over to the kitchen window, and looked around outside.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘That. There.’ He turned and pointed at the kitchen table. ‘It was on the mantlepiece when I left for the service this morning. Some bastard broke in here and is playing with me.’

  In the middle of the kitchen table was his mother’s small, polished-oak funeral urn.

  Chapter 60

  Damaris couldn’t stand seeing the sadness that lay so heavily over Dave Robbins. He’d suffered so much and it was all because of her and her family. She had to do something about it. But what? She was only a girl.

  She’d walked to school with Chrissie that morning. Pretended she was going to the toilet before class and then doubled back and walked out of the school gates.

  It had been easy to find his father’s house. And she’d gone there, taking several buses, stood at the locked gates, looking up towards the house and wondered if she should go in.

  Two massive black cars were at the door, one with its nose pointing down towards the road.

  A hearse. Through the glass she could see polished wood and a wreath of white flowers formed into the word ‘DAD’.

  A grey-faced man in a dark suit and a black tie came out of the front door with a small group of people.

  Dave.

  She stifled a sob at the open grief in his face.

  A couple walked down the path and out of the gates. The woman fished in her handbag and pulled out a set of keys as they walked towards a car.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Damaris said. ‘The funeral?’

  The woman looked at her black clothes and then up at her face. Clearly assuming she was another mourner she s
aid, ‘At the cre­matorium, dear.’

  Damaris must have looked confused because the woman elab­orated. ‘At Lambhill.’

  Damaris nodded and made a noise as if she understood. The woman frowned at her, looking as if she was going to ask some­thing, so Damaris added a quick thanks, turned and walked away.’

  As she walked back to the bus stop she opened up her phone and worked out which bus routes would get her to the crema­torium at Lambhill, wherever that was.

  What she intended doing once she was there she had no idea. She only knew she had to offer some sort of … what? Penance? Solidarity?

  Amelie looked just like she remembered. Lovely and stylish, and for a moment she felt it was a shame she couldn’t tell people that the actress used to be a neighbour and was always nice to her.

  She would never forget the moment Dave spotted her. It was all she could do not to run across the road and throw herself at his mercy; say how sorry she was, swear how much she hated her mum and dad, and promise to go to the police and make it all go away.

  Instead she stood there like a lump, caught up in the poor man’s misery and offering nothing but a pathetic little wave.

  Heart like a stone in her chest she walked away towards the nearest bus stop. From there she went back over to the West End of the city and wandered the streets. She could go back to Chris­sie’s house, but Selina’s pain and upset was so visible she couldn’t handle it anymore.

  Instead, she went into a café and pretended she was meeting her mother there so they would let her have a seat.

  ‘You alright, honey?’ the woman taking the orders asked her.

  ‘I think my mum’s held up at work,’ she replied.

  ‘Want anything while you wait?’

  Damaris considered how much money she had in her purse. She still had lots of her birthday money left over. Way more than enough for a drink, and whatever bus trips she might need to take next.

  ‘A Coke, please?’