by Rae Shaw
‘I’ll reimburse them, Luke and Sophia,’ said Mark. ‘I'm grateful for their support. My father has always maintained his innocence.’
‘You support your father because he’s your dad,’ Jackson said, gruffly, as if cross with Mark.
Mark, a bead of cold sweat on his brow, stared in disbelief at the man gesturing toward the door. The meeting was over; Jackson was reading something else on his desk. Mark hurried away.
What kept Mark loyal to his father was pragmatism and not sentiment; Bill wasn’t a murderer, but he wasn’t entirely innocent either. He had met somebody, things hadn't gone well and bam, knife in the chest. Nothing premeditated, which the judge pointed out in his summing up, but the jury had rejected the plea of self-defence in favour of murder, not even manslaughter. The witness, a mate, or perhaps a bystander who had gone along, was real because he was consistently mentioned by people who knew people, and so on. But there was no name or description. A man more than likely. Deidre insisted that because of this one person there was some other story to be told.
Perhaps this man had done it and stitched Bill up. Unlikely. Bill would have named and blamed the other guy and, in any case, there was no physical evidence to support the theory another person was present at the crime scene. Then, what if this man had seen it happen, and for some reason refused to cooperate by hiding evidence that backed up Bill's side of things? Criminals fell out. It was plausible. But Bill's refusal to acknowledge the witness to Mark and any of the solicitors appointed to look after his case was the stumbling block to proving his innocence. He hadn’t implicated anyone else and in every interview had claimed he’d acted alone.
It riled Mark to the point of fury that his father protected criminals. Where was family loyalty? Why couldn't he just plead guilty, do the time and then come home to Deidre? A new man. Chastised. Penitent.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Mark had to focus on work. Waiting for news over the next few days would be horrendous, and, in the meantime, Mark wasn’t going to tell either Deidre or Ellen a thing until he was certain of the facts.
14
Ellen
Ellen vaguely recalled mentioning Freddie to Mark, but why he had come up in the cringeworthy telephone call with her brother was a mystery. The memory fog worsened over the week, forming droplets of images and snippets of dialogue. Unable to fathom the workings of her own mind, on Friday, for the first time that week, she went running.
A warm weather front drifted over the city, drying out the puddles and sodden patches of grass. She sent a text to Nicky and arranged to meet him after work for a run at the Imperial War museum. They jogged around the small park, navigating a path between the shadows and the street lights. The evening air was bitterly cold and Ellen’s fingers thickened with numbness.
To compensate for the lack of communication with Mark she kept up a breathless and cheery banter with Nicky who ran as if he was on air; bouncing off the pavement while she lumbered from side to side.
‘So you're undecided about Mark still?’
‘I'm wary. We haven't talked since that night.’
‘Hardly surprising. You were pissed. Had your first blow job. Didn't enjoy it—’
‘Nicky!’ She checked around. ‘It wasn't even that, okay. I wish I’d never told you.’
She halted; bent over and pressing her hands onto her bent knees, she snatched a few extra breaths. That night remained hazy; she had woken in the morning confused and hungover, not quite remembering what she had said to her brother, probably something stupid given his reaction. Nicky called by and had done what Mark had failed to do and hugged her, dusted her down and told her she had been silly and not to worry. She should concentrate on work and, from now on, she was only to run with him.
Nicky jogged on the spot. ‘Then it's water under the bridge.’
Standing up straight, she flicked her hair out of her eyes. ‘It doesn't feel like it. I got drunk after we’d done it and I told him to leave. Thank God, he did. He was fine about it. For a while I felt...’
Nicky stilled. ‘What?’
‘Elated. Thrilled. Then the alcohol kicked in and I started crying.’ She cringed, wishing she could huddle under the branches of a tree and pretend her voice wasn't carrying in the wind. Jogging in the open with a shameless Nicky wasn't such a great idea.
‘Sex can do that.’
She scowled and Nicky’s grin disintegrated. She leaned toward him.
‘It wasn't sex. I had my knickers on the whole time,’ she said quietly.
His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. ‘Good. Keep them on. Now, what about Mark?’
‘I guess I owe him an apology. Dragging him out of bed to listen to me bawl.’
‘He tried, I suppose, give him credit. He doesn't sound like the kind of person who deals with women often. Unmarried? No girlfriend?’
‘Possibly. He's kind of secretive.’
They started jogging again. ‘He probably needs a good lay then.’ Nicky smirked out of the side of his mouth.
She stumbled over a kerb and nearly lost her balance. ‘Oh, please, Nicky. Why bring that up? Is it always about having sex?’
‘No, it's not,’ he said. ‘I'm getting it, so it's not an issue. It's people who don't get it who have the issue. I'm telling you, the world would be a better place if it lost all this inhibition about sex. It's fun. Relaxing.’
‘If you know what you're doing,’ Ellen muttered. Freddie would argue it was exactly the opposite. Less time thinking about it or doing it cleansed the soul, and so on.
Nicky suddenly flagged. ‘I’m done. Need a drink. The Red Lion is around the corner. Fancy a drink?’
They dropped down to a walking pace and headed towards the street. ‘Is it a gay pub?’ she asked.
‘Gays are everywhere, so probably. Bikers are, too. You should get to know a few.’ He winked and she laughed.
The pub was warm, and her hands tingled as the blood rushed back around them. Topics came and went, his work, hers and Nicky’s new boyfriend. The coupling seemed serious and Nicky went coy every time she mentioned the other man. Ellen stared at the small amount of liquid at the bottom of the pint. Life was changing, Nicky would replace her with his new-found love and she would see him less and less. Everyone had their lives to live and perhaps it was time to move on.
She would call Mark about living with him, but not yet. Let the decision sit for a couple more weeks.
As for Freddie, it had become a weird necessity to confess things to him and although she despised herself for needing him, she couldn't help it, so she would tell him about the man who had dropped his trousers.
Faceless Freddie had no presence in her life beyond his online persona. It didn’t matter because there was something appealing about having a long-distance friend, even one that sermonised. It gave her a little buzz knowing she had a hold over him, just as the cuts had done years ago.
I'm kneeling on the floor ready to confess.
She meant it as a joke. However, she was on a beanbag.
Confess what?
She spelt it out. From beginning to end. The horror and awe of watching a man lower his pants. Her fascination with it. Her shame that it thrilled her.
She expected a slapped wrist.
You had a near miss. Move on. She had no time to assimilate the dismissal; Freddie was typing fast. We really should meet up.
His proposal was nothing short of a bombshell. Her heartbeats raced and her fingers danced, slipping over the keys. Where?
Come to Dublin. Spend a few days here.
Why?
I've been making enquiries and there’s a chance for you to join a dig near Wicklow. Bronze age.
Seriously? Anything to improve her chances of winning a place at university. She was starting to look at courses again.
It's not the same as a university. It's paid work including accommodation. I've put in a good word for you.
When?
Next month. Can you get the time off work? A few wee
ks?
That soon!
I'd quit work to do it. No joke. Sod her boss and his uselessness.
What about Mark?
What about him?
Does he know about me?
No. A scant mention when drunk didn’t count.
Why not?
I didn't see any point in telling him. You're over there. I'm here.
Perhaps you should.
She froze. Freddie had surprised her three times: no lecture, an offer and now cosying up to Mark.
He's busy. I still haven't moved in with him. I will soon. He's seeing a solicitor about Dad. If I tell him about you, what do I say?
That we're friends. Do you think all friends meet in pubs or workplaces? It's just how we met that bothers you.
You don't normally show an interest in Mark. Or meeting me.
I don't think your behaviour with that man was appropriate or healthy. Perhaps if you met me, you'd trust my opinion more. Start by telling Mark about me.
That we're friends?
That's the truth, isn't it?
No sweetie, she noticed. In fact, it had been a while since he had called her that. Recently, he had treated her with greater maturity, less banter and less humour. She was growing up. She wasn't a teenager anymore and maybe he was hearing the adult in her words and actions.
I'll think about it. What's the Z stand for?
I'll tell you, if you tell him.
Ellen was more worried about telling Nicky. Mark was probably too busy to care that much about what she did online. Nicky met people all the time that way, but he had rules about how to go about it, and going to Dublin, unaccompanied, was probably breaking one. Who should she tell? Nicky, her friend and confidante, or Mark, her brother and soon-to-be flatmate?
Freddie sent her the details and a form to fill in for the accommodation: a hostel on the outskirts of Dublin. She held off returning it. Instead she battled through another week at work. Her boss, Hugo, was insufferable, flapping about everything and barking orders. She had to throw together a brochure at the last minute for a new client and he picked it apart.
‘If you gave me more than a few days’ notice,’ she said under her breath.
While eating a hurried ham sandwich, she spilled mustard on her skirt. Hugo accused her of looking drab. The others in the office simply rolled their eyes, chewed on their gum and soldiered on with the project. Ellen bit down a retort about him being a misogynist. She was so close to quitting.
In the midst of the mayhem, Mark rang. It was late, past six o'clock and she was stuck in work.
‘Ellen.’ He sounded breathless, as if he was running to catch a train. ‘We need to meet. I've got something to tell you.’
‘Mark, I'm up to my eyeballs.’
‘It's important. I'm on the way to see Sophia. The appeal; she’s got fresh evidence. Can we meet, this evening? I'll pay the taxi fare.’
Hugo had left, leaving her and two others to sort out his mess. She didn't have to stay. She could come in early and finish things off. New evidence? Ellen was aware of the finer details of that day, so what evidence was Mark referring to?
‘Yes.’ She folded the brochure and slotted it into a drawer. ‘Your place, I assume?’
15
Mark
The call to meet Sophia came through by the end of the strenuous week, during which he had refused an offer of a night out with Julianna. She had not been happy with him anyway. Moody git, she declared during the telephone call, accompanying the comment with half-hearted laughter. He hadn't told her about the witness either.
Sophia's office was hidden away on a backstreet east of the City. Mark checked his watch; the appointment was scheduled for five o’clock. He went straight from work, keen to hear the news. The meeting had been arranged by Sophia's assistant, who apparently knew nothing about the case when Mark attempted to question her. He wasn’t one for praying, but he hoped that there was good news waiting for him.
The cab drew up outside the bleak building. The wooden window frames were shedding paint – flakes of grey collected under the sills. The filthy glass was barely transparent, the interior hidden behind blinds. Inside, some investment: the tasteful decor was minimalist and untarnished by pollution.
‘I’m here to see Sophia Crawford. I have an appointment.’ He was sweating; a habit that was becoming increasingly problematic, along with the persistent stabbing sensation along his forehead. His overcoat was unnecessary and the briefcase a burden to carry.
‘You are?’ the receptionist asked, picking up the phone.
‘Mark Clewer.’
‘Hi, Sophia, I have a Mark.... right.’ She hung up. ‘You can go straight to her office. Third door on the right down that corridor.’
There were tagged dockets, yellow pads of notes and a swathe of documents piled on her desk. The computer hummed and the wall clock ticked aggressively. Sophia operated in a working climate that Mark wouldn’t be able to tolerate. He wondered how Luke coped.
She blushed and pushed a stack of papers to one side. ‘I know. Luke wouldn’t stomach it, the mess. At home I’m very different.’ She pointed at a chair. ‘Please sit, Mark.’
Mark took off his overcoat and hung it on the back of the plastic chair.
‘Luke’s chambers at Lincoln Inn are so grand compared to this place,’ Sophia said. Her attempt at small talk failed; he said nothing. She twirled a pen with agitated fingers and cleared her throat with a fake cough.
The ache behind his eyes strengthened and the fluorescent lights glared. He examined his shaking hands with their chewed fingernails, hating that he couldn’t control his feelings. ‘You’ve got bad news, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry. Let me fill you in.’ She kept her eyes on the documents. ‘The witness is an old friend of your father’s. He was with Bill on the night... well, he was there—’
‘So why didn’t he come forward?’
‘Because he was loyal to your father,’ she said carefully.
‘Loyal? By keeping his mouth shut and letting Dad sit in prison for years!’ Mark folded his arms across his chest.
She picked up a piece of paper and smoothed it flat in front of her. ‘Your father was arrested, tried and convicted of murder. The murdered man was important. His death caused a war between the gangs, retributions, other killings until things settled down. Bill pleaded not guilty to murder and the lesser charge of manslaughter and claimed self-defence. He was found guilty of murder and the judge indicated in his summing up that there was no evidence of pre-meditation: a mitigating circumstance.’
‘I know all this,’ Mark said, impatiently.
‘A life sentence with a minimum of ten years. However, your father has maintained his innocence so no early parole on licence is likely. The courts have it in their power to increase his sentence.’
‘Increase? What are you getting at?’ Mark swallowed a mouthful of bile down. So far, things were heading in a terrible direction.
‘The witness kept his mouth shut because his evidence, if presented in court, would have been seen by the defence as hostile. He would not have made life easier for your father by blabbing about that day. He wanted to protect your father. He’s moved several times, to keep out of trouble, and lives in London now. Luke and I went to meet him in a pub. I’m sorry, Mark, but your father isn’t an angel.’
‘I know. He kept bad company. He worked hard though, there was always money, food, clothes.’ His voice trembled and his heart pounded. Surely she wasn’t implying his father was guilty of murder?
‘Luke is good at cross-examining. The man wouldn’t speak at first. Tight lipped. We talked about knowing the truth. That you, your mum, and Ellen, had a right to know the truth. That if what he had to say was never going to be heard in a court of law, then it should be said for your sake. He remains loyal to Bill, but they haven’t spoken since the court case. He remembers you as a teenager. He saw you at a distance coming and going from your home. He never visited Bill if you or your si
ster were home.’
‘I went out a lot,’ Mark said quietly. Sophia hadn't mentioned where Deidre was during these visits.
‘They got sucked down, Mark, sucked down into another world. It wasn't simply about petty thieving. Bill Clewer was the right-hand man in a gang that controlled an entire housing estate. He was very aware of what was going on. It might have started out differently, who knows, but he was drawn into something much bigger. Uglier.’
‘Oh, God, no.’
‘They were foolish, he admitted that. Bill considered giving it up; he wanted a fresh start so he could put you through college.’
Mark had heard countless times about his father’s unachieved ambitions in life.
Sophia avoided eye contact. ‘It wasn’t unplanned, the murder. Your father always intended to kill this man.’
His throat narrowed, choking him. He loosened the strangling tie and gasped for breath. ‘I don't understand… There was an argument… and they fought.’
She poured him a glass of water; her hands shook like his. ‘He went to negotiate, on behalf of his boss, some deal involving girls. They needed girls for prostituting. Bill wasn’t in the car. He leaned through the window, and without warning, stabbed the man in the heart. The other knife was planted by your father in the dead man’s hand. This witness, who was the lookout man, hid behind a wall and watched. Afterwards, he panicked and ran for it. He's been on the run ever since, both from the police and the gangs.’
Bill had gone with two knives, not one. If that evidence had been presented in court, it would have sealed his fate. The defence had been adamant that Bill brought one knife and he used it in self-defence.
He pushed the glass away, unable to swallow a thing, and buried his head in his hands. Nothing made sense. ‘I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. He’s lying.’ He refused to shed angry tears.
‘The witness sounded very convincing. We recorded the conversation. He didn’t know that we did. Luke, though, insisted we should. If I played it to you, you'd hear it in his voice, Mark. Don’t though. Don't listen to it. It won’t help you.’