I blank my mind of terrible thoughts, and think back to the photograph on the mantelpiece in the lounge. There were four of us. Luke was healthy then, but within a couple of years the illness ate away at him until there was nothing left. Life was taken away from him. He had no choice. How can a mother cope with the death of her own little boy? Mum only just survived his death. She spent years in pain and anguish and she was only just recovering, becoming something that resembled her old self, when I left. Through my own choice.
How can Dad say it wasn't my fault?
"I'm so sorry, Dad," I say. "For everything."
******
Just like the wildlife park, the club has been shut, and the building left rotting, for years.
Morning has turned to afternoon; a breeze gathers up dust and cigarette ashes from the cracks in the pavement. I look up at the wood that has been nailed into gaps in the windows. Running my fingertips over the wall, the dire paint comes away like chalk, dusty on my fingers. A crack, like a sliver of lightning, zigzags threateningly from top to bottom of the wall. The sign has faded and wilted so much over the years that it no longer tells you the name of the club. My heart sinks.
I'm far too close. Richard would lecture me, tell me that I'm opening the door far too wide, that I've virtually invited him inside, let him roam freely inside my home. He would tell me that I have a choice, and I'm taking the wrong one.
I don't seem to be listening any more - not to the voices in my head that I should be listening to, anyway. I glance to my left, then to my right. There are only a few people walking on the street, mainly moving slowly, weighed down by plastic bags. They're oblivious to my existence. There is a path to the side of the building, a narrow dark alleyway. I step around dried sick and sprinklings of dog muck. The wall looks unsteady, like it could easily collapse under my weight. I take my chances. Pressing my hands down against the top layer of bricks, the rough corners dig into my palms like jagged glass. Lifting my body and then raising my leg, I take a deep breath. I've no idea what or who I am lowering myself down onto on the other side. Thankfully, my feet touch down onto a flat surface.
It is just like a tiny abandoned garden that could belong in any terraced house. The back door was only used as an emergency exit, where the burly bouncers with fat bellies threw people out and applied whatever punishment they thought was applicable in the circumstances. Different rules in those days. The wooden door looks flimsy, like it has been rotting from the elements. I raise my knee and then kick the door. My foot goes straight through. Hopping on one foot, I pull the door. It comes away in my hand. I glance around, twisting my head as far as it will go without causing serious damage. It must be out of habit, for there is no way anybody can see me, no way anybody could be watching.
Only a few slivers of light enter through the cracks in the walls and the windows. I find my way through touch. My hands brush against the walls. I step on something soft. I stumble and fall. The side of my face is flat against the floor. I lie like that for a few moments, surprisingly at peace in the solitude of this darkened corridor. Something brushes against my skin. I flinch and pull away. Jumping to my feet, suddenly no longer at peace, I realise that I'm not alone. Rats scamper around on the floor next to my feet. I hurry to the front of the building, using some sort of sixth sense or, more likely, just moving forwards.
The entrance is much wider and, thankfully, much lighter. I remember queuing up outside, our bodies in a straight line, pressed against the wall of the building, heat blowing from the extractor. The bouncers, dressed as penguins, sometimes asked for ID, sometimes not; it depended whether they were bored, depended if they wanted to impress some young lady. You knew you were inside when you smelt the stench of feet on the thick, musty carpet. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was surprisingly impressive, amazingly out of place. I always took a quick, discreet glance at myself in the long mirror at the opening to the club. It depended just how many drinks I'd had whether I smiled or snarled at my own reflection; when I was completely sober, I tended to wince. There was always an air of anticipation and hopeful expectation, though. This could be the night.
I came here a few times, looking for her, looking for the girl I told my dad about. I only found her once again, but it wasn't in this place. After that I knew I'd never find her again.
My expectation is even greater today, in the middle of the afternoon, in the club that has been shut for years. I have no idea what I am going to find.
It is like discovering a ship that has been abandoned and untouched at the bottom of the ocean. Everything is still how it was. Everything is still in place. The tears in the blue sofas allow chunks of foam, like ice cubes, to gather in small piles. Metal rails surround the wooden dance floor. It looks small and sad now it is empty of hot, sweaty, gyrating bodies and handbags on the floor. The long mahogany bar curves around two corners.
I am instantly taken back to that night.
Back to 30th June 1988.
I see him now. I know he isn't there, that it isn't possible, that he is just a figment of my imagination, but it feels like I could reach out and touch him. He rests against the bar, his open denim jacket exposing a crisp white tee-shirt underneath. He casually thrusts out his crotch, like he just doesn't care. His hair is cut short at the sides and is swept across like a giant wave on the top. It is amazing because, even though clearly he is beautiful, he is so calm and placid that he does not draw attention to himself.
Nobody notices me, either, but that is not necessarily deliberate. I sit on a hard wooden chair, hidden away from the raucous crowd by a pillar. My legs are parted, my hands pressed against my thighs. I pick up my pint and pull my head back but I'm in such a rush that I miss half my mouth. The lager fizzles down my chin, staining my tee-shirt. I put the glass back with a thud. I open my hands and start swearing. Looking up, he has his head jerked in my direction, his demeanour ice cool. A bead of sweat trickles down my neck. I know what I must look like. I know what he must think of me. He smiles from the corner of his mouth. It appears genuine. It appears friendly. My eyes remain fixed as he walks towards me.
"Tough night?" he says.
It feels like I have nails in my throat. The voice that speaks does not belong to me. "You could say that," I say, returning his smile. I dab at my tee-shirt with my hands. "I know I've already had enough to drink, but there is no need to throw it away now, is there?"
He shakes his head and laughs. I feel genuinely funny.
"Where have your mates gone?" he asks, looking around at the empty space surrounding me.
I'm aware I must look sheepish. "Think I'm last man standing,” I say. “They're probably tucked up in bed now."
He holds up a triumphant hand and I slap it. "Nice one," he says. He takes a quick glance around. "Listen, I'm in pretty much the same boat as you. If you fancy keeping the party going then I'm meeting my housemates back at ours for a few more drinks. Hopefully they'll have got a few girls interested, but who knows? I could call it a party, but that would be stretching the truth somewhat. We'll just be hanging out really, see what happens..."
We both know that he doesn't have to sell it too much; I am unlikely to have many - or any - better offers. I know he has used the possibility of girls being there as a lure. Clearly I look like an adolescent at risk of incurring a repetitive strain injury on my wrist.
I decide to play it cool. "I'm just heading for a piss. Who knows, depending how I feel when I'm in there then I might make it a crap. I'll meet you outside in five minutes. If you're not there then I know you've gone on without me. No great shakes, yeah?"
He shakes my hand and indicates that he likes my style. I watch the back of his head as he walks away.
I squeeze my eyes tight and I'm brought back to the present. I push my hand against the greasy wall to stop the room spinning. The moment has gone. I turn around and leave the building through the dark, grim back door that I came through.
I can't face going through the front door
and retracing the steps that unfolded that night.
I leave the same way I came in.
DAY EIGHTEEN
18TH JUNE 2018
My father said that I looked smart that day, said that he was proud of me. He wasn't just being kind, either; he wasn't just being fatherly. He meant it. But then, my dad was just naturally kind.
I wanted to laugh at the words. I wanted to scorn them. How wrong could he be?
I look over at the wall I hid behind. The beautiful, tall green trees left a permanent shadow on the wall; it was always in the shade. On this side, the wall only came to about waist level, but on the other side it reached the chest, just right to look over without being seen. There was the occasional passing car or pedestrian to worry about, but not many, for anybody who was anybody in the village was on the other side of the wall, heads bowed, hands clasped behind their backs, paying respects to the wonderful woman as her coffin was lowered into the ground. They stood tall and proud and wanted to be seen to be there. I was a cowering, squinting nobody, looking in from the outside; I was worse than a peeping Tom.
How on earth could I have looked smart? More to the point, how the fuck could my dad have been proud?
I only realised just how much she meant to me when I moved away, when I left her. The first few months in London were the hardest. Summer had turned to autumn and then the crisp leaves coating the pavements turned to mush. I shared a house with housemates that were neither mates nor in the house very often, and I spent most evenings lying on my single bed in a tiny darkened box room, TV silently flashing in the background, opened cans of lager on my dressing table. Always, the first person I thought of speaking to was my mum.
One night I left my room with pound coins jingling in my joggers. It was a dry night, but steam blew from my mouth. Huddled inside the red phone box, my mum picked up the phone after a single ring.
"Mum," I said, "I haven't spoken to anybody for two whole days..."
She soothed me as I broke down in tears, told me that everything was okay, that she was always there with me. Instantly I felt stronger. I told her about my days, reassured her that I was determined to get a job, that everything would fit into place once I got some work. My mum told me that I was the bravest person she knew, to do what I'd done, that she was so proud of me.
Somebody banged on the window of the phone box, told me to hurry up. They bounced up and down on the spot in the cold, face hidden in a cloud of steam. I didn't care. I was speaking to my mum.
I ended the call and promised I'd call again the next day. My mum told me she loved me. I held the door open for the guy that had been knocking on the window, but he just gave me a look. It was the look that did it for me. I went to pass him the phone but instead I cracked it hard over the side of his head. I caught his cheekbone with my elbow as he dropped to the floor. His moans rattled my ears as I walked back to my empty house.
That was the second time in my short life I realised just what I was capable of.
I'm in my dad's shoes now, viewing events from where he stood. Any eyes that were not on the beautiful mahogany coffin were on him, watching his every move, subconsciously judging how he coped or, maybe, how he didn't. The eyes and the looks would have been full of sympathy; surely that just made it all the more unbearable? My eyes scan the marble tombstone. It is in miraculously good condition. Only, it isn't miraculous. A miracle is void of explanation. There is a perfectly good explanation. My dad has a little bottle of polish and a cloth and he cleans the marble every time he comes here. It is a habit, a routine. But a good one. I read the words. I always read them again and again, like I can't quite believe them, like I expect them to disappear the next time I visit. And every time I have come back to Bridgend - even when I haven't had the courage to go and visit my dad - I have always come here. My dad knows that, for he seemingly knows everything. Of course, my mum was the beloved and devoted wife of my dad. But she was also the proud mother of her two loving sons, Jeffrey and Luke.
Luke.
My eyes scan to the adjacent tombstone, with the identical polished marble, and it is like somebody has tugged hard at my tongue, pulled it from my throat. This tombstone has been here even longer than my mother's.
I didn't want to laugh at my father's words to be cruel. It was just because of the ridiculous - outrageous - irony of the comments. I remember events from that day as though they were yesterday. The images in my mind are so vivid and colourful. Even though I was hiding behind the wall like a coward, part of me felt like it had escaped the rest of my body and was there next to my dad, holding his hand. He is such a slight and diminutive figure, and his outsized grey suit swamped his body, and yet he held himself with such dignity and respect on that day, he looked ten feet tall. I didn't need my dad to tell me that he spotted me. He caught my eye and held the look for just a moment, and then, subtly so that none of the congregation noticed, his face broke into a smile.
My dad was proud of me? It was ridiculous.
I bend down and kiss the smooth, rounded corners of both of the marble tombstones. I tell Luke that I miss him. I tell Mum that I am sorry. I'm sure I hear her tell me, clear as day, that she knows.
******
Sunday morning fades away and Sunday afternoon raises its lazy head. The population of South Wales has eaten lunch and is now most likely relaxing in front of the box.
It has been a surreal twenty-four hours. I slept last night in my old house, in my old room. I had almost literally turned back the hand of time. This morning I drank tea in the kitchen with Dad, just like he used to do with Mum. I gave him a warm hug and promised to keep in regular contact. I told him that I was off to see Mum, and he said she'd be so pleased to see me again.
I should really have caught the late morning train from Bridgend after visiting Mum at the cemetery. I wanted to. I just knew I couldn't leave without doing one last thing. Instead, I'll now have to catch an early evening train from Cardiff Central.
The strong fragrant air freshener in the taxi stings my cheeks. The roads are quiet as we head out of Bridgend on the A48. We turn off. Now the narrow and winding roads are occupied only by villagers walking their dogs who, in turn, stop and wave (the villagers, not the dogs). We are in the shadow of the glorious, overhanging trees, and so the light is limited. Many of the brick houses have thatched roofs. I cannot help but think of Hansel and Gretel, then the house made of straw in The Little Pigs. I do miss reading Emma her bedtime story.
I pull out my blue phone and type a message.
Going much better than I feared, Jenny.
I keep the phone in my hands, wait for the inevitable vibration.
I'm so glad. You're so brave.
The cab slows down and stops outside the house number he dialled into his satellite navigation. I ask the driver if he can await; I assure him that I won't be long. He looks at me uncertainly, and so I pay him for the journey here and ensure he catches the wad of notes in my wallet. Money is no object. It never is. He waits.
The door is again opened by an elderly lady. This one, though, is quite different from Simon's mum. She is even older, for starters - she must be nearly eighty. This lady actually smiles when she opens the door. She is dressed smartly, in an auburn blouse and a black skirt. I look down on her, because there is no option; she is absolutely tiny.
"I was wondering whether DCI Baldwin is in?"
Again, I feel like a child asking if my friend can come out to play. The woman smiles. "He is Mr Baldwin these days, dear. And could I please ask who you are? Mr Baldwin has upset quite a few people over the years, and so I need to be sure you mean no harm."
I have no doubt that Mr Baldwin has upset a whole range of people over the years. If he ever got shot then there would be an endless list of possible suspects. I wonder what this meek, old lady would do if a foe ever did come knocking on the door, though. She is not exactly the most intimidating bouncer in the world.
"My name is Marcus Clancy," I say. "Mr Baldwin was the lead
detective in a case that goes back a number of years. I was the victim."
The smile vanishes from her face. I'm quite sure that the colour does, too. She knows who I am. Her face freezes. But then it is as if she presses the 'on' button. The smile returns, bigger and more colourful than before. She stands to the side to let me in, actually gives me enough room to enter her home.
"He is out the back, dear, in the garden." She leads me through the living room. The carpet and the curtains are in dire need of updating, but the house is immaculate, and it smells wonderful. "Could I get you a cup of tea?" she asks. "And some biscuits? I am sure you two men have quite a lot to catch up on. You were but a boy the last time you met."
I assure her that I am absolutely fine, thank you. She leads me outside. I have no idea what I will find. She is right. So many years have passed. DCI Baldwin was on a destructive downward spiral even then. Part of me is relieved that he isn't dead. Another part of me, of course, is disappointed that he is alive.
The garden is peaceful, though. And beautiful. The colourful flowers look like they have been lovingly nurtured with kind, caring green fingers. The shiny lawn slopes gently downwards. I head in the direction of a large metal cage at the bottom of the garden.
There he is. Inside the cage. I notice that he is surrounded by budgerigars, all blues, greys and greens. His concentration is such that he doesn't even notice me. I awkwardly stand with my hands nestled in my pockets, an intruder. I wonder how I can gain his attention without being overtly rude or startling him.
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