Blood Tracks (2 page)

Gina sat on the sofa in the living room, her freezing body wrapped up in a duvet. She stared blankly at the uniformed officer sitting opposite her. He’d introduced himself as Constable Jason Rogers from the British Transport Police. Danny was hunched up in her dad’s armchair, pressing a cushion to his mouth to stifle his sobs. Her mum walked into the room carrying a tea tray. The cups and sugar bowl rattled as her shaking hands placed it down on the table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” the constable said, taking a mug.

Gina’s mum sat next to her on the sofa. “This won’t take long, Gina.” Her voice trembled. “Constable Rogers just wants to ask you some questions.”

Gina listened, unblinking, as the constable explained that he was helping to investigate her father’s death and that he needed to take a statement from her about what had happened earlier that evening.

Gina recounted the details without a flicker of emotion, as if she was a journalist reporting the news. The constable scribbled furiously in his notepad. When she stopped talking, he thanked her and said that he’d leave them to rest but that he’d keep them informed.

“It will take a few weeks, but there’ll be an inquest. There has to be in cases like this,” he said.

“Good, good,” Gina muttered, as if talking to herself.

Her mum stood up unsteadily and showed him to the front door. Gina could hear the constable in the hallway, saying, “Your daughter is obviously still in shock. People involved in traumatic events often seem detached and matter of fact. This must be a terrible time for you all. I’m so sorry.”

Danny slopped over to Gina, and snuggled under the duvet with her. He looked at her with mournful eyes as they sat in silence. Mum returned to the living room. She gave a pained smile on seeing them together. “Do you think you can manage something to eat, Gina?” she asked.

“No,” Gina said, exhausted. “I just want to go to bed. Promise that you’ll tell me if anything happens.”

“Of course I will, but you heard what Constable Rogers said – it’s going to take a while. It’s best not to think about it yet,” her mum replied, biting her lip.

Gina spent the next few weeks drifting around the house like a ghost; she didn’t want to go out, and was losing all sense of time, spending hour upon hour on her bed, falling in and out of sleep. Even when she was awake, she felt like she was sleepwalking – nothing seemed real. She had vague images of her mum flitting in and out of her room, trying to coax her to eat something. She knew that she should have been ravenously hungry but she had no appetite. The aching emptiness inside her couldn’t be filled by food.

For long periods she wouldn’t utter a single word but then, suddenly, her silence would be shattered by bouts of uncontrollable crying. The outpourings came upon her without warning, like a wall of water breaking through a dam. Her whole body would start to tremble and choking sobs would mount up in her throat, until they erupted in a howl that sounded like it came from a wounded animal. Each time it happened her mum would run to her, throwing her arms around her, rocking her and kissing her head until the crying ebbed away and Gina fell asleep, exhausted.

Every knock on the front door made Gina tense. She listened to the sound of visitors, recognized the hushed voices of friends, teachers, neighbours and relatives, but she just wanted all of them to go away. One day, however, Mum came into her room to say that a friend had called. Mum told her it would do her good to chat and, before Gina could object, Becky was ushered into the bedroom.

Gina sensed Becky’s awkwardness as her friend perched on the end of her bed. She could see in Becky’s widened eyes that she was taken aback by her appearance.

“I’m so sorry about your dad. He was such a lovely man,” Becky said, looking down at the duvet.

“Thanks,” Gina whispered.

“Your mum thought you might want to talk about it. Do you?”

Gina shook her head.

“Well, when you do, I’m here for you. You know that, don’t you?”

Gina managed a weak smile. There was silence between them as Becky chewed her lip, thinking what to say next. “Want to know what’s been going on at school?” she said at last.

“Okay,” Gina answered politely. But as Becky began recounting all the latest gossip, Gina slumped back on the pillow, her eyes glazing over, as her friend’s words became a drone in her ears. Becky had stopped talking long before Gina realized.

“I’d better go. You’re tired,” Becky said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Becky.”

“It’s okay. I understand. I just wanted to see you. When are you coming back to school?”

“I don’t know. We’re waiting for the inquest and the funeral. I can’t do anything until I find out what happened to Dad.”

“Do you mean why he did it?” Becky said gravely.

“What are you talking about?” Gina looked baffled.

“You know, why he…killed himself.”

“My dad didn’t kill himself,” Gina said firmly.

Becky blushed. “Oh…okay, well, er, I’d better go. I’ll see you soon.” She squeezed Gina’s hand and hurried out of the room.

At first her mum would gently suggest that Gina might feel better if she went out and got some fresh air. Gina hadn’t been for a run in weeks. Normally there was no stopping her. So the more she refused to go out, the more worried her mum became. Then, one afternoon, Gina felt a determined tap on her shoulder. As her eyes flickered open she saw her mum standing next to her bed in the darkened room. Gina licked her dry lips and croaked, “Is it about the inquest?”

“No. It’s doing you no good sleeping all the time. You need to get up, get washed and get dressed,” her mum said firmly.

Mum pulled back the duvet, swung Gina’s leaden legs out of the bed and wrapped her in a dressing gown that hung from her shrunken body. Gina shuffled to the bathroom, where her mum turned on the shower and waited outside, calling through the door, “If you don’t shower, Gina, I’ll come in there and wash you myself.” Then Mum escorted her back to the bedroom and sat her at the dressing table. Gina could feel the brush tugging at her knotted curls as she stared down at the table.

“There, that looks better,” her mum said sweetly, lifting up Gina’s face to the mirror. The image that stared back at her was gaunt, with shadows under the eyes. The skin was dull and the eyes lifeless, but Gina didn’t care; she stood up and headed back to bed.

“Oh no you don’t! You can’t stay cooped up in here for ever,” her mum said, getting some clothes out of the wardrobe.

Before she knew it, Gina found herself in the breezy park being led along the paths. Her mum’s voice was full of forced cheerfulness, talking about how good it was to be in the fresh air and how this would make Gina feel “that bit better”, but Gina could only think about how she and Dad used to run around this same park. She could picture them jogging side by side. Gina suddenly stopped walking. She felt like she was going to throw up as the realization hit her. She bent over, retching.

“Gina, love, what’s wrong?” her mum asked in alarm.

“I’ll never see Dad again,” Gina spluttered. “He’s gone for ever.”

Danny was already back at school and each day, on his return home, he’d go and crouch at the end of Gina’s bed, his big brown eyes full of concern.

“Shall I make you a cup of tea?” he’d say. Or, “Do you want to come downstairs to play on the Xbox?”

Gina continually said no, but Danny didn’t give up. One afternoon, when their mum was out shopping for food, he struggled into Gina’s room, carrying a stack of old family albums.

“I thought we could look at some photos of Dad,” he said, plonking the pile on the bed and opening the curtains.

Gina sat up groggily, her eyes stinging as the light flooded her room.

As Danny started to flick through the albums, Gina’s blank face lit up.

“Okay, let’s take out photos of Dad and stick them on my wall.”

Danny smiled, delighted that at last he’d found something to cheer Gina up. However, two hours later the smile had been wiped off his face.

Gina had seemed gripped by the idea and she’d jumped out of bed, going from inertia to mania within minutes. She kept frantically flicking back and forth through the albums, peeling out photo after photo. She barked orders at Danny, telling him to get Blu-tack from downstairs, telling him to bring more albums upstairs. She spent ages deliberating where each photo should go but then she’d change her mind, rearranging the images, discarding others. She ignored Danny’s huffing and pleas for a break. Only when she was completely satisfied did she stand back and survey the fifty or so photos she’d stuck on her wall. Every one of them featured her dad: from fading black-and-white baby pictures to the last photo ever taken of him, surrounded by his family at the kitchen table for his birthday meal.

“It looks great.” Danny gave a tired smile. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, thanks, Danny,” Gina said. She waited until Danny had left the room and then she addressed the wall of photos. “You’re not to worry, Dad. This inquest will find out what happened to you. Then you can rest in peace.”

Finally, the morning Gina had been waiting for arrived. Mum called her into the kitchen. Gina sat opposite her at the table, noticing for the first time the pasty whiteness of her mum’s face and the ageing bags that had formed under her eyes over the past weeks.

“Gina, we’ve got a letter from the coroner’s office… There’s a date for the inquest hearing.”

Gina gave a great sigh of relief. “We’ll find out what happened!”

“Yes.”

“We’ll find out that Dad didn’t kill himself,” Gina said.

Her mum hesitated before saying gently, “Gina, it’s time that you knew something. Your dad wasn’t well before he died.”

“What do you mean? What was wrong with him?”

“He was very down, depressed.”

“What? No he wasn’t. He was fine. It was only that night he didn’t seem right,” Gina protested.

“No. I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you. I’ve only known since he died, but it seems as if your dad had been depressed for a while. He hid it from us.” Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.

Gina shook her head violently. “You can’t believe Dad killed himself! No way! Just you wait. The inquest will prove that he didn’t.”

Gina was surprised that such an ordinary-looking room was used to dissect such terrible matters. It didn’t look like a courtroom at all – no jury, no people in wigs, no witness stand; just a table from which to give evidence, its only distinguishing feature the box of tissues placed, expectantly, in the corner.

A clerk led them to their places. Gina sat next to her mum in the first row of chairs. Her mum patted her knee, asking nervously, “Are you okay, love?”

Gina nodded, though her head throbbed. She’d spent the six weeks since her father’s death waiting for this inquest, and now she was about to find out what had happened that night; she really wanted to be alert and focused.

The witnesses filed into the seats behind her. Gina looked towards the desk set aside for the press. Two local journalists sat chatting, notebooks at the ready. She resented their presence – they had no business being there, making a story out of someone else’s misery; making the details of her dad’s death public property.

An old man entered the room and the clerk instructed everyone to stand. The man took up his position at the raised bench in front of them and bowed slightly, indicating that everyone should sit down. Gina realized that this was the coroner. He had the air of a kindly but firm headmaster as he explained that his job was to establish the facts and find out when, where and how her father had died. He told the courtroom that relevant statements and reports had been gathered and that witnesses would be called. He informed them that, after he had finished questioning a witness, family members and interested parties could also ask questions, if they felt the need.

He shuffled through his bundle of papers and announced that they should begin with a summary of the post-mortem report. Gina screwed up her eyes, as she visualized her father’s mutilated body lying on the mortuary slab. She chased the distressing image away, determined to remain focused on everything that was said in this room. She couldn’t understand all the information that the coroner read out, but she registered the explanation that her dad had died from multiple trauma injuries which were consistent with being struck by a train.

The coroner explained that, “The deceased suffered a fracture to the skull which, in the pathologist’s opinion, was probably sustained as his head struck the railway line after he had fallen from a significant height. This blow would almost certainly have rendered the deceased unconscious before the train made impact.”

A flicker of relief crossed Gina’s face. Her mother squeezed her hand, whispering, “Did you hear that, love? Your dad wouldn’t have felt any pain.”

Gina continued to listen intently as the coroner read out that the toxicology report had revealed no traces of alcohol or drugs in her father’s body; the pathologist found no underlying medical problems at the time of death, and her dad’s GP confirmed that, to the best of his knowledge, Martin Wilson had been fit and well at the time of his death – his last appointment had been over two years earlier for a chest infection.

The driver of the intercity train was the first witness called. Gina gave an involuntary shudder as the man walked across the room and stood at the witness table, his head bowed. She’d seen him on the night of her father’s death, the look on his face emblazoned in her mind.

The driver’s voice was frail as he swore the oath. His eyes were downcast as he delivered disjointed answers to the coroner’s questions about what had happened that night. He appeared to be a broken man, wracked by an irrational guilt; still off work with stress.

“I couldn’t stop in time…I just couldn’t,” he kept repeating, glancing over at Gina with eyes that begged forgiveness.

Constable Rogers nodded to Gina and her mum as he took his place at the witness table. The police investigation had concluded that the train driver had, indeed, done everything in his power to try to stop the train from the moment he saw the body on the track. However, the time available, coupled with the speed of the train, had made it impossible for the driver to prevent the impact.

This was not the first time he had investigated a “jumper”. It was an inevitable part of the job, but not one that he’d ever get used to. As he read from his statement, he turned pale at the memory of the scene that had greeted him that night. His voice cracked a little as he began describing the impact on Martin Wilson’s body by the seventy-ton train travelling at ninety miles per hour. Seeing the look of horror on the faces of Gina and her mother, the coroner hurriedly interrupted.

“I don’t think we require quite so much detail, thank you, Constable. I have it in your written statement.”

“Sorry, sir.” Constable Rogers cleared his throat and continued in a chastened tone. “The only item recovered at the scene was Martin Wilson’s mobile phone; the phone that was used to text his daughter. It was found strewn around the track, smashed to pieces. He was most likely holding it when he jumped from the bridge.”

The constable finished his statement and was dismissed by the coroner. The coroner then addressed Gina. “I believe that Martin Wilson’s daughter wishes to make a witness statement,” he said. He beckoned her forward. “Please, Gina, come to the witness stand.”

Gina rose, shakily, from her chair. She leaned over to her anxious mother and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. Her mum hadn’t wanted her to attend the inquest, worried that it would prove too distressing for her. But Gina had insisted on coming. She needed to be there, to hear every word spoken about that night, about her dad. She wanted to stand up and give her own evidence. She needed to have her say.

Even so, she found herself trembling as she stood at the witness table. The coroner gently asked her to tell him, in her own time, what had happened that night. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been struck dumb, unable to utter a word. She looked over at her mum, who nodded at her and mouthed, “Go on, Gina.” Then she swallowed hard, took a deep breath and the words started to come. Gradually her speech gathered momentum until the words were tumbling out of her. She hardly dared pause for breath – afraid of being stopped before she got it all out.

“Dad came in the car to pick me up from my running club like he always did, but there was definitely something wrong. He had a phone call, a work thing, he said. He wouldn’t let me in the car until he’d finished. Whatever was being said seemed to be winding him up, and after he opened the door for me, he hardly spoke. He was miles away, not paying attention. He said he was tired but I thought maybe he was ill. Usually he’d have been mucking around, having a laugh. He loved to hear about my running. He used to be a bit of a runner himself, so he trained with me, came to every meeting to cheer me on. But that night, he didn’t ask me anything. And then he went down that dead-end street and got out of the car saying he needed a wee, but then he told me he loved me. I thought it was a bit weird to say out of the blue like that, so I just laughed at him and didn’t even say ‘I love you’ back. He must have wanted to hear me say it, and I didn’t, and now it’s too late. Then he seemed to have been gone for ages. I was getting a bit worried, so I beeped the horn. Then that text came.” Gina fell silent; her ragged breathing filled the room. She couldn’t bring herself to repeat the message.

The coroner took control of the situation.

“Thank you, Gina. I realize how difficult this is for you. You can go back to your place now. We have a record of the text,” he continued. “For the purposes of the hearing, let it be known that it read,
Forgive me. Dad
.”

But Gina didn’t move. She hadn’t finished. She fought back the sobs that were gathering in her throat and continued. “And then I heard the train screeching, trying to stop and it was my dad on the tracks and I know what you’re thinking, but you see –” she looked imploringly at the coroner – “it doesn’t make any sense. My dad wouldn’t kill himself and anyway, just before he got out of the car, he said that he’d go for a run with me the next day. Why would he say that if he knew he was going to kill himself? He wouldn’t, would he?” She looked desperately around the room, waiting for someone to agree with her, but all she saw were downcast faces etched with pity.

“You’ve got to believe me!” she cried out. “My dad would never do that to us. He loved us! If you’d met him, you’d know he wouldn’t leave us like this.” Her shoulders shook as her sobs finally erupted. Her mother rushed across the courtroom and Gina felt arms around her, cradling her quivering body.

The coroner spoke up. “I think we should stop there for the day. We’ll resume the hearing tomorrow.”

Gina begged, “No! Please, don’t stop. If I leave this room now, I won’t have the guts to come back tomorrow and I need to be here. Please! I’ll pull myself together.”

“But it’s
your
welfare I’m thinking of,” the coroner assured her.

“Then please, just carry on and let me stay.”

The coroner paused. “Mrs. Wilson, if you believe that it’s in the best interests of your daughter to remain here, then I’ll abide by your judgement,” the coroner said.

Gina looked pleadingly at her mother.

Her mum gave a sorrowful sigh. “Yes, I think she should stay. Gina needs to hear
everything
.”

“Then, if you go back to your seat, Gina, we’ll continue,” the coroner announced. “Would Mr. Thomas Cotter please come to the witness table.”

Gina dried her eyes as she tried to compose herself. She wanted to take in every word that he had to say. She scrutinized Uncle Tom as he stepped up to the table. She knew how he liked to keep himself well groomed and fit. She knew that her dad’s boss was never short of female admirers, but today his handsome face looked grey and drawn. Gina realized that her dad’s death had hit Uncle Tom hard.

She heard Uncle Tom’s voice thicken with emotion as he answered the coroner’s questions.

“Yes, sir. I knew Martin very well. I first met him sixteen years ago when I opened my warehouse on the docks and I employed him as my foreman. We had a great working relationship which became a friendship. Marty and Clare always made me feel welcome in their home. The kids even call me uncle,” he said, giving Gina a weak smile.

“And how would you describe Martin Wilson’s character?” the coroner asked.

“Well, he was a great bloke – warm, kind, a real family man. The other lads at the warehouse really respected him. But I’d been worried about him in the weeks before his death. He was putting up a front for the others at work but I noticed he seemed down, withdrawn, not his usual self at all.”

“And did you ever ask him about this?” the coroner said.

“Of course. I asked Marty outright. I was really concerned and I thought it might help if he confided in someone. He did tell me about this feeling he had; this dark cloud. That’s how he described it, ‘a dark cloud’ that hung over him. I asked him why…what was worrying him? I thought maybe I could help him, but he couldn’t even explain what had brought it on.”

“And was he seeking help for his feelings of depression?”

“No.” Tom shook his head despondently. “I did my best to try to persuade him to tell Clare. He needed her support, but he wouldn’t tell her. He kept saying that he didn’t want to burden her or the kids. At home he was carrying on as if everything was normal.

“I said I’d go to the doctor’s with him, see if he could get some antidepressants, but Martin wasn’t having any of it. He insisted that he’d snap out of it, be back to his old self soon. I was feeling completely out of my depth. I really needed to tell someone, to get him some help, but he made me promise to keep his condition to myself. So I didn’t tell Clare, but I kept an eye on him, took him out for drinks, sat and listened, but I still didn’t get to the bottom of what was bothering him.”

“And can you tell us what you know about what happened on the day of Martin Wilson’s death?” the coroner asked.

“Yes, okay.” Tom braced himself and began. “On the day…the day it happened, I was up in Glasgow on business. I’d only been there a couple of hours. I’d already had a business meeting and I was en route to check in to my hotel when Marty phoned me – it must have been about one o’clock. He wanted to let me know that one of the shipments of cocoa beans from the Ivory Coast had docked early – it wasn’t due for another couple of days and the GPS system hadn’t been tracking it, so it caught us by surprise.

“Anyway, Marty had gone ahead and got the lads to unload it into the warehouse – I could always rely on him to deal with things when I wasn’t there; he was a fantastic foreman. I thanked him and was about to put the phone down but he seemed to hesitate, so I asked him if there was anything else he needed to tell me and then, out of the blue, he started this…this
outpouring
; telling me what a great mate I’d been to him and how much he loved Clare and the kids, and then he started to cry… It was terrible. I could hear him down the phone, weeping like a child. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, so I just ended up saying something useless, like, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Marty.’ I told him he had to ring Clare, let her know how he was feeling. I told him that I’d be back from Glasgow the next day and we could have a good talk. I said to send the lads home and shut up the warehouse early. We didn’t have any deliveries going out and he sounded in no state to work and, to be honest, I never trusted anyone else to run the place.