Back in the present moment, Mark pulls the plug from his bath, draining out water that’s now cold, and then stands up. He has nine days in which to change his mind. He won’t, though. Some resolution has to occur, otherwise in ten, fifteen, twenty years’ time Michelle Morgan will still be spouting forth how he’s not been punished enough. Besides, now he’s got the idea, the compulsion is too strong to resist.
Mark dries himself off, pulls on fresh clothes and goes into the kitchenette to make coffee. Decision made, the tension of the day recedes a little, although it returns when Natalie comes to mind. He can’t picture a satisfactory conclusion where she’s concerned; she’ll be happier without him.
Like your mother, I never want to see you again. I’m not surprised she rejected you.
Her words burn like acid.
7
GIVE ME A CALL
Nearly three o’clock on the afternoon of March 21. Mark’s sitting in a coffee shop in Moretonhampstead, downing an espresso to calm his nerves; he’ll set off towards the scene of the vigil in about half an hour. Plenty of time yet. As usual, he’s arrived early, punctuality being another one of his compulsions. He sips the thick brew, savouring its taste, desperate for the caffeine jolt it delivers. The weak March sunshine filters in through the window, highlighting dust motes floating through the air as Mark stares through the glass.
Thankfully, no blonde female toddlers pass by. A man, probably mid-twenties, crosses the road in front of the coffee shop and Mark studies him. Something familiar about the guy, the self-assurance of his gait bordering on a swagger, triggers a distant memory, although Mark can’t place where he might have seen him before. Ah, he’s got it. The man’s confident stride reminds him how Adam Campbell used to strut around as though he owned the world, oozing supreme self-confidence with every step. Mark can do without the reminder on today of all days, thank you very much, and he forces his gaze away, back to his now empty coffee cup, purging the memory of the other boy from his mind. Today is about Abby Morgan, not Adam Campbell.
He leaves the coffee shop and steps out into the pale March sunshine, heading towards the edge of town, not far from the A382. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the scene of the vigil; the route is burned onto his memory. To do so necessitates walking past Abby Morgan’s house again; Mark averts his gaze and picks up his pace, but it’s not enough to stop his heart from squeezing his lungs so he can’t breathe. He stops, head down, gasping, at the top of the lane leading to the field where the vigil will take place. As always, Mark takes comfort in numbers, counting slowly upwards in his head, allowing the soothing digits to melt the iron fist constricting his breath.
One, two.
Eventually he’s able to carry on, continuing down the lane and across the field to reach the site of the vigil.
It’s ten minutes to four now, and from what he can see, very few people are attending this year. Most appear to be general onlookers, along with a press photographer and a television crew. Mark has deliberately dressed down, in nondescript clothing, with a hood over his head; he doesn’t think anyone will notice him, though, despite the lack of attendees. Just another curious bystander.
He positions himself behind the camera crew. To his right, the man he spotted from the cafe window is standing near the press photographer, stamping from one leg to the other, seemingly impatient. Like all of them here, they’re waiting for the Morgan family to arrive. Mark wonders if Matthew Morgan will attend this year, assuming he’s still alive, or whether it’ll be the usual trio of Michelle, Shaun and Rachel.
It’s a cold March day, despite the sunshine, and Mark shuffles from side to side, hands in his pockets, in an attempt to generate heat. He promises himself a pint and a pub meal on the way back to warm up, regretting not choosing a thicker sweatshirt under his jacket. He doesn’t have to wait long, however. After a few minutes, he’s aware of more noise, and people talking, and dragging his gaze from the ground, he watches as Michelle, Shaun and Rachel arrive.
It’s one hell of a shock for Mark to see them in person, and panic washes over him again. His chest constricts as the familiar counting starts in his head.
Breathe
, he tells himself.
One, two
. Having Abby Morgan’s family in front of him is ten times more intimidating than viewing them on screen from the safety of his sofa. He’s seen Michelle Morgan in the flesh before, of course; she appears in the courtroom every day of his trial. He remembers the way she stares at Jon Campbell, Adam’s father, a gaze some might interpret as accusatory. A challenge to the man whose son killed her daughter, demanding what kind of a parent he thinks he is. Difficult for her to do the same with Joanna Barker, given how his mother attends the trial only when compelled to give evidence.
Mark forces his gaze back to the scenario in front of him. Michelle takes up her usual position behind the microphone, Shaun to her left, with Rachel next to him, nearest to Mark. He uses the opportunity to get a better look at Abby’s sister. She’s petite, slim, almost doll-like, an image strengthened by her very fair skin and long red hair. Pretty, he thinks, although redheads aren’t to his taste. Glancing across to Michelle’s coppery hair, he can see from where Rachel’s inherited her colouring. She keeps tugging the sleeves of her jacket down, the gesture nervous, slightly panicky. As usual, her expression is tense, unhappy. She’s not someone, Mark decides, who anyone would ever look at and pronounce:
she’s got a lot of confidence.
He switches his attention to Shaun Morgan. A tall guy, probably a tad over six feet, athletic in build. He hasn’t inherited the family tendency to reddish hair, his being more light brown in shade, and cropped short. Probably late twenties. Overall, he appears a more relaxed, confident individual than Rachel. Mark watches as Shaun turns to his sister, putting an arm around her to give her a quick squeeze. She looks up at him, her smile fleeting, before glancing away again.
Something about the dynamics of the Morgan family strikes Mark forcefully; a nuance he’s never noticed when watching them on television. Now, here in this field, with the three of them in front of him, he realises they always stand the same way. First Michelle, then Shaun on her left, with Rachel next to him.
Not once has Rachel ever stood next to her mother.
Now he thinks about it, Mark can’t remember the two of them even looking at each other, much less speaking.
Michelle Morgan begins her speech. She’s piled on weight over the years, Mark thinks, but still squeezes herself into tight clothes; perhaps she’s a comfort eater like Natalie. The crow’s feet at the sides of her eyes gouge deeply into her face, as do the lines carved between her nose and mouth. Mark catches a glimpse of yellowing teeth. Probably a heavy smoker. Some of her premature ageing will be down to the cigarettes, he reckons, but he wonders with a guilty stab of conscience how much is down to her unresolved anger at him and Adam Campbell.
‘We are here today, as we have been every year since her death, to remember and mark the appalling murder of my daughter, Abigail Louise Morgan,’ Michelle says, the same as Mark remembers her doing in previous years. He can predict what will come next; her speech never changes much. After all, what can she say that’s new?
‘Fourteen years ago, my child was lured away from the garden of my house by her murderers, Joshua Barker and Adam Campbell. Two eleven-year-olds, young in years, but both imbued with an evil beyond their age,’ she says. ‘They took her to this spot and brutally murdered her for their own gratification. A senseless and inexplicable act.’ She recites the facts of the murder with steel shot through her expression; it’s not just her crow’s feet that are deepening, Mark thinks, but her hatred of her daughter’s killers as well.
‘They knew exactly what they were doing.’ Michelle Morgan’s voice hardens. Rachel shuffles her feet, and Shaun gives her shoulder another quick squeeze. ‘They served just ten years for the death of my daughter. Nothing will convince me that’s a fair punishment for what they did. They robbed Abigail of her life and they should have paid with spending the rest of theirs in jail. Imprisonment without hope of parole would have been a fitting retribution, not the leniency with which they have been treated.’
Heads nod in the crowd around Mark, amid mutterings of assent. The effect on him of seeing Michelle Morgan in the flesh is powerful, compelling, and the guilt he’s always carried twists within him into agreement. At least where Adam Campbell is concerned. In his own case, he doesn’t consider himself able to judge, but he’s inclined to think Abby’s mother has a point. He’s guilty by association and by weakness of character, and both crimes deserve punishment beyond ten years’ detention and the loss of his mother.
As Mark shifts his gaze away from Michelle, he spots the man he saw crossing the street earlier, staring at him. Their eyes lock into place for a few seconds, with Mark processing what he sees. The man is much taller than Mark, six feet four at least, stockier too; he’s similarly dressed in a dark-coloured jacket with the hood pulled around his face, giving no hint of the colour of his hair. Without warning, the iron hand squeezes Mark’s lungs again.
He might have got it wrong, of course, and the man isn’t Adam Campbell; it’s a big stretch from an eleven-year-old boy to a twenty-five-year-old man. Puberty wreaks havoc on childhood looks, after all. Intuition and the familiar arrogance behind the other man’s gaze tell him he’s right, though. No need to see his hair to know that it’s dark, almost black, although the stubble on the man’s face gives that fact away anyway. The knowledge is imparted through the flash of recognition Mark gets, like a jolt from a cattle prod, as the two men study each other.
The other man grins at Mark. A grin saying:
It’s been fourteen years.
Adam Campbell. How the fuck did he not recognise him before? Shit, hot and holy shit. He never thought it would happen, but he’s sharing air space with the murderer of Abby Morgan.
In doing so, Mark breaks another of the terms of his release. The last thing on his mind right now, though, is sticking to the letter of the law. He forces his gaze away from the other man, annoyed at himself for breaking eye contact first yet relieved at avoiding the laser beam of Adam’s scrutiny.
Breathe
, he reminds himself, determined to regain control over his lungs. Fourteen years haven’t changed anything; he’s affected by Adam Campbell as strongly today as when he was eleven.
No way can Mark risk walking over to speak to him; he’s not sure he’s got the balls for that anyway. They’ll be overheard, or at the very least noticed, and Mark doesn’t dare doing anything to draw attention to either one of them. Something inside him needs to make contact, though, however forbidden and dangerous it is. He’s bound to this man for life through what happened. Now they’ve seen each other again, Mark’s desperate to find out what’s brought Adam here today, whether it’s the same desire to atone, to offer retribution to the Morgan family. Has the leopard changed its spots? Does Adam Campbell still harbour the same dark, aggressive urges, or has time sanded off his rough edges?
Mark doesn’t have many options for making contact. Sure, he can wait until after the vigil finishes, strike up a conversation with Adam when fewer people are around, but he’s too rattled to deal effectively with a one-on-one meeting. Not yet, anyway, not when he’s still jittery from the collective effect of the Morgans. Something more low-key is required. He fishes in the inside pocket of his jacket, finding a pen and the till receipt from the petrol he bought on the way here. After scribbling his mobile number on the back of the receipt, he moves towards Adam, whose attention is now with Michelle Morgan, until he’s behind him. In one swift movement, he slips the receipt into Adam’s jacket pocket. As he does so, Adam moves his arm, so that Mark’s fingers brush for a second against the skin on the other man’s wrist. Their first physical contact in fourteen years, and it’s electric, despite its brevity.
His breath coming more easily now, Mark strides back to his original vantage point. From the corner of his eye, he sees Adam withdraw the petrol receipt from his pocket.
Michelle Morgan finishes her speech. Adam nods briefly in Mark’s direction and again he experiences a jolt of – what, exactly? Fear, definitely. Possibly anticipation, too. Then Adam moves away from the crowd to head off towards Moretonhampstead. Mark stays where he is, relief flooding him at his nemesis’s departure. Michelle Morgan steps back from the microphone. Each year, she lights a candle in memory of her daughter, kneeling in silent contemplation on the spot where her child’s bloodied body was discovered. She busies herself with the lighter, shielding it from the March breeze, whilst Shaun holds a small glass lantern ready to house the candle. Rachel stands, hesitant and unsure, behind her mother’s turned back. Then she tugs up the zipper on her jacket. With a few words to Shaun, none to Michelle, she peels away and starts to walk towards the town; she won’t be joining her mother and brother this year for the candlelit session, it seems.
Around Mark, the sounds of people leaving filter through to him. Time for him to leave too. He follows Rachel, not intentionally, but because his car’s parked back in Moretonhampstead. Thank God Adam’s had enough of a head start to put him well in front of them; he’s nowhere in sight. For someone with short legs, Rachel Morgan walks fast, as though eager to place distance between her and the scene of her sister’s murder. Or between her and her mother.
She’s now about a hundred yards ahead of Mark. She’s so small, he thinks, liking the way her red hair swings in its ponytail as she moves. Swish, swish, from side to side; the only thing about her so far that seems in any way decisive. Unease seeps through Mark as he follows her. The terms of his release hammer through his head; he shouldn’t be this near to her, although what’s actually forbidden is any contact between them. What they’re doing here isn’t technically contact, though. It’s not as if he has any intention of approaching her or striking up a conversation. She hasn’t even seen him but Mark still doesn’t think Tony Jackson would take too well to him being so close to Abby Morgan’s sister.