Summer of '76 (19 page)

Mike rears up, his face livid. ‘I can’t say that I like the line of your questioning, young man!’ He marches across the kitchen, passing through them, into the hall. ‘It’s that Brazier boy you should be more concerned with.’

Tom shakes his head. ‘Why does he have to make everything about him? Sorry, man,’ he says to Luke. ‘I don’t know what to say. What an
idiot
.’

‘
Tom
,’ Diana chides, but Tom just glowers at her in response and follows Luke into the hall.

They meet the others heading out on to the front doorstep, Mike now nearly puce with rage, and Dad looking as though he’s aged twenty years in an afternoon.

‘Relax, Mike,’ Art Brewer says. ‘Everyone’s just a bit fraught, understandably. I’ll put PC Paley straight; no one’s suggesting you had any part in it. God knows where they find these new recruits.’ He rests his hand on Mike’s elbow. Sweating and huffing in the afternoon heat, they look like a pair of fattened-up old pigs. ‘It won’t happen again.’

Mike takes his handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. He reaches for his cigarettes, stepping out on to the front doorstep to light one, inhaling deeply as he wanders across the concrete driveway where he perches on the dividing wall.

‘I think we’re done here, Richard,’ the Chief says. ‘We’ve got all our men out, scouring the streets, and we’ve already sent someone round to the Brazier house to see if they can track down Martin. There’s not much more we can do for now.’

‘We can keep looking,’ Luke interrupts, angrily. ‘Can’t we, Dad? We’ll just keep looking until we find her. Tom’ll help.’

Tom and Luke step aside as the PC joins them at the front door. ‘So you’ll call us?’ Dad says, following the officers as they make their way towards the police car parked out on the road. ‘As soon as you hear anything?’

‘Of course.’

Luke watches, feeling helpless as Art Brewer gets in and slams the door, clicking his seat belt into place and starting up the engine. Dad pats the roof of the car once – and then he freezes, his arm held strangely aloft, as his gaze rests on something further down the street. Luke observes him from the shade of the house, momentarily disconnected as his gut turns beneath his ribcage.

‘Jo!’ Dad calls out, his voice emerging strangulated. ‘
JO!
’

His urgency shatters Luke’s trance and he jumps to attention, craning in through the front door to shout back into the house. ‘Mum! Dad wants you!’ He sprints to the gate, as Mike throws down his cigarette to join Dad, and Chief Constable Brewer eases himself back out of the car.

Luke follows their gaze. There, strolling along the road in the bright evening sunlight, is Martin, his face dappled in the shade of the overhanging leaves and branches. He lumbers towards them in his usual loose-limbed gait, his flared jeans flapping about his thin ankles, his mousy hair swaying lankly across one eye. Bony-elbowed arms protrude at right angles as he holds them high above his head, where his large hands steady the small floral bundle of laughter that sits astride his shoulders. It’s Kitty.

The next minute passes in a surreal blur of activity, like a film on slow-play: Mum running from the house screaming Kitty’s name as Dad reaches above Martin’s shoulders to fetch her down; Chief Constable Brewer taking Martin by the elbow and leading him to the car; Mike Michaels waving his arm in the air, barking instructions to the officers. Tom and Diana recede into nothing as sparkling motes of dust rise and fall between the shards of tree-split light, and the heat of the evening sun continues to beat down on the usually quiet street.

‘Thank God,’ Mum repeats over and over, smothering Kitty with kisses.

Dad stands, limp, his face in his hands, as Kitty reaches towards him from Mum’s shoulder, her tiny face crumpling when he doesn’t look up. She dangles her little blue-haired elephant from her fingers and starts to cry.

‘Aren’t you going to handcuff him, Art?’ Mike demands.

Art Brewer ignores him, removing Martin’s rucksack from his back and passing it to PC Paley.

‘Luke?’ Martin says feebly. His visible fear makes Luke feel nauseous. ‘Luke?’

‘What do you mean, handcuff him?’ Dad interjects, suddenly regaining his composure. ‘You haven’t even asked him where he found her.’

‘Found her?’ Mike splutters. ‘He
took
her, man!’

‘No!’ Luke roars, stepping forward to stand between Mike and Dad.

‘Martin didn’t take her,’ says Mum, hugging the quietly weeping Kitty closer. ‘Martin, tell the officer!’

Martin says nothing, his pale mouth hanging open in a dreadful mask of surprise.

‘Martin!’ Luke says crossly, stepping up close, shaking his shoulder. ‘Martin, tell them where you found Kitty. Martin!’

Mike Michaels crosses his arms and puffs out his chest, and Luke sees in that moment just how much he’s enjoying the drama. ‘God knows what he’s done to her.’

There’s a collective intake of breath as everyone turns to look at him.

‘
Mike
,’ Chief Constable Brewer says firmly, releasing Martin’s arm. ‘Mike, this isn’t helping. I’ll take it from here. You and your family can go back inside now – I need to talk to Martin and the Wolff family alone. OK?’

Mike shakes his head and backs off like a disgruntled bear, indicating for Diana and Tom to join him. ‘You just give me a shout, Richard. If you need me.’

Art Brewer turns to the group with a small nod. ‘Now, Martin, why don’t you tell us what you were doing with Kitty?’

‘I found her,’ he mumbles, at last.

‘You found her? Where?’

‘With the dogs. You know?’

‘Are you getting this down, PC Paley?’ Art asks impatiently, wrinkling his brow. The young PC tugs at his earlobe as Brewer turns to Kitty. ‘Kitty?’

She looks terrified, and her face screws up again as she whimpers into Mum’s hair.

‘Kitty?’ Art repeats curtly, wiggling the trunk of the little elephant to gain her full attention.

Mum scowls at him. ‘Kitty, darling? Can you tell Mummy where you’ve been today? Who were you with?’

Kitty casts a suspicious glance in Art Brewer’s direction and throws her head back in an exhausted howl. The little elephant drops from her hands, bouncing to the side of the
kerb. ‘Marteee!’ she screams as she watches the elephant land. ‘Marty, Marty!’

Dad’s expression is a picture of confusion. ‘Martin?’

Luke looks around the group in panic. Mum now seems to be in complete meltdown as she lowers herself to perch on the wall, drawing Kitty up as if she might squeeze the breath out of her.

‘Kitty doesn’t mean that Martin took her!’ Luke shouts, but no one seems to be hearing him.

Martin has taken on that glazed over look, like he does when he’s eating, and Luke knows there’s no reaching him now. PC Paley is going through his rucksack, and he pulls out the Brownie camera and holds it aloft. ‘Chief,’ he says, ‘it looks like he’s used a full reel.’

‘We’ll drop that in at the chemist’s for processing on our way back to the station, Paley,’ Art Brewer says, looking at his watch. ‘Could be evidence.’

Luke runs his hands up through his sweat-soaked scalp, watching as Art moves closer to Mum and Dad and talks to them in a low tone.

‘I think we’d better take him down to the station, Richard. I take it he’s over eighteen?’

‘
Christ
,’ Luke murmurs, as he watches PC Paley cuff Martin and ease him into the back seat of the police car.

‘We’ll question him fully there. In the meantime, it’s important that you give Kitty a thorough checking over – do you understand, Joanna? And if anything seems out of the ordinary, call me and we’ll send someone over to take a look. See if you can get any more sense out of her about where she’s been. She’s clearly too traumatised at the moment, but you may get more from her later.’

‘But she’s only four,’ Mum says, her voice barely a whisper. She looks at Dad. ‘Martin wouldn’t do anything to Kitty, would he, Richard?’

Luke pushes between them to be heard. ‘
Mum
. This is Martin we’re talking about!’

Dad shakes his head, unable to meet Mum’s eye. ‘I gave him that camera,’ he says, barely audible.

‘I’ll let you know how we get on,’ says Chief Constable Brewer, and he gets into the police car and drives away, leaving Luke with nothing more than the appalling image of Martin’s haunted face as it passes by.

The phone rings early the next morning, and despite a restless night’s sleep Luke leaps from his bed and into the hall, where he waits expectantly beside Mum in his pyjama bottoms, trying to catch a thread of the conversation.

‘Yes, I checked her over. Yes, thoroughly. She’s completely fine. No – nothing at all.’ She glances sideways at Luke and mouths ‘the police’ at him. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you, Art. Thanks for calling so early. Oh, and Art,’ she says, turning her back to Luke. ‘How is he? Martin. Did he get home alright?’ A pause. ‘We’re very fond of Martin – I’d hate to think this could have repercussions for him.’ She tilts her head, listening to the Chief. ‘Good. Well, thanks again,’ she says, and she returns the phone receiver to its cradle.

‘Well?’ asks Luke, running his finger along the ridged glass of the front door panel.

Mum pushes her hand through her hair, scraping it up into a thick bunch and letting it fall. She releases a deep, relieved sigh. ‘That was Chief Brewer. They let Martin go late last night. Apparently he’d only bumped into Kitty minutes before we saw him – he’d spotted her playing with the dogs in Sara Newbury’s front garden, and he was just bringing her home. Art says they’re confident that it was all just a big mix-up.’

Luke pulls at his bottom lip, remembering the grey spectre of Martin’s face as he passed by in the police car. ‘Not helped by Fatty next door. So, what now?’

‘So, nothing. That’s it.’

‘You say that, but you know what this place is like once people get hold of a bit of gossip. I’ll bet Mike Michaels has
already dispatched an emergency telegraph to warn the rest of the island. People are bound to ask questions.’

Mum rubs his shoulder. ‘Well, if they do, we’ll all just have to put them right.’ She inspects her face in the hall mirror, brushing a finger under her lashes to wipe away the traces of yesterday’s mascara. ‘Maybe you should give Martin a call, Luke?’ She leans in to stroke his cheek, and smiles gently before running a distracted hand through her hair and disappearing into the bathroom.

For a minute or two Luke stands in the hallway alone, staring at the telephone, building up the courage to make the call. When he does, Martin answers on the second ring, with a weak urgency to his voice that unsettles Luke to his core.

‘Mart, it’s me,’ he says, in his cheeriest voice. ‘The police just phoned to say you’d gone home. Are you OK?’

A little puff of breath at the end of the line lets Luke know he’s still there. He waits for Martin to speak.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he eventually says, talking with a pronounced lisp, and what sounds like a blocked-up nose.

‘What’s up with your voice? Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Yesss. I’m fine.’ Martin has lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Is your dad there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What did he say, mate? Did the police explain it to him?’

There’s a long silence, and in that instant, Luke knows why Martin’s lisping; it wouldn’t be the first time his dad has knocked him about. ‘Mate, it’s all going to be alright, you know? You’re not in any trouble. Chief Brewer told my mum on the phone; he said they know it was all just a mix-up.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘So what are you sounding so worried about, then?’

Martin clears his throat, the pause seeming to go on for an age. ‘It’s the film from the camera, Luke. They’ve put it in for processing.’

‘So what?’ As soon as the words are out, he understands. Martin’s talking about the photos he took on the night of the party. ‘Jesus,’ Luke murmurs. ‘The film was still in your camera?’

‘I’d forgotten about it. There were two films, Luke – the police only took that one, the one in the camera, and I don’t know what I’ve done with the first one, but I’m sure I’ll find it if I have a good look in my room –’

‘Alright, alright,’ Luke interrupts, his impatience breaking through. He checks along the hallway to ensure he’s not being overheard. ‘Just slow down, mate. So, can you remember what’s on that film the police have got? It’s important – are there any pictures of my folks on it?’

‘That’s the thing, Luke. I can’t remember. I just can’t remember. My mind’s a complete blank.’ There’s a rattle in the background as Martin’s dad enters the room and tells him to get off the phone. ‘I’ve got to go now,’ he says, the tremble in his voice close to tears. ‘I’ve got to go.’

The receiver goes down and Luke stares at his own dishevelled reflection in the hall mirror, as the blood drains from his face, and a slow, deep panic sets in. Is this how it feels when someone has died? he wonders. Because right now, nothing, nothing in the world, could make him feel any worse than this.

Since the last smattering of rain in the middle of July, the heatwave is predicted to soar again to Mediterranean levels. Temperatures continue up in the seventies and news reporters continue to talk of almost nothing else. Yesterday, when Luke took Kitty to the marshes in search of newts, the area was desert-dry, the rushes wilting like hay against the
sun-bleached
wasteland of the ponds. ‘Where did they go?’ Kitty had asked sadly, slotting a small finger into one of the broad cracks that fractured the heat-baked basin. ‘They must have found a new home,’ he’d answered, certain that the ill-fated newts were long-dead.

Since that last phone call a couple of weeks back, Luke hasn’t seen or heard from Martin at all. He couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject of the parties with his parents, not so soon after the trauma of Kitty’s disappearance, and so for now he pushes it away, glad to go on acting as if none of it ever happened.

Sweat-soaked work days come and go in a blur of mops and buckets and crisp white sheets, with many an afternoon spent with Tom and Gordon, sunbathing beneath the tamarisk trees of Woodside beach. Samantha seems to join them less and less, as her relationship with Len Dickens
blossoms elsewhere, away from the intense glare of Luke’s jealousy.

On Saturday Luke has a rare day free, and he passes much of the morning sleeping off his hangover, waking groggy to the sound of Mum cranking up the carpet cleaner in the hall beyond his door. She’s still on this obsessive cleaning kick, and yesterday she hired an industrial-strength machine, which she’s been flogging to death before it has to be returned to Hopkinson’s at the end of the day.

Parched, Luke heads for the kitchen, waving a sleepy hand at Mum, who’s now moved into the living room, where all the furniture is pushed back against the walls and windows.

‘Can you take your shoes off when you come in and out, Luke?’ she shouts over the noise of the cleaner as he pauses in the living room doorway. ‘And I’ll want to get in your room at some point later today.’

In the kitchen he runs the cold tap, downing a pint of water before filling his glass again and slumping back against the sink, listening to the sounds of the household. Kitty is out in the back yard, poking around the weeds and seeded buddleia, collecting up green caterpillars in a crumpled old Ski yogurt pot. He can hear the clack-clack-clack of her wooden stick as she taps it along the wall and fence panels. ‘
I’m on the top of the world
,’ she sings, repeating the same line over and over again. This is his first day off in weeks, and yet he has nothing to do, nowhere to go. Gordon and Tom are both working today, and Martin’s disappeared off the face of the earth. He thinks about bloody Len Dickhead kissing Samantha Dyas, and the strip of brown thigh he glimpsed when she stepped into Len’s car after work yesterday; how she turned and blew him a secret kiss when she knew Len wasn’t looking.

Luke wanders back out into the hall, where he props himself against the doorframe to the living room, watching Mum. A trickle of sweat runs down the side of her face as she manhandles the heavy machine across the carpet. It
grinds and whirrs, sucking grubby water back up its hose and into the clear plastic tank. Beyond Mum, through the open patio doors, Dad sits in his deckchair, bare legs crossed in the sunshine, the rest of him hidden behind his Saturday newspapers. So far, he’s kept to his promise of seeing less of Simon, and, while things are hardly perfect between them, there have certainly been fewer arguments than before. Dad flips his newspaper over and lets it drop to the lawn as he folds his arms idly and closes his eyes for a nap.

‘Lazy git,’ Luke mutters, returning to the kitchen to search for food.

Shortly after lunch, Mum drops a hastily wrapped present into Luke’s hands, and asks him to walk Kitty to a party at the village hall while she carries on with the living room carpet. Kitty’s wearing a new frock that Mum made up from some fabric offcuts she’s been saving, and she dawdles on the path with her little chin jutting out, annoying Luke every time she stops to twirl and shout, ‘New dress! Ta-daaa!’

All along the way, Luke notices the scorched lawns and dying plants, mentally noting those gardens he suspects are being covertly watered under cover of darkness. Like most of their neighbours the Wolffs have been emptying their dirty dishwater into the flowerbeds, but recently Mum’s been complaining that the tea roses are starting to smell. Last night she dragged him out into the garden and made him sniff the plants, pressing him for his opinion. He’d stood there for ages, inhaling away, until he finally came up with the answer: macaroni cheese – they’d had it last Wednesday. Mum was delighted that they’d cracked the code, and decided that in future they’d only water the garden with bathwater.

Luke and Kitty turn the corner into the village hall car park, where pink and yellow balloons bob against the fire escape bars of the open double doors. Parents and children come and go in the bright sunlight, and Luke chaperones Kitty inside to look for Mrs Forest, the mother of the party
girl. It’s cool inside the hall, and a dozen or more children noisily clamber and run across the central wooden stage, while a group of parents cluster around the noticeboard amidst much animated chatter. Kitty spots Mrs Forest at the edge of the group, and she drags Luke over to let her know she’s arrived.

‘It’s not a particularly flattering shot,’ one of the fathers laughs, peering in to get a closer look at the noticeboard.

Kitty holds the present high up above her head, waving it under Mrs Forest’s nose until she gets her attention. The mother takes the gift and points Kitty in the direction of her little friends. ‘The girls are in the Wendy house,’ she calls after her, and she glances back towards the noticeboard and lowers her voice to a confidential tone. ‘God only knows who saw fit to post it up in the village hall, of all places. Where just about
anyone
can see it.’

‘Surely that’s the whole point!’ the man guffaws. Whatever’s up on the board has clearly tickled him. ‘Someone’s certainly got it in for the poor fella.’

Luke rises up on to his toes in an attempt to see what they’re all looking at, and the group shifts, giving him a clear view of the photograph pinned to the centre of the board. Full-frontal and entirely naked, the figure on the dried-out grass lawn appears to be posed mid-dance, his arms thrown wide in the bright lamplight. His wavy hair and sandy moustache look lighter in the shot than in real life, and his eyes are concealed behind a black Zorro mask. But still, despite the small disguise, it’s clear to all standing around the noticeboard that the man in the mask is local headmaster Simon Drake.

The two-minute jog back home is frantic, as Luke tries to find the words to tell Mum and Dad what he’s just seen. His mind is a jumble; he can’t let on that he knows about the source of the photos – but neither can he let this just happen to them. He stops in the front doorway, bending down over his knees while he gathers his thoughts, feeling
his lunch swilling in his stomach as he wipes the perspiration from the back of his neck and tries to regulate his breathing. Inside, Mum has moved into Kitty’s bedroom with the carpet cleaner, and she looks up and smiles at him as he passes. He strides through the house, intending to tell Dad, to force the issue, but in the event he finds he’s lost for words. Out in the leaf-dappled warmth of the garden Dad’s sleeping peacefully in his deckchair, his arms draped across his lap, hands hanging loosely against the denim fabric of his shorts, a rare, contented ease lingering at the edges of his mouth. Luke stands in the shade of the willow tree, looking down at his father, and he doesn’t know what to do. What is there to do? It’s already out there. What use is there in him saying
anything
?

Defeated, he returns to the hallway and picks up the phone receiver, irritably bobbing his head at Mum, who pushes the bedroom door shut to muffle the noise. He dials Martin’s number and waits. Hollowly, it rings at the other end of the line, competing with the sounds of Mum’s machine bumping up against the bedroom door.

‘
Answer
,’ Luke urges, chewing on a loose corner of thumbnail as the phone at Martin’s end rings on and on. Finally he hangs up. ‘Mum?’ he yells through the closed door, pushing it open and peering round.

She’s working at a small ink stain in the corner of Kitty’s carpet, feverishly pushing the brush head back and forth over the same spot, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looks up and switches the machine off, running a wrist across her shiny temple. ‘Did you say something, Luke?’

He can’t tell her. ‘Couldn’t Dad give you a hand with that?’ he asks. ‘It looks like heavy work.’

She looks around the room distractedly. ‘He only just broke up for the holidays a week ago – the last thing he wants to do is clean the house!’

Luke chews on his lower lip.

‘Is there something else, Luke? You look a bit worried, sweetheart.’

He blinks hard. ‘Me? No, I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yep! What time does Kitty’s party finish? I’ll collect her if you want.’

Mum picks up a small wicker stool and places it on the bed alongside a mountain of cuddly toys. ‘Actually, I’ve got to get the machine back to Hopkinson’s around the same time, so I’ll pick up Kitty on my way back.’ She gathers up her unruly hair, twirling it round in one easy movement, repinning it in a loose knot. Dropping to her knees, she reaches under the bed and feels around, eventually pulling out a pair of slippers and Marty the elephant. She stops to gaze at the little toy for a moment, before throwing it on to the pile and turning away to restart the machine.

Next door in his own bedroom, Luke opens all the windows, and closes the curtains so that they flutter and billow in the warm salt breeze, shutting out the endless glare of sunlight and heat. He places Martin’s
Young Americans
album on the record player and turns the volume high, flopping back against his pillow, to sink deep inside himself. He clutches at his hair, trying to shift his thoughts away from Martin’s reel of film, and thinks about Samantha and Len, about Mark Bolan and David Bowie, about poly and Brighton and London and America; about any place but here. He thinks about Martin and his father and his long-dead mother; he thinks about the swallow that killed her, about the high grass of their garden path and the grief that hides in the shadows beyond their cloudy front windows. And eventually, he sleeps.

Tom beeps his horn for Luke the following day, to drive them up to the holiday camp for work. It’s mid-morning, and Luke drains his mug, pausing to kiss Mum goodbye as she sits at the kitchen table nursing her cup of tea.

Last night the phone rang non-stop, the first call coming from Simon Drake, quickly followed by John McKee and a
couple of callers Luke didn’t recognise. Dad took all the calls, waving Mum away as she stood beside him in the hallway, making knots of her fingers and avoiding Luke’s questioning gaze. When Mike Michaels came striding in unannounced as darkness started to fall, it took everything in Luke’s power to keep from punching his smarmy face.

‘Richard!’ Mike boomed, dropping heavily on to the sofa and waving a cupped hand at mum, by way of requesting a drink. ‘Time for crisis talks, methinks!’

Mum broke down again and shut herself in her bedroom for the rest of the evening, until she rose this morning, pale and puffy-eyed.

Now, Luke throws his bag in the back of Tom’s car and slides into the passenger seat.

‘Alright, man,’ says Tom. His sun-bleached hair looks as though he’s been hacking at it with a pair of nail scissors, and it stands out in crusty little peaks up and over his head.

‘I like your hair,’ says Luke as they pull away. ‘How’d you get it to stick up like that?’

‘Hair gel.’ He pats the front carefully with the palm of his hand. ‘So,’ he says, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs. ‘My lot are in a right two an’ eight. Seems to me there’s a whole load of shit going down in our neighbourhood.’ He winks at Luke with a cluck of his tongue.

‘Can we just leave it, Tom?’ Luke replies with a worn out sigh. ‘It’s boring.’ He puffs a short breath between his lips, and turns to look through his passenger window at the streets and houses that whizz by, wondering why no one’s answering the phone at Martin’s house. Last night, in between all the incoming phone calls, he’d tried reaching him again and again, without success. He kept trying, right up until midnight, then once more this morning, but still there was no reply.

‘Tom, mate – do us a favour and swing a right here, will you?’

Tom pulls up at the kerb where Luke indicates.

‘I’ve just got to sort something out. Wait here – I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’ He leaves Tom propped up against the bonnet of his car, rolling a cigarette in the sunshine. Luke pushes open the dilapidated gate and navigates his way through the nettles and weeds that wilt and clutter the path to Martin’s house. He stops at the faded paintwork of the front door, where a livid red splash radiates from the central panel. Above the letterbox in dripping red capitals is the word ‘NONCE’.

The sun hits the dirty front windows directly, making it impossible to see inside, and Luke knocks once with his knuckles, loudly, dropping back from the doorstep to wait. He’s about to knock again when the door opens, and Martin’s long, sallow face peers around the frame.

Luke frowns hard, holding his palms up.

‘I had to call round, Mart. I couldn’t get through on the phone.’

‘We’ve had a few nuisance calls,’ Martin replies, keeping his voice low, moving out to stand on the step. ‘We unplugged it in the end.’

The awkwardness between them is excruciating. ‘Mart, what did your dad say about all that police business the other day?’

Martin gives an involuntary jerk of his head, a tiny movement that betrays his fear of being overheard by his father. There’s a fading bruise across one side of his face, along his cheekbone and up over his temple.