Towers of Silence (16 page)

Stuart found the sight of me in cagoule and cycling helmet somewhat amusing. “Very fetching,” he said.

I had hoped to remove my helmet before he answered the door but I didn’t get my gloves off in time.

“Rather I risked head injuries?” I muttered.

“No! But a blue cagoule might go better with ...” He teased.

“Shut up.” I wheeled my bike in and divested myself. Beneath I was quite presentable; soft grey fleece, cream top, grey trousers. Underneath I wore something impractical in peach.

It had looked the part in the mirror but the lace didn’t half tickle when I rode my bike.

At least I hope it looked okay. My underwear had been a strictly private matter for a long time, letting someone else see it, and hopefully remove it was a novelty. When I’d started going out with Stuart I’d had to go shopping, to replace my comfy cotton briefs with something a tad more sensual.

“Wine?”

“Yes.”

Stuart had a wonderful log-burning stove in his lounge. It belted out heat. I took off my fleece and got comfortable on the sofa while Stuart brought wine and a plate of titbits from the kitchen. I nibbled a pastry and olive concoction and took a big, satisfying swig of wine. Then sighed with pleasure.

“How’s things?” he asked.

“Good,” I nodded. “Work’s a bit frustrating.”

“Oh,” he groaned and stretched. “Let’s not talk about work.”

I was a bit taken aback. I hadn’t been going to say much more, I save my confidences for Diane. But then Stuart proceeded to launch into an account of the shenanigans at the cafe bar.

“Three people did a runner without paying on Sunday, had the most expensive meals of course. Went after them but they were long gone. Then we’d no bread yesterday, had to send out to the local bakers. Can you imagine it?”

“No ciabatta?”

“Sold out; we had to make to with barm cakes and Manchester cobs.”

“Very exotic - it might catch on.”

“And Jonny’s off.”

“Yes, what happened with the baby?”

“A girl. Angie had to have a caesarian so he wants more time off to help out. Temps are a nightmare this time of year. Christmas rush.”

I was beginning to glaze over.

Then my mobile rang. Maddie? My mind raced round freeze-frame disasters; fire, electrocution, poisoning, kidnap, car crash, as I got my phone out.

“Sal, it’s Jackie Dobson here. There’s a young lad at our house wanting to see you. I tried to explain that you weren’t here, that downstairs is just your office but he’s quite upset. I said I’d try and contact you.”

Adam Reeve. Had Susan told him, then? And he’d found out where I worked. Tracked me down in the Yellow Pages?

“He’s called Roland,” Jackie said. “Roland Johnstone.”

Oh, shit.

“Keep him there,” I said. “I’ll be straight round.”

I turned to Stuart. “Oh, Stuart, I’m really sorry, crisis at work. One of my clients has turned up at the Dobsons. I’m going to have to go and sort it out.” I gathered my things together.

“How long will you be?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ring.”

“Okay.”

We kissed goodbye. A long, slow kiss. It made me a little dizzy. A promise of what lay ahead once I got back.

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed as Jackie Dobson met me in the hallway.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s in the kitchen. I’ve given him a coke.”

“I’ll take him downstairs.”

“Unless you want to use the kitchen?”

“No, no. We’ll go down.” I opened the kitchen door. “Hello, Roland.”

He looked tightly wound up, his shoulders and neck held rigid, mouth tight with tension. He nodded sharply and muttered hello.

“We’ll go to my office downstairs,” I told him.

He stood, looked at the coke can and made half a move to put it down.

“Bring it with you,” I said.

I went ahead to unlock the door and switch the light on. The room was bitterly cold. I plugged in the heater, set it to full power. I pulled out a chair for Roland and sat down opposite him.

“You want to talk to me?”

“’S about Ma. There’s something ... if I tell you, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell them I told you.”

I felt a shiver across my shoulders.

“Who?”

“My sisters.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He shouted making me jump.

“First of all I don’t know what you’re going to tell me and secondly Connie is my client. I’m working for her. I’m hired to find out about what happened to your mother and I report anything I find back to Connie.”

“Why?” His face was contorted with frustration.

“It’s my job Roland,”

“If you tell them,” he shook his head, his eyes glittered. “I can’t tell you if you’re going to do that.”

“It might not be as bad as you think.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” he said derisively. “It’s only my fault, innit?”

“What is?”

“That she ... what she did.”

I swallowed. Waited a moment. “Why do you think it’s your fault?”

He shook his head. “You’ll tell them.” He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. I thought he was going to bolt but then I realised that the intensity of his emotions made it impossible for him to sit still. He rocked on his heels, one hand plucking at the cuff of his coat.

“You may feel responsible in some way, Roland, but your mother committed suicide.”

He flinched at the words.

“You know that.”

“And I know why,” he insisted. “That’s what I’m trying to ... but if you tell the others ...”

“Hang on a minute,” I said. “I think they will be glad to know. That is all Connie wants, to understand, to try and make sense of it. Okay it might be something difficult,” I was deliberately vague as I’d no idea what he’d been hiding, “or very upsetting but in the long run if it helps to explain things then it’s better than not knowing.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

He stood there for a long time. I didn’t push or pressure him. Occasionally he shifted his position, his hands fidgeting, his mouth worked, his breathing irregular and audible in the quiet basement. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that might help him. It was up to him. And the fact that he had come this far and waited to see me meant I was fairly sure he would eventually talk.

He finally sat down. Put his head in his hands. I couldn’t see his face.

“It’s hard,” I said. “You feel you’re to blame. That’s an awful burden to carry around.”

“I never should have done it,” he said softly.

“What?”

“My dad. It was him that put her in the hospital the first time when he walked out. Oh God,” his voice wavered.

“What did you do, Roland?”

“He’d never seen me, you know. Not when I was born or nothing. Never tried. They all gone on so much about what a bad man he is, a waster and all this and we never talk about him. His name is dirt, you know? And I think, I start to think I’d like to meet him, make up my own mind.” I heard longing in his voice. “You know, there’s no photograph or nothing. I didn’t even know what he looked like.” He raised his head, stared at me. I nodded for him to continue.

“And,” his voice slid higher, his eyes filled, “he wasn’t a monster. He was just a man. A bit down on his luck. Not living the high life or nothing. And he was really pleased to see me. Sorry too about how things had gone. So,” he breathed shakily and sniffed hard, “I wanted to tell Ma and my sisters but I knew they’d be in a rage and so we worked it out, Dad and me. He’d come to the house and I’d be there and it would be like a new start. Talk to Ma first, mending ...” His mouth stretched with pain. “I got stopped leaving school,” he began to cry, the tears sliding down his face and his account coming in spasms. “And I was late ... no one there ... he’d turned up and she’s, she’s lost her mind and the ... and the next thing Ma’s dead.”

The grey-haired man. Miriam’s ex-husband. Roland’s father. I got the box of tissues out of my desk drawer and slid them across to Roland. I wanted to hug the child, to hold him as he sobbed, wracked by guilt and grief but it didn’t feel right. Instead I went and stood beside him, placed one hand on his shoulder, and left it there until his crying stopped.

He used half the box of tissues, wadding them into small balls afterwards. A pile on the desk.

“You have to tell them?” His voice was hoarse from crying.

I sat down. “Yes. But not straight away. I want to talk to your father first. Have you seen him since?”

“No. He rang us once, just after. I couldn’t. I don’t want to see him.”

“You can give me his address?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do when you realised no one was home?”

“I waited a bit. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Mrs Boscoe had been right.

“After a while I knew it weren’t going to happen. I went out then, just to the park. Waited till home time then went back, like I’d been at school. Ma wasn’t there. Martina started getting worried ...”

“Roland, don’t blame yourself. No one could have predicted that seeing your father would have such a devastating affect on Miriam. No one.”

“I wish I’d never done it.”

“I know. But you were trying to make things better, sort out a reconciliation, so you didn’t have to be secretive about about seeing your father. There was nothing wrong with that.”

“How can you say that?” he demanded. His eyes were very dark.

“Because it’s the truth. You had good intentions. You hoped to heal a rift. Like I said before no one could have dreamt either that you’d be delayed or that Miriam would self-destruct.”

“You’re trying to make it come right,” he said. “It won’t. It’s my fault,” he thumped his chest. “It’s my fault and they’ll blame me too.”

“At first you might get recriminations, that you said nothing, for one thing. But once it’s sunk in they’ll understand. You can’t be held responsible.”

“I am though.” He looked at me, his eyes stark.

“In your view. And you’ve got a choice about that, Roland.”

He frowned, put a hand on the coke can and twisted it to and fro.

“You can spend the rest of your life stewing in guilt and condemning yourself or you can forgive yourself. It won’t be easy, in fact the easy way is probably to martyr yourself. It’s up to you. What would your mother want you to do? Think about it.”

I insisted Roland accept a taxi home. It was cold, late, dark and he’d be a prime target for any muggers or troublemakers out on the streets that night.

I wrote down his father’s address and promised that I wouldn’t be talking to Connie and the others until after I’d seen Horace Johnstone. “It’ll probably be Thursday or Friday. Have you got a mobile?”

He nodded.

“Give me the number and I’ll give you mine too. Now, I’ll let you know when I’m coming round and you can decide whether to make yourself scarce. And let me know if you decide to talk to the family before then.”

He agreed. “It will be better, honestly. Once it’s all out in the open and the shock’s passed. It’ll be easier for you and I think it’ll make it easier for Connie to accept, knowing it was your father’s visit that set it all off.”

He looked at me with bloodshot eyes, he was exhausted.

“Will they be worried about you, now?”

He shook his head. “I said I was going down the Aquatics Centre. Be fine.”

I saw him into the taxi and returned to close up my office. I still wore my coat, the place hadn’t warmed up. I felt drained and saddened by Roland’s story and distressed at the awful pressure he’d been under.

It wasn’t that late, Stuart would be waiting to hear from me. But I wanted some time on my own. Would he understand? I hoped so. I didn’t want to go round there and be preoccupied by what I’d just heard and I didn’t feel like pretending. I wasn’t in any mood for romance or talking about our relationship. I needed solitude. I rang and explained.

“It’s been pretty heavy, I’m afraid I’m not really fit for anything at the moment. I’m really sorry. Can we rearrange?”

“Okay,” he said shortly, or was I imagining it? “I’ll give you a ring.”

That was it. He’d hung up before I could suggest a date. And that made me feel insecure again. It wasn’t my fault the evening had been spoilt and a touch of sympathy from him would have been very welcome. I realised how little I still knew about Stuart. I didn’t know how he would react when he was brassed off about something, whether he’d sulk like Ray or pick a fight or come right out with it? Had he been tight-lipped with me? I tried to recapture the exact tone he’d used but I still couldn’t tell if he was being curt or practical. The uncertainty added to my worries but I pushed it away. Enough for one day.

Jackie Dobson was in the kitchen making mince pies and, she complained, hunting for the Snowman they always had on their cake. I thanked her and apologised for Roland barging into their lives, if momentarily, and told her everything was under control. Then I unlocked my bike, strapped on my helmet and rode home, snatches of Roland’s story circling my mind.

He didn’t deserve such pain. No one did. I’d promised him that Connie would understand eventually, would find relief in an explanation for her mother’s death and not blame Roland.

I prayed that I was right.

I woke in the night from a frightening dream. Miriam was falling, Roland crying. There was an audience. Just before Miriam hit the ground I looked and saw that it was me, me falling. I shouted to them to stop but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I reared awake, my heart thudding frantically.

Thankful then that it was just a dream, that’s all, just a stupid dream. Not real. Nothing to worry about. Everything’s all right. Just a stupid dream.

And it kept me from sleep for the rest of the night.

I couldn’t visit Horace Johnstone until the next afternoon. I had a dental appointment mid-morning; yes, even private eyes have to get their teeth done. This time, two fillings had to be drilled and refilled.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience. With my mouth prised open I fought the impulse to clench my teeth in fear and I performed peculiar glottal swallows to avoid drowning in the saliva that pooled in my throat. The suction device whooshed and roared like an espresso machine but couldn’t keep pace with the volume of liquid flooding my mouth. I listened to the pop music, the trivial natter about what would be the Christmas number one on the radio, gazed at the corrugated light and wished for an out of body experience.