The Garden of Remembrance

by Allan Watson

  Moore bent over the table and stuck his face into mine. ‘For fuck’s sake at least have the decency to look embarrassed!’

  I remained silent, and fixed my gaze at a point somewhere over Moore’s right shoulder. I could see no way out of this mess. For the next half hour Moore and Wilson fired questions at me. They weren’t really questions at all, they were merely statements concerning my involvement with Alison’s death. I simply ignored the policemen and sank deeper into my own little world. There was no point in denying their accusations, sooner or later they would have their proof and I would be formally charged with murder.

  I was dimly aware of Moore at some point switching off the tape recorder before returning to the table. He gave Wilson a funny look before leaning forward until our faces were only scant inches apart. He kept his voice low as if he were afraid anyone strolling past in the corridor might overhear him.

  ‘Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. You can play the deaf mute all you like, but you and me know this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled a stunt like this. I realise that sealed records aren’t admissible in court, but these things have a nasty habit of coming to light just when you least expect it. Are you listening, McVey? We know you’re a vicious, murdering cunt with a history of mental illness, and just because a bleeding heart judge let you off on the grounds of diminished responsibly doesn’t change anything. We know everything. You’re a killer, McVey. A cold blooded killer.’

  Moore’s words broke through the barrier I had erected like a demolition ball. Was Moore implying I was responsible for my mother committing suicide? Unable to control myself I began shouting in his face. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not a killer. My mum hanged herself. It was nothing to do with me!’

  A look of disgust crept across Moore’s face. ‘Ah yes, your poor mother. Almost forgot about her. Come to think of it that’s yet another life snuffed out thanks to you. Couldn’t have helped your mum’s state of mind knowing she had a killer in the family. That kind of thing is enough to send anyone over the edge.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ grinned Wilson. ‘All your carrying on probably had her at the end of her rope.’ He grabbed at his tie and jerked violently while lolling his head to the side and sticking out his tongue in an obscene parody of a hanged man.

  ‘You’re lying,’ I shouted back. ‘I haven’t killed anyone. You’re just fucking with my head. Trying to confuse me. There are no sealed records.’

  Moore just smirked at me. ‘There most definitely are, McVey. Even I, with all my resources can’t actually get a look at them - but as it turned out I didn’t need to. When we ran your name and came up against those sealed records, all I had to do was mention you to a mate of mine in Glasgow, who it turns out was part of the original investigation team. He’s got a long memory.’

  The room seemed to lurch and I found myself clutching at the edge of the table to stop myself from falling off my chair. All of this was impossible. I had never killed anyone. I wasn’t capable of such acts. I strove to think back to the mental hospital and the barrage of interviews with the psychiatrists. No-one had ever mentioned anything like this. Not that I could remember anyway. I needed a lifeline – something to grasp on to and I knew there was one person who would tell me the truth.

  ‘I want to make a phone call,’ I told the two policemen. ‘It’s my right.’

  Moore arched his eyebrows but took a mobile from his pocket and held it towards me. I reached out for it, expecting him to pull it away at any second.

  ‘Have this call on me, McVey. But understand, forget all that bollocks about being entitled to one phone call. Phones calls are strictly a courtesy on the part of the police and I am nothing if not a courteous man. So go on, phone yourself a solicitor, although I bet you don’t know any. Am I right?’

  I ignored him and punched a series of numbers into the phone. There was one person I wanted to speak to - needed to speak to. I heard a soft ringing tone. And a woman’s voice answered on the fifth ring. It was Norma, James’s wife. She sounded sleepy.

  ‘Norma, it’s Matt. I’m sorry about the late hour, but I have to speak with James. There’s something important I have to ask him.’

  Some of the tiredness fell from Norma’s voice as she said cautiously, ‘He’s sleeping, Matt. I don’t want to waken him. He’s been down with flu for the past few days. Is whatever you want to ask him really that urgent?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake - would I phone him at one o’clock in the morning to ask what the weather is like back in Glasgow? Of course it’s fucking important!’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down. Goodnight, Matt.’

  I tried hard to ignore Moore and Wilson’s smirking faces as they took pleasure in my obvious distress.

  ‘No, wait. Norma! Don’t hang up, please!’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone, but no severing click. Norma was still listening.

  ‘Norma, you and James are very close. If I had done something really terrible he would have told you, wouldn’t he?’

  Norma’s voice was small and hollow as if she were holding the phone about a foot away from her mouth. ‘If what happened? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Who did I murder? I really need to know.’

  Moore reached across the table and attempted to pull the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Right, McVey, that’s enough of this crap. You can kid on you’re mad all you like, but not on my fucking phone. Calls on these things cost an arm and a leg you know.’

  I did my best to keep the phone pressed against my ear but Moore was a strong man, and inch by inch the earpiece receded from me. Just before I gave up the struggle, I heard Norma’s voice distantly say, ‘You need to see a doctor, Matt.’

  And then she was gone

  Both Moore and Wilson were standing over me. There was a sense of triumphant gloating about them. ‘I’m guessing your phone call didn’t help jog your memory then?’ said Moore tucking the mobile back into his pocket. ‘Tell you what, McVey. Davie and me are going to nip out for a cup of tea, but don’t worry, we’ll be back. Maybe by then you’ll see a bit of sense and just admit to killing Alison McCulloch. Oh, and by the way, I hope you don’t mind us developing the film in that little camera of yours. I’m betting there’s more than holiday snaps on it.’

  Then both detectives were gone and I heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock. Moore and Wilson would go mental when they saw the photographs I’d taken of Alison, especially the ones of her baring her breasts. Wearily I laid my head down on the table and let my mind drift free. Maybe I was looking for answers in the wrong place. The one remaining hope I had was to somehow find the Garden of Remembrance. It was in my head somewhere, I only had to find it and somehow everything would be fine. I was sure of it.

  With this last thought I fell asleep and dreamed of chasing the old man through a twisting maze with ten foot high hedges. I could hear his footsteps and the noise of his cane as he led me further and further into the heart of the maze. I followed him for hours without even once catching a glimpse of him. Occasionally I would drift out of sleep and see my mother sitting smiling at me from across the table. At one point it was Denise sitting there dressed all in white like a lost angel. When I woke up properly I found myself crying. I wanted so much to see Denise again. I wanted to say goodbye.

  The interview door slamming open made me scrabble into a sitting position. Moore was framed in the doorway and his face looked black with rage. No doubt they had already developed the film in my camera. I expected him to come rushing over to the table and begin screaming at me, but he remained where he was, an expression of utter hatred etched across his features. I could see Wilson slouched behind Moore out in the corridor. His face too was wreathed in scowls. Both men had bright auras of violence surrounding them. I almost calmly accepted that at some point in the next few hours I was going to be badly beaten.

  My feelings of fear and panic were peaking. This was t
he old man’s moment. This was the moment when he would slide a new morsel of memory into my head. This was where I would find the Garden of Remembrance. Through the churning fear I braced myself for some new knowledge of who I really was.

  Moore clenched his hands into fists and sucked in a deep breath. ‘You’re free to go,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  All the way along the corridor Moore hissed his venom into my ear. The inner violence I had sensed in him earlier had reached a critical mass and was in danger of overwhelming him. ‘Understand this, McVey. Just because some senile old wreck strolls in here and claims to be the killer doesn’t mean I still don’t believe it was you. Even if the old bastard did have Alison McCulloch’s fingers in his pocket! His mind is wandering and he can barely tell us his own name never mind scramble down onto a remote beach and do what was done to that poor girl. You killed her! I fucking well know it. Sooner or later someone is going to catch on to how you managed this stunt and then I’m going to be right up your arse. Know what I mean, McVey? I’m going to fucking well shaft you until you beg to be allowed to sign your confession.’

  I was stunned by the turn of events. Even more so that someone had confessed to the murder.

  An old man.

  I wondered if just like Alfred Hitchcock once did in his thrillers, my tormentor was putting in a personal appearance. I doubted it, it would more than likely be an old down and out. No-one of any significance. I also wondered if somehow he had mistimed things. I had remembered nothing new while in the police station. My critical moment of mental stress had come and gone without revelation. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

  Moore continued issuing his schoolboy threats, being careful no-one we passed along the way overheard him. Wilson trailed behind us, his bloodshot eyes burning holes into my back. I was relieved to reach the reception area to be rid of Moore’s poisonous voice. I was given back my possessions by the duty sergeant and was asked to sign a document stating everything was there. I noticed straight away that my camera was missing.

  ‘Don’t worry about your shitey wee camera,’ Moore spat. ‘You’ll get it back tomorrow, along with your holiday snaps. I’ll bring it round to you personally. I’m looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk with that nice wife of yours again. We got on like a house on fire yesterday. And do you know something else? From the way she spoke about you I don’t think you’ll be around on the scene much longer. I’m going to make sure of it. A monster like you shouldn’t be near children.’

  The duty sergeant was standing with his mouth wide open at this tirade from Moore. Even Wilson looked slightly ill at ease at the detective’s public show of frustration. He knew his superior was making himself look a fool. Just before I turned towards the main doors, two policemen walked through the waiting area flanking an elderly man wearing a bright pink sweater. I instantly remembered the irate American golfing tourist who had glared at Alice on our first day on holiday. His mouth hung open wetly as if he was drugged. One of the detectives said to Moore, ‘Where do want him, sir?’

  Moore grunted something unintelligible before stalking off, leaving the men to shrug and follow his hunched shoulders. I made for the doors, but Wilson put his hand on my arm, stopping me. While Moore’s hatred had been a wild, hot thing, Wilson’s was cold and tightly controlled. He even smiled at me as he said quietly, ‘Consider this a weekend pass. When we get you back I’m going to hurt you in ways you can’t imagine. So long for now.’

  I pulled away without replying and beat a hasty retreat into the street. It was half past four in the morning and the sun was rising behind a high rise tower block to the east. I walked aimlessly at first, glad to be free of my captors. The early morning air was clearing my head somewhat, and when I came to a taxi rank I knew where I wanted to go.

  Ten minutes later I was standing outside the locked doors of Ninewells hospital. I naively imagined that the hospital doors would be open all night long, but obviously in these days of lunatic prowlers, security had to be considered. After banging on the glass with my knuckles for a few minutes, a tired looking nurse appeared and spoke through an intercom beside the door. Satisfied I had genuine business in the hospital she pulled the door open and let me in. Yawning, she beckoned me over to a computer terminal and sat herself down.

  ‘What did you say your daughter’s name was?’ she asked.

  ‘Denise McVey. She’s in intensive care.’

  The nurse tapped at the keyboard and squinted her eyes to read the screen in front of her. Some of the sleepiness left her face as she scanned the computer’s administration records.

  ‘Look, uh, Mr McVey. Could you hang on a few minutes while I get one of the night supervisors to speak with you.’

  Her words filled me with anger and resentment. I knew what sort of note had been added to the computer. I couldn’t stop myself from slamming my fist on the top of the monitor, feeling the thin plastic crack under the force of my blow. Something inside sparked and crackled. The glow of the screen dimmed and died.

  ‘Teri put you up to this didn’t she. The bitch probably told you I was dangerous or something like that - and shouldn’t be allowed in. Well, Denise is my daughter and no-one is going to stop me from seeing her.’

  The young nurse stared up at me with a mixture of confusion and plain fear. I knew how mad I sounded but I didn’t care. I might be free from Moore’s clutches for the time being, but I had no doubts it was only a temporary stay of execution. The old man’s ruse had been an effective one but it would soon fall apart as Moore himself had predicted. As soon as the film from my camera was developed - the game would be over. I would be going to prison for a long time. I had to get to Denise before that happened. The need to see and touch her was all that mattered to me right then.

  I left the shocked nurse at her broken computer terminal and wheeled away towards the elevators on the far wall. Ignoring her pleas to stop, I jabbed at the buttons and the steel doors slid silently open. I entered and hit the floor number for the intensive care ward. I knew the nurse would already be alerting the hospital security, but I was determined to fight off an army of security men to see Denise. All I wanted to do was say goodbye. No-one was going to deny me that small concession. It was all I had left.

  The lift slowed and stopped, the doors opening to reveal a heavily built nurse barring my way. She had been on duty the night before and I remembered her as a formidable no-nonsense type who put the fear of God into her charges. The set of her thick jaw told me she would be prepared to fight to the death before letting me into her domain. Behind her stood a nervous teenage boy, probably an auxiliary nurse of some kind. He posed no problem to me - it was the woman I had to deal with. Without giving her a chance to speak I pulled back my arm and punched her hard in the stomach. She gasped hoarsely as her legs buckled beneath her. As she fought to remain on her feet, I pushed her causing her to land heavily on her well padded backside. All that stood between me and the intensive care unit was the young man. His eyes flickered wildly from the nurse, now doubled over and retching, then to me - the violent intruder. He turned and ran towards the stairs. The way ahead was clear.

  With the nurse’s groans still ringing in my ears, I stepped past her and walked quickly to the heavy sealed doors of the intensive care unit. These doors were locked and had a small keypad on the wall beside them. I remembered the number easily. It had barely been twenty hours since I had last walked through these doors, but it seemed a lifetime ago. The doors opened and the ward beyond exhaled the smell of death and sterility. I slipped inside and let the door close shut behind me. At this time of the morning the only illumination came from small night-lights and the ever present glow of the life support systems. The room was bathed in a sickly green light making me think of an electronic mausoleum.

  Around me was the stilted sound of respirators, masking the low wheezing of those who struggled to breathe on their own. This place was a way-station between the land of the living
and that of the dead. It was a terrible place, a mortuary where the corpses clung on to some semblance of life. As I hurried to the far end of the room where Denise’s oxygen tent straddled her bed, I kept my eyes firmly averted from the other occupants of this bleak country. I reached the bedside and gazed through the opaque plastic at the still form of my daughter, the darkness of the room and protective plastic making her no more than a vague outline. She could have been one of the inky smudges that had so disturbed me on her drawing of the Garden of Remembrance.

  With a shaking hand I pulled the flap of the oxygen tent to one side and looked down upon a small boy whose head was devoid of hair. His eyes fluttered open, huge dark orbs that held terror beyond his understanding. Something in them told me he would not be here this time tomorrow morning. My own terror matched that of the dying child. As the maelstrom of panic picked up speed inside me, a small voice shouted that Denise could have woken from her coma and been taken to another ward, but the voice was blown away in the winter gales that filled my mind.

  Behind me I heard the doors open and the sound of footsteps and urgent whispers. I turned and saw the nurse I had punched, physically restraining two blue shirted security men from rushing up the ward after me. With one hand still clutched at her injured belly, she walked unsteadily towards me with no sign of fear. When she was three feet away she said, ‘Please leave Mr McVey. This won’t help anything.’

  ‘Denise,’ I heard myself whisper. ‘Where’s Denise?’

  The nurse composed herself for a moment, a ritual she had carried out many times in the course of her work. ‘Your daughter passed away just before midnight Mr McVey. She never recovered consciousness. She was very peaceful. I think you should go home now. Your wife will be needing you.’

  Although I had struck this woman only minutes before, she was showing great kindness to me, but I could not find it in me to thank her. Without a word I brushed past her. Neither of the security men made any attempt to halt me as I left the intensive care unit and slowly walked down the stairs. The maelstrom was ripping away the inner structures of my mind, bringing down the fluted columns and marble blocks of polished stone that served as my rational mind. The temple I had taken a lifetime to construct was falling beneath the sheer violence of the winds. Denise was not the only one who died that night in that terrible green-lit room.