‘What a mess it all was,’ she says, as if to herself.
‘But look at you now,’ I say. ‘You have a lovely home, a car, your own business…’ I stop short at mentioning having a healthy son. It doesn’t seem right to mention Gabe in light of what happened to Tyler.
‘Count your blessings. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
Her tone has been reflective and matter-of-fact; now she has reverted to prickly sarcasm.
‘No, not at all,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking how tough it must have been for you, and how well you’ve done to recover from such a difficult start in life.’
‘Ah well, we all do what we can to survive.’ A smirk plays around the corners of her mouth.
The room has become hot, and Mel unfolds her legs and reaches across to lower the temperature on the fire. She resumes her position on the sofa, and I wait for her to continue. The dry heat is making me thirsty, and I would love a drink, but I’m reluctant to interrupt before she finishes her story.
‘It was great to be back in Birmingham, even with no family around, and for the first few years, things went really well. Joel set up a drop-shipping business, buying handmade woollen goods from Scottish suppliers. Missing so much school meant I wasn’t great at reading and writing, but I was good at figures. We worked together, and the business was successful. We bought a big house, had expensive holidays, clothes, cars, ate in expensive restaurants…’ Her voice tails off, and I sit, holding myself still, not wanting to break the spell.
‘Then, as they say, all good things must come to an end.’ She sighs, and her eyelids droop with tiredness.
‘What happened? Did the business fold?’ I say.
She laughs bitterly. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. Joel turned out to be an astute businessman. He’s still doing well, especially with sales in the States and Canada. Unfortunately for me and the boys, Joel was not the marrying type. He got bored with family life. There was always some young, fresh face available who could be bought with nice clothes and jewellery.’
‘So you and the boys were just cast aside?’ I say. ‘That’s a bit brutal, considering you helped him to build up the business.’
‘It was gutting at the time. And, what was worse, everything was in his name. I’m not stupid, though. I got myself a good lawyer, and the settlement gave me enough to buy this house and have a bit left over. I knew a couple of people in Derby, and I wanted to get away from Birmingham by then, so I moved here with my boys. The rest, as they say, is history.’
I have a question for her. The problem is, I’m worried about what her reaction will be. She’s overwrought and unpredictable. My asking it may well undo any trust that has built up between us. Still, it’s been bugging me. Buzzing at the edge of my awareness like an irritating insect. Hovering on the tip of my tongue, requiring an appropriate pause or space. Now, with a gap in the conversation, the opportunity presents itself. I decide to take the risk, even if doing so demolishes my plan.
‘Do you have any idea why Tyler was killed, Mel?’
She raises her head and turns toward me, fixing me with eyes that glitter like blue ice.
‘Tyler was a sacrifice,’ she says.
27
For the first time in a while, it feels good to be back home. I make a very welcome pot of tea and a round of toast. Apart from a cup of coffee at the funeral home, I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast. I feel shaky and a bit sick. It could be that my sugar levels are low, or it might be a reaction to what has been an emotionally charged few hours.
I watch Buddy, nose to the ground, sniffing and scrabbling amongst the latest batch of leaves accumulating on the lawn, and go over the events of this morning in my head. If I had hoped to have a better understanding of Mel and her motivations, then I have succeeded in some areas and failed in others. She talked a lot about her life, never once asking me about mine, which suited me fine.
Despite this, she persists as an enigma, and I remain conflicted. Is Mel victim or perpetrator, and what does she know about Tyler’s death and who was responsible?
Her response to my question about why she thought Tyler was killed was disturbing and delivered without a hint of emotion. Attempts at getting her to elaborate were unsuccessful; she refused to be drawn further. What on earth did she mean by Tyler was a sacrifice?
I wrap up warmly and head into an icy wind with Buddy at my side. I’m hoping a walk will help unravel the jumbled thoughts circling in my head like agitated birds. It doesn’t, and I return home more confused than when I ventured out. It would be so good to go over all this with Laurie, who is a great problem solver and more objective than I, but I’ve already decided that it’s out of the question. I try to work out who else would be able to help me gain some perspective, and I decide on Sal. She might question my approach, but I feel sure she will understand what I’m trying to achieve. I will contact her, but not just yet. She dislikes talking on the phone. It will be better to arrange to meet up. Sal is shrewd and upfront, even though she is hostile towards Mel. She’s likely to be a useful sounding board for what I’ve managed to glean so far. What Mel has told me is interesting, but not that enlightening. It’s only what she wants me to know, and I can’t rule out the possibility that I’m being manipulated.
Friday comes around. It’s my birthday, and I am fifty-two years old. Laurie was away overnight, and my phone pings when I switch it on. It’s a text message.
Happy birthday, love of my life. Top drawer of my dresser for your pressie. Will ring later. Enjoy your trip to Birmingham.
Nestling amongst his socks are two envelopes. In one, there is a card. It’s a beach scene. Blue sky and a glittering sea. There are two sets of footprints, side by side on icing-sugar sand. Inside he has written: Perhaps we will get around to having our dream holiday before you reach fifty-three? It’s a standing joke between us. We never seem to be able to find the time to get away now. Not unless you count the odd couple of weekend breaks in Wales or Scotland. The other envelope contains theatre tickets for tomorrow night. I’m being spoiled. A pre-theatre meal followed by a production of one of my favourite plays, The Tempest, at the RSC in Stratford on Avon.
Late morning, I drive into the city centre and leave my car at the station car park. It’s a short train journey into Birmingham, a little over half an hour. I arrive, and soon I am making my way through the milling crowds at New Street Station. I have time to kill before I meet Alice, and I wander up to Central Arcade to do some window-shopping. It’s raining when I exit the building, and I’m glad of my waterproof jacket and fold-up umbrella.
Alice has sent the directions to my phone. I use the sweeping curves of the titanium-clad John Lewis store to orientate before I set off in what I hope is the right direction. I will never hear the end of it from her if I manage to get lost.
The bistro is down a narrow, brick-lined street and is located in a converted warehouse. From the outside it looks austere, with its red-brick facade and large windows clad in iron grilles. Inside, the decor is industrial chic with an unconventional layout. Instead of tables there are long reclaimed wood trestles lit from overhead by metal pendant lights. They cast soft, glowing pools of light over the assembled diners. There’s a low hum of conversation, but I’m feeling too self-conscious to sit at one of the tables by myself. Ordering a drink, I sink instead into a low leather sofa and wait for Alice.
Arriving with a flourish, she stamps her feet on a mat inside the door and runs her fingers through her damp hair. She waves at me and takes off her coat, gives it a shake and hangs it up on a wooden stand in the corner of the room. I hand her my wet coat, which has been draped over the back of the sofa, and she places it next to hers.
She gives me a peck on the cheek and goes off in search of menus. Returning a few minutes later, she has a young waiter in tow. He is carrying a small chalkboard and easel on which the dishes of the day are written. The two are flirting outrageously, and it reminds me of just how litt
le I know about my daughter’s private life.
We are taken through an archway into a book-lined room with half a dozen or so tables. Each has its own candle set in a wrought-iron holder.
‘Can I get you lovely ladies some drinks?’
‘A lime soda for me, and Mum will have a glass of wine. It’s her birthday. Oh, and could we have a jug of iced water with the meal, please?’
The waiter winks at me, and a flush rises in my cheeks. He wishes me a happy birthday, then bows theatrically before departing.
‘This is great, Alice. I was trying to get my head around sitting at that refectory table like a student, but this is perfect.’
‘It’s got a really nice atmosphere. Jess and I sometimes come at the weekend for breakfast. They do the best poached eggs with spinach and avocado.’
‘Looks to me as if it’s worth coming here just for that waiter,’ I say.
‘Oh, Mum.’ Alice rolls her eyes in exasperation. ‘He’s gay, for goodness’ sake. Can’t you tell?’
‘Ah well, never mind,’ I say. ‘He is good-looking, though.’
We order a sharing platter, and as we wait for it to arrive, Alice takes a card and a package from the bottom of her bag.
‘This is from me and Flynn. I hope you like it.’
They have both signed the card. Alice’s writing is small and compact; Flynn’s messy and flowing. No graphologist required to assess their individual personalities, I think to myself.
The package contains a silk scarf with a watercolour design of pink peony flowers on a blue background.
‘It’s gorgeous, Alice. My favourite colour, and my favourite flowers too. I love it,’ I say, knotting the soft, shiny fabric around my neck.
The waiter arrives with our food, and we spend a companionable hour staying firmly on neutral ground and avoiding any subject that might spark friction. Alice has been selected for team management training at work and seems happier in herself. I want to ask if she is seeing anyone, but avoid the question, conscious that her private life is generally off limits.
‘What about you, Mum?’ she says. ‘I know you have had a rotten time recently, but keeping busy will help. Are you doing lots of things that you enjoy? It must be great, in some ways, to have so much free time on your hands.’
It’s a typical tactless remark from Alice. Before I get the chance to respond, the waiter arrives to clear our plates. I am saved, first from making a snippy comment, which could put a dampener on things, and second from having to muddle through a fabricated explanation of my recent activities.
The waiter returns, balancing a plate with two slices of cheesecake, one of which has a lighted sparkler at its centre.
‘For the birthday girl,’ he says with a puckish grin. ‘On the house.’
Alice looks at her watch. ‘I’ve managed to blag an extra half hour, but I will have to go soon. It’s been really nice, Mum. We’ll have to do this more often.’
After consuming the cheesecakes and a quick cup of coffee each, we collect our coats and step out onto the rain-slicked pavement. We say our goodbyes, and Alice hurries off back to work while I take a leisurely stroll to the train station. Although it has stopped raining, banks of heavy, grey cloud hang low in the sky, promising further showers before long.
Reaching the station, I’m glad to get back inside where it is warm and dry. The departure board is showing delays due to the weather. There’s flooding on the line back to Derby. With more than an hour to wait, I find a coffee shop and text Alice to thank her for lunch. Flynn has sent a birthday GIF of a bunch of flowers from his phone, and I send him a return message, thanking him for his contribution to my birthday present. Laurie has also left a message to say the weather is causing traffic backlogs, and he expects to be delayed getting home this evening.
The coffee is strong and hot, just how I like it. From my seat in the window of the café, I can people-watch to my heart’s content. Laurie and the kids find it an odd pastime and rib me gently about my ‘nosiness’, but it reminds me of happy times shared with Mum. We both enjoyed speculating on the lives of others. As a child, I treated it as a game and loved the intrigue associated with building a complex web of characters and adding to their daily activities. Complete strangers were imbued with fanciful identities and magical powers, long before Harry Potter and his friends were committed to print.
‘See that man, Fran? The one with the bald head and trench coat? He’s a spy, and his superpowers are advanced lip-reading and hyper-hearing. Quick, lower your voice and turn away. We don’t want him to know we are talking about him.’
‘No, no,’ I would protest. ‘He’s really from another planet, and he’s wearing a human suit. He has a transceiver in his skull to communicate with his friends. We will have to be careful. There are aliens like him everywhere.’
Mum would laugh indulgently, knowing a combination of a creative imagination and too many episodes of Dr Who gave me the advantage in the fantasy stakes. As I got older, our joint musings gained a higher level of sophistication. Our speculations would revolve around who might be having an affair, or whether the homeless man raiding the bins was really a multimillionaire who retired to his mansion at the end of the day.
I find myself smiling at the memory and thinking just how much I miss Mum’s company. Glancing out of the window, I catch a glimpse of a figure passing by. It’s a teenager. A boy. He is wearing a dark tracksuit top with the hood pulled up and a rucksack slung over his shoulder. There’s something in the way he’s walking, head down and shoulders hunched, that looks familiar.
It takes a few seconds before it dawns on me.
The boy is Gabe Ingram.
28
I’m not sure just what it is that is propelling me out of my seat to set off in pursuit, but I grab my coat and bag and follow Gabe’s retreating back. He doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Slowing my pace, I manage to keep far enough back to avoid catching him up. I follow him out of the concourse, taking a different exit to the one I used previously. Even though the streets are less crowded, there are enough people around to make my presence less conspicuous.
We pass the iconic Selfridges store, its aluminium discs glinting in the watery, afternoon sun, and head towards Digbeth, a short walk away. It’s been a few years since I was here. Alice and Flynn were teenagers when I brought them to nearby Deritend to see a graffiti art exhibition at the Custard Factory during the school holidays. Then, the whole district was undergoing regeneration. Today, it is buzzing with trendy eateries and expensive warehouse conversions. The flats are out of Alice’s price bracket, either to rent or buy, but she loves the vibe here, and her social life at weekends revolves around the vibrant nightlife.
Deep in thought, I almost lose sight of Gabe. He has turned down a long stretch of road lined with cafés and restaurants. His speed has increased, and I have to hurry to catch up. Reaching the main thoroughfare, he crosses the road, then turns down a shabby street with boarded-up shops. It’s a dead end, blocked by concrete bollards to prevent vehicle access. I don’t want to be seen and duck into a disused shop doorway. From my vantage point, I can see beyond the bollards into a small industrial estate.
I watch as Gabe saunters towards a one-story building, its frontage almost completely taken up by a wide roller shutter. To one side, there is a steel door spray-painted in graffiti. The whole location has a run-down feel, and many of the units appear to be unoccupied. Somewhere close by I can hear the insistent clang of a hammer hitting a metallic surface, and I feel a sense of relief that there is someone around.
Gabe leans with his back against the door as though waiting for someone. His head is down, and he is fiddling with his phone. I can just make out a pair of earbuds dangling from his ears. Engrossed in whatever he is listening to, he doesn’t look up as, with a swish of tyres, a black SUV sweeps around the corner. When he does notice, he pulls out his headphones, jams his phone into his pocket, and begins to walk at speed back in the direction he came from.
I push myself further into the recess of the doorway and wait for him to pass me. He doesn’t appear, but there are the sounds of a scuffle and raised voices. Peering around the corner, I see one of the men has got out of the vehicle and is holding Gabe by the arm. The rear car door is open, and he is trying to force him onto the back seat. It crosses my mind that they might be police, but something doesn’t feel right. Gabe is pleading with the man and sounds close to tears. Even though the words are muffled, I can tell he’s in distress. He’s struggling to escape and is begging the man to leave him alone.
In those few seconds, the memory of Tyler and his mute beseeching causes a wave of anger to rise within me. Without thinking of the consequences, I run in the direction of the voices, shouting at the top of my lungs like a banshee. I swing my bag in the man’s direction, and there is a satisfying thud as it engages with his shaved head. He stumbles forwards, and as he does so, he lets go of Gabe’s arm. With his head bent, I can see a familiar inked outline on the back of the man’s neck. The clock face without hands.
The man looks up, and my stomach lurches. Whatever tricks my memory might have played up to this point, there can be no denying its veracity now. Standing in front of me is one of the men responsible for Tyler’s death.
I hear a click as the catch on the driver’s door is released. I don’t want to wait around to see if I recognise the other man. With Gabe in shock and rooted to the spot, I shake him with all the force I can muster, then pull him roughly by the arm.
‘Run!’ I bellow in his ear.
After the initial burst of adrenaline has worn off, I curse the fact that I’ve allowed myself to become so unfit. My breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and my lungs feel as though they are about to explode. Gabe is lagging behind, and I’m struggling to find the energy to pull him along too. Reaching the busy main road, it’s a relief to find the pavement crowded with pedestrians. It’s drizzling again, and dodging open umbrellas and sprays of water from passing cars, I slow to a walking pace. The jarring sound of a car horn startles me, and my nerves jangle in response. I half expect the SUV to come screeching to a halt alongside, and arms to reach out and pull us both inside. Still dragging Gabe, I dart across the pelican crossing as the lights turn green, much to the annoyance of waiting drivers, who have to pause to let us cross.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 15
