Doubting Thomas

by Adam Grinter

  “Where we look now?” Maria asked.

  I struggled for an answer.

  “When I was in the force and a case went cold, we re-visit the old leads and see if they remember something else.” I said desperately.

  “Me too.” Maria agreed. “Where do we start?”

  “Jimmy’s. Let’s work backwards.” I said.

  “OK, Jimmy’s.”

  #

  Nine-o-clock the following morning we were ringing the bell of Jimmy’s children’s home in Penrith more in hope than expectation.

  Alina opened the door again, we said our hellos and asked for Sharon. Sharon ushered us back into the kitchen and put the kettle on again. Our very own ground-hog day.

  We sat at the same table as the day before and the vinyl tablecloth stared back at us. The gaudy colours a blast to the senses in contrast to the drab functionality of the rest of the room. I hadn’t really taken in the room the day before, but now I spent the time and looked around myself. The walls were light coloured but had a grubby quality that came from years of use rather than neglect. This was obviously the busiest part of the house. The table, set in the centre, was the focal point. The stains on the cloth were obvious on closer inspection. There was a circular burn mark at one end that I’d missed yesterday. I was more focused on the chase and the thought of how close we were. Now I needed to resort to my old skills, extracting information.

  “So, you’re back.” Sharon stated obviously.

  “Yeah, no-one at the half-way house remembered John. We’re hoping you may have some other idea how we can find him.” I explained.

  I could tell she was conflicted. She wanted to help us, she also didn’t want to betray a friend. In the end her generous soul won out.

  “You could ask Peter.” She said with a sigh.

  “Peter?” I asked.

  “They were close when he was here.” Sharon explained. “He was with him when ‘it’ happened.”

  I assumed ‘it’ was his arrest. Euphemisms cover a multitude of sins.

  “Would that be when he was arrested?” I tried to clarify.

  “Yeah.” She sighed again. “He was different after that.”

  “How?” Maria interrupted.

  “He’d always been quiet, always solitary. But after that he seemed…” she searched for the right word, “sad.” A small word, an everyday word but on this occasion conveying a power I’d never associated it with. “He was only here for another month after that. But he wasn’t the same.” There was a mournful quality to her words. Her eyes wouldn’t meet ours and I could sense a hint of shame as she remembered the time. There was genuine regret she hadn’t been able to help this young man in his time of trouble. The intervening six years seemed to have done nothing to dull her pain.

  “What happened that night?” I asked gently.

  “I don’t know.” She replied. “Neither of them ever talked about it. Peter didn’t know about it till the next morning. He kept apologising. John always told him everything was alright. Peter calmed down a lot after that. Strangely it was the making of him. I hope it wasn’t the breaking of John.”

  “So, you never kept in touch with John?” I asked genuinely interested in the human drama being recounted.

  “He moved into the half-way house. Then he was gone really quickly. I visited him once, but I never really got the chance to do more.”

  I let the moment hang heavy between us, unsure how to ease her pain and regret.

  In the end it was Maria who dragged us back to the task at hand.

  “Where can we find Peter?”

  “Two roads over, number twenty-three.” Sharon responded. “He looks scary but he’s a teddy-bear, he’s been good to us over the years. Be nice to him please.”

  “We’re nice to everyone.” I said in reply and hoped I was telling the truth.

  We were back on the hunt.

  #

  Carlisle Street was a terrace of houses. Grey-fronted they were all almost identical. The only separating feature was the colour of the front door and the numbers screwed to each one. We approached the blue door of number twenty-three. It shone the same shade as Father Hernandez’s on the other side of the world.

  We heard the muted thud of the knocker, used to announce our presence, reverberate through the wood.

  We waited patiently, more in hope than expectation. It was eleven AM on a weekday, he was probably working.

  We were about to give up and regroup until the evening when we heard a muffled “I’m coming, I’m coming.” from behind the door.

  The interior latch turned. The door swung inwards to reveal a broad, shaven-headed man, covered neck to ankles in tattoos. He had a bleary-eyed look on his face, as if we’d just woken him up. I hoped that wasn’t the case because even rubbing his eyes he looked the kind of man you didn’t want to upset.

  “Yeah?” He grunted as a greeting and a question about our presence on his doorstep.

  “We’re looking for Peter.” I said politely.

  “That’s me.” He responded cautiously.

  “We’re looking for a friend of yours, John Byrne.” I said trying to keep my tone light, non-threatening. He was our best chance of tracking John down. I didn’t want him to clam up and become uncooperative. We needed the information he could hopefully provide.

  At the mention of John, Peter’s face betrayed him, he smiled. There was a small crinkling upwards of the corners of his mouth. It was brief but I noticed it. He regained his composure and became stoic again. He reverted to the tough guy image his body projected.

  “Why? What’s he done?” There was bravado in his tone, but I knew we would get what we wanted by appealing to his better nature.

  “We need his help.” I replied trying to keep my replies neutral, reverting to the police persona again.

  “Haven’t seen him mate.” Peter responded. There was a lightness in the tone that suggested the hard-man act was just a facade.

  “We’re from the church.” Maria interjected.

  Silence from Peter. Silence from us. We let the statement hang in the air between us.

  Peter sighed in resignation and gestured us through his front door into the interior of his house.

  The lights were on upstairs and they dimly illuminated the bottom of the stairs. A well-worn, red carpet covered the wooden slats. The covering continued into the downstairs hallway. The fading light made it darker and darker as it got further and further from the steps.

  “End door on the left.” Peter instructed as we slowed towards the end of the corridor, not knowing which way to go.

  We entered a kitchen, again dominated by a central breakfast table. It was almost identical to the one we had sat in at Jimmy’s. This one, however, was slightly lighter and less used. The appliances, side-board and cupboards were newer, the walls were cleaner. It had the same feel, though. It was the focal point of the house. The chairs around the table were haphazardly placed, as if the occupants had only just left and would return shortly.

  “Sit down.” Peter said. It could have been taken as an order. There was a gruffness in his command, coupled with his size could have been misread, but his tone was more resignation than threat.

  We sat and I could see Maria wanted to jump straight in and try to find out the information that would move us forward. I put a gentle hand on her arm to attract her attention. She turned to me, I shook my head very slightly to allow Peter his moment of dominance. He needed to realise we were benign in our intentions towards him and John. She sat back in the chair and her body relaxed slightly.

  I let the silence continue, scanned Peter and the body of art that covered him. Almost every centimetre of his body was awash with colourful swirls and pictures. There were vibrant blues and yellows that stood out against the contrasting blacks and browns. The more I looked, the more I could make out. Pictures and words I had missed on first glance. There was an artistry to the work that only became clear the longer you studied it.

 
The words love, hope and acceptance were prominent and formed a printed chain that circled from shoulder blade to shoulder blade just below his neck. There was a crucifix on his right bicep, a dove on the left. All the images were the antithesis of the persona he was portraying. He was a walking contradiction. I could see why Maria had mentioned the church on the doorstep.

  “Tea?” Peter broke the silence.

  Maria and I both nodded and murmured our affirmation. When Peter turned to the kettle, he showed us the artwork on his back for the first time. The picture covered the whole of his back and was the only image there. It was beautifully done and must have taken hours in the chair to complete. Jesus was being crucified on the cross across his shoulder blades with the words ‘He died for my sins’ in italics underneath. The shading was spectacular, it could have adorned the walls of any art gallery around the world and not looked out of place. Both Maria and I shared a glance when we saw it. We both took a moment to admire it as we waited for our drinks.

  Peter turned and put three mugs of steaming tea on the table. He grabbed a sugar bowl from the side and placed it next to the drinks. Maria and I reached into the centre of the table and retrieved the mug closest to ourselves.

  “So, the church eh?” Peter asked as he sat down in a vacant chair. The vinyl covering must have been cold against his bare skin as he leant back against it, he didn’t flinch at the touch as his body tried to regulate the temperature stimulus. “John tried to drag me there when we were together at Jimmy’s, but I never had the time for it then.”

  “Oh.” I replied not sure why he was now covered in religious iconography.

  “Why you looking for John then?” Peter asked.

  “His name has come up in relationship to an investigation we are carrying out for them.” The police speak flowed naturally, it gave information but nothing concrete and it hopefully papered over the unbelievable truth of what we were looking for.

  Peter nodded at my turn of phrase as if I had said something particularly deep and meaningful, but he offered no reply of his own. The silence stretched and both Maria and I exchanged another furtive glance at each other, trying to ascertain the best way to proceed.

  “I hear you were with John when he was arrested.” Maria stated. She was trying to engage Peter in some sort of conversation in the hope he would relax and give us the information we needed.

  Peter looked at her and I could sense a decision being made, I hoped it would be in our favour.

  “No.” He corrected her. “He’d left the bar with, oh what was her name?”

  Maria and I waited silently while he tried to retrieve the name that was eluding him.

  “Gemma.” He blurted at last. “Yeah it was Gemma. They left the bar and apparently he got in a fight with her ex.”

  “Oh right.” I agreed.

  “John wouldn’t fight anyone though. He’s the quietest, most chilled out guy ever. Doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. The police released him without charge the next morning when they realised what a pussy cat he is.” He smiled at the thought of his friend.

  Maria and I nodded in encouragement for him to continue his story.

  Peter sighed and ploughed on.

  “I took him to the bar and introduced him to the girls, Gemma took a shine to him and they went off. I was in with Stacey, I didn’t notice he’d gone. If I had, I would have said something, but they left without me noticing.” Peter looked ruefully to the ceiling. “It was my fault, I let him down.”

  Peter continued staring at the ceiling as if in a silent prayer for forgiveness. We could give him no solace, but we gave him his moment while we contemplated our next move. Despite his outward appearance he exuded an air of kindness. His words were spoken softly and there was a charity to them I wouldn’t have guessed, given the first impression he gave.

  My side ached, but now it throbbed as if to remind me of the task at hand.

  “Peter, do you know where we can find John, we really need to speak to him.” I kept my tone light and so it came out as more of a plea than a question.

  “I’ve not spoken to him recently.” Peter reflected regretfully. “He went down South.”

  “We heard that but where?” Maria probed as gently as she could muster. I knew, like me, she would want to leap across the table and shake the information out of him.

  So near and yet so far.

  All good things come to those who wait.

  “Manchester.” Peter said eventually.

  A big city with a large population. A needle in a haystack but as before the haystack was getting smaller.

  “He’s working in an old people’s home.” There was a resigned quality in his tone I struggled to understand. It was almost as if he knew this day was coming, the day when he would give his friend away.

  “Do you know the name of the home?” Maria probed.

  “Auden House in Audenshaw.” Peter slumped in his chair. The resignation had given way to despondency. “I always knew someone would come looking for him one day.” Peter offered as an explanation. “There’s something about him, I can’t explain it. I don’t want to say it’s an aura, cos that’s too wishy-washy but he made me a better person, he made me WANT to be a better person.”

  Maria and I nodded solemnly, not fully understanding but playing the part expected of us. I felt slightly honoured he’d given us the information we needed, but didn’t quite know how to put my gratitude into words.

  “Thanks, Peter.” It would have to do.

  We sat silently for a couple of moments in thought. When we felt enough time had passed Maria and I rose and thanked Peter for both the tea, that we had barely touched, and the information. We walked back down the hallway with Peter trailing behind us.

  We reached the front door and I opened it and stepped out. Maria joined me on the porch. We turned to say our farewells to Peter.

  “When you see John tell him, I’m sorry.” Peter said.

  “I’m sure he already knows.” I offered as a meaningless platitude.

  Peter nodded. “And tell him, I kept my promise.”

  “Of course.” Maria with the platitude this time.

  We walked back to my car and I started it up as I figured out the best route to the motorway. We drove past Peter’s front door. He was still standing there holding it open. Watching us as we continued down the road heading to our final destination.

  Acts

  John wandered the garden at Jimmy’s as he had on so many occasions before. But it now felt different. He was used to the staring, the taunting and even the ignoring however this was on a different level. There was a judgement in their eyes that told him he’d let everyone down.

  He’d returned to the home in a police car with a warning to keep his nose clean in the future as they dropped him off. The conversation with Sharon had been difficult. He found it hard to find the words, to articulate without feeling unexplained shame.

  One minute he was with Peter, then he was walking down the road with Gemma, next thing he knew he was in a police cell. He had tried to explain he’d done nothing wrong, but it sounded hollow, wrong. Sharon was sympathetic and didn’t tell him off but the disappointment on her face was clear to him. His Mother tried to reassure him. To make him understand Sharon believed him. For the first time Her words didn’t make him feel any better.

  He wanted to contact Gemma, find out how she was; but he didn’t know how. She had been knocked unconscious and taken away in an ambulance. He had phoned the hospital but didn’t know her surname. The not knowing was worse. He made up scenarios in his head all of them worse than the last. The guilt at not being able to protect her from the harm of her past life grew.

  He felt he’d let himself down, he’d let Jimmy’s down but worst of all he’d let Peter down. Peter kept apologising, but he wanted to let Peter know it was him who was sorry.

  He’d said it when he saw him. Peter brushed him off and told him it was all his fault and how could he make it up to him. It had been t
hree days and Peter was still apologising. John didn’t know how to reassure him that he didn’t blame him at all.

  Through it all his Mother’s voice kept talking to him. She told him it was no-one’s fault, he had done nothing wrong, She was still proud of him. For the first time in his life he wished She would shut-up and leave him alone. She was trying to help but it wasn’t working.

  His one quiet time was his Sunday spent at the church. He asked Peter to join him as usual but his invitation was rejected again. The peace this offered him was like taking a cooling bath after being exposed to the sun for too long. The positivity he felt while he was there made his mind up about leaving Jimmy’s. Starting a new life somewhere else where he would no longer be judged.

  He spoke to Sharon about his plan and she promised to make enquiries for him.

  “John. John.” Sophie’s voice called to him across the yard and broke him out of his trance like state. He turned where he was and walked to her. He reached her on the back step and looked at her expectantly.

  “We’ve found you somewhere to live.” She told him matter of factly.

  “Great.” Was the only reply John could muster.

  “It’s only round the corner, so you’ll be able to come back to see us, and we’ll be able to visit you.” Sophie told him.

  He didn’t want the reminder of his night of shame, but he agreed eagerly. He was going to leave this place and stand on his own two feet.

  #

  John spent a total of six months and five days in the halfway house. His time there consisted of long hours of boredom with his Mother’s voice as his constant companion. Sharon visited him once during the first month to make sure he had settled in alright. Peter on the other hand visited him almost daily. The apologies stopped after the first visit but John could tell, for whatever reason; Peter still blamed himself.

  While staying at the house John applied for numerous jobs. Leaving him with a large collection of rejection letters and emails.