Ashes by Now

by Mark Timlin

  Maybe it would to him, I thought. ‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘But you still haven’t told me if you think that the wrong man was convicted.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about it any more? It upsets me,’ she said.

  I didn’t want her doing another runner. ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ I said. Besides, I couldn’t make her.

  ‘I don’t. I’m sorry, I haven’t helped you much, have I?’

  ‘I didn’t expect you would. How could you? I just wanted… Christ, I don’t know what I wanted.’

  ‘Have you spoken to my father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor have I. Not for years. Carol being killed really smashed our family up. Not that it was much of a family before. Not since Mum died.’

  ‘You really don’t have to talk about it, you know,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m obsessed with it. Oh hell, can I have another drink?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I may be the oldest virgin in bloody London, but I do know if I want a drink or not.’

  ‘Brandy?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  She passed out on the sofa about eleven-thirty. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. I wasn’t too clever myself by then I must admit, and that’s the only excuse I can offer.

  I didn’t undress her or anything. Just took her shoes off, put her feet up, tossed a blanket over her, and put a cushion under her head.

  Then I threw the four empty wine bottles and the empty brandy bottle into the trash, put out the light, undressed and got into my own bed.

  26

  Jacqueline woke me up when she joined me. The digital read-out on the bedside clock read 3.08. Its tiny green figures were the only light I could see. The streetlamp outside my window was on the blink, and the room was pitch black.

  She was naked except for her underpants. I was naked except for my shorts. She’d let her hair down and I felt it lying across my chest. She held me tightly, and I could feel her trembling. Neither of us said a word. I just moved slightly, the better to accommodate the weight of her on me.

  I didn’t do anything but lie there quietly. I knew it wasn’t sex she wanted. No more than I did. It was just someone to hold. To be close to. She began to cry, and soaked the pillow and the sheet and my shoulder. I stroked her back after a bit. It was thin and boney, and I ran my fingers down her spine, feeling every cartilage in it as I did so.

  When the clock read 3.54, and she seemed to be cried out, she said, ‘I told you a lie.’

  ‘What?’ I said, and my voice was thick in the silence of the room.

  ‘About being a virgin.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  I didn’t, to be honest.

  ‘I’ve never made love. I didn’t lie about that…’ She paused.

  ‘Tell me, Jackie,’ I said. I knew that she would anyway. I just wanted to let her know that I wanted to hear.

  She was silent again as the clock flickered to 3.55, then 3.56.

  ‘It was Uncle Alan.’ Her voice sounded younger. Almost girlish.

  I’d nearly dropped off again during her silence. ‘What?’ I said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It was Uncle Alan,’ she repeated.

  I was suddenly wide awake. ‘What was?’

  ‘He did it.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Fucked me.’ Her voice wasn’t girlish any more. It was as hard and cold as steel left out in a winter frost.

  ‘Byrne. Your uncle?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ She was trembling harder by then. I wanted to turn on the light so that I could see her, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to break the mood she was in.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

  I felt her breath on my face as she said, ‘It’s not something I’d joke about.’

  I lay back and looked up in the direction of the ceiling, invisible in the darkness. Byrne. Of course. It fitted perfectly. Like a glove.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  So she did.

  It was a sordid little story of constant child abuse. The constant abuse of Carol and Jacqueline Harvey. Ten and eight years old respectively when it had started. Just after their mother died.

  It was the kind of story I’d heard lots of times before. The story of a trusted male relative left with young children. Tickling, touching, intimacy. Followed by isolation, violence, and finally violation. Then more tickling and touching when he needed the release again.

  And finally threats and guilt. Not guilt by the violator, but by the violated.

  It had gone on for years – four to be precise – and had culminated in the rape and murder of Carol Harvey one warm afternoon in Brixton.

  ‘She threatened to tell Daddy,’ Jacqueline whispered. ‘Uncle Alan made her come and meet him that day. You know the rest.’

  I knew all right. I remembered that day as clearly as any other in my life.

  ‘But why did she go to see him alone? And on his ground? It was insane.’

  I felt her shrug in the darkness. ‘He had a power over us. Isn’t that obvious? You don’t recover from years of what he did to us overnight. And besides, he could be nice.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t that sickening. Probably the most sickening part of all. In everything but the abuse he was a wonderful uncle. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he was. Sometimes we thought we were imagining it. Or that all adults did what he did to the children they looked after. Can you realise how that made us feel? But we just never dared ask. And besides, who knows what goes on in the minds of children? Because that’s what we were. Even if we had to grow up fast.’ There was a terrible desolation in her voice as she said those last words.

  ‘I can’t remember what we thought. I can’t even remember what it’s like to be a child. He stole that from us.’

  I lay there for another minute and clasped her hand. Trying to give her some comfort, although there was precious little comfort to be had in the barren world she inhabited.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ I asked finally. ‘Afterwards, I mean.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I did tell someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That man Collier. The detective sergeant.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day after it happened.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He took me in to see Uncle Alan.’

  I felt sweat break out of every pore on my body in anger at what she was telling me. ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘He got rid of Collier. Told him it was my imagination. Then when we were alone, he told me he’d kill me if I ever breathed a word to another soul. That I’d end up like Carol.’

  Simple as that, see. It doesn’t take a lot to terrify a twelve-year-old girl whose sister had been raped the day before, and would die later that day. Especially when the person she went to for help just delivered her back to the perpetrator of the horror again.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He called Collier back, and I told him what Uncle Alan had said was true. That I’d imagined it. That I was upset by what had happened.’

  But I’d bet that Collier had believed her story. He had believed that Byrne had done exactly what she said he’d done. I’d stake my life on it. In that stinking flat on the Lion, I almost had.

  ‘Did you ever tell your father?’ I asked.

  ‘No. It wouldn’t have been any good. Uncle Alan would’ve just twisted it round again. No one would ever have believed me.’

  ‘But you should have told him. Made him believe you.’

  ‘I was frightened, Nick.
Terrified. How could I tell my father that his brother-in-law was fucking both his daughters in the backside with that horrible thing of his.’

  ‘He did that?’ I said.

  ‘Sometimes. He wasn’t fussy. He had plenty of warm, wet holes to choose from between the two of us.’

  I felt physically sick at what she was saying, and the way she said it. And I thought of my own daughter, and how I’d feel in similar circumstances.

  ‘Before she was killed we decided to tell. That was what she was going to tell him we were going to do. Someone might have believed both of us together. But look what happened to her. That afternoon in the police station, I plucked up the courage to tell someone on my own, and look what happened to me.’

  ‘I remember it,’ I said. ‘I was there. I saw you.’

  ‘You were the one talking to Daddy. You went into an office together.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’s when I told Collier. When you two were talking.’

  ‘I remember the look on your face as you left. You looked…’ I stopped. ‘You looked as if your world had ended,’ I said.

  ‘It had.’

  ‘Christ, Jackie,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d spoken to me.’

  ‘I would have done. You looked kind. Not like the others. But you went off with Daddy. Anyway, even if I had, would you have believed I was telling the truth?’

  ‘I would have tried to find out.’

  She hugged me tighter. ‘Would you? Against all those senior officers? And you the new DC? I’d like to believe you, Nick, but I’m not sure that I do. But thanks for saying it anyway.’

  ‘Collier believed you,’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Straight after you told him about your uncle, he and his mate Lenny Millar, with the collusion of a DI named Grisham, half killed Sailor Grant to get a confession. I was there some of the time. I couldn’t handle it. That’s why Grant went to jail. To protect your uncle. He was a flyer. Everyone in the job knew that. Look where he ended up. Just one stop from the biggest job of all in London. And that means the whole country. They could literally get away with murder with your uncle’s collusion. Jesus! They almost did with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘The bastards.’

  ‘Jackie,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to tell now.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Will you help me? I trust you.’

  And those few simple words from someone who must have had all trust stolen from her years before were what started me crying too.

  27

  When we woke up the next morning, we were still in each other’s arms, and I had a huge erection that was sticking through the material of my shorts into the soft flesh of her belly. We opened our eyes at exactly the same moment. It happens like that sometimes. I could actually see hers trying to focus through the gum that coated the lids. When they did and she realised where she was, she shot away from me over to the far side of the bed so fast that I thought she was going to keep going and fall on to the floor.

  She tugged the sheets up to her throat, and said in a rusty little voice, ‘What happened?’

  ‘You got drunk,’ I said. ‘We got drunk,’ I added.

  She looked under the sheet at her nakedness. ‘Did we… ?’

  I shook my head, which was not a good idea, as it felt like my brain had got loose and was bumping from one side of my skull to the other.

  ‘How come I’m here, then?’ she asked.

  ‘It was your idea,’ I said in a voice that sounded equally as rusty as hers. ‘I was the perfect gentleman.’

  I saw realisation dawn on her face, still creased and puffy from sleep and too much alcohol.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  I nodded. It occurred to me that communication by sign language was favourite until I’d had at least three cups of tea.

  ‘And you believed me?’

  I nodded again, then threw back the covers and got out of bed. Jacqueline averted her eyes. But at least my erection had subsided.

  I took my robe off the back of the door and threw it to her; then I put on yesterday’s T-shirt, and pulled on my jeans, went to the wreckage that had once been my kitchen, and stuck on the kettle.

  ‘Tea?’ I asked. ‘Juice?’

  ‘Juice please. I’ve got to use the bathroom. Don’t look.’

  I turned my back and heard the rustling as she got out of bed, pulled on the robe, and ran to the bathroom.

  By the time she got back, the kettle had boiled, and I’d put a glass of mixed orange and grapefruit juice on the breakfast bar for her.

  She drank it down greedily. She looked better, having combed her hair and washed her face. She found her glasses and put them on, sat on a stool and said, ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Blow the whole thing open,’ I said.

  ‘After all this time?’

  ‘Of course. Time doesn’t matter. Not in a murder case.’

  ‘How? Go to the police?’

  ‘No. Better than that.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  I told her. I told her what I planned to do. I told her about the evidence I’d gathered and how it had led to her.

  When I’d finished, I said, ‘Of course it all hinges on you being prepared to tell the truth. It’s not going to be easy. A lot of people are going to be hurt. A lot of important people. People dead, and people alive. Reputations are going to be ruined. There’ll be pressure on you to deny that it happened. Can you handle that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can. I’m tired of living like this. Living a lie, and watching guilty people walk around free.’

  ‘So do I do it?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘What’s the time?’

  I found my watch. ‘Ten to nine,’ I said.

  ‘I’m late. Sod it. I feel lousy. I’m going to go home and call in sick at work.’

  ‘Good idea. Hangovers can get you real bad.’

  ‘Especially if you’ve never had one before.’

  ‘They don’t get any easier,’ I said.

  28

  Jacqueline got dressed and left, and I showered, shaved, put on clean clothes, and called Chas at the South London. He was at his desk.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Keep your voice down to a dull roar, for a start,’ I said. ‘I’m suffering.’

  ‘I hope it was a goodnight.’

  ‘Depends what you call good. And it’s what I can do for you.’

  ‘Seems I’ve heard that song before.’

  ‘You want a permanent job at Wapping, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve got a story that’ll guarantee it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘That good?’

  ‘Plus.’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, if it is that good.’

  I thought of the remains of the red wine and the brandy swilling around inside me, and one of Chas’s lunches, and all that entailed, and my stomach almost rebelled. But there was no time like the present.

  ‘How’s the expenses?’ I asked.

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Believe me, when you hear this, you’ll beg to pay. And let’s go somewhere quiet. I don’t want the whole world and his wife listening in.’

  ‘Let me think,’ said Chas. ‘Chinese – no. Indian – too heavy for lunch. Greek – you hate. Italian – too noisy. I know – how do you fancy West Indian cuisine? There’s a good Caribbean restaurant opened up just round the corner.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said.

  ‘Right. West Indian it is. I’ll book a table. One
o’clock do you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He gave me the name and address of the place and terminated the call.

  I made more tea.

  At twelve-fifteen, I wrapped the exercise book with the galleon on the cover in a brown paper bag, and took it and myself for a slow stroll to Streatham. I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. It looked OK from the outside, and I went in. A charming black woman checked the reservation, told me that I was the first to arrive, and led me to a table for two behind the sound-system speakers and a huge cheese plant that made it so private I might have been in my own front room. She recommended a frozen daiquiri, and I succumbed.

  Mind you, it was damn good.

  Chas turned up spot on time and joined me at the table. He ordered a similar drink; the waitress left the menus and went behind the bar to prepare it.

  ‘You look rough,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘The next time I want to feel good about myself, I’ll be sure to search you out.’

  ‘Do that.’

  His drink arrived and he said, ‘What do you want to eat?’

  ‘Christ knows.’

  ‘Mind if I order for both of us?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Right then, I couldn’t handle the responsibility of choosing a meal.

  The waitress came back, and Chas ordered coconut soup to start; then for the main course: doctor fish, whatever the hell that was, chicken and rice, ackee, black-eyed peas in gravy, with a green salad on the side. It sounded enough to feed an army. But it was on his bill, so he could order what he wanted.

  The waitress vanished again, and as we sipped our drinks Chas said, ‘So what’s this amazing story?’

  ‘It’s a long one.’

  ‘I love long stories.’

  Just then the soup arrived. It was laced with rum up to the legal limit and above, and its warmth finally began to make me feel better.

  I started the story over the soup, and finished it over coffee and sweet rum liqueurs.

  I told it to Chas in strict chronological order as I knew it. Starting the day of the rape, and ending with what Jacqueline had told me the night before.

  ‘Christ,’ said Chas, when I’d finished. ‘That is a story.’