by Sam Hayes
Only later do I remember what Flora said about Mary.
I was always scared of Mary Marshall. Even more fearful of her than Mrs Wraith at school. As a kid, I believed that Julia’s mother was the keeper of terrible secrets and vessel of all things dark. It was something about the way her eyes were focused on another time, another place, while her body went about perfectly normal tasks. When she stared at me, I wondered if her secrets would spill out all over me.
Mary Marshall’s legs were straight and strong and her jaw jutted forward. Her pale eyes beaded into suspicious jewels whenever I followed her daughter into the house.
‘Not got a home to go to, Murray?’ she would ask, and because she said it so many times, I ended up believing that she was right. Perhaps I didn’t have a home to go to.
It suited my parents just fine that Northmire Farm was open house. Summer or winter, Julia had a circus of kids dotted about the property – climbing up the hay bales in the barn or following the stream at the bottom of the east paddock with our jeans pushed up to our knees.
Mary didn’t seem to mind the other kids’ presence, but she singled me out. Looking back, it was probably because I was a good deal older than Julia and appeared out of place stuck amongst her younger peers. ‘Not got any friends of your own age, Murray?’ Looking back again, it was clear that Mary was trying to avert disaster. Our age difference, she once told me when I was slurping greedily from the kitchen tap, would only end in tears. It always did, she said.
So I decided to ease off on my friendship with Julia. Mary was right. Her daughter should be allowed friends her own age without being tailed by me.
Pete Duvall, sports champion and all-round smooth operator, was the one I most wanted to punch. I found Julia sitting on the village green bench waiting for him, tears held back behind a surprised smile when she saw me walking my dog. Truth is, I never walked the dog along that road but I’d heard that was where Pete was meeting Julia before taking her to the city – the cinema, the burger bar, the games arcade.
‘Julia,’ I said, acting all amazed. I stood in front of her, shielding her from the setting sun. ‘What are you doing—’
‘He’s stood me up, before you ask.’ The sniff was barely detectable.
I already knew that. I’d walked the perimeter of the common a dozen times, waiting for Duvall to show his smarmy face. He lived in the big new house in the village.
‘He’s such a loser. Mind if I sit down?’ She was too young to be out alone.
‘Yes.’
I did anyway. ‘Do you love him?’ My dog nuzzled around Julia’s ankles.
She sighed. ‘Not now, I don’t. Not unless he’s got a really good excuse. Like he’s dead or something.’ Then we both laughed and that’s when the tears started, hot and fast, and they got all over my T-shirt.
I walked her home, cursing my parents for not having waited a few years to conceive me, and that’s when she told me something amazing. Julia Marshall, standing on her tiptoes in the muddy track leading down to Northmire Farm, whispered in my ear. ‘I only went out with him to make you jealous.’Then she ran on up to the house without looking back, her skinny legs bending as if they might snap.
‘Not jealous. Not me!’ I called out after her, and on the top step of her house, she turned and blew me a kiss before darting inside. I walked home, desperate to know how she did it. Julia Marshall was playing me like a puppet.
It is the same upside-down thrill that always stops me in my tracks when I tuck my daughter into bed. But tonight, I ask Flora to repeat what her grandma told her.
Nothing, she signs stubbornly. Grandma’s not speaking.
I sigh. Yes, I know, Flora. But when we were eating dinner you said that Grandma said sorry. What is she sorry for? Has she done something wrong?
Flora tunnels her way down the bedclothes and peeks her head out of the other end. She giggles too loudly, unable to control the volume of her warped voice, and ducks under again when I lunge for her. I grab her small body, padded up by quilt, and tickle between her ribs until she surrenders with her little finger thrust at me. I stop when she protests.
We stare at each other for a moment, and I see a replica of a young Julia staring back at me. I want to be a child again myself. I would tell her everything about our lives to come; make her promise never to leave me; beg her, this time: let’s get it right.
‘Time for lights out.’ Julia is suddenly behind me, breaking our connection. Come on, Little Miss Cheeky, it’s bedtime, she signs, and snuggles Flora under the covers.
Night, Flora, I gesture, and leave the bedroom door open a little, just how she likes it.
‘Get some sleep yourself, Murray,’ Julia tells me coolly on the landing. ‘You need to be fresh for tomorrow. I don’t care how you do it, but David can’t spend another night in that place.’ The secure future she craves is slipping away. ‘I need him out of there.’
I nod, catching a glimpse of myself in the gilt mirror at the top of the stairs. I don’t blame her for any of this.
‘Good night, Julia.’ And I go to my room, still insanely jealous after all these years.
‘So,’ Sheila asks. ‘All happy families again then, is it?’
I’ve just finished explaining that I’m currently living at Northmire, to help Julia while she’s at the farm, but she glazed over when I got to the bit about Mary not speaking. Sheila sees clients, she sees cases, she sees meetings and profits and reputations. She doesn’t see my problems.
I don’t bother explaining further. ‘No, it’s not happy families, Sheila. More like bloody snap.’
‘Well, how about you play Cluedo instead and get down to the police station to figure out who the key witnesses are in the Carlyle case. Isn’t it exciting for you, Murray? A proper, juicy client and a chance to prove what you’re made of.’ She pauses and a hurt look sweeps over her face when I don’t reply. I ignore her sarcastic tone. ‘You are grateful, aren’t you?’ She perches on the edge of my desk and knocks a pen on to the floor. It was a present from Julia. ‘Get this one under your belt successfully and I’ll have Gerry take a look at you.’
I lean back in my chair and it creaks, making the same noise as the one in my head. ‘Take a look at me?’ I ask incredulously. ‘Sheila, I’m very grateful that you’re trying to help save my ass here, but what you don’t understand about this case is—’
‘I always knew you were a fighter, Monsieur French. Why do you think I took you on all those years ago, fresh-faced and eager?’
Quickly, I think back. Was I fresh-faced and eager? I don’t remember. With each day that passes, another ten get bumped off the list of memories thanks to the booze. If I’m honest, it’s hard to remember much these days. Alcohol is a powerful detergent. ‘Sheila, do you know who David Carlyle is?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I do,’ she says, sliding off the desk and smoothing out her skirt. Her heel catches on the pen and skittles it under my desk. I retrieve it but feel sick. ‘He’s your client, stupid. A rather dashing doctor caught up in the Covatta girl assault. Total cock-up, if you ask me. Pressure on the CID has forced a premature arrest. Anyone vaguely in the wrong place at the wrong time was bound to get it. Still, good for us, eh?’
‘But Sheila, it’s not that simple.’ I might as well pack up my desk now.
‘Well make it simple, Murray darling.’ She leans forward, presumably to offer her secrets on successful practice. Her perfume is making me nauseous. ‘Look, Murray. Gerry is shuffling again. Things are going on here that you don’t need to concern yourself with, but I took a punt on you when you first came to work here and I don’t want you to mess up. It will reflect badly on me.’ She strides about, her pencil skirt limiting the space she can cover with each pace. ‘Your boozing is no secret. If it were left up to the other partners, you’d be long gone.’ She makes a slicing gesture across her neck. ‘I’ve bought you a reprieve, so damn well use it. Get your ass down to the prison, get your appeal lodged, get your case together and get
into court. It’s where you belong, Murray, not dealing with parking fines that our newest intern could manage blindfolded.’
‘Finished the lecture?’ I’m calm. I’m not shouting. I’m not shaking or banging my fists about. I’m even smiling. ‘I don’t want the case.’ There. I said it.
Sheila remains silent while she lights a cigarette. She opens the window. ‘Don’t want it?’ Her words hang incredulously on the smoke as it curls out into the street. ‘So you don’t want your job either, then? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course I want my job . . .’ I shrug and think. Then it occurs to me. Maybe I don’t. There’s a photograph of Julia on my desk. I took it on the day she chose her wedding dress. I pick it up and trace my finger over her hair. Julia’s eyes are starbursts and her cheeks swollen to pink crests. Her mouth is a perfect O and I recall that she was holding a copy of Bride magazine out of shot. We were so excited about getting married. We’d not long found out she was pregnant and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
‘She always looked like that,’ I comment. ‘Right through her pregnancy, she glowed and spread . . . I don’t know . . . sunshine. Does that make sense?’
‘What are you talking about sunshine for, Murray? Are you completely off your head? Are you drunk?’ Sheila stares at me.
‘It was a beautiful dress.’ I smile, surprised by the sudden clarity of the memory. ‘Cream with tiny blue flowers around the neck. It rained and the hem got muddy. Julia was going to have it cleaned but I told her not to. It was our wedding-day mud, I told her.’
‘You have, haven’t you? You’ve bloody been at the bottle already.’ Sheila thrusts her face near mine and breathes in. All she’ll smell is coffee.
Oh Murray, don’t blow it.You need that job.You know we can’t live on my teacher’s pay alone. Julia speaks to me from within the shiny paper. I touch her face.
‘I won’t blow it,’ I tell her. Sheila sighs and heads for the door.
‘I should think not,’ she says, believing I’ve seen sense. ‘Like I said, Gerry is conducting a staff review soon. I’m far from mentioning the partnership word, Murray, but if you want a job, if you want to keep that pretty little wife of yours happy, then I suggest you get to work.’
I place Julia carefully back on the desk, wishing I could make her happy. ‘Odd,’ I say as a warm feeling settles in my mind. I shake my head and gather the papers that I’ll need for the day ahead. When I glance back at Julia, the feeling is still there – a glimmer of something I remember from way back; the one I thought the booze had destroyed. It’s only when I bring the photograph up to my lips that I clearly remember it’s called love.
HM Prison Whitegate is a maximum security institution for male category A and B offenders. The rush of pleasure I get when I see Carlyle incarcerated is better than any bottle of Scotch.
‘Dr Carlyle,’ I say grimly. He is sitting with a guard in the small interview room, a slight hunch to his shoulders. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look as broken down as he should. The guard leaves and waits outside the closed door, occasionally glancing through the small square of glass. It is our privilege to have complete privacy.
I’ve only been inside a couple of prisons before. The rigorous security procedure has put me in a bad mood and I’m shaking from the coffee I drank in the car. Or it could be because since I’ve been at Northmire, I’ve not had a drink.
‘So. How’s things?’ I sit at the small table and lay my hands out in front of me. Carlyle stares at me, either resigned or amused by my presence. ‘And before you ask again, yes, I’m doing this for Julia. There are plenty of good criminal defence lawyers out there. I’m not one of them. But . . .’ I breathe in deeply, sigh it out. ‘. . . I will get you out of here.’ I flinch at the sound of what I just promised. There’s no way I’m letting Julia down.
‘Then that makes two of us.’
I raise my eyebrows, unclear what he means.
‘Two of us doing things for Julia,’ he finishes, and I wonder which part of aggravated grievous bodily harm is for my wife. ‘Oh, and I didn’t hurt the girl,’ he adds casually.
‘Let’s start with where you were when the incident took place.’ How will I get through this meeting, let alone a court appearance? I continue. ‘Grace Covatta was found early on the twenty-ninth of December. I don’t have an estimated time of assault. The forensics report hasn’t come back. Perhaps lucky for you that Grace is in a coma?’ I say it as a question, in case there’s a glimmer of agreement, a glimmer of guilt. ‘It’s early days yet for medical or coroner’s reports. No one’s implied sex attack yet, but who knows what they’ll discover, eh?’
Carlyle sits still and calm, unfazed, almost bored.
‘Either way, the girl was messed up bad.’
‘So I believe,’ he says. ‘It’s tragic.’ There is coldness in his voice, as if it’s all a great inconvenience.
‘Firstly, I need to know where you were on the night it happened.’
David sighs. ‘I was at the surgery until six p.m. I drove home. I made myself a meal.’ He gestures briefly, flicking the memory away casually.
‘Just like that. You remember just like that?’
‘You said it was a Thursday. That’s what I usually do on Thursdays.’
‘But can you prove that you did it on that one?’
‘No.’
‘And what about your relationship with Grace? It’s clear from the evidence that you know her.’
‘Yes, I know the girl.’
‘Just how well do you know her, Doctor?’
David’s words are vapour thin, sending a shiver through me. He swallows. ‘People were talking.’ He bows his head. ‘I knew it had to stop.’
‘What had to stop, David?’ I hold my breath, already knowing what he’s going to say. How will I tell Julia that the new love of her life was having a fling with a teenager?
‘I knew it wasn’t right. All the appointments, secret meetings, phone calls.’ He sighs.
I go cold from the admission. ‘So you were having relations with a young girl.’ I hold it together. ‘Did anyone else see you with her the afternoon she was hurt? Apart from the CCTV cameras.’
David is vague, somewhere else entirely. ‘Yes, a few people, I would imagine. Her mother saw me with her. She came with Grace to my surgery for an appointment the morning before she was hurt.’
‘What happened while they were in your surgery?’
David wipes his hands across his face. ‘Grace argued with her mother in my consulting room. Her mother stormed out and left her daughter alone with me.’
‘What was the row about?’
David searches the ceiling for an answer. ‘Grace was pregnant. Her mother wanted her to have an abortion, but Grace didn’t want to. I spent a long time comforting her. She was incredibly distraught.’
‘Christ,’ I say, considering the implications. I have to ask. ‘Who is the father?’
David pauses before answering. ‘I can’t say.’ He stares blankly ahead, wringing his hands together in a knot of deceit.
I don’t say anything else; can’t say anything else. My lips have frozen together. I have to take a break. To get some air. To think. To work out why everything is folding in on me. I need a drink.
I stand up, gather my belongings and leave the room. The guard immediately slides into my place.
‘How did it go?’The bilge pump is noisy so I don’t hear her the first time. I leap on to the towpath.
‘She’s sinking,’ I say matter-of-factly.
‘Murray! I said how did your meeting with David go? Did you make an appeal for bail?’ Julia’s cheeks are glazed pink and her breath spurts out in shots of hope. She is wearing her pink mittens, clapping them against each other as if that will hurry me up.
‘Even God couldn’t get him out of there at the moment. Coming aboard?’ I’m moving the few things I had at Northmire back on to Alcatraz. There’s no point staying at the farm any longer, not when Julia’s returning
to Ely.
‘No. Flora has a ballet lesson.’
There’s a thread of sadness to her voice and I’d like to think it’s because she doesn’t have time to come inside. But of course it’s because there’s no progress with David’s case and her mother’s in hospital and one of her students has been battered into silence.
‘I understand,’ I say, not even beginning to. ‘Send the kids my love.’
‘I will.’ Julia turns to walk back to her car at the junction. ‘Did David say anything? How is he?’
‘We made a good start,’ I reply vaguely. I could end it all for her, with one sentence – Grace Covatta is pregnant with David’s baby – but I haven’t even digested the news myself yet. ‘I need to see the coroner’s report and the police are waiting for DNA samples to come back from the lab. Don’t worry,’ I tell her, meaning the opposite. ‘The evidence is largely circumstantial. I’m shocked he was even charged.’ I smile, offering a little warmth for her shaking body. ‘And he’s bearing up well. He’s eating and sleeping. He sends . . . he says hi,’ I add.
Julia nods appreciatively, her lips tight. ‘Will you be in for dinner?’ she asks, and I wonder why. Then I realise she still thinks I’m staying at the farm.
‘No.’ I smile, enjoying the flash of irony. ‘I’ve gone and left you.’
Julia finally walks on, shaking her head, trying to figure out how you can leave someone who was never there in the first place.
MARY
I remember the sun on my back as we walked, his warm hand settled there too – fingers spreading like molten lust between my shoulder blades. He commented on my back, saying it was the prettiest he’d ever seen. That I had good muscle tone, and he even named them all, his finger tracing their striated path. Even these days, with my back hunched and my skin sallow, I can still feel his touch as he delved between my bones.
