Living in the Shadows

by Judith Barrow

  Chapter 83: Richard Schormann

  Ashford: Saturday, October 25th

  Richard didn’t want Karen to touch him. If she did he’d begin crying again.

  So she’d wrapped her arms around her knees, her feet up on the seat of the bench, waiting for the harsh, painful gulps to end. And he was grateful for that.

  The park was empty. The canoes, their paint faded and flaking, lay sideways on the grass. Under the surface of the grey water of the lake he could see a random pattern of trailing weeds.

  He blew his nose, embarrassed that she’d been a witness to his breakdown. ‘I’m sorry.’ He dropped his head, looked sideways at her.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’ve tried so hard not to cry in front of Mum. After that first time, you know? She’s being so strong.’

  Karen nodded, her chin on her knees.

  Her silent understanding was comforting.

  ‘I watched her face when we went to see Dad. It was like…’ He stopped, thinking about the moment when they’d stood next to the trolley his father lay on. ‘It was like something in her had died as well. There was no movement in her face, in her eyes. She was so still.’ The tears came again. He drew in air. ‘And then she just went down – she collapsed. So quickly we couldn’t catch her.’ He held his palms over his face. ‘She wasn’t hurt, but it was ages before she came round properly. I think she just didn’t want to. I heard her tell Auntie Ellen last night that it was like if she didn’t open her eyes it would all go away.’

  Karen shuffled across the bench to him and rested her hand on his leg.

  ‘It’s the thought of them having to do a post-mortem that’s getting to me.’

  She winced.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  He was so glad she was with him. He hadn’t told her about the guilt he’d carried around. Settling down at the university, finding his way around the myriad of seminar and classrooms and sorting out his lectures, timetable, room had taken up so much of his time over the last week. And when he did stop his mind had been so full of worry about George Shuttleworth that not once had he wondered how his parents were. As always he’d taken them for granted, even knowing about his father’s ill-health.

  He put his arm around her. ‘We’re going back to Wales as soon as it’s done and we can take him home. I’ve been given a fortnight’s compassionate leave from the university. I want you to come with me…’ He felt her nod. ‘I don’t want you here, on your own,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you here with Shuttleworth around.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll come near.’

  ‘I’d rather not take the chance.’

  A black-and-white terrier ran past them. They watched it disappear into some bushes, yelping loudly, and then back out, crouched down on its front legs. Seconds later, a cat shot out and ran straight up a nearby tree. The dog danced around at the base of the tree, barking.

  A large man ran towards them, red-faced and panting. ‘Bloody stupid mutt,’ he gasped, fastening its lead and dragging it to the bench so he could sit down. Richard saw his face change when he looked at him. ‘Sorry, mate,’ the man said, ‘am I in the way?’

  Richard managed a smile, ‘It’s okay. We have to be going anyway.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ The man grinned, ‘Welsh? And summat else?’ He stopped, as though noticing for the first time the hearing aids and looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  It was a reaction Richard was used to and, right now, didn’t need. It was a reminder of the hurdle he would need to get over each time he met someone new – that he’d always be seen as someone to be pitied. He clenched his jaw; he would never quite fill his father’s shoes. Stupid, he knew, but he’d lived with the thought for so long it was automatic. And now his dad wasn’t here anymore to reassure him, to brush his worries away. To say, ‘We stand in our own shoes, son. Life, it is what we make of it.’ As he had said so many times in the past.

  Richard fought down a sob. ‘Have to go,’ he said.

  Walking back to Henshaw Street, he linked fingers with Karen.

  She swung around, walking backwards in front of him. ‘I’ll go in and ask at college tomorrow, cariad,’ she said.

  The Welsh endearment brought a small smile to his lips. He pulled her to him. Ignoring the people who passed by, they kissed.

  ‘Mmm,’ Richards gave her a hug and a quick last kiss on the nose and leaned back, gazing into her eyes. She smiled but he saw the apprehension in her eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘University?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I should apply to one of the Welsh universities and an affiliation to Pont-y-Haven hospital. It’s what Dad wanted.’

  ‘Your dad accepted you going to Manchester.’

  ‘I know. But now…’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘With Mum. She’s only got me.’

  ‘And your sister,’ Karen reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, well. Who knows what Vicky’s going to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think, when it’s all over,’ she smoothed his hair back from his face and gave him another kiss, ‘you need to talk to your mum. From the few times I’ve seen her, I think she’ll want you to do what you want.’

  Chapter 84: Nelly Shuttleworth

  Ashford: Monday, November 3rd

  ‘I wondered when you’d finally show your face again.’ Nelly wrapped her fingers over her ample stomach and tried to quell the panic that lurked inside her. ‘Walking in without a by-your-leave.’

  George’s squat frame blocked out the light from the back yard. She couldn’t see his face, and the stillness of him unnerved her. Yet still she waited for him to speak, determined not to show her fear. Deliberately she steadied her breathing, taking in long slow breaths that crackled in her chest.

  The fire that Linda had lit earlier had subsided into glowing coals that warmed the left side of Nelly’s body but did nothing to light up the room. The back of the kitchen was in shadow. And now, with the back door open and letting in the coolness of the evening air, she was rapidly becoming chilled.

  ‘In or out,’ she said, ‘but either way put the wood in th’ole.’

  He didn’t close the door but pushed at it with his foot and moved further into the kitchen.

  A click of his lighter as he put the flame to the cigarette in his mouth revealed the face of the son she hadn’t seen for the last twenty-odd years. A face she’d hoped never to see again. Even in those few seconds, she was able to study him. Underneath the fleshy jowls, the heady-lidded eyes, the purple criss-cross of veins on his cheeks and across his nose she still recognised the son she’d pushed out of the house that day long ago, and then she saw the half-moon scar, white now, almost faded, the slightly crooked top lip.

  The cigarette-end flared as he took a long drag on it. When he spoke it was through a trail of smoke.

  ‘So, Mother, even after all these years you still haven’t had the decency to croak.’

  His words chilled Nelly. She realised how vulnerable she was. And she had no illusions about him; he’d as likely kill her as look at her, of that she was sure. ‘What do you want?’ She held tightly to the arms of the chair, moved her feet so that they were flat on the floor. If necessary she would launch herself at him. The thought vanished as quickly as it came. There was no way she could move that quickly.

  ‘Thought you might have cocked your toes up by now, like that bastard Kraut.’

  Nelly waited.

  ‘Thought I’d call in the Crown on my way ’ere; heard the good news there. Must say the place’s gone downhill since I were in there last. Stan Green must be turning in his grave. Heard the soddin’ Jerry just keeled over … heart attack was it?’ He clutched his chest, staggered on the spot, grinning. ‘Good fuckin’ riddance. I thought you would’ve had the decency to drop off your perch. I thought you wouldn’t be able to stick your neb into my business anymore.’

  He
dropped the cigarette onto the kitchen carpet and ground it out with the heel of his boot. If he expected a response from her she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. ‘Looks like I was wrong.’ He moved his forefinger along the side of his nose.

  She didn’t flinch when he came nearer, stood over her. But her heart was jumping in her chest.

  ‘I think you know why I’m here, Mother.’ He circled her chair until he was behind her. ‘You know too much, and a little bird tells me you’re about to spill the beans.’ He leaned on the back of her chair until his mouth was close to her ear. When he turned his head and took another drag on his cigarette and blew smoke out, it enveloped her.

  She choked and coughed, her chest tightening. The panic made her shake. She grabbed the arms of the chair and tried to stand.

  He pressed his hands on her shoulders, held her down.

  ‘Get off, you bugger.’

  But he didn’t let go. ‘After all this time, I didn’t think you’d be a problem,’ he whispered. ‘I was wrong. So I realised I’d ’ave to do summat about you after all.’

  The cushion was over her face before she realised what was happening. She tried to free herself but he’d folded his arms across it and was forcing her against the back of the chair. His head, bone to bone on hers, hard, hurting.

  Her breath was hot on her cheeks and mouth as she strained through the crackle and wheeze of her chest to get air in and out of her lungs, past her top set of teeth which had fallen from her gums. The blood coursed, throbbing, through the innermost parts of her ears: a rhythmic whooshing, like waves breaking on a shore. It was almost comforting. And then there was silence, and the black pressure on her eyelids became a blinding lightness that hurt.

  Until it was easier to give up.

  Chapter 85: Linda Booth

  Ashford: Monday, November 3rd

  ‘It’s only me, Gran.’ Linda burst through the back door. ‘We’re going in an hour. Just wanted to make sure you were okay… ’

  There was a second, Linda told Ted afterwards, when she could have acted differently. A brief moment when she could have run back out into the yard and yelled for one of the neighbours. Over the years more and more Asians had moved into the houses around Nelly, until she was the only white woman on Barnes Street and she’d happily welcomed them. In turn they had adopted her as a grandmother figure to be cherished and admired for her colloquial wisdom. Linda knew that at least half a dozen of them would have come running to help.

  Instead, she launched herself at George Shuttleworth and clung onto his back as he twisted one way and another trying to dislodge her, ramming her into the wall, the sideboard, the table. And, all the time, through her gasps and the stabbing hot pains in her back and legs she was aware of the awful sounds of Nelly heaving for breath.

  It happened too fast for Linda to question her actions. Her instinct kept her clinging in tandem with him as he lunged around the kitchen. Until he kicked open the cellar door and, with one violent thrust, hurled her into the darkness.

  There were six stone steps. Linda knew that, because it was where Nelly kept her tins of food, on a stone slab attached to the wall. She knew that because she’d never been as far as the flags at the bottom. She knew that because, by keeping the door open with her foot, while putting Nelly’s shopping on that shelf, she’d placed it in the safe light of day.

  But now the cellar door had been slammed shut and she was on the flagged floor. In the darkness. And she hated the dark. And everything seemed to hurt. She felt the ground around her and touched some material, harsh and prickly. A vague fear, an unwanted recollection of something from the past, made her rapidly pull her hand back.

  She listened, struggling to control the scream that wanted to burst out of her. She was so frightened her body wouldn’t respond, even though she pushed with the flat of her hands against the ground in an effort to stand. Unable to move she tilted her head to one side, holding her breath until it burned in her chest, and listened.

  At first there was nothing. And then a gritty scraping of footsteps. She counted. Six heavy slow deliberate footsteps. Her stomach jerked. And the scream burst out, ricocheting around her head.

  Then there was no more breath left and the scream died away. She licked her lips, the tears salty on her tongue.

  ‘Well, well.’ Suddenly George Shuttleworth was kneeling down next to her. ‘Here’s a bonus I didn’t expect.’

  Linda hit out at him, felt the crunch as her hand connected with his nose.

  She didn’t see his fist coming out of the darkness. The first blow knocked her head sideways. The second back the other way. Her teeth jarred in her mouth. She tasted the blood as she floated into oblivion.

  At that moment she remembered the baby. The beginnings of life she had to protect.

  With a great heave she pushed at him, rolled away from the stink of him and scuttled backwards. All at once she had a memory of a frightened little girl doing exactly the same thing. The rage in her was welcome and when her shoulder-blades touched the wall she used the momentum to stand. Her outstretched arms knocked something cold and it rocked, making a hollow echo. Fumbling around, her fingers touched what seemed to be a handle, then another.

  Straining her eyes into the darkness she thought he was standing now, moving towards her. His breathing was low. He gave a stifled cough.

  Linda felt around with both hands. In between the two handles there was a cold ribbed surface. It was Nelly’s old rubbing-board in her washtub, the one she’d used years ago when she’d started taking in people’s washing.

  Now he was so close she could smell the beer and cigarettes on him.

  She gripped each handle, swiftly lifted the board from the tub and held it above her head as his hand touched her neck, slid lower to cup her breast.

  ‘So,’ he muttered, ‘here we are.’

  She brought the board down as hard as she could.

  He gave a loud grunt and slumped, holding on to her blouse in his effort to stay upright. It ripped, the buttons flying off in all directions, and she fell forwards with his weight until she was kneeling on him. Sobbing, she threw the board to one side and scrambled away into the darkness, crouching down and swinging her arms in front of her, feeling for a wall, anything that was solid. She stumbled over the tub and it rolled away, metal echoing in the emptiness, gasping as her legs touched the coarse bristly material she’d felt before, registering vaguely that, of course, it was the pile of old army blankets that Nelly had squirrelled away years ago.

  George Shuttleworth groaned. Linda screamed, dropped to her hands and knees, feverishly feeling for the steps. She heard the rustle of his clothes as he moved, felt his touch on her foot and she screamed again.

  Light poured down from the cellar door as it opened.

  Afterwards, Nelly couldn’t remember what she’d done. She knew she’d seen Linda, battered and bloodied. She knew there was someone holding her granddaughter on the ground. She didn’t have any memory of going down the cellar steps; she hadn’t been able to go down there for years. Neither did she realise she had the bread-knife in her hand.

  For one fleeting moment, she recognised her son.

  Chapter 86: Mary Schormann

  Ashford: Monday, November 3rd

  ‘Nelly? It’s Mary.’

  There was no answering shout. Mary peered through the pitted brass letterbox one last time, then straightened up, letting go of the flap. She tried one more time, banging on the knocker before going to the old bay window and cupping her hands around her face to look in.

  A group of Asian children had gathered in curiosity around the Hillman Minx. One, an older boy of about thirteen, bounced a ball on the ground, skilfully balancing it on his foot every now and then.

  ‘You okay, missus?’ he called. ‘Missus Nelly okay?’

  Mary barely glanced at him. She didn’t answer. ‘I’m going round the back,’ she said to Ted, who stood by the driver’s door. ‘Linda’s probably just lost track of the
time.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘No.’ Mary looked at the children, who were surrounding the car, touching the mirrors, rubbing their sleeves along the bonnet. She didn’t want one of them damaging Peter’s car. ‘You stay here, I won’t be a minute.’ She hid her uneasiness about the silence from inside the house. ‘They’re probably chatting in the back.’

  She needn’t have worried about the car, because the children followed her along the back lane at the back of the houses. At the gate of number four she felt over the top for the bolt. It was already slid back.

  She crossed the yard. ‘Nelly? Linda? It’s me, Mary. Linda, we’ll have to get a move on if we want to get to Llamroth before dark.’ Oh, how she needed to be home. How she equally dreaded being there without Peter.

  For a moment the vision of Peter’s body being loaded onto a hearse to be driven to Llamroth flashed through her mind. She blocked it out. Don’t think. Don’t think.

  At the back door, Mary hesitated, her skin prickled; there was something wrong, it was too quiet. ‘Nelly? Are you there?’ She glanced back at the open gate. The children were crowded around, the tallest lad was peering over their heads. For a moment Mary and he had eye-contact and then he looked back along the lane.

  ‘I’ll get someone,’ he said.

  Mary gave a brief nod then stepped inside the kitchen.

  ‘Nelly?’

  She listened. Nothing. She crossed to go to the stairs but something was wrong in the room. She looked around. That was it: the cellar door was open. The prickle on her skin increased. She walked slowly towards it.

  It was too dark. At first she couldn’t see anything beyond the first three steps. Then her vision cleared and she saw them. The scream stuck in her throat. She grabbed the door-frame. ‘Linda? Nelly?’ Her voice came out as a croak. There was someone else there, lying half under Nelly, but couldn’t make the figure out.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  The voice behind her made Mary jump. She fell against the wall, turning away from the cellar. Two Asian men stood in the middle of the kitchen. By the back door were three women in saris. One of them was holding back the crowd of children.