by Maggie James
But then, he reflects, he doesn’t want a woman who’s with him because he’s a convicted child killer but one who’ll love him because he’s worthy of the emotion, and at that point he abandons his self-pretence. Because he’s not lovable, not at all, as his mother has demonstrated so decisively.
Natalie and her penchant for snooping. He sighs. Tony Jackson will go ballistic if he ever finds out Mark didn’t inform him immediately of the breach of his identity. One that might unleash vigilante action against him if the public find out one of Abby Morgan’s killers is sheltering amongst them. Thugs who like nothing better than an excuse to release their ever-ready aggression are as common as skid marks in a crapper.
Thing is, Mark doesn’t believe Natalie will reveal to anyone what she’s discovered. Admit she’s been dating a convicted child killer? Nope. Not going to happen. Besides, Natalie’s from a solid lower middle-class background. Odds are she has no connections to the kind of thug who’d like nothing better than to dispense him a dose of his own medicine.
Anyway, the part of Mark that yearns for stability, routine, shies fiercely away from what admitting the breach will entail. A fresh identity, a new life, the idea of which holds little attraction. Hell, he’s taken four years to establish what he has now; a stable job, the respect of his boss and colleagues, his home, shabby and cramped though his flat is. The notion of starting again, with a different workplace, a new controlling officer, holds the same appeal as a shit sandwich for Mark.
No. Better by far to accept he’s blown it with Natalie Richards, and pray he’s right in his assumption she’ll keep quiet about him being Joshua Barker.
He reaches across to let out some of the now tepid water, turning on the hot tap full blast to top it up and adding another slug of lemon bath gel. Once it’s replenished, he slides back into the soothing heat, inhaling the sharp citrus scent.
Something’s been nagging in his head since he got back to his flat. Now, with the tension starting to drain away, it comes back to him. The date. Today is March 12, which means the fourteenth anniversary of Abby Morgan’s murder is a mere nine days away. A fact that’s been chewing Mark up in recent weeks, the date always raw and painful for him. What with all the drama yesterday with the letter, it slipped temporarily into his subconscious and has now resurfaced, ugly and mocking, to taunt him. Somehow, with Natalie’s rejection still smarting, it seems worse this time around. So many years have passed and yet the horror remains as keen, as fresh, in his mind as ever.
Mark’s mind travels back to Abby Morgan’s murder. More specifically, March 21, the date when she died. Whilst he’s serving his detention, he’s unaware of the annual vigil that takes place at the scene of her murder. Then he’s released at the age of twenty-one, with a raft of restrictions governing his life and behaviour. When March 21 next rolls around, Mark’s antsy all day, his memories making him uncharacteristically restless. He’s in his flat after work, the small television in one corner his connection to world events. He turns it on and settles down to watch the news, his mind elsewhere. His hands shovel his pie and chips from the local takeaway into his mouth. Mark’s busy savouring the meaty filling, the greasy pastry, the tang of the salt and vinegar. Then his fork stalls and clatters back onto the plate, scattering ketchup and chips across the table.
Abby Morgan’s name is the catalyst. On the television, Michelle Morgan spouts forth her tirade against her daughter’s killers, and Mark becomes aware for the first time of the annual vigil. Michelle’s fiery rhetoric tortures him. Forbidden though it is, Mark’s drawn by a desperate need to revisit the small market town on the edge of Dartmoor where Abby Morgan died.
Once the idea takes hold, he finds achieving it straightforward. His meetings with Tony Jackson are currently weekly, due to his recent discharge from prison, but so far Mark’s been compliant enough not to arouse any suspicion in the man. He’s holding down a steady job, he’s not got into any trouble, and the police can’t monitor him twenty-four hours a day.
Moretonhampstead is an easy drive from Bristol, motorway most of the journey. Mark’s there shortly before lunchtime, having taken a day’s leave from work. It’s a weekday, with the March weather being chilly and unpredictable, meaning few tourists have chosen to visit. Certainly nobody who’ll notice or care about him. He’s nervous, though. The obsessive rituals begin the minute he gets out of his car. One, two, buckle my shoe. Mark walks through the town, counting all the way, turning his head away as his route takes him past Abby Morgan’s house. An unavoidable hurdle; Abby’s murder takes place on farmland on the outskirts of Moretonhampstead, and the public right of way he and Adam Campbell use the day she dies lies immediately past her childhood home. Three, four, knock at the door. Michelle Morgan might still live there and even though he doubts she’d recognise Joshua Barker in the face of Mark Slater, the notion of encountering the woman is unendurable.
Mark winds his way down the narrow path, up through the field at the bottom, before turning right towards the scene of Abby’s death. Disappointment floods him at the sense of nothingness he experiences. He’s not sure what he hoped to gain from coming here, but with the farm building demolished, it’s just an ordinary field, the trees on its edge simply trees, the hedges commonplace, the grass unremarkable. Silence surrounds Mark apart from the occasional crow squawk; the cold March wind whips up his hair as he surveys the spot where the old wooden building once stood. Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty. No hint of the blood, terror or screams of Abby Morgan lingers in the air and Mark leaves after a mere quarter of an hour.
Throughout the ensuing years, the urge to return never repeats itself. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t find it in Moretonhampstead.
Ever since Abby Morgan’s death, Mark’s been searching for answers. Atonement, to be precise. The word best describing what he’s been striving for all this time. Hell, not surprising really. A child died because he was too weak to protect her. Sure, he’s already spent ten years in the lock-up, but Michelle Morgan’s right. A decade’s insufficient punishment for a child’s death. Mark has no idea how to achieve atonement, though, despite the familiarity he’s gained with the YouTube videos of the vigil. How can he give Michelle the justice she’s been denied? Wipe the unhappiness from Rachel’s expression? Find out what emotions Shaun experiences behind his impassive façade? Discover why Abby’s father is always absent from the vigil?
Now March 21 is a mere nine days away, and Mark acknowledges his urge for atonement will only intensify during the countdown, particularly if he encounters any more incarnations of Abby. He’s exhausted by trying to sort his complex emotions into some kind of order; from now on, a different approach seems required.
Mark abruptly realises what’s needed.
This year, he’ll attend the vigil.
An insane idea, of course. Completely forbidden; he’ll be breaking two of his parole rules. He shouldn’t even contemplate going to where Abby Morgan died, let alone risk locking eyes with Michelle Morgan. Mark’s growing ever more desperate in his quest to secure release from his guilt, though. His usual practice of watching the vigil at home then making a donation to a local children’s charity hasn’t provided the relief he seeks. A need to delve deeper into the Morgan family tortures him. The insane idea that’s grasping him tight has to be worth a shot. Perhaps he’ll understand more if he’s back in that field in person, hearing Michelle Morgan’s wrath first-hand, instead of experiencing the vigil via his television.
It’ll be easy enough to attend, like when he visited Moretonhampstead before. He’ll either take the day off, or bunk off sick, and memories of Adam and him skipping school, the way they frequently did, wash over him with bittersweet irony. The vigil will start at four o’clock, the time of Abby’s death; Mark reckons he can leave straight after lunch and be back by mid-evening. He has the advantage, of course, that nobody will recognise him as the eleven-year-old complicit in the murder. At the time, photographs of the two boys were widely published
and their names openly broadcast, hence the need for new identities on their release. The public has no idea, though, of how Joshua Barker has morphed into the adult Mark Slater, swapping the childish features of the boy for the fully-formed ones of the man. He can lock eyes with Michelle Morgan without her ever knowing one of the objects of her tirade is anywhere near her. He’ll stand well back from any television cameras, pretend to be an interested onlooker and blend in. As for clothing, he’ll wear something nondescript, a jacket with a hood he can pull over his face. Once the vigil starts, he’ll do his best to get a grasp of how he’s shattered this family’s lives and perhaps he’ll understand how to atone for his misdeeds. If that’s even possible.
Back in the present moment, Mark pulls the plug from his bath, draining out water that’s now cold, and then stands up. He has nine days in which to change his mind. He won’t, though. Some resolution has to occur, otherwise in ten, fifteen, twenty years’ time Michelle Morgan will still be spouting forth how he’s not been punished enough. Besides, now he’s got the idea, the compulsion is too strong to resist.
Mark dries himself off, pulls on fresh clothes and goes into the kitchenette to make coffee. Decision made, the tension of the day recedes a little, although it returns when Natalie comes to mind. He can’t picture a satisfactory conclusion where she’s concerned; she’ll be happier without him. Like your mother, I never want to see you again. I’m not surprised she rejected you. Her words burn like acid.
7
GIVE ME A CALL
Nearly three o’clock on the afternoon of March 21. Mark’s sitting in a coffee shop in Moretonhampstead, downing an espresso to calm his nerves; he’ll set off towards the scene of the vigil in about half an hour. Plenty of time yet. As usual, he’s arrived early, punctuality being another one of his compulsions. He sips the thick brew, savouring its taste, desperate for the caffeine jolt it delivers. The weak March sunshine filters in through the window, highlighting dust motes floating through the air as Mark stares through the glass.
Thankfully, no blonde female toddlers pass by. A man, probably mid-twenties, crosses the road in front of the coffee shop and Mark studies him. Something familiar about the guy, the self-assurance of his gait bordering on a swagger, triggers a distant memory, although Mark can’t place where he might have seen him before. Ah, he’s got it. The man’s confident stride reminds him how Adam Campbell used to strut around as though he owned the world, oozing supreme self-confidence with every step. Mark can do without the reminder on today of all days, thank you very much, and he forces his gaze away, back to his now empty coffee cup, purging the memory of the other boy from his mind. Today is about Abby Morgan, not Adam Campbell.
He leaves the coffee shop and steps out into the pale March sunshine, heading towards the edge of town, not far from the A382. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the scene of the vigil; the route is burned onto his memory. To do so necessitates walking past Abby Morgan’s house again; Mark averts his gaze and picks up his pace, but it’s not enough to stop his heart from squeezing his lungs so he can’t breathe. He stops, head down, gasping, at the top of the lane leading to the field where the vigil will take place. As always, Mark takes comfort in numbers, counting slowly upwards in his head, allowing the soothing digits to melt the iron fist constricting his breath. One, two. Eventually he’s able to carry on, continuing down the lane and across the field to reach the site of the vigil.
It’s ten minutes to four now, and from what he can see, very few people are attending this year. Most appear to be general onlookers, along with a press photographer and a television crew. Mark has deliberately dressed down, in nondescript clothing, with a hood over his head; he doesn’t think anyone will notice him, though, despite the lack of attendees. Just another curious bystander.
He positions himself behind the camera crew. To his right, the man he spotted from the cafe window is standing near the press photographer, stamping from one leg to the other, seemingly impatient. Like all of them here, they’re waiting for the Morgan family to arrive. Mark wonders if Matthew Morgan will attend this year, assuming he’s still alive, or whether it’ll be the usual trio of Michelle, Shaun and Rachel.
It’s a cold March day, despite the sunshine, and Mark shuffles from side to side, hands in his pockets, in an attempt to generate heat. He promises himself a pint and a pub meal on the way back to warm up, regretting not choosing a thicker sweatshirt under his jacket. He doesn’t have to wait long, however. After a few minutes, he’s aware of more noise, and people talking, and dragging his gaze from the ground, he watches as Michelle, Shaun and Rachel arrive.
It’s one hell of a shock for Mark to see them in person, and panic washes over him again. His chest constricts as the familiar counting starts in his head. Breathe, he tells himself. One, two. Having Abby Morgan’s family in front of him is ten times more intimidating than viewing them on screen from the safety of his sofa. He’s seen Michelle Morgan in the flesh before, of course; she appears in the courtroom every day of his trial. He remembers the way she stares at Jon Campbell, Adam’s father, a gaze some might interpret as accusatory. A challenge to the man whose son killed her daughter, demanding what kind of a parent he thinks he is. Difficult for her to do the same with Joanna Barker, given how his mother attends the trial only when compelled to give evidence.
Mark forces his gaze back to the scenario in front of him. Michelle takes up her usual position behind the microphone, Shaun to her left, with Rachel next to him, nearest to Mark. He uses the opportunity to get a better look at Abby’s sister. She’s petite, slim, almost doll-like, an image strengthened by her very fair skin and long red hair. Pretty, he thinks, although redheads aren’t to his taste. Glancing across to Michelle’s coppery hair, he can see from where Rachel’s inherited her colouring. She keeps tugging the sleeves of her jacket down, the gesture nervous, slightly panicky. As usual, her expression is tense, unhappy. She’s not someone, Mark decides, who anyone would ever look at and pronounce: she’s got a lot of confidence.
He switches his attention to Shaun Morgan. A tall guy, probably a tad over six feet, athletic in build. He hasn’t inherited the family tendency to reddish hair, his being more light brown in shade, and cropped short. Probably late twenties. Overall, he appears a more relaxed, confident individual than Rachel. Mark watches as Shaun turns to his sister, putting an arm around her to give her a quick squeeze. She looks up at him, her smile fleeting, before glancing away again.
Something about the dynamics of the Morgan family strikes Mark forcefully; a nuance he’s never noticed when watching them on television. Now, here in this field, with the three of them in front of him, he realises they always stand the same way. First Michelle, then Shaun on her left, with Rachel next to him.
Not once has Rachel ever stood next to her mother.
Now he thinks about it, Mark can’t remember the two of them even looking at each other, much less speaking.
Michelle Morgan begins her speech. She’s piled on weight over the years, Mark thinks, but still squeezes herself into tight clothes; perhaps she’s a comfort eater like Natalie. The crow’s feet at the sides of her eyes gouge deeply into her face, as do the lines carved between her nose and mouth. Mark catches a glimpse of yellowing teeth. Probably a heavy smoker. Some of her premature ageing will be down to the cigarettes, he reckons, but he wonders with a guilty stab of conscience how much is down to her unresolved anger at him and Adam Campbell.
‘We are here today, as we have been every year since her death, to remember and mark the appalling murder of my daughter, Abigail Louise Morgan,’ Michelle says, the same as Mark remembers her doing in previous years. He can predict what will come next; her speech never changes much. After all, what can she say that’s new?
‘Fourteen years ago, my child was lured away from the garden of my house by her murderers, Joshua Barker and Adam Campbell. Two eleven-year-olds, young in years, but both imbued with an evil beyond their age,’ she says. ‘They took her to thi
s spot and brutally murdered her for their own gratification. A senseless and inexplicable act.’ She recites the facts of the murder with steel shot through her expression; it’s not just her crow’s feet that are deepening, Mark thinks, but her hatred of her daughter’s killers as well.
‘They knew exactly what they were doing.’ Michelle Morgan’s voice hardens. Rachel shuffles her feet, and Shaun gives her shoulder another quick squeeze. ‘They served just ten years for the death of my daughter. Nothing will convince me that’s a fair punishment for what they did. They robbed Abigail of her life and they should have paid with spending the rest of theirs in jail. Imprisonment without hope of parole would have been a fitting retribution, not the leniency with which they have been treated.’
Heads nod in the crowd around Mark, amid mutterings of assent. The effect on him of seeing Michelle Morgan in the flesh is powerful, compelling, and the guilt he’s always carried twists within him into agreement. At least where Adam Campbell is concerned. In his own case, he doesn’t consider himself able to judge, but he’s inclined to think Abby’s mother has a point. He’s guilty by association and by weakness of character, and both crimes deserve punishment beyond ten years’ detention and the loss of his mother.
As Mark shifts his gaze away from Michelle, he spots the man he saw crossing the street earlier, staring at him. Their eyes lock into place for a few seconds, with Mark processing what he sees. The man is much taller than Mark, six feet four at least, stockier too; he’s similarly dressed in a dark-coloured jacket with the hood pulled around his face, giving no hint of the colour of his hair. Without warning, the iron hand squeezes Mark’s lungs again.
