by Maggie James
He might have got it wrong, of course, and the man isn’t Adam Campbell; it’s a big stretch from an eleven-year-old boy to a twenty-five-year-old man. Puberty wreaks havoc on childhood looks, after all. Intuition and the familiar arrogance behind the other man’s gaze tell him he’s right, though. No need to see his hair to know that it’s dark, almost black, although the stubble on the man’s face gives that fact away anyway. The knowledge is imparted through the flash of recognition Mark gets, like a jolt from a cattle prod, as the two men study each other.
The other man grins at Mark. A grin saying: It’s been fourteen years.
Adam Campbell. How the fuck did he not recognise him before? Shit, hot and holy shit. He never thought it would happen, but he’s sharing air space with the murderer of Abby Morgan.
In doing so, Mark breaks another of the terms of his release. The last thing on his mind right now, though, is sticking to the letter of the law. He forces his gaze away from the other man, annoyed at himself for breaking eye contact first yet relieved at avoiding the laser beam of Adam’s scrutiny. Breathe, he reminds himself, determined to regain control over his lungs. Fourteen years haven’t changed anything; he’s affected by Adam Campbell as strongly today as when he was eleven.
No way can Mark risk walking over to speak to him; he’s not sure he’s got the balls for that anyway. They’ll be overheard, or at the very least noticed, and Mark doesn’t dare doing anything to draw attention to either one of them. Something inside him needs to make contact, though, however forbidden and dangerous it is. He’s bound to this man for life through what happened. Now they’ve seen each other again, Mark’s desperate to find out what’s brought Adam here today, whether it’s the same desire to atone, to offer retribution to the Morgan family. Has the leopard changed its spots? Does Adam Campbell still harbour the same dark, aggressive urges, or has time sanded off his rough edges?
Mark doesn’t have many options for making contact. Sure, he can wait until after the vigil finishes, strike up a conversation with Adam when fewer people are around, but he’s too rattled to deal effectively with a one-on-one meeting. Not yet, anyway, not when he’s still jittery from the collective effect of the Morgans. Something more low-key is required. He fishes in the inside pocket of his jacket, finding a pen and the till receipt from the petrol he bought on the way here. After scribbling his mobile number on the back of the receipt, he moves towards Adam, whose attention is now with Michelle Morgan, until he’s behind him. In one swift movement, he slips the receipt into Adam’s jacket pocket. As he does so, Adam moves his arm, so that Mark’s fingers brush for a second against the skin on the other man’s wrist. Their first physical contact in fourteen years, and it’s electric, despite its brevity.
His breath coming more easily now, Mark strides back to his original vantage point. From the corner of his eye, he sees Adam withdraw the petrol receipt from his pocket.
Michelle Morgan finishes her speech. Adam nods briefly in Mark’s direction and again he experiences a jolt of – what, exactly? Fear, definitely. Possibly anticipation, too. Then Adam moves away from the crowd to head off towards Moretonhampstead. Mark stays where he is, relief flooding him at his nemesis’s departure. Michelle Morgan steps back from the microphone. Each year, she lights a candle in memory of her daughter, kneeling in silent contemplation on the spot where her child’s bloodied body was discovered. She busies herself with the lighter, shielding it from the March breeze, whilst Shaun holds a small glass lantern ready to house the candle. Rachel stands, hesitant and unsure, behind her mother’s turned back. Then she tugs up the zipper on her jacket. With a few words to Shaun, none to Michelle, she peels away and starts to walk towards the town; she won’t be joining her mother and brother this year for the candlelit session, it seems.
Around Mark, the sounds of people leaving filter through to him. Time for him to leave too. He follows Rachel, not intentionally, but because his car’s parked back in Moretonhampstead. Thank God Adam’s had enough of a head start to put him well in front of them; he’s nowhere in sight. For someone with short legs, Rachel Morgan walks fast, as though eager to place distance between her and the scene of her sister’s murder. Or between her and her mother.
She’s now about a hundred yards ahead of Mark. She’s so small, he thinks, liking the way her red hair swings in its ponytail as she moves. Swish, swish, from side to side; the only thing about her so far that seems in any way decisive. Unease seeps through Mark as he follows her. The terms of his release hammer through his head; he shouldn’t be this near to her, although what’s actually forbidden is any contact between them. What they’re doing here isn’t technically contact, though. It’s not as if he has any intention of approaching her or striking up a conversation. She hasn’t even seen him but Mark still doesn’t think Tony Jackson would take too well to him being so close to Abby Morgan’s sister.
Fuck it. He’s already way over the line by even being here today. Not to mention slipping his phone number into Adam Campbell’s pocket.
Mark keeps Rachel in view whilst questioning the likely result of what he’s done. Is Adam going to call or text him? His palms ooze sweat at the thought. Mark prays life has mellowed the other man. He doesn’t care to contemplate how Adam will be if juvenile detention followed by prison has hardened rather than softened him. The eleven-year-old version in his memory is scary enough. Mark tells himself if things get hairy, if Adam’s as hard a nut as ever, he’ll simply get a new mobile number. Relax, he reminds himself. He doesn’t know where you live.
Mark’s jolted out of his thoughts by the vibration of his mobile in his inside pocket. The anxiety floods back without warning, his heart racing as he pulls out his phone. An unknown number, but it’ll be Adam, of course, making illicit contact, although Mark hasn’t the balls to deal with the other man right now. He thrusts the phone back in his pocket, waiting for the call to go to voicemail. Once the ping comes through telling him he’s got a message, he retrieves his mobile, pressing it against his ear, his gaze still fixed on Rachel’s coppery ponytail.
It’s a shock to hear Adam’s voice, deepened now into a rich baritone. It’s as strong, as commanding, in tone now that it’s broken as it ever was in the pubescent boy. Still capable of sending Mark several steps down the pecking order.
‘Hi.’ A pause. ‘Knew it was you as soon as I saw you. Long time no see, mate. Give me a call.’ Brief, non-committal, not what Mark has been expecting, although the last four words sound more like an order rather than a request. No tangible aggression, though; nothing sufficient to cause the sweat currently dampening Mark’s body. He saves Adam’s number into his contacts list. A simple ‘A’, not Adam, a superstitious worry about their interaction being discovered preventing Mark from entering the full name. Such a measure will be futile if Tony Jackson ever gets wind of all this.
The number safely stored, Mark doesn’t fool himself he’ll resist the urge to call the other man back. It’s a case of when, not if, he contacts Adam, even though Mark’s fully aware of the incredible stupidity of his behaviour. Contact with Adam Campbell has always delivered trouble by the truckload to his door, but it’s as though they’re both eleven again and he’s back to being Joshua Barker, helpless to stand his ground against the more dominant boy. He remembers the note of command in Adam’s tone: Give me a call. Mark will comply, of course. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually.
8
DIRTY LAUNDRY
Rachel’s fast pace has pulled her almost out of Mark’s sight. They’re now back in Moretonhampstead, not far from where he’s parked. He speeds up, unsure why it’s so important he doesn’t lose her. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s because Rachel’s his last link to the reasons he’s here, in a day that’s been pretty weird all round. As well as that, part of him is reluctant to reach his car and drive back to Bristol, alone with his guilt for another year until the next vigil.
She stops to peruse a jeweller’s display, giving Mark a chance to catch up. He hesit
ates, pretending to browse the advertising cards in a nearby newsagent’s window, all the while watching Rachel Morgan from his peripheral vision. He’s unsure what to do, although he’s well aware the smartest thing is to walk straight back to his car. The problem is, he’s drawn to this petite, red-haired woman, who appears more of a girl, what with her being so fragile-looking; he’s not sure why exactly. What might her reaction be, he wonders, if she finds out one of the individuals convicted of killing her sister is a mere twenty yards from her?
She remains absorbed with the jewellery in the shop window, her gaze focused ahead. Mark realises now why he’s followed her, why he’s considering talking to her. It’s because he’s returned here today for answers, but the vigil has thrown up more questions than it has resolved. Mark still knows nothing about the elusive Matthew Morgan. Or what lies behind Shaun’s deadpan expression. And Rachel intrigues him. Her obvious unease during the vigil, for one thing; more than Mark can attribute to the occasion itself. He senses this elfin girl-woman might supply the answers he needs, if he’ll only allow himself to reach out to her.
He makes a deal with himself, his superstitious side taking over. Fate will decide. If she turns her head and sees him before he can count to the number seven, he’ll approach her and find something - anything - to say. If she doesn’t, Mark will cross the road, go to his car and drive away, towards the pub meal he’s promised himself. It’s as good a way to choose as any, he thinks. He starts to count, slowly and steadily, in his head.
One.
Her only movement is to tug her sleeves down over her hands, in the same gesture he saw at the vigil. Her gaze remains fixed on the jeweller’s window.
Two.
A slight shuffle of her feet, but nothing more. Mark’s chest begins its familiar dance with tightness. He breathes in slowly, easing the tension off a little.
Three.
Then she turns her head and it’s towards him. For the first time ever, Rachel Morgan’s eyes rest on one of the two individuals convicted of her sister’s death. They linger no more than a second but it’s enough. Mark’s been given his sign. He turns away from the newsagent’s window and walks towards her, breathing slowly and deeply, completing the count up to seven in his head as he approaches. It’ll be the third time this day he’s broken the terms of his release; he might as well cram in as many sins as he can.
What the hell, he tells himself. As Adam Campbell would say, it’s time for Mark to stop being such a fucking wuss.
‘Excuse me; can you tell me where the nearest cash machine is?’ It’s the first thing Mark can think of. As good as any, he supposes.
She gestures behind him with her arm, swiftly tugging the sleeve of her jacket back into place. ‘There’s a Lloyds down that street.’
‘Thanks.’ She’s turned her face back to the window and he’s desperate to get her attention again. ‘I saw you at the vigil just now. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you and your family.’
As he speaks, the hypocrisy in his words bites at him. Shame floods him for having pestered her in this way; whatever was he thinking? Better to walk away now, leaving her in peace, than continue with this charade. But it’s too late. She turns to face him, her expression reeking with hostility.
‘Are you from the press?’ Her tone is as brusque as her bearing. ‘Because if you are, leave me the hell alone. I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘I’m not a reporter. I don’t work for the papers or television.’ He pulls open his jacket on both sides. ‘See? No camera, no recording device. It’s only in films you see them strapped to someone’s body, you know.’ Hopefully his attempt at humour will reassure her. He inserts his hands in both pockets and brings out nothing except his wallet and car keys. ‘Not even a notebook.’
Thankfully, it works. Her body relaxes.
‘I’m sorry.’ She really is pretty, he thinks, especially with that repentant smile. ‘It’s just that we get loads of reporters round about this time of year, me and my family, and you wouldn’t believe how intrusive they can be. Persistent, too. Usually they target my mum, but Shaun - that’s my brother - and I, we get our fair share of hassle too.’
Her fingers reach out to tug her sleeves down again. Close up, Mark notices her eyes are a pale shade of grape; as for her complexion, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen skin so fair before. She has the typical redhead’s dusting of freckles, a scattering of oatmeal flakes across her nose, and he finds them oddly attractive. The sunshine picks up the sheen on her long, straight hair, highlighting its soft coppery shade, reminding him of his grandmother’s stove-top kettle. It’s as though she’s been washed out, rinsed and wrung dry of any strong colours, although the flash of temper she showed earlier warns him her character may not be as pale as her exterior.
‘I’m sorry if you thought I was hassling you. I really do need to get cash, and what with having seen you and your family at the vigil…’ He shrugs, giving her a small smile. ‘It seemed rude not to mention it, extend my sympathies, that kind of thing.’
She returns the smile, even white teeth winking at him behind her lip-gloss. ‘Thank you. How come you were at the vigil? I don’t recognise you.’
‘I’m down from Bristol on a day trip. Took some time off work, decided I’d head out this way, check out the town. Doesn’t take long to get here, once you’re on the motorway.’ Her eye contact with him is steady; he gets the impression she’s buying his cover story, thank God. ‘I was walking back there when people started arriving and setting up television cameras.’
‘You must have wondered what on earth was going on.’
‘Yes, especially when more people turned up. I asked one of the TV crew what was happening and he told me about the little girl who died, your sister, and the way your family remembers her each year.’ Disgust at his deceptive words smacks Mark in the face but he’s gone too far to stop now. Even though the next sentence is particularly repugnant. ‘I thought I should stay and pay my respects.’
Her reply twists a knife in his gut. ‘That was a kind thing to do. Thank you.’
Time to steer the conversation into safer waters. He’s come here today with questions and here’s Rachel Morgan standing in front of him, a gift horse, and he’s going to take full advantage, however manipulative his behaviour might be. ‘Do you live locally?’
She nods. ‘Yes. Well, not far. My flat’s in Exeter. Shaun, he lives there too, not with me, but close enough. Mum - ’ She shrugs, her expression shuttering. ‘She’s never left our old family home. The one Abby was snatched from, here in Moretonhampstead. We passed it a while back.’
Mark senses he’s been right about Rachel and Michelle Morgan, about what shouts at him during the vigil from their body language. Mother and daughter don’t rub along together too well and he wonders what that stems from. He’s surprised, reasoning that the loss of one daughter should have rendered the other doubly precious to Michelle Morgan, but it obviously hasn’t worked that way. Strange, he thinks, how the woman’s mothering seems focused on the dead rather than the living.
‘She’s never been able to bring herself to leave. She visits the spot where it happened every day.’ Sadness creeps into Rachel’s voice.
Christ, Mark thinks. Only a matter of luck and timing probably prevented him from meeting Michelle Morgan when he visited Moretonhampstead before.
‘What about -’ Breathe, he reminds himself. ‘What about your father?’
‘My dad?’ The sadness extends into Rachel’s expression. ‘He’s down in Taunton now. He didn’t deal well with what happened, you see.’
‘He had a breakdown?’
‘Not exactly.’ She tugs at her sleeves again.
Mark’s unsure how hard or how far to push this. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be prying.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s OK. Not your fault I come from a dysfunctional family.’
Oh, the irony. Joanna Barker pushes her way into Mark’s mind. ‘Aren’t most families a bit screwed
-up?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘You don’t see much of your dad?’
‘No. Booze is all he cares about these days.’
‘He’s an alcoholic?’
‘Pretty much a full-blown one. He’s always been a drinker, but it escalated after Abby was murdered.’ She sighs. ‘Like I said, he’s in Taunton now. I go now and again with Shaun to visit. Years ago, Dad frequently swore he was going to get sober but it never happened. Nowadays, he’s usually so drunk neither of us can talk to him and when we do, he denies having a problem. Like all alcoholics, I suppose.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Such utterly inadequate words. ‘When did all that happen?’
‘Mum kicked him out a couple of years after Abby was murdered.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Ten when she died, twelve when he left.’
‘His drinking got worse after your sister’s death, you said?’
‘Yes. Mum and Dad had endless rows about it and eventually she packed his bags, threw them on the doorstep and changed the locks. He wouldn’t stop yelling outside the house, calling her every vile name you could think of.’ She sounds ashamed at washing such filthy family laundry in public. ‘In the end, she phoned the police. I didn’t see him for several years afterwards.’
No wonder she seems so fragile, this washed-out waif of a woman whose ten-year-old self, still damaged from the loss of her sister, peeks out from time to time from her expression. He should leave, he realises, get back to his car so Rachel can be free of him.
She tugs at her sleeves again. Mark senses she’s withdrawing from him, probably embarrassed. She smiles. ‘Listen to me, rambling on about my weird family. I’ll walk with you to the cash machine. It’s on the way to my car anyway.’ She gestures across the road, and Mark realises they must have chosen the same car park. So the opportunity to walk away is thwarted, at least for now. They head towards the cashpoint.
