by Sue Nicholls
Lucas shot her a glance, but her manner implied no innuendo. Trying not to think about ‘later’, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.
Megan did most of the talking. She had had a potentially frustrating week. On her way to catch a train for a London show, her car broke down. She left it at the curbside and sprinted to the station, where she just missed the train she had planned to catch, then stood on the platform for half an hour because the next two were cancelled. Of course, she was late for the musical, and described watching the remainder of the first half, seated on a carpeted step. Lucas, always committed to deadlines, would have been grumpy after such an experience, but Megan seemed relaxed.
‘What might have happened if I’d been on time? I could have been run over or robbed. I always think whatever happens, it must be for the best.’
Lucas found this idea interesting, and potentially helpful.
Megan nibbled a strand of linguine. ‘This is ready,’ she announced.
They ate bowls of the pasta topped with chicken livers in a brandy, cream and garlic sauce. Megan opened a potent red wine and Lucas drank recklessly, relieved that Megan was not in the least flirtatious. She was, in fact, easy company and he found himself relaxing and laughing. ‘I’ll call a taxi, later,’ he said as she topped up his glass.
‘No need,’ Megan said, ‘You can stay the night,’
‘We’ll see,’ was his cautious response.
They took their coffee into a sitting room as ugly as the kitchen. It was the kind of room that in most houses, would have been knocked into what people called a through room. A long lounge-dining-room that looked out on the front garden at one end and the back garden at the other. Megan’s room, though, was still divided from her dining room by folding doors with frosted glass panes. They must have dated back to the 1970s. One day, they would be called ‘original features’, Sam thought, amused.
‘It’s rented. There doesn’t seem much point in spending money on it. Anyway, who wants to decorate and clean? Life’s too short.’ Megan looked up at Lucas, tarrying by the door. ‘Are you OK, Luc?
In his stomach, his linguini had turned to snakes, but his instinctive trust and liking for this girl gave him courage to tell her something he had never told another person. ‘I am a bit nervous. I don’t wish to be presumptuous, but I feel you are attracted to me.’
She nodded; her face concerned.
‘Well, there’s no point. I…’ He swallowed. ‘I can’t… perform.’
She frowned, and Lucas turned away. ‘I should go.’
Megan reared from her cushions. ‘Lucas. Stop.’ She grabbed his wrist. ‘Whatever’s troubling you, it doesn’t matter. I enjoy being with you - with or without sex.’
He hesitated. It was such a relief to have told his secret to this girl and to feel unjudged, but was she telling the truth? He studied her expression; it seemed sincere.
Loosening her grasp on his wrist Megan put her hand in his and gave his arm a pull. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t worry; I won’t try to seduce you.’ She opened the bi-fold doors and led him into the adjoining room. It was not, as he had supposed, a dining-room. Instead of a dining table, Megan had arranged six upright chairs so that they faced a chest of drawers. On the chest, with its back to the wall, stood a slim, white cupboard with the look of a dart board housing. Arranged around this were a pair of candles, a leafy plant and some other pots.
Megan sat on a chair and pointed to another. ‘Sit.’
Baffled, Lucas lowered himself onto the chair nearest the exit. He watched Megan reach up to the cupboard and pull open its doors. Inside, hanging from the back where the dart board should have been, was a scroll inscribed with oriental characters.
‘This is my Gohonzon.’ Megan looked over her shoulder. ‘I’m a Buddhist, a Nichiren Buddhist. That means I don’t go to any church or temple. This is my altar. I chant to it, to connect to my Buddhahood.’
Lucas smiled nervously, hoping he was not being sucked into some religious group like the Moonies? His doubt must have shown on his face because Megan said, ‘I know it sounds strange but all I can say is that this practice has made a vast difference to my life. One day, if you’re still my friend, which I really hope you will be, I’ll tell you more about it.’
She seemed so sincere that Lucas put away his scepticism and took the small card she offered him and read, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.
‘You say it: Nam Mio Hoe Ren Gay Kio,’ she explained, and he nodded.
‘I chant those words over and over to my Gohonzon, and it helps me through my difficulties.’ Megan reached for his hand. ‘I’m not about to suggest we leap into bed Luc. Relax. I want to be your friend first, but eventually, we will be lovers. I’m sure of it. Don’t worry how; leave that to the Mystic Law of the Universe.’
‘The mystic law?’
‘When I chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, I become aligned to the Universe. I tell the Gohonzon what I desire, and the rest is down to my determination and its power.’ She gestured at the printed paper in the cupboard, ‘I also tell it what’s worrying or upsetting me, and my inner Buddha reveals the reason for my pain and the best solution.’
It all sounded so implausible, but as she spoke, Megan’s eyes sparkled with what he could only describe as pure joy. So, what if it was rubbish, he had nothing to lose by going along with it for the time being. He was certainly in need of a little help.
Later, on the sofa, Megan lifted Lucas’s arm and draped it across her shoulders. Apprehension seized him and his body tensed. But with an oblivious and contented sigh, Megan laid her head on his chest and murmured, ‘This is nice.’
OK Universe, Lucas thought, give me what you’ve got. He let himself sink into the soft settee and leaned into Megan. It felt good. He had not realised how much his whole being hungered for the comfort of a simple embrace. With his mouth in her hair he said, ‘It truly is nice. Can we do it again sometime? I’d be glad to feed you next time.’
‘That’d be lovely, but come here and I’ll teach you how to chant.’ She lifted her head to look at him, and he was lost. Too euphoric to argue, so he nodded, and she put her head back on his chest. With his cheek once more against her hair he breathed in the scent of her shampoo.
30 KITTY
‘Didn’t our dads say this was stolen?’ Kitty surveyed the old trolley on Sam’s floor and wondered how he had got it up the stairs.
‘It must have been there for… how long is it?’
Kitty pondered. ‘We would have been about six. So, about twenty-six years. How long does wood take to rot?’
‘It was wrapped in plastic sheeting. I guess if it was well sealed it might have lasted quite a while.’
‘All the rain we’ve had must have washed the soil away.’ Kitty patted the sturdy greenish planks on the trolley. ‘We had a good time that day, didn’t we?’
‘Yeah. I remember being unbelievably upset when we couldn’t do it again.’
‘Me too.’
Sam applied a fingernail to the drying surface and scraped off a khaki sliver of wood. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know how it got there.’ He caught up the rope and gave it a tug, but earth and rust still locked the wheels, and it skated over the floorboards, depositing nuggets of mud in its wake. He winked at Kitty, ‘We could free the wheels and paint it with some of that rot stuff. It might go again. Maybe we could run it down Little Callun Hill, for old time’s sake. It’s big enough to take two of us.’
‘You are an idiot.’ Kitty thumped his arm, and he gave a yelp and rubbed it.
She turned her attention back to the trolley. ‘It would be useful though. You could use it to carry heavy stuff while you’re helping your dad with his garden.’
‘Don’t remind me. The place is a bloody nightmare. You’re right, though. It does look useful. But I’d rather tear down that hill again.’ He grinned and grabbed a screwdriver. ‘Let’s see what we can do to free up these wheels.’
Kitty picked up an
object to help.
‘Hey.’ Sam grabbed it from her. ‘That’s a pallet knife.’ He gave her another screwdriver, and they scraped. ‘What do you think this is?’ Sam picked up strands of green stuff from the floor. ‘It’s wound round the axel.’
Kitty shrugged. Could be anything. Grass from our day out, maybe?
Sam sprinkled the stuff into the palm of his hand. ‘No, it’s not grass. It’s got fronds. Look.’ He held out his palm to show her, and she shrugged. ‘No idea. Does it matter?’
‘It’s a potential clue to where the trolley’s been. I don’t imagine it picked this up in the woods.’
‘You are taking this investigation seriously,’ Kitty chuckled.
Sam shrugged. ‘I have a feeling about this thing.’
Kitty respected intuition. ‘Well, if you think we ought to get that stuff analysed, I’ve got a contact who can help.’
Sam found an old envelope and slid the sprigs inside. ‘It wouldn’t hurt, would it?’
‘Nope. Not at all.’ Kitty pushed the package into her back pocket. ‘I’ll take that plastic sheet, too.’
It took a further half hour to clean up the wheels, leaving more of the unidentified plant matter on the floor. Sam dug out some cooking oil and greased the joints, and they took turns pulling one another along. The cart rumbled over the bare floorboards, its wheels turning in buckled circles making the wooden seat rise and fall like a horse’s back.
Later, they sat drinking water at Sam’s paint spattered table.
‘Sam.’
‘Yes?’
‘I haven’t mentioned it before, but Max gave me his notes when I met him.’
‘Notes?’
‘From his practice. I haven’t had the guts to open them yet.’ She fiddled with a paintbrush. ‘Will you read them with me?’
‘Whatever you want. And I must remember to get hold of the court transcripts. We could read those at the same time.’
Kitty spread the bristles of a paintbrush with her thumb. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t ask more questions before.’
Sam plucked the paintbrush from her grip and dropped it into a pot. ‘I feel the same. We’re like World War One soldiers. They didn’t talk about their experiences because they were too horrendous, and nobody would’ve understood, anyway.’
‘Yes, but we had each other. We all understood. We’d all been through the same thing.’
‘Some things are difficult to raise. I bet,’ Sam hesitated, ‘In fact I know that if I talk about that time, I’ll struggle to cope with my feelings.’ As if to prove his point, tears oozed over his lashes, and Kitty patted his arm.
‘I’m OK,’ he gulped. ‘I’m OK. Really.’ He went to take her hand, but it had gone so he blew his nose and cleared his throat. ‘We may as well get this over with. Do you have a court contact, to go with your plant expert?’
~~~
A fortnight later, they sat in Kitty’s compact living room with a sheaf of Max’s notes on the cushion beside Kitty and the pages of court transcript on her lap. Her eyes flicked from side to side as she read each sheet.
The trial judge was Lord William Cannon. She skipped the procedural details and went straight to the beginning of the prosecution’s opening remarks.
David Fitzsimmons (Prosecutor): My Lord, members of the jury, we are here to show that Paul James Thomas pushed his ex-wife, who was newly married to Mr Maximus James William Owen-Rutherford, from a cliff top in Mauritius, where she was enjoying her honeymoon. I will show that Mr Thomas (the accused) has a violent temper, was obsessed with his ex-wife’s movements and lied to his friends. Furthermore, I will demonstrate that he had the opportunity and the motive to murder her.
Judge: How do you plead, Mr Thomas?
Paul Thomas: Not guilty, My Lord.
Judge Cannon: Very well Mr Fitzsimmons, please proceed.
Kitty imagined the courtroom and her father standing in the dock, and her stomach gave a flip. Beside her, Sam stared at his crossed ankles, waiting for the page.
Fitzsimmons: Thank you, My Lord. The Prosecution calls Mr Lee Duggan.
State your name and address.
Duggan: Lee Duggan. Flat 26b, High Street, Longforth.
Fitzsimmons: And how do you know Mr Paul Thomas?
Duggan: He was my neighbour, and he beat the shit out of me.
Mr David Porterhouse (Defence): Objection my Lord.
Judge: Sustained. Mr Duggan kindly moderate your language.
Duggan: Sorry. Paul Thomas broke down the door of my flat and threw my music player down the stairs. It smashed and made dents in the walls. I thought he was gonna kill me. Still do. I can’t sleep, I’m so scared.
Porterhouse (in cross-examination): What were you doing, Mr Duggan, when the defendant broke down your door?
Duggan: I was playing music with me mate.
Porterhouse: Just sitting there, minding your own business, listening to a bit of music?
Duggan: Yeah. Then this bloke comes barging in, all threats, and thumps me.
Porterhouse: I wonder, Mr Duggan, if you can explain why the walls and floor of Mr Thomas’s flat were vibrating so much that Mr Thomas’s little girl was unable to hear the television?
Duggan: Dunno.
Porterhouse: You don’t know? Could it have been because your music was turned up to deafening proportions? Could it have been because despite being asked to turn it down, you returned the music to full volume when Mr Thomas had gone back to his flat next door?
Duggan: Might’ve. I can’t remember now.
Porterhouse: Perhaps, Mr Duggan, that is because, while you were listening to the music, you were using cocaine? May I draw your attention to exhibits 3P and 4P, my Lord - the Lymchester Police report on the arrest of Mr Lee Duggan and their subsequent decision to drop charges against Mr Thomas.
‘This brings it all back,’ Kitty said, passing the paper to Sam, who highlighted the date of the attack mentioned further down the document.
He gestured to the papers from Max. ‘Pass me those notes. I’ll check what your dad said to Max.’ He flipped to the date and read the page to himself. Then said, ‘He was annoyed at losing his rag. But he was most concerned that he’d upset you.’
Kitty nodded. ‘I should hope so.’ She thought back to that day. Left alone in Paul’s flat, she had cried, hugging Topsy for comfort and bawling into the dog’s thick fur, flinching each time she heard her father’s angry voice directed at those guys next door. For the first time in her small life, she had been frightened of him.
They read on. An incident in a Chinese take-away restaurant appeared at first to be pretty damning. While queuing for his meal, her father had broken someone’s foot and kneed him in the balls.
‘Oh Dad.’ Kitty shook her head.
But further down the document, his actions were mitigated when it emerged that he had been sticking up for the restaurant owner’s wife. Unfortunately for Paul, the proprietor called the police, when things seemed as though they might become violent.
Sam consulted Max’s notes again. After this second violent incident, Max encouraged Paul to keep a record of his emotions and responses in a book: The book Kitty found in the recycling box on the night of the engagement party.
They now shared the court case pages, each holding an edge, their heads touching, Sam, with Max’s notes on the arm of the settee.
Fitzsimmons: Mr Owen, will you please tell us about your relationship to the defendant, Paul Thomas?
Owen-Rutherford: Of course. He was my client. He came to me for anger management and counselling, after his wife left him.
Fitzsimmons: Thank you, Mr Owen. Now, on the subject of Mr Thomas’s ex-wife, is it true that you and she were married, recently?
Owen-Rutherford: Yes. Fee and I met quite by accident in a supermarket and struck up a conversation. It was only when I was talking to her in the coffee shop on that day, that it dawned on me she might have been married to Paul. Then she gave me her business card, and I was almos
t sure.
Fitzsimmons: Did you say anything to her?
Owen-Rutherford: How could I? I would have been breaking client confidentiality. Anyway, it was a brief meeting, and I couldn’t be sure at that time that things would progress. What would have been the point?
Fitzsimmons: ‘Today, Paul described a violent incident in a take-away shop.’ Is this a quote from your notes, Mr Owen?
Owen-Rutherford: Yes. Paul said he had broken a man’s foot and kneed him in the testicles.
Fitzsimmons: Would you say Mr Thomas is a danger to society, Mr Owen?
Porterhouse: Objection. Speculation.
Judge: I’ll allow it as Mr Owen may be viewed as an expert witness.
Porterhouse: May I remind My Lord that Mr Owen is also the only witness to the actual crime under examination in this court?
Judge: Thank you, Mr Porterhouse. Objection sustained. Please choose another route of questioning, Mr Fitzsimmons.
Fitzsimmons: Very well, My Lord. Mr Owen, is this also from your notes: ‘Paul told me he has committed rape?’
Owen-Rutherford: Yes. Those are my notes. Paul came to me in some distress after he had forced himself onto one of my wife’s housemates. This was before Fee, my wife, and I were married.
Fitzsimmons: Would you like a glass of water, Mr Owen?
The corner of the sheet of paper was worn ragged by Kitty’s tense fingers, and her breath came in short bursts.
Sam thumbed through Max’s notes. Sure enough, there was the incident. He read aloud:
Paul tells me that yesterday, he committed a rape. He visited the house of his wife and her friends to confront Twitch, whom he believed to be turning Kitty against him. It seems that because of the nature of the conversation they ended up in one another’s arms. Twitch was as unhappy as Paul and there was some kind of mutual comforting that went too far. Twitch subsequently changed her mind, and in frustration, Paul forced himself on her. He appears contrite. Self-esteem low. He has agreed to go back and apologise.
A little further on:
