He seemed not to hear.
‘Then I found out that the killer too was dead and I knew I’d have to find another way. I rehearsed what I’d say to you over and over again. I was certain; I would look into your face and see the eyes of my enemy. That I would look at you and recognize what it was that made your son kill mine and I would understand.’
‘And do you?’ Her voice was shrill and thin. An anguished bird shriek that caused him to lift his gaze from the table top and stare once more into her face.
He shook his head.
‘I saw bewilderment,’ he said. ‘I see a woman who has lost her child and I’m sorry for what I said. I tried to keep quiet, but, you understand, I spent all these days rehearsing … something. I had to say the words.’
She sat down again, heavily, as though the last strength deserted her. ‘I should never have let you in. I should have shut the door and called the police.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ His voice, gentle now, curious.
‘I don’t know. Maybe … maybe there was a part of me hoped you had that knife hidden in your sleeve.’
He smiled sadly, and shrugged out of his coat. ‘See,’ he said, turning back the cuff. ‘I even opened the lining and I stitched a little channel ready for the hiding of it.’
The hiding of it.
She’d been aware of his accent. His English was perfect apart from the slight and occasional change in syntax that was so very foreign. ‘Did you? Hide the knife?’
He shook his head. ‘My stitching is poor,’ he told her with a sad smile that still, somehow, touched his eyes. ‘The channel I stitched, it tore and frayed the lining.’ He turned the cuff back further so she could see the strained fabric and the inch long tear. ‘But I searched, trying to find a blade that would be the exact fit. I searched the hardware shops and the markets and those odd little places that sell black clothes and ornamental daggers. Goths, I think they call themselves. The young people who wear black and paint their faces white. I searched, because it gave me purpose. We all must have purpose. Some way of relief.
‘My daughter,’ he shrugged, ‘she cleaned her house. She scrubbed the walls until they bled.’
‘Daughter? He … he had a sister?’ Even now, she couldn’t say his name.
‘He had a sister. Beth. She is called Elizabeth. She is thirty-eight. Adam was forty-three.’
Adam. He had a name. She knew it. She ought to use it, but she still could not. Instead, she said softly, ‘My son was just seventeen.’
‘We talked about our children,’ Clara continued. ‘About the loss we felt and the way he had wanted revenge, then realized that even that was useless.’
‘He might have hurt you.’ Becky couldn’t keep the shock or the fear from her voice. ‘Clara, you should never have let him in. Promise us, you won’t do anything like that again.’
Clara smiled, amused and touched by this sudden role reversal.
‘I mean it,’ Becky continued earnestly. ‘Clara, you have to be careful.’
‘She’s right,’ Charlie emphasized. ‘Sounds to me like he’s a picnic short of a sandwich.’
Shouldn’t that be sandwich short of a picnic? Patrick wondered, but to correct seemed picky in the present context. Another time, another place and Charlie’s mistake would have been shredded, kept them amused for ages. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘You could come to us. Dad and Mari won’t mind.’
‘Mari?’
‘My nan,’ Patrick explained.
Clara smiled at him and shook her head. ‘It’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘But I really couldn’t impose. Christmas is a family time and, like I said, I don’t think my company would be very good.’
‘OK, then,’ Charlie said slowly. ‘But we’re all going to ring you. OK?’
‘OK, then, thank you,’ Clara said. Then it struck her. ‘You think I might do something … like Rob did, don’t you?’
Again, the exchanged glances, the awkward shuffling and Clara bit down the urge to laugh. It seemed both touching and absurd that these three, young enough to be her kids …
Like Rob had been. The urge to laugh receded, died. ‘Charlie,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll be honest. I’ve thought about it. In the days after Rob … died … I could think of nothing else. Life didn’t seem to have much point. But I’ve got this far. I’m still here and, now, it seems like I’d be letting Rob down by letting go. You understand that?’
They nodded, though she could see they were unconvinced. But Clara meant every word. She now had a reason to go on and, ironically, that reason had been provided by Ernst Hensel.
‘The police will do nothing more,’ he told her. ‘The nice detective, he came to the funeral and I asked him, “Do you know why my son died?” He could tell me no more than that first day. A single stab wound to the heart, made by the knife I had given him so many years ago I do not recall. They will close the file, put it away in a cabinet and from time to time, someone will take it out, read the words and shake their heads in sadness before putting it away. That, I know, is all the police will do.’
‘And you want more.’ Clara wanted more.
‘I need more,’ Ernst emphasized. ‘Alone, what can I do? Together, it seems to me, we may see more, know more.’ He waited, drawing back from her but keeping his eyes fixed upon her face. He shrugged back into his overcoat, but still he waited until, finally, Clara nodded. She heard him sigh.
‘I did not come here intending to ask such a thing,’ he said softly. ‘But I cannot live on and do nothing. I will die of this nothing.’
‘We’re going to find out what went on that night,’ Clara told them. ‘However bad it is, we just can’t go on without knowing what went wrong.’
Patrick and the others had spent another hour with Clara, covering old ground, it seemed to him, analyzing what she told them about Ernst. Coming back to the letter Rob was supposed to have found and which Clara still could not understand.
‘Did he actually say it was a letter?’ she asked finally.
‘I think so, that’s what you said, isn’t it, Becks?’
Becky frowned, thinking hard. She shook her head. ‘He was pissed,’ she said, casting an apologetic look at Clara. ‘Really, really pissed. I made him drink about a gallon of coffee before I let him walk home. He said he’d found something and read it. Something he’d found when you were out one day. He’d … he’d been looking for anything that might tell him who his dad was and he was just boiling over, mad, because he … Clara, he said you’d been lying to him. Given him the wrong name or something.
‘I asked him how he knew and he said he’d found something, read it. I guess I just thought it must be a letter, you know.’
Clara nodded but could still shed no light. ‘The police didn’t discover anything.’
‘Would they know what to look for?’ Patrick asked. ‘I mean, anyway, they’d be looking for anything that might explain why he killed that man, not about looking for his dad, even if there was a connection, they might not be able to see it because they don’t know the background.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Clara said. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, suddenly very weary. ‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘And, frankly, I’m knackered and you lot should be getting home.’
They shuffled their chairs back, got to their feet. ‘OK,’ Charlie said. ‘But we’ll ring tomorrow and we want to know anything you do with that man, right?’
Clara smiled weakly and promised to keep them informed. She watched from the door as they wandered off towards town and home. She felt utterly drained.
‘I don’t like it,’ Charlie said. ‘He could be any kind of maniac.’
‘You should tell Alec,’ Becky was adamant. ‘The police should know.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I’ll be seeing him tomorrow,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Shit. Later today. It’s gone one. I was supposed to be home this evening. Dad makes this big thing about Christmas Eve.’ Previous years, so had Patr
ick, giving in to the childish impulses he had so enjoyed in his younger days. One present had always been allowed on Christmas Eve and, even though he knew pretty much what he’d be getting these days, there was still something childishly special about choosing the package from beneath the tree and going off to bed with that frisson of further expectation.
More than that though, it was part of feeling loved and safe and, suddenly, plaintively, Patrick craved that feeling, was eager for home. He left Charlie and Becky by the tow path. They lived only a street apart; Patrick a quarter mile the other way. Once on the tow path, he began to run, feeling somehow as though all the ghosts he had collected in his seventeen years of life were at his heels.
Fourteen
There was a light on in the living room. Other than that the house was in darkness.
Patrick checked the time. It was getting on for one fifteen. He let himself in and thought about going straight upstairs to his room, even though he knew that would just make things worse in the morning. His moment of indecision took that option away. Harry appeared in the doorway, standing in the patch of light that spilled out into the darkened hall. Patrick, used now to the darkness, blinked at the brilliance of it.
‘I’ve taken your grandmother home,’ Harry said.
Grandmother. Harry never called Mari that on any but the most formal of occasions. Mari hated it. Patrick called her Nan or even Mari but never Grandmother. Patrick knew now, had he been in any doubt before, that he was in deep trouble.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ Apologize straight away. He’d soon cool down.
Wrong.
‘I tried to phone you. We waited. We worried, Patrick. We even phoned the hospitals …’
‘You did what? Why?’
‘Because I didn’t think you’d willingly stay out, not when you’d promised to be back. If you’d called, it wouldn’t have been so bad.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I had stuff to do.’
‘What stuff? Dammit, Patrick, it was Christmas Eve. You used to love Christmas Eve.’
‘I still do, I …’ Anger surged taking Patrick by surprise. It wasn’t aimed at his dad, not really, but it boiled and bubbled from him and Harry got scalded anyway. ‘Dad, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m seventeen. I had other stuff to do tonight. Anyone would think I’d committed a bloody crime the way you go on. I just went out, that’s all. I was with my friends, all right? Maybe I didn’t want to be stuck in with you and Nan, ever thought of that?’
He made to go up the stairs, but Harry blocked his way.
‘No, not all right. What the hell makes you think you can talk to me like that, treat us like that? Since you think so little of us I’m surprised you bothered to come back at all. Why don’t you just get back out there with your so-called friends?’
‘Fine then, I will.’ Patrick wheeled around and headed back for the door. Any second now, he thought, he’ll call me back. He won’t say sorry and neither will I, but we’ll make some tea and talk about nothing and in the morning it’ll be forgotten. He paused with his hand on the front door, but no sound came from Harry. No sign of a reprieve. ‘Fine,’ Patrick shouted and pulled the door open, then slammed it behind him.
In the hall, Harry’s shoulders slumped. He had missed his cue. Deliberately?
‘Patrick,’ he said. Then shouted at the door, ‘Patrick!’ But the barrier was now in place and by the time he reached the entrance and looked up and down the street, there was no sign of his son.
‘Harry, what the hell?’ Alec had pulled on a pair of jeans and Naomi appeared in the background fastening the tie on her robe. ‘What’s happened, what’s wrong?’
‘Is he here? Patrick, did he come here?’
‘Patrick? No, what makes you think? God’s sake, you’re shaking like a leaf, are you sick? What’s going on?’
Harry allowed Alec to sit him down. Napoleon whined anxiously and nuzzled at his hand. ‘Patrick ran out on me,’ he said. ‘We had a stupid argument and he ran off. Alec, I told him to go.’
‘OK, now start at the start and we’ll sort it out.’
‘Shall I make some tea?’ Naomi asked.
‘No. No, thank you. I’ve got to get out again. Look for him.’
‘You’ve got to sit down and wait while we get dressed,’ Alec told him. ‘Then we’ll all go. You’re in no fit state to drive. Have you been drinking?’
‘I … Oh God, Alec I don’t know. I had a couple with Mari, then a couple more while I was waiting for Patrick to turn up. I …’
‘OK, lucky you didn’t get pulled over. Now, sit tight.’
Harry waited impatiently while they dressed and then they bundled into Alec’s car, Napoleon grumbling at being left behind in the flat.
Where would he go? Harry couldn’t think. For a while they drove aimlessly, Harry knowing approximately where Charlie and Becky lived but not the exact address. It was Naomi who finally had the brain wave.
‘The canal,’ she said. ‘He goes down there to think.’
‘The canal?’ She heard the sudden panic in Harry’s voice and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. ‘This time of the morning. It’s not safe down there any time. He’s got no right.’
No right to do what? Naomi wondered. To scare Harry like this? Or to put himself in danger. Maybe they were one and the same. ‘It’s OK, Harry. We’ll find him. Alec, if you drive towards the marina, you can see back along a good length.’
‘Already on my way,’ Alec told her. Then, ‘Harry, that looks like him, standing on the bridge.’
Which bridge, Naomi thought. The one Rob jumped from?
Alec stopped the car and Harry was out before he cut the engine, running towards the footbridge and calling Patrick’s name.
Fifteen
Christmas morning was a subdued affair. Patrick felt as though he had a hangover even though he’d imbibed no alcohol, and Harry probably really did. He drove the mile or so to his mother’s house with overweening care and winced when Patrick slammed the door.
Mari took one look at their faces and Patrick could see her make the decision not to lecture or even ask for an explanation. Instead, she hugged him hard; strong beyond belief for such a small woman, she almost knocked the breath from him. Then hugged her son too and ushered them inside.
Mari’s living room was always cramped. Oversized sofas and a large TV filled the available space. Christmas saw the addition of a massive tree, piled and festooned with ornaments that had been around since her own children were tiny. This largesse was added to every year until the green branches were almost hidden beneath the festival of red and gold and purple and blue. Mari bought what she fancied. Co-ordination was something they did on television make-over programmes. Nice to look at, but not for her.
Parcels wrapped in garish paper filled what little space was left beneath the tree and spread out on to the hearth rug, dangerously close to the fire. The room was a little too warm, but today, Patrick didn’t mind. He had felt chilled ever since his dad had found him on the bridge. Chilled and shivery as though coming down with the flu, though he figured viruses had nothing to do with it.
The door bell rang again just as he flopped down in the chair next to the tree. Naomi and Alec’s voices reached him. He was glad they were here; it diluted the attention that might otherwise be directed his way. His dad hovered in the doorway, glancing anxiously in Patrick’s direction and then turning expectantly to greet their friends.
He should tell her how he feels, Patrick thought suddenly. Tell her to ditch Alec and move in with him. It was, he recognized, a pretty silly thought. Naomi was probably in no doubt about the depth of Harry’s feelings, but she’d made her choice and gone for handsome rather than blandly dependable. Not, Patrick admitted, that he’d anything against Alec. He liked him a lot and then there’d be that weirdness of having Naomi as his step-mother. Patrick wasn’t really sure either of them could handle that.
His reverie was interrupted by Naomi bending to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You OK?’ sh
e asked under her breath.
‘Yeah.’ He kissed her back. ‘It’s all right, thanks.’
‘Good.’ She straightened up and turned back to talk to Mari. ‘Mum says to thank you for the brooch, she loves it.’
‘Oh, she’s welcome. I’m looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. It’ll be lovely getting us all together.’
Patrick groaned inwardly. Oh yes, the gathering of the Blake and Jones clans and anyone else counted as family. He was glad it wasn’t happening here, at Mari’s; hard enough to cram the five of them in as it was. Alec’s family, he knew, lived quite a distance away, which simplified that, he supposed. He thought of the other part of his own family, his mum and step-father and step-brothers over in the States. They’d be phoning later, and just for the merest instant he thought how much better it might have been had he gone there for the celebrations.
Then he caught sight of his dad, looking at him with that intense expression on his face that Patrick vaguely recognized as love and he knew he’d rather be here and, more to the point, that he should be making an effort of some sort.
Awkwardly, Patrick got up and went over to Harry. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘So am I.’ Harry said. ‘Now, let it go, eh?’
Patrick nodded and relaxed, just a little, switched his attention to Mari, the apron-clad Father Christmas, struggling to fetch the stack of parcels out from beneath the tree.
Jennifer tried not to mind that a lot of the presents seemed to have considered the baby rather than her. It was kind of Great-Aunt Sheila to have knitted and Uncle Joe’s toys meant for a one-year-old were well meaning. Even her parents seemed determined to get in on the act, unveiling the combination baby buggy come car seat with all the ceremony with which they might have revealed a rocking horse or a new bike in the years before.
Sure, they’d also got her some CDs she wanted and there was the promise of a shopping trip to get new clothes after the baby arrived, but it all felt a little flat.
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