Local Poet

by Paul Trembling

  Every step of the way I was thinking about the things Roshawn Skerrit had told me. The huge tragedy that had invaded her life and taken her daughter; given her a granddaughter and then taken her away as well. The amazing strength and courage that she carried in her little old lady’s body.

  It put my life in perspective.

  DAY 8: THE BEGINNING

  Next morning a package arrived for me. I’d paid top price for a quick delivery of Laney’s books, but had sceptically assumed that meant at least a week, despite the promises. I mentally apologized, opened the package, and spread the contents out on the table next to my toast and marmalade.

  They were thin little volumes, but somehow seemed more substantial than the digital versions on my laptop. The covers were a surprise, bright and cheerful, which seemed a strange contrast to the content that I already knew about. Postcards to Myself had, unsurprisingly, a picture of postcards pinned on a board below the title, all standard beach or town scenes. No waves were prominent, which to me seemed to miss an opportunity. Stepping out of Shadow had a picture of autumn leaves blowing in the wind, which tied in with the first poem, if not so much with the collection as a whole. The third book, Being Seen, had an actual picture of Laney on the cover. It was a three-quarters front view of her standing, apparently on a stage, with a book in her hand. Presumably reading to an audience.

  “You got it wrong,” I said to the unknown person who had designed the cover. “It’s not about her being seen; it’s about us being seen by her.”

  I had come a long way in my quest to understand Laney Grey. I’d read her words, traced her roots, and followed her path. Only one thing remained to do. I had to go back to where it had begun for me and ended for her.

  I stood by a tree and watched the traffic hurtling by. It was supposed to be a forty-mile-an-hour limit, but a lot were doing well over that.

  I’d been doing forty. Keeping to the limit. Hadn’t I? I was sure I had. The police had confirmed it.

  Just in front of me was a parked car. There was roadside parking all along this stretch, which was ridiculous on such a busy road, but there had never been adequate parking for shoppers. So they had roadside parking: thirty minutes maximum and no return for an hour. Cars were always pulling out into traffic or slowing to find a parking space. It was amazing that there weren’t more accidents.

  I’d forgotten about the trees. When they built the Plaza, they’d put in trees and bushes and flower beds to break up the monotony of concrete, but the trees had gone in too close to the road. They overhung the parked cars, dumping leaves and sap, and making a confusing pattern of light and shade. I had had no chance of seeing Laney until she’d stepped clear of the shadows and out into the road. By then, it was far too late.

  I looked back towards the Plaza. It was Laney who’d called it “the monotony of concrete”. I couldn’t remember where, exactly, but it was in the third book. And now I thought about it, it wasn’t the monotony, but a monotony. The collective noun for concrete.

  She must have been standing just here by the tree, about where I was. The spot was marked with a pile of dead flowers in dirty plastic. The blood on the road had been cleaned up, but the tattered bouquets and handwritten messages had been left.

  She’d stood and watched the traffic going past and waited for the right one. Waited for my van. She’d chosen my van because she was thinking clearly and logically. She wanted to die as quickly as possible, not lingering in agony. And with no possibility of surviving.

  So she waited until she saw a big vehicle coming, something with a lot of weight behind it. Something moving too fast to stop, right up to the speed limit. She would have seen me coming in plenty of time.

  I turned away. My eyes were stinging. I wasn’t over this yet. I wanted to go home.

  Instead, I started walking into the Plaza, away from the road.

  They’d done their best to break the monotony, or at least to disguise it. Patterns in blue and red tiles decorated the paving, trees and planters and benches punctuated the space, shops lined it. Laney would have come from that direction. Walking towards me, towards the road. Coming from… in the distance I could see the post office sign.

  I walked towards it, weaving my way through the shoppers. Teenage girls giggling over their smartphones, old men overdressed for the warmth of the day. Women struggling with too much shopping, groups of kids who should have been in school. Smart business people hurrying purposefully, scruffy lads sauntering aimlessly. I pictured Laney walking towards me, in the crowd, apart from them, determined on her death and poisoned with artificial peace.

  Reaching the post office I stood in the doorway, looking in. A display of envelopes was on one wall, to the right of the door. The closest ones were the largest size: brown paper, within easy reach of someone walking in, needing an envelope but not caring what sort.

  So she’d walked in, picked up an envelope, gone over to the counter. There was a short queue there now. Perhaps she’d had to wait. She wasn’t in a hurry. She’d taken the page torn out of her notebook, slipped it into the envelope, and sealed it; written the address on the front, using the pen chained to the counter – that was why the ink was different! And then she’d paid for envelope and postage together before leaving. On her way to meet me.

  “Are you going in or what?”

  I stepped aside, muttering apologies, and a harried-looking woman pushed past, glaring.

  She could use some Lappies, I thought.

  I carried on down the Plaza. Market Street was just a hundred yards or so from the post office. But it wouldn’t have suited Laney’s purpose. Too narrow, too quiet, traffic too slow. Plenty of shops along here as well, but smaller and shabbier: second-hand bookshops, greasy spoon cafés, fundraisers for obscure charities.

  And the King William. A right turn out of the Plaza and a short walk round a bend in the road, and there it was: on the opposite side, at the corner of a narrow alley.

  I had a vague memory of a traditional city pub, walled in green tiles. Narrow windows, shabby dark paintwork, and a disreputable air to it. The sort of place you’d go to make furtive deals with shifty characters.

  It had changed considerably. For one thing, it was now the Prince William. There was no sign; the name was displayed on massive plate glass windows that ran the full length of the building and the full height of the ground floor. The few bits that weren’t glass were shiny chrome or pale brick. The whole effect was to shout “I’m new! I’ve changed!” so loudly that it sounded desperate. (And when the heck had I started having thoughts like that? Just since Laney? Or had they always been there without me noticing?)

  I was feeling strange. Shaky. It was as though I was coming to the end of a journey, and something was waiting for me there.

  No, not the end of a journey. The beginning of one. This was where Laney had started from on the last journey of her life. I saw her stepping out of the corner set door, crossing the road – carefully, it wasn’t quite her time yet – and walking towards the Plaza.

  As she passed me, a question suddenly burst out: Why, Laney?

  She didn’t answer. Just met my gaze for one brief second, and then she was gone.

  “You all right, mate?”

  I wasn’t. I was trembling violently, and my vision was so blurred that I couldn’t make out the face of the concerned stranger.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Just a bit of a chill. I’m fine, thanks.” I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and forced a smile.

  “Well, you look like you need to go and sit down for a bit.”

  “You’re right. I will. Thanks.”

  He nodded, and carried on.

  It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to go into the Prince William. After all, it was two o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A late breakfast, but I was certainly ready for a bite now, and a pub lunch would hit the spot nicely. Plus, I did need to go and sit down.

  And to reach the end of my journey, I had to see the beginning
of hers.

  The inside was as aggressively new as the outside. All pale wood and brushed aluminium, with arty photographs of the royal family for decoration. Staff looking trendy and slightly sinister in black, with the pub name on their shirts. The new image seemed to be working: the lunchtime crowd was starting to thin out, but the bar was still busy with people trying to knock back another quick one before they returned to work.

  I had been thinking of a pie and a pint, or perhaps a cheese sandwich. In fact, thinking about it, I quite fancied a cheese sandwich. Some mature cheddar on soft white bread with a bit of pickle. However, when I finally got sight of a menu, it had been subjected to the same upgrade as everything else. The pint was still on – though from some specialized microbrewery I’d never heard of – but pies were off, and the traditional cheese sandwich was now a ciabatta with mozzarella.

  You’ve got to move with the times. I took it over to the least crowded corner I could find, and perched on a bar stool next to an old bloke with a pint and a morose expression.

  “They’ve done this place up a bit,” I said, trying to be sociable.

  “Aye,” he agreed, not looking at me. He was staring into his drink as if it were the last he’d ever have and it had curdled. Not in the mood for conversation, it seemed. Fair enough. I had things to think about myself, like whether or not Mickey Fayden’s suspicions about this place had been right, and whether ciabatta should be this hard to chew. The pint, however, was quite good. I sipped at it, looking round, trying to visualize Laney in here scoring some Lappies.

  Somehow, I couldn’t make her fit the scenario. There was no solid evidence that she had come in here, though the logic pointed that way. Could she have been drugged against her will? Without her knowledge, even?

  But that shouldn’t have caused her to deliberately take her own life. La Paz might have taken away any fear or sense of danger, but from what June had told me, it wouldn’t have made her suicidal.

  I took out the Black Gull poem and read it through again, though it was already well engrained in my memory. Had she sat at one of these tables, writing these words, perhaps while she waited for the pills to take effect? Writing on this actual piece of paper?

  “Been coming here thirty year, nigh on.”

  I glanced up from the poem, my chain of thought broken. “What?”

  “Thirty year.” The old chap hadn’t shifted his gaze, but seemed to be replying to me. “Live just round the corner, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

  “So this is your local, then?”

  “Aye. For thirty year. Used to be a nice quiet place too. Now look at it!” He jerked his head at the rest of the pub. It was already much quieter than it had been when I’d entered, but there were enough late lunchers to make his point.

  “I suppose that’s what they have to do to stay profitable,” I suggested. “Move with the times, bring in the customers.”

  Making money was no excuse in his eyes. His snort of derision was loud enough to attract a glance from one of the staff, who had started collecting glasses from the vacated tables.

  “Ain’t a proper pub any more,” he grumbled into his pint. “Not since that furrinner took over and changed everything.”

  “Foreigner?”

  “Flamin’ Spaniard. Changed the inside, changed the outside, changed the name, and even changed the flippin’ beer!”

  The new beer wasn’t bad, I thought, taking a sip of mine, but I didn’t want to get into that argument. Instead, I took the opportunity to confirm what I’d thought about the name. “Used to be the King William, didn’t it?”

  “Aye, that’s right.” My companion finally raised his eyes from his drink, and looked at me. “’Ere, do I know you?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. I haven’t been here before.” I took a big gulp from my beer. “Well, I’d better get going. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’ve seen you in the paper, ’aven’t I?”

  “No, mate. Wrong bloke.” I took a last drink and decided to abandon the rest, along with the ciabatta. This was the last place I wanted to be recognized.

  “Yeah, you are him!” The old man was getting louder in his excitement. “You’re the bloke who killed that poet! Knocked her down!”

  It suddenly felt as if every eye in the room had turned towards me. Imagination, of course, but the lad from the bar, back with a tray for more empties, was certainly looking my way.

  “Got to go.” I stood up, but he put his hand out and grabbed my arm.

  “She was here, you know. The poet lady. Same day it happened.”

  I paused, torn between my need to get away and my desire to confirm Laney’s presence here. “Are you sure about that? Laney Grey was here?”

  “Aye. Like I said. Sat just over there…” He nodded at a table nearby – the one that had just been cleared. “She was scribbling in her notebook. Then she tore the page out and put it in her pocket. Page like that one you’ve got there.” He looked pointedly at the sheet of notepaper in my hand.

  I quickly stuffed it in my pocket. “What did she do then?”

  “Just got up and walked out. I thought she’d be coming back, because she left her bag an’ her notebook – still open on the table, pen with it an’ all. Even left her drink – just a coke, I think it was, but she’d hardly touched it.” He shook his head in bemusement, struggling with the concept of leaving a drink unfinished. “Anyhow, she didn’t come back, and after a while I said about it to the bloke behind the bar. Because she’d left her stuff, hadn’t she. Might have a purse in the bag, and you can’t trust folks nowadays, can you? Was a time when you could leave your wallet on the table and it’d still be there when you came back for it. Now, you can’t look the other way without some thieving git nicking off you. Everything’s changed.” He looked around sadly. In his eyes the change of décor and the increase in dishonesty were connected.

  “What happened to the bag, then?”

  “The barman called his boss. The Spanish bloke. And he got a right strop on when he heard what had happened. Sent some of his lads off to look for her. Kept asking me where she’d gone. I didn’t have a clue and I told him. Wanted to know about the notebook and the torn page and what she’d written on it, but I couldn’t help him with that. So the lads came back – couldn’t find her. Then one of them comes in all panicked and says there’s been an accident. So the boss took the bag and the notebook, and disappeared into the back. When he came out he was all smiling and friendly, drinks on the house, but I should keep it to myself what I’d seen. Bad for business, he said.”

  Bad for business, certainly, but which business? The pub, or the trade in La Paz? Canoso’s thinking was obvious. He’d already had the police round once. He didn’t want to give them any excuse to come back. But with Laney’s bag hidden away, the only proof she’d been here at all was the old man’s word, and he had been persuaded to keep quiet. Perhaps not a strong witness either, especially as all the staff would deny that Laney had ever been there. Mickey Fayden might suspect that she had, but he’d need something stronger than suspicion to get another search warrant.

  “Interesting story. Sorry – what’s your name?”

  “Ed. Ed Bramley. Like the apple.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me, Ed. But I’ve got to go now. Here, have a drink on me.” I slipped him a fiver.

  “Thanks, lad. You know what? I never believed the things they said about you in the paper.”

  “You shouldn’t believe anything you read in the paper,” I said, but he’d already knocked back his pint and was heading to the bar for a refill.

  The place was nearly empty now. Nobody was taking any notice of me, although the barman had shot a glance in my direction. No need to panic. The police needed to know what I knew about Laney. Not that I wanted to help Fayden out, but the sooner he got something concrete, the sooner he’d be off my back. And I might be able to do June a favour as well, in return for what she had done for me.

  I stepped out of the do
or, turned back towards the Plaza, and called her number as I was walking. Got her voicemail. I stopped outside the wide window and looked in as I spoke, thinking carefully about what I should and shouldn’t say. Ed was back in his favourite place with a fresh pint, which he raised in my direction when he saw me. I waved back, and continued slowly on my way, still talking.

  “June. Hi, it’s Rob. Rob Seaton. I’ve just heard something you might be interested in. I’ve just been talking to an old bloke named Ed Bramley. Apparently, he lives near the Prince William pub. Used to be the King William. Anyhow, he was drinking in there the day Laney died.” No need to mention that I’d met him there. “He saw her in there, just before it happened. And you might want to talk to Sandra Deeson at the library. She had a letter – well, a poem actually – from Laney, posted the same day. I think she probably sent it from the post office in the Plaza. Um – well, I’ve got some ideas on that. Perhaps I can meet you sometime and talk about it? Not a date, of course! Well, bye then.”

  I hung up wondering where that last bit had come from. I’d honestly had no intention of arranging to meet her when I started talking.

  Someone stepped in front of me. One of the bar staff.

  “Boss wants a word with you,” he said.

  “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.” I tried to step round him, and was grabbed from behind.

  “Hey…” I began a protest, but I’d already been hustled through a side gate and into the back yard of the Prince William. The back hadn’t had the same makeover as the front. I had a brief glimpse of stained concrete, crumbling brickwork, a parked white van, then I was shoved through a door, down a flight of steps, and into a sort of cellar. Whitewashed bricks, metal pipes covering one wall, stacked crates and barrels. And a man about my age. Dark hair, dark skin, white shirt, and an enigmatic expression.