by Kane, Paul
Her eyes were wide and white as dinner plates. He let go of her, slowly, and Irene was profoundly aware that she was trembling.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just, well, I don’t know how else to convince you.”
“T-Tea,” said Irene, her mouth a straight line. “A cup of tea…”
The man smiled. “Of course, tea. The cup that cures.” He said it like he knew that was her mantra. Like he knew that all the problems there had ever been in this house had been solved over a cup of hot, steaming tea. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
Irene almost laughed then, a nervous laugh. Her dead son, or at least someone who purported to be so, was now offering to go and brew up. She nodded and watched as he put the picture down on the coffee table and left the room. From the kitchen she heard cupboards being opened, the tinkling of china––he knew exactly where to look. Then the sound of the kettle being filled with water.
Irene snapped out of her daze. She picked up the cordless telephone she always kept down the side of the couch when it wasn’t charging. And, with one last glance at the photo, she stabbed the buttons with her finger.
Two
“I remember there used to be a poster here when I was growing up, some band,” the person claiming to be Matthew Daley said, examining the wall of what had once been ‘his’ bedroom.
The request had come after he’d brought back the tea on a tray, along with a plate of biscuits, taken from the jar Irene always kept on the counter next to the bread bin. He wanted to see his old room, asked her politely and with that same lilt Matthew once had in his voice. Irene simply agreed, not knowing what else to say. She led the way up the rickety stairs, checking behind her all the time to see if he was still there. He was, and he followed her to the room where her son had spent much of the first twenty-two years of his life.
“The TV was there, the stereo over… there.” He pointed to a sideboard. “I bought it with my first month’s wages from the plant. You used to keep telling me to turn down the racket, you remember?”
Another nod.
“It’s not there anymore, is it?”
For a second she thought he was still talking about the stereo, but then she realized he meant the place where he’d worked since he was in his late teens. “They… they shut it down a few years ago,” she managed.
He nodded and walked over to the wardrobe, a cheap flat-pack one that was still––remarkably––standing, after many years of service. He opened the door nearest to him, taking out a jumper on a hangar. It was navy with pink zigzag lines running across the middle. “I can’t believe this is still here. You gave me this one Christmas when I was about fifteen. I didn’t like it, but I wore it anyway because I knew you did.”
Irene thought she had the tears under control, but now they came again. “How do you know all these things?” she asked him.
“I thought we’d been through that. I’m your son.”
At the risk of repeating herself, she said it again; this time the last word was more emphatic. “My son is dead.”
He thought for a second or two. “Then who am I?”
“I… I don’t know.”
He put the jumper back inside the wardrobe and his eye caught something on the floor inside. Stooping, he picked it up; it was a small red racing car. Irene stood in silence as he brought the toy up to his face, turning it over.
There was a knock on the door downstairs, much the same as the one she’d answered earlier that morning. The ‘stranger’ in her home didn’t appear to notice; he was too transfixed by the car her son had once played with and which had been left, forgotten, in the bottom of the wardrobe. The knock came again and Irene made for the door of the bedroom. She thought at any moment he would try to stop her from answering it, but he didn’t. There was no hand on her arm this time, no sharp words. He––whoever he was––seemed to be in a world of his own.
She ventured down the stairs, more quickly than she had ascended them. Another shadow was visible through the frosted glass, but this time she knew exactly who it was. And for a moment, when she opened the door, it was like déjà vu. Irene was back in time, seven years ago, the two policemen standing at the door waiting to tell her the news. Except this time it was the uniformed officers waiting for her to speak, not the other way around. She’d known instinctively that Matthew had passed on even before she saw the Police Constables, just as she still knew he was dead––should be dead. Now it was a case of how to explain it to the policemen without sounding like she was on some kind of medication.
“Mrs. Irene Daley? We’ve had a report of a disturbance,” said the first copper, a young black man.
A disturbance? That was one way of putting it.
“That someone was in your house,” chipped in the other officer, a much older man with a graying beard.
“Y-Yes,” she said, not really knowing where to begin. “He’s… upstairs.”
“Right,” said the younger man, entering the house. The older man put a hand on his shoulder and gestured up towards the top of the stairs. Irene followed their gaze and saw ‘Matthew’ standing there. It sent a shiver up her spine.
“Sir, would you mind coming down here?” said the bearded officer. “Hands where I can see them.”
He started to descend, a disappointed but resigned expression on his face. He held his hands palm outwards, and there was nothing in them.
“Now,” continued the older man, “perhaps you’d mind explaining to me what you’re doing in Mrs. Daley’s home.”
The man said nothing.
“Mrs. Daley… have you been hurt at all?”
“No signs of forced entry at the doorway,” the younger PC confirmed.
“I… I opened the door and…” Irene was still crying and they took this as a sign to proceed.
The young black officer turned the man around and handcuffed him, just to be on the safe side. Their prisoner stared at Irene, half in disbelief, half resentment.
“So, perhaps we can get a few things sorted out now,” said the bearded PC. “Who exactly are you and what are you doing in Mrs. Daley’s home?”
“I’m her son,” he said at last.
“Her son, eh? Mrs. Daley, is this true?”
She hesitated for a second, then shook her head.
“My name is Matthew Daley,” stated the handcuffed man as he was patted down. The young PC found nothing, no ID, no weapons––nothing, save for a small toy car in the man’s pocket, which he handed to his colleague.
“So he’s not your son?” pressed the bearded policeman.
“He… he looks like him, but…”
The police officers exchanged glances.
“I am him,” insisted the man.
“You can’t be!” screamed Irene, finally reaching the end of her tether. “My Matthew has been dead for seven years!”
The bearded man sighed. “There’s obviously been some kind of misunderstanding here. I think the best thing we can probably do is take you down to the station for a little chat. Valentine, stay here and get a statement from Mrs. Daley.” He tugged on the intruder’s arm and tried to lead him out of the house. For a fraction of a second he held fast, refusing to move, and it looked like they were going to have a struggle on their hands to shift him.
Then he spoke again before allowing the bearded PC to take him. “Dad would have believed me.”
Irene leapt forward, all her trepidation forgotten, her hands turning to claws ready to rake this intruder’s flesh. Luckily the black officer saw this coming and was able to hold her back before she could do any injury. “Let PC Wilson take it from here,” Valentine said.
“You’ll see me again,” ‘Matthew’ told her.
“All right, that’s enough,” said Wilson. The bearded copper led the man out the door and down the path. Irene watched with the other policeman standing alongside. A small crowd of people had gathered now, attracted by the police car at the front of the house. A man with ginger ha
ir and a potbelly was leaning against his open doorway, scratching himself and eating a sandwich. The kids who’d been playing on the road had picked their football up; one held it under his arm like a headless ghost.
All paid attention now, all noticed. The handcuffed man was bundled into the back, PC Wilson slamming the door after him. Then the policeman climbed into the front and started the engine again.
The car drove off, away from the scene, and Valentine started to close the door. Something flew past them and out through the gap.
It was a small brown bird, a sparrow.
They watched it climb up into the air and join the others overhead, circling the house. Neither of them said anything. But as Valentine finally shut the door and took out his notepad, Irene couldn’t help noticing the hallway was empty.
“So then, Mrs. Daley,” Valentine said hopefully, breaking into her daze, “perhaps you could explain to me what all this is about.”
Three
“Tell me again just why we’re holding him?”
Detective Chief Inspector Robbins, a long thin streak of a man with cropped hair and a chin that was so lantern shaped people expected to see a flame flickering in his mouth whenever he talked, was leafing through PC Wilson’s notes on their new arrival. He’d been woken early that morning by a phone call from his third ex-wife asking him if he’d taken the hedge trimmer with him when he left the previous summer, and if so, could she please have it back as her new boyfriend would quite like to make a start in the garden that weekend. There were several cases waiting for him on his desk when he arrived, which looked in no rush to solve themselves. And his acid indigestion was playing up again, making it feel like someone was stirring his guts around with a red-hot poker. So he was not in the best of moods, and definitely not in the mood for his time being wasted.
“We’re not exactly holding him as such, sir,” replied the bearded man, “I just thought it best to place him in an interview room before coming to you with it… while we figured out exactly what had happened.”
“So?”
“Looked like a simple case of forced entry, except he claims he was let in, and even made Mrs. Daley a cup of tea.”
The DCI’s eyebrows shot up. “Your average hardened criminal then. Why are you bothering me with this?”
“Also claims to be her long lost son.”
“Long lost, as in Australian soap opera plot?” said Robbins with a sarcastic smirk.
“No. As in deceased, sir.”
Robbin’s smile faded. “All right, you’ve got my attention. Maybe we should bring up a few records on our…” He read from the notes. “… Mr. Matthew Daley. Where’s the mother now?”
“Valentine’s with her, going over what exactly happened.” Wilson opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Go on, you looked like you were about to say something.”
Wilson nodded. “It’s just that there’s something funny about this whole thing, that’s why I came to you with it. There’s something about him that gives me the creeps.”
“How do you mean?”
“I can’t put my finger on it,” Wilson scratched his beard. “He just doesn’t seem right to me.” The veteran policeman had come across many people in his time, from all walks of life, and Robbins knew this. You got a sense about them, whether they were lying, whether they were about to punch you. When he said something wasn’t right about this business, Robbins would be a fool to just dismiss it.
“You think he might have a screw loose, that it?”
“I don’t know.”
Robbins shrugged. “All right, what the hell. Let’s see what we can find out about him. Then we’ll have a nice little talk with our deceased friend.”
* * *
The chair was uncomfortable, nothing like those in the house earlier. In fact this one was designed to make people uncomfortable, ill at ease. But if he felt any discomfort at all he didn’t show it.
Police Constable Frank Wilson stood by the wall as Robbins took a seat opposite the man. Wilson thought about the drive over to the station, how he’d kept looking in the rear view mirror, how the man had seemed to stare right back at him in the reflective surface. He hadn’t said a word until they were halfway there, and then it was only to reiterate that he was Mrs. Daley’s son, that he had made her a drink to calm her nerves, and he couldn’t understand why he had been taken away. It was a thread that was picked up again when Robbins sat down, placing a manila file of papers on the table between them, and turning on the tape recorder to the left of him.
“Why have you brought me here? Am I being charged with something?” His words were even and considered.
Robbins turned it back on him. “Why do you think you’re here?”
The man sighed. “My mother rang you.”
“And why do you think she did that?”
“She couldn’t accept––”
“Accept who you are,” Robbins finished for him.
There was no reply.
Robbins took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “And who exactly are you?”
“Her son.”
Robbins shook his head. “According to her, and…” He tapped the files in front of him. “… according to this, Matthew Daley died seven years ago. With the best will in the world, you can’t be him… trust me.”
“How do you know?”
“It was before my time here, but I’ve read the medical reports, seen the photos,” Robbins said, narrowing his eyes.
“Photos?” asked the man.
“From when they brought him in. You don’t know, do you?” Robbins looked back over at Wilson.
“Know what?” asked the man, leaning forward.
“That’s interesting.” The DCI faced him again. “You don’t know how Matthew Daley died. Why is that?”
The man said nothing for a moment, then, “I can remember some things, but… others are a bit hazy.”
“Well, there is no way on Earth that you can be him, I assure you. There’s a resemblance, I’ll give you that, but Mr. Daley…” Robbins stopped himself, unable to continue. “You can’t be him; simple as that. Which begs the question, who are you? Who are you really? And what did you want with Mrs. Daley? Money, was that it?”
“Money?” The man seemed confused by the accusation.
“Yes, were you hoping to get money from her?”
“Why would I want her money?”
“You’re telling me her money wouldn’t interest you?”
“Course not.”
“Were you hoping she’d be so confused and upset that she’d just hand over whatever savings she had to you?”
The man shook his head violently, slamming his fist on the table. “I didn’t want her money,” he insisted. “I… I just needed to see her. She’s my mother.”
“I don’t think we’re getting through to him, Wilson,” said Robbins. “As I said before, Mr. Daley is dead. He’s been in Westmoor Cemetery, in the ground, for seven years. You, sir, on the other hand, appear to be remarkably spry.” Robbins folded his arms and sat back in his marginally more comfortable chair. “Surely you can see how we––and Mrs. Daley––would have a problem with that?”
“I can’t explain it, I just know that––”
“Listen to me!” shouted Robbins, “I don’t know what your game is, but in this station we don’t take very kindly to men who scare little old ladies out of their wits for kicks.”
“I never meant to frighten her. I just––”
“You just needed to see her, yeah you said.”
The man was wriggling about now, agitated. “Isn’t there some kind of test you can do? You said you had medical reports there––”
“The reports from the autopsy,” clarified Robbins.
“Isn’t there something you can––”
Robbins laughed. “Why should we, when we already know the answer? You’re not Matthew Daley, sunshine. Live with it.” He realized the significance of what he’d
just said and a mocking grin creased his face again.
“But––”
The DCI took something out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. “Care to tell me why you had this about your person when you were picked up?”
The man went rigid. His eyes were glued to the little red car now on the table.
“Thought it might be worth something?”
“It’s… It’s mine. Or at least it was.”
The man reached out to take it from the table and Robbins grabbed his wrist. “You’d better start giving us some answers, whoever you are or…” He let the threat tail off, letting go of the man’s hand as he did so. Ignoring him, the man carried on reaching out for the car and picked it up.
“PC Wilson, would you escort our ‘guest’ to a cell. Maybe some time alone will help loosen his tongue.”
Wilson walked over to the man, hesitating slightly before taking him by the arm as he’d done when he led him out of Irene Daley’s house. The man didn’t look at Robbins as he left.
When they’d departed and the door closed; Robbins let out a long, slow breath. He rubbed his chin and opened up the file again, flipping through the reports and statements, notes from his predecessor DCI Croft. The same bloody Croft whose shoes he’d had to fill when he moved to this district. Hadn’t been able to solve this one last murder, though, had he? Robbins was drawn again to the pictures, the photographs of Matthew Daley. He screwed up his face at the sights before him: the blood, the deep gashes, the plump bruising of the skin that had turned the flesh a dull violet color.
He slammed the file shut again and leaned back in the chair once more, arms behind his head this time. “No way,” he said to himself in a whisper. “No way in the world.”
* * *
PC Wilson placed the man in cell number thirteen, the only one free. It could have been worse, he thought, could’ve been a Friday.
