by P. D. Viner
“Oh, I don’t think Marcus Keyson’s a good guy. But I didn’t think he was a bad guy either.” Tom stops to concentrate as he cleans into the deepest part of the wound. “He was kicked off the force. Dishonorable discharge, no pension, no consultancy, no references—nothing. He was lucky he wasn’t arrested; they just kicked everything under the carpet.”
“What did he do?” Jim asks.
“He took bribes to tamper with evidence. Not on any of our cases, but others he worked on. There were two cases in particular. In the first he was caught changing drug results on a hit-and-run drink-drive. They found Keyson was sleeping with the wife and daughter in payment to get the father acquitted. There was another big case: a woman was driving over the limit—she plowed into three children on the pavement. Two dead, one in a wheelchair for life. He purposefully contaminated the evidence against the driver—at trial it all fell apart and she walked away scot-free.”
“But I don’t understand what this has to do with us.”
“I …” Tom looks ashamed. “I’m the reason he was investigated. He was my friend. I was at his house one night after work. I dropped by with a bottle, out of the blue. The wife of the defendant was there and I recognized her. I called the DPS. I sold him out and got him kicked off the force.”
“So he hates you.”
“Pretty much. He certainly blames me for everything that’s gone wrong for him.”
“But why was he at my house?”
Tom hesitates.
“I told him about Dani—years back, when we were still friends. Told him she was murdered and I loved her. Then, a couple of months ago, Patty went to see him to ask him to investigate Dani’s death. It was a freak coincidence that she found him. She mentioned me and he saw it as a way to get his revenge, to hurt me.”
“How, how could he hurt you?”
Tom’s eyes flash for second. “He knows I … he knows I withheld evidence from the reports on Dani.”
“I see. He got kicked off the force for tampering with evidence and he wants you to get the same treatment.”
Tom nods. “But … there’s something else.”
“Something to do with Dani’s death.”
“Something I did that I’m ashamed of. If he makes it public it will ruin me, my work, the team will be disbanded. Those girls … they need to be remembered.”
Jim nods. “I need to get to Patty.” He tries to take a step but is still woozy. He staggers and Tom catches hold of him.
“I’ll drive,” Tom tells him. “It’s a while since I’ve been to Durham.” He almost smiles.
The front door slams into place as they leave. As Jim walks away from the house he thinks he sees a slight shape inside. He holds his hand up and waves awkwardly. Dani waves back; his chest flares, he is so happy to see her again. He puts his lips to his mouth and blows her a kiss. He needs her to know she is loved.
“Jim?” Tom is at the car. He turns, unsure of what Jim is doing.
“Coming, Tom.”
From inside, Dani watches the two men get into the car and drive off. Tears trickle down her cheeks. She didn’t know a ghost could cry before this. She does now.
She is scared for them. And for herself. Slowly her pale face fades from the room until she is gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The widow is alone. After the morning’s funeral Lorraine brought her home. She would not go to bed and so her daughter made a daybed for her in the sitting room. On the table there is a sandwich, untouched. Cold tea sits there too, a scum formed on the top. Audrey had tried to lie down but she felt nauseous and sat up. For a long time she has just stared out of the window, but she feels a need for … Lorraine has gone through the room removing anything and everything she thought might trigger her mother’s grief. Normally the room is awash with family photographs—but now they are all packed away somewhere. Audrey feels a deep desire to see his face again.
She opens the door slowly, quietly. From the kitchen she can hear sounds of life—Lorraine is washing up. Audrey walks carefully through the downstairs and into the room at the back. Duncan’s home office. There on the corner of a filing cabinet is a silver-framed photo. Her Duncan grins out from it looking relaxed and happy. He wears black tie. He still has hair and is thinner than he has been over the last few years; it must be at least fifteen years ago. She takes the photograph back to the lounge and sits on the sofa with her Duncan one more time. Earlier in the day, seeing the photo might have tipped her back into the overwhelming grief that had gripped her after the funeral, but since returning home she has self-medicated for the pain; V&V—vodka and Valium. Everything is hazy and colors seem muted. She cannot tell when her eyes are open or closed as pictures still play across her vision. There seems to be no way of telling the past from the present, except he can’t be here in the present, can he? But she sees him open the door … young, he is amazingly young. That first day.
He opens the door; she catches a glimpse of him in her peripheral vision, a breeze of color. All is in slow motion as she turns and … The spotlight of that smile is turned on her, dazzling her senses. The smile blots out everything else. Then slowly she sees how his eyes twinkle … oh boy, is he trouble.
He opens the cafe door where Audrey Hall works as a waitress. She is seventeen and has worked there for two years after leaving school with no qualifications.
She turns as he enters; he smiles and her heart slows—like now with the pills. She starts to drool … He sits down at one of her tables. She can barely catch her breath then … or now. She wants it to stop, she cannot see him like that, young and beautiful.
She has the pill bottle. The doctor said if she needed a quicker relief she should chew so she grinds each pill to powder with her teeth and knocks them back with vodka. It’s not part of the prescription but the pain is too much to bear alone.
He smiles. “Egg and chips, please, love, and a big mug of tea.”
The cafe is gone and she is dressed in white, in a church. Today it was black, now it is white. He kisses her.
“I love you,” he says.
“And you loved her too. Didn’t you?”
Duncan Cobhurn smiles at his wife and shrugs his shoulders.
“All too long ago, darling. All too long ago.”
From somewhere far-off there is the sound of a bell. Audrey Cobhurn half registers it, and then hears raised voices from the hallway. She pulls herself up off the sofa … immediately her knees begin to buckle but she steadies herself. The room shifts like at a funfair, lines seem to curve in a way that physics should not allow. But she manages to get to the door and open it. A man stands there, seeming to argue with her daughter. When he sees Audrey he pushes himself into the hall, muscling Lorraine to one side so he can talk directly to her mother.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cobhurn.” He holds out a wallet. She doesn’t understand.
“Detective Superintendent Tom Bevans. I really need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Mum, he can come back tomorrow,” Lorraine says, trying to lever him out the door, but he won’t budge.
The widow smiles, not really sure what is being asked of her, the pills and vodka swimming in her stomach and her brain, but she likes the look of him. Tall and young, with sandy-blond hair and eyebrows so blond they are almost white.
“Please, you can see the state she’s in. Come back tomorrow,” Lorraine asks.
But the man doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls out a photograph—carefully, almost like a conjuror drawing you into his sleight of hand. The widow looks at it bemused. How odd, she thinks. It’s the same photo from his office, the one she has been staring at for so long. Why does this policeman hav—
Then the man takes the photo and opens it. His copy was folded in half. He opens it to reveal … drum roll: Dani Lancing. Dani Lancing in a gorgeous silver dress, and she is holding on to Duncan’s arm.
Audrey Cobhurn is unconscious before she hits the
floor.
THE DIARY OF DANIELLE LANCING
Private
Monday, September 29, 1986
So let’s start as I mean to go on—with a lie. It’s actually Tuesday, technically, as it’s three in the morning. I’ve just got home and I promised I would start this diary thing again so … University: day one, Monday, September 29, 1986.
God, Mum has such a stick up her arse. Dad was his usual quiet, great self. Tom … oh what about Tom? Tom needs to meet someone—he should have gone to uni, and I don’t understand why he didn’t. He’s so clever but so stupid. And then there’s Seb. Wow!
He’s not a student—well, he was but he left the course he was on. The philosophy of economics—something weird like that. He came out of nowhere after Mum and Dad left and we started talking and we just talked and talked. We walked over to the cathedral and sat on the grass outside by some graves. It was cool. He rolled a joint—it was mild but I got a bit spacey. We kissed, but he was a real gentleman. He walked me home. I’m meeting him tomorrow. Good night, diary.
PS: Just found box from Mum in bed—a bloody letter. She saw me all day, and hardly said a word. She goes on about not saying what she means so she writes—crap. Communication is communication.
Tuesday, September 30, 1986
Met Seb for a drink in C1 bar. After he came back to the dorm and I gave him a shoulder rub and a little bit more. Nikki came back early, so we couldn’t do too much, but I am really looking forward to seeing him again.
Monday, October 6, 1986
What an amazing weekend. Went with Seb to a party on Saturday, at a student house in Walltown. Philosophy and ex-philosophy students talking death, the afterlife and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Then a whole crowd of drama students started acting out Monty Python sketches as if they were performed by Neil and Vivien from The Young Ones. I wet myself. It was pretty druggy too, not just joints. There was a room where someone was cooking up heroin. Seb said we should watch—like we were anthropologists studying a tribe recently discovered in the Amazon. I couldn’t look when they actually injected themselves. For a few minutes after they talked just like before, then they got all smiley and floppy—they looked like they were having the biggest orgasms and sagged down onto the floor. Three of them, out cold, but looking like they didn’t have a care in the world. Seb said a lot of crap gets talked about drugs because the authorities are too frightened of how it liberates young people. So many of our greatest poets and thinkers took drugs to free their imaginations—but governments don’t want you knowing that.
Wednesday, October 22, 1986
Should have been at a lecture this morning but too hungover. Went to Seb’s last night and stayed over. He had some new weed and rolled a joint that was almost hallucinogenic. An old friend of his was over—a girl I hadn’t seen before, Lucy; she had some really big tattoos, the best was a rose with a dagger through it that said Mum. We played truth or dare—Seb dared me to snog Lucy. I did. I quite liked it. Maybe I’ll be bi.
Tuesday, November 4, 1986
Not written for over a week, not sure what to say. Seb and I went to a party on Saturday—before last. It was at the same place we’d gone once before, in Walltown. It was pretty fun—I had a joint and then Seb took me upstairs. Some of his friends were shooting heroin. We watched them once before but this time Seb said he wanted to join in. It was safe and we shouldn’t be cowed by all the stupid taboos society laid on us. I wasn’t sure—but for him I said yes. It was amazing. Everyone should try it. You don’t realize how small the world is until you do. And then when you come down off it—it’s really disappointing. It’s like going on an amazing holiday to the sun—where all the colors are really amazing and the weather is just the best and you come back to dingy England. We did it again this Saturday and last night. Was fantastic again—even better. This time Lucy was there and we got off with each other while we took the stuff. Incredible.
Friday, November 14, 1986
Money is such a mind-fuck. Seb seems to be rolling in it—I don’t know where he gets it from. Last night we were gonna shoot some stuff but he said I needed to pay for it this time. I wasn’t thinking about money—he always took care of it—but he said he needed £500. I mean that’s a lot of money. He said I should call my dad. I said it was okay I just won’t have any.
Monday, November 17, 1986
Fucking Seb. I didn’t see him all weekend. I really miss him. I hurt. Why has he done this? I called Dad and told him I need some money. Afterward I went to the cathedral and sat for a while. It was calming and quiet. I prayed—Mum would have a fit, but it felt pretty good.
Friday, November 21, 1986
Finally. Finally he comes over. I am like sweating, even though it’s so cold out. I give him the money and we go out for a curry but I can’t eat. I keep telling him I need the stuff. After the starters he takes me into the toilets and gets me to suck him off before he gives me a tiny little bit of smack. I am so fucking grateful. I think I need some help. I went back to the cathedral and sat in my pew. Stupid—I think of it as mine. There were lots of tourists, and they can be a pain but I sat through a service and even sang a hymn. I kneeled down on a cushion that had been made for the Coronation—crazy. I took a pen and wrote my name right at the bottom. Maybe in another thousand years someone will wonder who I was.
Sunday, November 23, 1986
Seb is just the sweetest boyfriend. He turned up with flowers yesterday and took me out for lunch at this really nice place. Then later we went back to his place and shot the best stuff I have ever had. Today he is taking me out again—he said he’d be here by noon. Should be here soon.
Monday, November 24, 1986
He never fucking came. I waited and waited. He called at seven. Said he was caught up—I could hear music and laughing in the background. He wouldn’t tell me where he was—I told him I needed him. That junk on Saturday had been perfect—we should do that again. That shit didn’t come cheap, he said—told me I needed to find one thousand pounds. What am I going to do? I sat in my pew again and I must have a looked a right wreck because someone came over, a priest or something, and asked if I was all right. I wanted to tell him. But I ran.
Thursday, November 27, 1986
The money from Nan has gone. I’ve even sold my coat. What do I do? I’m missing too many lectures and they’re starting to ask questions. I can’t let them know—I can’t let anyone know.
Friday, November 28, 1986
I saw Lucy this morning. I thought Seb might be there—I had been looking everywhere for him. She told me all about his lies. The prison stretch, how the uni had expelled him for drug dealing. No wonder he’s got money. Oh shit.
Thursday, December 4, 1986
I called Dad an hour ago. He’s coming to get me. He’s taking me somewhere for a week or two before I go home—can’t do this with Mum looking at me with those judgmental eyes. Oh Christ, I am so fucking dumb. I am going to stop writing this after today but—future Dani: don’t do this anymore. Remember yesterday and the shame.
In the weekend, Seb had come round with some shit on Saturday morning and we had got high. Then went to some friends in the evening, four of them. His friends, he said, but they didn’t look like his kind at all. Merchant bankers, Midas-rich and mean with it. We went somewhere expensive—Seb had asked me to dress up all fancy. There was champagne with dinner but I didn’t drink any. Afterward we all went back to a hotel room—a suite. Seb and two of them went off into the toilet. I was left with the other two—they looked at me like I was meat. I knew Seb was selling them drugs in the loo and I was a sweetener—he was giving them me as well. When the drooling pair went into the toilet too, I ran. I was not going to be his whore. Seb caught up with me when I was almost home. He kicked me. Called me … called me something I would never even write down.
On Sunday he brought flowers round. I wouldn’t let him in. He called Monday and Tuesday. I didn’t want to let him in but … I needed the stuff. Being without
it burned. I let him in yesterday. He started out all sweet then got mean. Told me if I wanted him to keep me in the manner to which I had become accustomed then I needed to be nicer to him and nicer to his friends. Then he dragged me out of the halls and up to the cathedral. He remembered that I loved to sit in the cathedral library. It is the most amazing room I have ever been in—spiritual but you can feel the centuries of learning, of truth seekers searching through the books. It’s tangible, right in the fabric of the building. Whenever I sit there I am filled with awe. The ancient wood that holds the room together is steeped in knowledge—the carvings and ornate stone hold so much pure love of learning. In one room is humanity’s striving to learn and grow—a thousand years of human endeavour. And I can never go back. He defiled the place for me, defiled me in there. He pulled me to the back of the study room, behind a bookcase and made me kneel down and suck him, there in the library. At one point a nun walked by and he groaned so that she would see us—see me. I saw her shock and pity. He laughed. I am so dirty. I don’t know how I will ever be clean again.
It is the final entry. Marcus Keyson closes the book.
THIRTY-SIX
Thursday, February 9, 1989
Heavy doors swing open. Jim stares into a room and feels his stomach clench. It is the final stop after a maze of corridors that have led down and down and down—into the bowels of the hospital. The morgue. Steel, steel, porcelain and more steel—all scrubbed down and smelling faintly of bleach. In the center of the room is a table. A blue sheet covers it, though it’s not flat. Of course it’s not, there’s a body under it. Alongside Jim is a middle-aged woman with a kind face. She is his guide into the underworld to find Persephone.
“Do you need a minute?” she asks.
He looks at her blankly, not understanding the question. “To do what?” he asks. She smiles and waits. “Oh. I see.” She means a minute to brace himself. “No. No, I’m fine.”
