‘A couple of hours max. She’ll probably sleep for a while. If she starts to cry you add some boiling water to this.’ I pulled out the bottle, which already had a feed in. ‘Add about an inch, shake it, test it on your hand. Should be lukewarm.’ Grabbing a cushion, I demonstrated. ‘Hold her like this, bottle this way up.’ I showed her the odd-shaped teat. ‘She’ll latch on. Let her have as much as she likes.’
‘Burping and stuff?’
‘Very good,’ I teased. ‘You’ve been swotting.’
Diane glared.
‘Just hold her upright, pat her if you like, it’s not essential. If she fills her nappy . . .’
Diane shot me a look.
‘ . . . I’ll change her when I get back.’ I’d promised Diane no nappies. I decided not to even mention vomit.
‘Anything else?’
‘If she wakes up you can talk to her.’
‘What about?’ She frowned.
I kept a straight face. ‘Or just put her where she can see you while you get on with what you’re doing.’ I glanced around; usually Diane’s latest project is evident from the state of the place but there were no sketches or paintings, boxes of fabric or reference books scattered about. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Resting.’ Her description of the times between practical work when she cast about for new ideas. She had not long ago finished a triptych of mixed media pieces based on landscape photos from our holiday to Cuba together. The trip of a lifetime, made to celebrate Diane completing her cycles of chemo.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I promised and left her to it.
The traffic was heavy and slow along Wilmslow Road, through Rusholme’s Curry Mile. I distracted myself by gazing in the shop windows, picking out my favourite shalwar kameez, or comparing the fancy neon signs for the different restaurants and watching the pedestrians pass: students streaming in towards the universities, local people shopping for groceries, a group of women in richly patterned African dress, others in saris chatting to a shopkeeper in his flowing white galabiyya.
We crawled past the park and the infirmary, where a taxi and a bus got into a hooting competition after a near miss in the bus lane, on past the universities and the BBC building. Today the weather was muted. A change to neutral, the sky a hazy grey, blanketed with thick cloud; the trees still, the pavements muffled by the mush of crushed leaves.
I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Damien Beswick again. He was awkward company and for all Chloe’s efforts I wasn’t sure that he’d be any more forthcoming than last time.
After passing through the gatehouse and the security checks, I was escorted to the same room. When Damien came in he looked tired: his eyes were pink, slightly bloodshot and he slumped into the chair. That nervy restlessness was still there, a foot tapping, his fingers moving to and fro, tracing the table’s edge.
I got straight down to business. ‘Chloe said you’d remembered something else.’
‘I’ve been trying,’ he said.
‘And?’
He shrugged. I felt a lick of impatience. He looked shifty, scratched at his sideburn. ‘I’ve tried,’ he repeated. So it was a con. There’s no stunning new evidence to support his claim to innocence, nothing new. He had wasted my time. I was on the brink of walking out but hated the thought of a wasted journey. Before calling it quits I would try out what I’d learned from Geoff Sinclair.
‘Right,’ I said brusquely. ‘What I want to do is go over the events at the cottage in more detail. OK?’
He sighed. ‘Yeah.’
‘And what I want you to do,’ I explained, ‘is try and relax a bit; sometimes it is easier to remember if you don’t force it.’
His eyes shone. ‘Guinness Book of Records; there’s this guy, he can remem—’
‘Damien.’ I cut him off. ‘Do you want to do this?’
He closed his mouth tight, hands fisted; he rubbed one set of knuckles on the other. ‘I don’t like to think about it,’ he said. His jaw was rigid, jutting forward, clenched emotion. ‘It’s in my head. I can’t get it out of my head.’ He wouldn’t look at me.
‘Do you need to see a doctor or a counsellor?’
‘I’ve put a slip in.’ I assumed that meant he’d requested an appointment. There was a long pause. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need. I didn’t kill him.’
‘It might help if you close your eyes.’
‘You gonna hypnotize us?’ A spark of humour.
‘No.’
He let his head drop, folded his arms. A defensive move? Or protective?
‘You were on the bus – think about that. You’d come from Sheffield. Was the bus busy?’
‘Nah. Couple of old grannies, a girl with a little kid.’
‘And you got thrown off?’
‘I hadn’t enough to get to Manchester. Thought the driver’d forgotten but he pulls in and turns the engine off. He’s giving it out, blah, blah, blah. Comes up, wants my name and address.’
‘What did he look like?’
Damien opened his eyes, looked at me.
‘Think of it as practise, exercising your memory,’ I said.
He rubbed his chin, let his head fall again. ‘Fat bloke, glasses.’
‘Good. What was he wearing?’
‘Uniform?’ It sounded like he was guessing.
‘Only tell me what you can see, what you’re sure about. Don’t guess.’
‘Can’t remember,’ he said.
‘OK. You get off the bus. What’s it like?’
‘Freezing.’ He folded his arms tightly.
‘What else?’
‘The wind’s blowing. It’s dark.’
‘What are you wearing?’ I asked.
‘Jeans, sweat-top, jacket.’
‘Good. What’s in your pockets?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Damien?’
‘Some stuff: wrap of coke, a joint, lighter.’
Maybe that’s why he hesitated. ‘OK, what did you do next?’
‘Took the stuff.’ Something we hadn’t covered last time. So maybe this was progress.
‘The coke?’
‘And the joint,’ he said. ‘I needed a little something, take the edge off.’
‘Where were you while you did this?’ Surely he’d not be in plain view.
‘In the bus shelter.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Cars?’
‘Some, not many.’
‘Then what?’ I was making notes as he spoke, writing quickly in a shorthand I’ve invented. It’s a bit like text messaging – heavy on the consonants – but I also include sketches where that’s useful.
‘I needed some money, to get the bus. There were some places up the hill; I thought I’d check them out.’
‘Why up the hill? That’s away from the main road, isn’t it?’
He raised his head. ‘Yeah, but there’s a pub along the bottom road, and a garage. There’s going to be cameras. Don’t wanna end up on You’ve Been Framed,’ he said. ‘But I have – been framed,’ he added morosely.
You confessed, I wanted to point out, hardly a stitch up, but I stuck to my script – no diversions. ‘You set off up the hill, what can you see?’
‘Not much. Lights in the windows at one place up the hill.’
‘You still cold?’
‘Worse. Sometimes the weed’ll do that,’ he said, as if passing on a tip.
‘Any noises?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘The drugs: how do they make you feel?’ I said.
‘Bit of a buzz, a lift.’
‘Do they distort anything?’ He’d been stoned; I wanted to know how that skewed his perception.
‘It’s only coke and weed,’ he said derisively. ‘Not like I’m on acid or shrooms.’
I nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘I passed the place with the lights on. Too risky. Checked the cars on the road, though; people leave change for parking, even if there’s no valuables b
ut they were locked. Immobilizers on.’ The way he elaborated made me think he was actually remembering rather than making this up. That’s what Sinclair had said: liars keep it simple, shorn of detail.
‘What sort of cars?’
‘A Mondeo and an old Volvo.’ No hesitation – there for the asking. He laughed, his eyes flared with surprise. ‘Sound, man.’
‘Looks like it works,’ I remarked. ‘So, you pass the cars.’
‘Go up and round the bend. There’s a bloke coming down.’
‘What’s he wearing?’
He closed his eyes. ‘A dark coat.’
‘What else?’ I said.
‘Dunno.’
‘Is he carrying anything?’
‘No—’ Damien broke off, corrected himself. ‘A backpack.’
‘Does he say anything?’
‘No. He’s in a hurry.’
‘Walking fast?’
‘Yeah. And . . . breathing hard.’
I wondered what the hesitation meant. Was he recovering the memory or fleshing out his phantom suspect for me? I needed to push and find out as much as I could about the man he claimed to have seen. ‘Describe him?’
‘Can’t remember. Never really got a look at him, and I wasn’t drawing attention to myself.’
‘Was he taller than you?’
‘No.’
‘Smaller?’
‘The same.’ Again it sounded like a stab in the dark.
‘You sure it was a man?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. The way he walked.’ Damien shrugged, rolled back his head, eyes open.
‘Black or white?’
‘White.’ He sounded definite.
What else could I ask? Sight, sound, touch . . . ‘Did he smell?’
‘Bit personal, innit?’ he quipped, then the merriment in his face dissolved into something else. Sadness, fatigue. I wasn’t sure where that had come from.
‘Close your eyes,’ I said. He did. ‘Try to relax. You’re going up the hill; you pass two cars, a Mondeo and a Volvo. You round the bend, he’s coming down. You pass each other . . .’ I waited.
‘What’s the point,’ he complained, ‘I can’t remember.’ His face was pinched, mouth trembling. ‘You think I made him up. You’re trying to trick me.’ His voice rose. ‘You don’t believe me! Why d’you even bother coming back?’ The outburst came out of the blue; a flash of temper but I didn’t feel threatened.
‘Shall I go?’ I asked quietly.
In the silence I heard his breath stuttering. ‘It’s just hard. It’s all fucking hard. I don’t remember any more about him, only what I said already.’ His voice was tight with frustration.
‘OK. Carry on.’
He sighed.
‘Damien,’ I encouraged him, ‘you’re doing very well – you’ve told me a lot more than last time and it all helps. So, you pass this man, he’s your sort of height, a white guy, dark coat, backpack and he’s out of breath.’ That last detail snagged in my mind but I didn’t have time to consider it any further then. ‘What next?’
‘I go up a bit more and the cottage is there, set off up the road a bit. There’s a car.’
‘What sort?’
‘Audi, on the drive. It’s locked up. No lights at the house. I go up to the door, listen. Nothing from inside. Then an engine starts up somewhere and I wait to see if they’re coming this way, but they don’t. The windows are shut. I’m gonna check round the back but first I try the door and it just opens.’ Damien swallowed.
‘What can you see?’
‘Nothing, it’s too dark. I use my lighter.’ He stopped. Breathed out noisily and put his head in his hands.
‘Stay there,’ I warned him, ‘what can you see?’
‘He’s on the floor, a big guy, half on his side, one leg under him.’
‘Show me.’
Damien looked askance but I tilted my head by way of invitation and he got up. He grinned self-consciously then positioned himself on the floor, left shoulder down, head twisted to the left so he was in profile. Left knee bent up underneath him, right arm across his stomach. Half foetal, half prone.
‘OK,’ I told him.
He got up, sat back in the chair, rubbed at his face. Closed his eyes without any prompting. ‘I could see the blood, smell it. And the smell of shit.’
This was what Libby had found a couple of hours later, coming to meet her lover, running late, eager to tell him her good news: that they were having a child. The future full of promise. Opening the cottage door, snapping on the light. The shock, like a brick wall. Her world collapsing.
‘What else do you remember?’
‘I felt sick, nearly was sick there. I know the bloke’s dead. I wanna get out of there.’ Damien lowered his voice. ‘I check his pockets.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Just his jeans, the one that’s easy to reach, at the right, and his back pocket. Empty.’
‘What does he feel like?’
He was outraged. ‘What sort of question’s that?’
‘Was he cold, stiff?’
‘I dunno,’ he said hotly. ‘I didn’t touch him, innit?’ Was his agitation because this was all make-believe and in truth Damien had stabbed Charlie then rooted through his clothes while the man lay dying? Or shame at scavenging from a corpse? Or some insecurity about his sexuality? That he’d been touching a man, and a dead man at that.
‘Why are you so bothered by that?’ I asked him.
His face closed down. ‘I’m not,’ he said flatly.
‘What happened then?’
‘I used the lighter to have a look round.’ He sounded calmer.
‘The cottage?’
‘Just the kitchen. Seen the wallet on the worktop. Flick it open and there’s tenners in there, some change. I’m out of there.’
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Anything else in the room?’
‘Car keys, next to the wallet.’
‘You could have taken the car?’ I was surprised he hadn’t.
‘Oh, yeah, and get stopped for dangerous driving,’ he sneered.
‘You a bad driver?’
‘Never learnt. Couldn’t afford to. It shows.’
‘But you like cars; you remember the makes and models.’
‘And?’ he scowled.
Now I was the one veering off course. ‘OK, in the kitchen – can you see a knife?’
‘No.’
‘But you knew he’d been stabbed?’
‘All that blood. There was blood on his hands, on his shirt where he’s holding his stomach, you know? His shirt is blue and yellow check but there’s this massive patch on his front, on his sleeve. And the floor. Obvious. And they said on the news later—’
‘Stick with what you actually saw. No knife?’
‘No knife.’
‘Then you came out . . .’
‘Yeah, fast.’
‘Did you shut the door?’
‘Yeah, I think.’
It would make sense if he’d been running away; like Geoff Sinclair said, the impulse to hide the victim. ‘And then?’
‘Went for the bus—’
‘Whoa! Slow it down.’ He’d talked about being sick last time. And I expected him to have stronger sense memories after the shock of finding the body (or killing the man) than before. Adrenalin’s a powerful hormone; it increases the heart rate and blood flow and primes us to fight or flee. Heightened sensory perception would be part of that response.
‘You come out of the house. Close your eyes.’
‘I was freaking, like it’s some bad trip, I’m speeding, it’s not real. Like I’m gonna pass out.’
‘What else do you feel?’
‘Cold.’
‘Colder than in the house?’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Can you see anyone, hear anything?’
‘No.’ Then he corrected himself, adding quickly: ‘Ticking.’
A clock? Inside his head. ‘What?’ I asked him.
‘The car,’ he said.
‘The car’s ticking?’
‘Like it’s cooling down.’ He frowned, looking as puzzled as I felt. ‘It was warm,’ he went on slowly. ‘I put my hand on it; I was gonna throw up. I put my hand on the bonnet.’
I couldn’t work out what this meant but it seemed out of place. Not wanting to interrupt his flow I motioned for him to continue.
‘Then I got to the gate and threw up. It was rank, man.’
‘Then?’
‘I go down the hill and sit in the bus shelter. I didn’t see anyone. Some cars pass by and the bus comes and I get back into town. Go and score.’
Why didn’t you report it if you really were innocent? I wondered still. If the incident had shaken him as badly as he said, wouldn’t he have been desperate to tell someone?
‘The smell,’ he said, ‘that was the worst, and the blood. After that I was really using a lot, anything I could get down my neck, trying to wipe it out. I was in a bad place, a really bad place.’ He began to rock as he talked, his arms wrapped tight about his stomach, another in the repertoire of his nervous tics but this spoke to me of a deeper trauma. ‘I got slung out of the flat I was staying. Chloe didn’t want to know. In the end, when the coppers picked me up and started going on about it, it just seemed easier to go along with it. Give them what they wanted and get rid. It could have happened like I told them. And they feed you in here, clothe you. That’s where I was at. But it’s not like that. Prison, it’s—’ He broke off. ‘I can’t do time.’ He echoed the words from our first meeting. ‘See that?’ Urgently he pulled up his sleeve, revealed an angry gash, crusted with scabs, maybe half a centimetre wide, six or seven long on his forearm. ‘Cut with a broken biro.’
‘Who did it?’
‘Me.’ He rolled down his sleeve. ‘That’s how it gets you, you know.’
‘But you’ve arranged to see the doctor?’
‘Yeah,’ he said dully, ‘takes for ever. What now?’ He nodded at my notes.
‘I need to think about what you’ve told me.’
His face blanched. ‘You still don’t believe me?’ He looked hurt.
‘I’ve got more to go on than before. But it’s not what I believe that matters; it’s whether there is anything here that might stand as fresh evidence as far as the lawyers are concerned. That’s what I need to work on.’
Crying Out Loud Page 8
