The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  I find her there today, sitting on one of the benches in the garden. The sunshine is sporadic. Gray clouds scuttle restlessly across the sky, hurried along by an impatient breeze. Mum is dressed in blue jeans and a smart red jacket.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mum.”

  I sit down next to her. The familiar small round glasses sit on her nose and glint in the light as she turns toward me.

  “You look tired, Ed.”

  “Yeah. Been a long week. Sorry you had to cut your holiday short.”

  She waves a hand. “I didn’t have to. I chose to. Besides, once you’ve seen one lake you’ve seen them all.”

  “Thanks for coming back, anyway.”

  “Well, it was probably enough time with Mittens, for both of you.”

  I smile. It takes an effort.

  “So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” She looks at me just like she used to when I was a kid. The way that makes me feel like she can see right to the heart of my lies.

  “Chloe has gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Packed up, left, disappeared.”

  “Without a word?”

  “Yes.”

  And I don’t expect any. Actually, that’s a lie. For the first couple of days, I half expected, half hoped that she would get in touch. She would stroll in casually, make herself a coffee and gaze at me with one ironically raised eyebrow while she gave a laconic and plausible explanation which would make me feel small, foolish and paranoid.

  But she didn’t. Now, almost a week later, whichever way I try to look at it, I really can’t think of any explanation, except the obvious one. She’s a devious young woman who played me.

  “Well, I was never a fan of the girl,” Mum says. “But that doesn’t sound like her.”

  “Guess I’m not a very good judge of character.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Ed. Some people are very good liars.”

  Yes, I think. They are.

  “D’you remember Hannah Thomas, Mum?”

  She frowns. “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “Chloe is Hannah Thomas’s daughter.”

  Behind the glasses her eyes widen a little, but she holds on to her composure. “I see. And she told you that, did she?”

  “No. Nicky did.”

  “You’ve spoken to Nicky?”

  “I went to see her.”

  “How is she?”

  “Probably about the same as when you went to see her five years ago…and told her what really happened to her dad.”

  There is a much longer silence. Mum looks down. Her hands are gnarled and stippled with blue veins. Our hands always give us away, I think. Our age. Our nerves. Mum’s hands could do wonderful things. They could tease knots out of my tangled hair, gently stroke my cheek, bathe and plaster a scraped knee. Those hands could do other things, too. Things some people might find less palatable.

  Eventually, she says, “Gerry persuaded me to go. I told him everything. And it felt good, to confess. He made me see that I owed it to Nicky to let her know the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?”

  She smiles sadly. “I’ve always told you: never have regrets. You make a decision, and you make it for the right reason at the time. Even if it proves to be the wrong decision later, you live with it.”

  “Don’t look back.”

  “Yes. But that’s easier said than done.”

  I wait. She sighs.

  “Hannah Thomas was a vulnerable young girl. Easily led. Always looking for someone to follow. To worship. Sadly, she found him.”

  “Reverend Martin?”

  She nods. “She came to see me one evening—”

  “I remember.”

  “You do?”

  “I saw her in the living room with you.”

  “She should have made an appointment at the clinic. I should have insisted, but she was so upset, poor girl, she didn’t know who to talk to, so I let her come in, made her a cup of tea—”

  “Even though she was one of the protesters?”

  “I’m a doctor. Doctors don’t get to judge. She was pregnant. Four months. She was scared to tell her father. And she was only just sixteen.”

  “She wanted to keep the baby?”

  “She didn’t know what she wanted. She was just a little girl.”

  “So what did you tell her?”

  “I told her what I told all the women who came to the clinic. I talked her through all her options. And, of course, I asked if the baby’s father would want to help.”

  “What did she say?”

  “At first, she wouldn’t say who it was, but then it all came pouring out. How she and the reverend were in love but the church wanted to stop them seeing each other.” She shakes her head. “I gave her the best advice I could and she went away a little calmer. But I admit, I was upset, conflicted. And then, that day, at the funeral, when her father burst in and accused Sean Cooper of raping her—”

  “You knew the truth?”

  “Yes. But what could I do? I couldn’t breach Hannah’s confidence.”

  “But you told Dad?”

  She nods. “He already knew she had come to see me. That evening, I told him everything. He wanted to go to the police, to the church, to expose Reverend Martin, but I persuaded him to keep quiet.”

  “He couldn’t, though, could he?”

  “No. When the brick came through our window he was so angry. We argued—”

  “I heard you. Dad went out and got drunk…”

  I know the rest, but I let Mum finish.

  “Hannah’s father and some of his cronies were in the pub that night. Your dad, well, he’d had a lot to drink, he was angry…”

  “He told them that Reverend Martin was the father of Hannah’s baby?”

  Mum nods again. “You have to understand, he couldn’t have foreseen what would happen. What they would do to Reverend Martin that night. Break in, drag him to the church, beat him like they did.”

  “I know,” I say. “I understand.”

  Just like Gav couldn’t have foreseen what would happen when he stole Sean’s bike. Just like I couldn’t have foreseen what would happen when I left Mr. Halloran the ring.

  “Why didn’t you say anything afterward, Mum? Why didn’t Dad say something?”

  “Andy Thomas was a police officer. And we couldn’t prove anything.”

  “So that was it? You let them get away with it?”

  She takes a while to reply. “It wasn’t just that. Andy Thomas and his friends were drunk, out for blood that night. I’ve no doubt they were the ones who beat Reverend Martin to a pulp…”

  “But?”

  “Those horrible chalk drawings and the cuts on his back? I still find it hard to believe they were the ones who did that.”

  Angel wings. My mind flashes to the small tattoo on Nicky’s wrist. “In memory of my dad.”

  And something else she said, just before she left, when I asked her about the drawings:

  “My dad loved that church. Only thing he did love. Those drawings. Violating his precious sanctuary. Forget the beating. That’s what would have killed him.”

  A coldness sweeps over me. A cool waft of icy gossamer.

  “It must have been them,” I say. “Who else could it have been?”

  “I suppose.” She sighs. “I did the wrong thing, Ed. Telling your dad. Not speaking up about who really attacked the reverend.”

  “That’s why you visit him, every week? You feel responsible?”

  Mum nods. “He might not have been a good man, but everyone deserves some forgiveness.”

  “Not from Nicky. She said she’ll visit him when he’s dead.”

  Mum frowns. “That’s odd.”

  “One word for it,” I say.

  “No, I mean, it’s odd because she has been visiting him.”

  “Sorry?”

  “According to the nurses, she’s come every day for the last month.”

  —

&nbs
p; Your world shrinks as you grow older. You become Gulliver in your very own Lilliput. I remember St. Magdalene’s nursing home as being a grand old building. An imposing mansion at the end of a long, winding driveway, surrounded by acres of neatly striped green lawns.

  Today, the driveway is shorter, the lawn outside no bigger than a large suburban garden, slightly overgrown and patchy. No sign of a gardener to tend it and keep things trim. The old hut leans lopsidedly, the door hanging open, revealing a few bits of neglected equipment and some old overalls hanging on hooks. Farther down the lawn, where I encountered the old lady in the fancy hat, the same set of wrought-iron garden furniture squats on rusted legs, abandoned to birds’ mess and the elements.

  The house itself is smaller, the white walls in need of re-rendering, the old wooden windows in dire need of replacing. It looks—similar to some of its inhabitants, I suppose—like a once grand dame, now fading in her twilight years.

  I press the buzzer on the front door. There’s a pause, a crackle and then an impatient female voice says, “Yes?”

  “Edward Adams, here to visit Reverend Martin.”

  “Okay.”

  The door buzzes and I push it open. Inside, the home isn’t that different to the way I remember it. The walls are still yellow, or maybe more mustard. I’m pretty sure the same pictures are hanging on them, and it smells the same. Fragrance à la Institution. Detergent, pee and stale food.

  In one corner of the hallway is an empty reception desk. A computer displays a jittery screensaver and a light blinks on the phone. The visitors’ book lies open. I walk forward and glance around. Then I run my finger down the page, scanning names and dates…

  There aren’t all that many in here. Either the residents have no family or, as Chloe might have said, they have cut them loose, left them to sink slowly into the muddy swamps of their own minds.

  I spot Nicky’s name right away. She visited last week. So, why did she lie?

  “Can I help you?”

  I jump. The visitors’ book falls shut. A stout, hard-faced woman with hair pulled back into a bun and alarming false nails regards me with raised eyebrows. At least, I think they’re raised. They could just be painted on.

  “Hello,” I say. “I was…err…just about to sign in.”

  “You were, were you?”

  Nurses have the same look as mums. The one that says: Don’t bullshit me, boy. I know exactly what you were doing.

  “Sorry, the book was open at the wrong page and…”

  She snorts dismissively, walks over and flicks the book open to today’s page. She jabs at it with one glittery purple talon. “Name. Person you’re visiting. Friend or relative.”

  “Okay.”

  I pick up a biro, write my name and “Reverend Martin.” After a moment’s hesitation, I tick “friend.”

  The nurse watches me. “You been here before?” she asks.

  “Erm, my mother usually visits.”

  She looks at me more intently. “Adams. Of course. Marianne.”

  Her features soften. “She’s a good woman. Comes and reads to him every week, all these years.” She frowns suddenly. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Well, she has a cold. That’s why I’m here.”

  She nods. “The reverend is in his room at the moment. I was just going to go and get him out for afternoon tea, but if you’d like to?”

  I wouldn’t. Actually, now I’m here, the thought of seeing him, being close to him, fills me with revulsion, but I don’t have much choice.

  “Of course.”

  “Straight down the corridor. The reverend’s room is the fourth one on your right.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  I set off slowly, dragging my feet. I didn’t come for this. I came to find out if Nicky had visited her dad. I’m not sure why. It just felt important. Now I’m here, well, I don’t really know why I’m here, except for having to carry on with the charade.

  I reach the reverend’s room. The door is shut. I almost turn around and walk straight back down the corridor. But something—morbid curiosity, maybe—stops me. I raise my hand and knock. I’m not really expecting a reply, but it seems polite. After a moment, I push the door open.

  If the rest of the home has tried—and failed—to appear more than just a hospital for people whose minds are ill beyond repair, then the reverend’s room has stubbornly resisted such homely touches.

  It is bare and austere. No pictures adorn the walls, no flowers stand in vases. There are no books or ornaments or mementos. Just a cross hung on the wall above the neatly made bed and a Bible on the table beside it. The double window—single glazed, a rickety-looking lock, not exactly up to health-and-safety standards—looks out over more untended lawn, which stretches all the way to the edge of the woods. A good view, I suppose, if you are of any mind to appreciate it, which I doubt very much the reverend is.

  The man himself, or what remains of him, sits in a wheelchair in front of a small television in one corner of the room. A remote has been placed on the arm of his chair. But the TV screen remains blank.

  I wonder if he is asleep, but then I see that his eyes are wide open, staring blankly, like before. The effect is just as disconcerting. His mouth is moving very slightly, giving the impression that he is having some kind of internal monologue with someone only he can see or hear. God, perhaps.

  I force myself to walk into the room, then hover for a moment uncertainly. It feels like an intrusion, despite the fact that I’m sure the reverend is barely aware of my presence. Eventually, I perch awkwardly on the end of the bed next to him.

  “Hello, Reverend Martin.”

  No response. But then, what did I expect?

  “You probably don’t remember me? Eddie Adams. My mum is the one who comes to visit you every week, despite…well, despite everything.”

  Silence. Except the low, wheezy rasp of his breathing. Not even a clock tick-tocking. Nothing to mark the passing of the hours. But then, in here, perhaps that’s the last thing you want. To be reminded of the slow dragging of time. I look down, away from the reverend’s staring eyes. Despite the fact that I’m an adult, they still make me feel a little spooked and uncomfortable.

  “I was just a kid when you saw me last. Twelve. A friend of Nicky’s. You remember her? Your daughter?” I pause. “Stupid question. I’m sure you do. Somewhere. Inside.”

  I pause again. I hadn’t intended to say anything, but now I’m here, I find I actually want to talk.

  “My dad. He had some problems with his mind. Not like yours. His problem was that everything was just seeping out. Like a leak. He couldn’t hold on to anything: his memories, his words—himself, eventually. I suppose you’re the opposite. It’s all locked in. Somewhere. Deep down. But still there.”

  Either that or it’s just erased, destroyed, gone forever. But I don’t believe that. Our thoughts, our memories, they have to go somewhere. Dad’s might have seeped away from him, but Mum and I tried to mop up what we could. To remember for him. To keep the most precious times safe, in our own minds.

  Except, as I get older, I’m finding them harder to retrieve. Events, things someone said, what they wore, or how they looked, are becoming more indistinct. The past is fading, like an old photograph, and as hard as I try, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I look back at the reverend, and almost shoot off the side of the bed, onto the floor.

  He is looking straight back at me, gray eyes clear and hard.

  His lips move and a faint whisper escapes. “Confess.”

  My scalp crawls. “What?”

  His hand suddenly grabs my arm. For a man who has spent the last thirty years unable to go to the toilet unaided, his grip is surprisingly strong.

  “Confess.”

  “Confess what? I didn’t—”

  Before I can say anything else a knock at the door sends me spinning back the other way. The reverend releases my arm.

  A nurse pokes her head in. A different on
e from before. Thin and blond, with a kind face.

  “Hello.” She smiles. “Just wanted to check we were all okay in here?” The smile falters. “Everything is okay, isn’t it?”

  I try to compose myself. The last thing I want is someone hitting the panic alarm and finding myself being escorted from the premises.

  “Yes. Fine. We were just…well, I was just talking.”

  The nurse smiles. “I always tell people: you must talk to the residents. It’s good for them. It might not seem like they’re listening, but they understand more than you think.”

  I force a smile. “I know what you mean. My dad had Alzheimer’s. Often he would respond to things you thought he hadn’t taken in at all.”

  She nods sympathetically. “There’s so much we don’t understand about mental illness. But there are still people inside there. Whatever might have happened to this”—she taps her head—“the heart remains the same.”

  I glance back at the reverend. His eyes have resumed their fixed stare. Confess.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “We’re having tea in the communal room,” she says more brightly. “Would you like to bring the reverend through?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Anything to get out of here. I take hold of the wheelchair and push him through the door. We walk along the corridor.

  “I’ve not seen you visiting before?” the nurse says.

  “No. My mum usually comes.”

  “Oh, Marianne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She has a cold.”

  “Oh dear. Well, I hope she feels better soon.”

  She pushes open the door to the communal room—the room where Mum and I visited before—and I wheel the reverend inside. I decide to take a punt.

  “Mum said his daughter has been visiting.”

  The nurse looks thoughtful. “Actually, yes, I have seen a young woman with him recently. Thin, black hair?”

  “No,” I start to say. “Nicky is…”

  And then I pause.

  I mentally slap my forehead. Of course. Nicky hasn’t been here, whatever a smart young woman wrote in the visitors’ book. But the reverend has another daughter. Chloe. Chloe has been coming to see her dad.