by Darren Wills
“What?” Laura said.
“I would love you each to write about your history with each other. I want to use it in a lesson.”
Laura’s face became contorted. ‘We’re doing nothing like that. What are you thinking?”
“It’s a great story. Let’s write it.”
“I guess we could put something together, with us both putting our memories together. I guess we could do that. Leave it with me, babe.”
That was the first time she had called me ‘babe’ in Leoni’s presence. It even seemed to come out awkwardly as she said it. “No.” I smiled, although I hoped there was no mischievous glint in my eyes. “Do it separately. Could you do it now? We have two computers. Or would one of you prefer a pen and paper?
Laura’s face had reddened. “Why don’t you write it, Dom? Write your own fucking lesson. It’s your job.”
“But it would help me, babe.”
Her face had hardened again. “We’re writing nothing. School for us was ages ago and memories have faded.”
“That won’t matter. In essence, it will be true.”
“Essence be fucked. Whatever we write won’t be as it was.” As she said these words, the charge of emotion seemed to be overwhelming and the anger that lit up her face was disproportionate. She nudged Leoni, and, simultaneously, they left the room. Then came the repeated thuds of them heading upstairs.
I had touched a nerve. I needed to talk to Lillian.
A Steady Unfolding
It was three in the morning when we were dramatically awakened by some sharp knocking on the window of the front door. Laura’s space in the bed was empty. I had heard the front door open at about One, so I presumed she was in the bathroom, or even downstairs with her modified body clock and new passion for twenty-four hour television. Upstairs it was pitch black, and when I turned on the light, I felt like I was being attacked by the painful stabbing glow of the light bulb.
This was silly o’clock, hours before even the birds would be making their feelings known. Bleary-eyed and half-awake, wondering what this was about, I clumsily made my way downstairs, and I could see the outline of somebody in a uniform outside.
I opened the door to let the cool autumn breeze into the house.
“Hello. Is this the home of Laura Walker?” A man in a raincoat with a grim expression on his face to match his deep voice was standing there with a youngish woman in a police uniform alongside him. The thought hit me straight away. Someone had clearly died or was badly hurt.
“It is. I’m her husband. Can I help you?”
“Is she here?” I’m Detective Sergeant Richardson, South Yorkshire Police. This is my colleague, WPC Hawkins. We need to speak to her urgently, I’m afraid.”
Reluctantly but necessarily, I was about to rush up to fetch her, but she was already arriving at the bottom of the stairs, as awake as I had been, and I sensed that the wonderful Leoni was irritatingly not too far behind her, like the appendage she was.
“What is it?” she asked the detective, and at that moment neither officer looked as if they were capable of cracking a smile without their faces falling apart.
“I’m afraid we have some bad news. Do you have any strong drink in the house?”
We ushered the officers into our living room. I allowed Laura to take over, since it was she they had asked for. The sweet Leoni sat on a chair, watching for the bad news like a morbid spectator. I was developing an urge to strangle her that grew day by day but I was so far managing to control that impulse.
The officer spoke and looked at me and repeated himself. “If you have any, a whisky or a brandy might be a good idea.”
“I guess so. We have JD in the cupboard.”
“Well, would you please pour a couple of drinks for your wife and yourself. We have bad news.”
With drinks served, the officer stood next to the fireplace while the WPC sat in a chair. I looked at Laura, who had Leoni leaning against her like a dependent child. “I need to confirm that your parents are George and Lillian Stewart of Cleveland Rise, Mansfield?”
“That’s right,” Laura replied. I could see fear in her face.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you that they were found dead in their car in the early hours of this morning. Well, yesterday morning.”
“Dead? How?” Laura clearly couldn’t speak. I moved next to the end of the sofa to hold her hand.
“I’m afraid it’s foul play. Everything suggests that they were murdered. They were found on a country lane on the outskirts of Mansfield with multiple stab wounds.”
I was stunned. This was unthinkable. Murder was a rare occurrence, and even then, it was usually undesirables killing undesirables, often with drugs or robbery as the motivation. I had always felt secure and safe in our part of the world. The UK was relatively safe. George and Lillian were hardly undesirables, even if he did have some shady connections. Was it about money?
Yesterday morning? I had been heavily asleep alongside Laura, and it seemed ironic that I could sleep so solidly while they were being slaughtered.
He continued. “They were on this lane and it was there that for some reason they stopped their car and were killed. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Obviously, this is now a murder investigation. I have to prepare you for the inevitable, I’m afraid, as far as the media is concerned. Also, this is going to be a news item within the next two hours. I’m afraid those wheels were set in motion the moment Lillian’s brother identified them.”
Laura couldn’t speak. I could. “Who will have done this? What kind of scum would kill people who harmed no one.”
He looked at Laura first, then at me. “At this point, we just don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m confident we will find the killers but it always takes some time, I’m afraid. We just need some information from you people.”
At that moment, I realised that I’d actually liked that couple, that my negativity towards George had been misplaced, since all he had done was be a caring dad, the kind of dad I was going to be one day, the kind my own father had been. I spoke and tried to sound like I was up to it, since I knew Laura would be too devastated to say anything. All she could do was sit there staring into space and I knew I would need me to be strong for her. I made my attitude clear to the detective, saying, “Obviously, we’ll do anything to help.”
The questioning took place without formality and we sat together while each of us replied. All the detective could do was ask some questions about George and Lillian’s lifestyle and their acquaintances and associates. Leoni remained there throughout in that way she had of being where she wasn’t wanted, well, at least unwanted by me. The policeman revealed that George and Lillian had been robbed, with an empty wallet being found on the floor of the car and tell-tale marks of jewellery being removed from Lillian, and how that may have been the motive. He did reveal however, how that lane had not been the location for any crime for the past fifteen years, which I felt was significant. Somebody knew the area perhaps.
After about an hour and a half, the police had gone. None of us returned to bed. Leoni annoyingly accompanied Laura into the kitchen. I wanted to show solidarity with my wife so I gripped her hand and told her I would help her through this. Her reaction was uncomfortable and hesitant, and for a moment I wondered if she thought I had had something to do with their deaths.
In that kitchen, silence overpowered. It was a silence that I didn’t really comprehend. I had expected hysteria, confusion or a sense of being in denial, but there was none of that. In fact, I sensed nothing at all. I sat there looking at Laura, expecting her to open up in some way, but she stayed silent in a world of thought and contemplation, just staring into space, looking at her watch from time to time. Leoni was a reflection, just sitting opposite Laura, looking at nothing particularly and saying nothing particularly. It was as if they were waiting for something, but for what?
I felt like a spare part, which was weird in my wife’s hour of need, so I told Laura that, should she need anything, I was only upstairs in our bed and would welcome being woken up if it would help her. She was my wife, after all, however estranged we were becoming. To be fair, she smiled appreciatively, and I went upstairs, where I could only dwell on how somebody would murder somebody as sweet as Lillian. I felt guilt at having wanted to do something bad to George on occasions, maybe punch him in the face or trip him up, which was bad enough, but she was a sweet old woman, who had always been kind to me and who was always charitable in her nature. In fact, I felt very aggrieved while I lay awake in bed and hoped the twat or twats who had done this would be captured soon and given plenty of years in prison.
While lying there in my strange solitude, I couldn’t help replaying Lillian’s doubt about Laura. I wished she could see her now, clearly devastated about the death of her parents, suddenly a hollow mess of a human being. Lillian had been wrong about Laura. I knew that now. I wasn’t much of a Christian but supposed that Lillian could see that now, wherever she was.
* * *
The veil was weird. Everything else at the funeral service of George and Lillian, held on the outskirts of Mansfield, was as anybody would have anticipated but Laura insisted on wearing a black veil for the whole of the proceedings. The service, as you would expect, was a sad affair, and the detectives at the back of the church were indicative of the tragic and brutal nature of their deaths. Would the murderer or murderers turn up here? Only if they were known to the victim, I concluded. Hardly likely, in either case, I felt.
The whole service was shorter than I expected. I expected more speeches to celebrate their good deeds and selfless work for charity. I knew for a fact that George had given away paintings to raise money for a local hospice and that Lillian had helped out at a soup kitchen in the town. These things weren’t mentioned. The vicar, a friend of the couple, did, however, speak quite sincerely and emotionally about the kind of people they were as far as the church was concerned and how they had done so much for the parish and had apparently made regular generous donations towards the restoration of the roof.
Things weren’t right. I had glanced across at Laura several times, but could see very little in her facial expression, with the veil covering up her eyes like a blindfold. In all the time I had known her, including at least three funerals prior to this one, this had not have been the kind of look she had gone for, not the way for somebody who could never care less if her emotions were on show. She was always totally frank and open. On the contrary, I had sometimes felt she was totally lacking in self-consciousness. She was a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve, hiding nothing, and that was one of things that had made me fall in love with her.
When she had said to me that she was going to wear a veil I had initially laughed. After all, who would wear a veil for their parents’ funeral? Laura had scowled but my reaction was unchanged. I could understand a bride wearing a veil, perhaps to suggest romance or vulnerability but for this event, surely open emotion was the order of the day.
“I want to wear a veil because I don’t want to hang out my feelings in public like a drama queen. I hate people who do that.”
“Drama queen? Your mother and father have been murdered.”
“But they weren’t.”
“What?”
“They weren’t my mother and father. For a real mother and father, yes. But I’m adopted. Yeah?”
I was struggling here. At no point ever had Laura ever devalued George and Lillian in this way and how she could decide to cheapen their parenting after their brutal death was beyond me. I could see why somebody might claim that natural ties were stronger, but this was ridiculous. They had worshipped her.
“So you are saying this about people who loved you and would have done anything for you? Really? What the fuck has happened to you?”
“Nothing. Perhaps it’s you who needs the reality check.”
“Do you think I need you telling me about reality?”
“Probably you do. They weren’t that good. He didn’t even like you anyway.” She had an expression on her face now that I hadn’t seen before.
“Weren’t that good? How good did they need to be?”
“Listen, Dom. I never told you this. I should have done. He…he did things.” The way she dragged out the last word added a sinister intensity that made me uncomfortable.
“What things did he do?” I knew what was being insinuated here but didn’t believe it. I wasn’t George’s biggest fan but this was ludicrous.
“He was a bit weird sometimes. He liked to touch me…inappropriately.”
“How do you mean?”
“Couldn’t stop touching my bum. Ran his fingers down my back all the time. It was very creepy.”
“Fuck off, Laura. What the hell is going on here?” I looked into her eyes, but all I saw was a fixed expression, like this was the absolute truth and she was standing firm.
“I’m saying it because it is true. He was nothing better than a pervert and Mother was in denial about it. It’s hardly rocket science. You know about Me Too, Dom! You read the newspapers.” There was drama emblazoned on her face and I thought she was going to strike me. Who was this woman living in my house? How could somebody so sweet become so vile?
“So Lillian is at fault too?”
“She let me down many times. When I needed her when I was growing up, she was never there for me.” She bowed her head.
I didn’t know what to think. It was as if we had all moved into a parallel universe where everything had changed beyond recognition.
* * *
Several times over the next few days I tried to break down the barrier that Laura had created, show her how stupid and unreasonable she was being.
“I don’t want to talk about them.”
“But you have to talk about them.”
“Watch this space, Dom. See what happens.”
This wasn’t right. Two caring people who had died under horrific circumstances shouldn’t be treated like this and Laura would have known that more than me. However, it became clear that she wasn’t prepared to talk rationally about her late parents. Obviously, I had no choice. For the first time ever, I was now emotionally connected for the first time ever to a violent crime and to say I was utterly shocked would have been something of an understatement. It was just so much weirder, so totally inexplicable that my wife and I couldn’t be of the same mind.
“I think we should talk about what’s happened.”
“I don’t.”
This went on a number of times. On the third day, she decided she wanted to talk about them. I was just coming out of the shower when I heard her on the phone. “Hello, I wish to speak to Geoff Forbes. He’s handling my parents’ estate.” I continued listening as Laura showed more than enough interest in what was happening with the financial legacy of the dead couple.
I was waiting for her call to end, noticing that emerging impatience that I was seeing too much of these days, usually in my direction. “So when will it be concluded then…And I can expect to receive payment by when?”
What was interesting about this was that Laura had a positive animation about her that I hadn’t seen since her return. It was really significant that she was now engaged in some money chase.
I continued to wait as the phone conversation continued. “Six months. Why that long? They died last week…How long does it take to sell the house? So, what’s the earliest I can expect to be paid? I have lost my parents, you know. I don’t want the whole thing dragging out. Do you know how painful this is? I want to get past the stress so I can appreciate who they were and what lovely people they were.”
I felt myself becoming cynical. It seemed to me that Laura had no feelings at all for the people she had lost and was in fact only bothered about being legally reimbursed. The
woman who had packed in work and who now had a life of idleness wanted a massive handout, which I thought was both callous and repulsive. It all was becoming totally depressing. I was starting to despise this woman, the woman I had loved beyond anything.
Of course, I didn’t believe her accusations about George and Lillian. Had her mental breakdown made her into a compulsive liar?
The Return Of The Police
“Sorry to bother you again like this, but we need another conversation with you, Mrs. Walker. We’ve got more information.”
“Oh, right.” Laura and I had been eating in the dining room, where things were icily uneasy, even without the increase in tension that came with a police presence. Leoni was out of the house, fortunately, visiting a sick relative. Uncle Sid was pretty poorly, although Laura had put her hand over her mouth and looked away when Leoni had said his name so pitifully.
Laura showed them into the living room and I followed, focused like a private investigator looking for clues. At least it wasn’t after midnight this time. Aside from my marriage and its dysfunctionality, I had my fingers crossed that these police officers had news of the killer being caught and wanted the secure knowledge that he was now behind bars.
“Here’s the thing. I told you we suspected that this was a car-jacking, that they had gone for a drive for some reason and been stopped by the assailant. Evidence now suggests something different.”
“What do you mean different?”
“Essentially, that the assailant was in the car with them. A few seconds of CCTV footage, that’s all we had, but just enough to see a figure in the back seat of their car. A hooded figure, unfortunately so we can’t make out who, I’m afraid. We don’t know whether they were driving under duress or not, but that hoodie? Does that sound like anybody you know, Mrs. Walker, or any acquaintance of your parents you know?”
Laura sat there thinking intensely, then shook her head. “No. As far as I know, they don’t know anybody who walks around with a hood up. We don’t know anybody who wears a hood, do we, Dom?”
