by David Haynes
“Because I’ve got a drawer full of them back at home. I’ve lost count of how many there are.” Joe’s voice started to break but he fought to control it. “He hasn’t got anyone else. Just me and I couldn’t help him either.” He looked up at Chris. “I can’t help anyone, can I?”
Chris put his hand on Joe’s cheek. “Don’t, Granddad. There’s me, you’ve always helped me.”
Joe wiped his face. It might have been the rain or it might have been tears, there was no way of knowing. “The jury’s still out on that one.”
They turned away from each other and watched in silence as Pat was lifted onto the trolley. The tide lapped at the policemen’s black boots. In another half an hour, his body would have been washed into the Atlantic just as Chris’s dad had been. Was that what Pat had intended? The weather was too bad for any of the little fishing boats to venture out so none of the fishermen would have found him. He would have been washed out quietly and without fuss. It was deliberate.
*
Joe didn’t need any help walking up the steps into the police station but Chris felt the need to touch him anyway, so put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. They walked inside the foyer and approached the reception. “We’re here to see PC Lewis.”
The counter was high and there was clearly a plinth on the other side. It gave the receptionist an unnatural and overbearing height.
“Just take a seat and I’ll put a call out for him.”
They sat down and waited. The call went out and after a few minutes, the officer appeared from a door to one side of the desk. He ushered them through and showed them to a room with ‘Statement Taking Room’ stuck on the door. The notice was handwritten on a sheet of paper and taped in place. The officer shuffled the chairs around and sat on the opposite side with his computer. Only a third of his face was visible behind the monitor. There was no sympathy to be had here, only business.
Chris had only been in a police station three times and they were all following his dad’s death. This wasn’t the same place, he was sure if that. He remembered the other station as being castle-like and frightening, like something from a bad dream. This was much newer but no less dismal.
The officer took details about Pat, which Joe was able to give without thought or self-correction. The answer to his question about next of kin was sad. There was nobody. Joe was the closest thing Pat had to blood in the entire world.
“When will we be able to bury the lad?” Joe asked. His voice was steady but his face betrayed what was going on inside.
The officer stopped tapping on his keyboard, which he had been doing since they got there.
“In cases where suicide is suspected, the coroner will have an inquest, I’m afraid...”
“Suspected?” Joe exploded and stood up. He rummaged in his pocket and threw the soggy slip of paper on to the table. “I’ve got a pile of these this thick if you want to see them!” He spread his arms as wide as he could.
The officer slid the paper across and took an exhibit bag from the drawer. He did his best to keep the paper flat but it was wet from the rain and finished up as a ball inside the bag.
“I understand and I’m sorry but it’s the law.”
Joe sat back down and rubbed his face. “Bugger the law,” he whispered.
“How long will that take?” Chris put his hand over Joe’s and looked to the officer.
He carried on typing. “It depends.”
“On?” Chris asked.
He stopped typing and sighed. “On all sorts of things. I don’t understand why these things take so long either. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry I can’t give you all the answers but the coroner is God.” He opened the drawer again and produced a booklet which he pushed across the table. “This might help.”
Joe took it and rolled it into a cone.
“So, when was the last time you saw Mr Bailey?” The officer looked at Joe but Chris answered.
“I saw him after my Granddad did. I went out with him last night.”
Chris told the officer about meeting him in The Queen’s Head and going for a drive afterwards. The officer had no idea who Jack Kestle was, but why would he? The man had died before the officer was even born. The officer took notes as Chris spoke, prompting him for more details here and there.
When it came to Pendeen, Chris kept the details short. They’d driven to the lighthouse and Pat had told him about the girls they used to take there when they were younger. Pat had drunk a couple of cans of cider in the car but nothing excessive. Chris didn’t speak about what had happened there; what they had both seen. How could he talk about that? All the while, he could see Joe watching him.
“And then I took him home. I dropped him at the memorial anyway.” He slid his hand off the table. His knuckle and fingers ached where he’d punched Pat. He saw Joe follow the movement of his hand.
“What time was that?”
Chris shrugged. He hadn’t been keeping track of the time, especially after the incident at Pendeen. “About one-ish, I suppose.”
“I heard you come in at about twenty past,” Joe chimed in.
The officer nodded and wrote it down. “And how was he when you left him?”
Chris thought back to how things had been between them when Pat had walked off… piss down his legs and cider down his shirt.
“He was okay. He wasn’t drunk, at least I’ve seen him much worse.” He shrugged again. “He was okay.”
“What did he say to you when he left?”
He said he was going to show me how to punch properly.
“Just that he’d see me tomorrow for a drink in the pub. That was all.” He could feel his face reddening. It was as much from the situation, the pressure, the untruths he was speaking, as it was from the remorse that he’d started feeling. The last time he saw Pat, he just punched him in the face and had a row with him about...
“Okay, well I’ll type this up and then ask you to sign it. Do you want to wait in here or out there?”
“How long will it take?” Joe asked.
“About half an hour or so.” The officer was already typing on the computer again.
He looked at Joe who tilted his head toward the door. “Outside, I think.”
The officer stood up and opened the door for them.
“Who told you he was there?” Joe asked.
The officer winced. “He did. He made the call himself. He said exactly what he’d written on the note, that he was sorry.” After a pause, he added “I am sorry for your loss.”
He shook his head and showed them out.
“Don’t go too far.” He nodded at the rain falling outside. “Not that you will.”
Even though it was raining, they both stood outside and let the rain pelt their upturned faces. It cooled the skin on Chris’s face immediately.
After a minute, Joe spoke. “We’ll have a chat about that later.”
Chris turned and looked at him. Joe’s eyes were closed and the rain bounced off skin the colour of seasoned leather; a flesh formed by years of working under the Cornish sun. “Over a cup of tea, I think,” he added.
Chris turned away and tipped his head back again. Joe knew when he was lying and he’d seen the signs in that little room.
The officer took them back into the room and pushed the statement paper across the table at Chris.
“Have a read of this, Mr Kestle, and if it’s okay I’ll show you where to sign. It’s not as good as one of your stories I’m afraid, but then again it’s not fiction is it?”
Chris smiled. He wasn’t A-list by any means and he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d been recognised.
“Thank you.” He started reading.
“Do either of you know if Mr Bailey had a partner? A girlfriend?”
Chris stopped reading. “I don’t think so.” He turned to Joe. “Do you?”
Joe shook his head. “Not that I know of. Nobody would have him. Why?”
“The operator who took the call thou
ght she heard a voice in the background. A woman’s voice shouting and screaming something. It was probably just the wind, it’s pretty grim out there.”
Chris finished reading the statement. “It’s fine. Where do I need to sign?” He could feel his heart racing again as he heard himself ask “Um, this woman’s voice… what was she saying?”
The officer leaned over the table and pointed at the various places for his signature. “Something about seeing, or I see you. Something like that, I don’t know. They’ve listened to it again and there’s nothing except for the wind.” He took the statement off Chris and tapped the sheets together so they were tidy.
Chris felt sick. He could feel his stomach churning and the colour draining from his face. If he didn’t get out of there, he was going to cover them all with soft-boiled eggs.
“They just wanted me to check with you.” He stood up and opened the door. “That’s it then. I’ve got your details for the coroner but we’ll be in touch.” He offered his hand to both of them and walked them to the door.
Chris had no idea how he was going to get down the steps. His legs felt as if they were made of jelly.
*
“I don’t drink this neat before the moon rises, but today’s different.” Joe put the new bottle of Bushmills on the table with two tumblers. He poured two generous measures.
“Stand up, lad.”
Chris stood up and took his glass. Joe was silent for a moment. For a man like him, who kept words to a minimum, finding the right ones was important. He stared into the space above Chris’s head.
“I was his only family I suppose and now it’s up to me to say something about him. That’s how it should be.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “I loved Pat Bailey like he was my own son. Not many people had a lot of time for him but a dad can forgive his son anything, anything at all. I loved him but I couldn’t keep him safe.” Joe raised his glass. “It’s up to you to look after him now, Lord. Its up to you.” He swallowed the measure in one and Chris did the same.
“Pat Bailey.” They said it in unison.
They both sat down and for a long time there was silence. Not even the sound of the rain on the windows or wind in the eaves could penetrate it. It was absolute to both of them.
Finally, Joe spoke. “So what’s up with your hand then?”
Chris clenched it a couple of times. “Is it obvious?” His hand was sore but it wasn’t swollen or discoloured.
“It wasn’t. Not until you hid it under the table at the cop-shop when he asked you about Pat. You had a fight, didn’t you?”
Chris exhaled loudly. Pat had killed himself, nobody else had done that, but there was a nasty little feeling of guilt scratching at the back of his neck.
“We did.” He left it at that.
“I knew you weren’t telling that copper everything. I could tell, I can always tell. What about? I’ve seen Pat argue over the toss of a coin but I ain’t seen him fight too many times.”
“He didn’t fight, Granddad. At least he didn’t fight back. I hit him and now I wish I could take it back.” He paused. The image of Pat’s forlorn figure trudging off into the night kept replaying in his mind. He couldn’t tell Joe why they had fought any more than he could tell the copper. “We had a disagreement about something, nothing important really. Just something stupid.”
“And you’re not a fighter either. I don’t need to see how sore your hand is to know that, Christopher.” He got up from the table and walked toward the stairs. “I’m going for a lie down. When you’re ready to tell me what the disagreement was about, I’ll be listening.”
Chris heard his footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of his bedroom door closing. He sat and stared at his empty glass. Had Pat killed himself because of what he’d seen, what they had both seen, last night? No, it wasn’t possible. Joe had talked about a drawer full of notes from Pat. He’d said there were lots of them. It was in his mind to cut his wrists long before last night.
How many times had Pat seen her? Afterwards he acted as if he’d just seen an old mate on the street, not a screaming banshee crawling all over the car, trying to get at him, trying to get at both of them.
Pat had tried to help him as best he could, by trying to bring him back to the car, by alerting him with the lights and the horn, but she had come down the slope. She had come for him, she wanted to push him over the cliff. She wanted to kill him. But the foghorn...
He clutched his head. It was all too much. What was he thinking? What was he considering here? Whatever had happened at Pendeen, she’d got one of them in the end. She hadn’t pushed Pat over the cliff with her soulless eyes, but she had pushed him over the edge. The bloody stains on the slipway at Hawk’s Cove would always show that. And now there were Pat’s stains to add to his dad’s.
Chapter 12
Chris knocked gently on Joe’s door. He’d come up earlier but could hear him sobbing. He’d hovered at the door and listened for a moment then left. It wasn’t that he was being heartless, just that he had a feeling this was something Joe needed to do on his own.
“Joe, I’ve made some chilli. Are you coming down?”
He heard some shuffling around coming from inside, then the door opened. Joe was dressed in what he called his Sunday best. It was a night for his tie.
“Good lad, I’m famished. Then we’ll go to the pub and say goodbye to Pat to properly.” He edged past Chris and started down the stairs. His bloodshot eyes hadn’t escaped Chris’s notice.
They both sat down and Joe immediately started shovelling the food into his mouth.
“Any good?” Chris asked.
Joe nodded and wiped his mouth on the paper napkin. “Plenty of poke. Have we got any ale?” He put his head back down and carried on eating. Chris took this as a sign that it was good and fetched two bottles of beer. He knocked the caps off and put one next to Joe.
“Cheers.” He tapped the bottles together and sat down.
“Cheers!” Joe held the bottle up and drank half of it in one go.
“Looks like there’s plenty of poke in there, Granddad.” He hadn’t tasted his own yet but for Joe to take such a drink was unusual.
“There is, there certainly is, but tonight I’m getting drunk. Only been drunk once in the last thirty-three years and only once forty years before that. Tonight seems like the time has come again.”
He put his head back down and picked up his fork. “You were too young for either of those so tonight you’ll be joining me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an instruction. Chris opened his mouth to offer an objection but realised it was pointless. Besides, it was actually a good idea.
He raised the bottle and took a long drink. “Well, I never got chance to get drunk with Dad so I’m with you all the way, Granddad.”
Joe stopped eating for a moment. “One thing I’ll need from you, though.”
“Anything.” He took a forkful of the chilli and felt an explosion in his mouth then his throat.
“Protection. I’ll be needing protection.”
Chris wiped his mouth and put his fork down. “Who from?”
“No, no. I’ll need you to protect them from me.”
Chris started to laugh but he could see Joe wasn’t messing about. “Are you serious?”
Joe pushed more chilli in, swallowed it and then licked his lips. “When your dad died, it took seven of them to pull me off Jimmy Upson. He’s long dead now but I would’ve killed him that night. I hit a few others too and poor old Pat caught one. It knocked him on his arse but he just got up and put his hand on my shoulder. He said, ‘Joe, you’ve punched everyone in the pub now, there’s nobody else left to hit. It’s time to go home.’” He finished his beer. “It’s been a while but I think I could have a row with someone tonight.”
“Well, I better phone Ollie before things get out of hand.”
“When am I going to see him again?”
“If it’s okay with you...”
Joe raised his
hand. “It’s always okay with me.”
“Then the week after next? Lou wants to talk to you first to make sure I’m not going to...” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Joe looked up and smiled. The deep fissures on his skin, which he wore like scars, changed into a new pattern, a happy pattern.
“That’s the best news I’ve had for a long time, Christopher. A very long time.”
*
Chris kept it down to two bottles before he called Lou.
“Oh, Christ. How’s Joe?” He’d just told her about Pat.
He closed the bedroom door. “I don’t really know. He was in his room crying all afternoon but when he came out, he seemed fine. He wants to go to the pub and get drunk.”
“Jesus.” Lou’s voice was breaking. “When I think what he’s been through... I don’t know how he carries on. He’s lost so much.” She paused. “Has Pat got any family?”
“Not a soul. Joe’s as close to family as he’s...” No, it wasn’t present tense any longer. Pat was no longer present. “Joe was his family.”
“When will they bury him?” Lou asked.
“They’ve got to have an inquest first and then who knows.”
“Does that mean Joe will pay for the funeral?”
He hadn’t thought about that at all. “I’ll help him with that. If he wants me to.”
There was a silence and then Lou spoke. “And what about you, Chris?”
That was a million dollar question if he’d ever heard one. How was he? “Look, I’ve found out some things about Dad and I’ve cleared the air with him, literally. There’s things I need to say to you face to face but I’m getting there, Lou. I’m feeling better.”
“I want you back, Chris. I want you back with me. It sounds like a silly cliché but I want things back to how they were.”
Her voice was shaky but she wouldn’t cry. She was too strong. It was she who had sent him away when she knew he wasn’t right. She was the strong one and always had been.
