The Echo

by Minette Walters

  Were explanations ever that simple? Why hadn't she fought harder to see her project through? She was no pushover, in all conscience.

  And once she'd cleared herself of involvement in the fraud... "You told me Billy liked to doss down as near the river as possible," he said, "but the same is true of you. Teddington's on the river. This house is on the river. Your office is on the river. Could the river be the connection between you?"

  She raised the handkerchief to her mouth. There was still no color in her face except in the blue of her eyes, which followed every movement he made. "If I knew the answer to that—" She paused. "I thought—well, I hope it's enough just to identify him. If I can put the right name on his plaque—" she fell silent.

  "He'll rest in peace?"

  She nodded. "It's not always like this, you know." She gestured unhappily towards the window. "It's been worse since you came to the house."

  "Has he ever spoken to you?"

  "No."

  "I think I heard him," Deacon said matter-of-factly. "Either that or I was dreaming. 'Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews'," he explained. "I heard that."

  "Why would Billy say that?"

  "I don't know. He was obsessed with religion. I think he may have murdered somebody and that's why he believed he was damned. Both he and his wife seemed to see hell as their inevitable destiny." My own redemption doesn't interest me ... Whose then? Verity's? Amanda's? He eyed her curiously. "He preached repentance to others but seemed to see his own salvation in terms of a divine hand reaching down into the bottomless pit to pull him out. He said there's no way out of hell except through God's mercy."

  Her fingers tightened round the handkerchief, compressing it into a tight ball. "What does that have to do with me?''

  Or me, thought Deacon. Why do I get the feeling that my fate is inextricably linked with Billy's ... he said London was full of shit ... I've watched men die violently ... the water reminded him of blood ... she sends her shit along the river to infect the innocent places further down...

  "I need to talk to Nigel de Vriess," he said abruptly. "If he gave Billy your address, then Billy may have explained why he wanted it—" he paused to reflect—"although it doesn't explain why Nigel didn't warn you to expect him." He smiled slightly. "I would have said he didn't like you, Amanda, if Barry hadn't witnessed what you and he were up to last night."

  She shrugged indifferently. "Your friend's quite capable of coming up with sick fantasies about what he saw through my window. What he did to my photograph was disgusting. Even you must recognize he's an unreliable witness."

  Deacon drew his coat about him. It was very cold, although Amanda seemed unaffected by it. "I don't. He's totally reliable when it comes to anything visual. Is the Streeters' conspiracy theory right? Is that why it's so important to keep denying that Nigel was here?''

  "You've already asked me that, and I've already given you my answer."

  "Do you have de Vriess's telephone number?"

  "Of course not. I haven't seen him in five years."

  He gave a low laugh. "Then for your sake, I hope he's as good a liar as you are. You're too elegant to end up with egg on your face." He raised a hand in farewell. "Happy Christmas, Amanda."

  "Happy Christmas, Mr. Deacon." She held out his handkerchief.

  "You keep it," he said. "Something tells me you'll be needing it more than I do."

  *18*

  I reckon you and Mike take me for a mug," said Terry, opening another can of lager and sprawling on the sofa again. "I don't swallow this bullshit about you wanting to know what Amanda looked like. I've seen the way you watch Mike, and I've seen the way he watches you, and my guess is you're panting for him to do some uphill gardening, and he don't fancy the idea."

  Barry wouldn't look at him. "I don't understand what you're talking about," he said.

  'Sure you do. You're a faggot, Barry. So what were you fer when you went round Amanda's? And what did the old Bill nick you for?" He put a cigarette between his lips rolled it from side to side with the tip of his tongue. ."Know what I think? I think you got well worked up having a drink with me and Mike, and then went out to do some damage to the competition. I bet it really sticks in your gullet that he fancies Amanda more than he fancies you. Am I right or am I right?''

  Barry reached forward to switch up the volume on the television. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.

  "Stands to reason. You might hear something you don't want to hear, like Mike ain't so unavailable as he's making out." His lips thinned to a cruel line as he lit his cigarette. "He's pretty fucking keen on me, that's for sure."

  Barry didn't say anything.

  "How about you, then? You keen on me, too, are you? You were getting mighty close last night when we were going through them photos." He propped himself on one elbow and drank noisy mouthfuls of lager.

  "You shouldn't be talking like this."

  "Why not?" said the boy with a sneer. "It makes you excited, doesn't it?"

  Barry doubted anything would excite him again. Fear was the only emotion he understood now. He should have trusted his first impression that Terry was a shaven-headed thug, then he could have saved himself this terrible disappointment. He took off his glasses and stared blindly at the screen. "If I were a different kind of man—a braver one," he said after a moment, "I'd stand up to you. Not for me, but for Mike. It doesn't matter what you say about me, I've had people talk about me behind my back all my life, but Mike deserves better. The sad thing is, he thinks you're a decent lad." He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if trying to hold back tears. "But he couldn't be more wrong, could he?"

  "Yeah, well, it ain't your place to lecture me about decency, being as how you most likely got arrested for indecency."

  "Did you abuse Billy's friendship the way you're abusing Mike's?"

  "If I knew what it meant, I might be able to tell you."

  "Yes, I forgot. You're ignorant as well as despicable."

  Terry grinned. "You want to be careful what you say to me, Barry. I ain't scared of no queer." He blew a stream of smoke disdainfully in Barry's direction.

  "Don't do that," said the fat little man in a stifled voice. "I suffer from asthma."

  "Jesus wept. If you weren't such a girl, you'd've hit me. Ain't you got no bottle at all?"

  He was quite unprepared for the speed with which Barry launched himself at his throat, and equally unprepared for the little man's deceptive weight and strength. As his lungs started to struggle under the combined constriction of his throat and Barry's solid knee in the center of his chest, he realized he'd tried the rape scam on the wrong person. He looked despairingly into Barry's unseeing eyes and saw only madness.

  "Where's Terry?" asked Deacon as he let himself back into the flat.

  "In his room."

  "Asleep?"

  "Probably. He's been in there half an hour. Can I get you something, Mike? Coffee? A drink?"

  Deacon looked around the room, noticed Terry's abandoned cigarettes on the floor and the stain on the carpet where his lager had fallen over. "What's been going on?"

  Barry followed his gaze. "I'm sorry about that. He knocked the can over accidentally. He's tired, Mike. Don't forget he's only fourteen."

  "Did he try something?"

  "I'd rather you asked him."

  "Okay. How about a coffee? I'll check on him while you're making it." He watched the other man go into the kitchen, then went down the side corridor and tapped lightly on the spare bedroom door.

  "If that's you, you murdering bastard," said Terry's suspicious voice from the other side, "you can bog off. I ain't coming out till Mike gets back."

  "It is Mike."

  "Jesus," said the boy, pulling the door wide, "am I pleased to see you. Barry's round the fucking twist. He tried to kill me." He pointed to his throat. "Look at that. Fucking fingerprints."

  "Nasty," said Deacon, looking at the red marks on the boy's neck. "Why did he do it?"


  "Because he's a nutter, that's why." Terry poked his head nervously round the doorjamb. "By rights I should have the law on him. He's well dangerous, he is."

  "What's stopping you?" Deacon's eyes narrowed. "You weren't so backward when Denning went mad."

  "That were different."

  "Meaning Denning didn't have a reason to attack Walt, but Barry had a damn good reason for attacking you? You're a fool, Terry. I warned you to behave while I was out. Frankly, if you're not prepared to treat Barry with respect, then you'd better leave now."

  "How do you know it weren't him started it?"

  "It's the law of the jungle. Rabbits never attack weasels unless they're cornered. Plus, you're still alive, which you wouldn't be if Barry was a nutter." He started to walk away. "You've got two choices, sunshine," he said over his shoulder. "Apologize or go."

  "I ain't apologizing to no pervert. It's him tried to kill me."

  Deacon turned round. "You didn't learn a damn thing from Billy, did you?" he said wearily. "He put his hand in the fire to teach you the dangers of uncontrollable anger, be it yours or anyone else's, but you were too stupid to understand the message. I think I'm wasting my time with you. just as he did. You'd better start packing."

  It was a subdued Terry who joined them in the kitchen ten minutes later. There was a revealing redness about his eyes, and his walk was less cocky than usual. Deacon, who was reworking his chart, glanced up briefly, expression neutral, then returned to what he was doing. Terry thrust his bony hand at Barry. "Sorry, mate," he said. "I were well out of order. No hard feelings, eh?''

  Barry, who had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence while Deacon ignored him, took the hand in surprise. "I think—" he looked at the marks on Terry's neck—"well, it's I who should apologize."

  "Nah. Mike's right. It were me pushed you into it. You're braver than you think. You said you'd stand up, and you did. It were my fault."

  Barry looked as if he was about to agree with him until he caught Deacon's gaze on him and changed his mind. The only thing Deacon had said to him since he'd returned to the kitchen was: "I don't care what he said to you, Barry, if you ever lift a hand against a child again, I'll take you apart at the seams."

  Now Deacon pointed to an empty chair as he pushed the chart to one side. "Sit down," he invited, listening to the distant sound of bells ringing out for midnight mass. "Perhaps we should have gone to church," he said, nodding towards the window. "We always used to go to midnight mass when I was a child and it's the only time I can remember us functioning as a normal family."

  Terry, accepting this for what it was—a truce—perked up again. "Did you go the night your dad shot himself?"

  Deacon smiled slightly at Barry's horrified expression, but the horror was for Terry's insensitivity, he thought, and not his father's messy death. "No. If we had, he wouldn't have done it. We stopped going to church when he and Ma stopped talking."

  "Billy said the family that prays together stays together."

  Deacon didn't reply because he didn't want to disillusion the boy. He often thought it was the accruing disappointment of the thousand prayers that went unanswered that had led his family to disintegrate. Please God, let Pa be nice to my friends ... Please God, let Pa be ill so that he won't come to sports day ... Please God, let Pa die...

  "My father was an atheist," said Barry apologetically, as if he, too, didn't want to disillusion the boy.

  "What happened to him?" asked Terry.

  "He died of a heart attack when I was ten." Barry sighed. "It was very sad. My mother changed afterwards. She used to be such a happy person, but now—well—the trouble is I look so like my father—she resents that, I think."

  The conversation lapsed and they listened in silence to the pealing bells. Deacon regretted stirring memories, however good the cause. In twenty years he had not rid himself of the terrible sight of his father's blood-spattered study and the shapeless huddle that had once been Francis. Suicide, he thought, was the least forgivable of deaths because there was no time to prepare for the shock of bereavement. Whatever grief he had felt had been subsumed in disgust as he had wiped his father's blood and brains off walls, paintings, shelves, and books. It led him to think of that other suicide. "I wonder why Verity hanged herself," he murmured.

  "I don't reckon she did," said Terry. "I reckon it were Billy killed her." He gripped the air as he had done beside the brazier the first time Deacon had met him. "That'd be more than enough to send him off his rocker."

  Deacon shook his head. "That's the first thing the police would have looked at. The evidence of suicide must have been very convincing to persuade them otherwise."

  "Surely Anne Cattrell's right," said Barry. "If Verity found out by accident that she'd married her husband's murderer, wouldn't that be reason enough to kill herself?"

  "I don't see why. She hated Geoffrey." Deacon tapped his pencil against his teeth. "According to Roger Hyde's book, her son thought she was having an affair." He circled Verity's name and drew a line down to James Streeter. "How about that? Think how alike James and Peter were. She'd have been attracted to James on looks alone. It's one explanation for Billy's interest in Amanda's address."

  "Meaning he was after revenge?" queried Terry doubtfully. "I don't see that, Mike. First off, he'd be taking revenge on the wrong person, and second off, the dish wouldn't just be cold, it'd be fucking freezing."

  Deacon chuckled. He would never tell the boy how much he admired the guts he'd just shown in that handshake with Barry, but it didn't mean the admiration wasn't there. Shades of his relationship with his mother? In the end, perhaps love was stronger for being disguised. Clara had never ceased declaring her love right up until the day she left him. "All right, hotshot, give me a better idea."

  "I ain't got one. I just reckon it's all to do with fate. See, Amanda could've talked to any old journalist, but she picked the one who'd get hung up on it enough to keep going. You said yourself you and Billy are linked by fate."

  "She didn't pick me," said Deacon. "I picked her, or more accurately my editor picked her and sent me off against my will to interview her. Depending on what she was expecting to achieve, she was either lucky or unlucky that events in Billy's life have faint echoes in mine."

  But Terry was not to be dissuaded. "And then there's me. I weren't never going to phone you about Billy, but then I had to because of Walt. And if Mr. Harrison hadn't recognized Tom, I wouldn't have been worried about him dropping me in it, and if you hadn't met old Lawrence and persuaded him to come and hold our hands, then he wouldn't've stuck his nose in about good parenting—" he paused for breath—"and I wouldn't be here now. Plus, Barry wouldn't've got pissed and taken himself off to gawp at Amanda and none of us would know that Nigel was still shafting her. That's fate, that is," he finished triumphantly. "Ain't that right, Barry?"

  Barry ducked his head to take off his glasses. He was so tired after the emotional buffeting of the last twenty-four hours that he was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation. "I suppose it depends on whether you think, as my father did, that everything happens accidentally," he said slowly. "He believed there was no purpose to life beyond the furtherance of the species, and that you could either suffer your pointless existence or enjoy it. But to enjoy it you had to plan ahead in order to minimize the threat of unpleasant accidents." He smiled ruefully. "Then he died of a heart attack."

  "Do you agree with him?" asked Deacon curiously.

  "Oh, no, I agree with Terry. I think fate plays a part in our destinies." He replaced his spectacles and sheltered nervously behind them like an inexperienced knight preparing for battle. "I can't help feeling that it doesn't really matter why Verity hanged herself, or not as far as Amanda Powell is concerned anyway." He put a fat finger on Deacon's chart where it said: "Where was Billy in April 1990?" "This is Billy Blake's fate, not Peter Fenton's. Peter Fenton died in nineteen eighty-eight."

  Far away, the bells fell silent as Christmas Day
began.

  Such strange dreams inhabited Deacon's mind that night. He put them down to the fact that he opted for the sofa in order to have Barry and Terry securely shut in bedrooms with himself as a physical barrier between them. But he sometimes thought afterwards that it was too easy to say it was a bad night, coupled with subconscious fears of homosexual rape scams and memories of his father, that led him to dream about James Streeter covered in blood.

  He started out of sleep in a thrashing frenzy at four o'clock in the morning with his mind full of the knowledge that he was James and that he had woken seconds before the final crushing blow that was going to kill him. His face was awash with sweat—blood?—and his heartbeat hammered in the silence of the night. And when the heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet ... Was this a dream? My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt ... Who am I? Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews...

  It soon became clear that the old adage "too many cooks spoil the broth" was a true one. Barry began patiently enough but, faced with Deacon's and Terry's natural incompetence in the kitchen, he progressed rapidly through irritation to outright tyranny. "My mother would have your head for this," he remarked acidly, pushing Deacon away from a bowl of saturated stuffing and transferring it to the sink.

  "How am I supposed to get it right if I don't have a measuring jug?" asked Deacon sulkily.