Eoin Miller 02 - Old Gold

by Stringer, Jay

“In your classes?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “How about personal problems? Did he have a girlfriend, any problems there?”

  He paused. Not much, but enough for me to notice.

  “No. He didn’t have a girlfriend. He didn’t seem to let things like that get to him. Not like some of the kids we get here who seem to come just to pull, like it’s one long game of kiss chase.”

  “How about his parents? Did Chris feel pressured or harassed? Were there any arguments there?”

  “I thought it was his parents who hired you. Should you be asking about them?”

  “I’ve got to ask about everything. Do you think they were an issue?”

  “No, I—look, all students feels pressured by their parents. Whether their parents are actually doing anything or not, they feel it. I wouldn’t say that’s worth looking into here.”

  I wrote his responses down in my own scruffy version of shorthand. I wanted to see if I could force an error from him. Writing notes in front of him was a simple way to do that.

  “Did he have any enemies on campus, anyone who might feel the need to hurt him or who might make him leave?”

  “None.”

  “And he didn’t drink too much?”

  “Oh no, he didn’t drink at all. Chris didn’t touch alcohol.”

  Strange. That didn’t fit with what his parents had said. I noted it in the book and circled it. I noticed the tutor’s gaze follow my pen as I did. “So what’s your take on it? What do you think has happened to Chris?”

  He looked out of the window for a moment before answering, watching the traffic crawl around the ring road.

  “Honestly, I think he’s OK, and I think he’ll come back when he’s ready, if we leave him to it.”

  “Why? You said he had no problems.”

  He hesitated again, holding something back.

  “Well, nothing big, no, but all kids need time sometimes. You know, a break.”

  “Isn’t that what their semester breaks are for?”

  “Well—”

  “Mr. Lucas, is there anything else you should be telling me?”

  He looked straight into my eyes as he shook his head, leaving a pause between that and answering. I wondered if he used to smoke, the way he kept leaving gaps between thoughts like smokers will when they’ve got a cigarette in their hands. Some people can give up smoking but never give up the habits that go with it.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  I stood up to leave, pocketing my notebook. “OK,” I said. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch with more questions.”

  “Please book in advance.” He shook my hand again. “My days fill up pretty fast.”

  “One last thing. Did you used to smoke?”

  “Why, yes, I did.” He paused. “I stopped about two years ago. Why?”

  “No, no reason.” I smiled it away and left.

  He knew something. It was obvious, hanging in the air.

  If you want to tell what someone’s reaction is when they lie, get them to tell the truth. The pause as he recalled how long ago he’d quit smoking, the length of time it took him to access the truth, told me that he’d been lying to me with his other answers.

  The afternoon had drifted into early evening by the time I got back in the car to drive to Wednesbury. I flinched at the bad smell as I got in and turned the key. The floor was littered with old meal wrappers and empty drinks cartons. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d picked it up or washed it, but I must have left some fried chicken in the back or something. Something else to add to my list.

  I took a longer route than needed because I wanted a little breathing space. I drifted around the main roads and backstreets for a while, guided by the goddess of traffic lights and guitar chords.

  Music helps me think.

  I listened to an old mix CD, Lou Reed taking turns with Marah and the Twilight Singers. It all seemed perfect as I coasted around the town I’d grown up in, the town I couldn’t seem to escape from anymore. The town took its name from the pagan god Woden, a heritage that predates anything the Christians had to say. “God’s Town,” my father would always call it as a joke. There had been a fort dedicated to Woden, sitting on top of the hill that dominated the town, but now that space was taken by two churches, sitting in judgment on everything below.

  Johnny Cash singing “I See a Darkness” with Will Oldham. Acoustic confessional, scary and honest. Johnny Thunder’s “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory.” Even stripped down and acoustic, it was still a sing-along, but my voice threatened to drown out Thunder’s. I crossed over old abandoned train tracks and past empty husks that were factories when I was younger. I drifted into “Crown of Thorns” by Mother Love Bone. I didn’t even remember owning that one, long and miserable, with piano that builds followed by loud and glorious guitar that rips the song a new one.

  I pulled into the street where the Perry family lived and parked at the top. I could see the living room light was on as I approached, and a car was on the drive. I rang the doorbell and waited for a full couple of minutes before the door opened an inch, on a chain, and Stephanie Perry peered out at me. Her expression was blank for a second until she recognized me.

  “Oh,” she said. The door shut, and I heard the chain move. Then the door opened wide, and Stephanie smiled at me.

  “You didn’t call,” she said as she stepped aside so I could enter. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Is it a bad time?”

  “Oh no, no. Not for you. Is it good news?” I could see the hope framing her eyes.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m here, for more information.”

  I followed her into the living room, a brightly decorated space with photos of Stephanie and Chris, one of him in a Wolves football kit. My parents had similar photographs of me as a child. She waved me onto the sofa and asked if I’d like a drink. I asked for a strong coffee.

  While she was gone, I examined the room at closer detail. It was a very feminine room. The furniture and the decorations, the way the photographs were positioned—they all showed a woman’s touch. The only thing that really seemed like it might have been added by Michael or Chris was the widescreen television taking up a whole corner of the room.

  Stephanie walked back into the room carrying two steaming cups.

  “Sorry, Michael’s not back from work. We could have arranged for him to be here if you’d called.”

  I apologized again and sat down with my drink.

  “So you’ve got more questions.”

  “A few, yes. First I’d like to go back over one or two things.”

  She nodded. I sipped my coffee, pleasantly surprised that it was good.

  “You said that Chris liked going out, liked having a good time?”

  “Yes. Not so much lately, I think, but he’s always liked going out.”

  “And part of that is drinking?”

  “Yes, like we said, all boys round here like a drink or two.”

  “But not to excess?”

  “Not enough to be a big problem, if that’s what you’re asking.” I noted the defensiveness in her voice and an empty tumbler glass on the table next to her chair.

  “It’s just that someone else told me today that Chris didn’t touch alcohol.”

  “Well, I can tell you Chris drank. I can also tell you it wasn’t a problem.”

  I gave her my nicest smile, trying to let her know I didn’t doubt her.

  “How about Mr. Perry? Michael? I noticed at the pub he was drinking orange juice. Does he stay off the booze?”

  “Michael stopped drinking a few years ago. It got in the way of his ambitions. You know how it is.”

  “Where would you two go out, back when he was drinking? Local? The city?”

  She paused and then turned the tables on me. “Why?”

  “No reason. My parents used to run a pub just down the road, the Wagons Rest. Did you know it?”

 
“Oh, yes, we went in there quite a lot.” Then her eyes widened a little as she put two and two together. “Oh, you’re one of the boys, Erica’s children, right?”

  “That’s me. Us.”

  “You were such wild kids, I remember. How’s your brother doing? And your sister?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.” I didn’t like talking about my family, so I changed back to the subject at hand. “How are you holding up?”

  She relaxed at this, leaning back into the chair and finally letting the mask drop away. I felt as if it was really the first time I’d met her, and she looked tired.

  “It’s hard,” she said. “It’s so hard. My baby’s out there somewhere. I don’t even know if he’s still out there or if—”

  The words failed her, and I saw the tears welling. I felt a very male indecision, to comfort the crying woman or to leave her alone.

  I chose the safe option and sipped my coffee.

  “How about your husband? How’s he handling it?”

  “Mike? I—He’s hurt, I suppose, yes. He doesn’t show it enough, but it’s there.”

  I felt something nagging at the back of my mind again, the way it had when I met them in the pub.

  “Is it affecting your relationship? The two of you?”

  She laughed, and the tears were gone in an instant. The defensive wall had appeared again.

  “No, it’s not going to split us up.”

  “Mrs. Perry—”

  “Steph.”

  “Steph. Is there anything you didn’t want to tell me in front of your husband yesterday? I sensed tension between you two.”

  “Isn’t there always tension between parents?”

  I let it go at that.

  “And you really can’t think of anything that would make Chris run away? Anything he’d be particularly upset about?”

  “He’d seemed happier lately, more sure of himself. I can’t think of anyone less likely to run away.”

  “He had an appointment with his university mentor last Thursday. Do you have any idea what it could have been about?”

  “No. Aren’t you going to ask his mentor?”

  “Yes, I’ll be seeing him again to go over the details.”

  “Again? So you’ve already talked to him? Is he the one who said I was lying?”

  “No, nobody questioned what you’ve said. I didn’t mean to imply they had. It’s just different people’s impressions of your son seem to be different.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What time will your husband be home from work?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He could be a while yet.”

  “Well, I can catch him another time. I’ll call ahead next time so that you both know I’m coming.” I smiled. “Have you got the details of Chris’s friends?”

  “Yes.” She beamed. “I wrote it all down.”

  She rummaged in her bag and handed me a sheet of paper with names and phone numbers.

  “This will be a great help,” I assured her. “Honestly, I think Chris is OK. And I’m going to find him.”

  I felt sorry for her, trying not to show how upset she was, but there was still something that didn’t sit right.

  Something I couldn’t place.

  I don’t really follow a logical progression for finding people. I just nag away at it the way you work a Magic Eye puzzle. Stare at the problem long enough, and the answer pops out. Another piece of the puzzle that was nagging at me was something I caught her with just before I left.

  “How about Michael’s political stuff? Is that causing any problems?”

  She didn’t answer, just shrugged. That seemed to convey a lot more than any white lie or platitude would have done. There was something there, and I knew I was looking right at it.

  I parked outside my mother’s house. I didn’t go in straightaway. Something kept me in the car for a long time. Her cat, Rollo, sat on the wall beside the car and stared at me. It became a brief battle of wills. He didn’t invite me in and I didn’t run him over. I climbed out of the car and rang the front doorbell. Mum answered pretty much straightaway. She tried to hide the surprise on her face, covering it with happiness. She pulled me into a hug as I stepped through the door and did that thing where you get kissed on the cheek whether you like it or not.

  I followed her into the living room, and she motioned for me to sit on the sofa after she cleared away some newspaper. She disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the kettle boiling. I sat alone, staring at the photographs on the wall.

  Me, my brother, and sister.

  Family memories.

  Strangers.

  There was a photo of me and my father in front of a vardo, a traditional Gypsy wagon, grinning like fools. I’d never actually seen anyone living in one of those, but some families had them as showpieces. The smiles in the photo held my attention, the same grin on faces separated by age. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen that smile on either of us, but it just drifted into the last time I’d seen him, the time he’d called me a failure. I thought of the last time I’d seen my brother, his arm pressed into my throat, his mouth saying he was going to kill me.

  Mum handed me a mug of warm tea and sat opposite me. Born and raised in the area, she still carried the warmth of her Irish grandparents. It made her open and caring, always seeming full of love and life. She was all the things I was not.

  “How long’s it been, Eoin?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Her eyes dimmed a little, and that made the lines around them show up. My mum was in her fifties, and healthy for it, but she looked old when she worried.

  She peered at me over her cup. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Better? What do you mean?”

  “Well, have you spoken to, what’s his name, that Scottish psychia—”

  “Dr. Guthrie, no.”

  She paused, then shrugged, as everyone did when they hit my brick wall. “Good to see you, anyway.”

  “Do you remember a local couple, used to drink in the pub, the Perrys?”

  It took a second to register, and then the dimness in her eyes turned to something hard and cold.

  “Oh,” she said, “you’re running one of your errands. Who’s it for this time, those Asian guys?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  She just shook her head and looked at me as though I’d killed the cat.

  “Sorry, Mei. It’s just something important I’m working on, that’s all. I need to find out what they were like, what they are like.”

  She nodded and played along, but the warmth didn’t come back to her voice.

  “The Perrys, you said? Name rings a bell.”

  I described them, and she nodded.

  “Yes. I know who you mean now. Steph and, what was his name, Mick? Mark? The copper, that’s what I remember. Your dad never trusted him. Well, you know what he thought of the police.”

  Only too well.

  “They were regulars for a while. Strange couple. She was always really nice, got involved, you know? Always asking if she could help arrange quizzes and things like that. But him? Not a bit of it. Always seemed uncomfortable.”

  “Why, was there anything about him that stood out, anything to make you worry about him?”

  “Worry? No. We just wrote him off as a cop, you know? He thought he was above us or something. But then, most of the town did too. Nothing strange about him that way.”

  “When did they stop coming in?”

  “Well, I think he started drinking somewhere else. The Spring Tavern or something, if I remember what your dad said. She kept coming in for a while after that, but they had a son to look after, and I guess she drew the short straw.”

  “The Spring? Isn’t that the Coley pub?”

  The Coley family were another with a bad reputation like ours. I don’t know if theirs was any more or less earned. They’d been a family of Gypsies who’d settled down between the world wars, so they were firmly established as locals by th
e time I was born. They had the usual rumors that followed them around—criminal activities like theft and poaching. My dad had always told me never to believe any of it, that it was racist bullshit. But he’d still always told me not to associate with them. My brother had fallen in with them for a time before he left town, one of the many cracks in our family’s relationships.

  What did it mean if Perry had fallen in with them too? Was that one of the things he wanted to keep locked away in the closet?

  “Did he seem honest? I mean, would he have been on the take from the Coleys?”

  “All cops are on the take, right?”

  The look in her eyes bored into my soul. I left it at that. I gave her a frosty hug at the front door. She didn’t say it had been wonderful. She didn’t tell me to come again soon. The cat came to laugh me away at the car.

  I drove back to my house through habit.

  I stood in the driveway. I lost track of how long I was there, staring in through the windows of my own house. I just kept picturing the photographs on my mum’s wall. Family life. The past. A lie.

  I got back in the car and drove to the flat. I sat down in the darkness broken by the television. I felt alone, but it didn’t feel bad. The bottle of whiskey I’d bought a few nights ago was still mostly full, and I sat with it keeping me warm. An old black-and-white film was playing on the TV, which got me thinking about the hooker I’d slept with and our conversation about the old femme fatales. My thoughts drifted to Bauser and Chris and then settled on Mary for a long time.

  I watched a few repeated BBC comedies before making my way to the bedroom. The bottle was light in my hand, and I noticed just how much I’d drunk. The bottle had about a third left in it, sloshing about at the bottom, begging to be finished.

  The drink can creep up on you if you’re not careful. I slipped off my clothes and climbed into bed. Lying there in the dark, I was haunted by a strange feeling, a cold rush up my spine. I switched the bedside lamp on.

  Mary was sitting on the bed next to me. Not saying a word.

  I looked away.

  “Go away,” I said. “You’re not really here. I’m drunk.”

  When I steeled myself to look again, she had gone.