A Death Divided

by Clare Francis

  ‘You all right, Alan?’

  He made a small circle of one hand, a lift of a shoulder that was a greeting, a shrug and an expression of dejection all rolled into one. ‘Fine, Joe.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ ‘

  ‘Of course!’ With a nervous laugh, Alan took a jerky step backwards and closed the door behind Joe, plunging them into a gloom relieved only by the reflection of the floodlights through the barred window.

  Joe would have moved towards the consulting room, but Alan showed no signs of following.

  ‘My friend from the office,’ Joe began. ‘She explained that I was abroad? She told you why I couldn’t call?’

  ‘Yes, but listen, Joe,’ Alan said in a headlong rush. ‘The business with the property. I did try to explain to your lady. I did try to tell her. We’re grateful, very grateful, but we’ve decided we don’t want to be bothered with that just now. I’m sorry if you’ve gone to any trouble, Joe, I really am, but we can’t be dealing with it at the moment. We really can’t!’

  ‘What is it, Alan? What’s happened?’

  In the dim light Alan made the same lost gesture as before, but now the hand spun wildly, in a wheeling motion that came down against his thigh with a thud.

  Joe said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Alan,’ and, putting a hand on the drooping shoulder, led him down the passage.

  The consulting room had an undulating plywood ceiling and fluorescent lighting which revealed chips in the wooden desk, fading in the blue vinyl floor and gleams of condensation on the metal window-frames. The same brutal light exposed the pouches under Alan’s eyes, the tension around his mouth and the frown-lines that crisscrossed his forehead like ravines.

  ‘Trying to catch up on the paperwork.’ Alan indicated the stacks of files on his desk. ‘Every day new government initiatives and targets and funding schemes. Alice in Wonderland stuff!’ He lowered himself into his chair like an old man, taking most of his weight on the chair arms.

  Sitting down opposite, Joe asked, ‘What’s happened?’

  Alan cast around uneasily before brightening suddenly. ‘I almost forgot! I was going to ring and tell you. Your father’s window? It was like I thought. Some boys from the estate. Not bad boys, Joe, Just kids who took a joke too far. Throwing stones. Larking about. And, well’ - his face creased up ruefully - ‘your dad might have antagonised them a bit. Shouted at them for riding their bikes on the pavement. You know.’

  Joe knew.

  ‘I’ve had a word with them. Explained the situation. I don’t think they’ll bother him again.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a miracle worker.’ But the real miracle was that the kids hadn’t reported him for harassment, that he hadn’t been spat on by the parents or had his tyres let down, that there was still a corner of the world where communities managed to sort out a few of their own problems.

  ‘So?’ Joe prompted him.

  Alan’s eyes hunted around the room once more before venturing up to meet Joe’s. ‘A call.’

  ‘Jenna?’

  When he nodded, the dread stirred in Joe’s stomach. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Things aren’t good, Joe.’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  Alan blinked a sudden brilliance from his eyes. ‘Not ill.

  Well, I don’t think she’s ill. I don’t know! Maybe she is ill.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Fear. She’s living in a state of fear, Joe! That’s what she said. Fear!’

  ‘Of what? Who?’

  They exchanged a look of mutual incomprehension.

  ‘Well, of him, Joe. Of him.'

  Joe made an exclamation of disbelief, partly to hide his shock, partly to give himself time. ‘But that’s ridiculous, Alan.

  I simply don’t believe it. Not Chetwood!’ Even as he said this, he was wondering if it could possibly be true. ‘Why on earth would she be frightened of him? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You’re asking me, Joe? You’re asking why anyone would want to hurt my beautiful girl? You’re asking me how he could do this to her? If I knew. If I knew.’ Alan made a gesture straight from his European roots, a reaching up of one palm, as if to demand an answer of God himself.

  ‘Well, I can tell you straight away, Alan, Chetwood could never be violent. He’s just not the sort. He always loathed violence in every shape and form. Really, Alan - it can’t be that.’

  But Alan wasn’t listening. He had propped his elbows on the piles of paper and buried his head in his hands. ‘All these years she’s been desperate for help. All these years she’s needed me, and I’ve done nothing.’

  Joe got up and reached across the desk to squeeze his shoulder. ‘But there’s nothing you could have done, old fellow.

  Even supposing this is true. Really - what could you have done?’

  ‘I could have searched for her.’

  ‘But you did search. You did all you could.’

  ‘Not enough, Joe. Not enough.’

  Sitting down again, Joe said firmly, ‘Tell me about the phone call. What did Jenna say exactly? How did she sound?’

  Alan lifted his head again. ‘Sound? I don’t know. You’d have to ask Marc.’

  Joe was very still. ‘Marc?’

  ‘He took the call.’

  It was all Joe could do not to snort aloud. ‘I see. And how did that come about?’

  ‘He was in the house, waiting for us to get back. He picked up the phone.’

  ‘Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?’ Joe muttered, just loudly enough to be heard. ‘In fact, that probably explains everything.’

  Alan looked at him with a pained expression.

  ‘Well, forgive me, Alan, but we only have Marc’s word for what was said. And he’s hardly likely to play it down, is he?

  ‘You’re quite wrong, Joe,’ Alan said in a voice that quivered slightly. ‘Marc was careful to write everything down. Straight after Jenna called. Every word. So there’d be no mistake. He , was determined to get it right, you see. He knew it was important to get it right.’

  Several thoughts occurred to Joe. That it was typical of Marc to be so meticulous. That it was remarkably convenient that he had been the one to take the call. That Marc wasn’t going to be too upset if the whole episode got blown up out of all proportion.

  ‘Okay,’ Joe said. ‘So according to this immaculate record of Marc’s what did Jenna say?’

  ‘Well, I’d only be going by memory…’

  ‘As close as you can.’

  ‘She said … let me think, Joe, let me get it right.’ Alan pressed the fingertips of both hands to his forehead. ‘What she said was … that she didn’t dare speak for long. That she was taking a terrible risk even calling. That he would’ - Alan stalled abruptly, eyes brimming - ‘he would kill her if he found out.’

  Somewhere beyond the window an animal screeched in eerie lament: cat, fox, bird, Joe could never tell.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know.’

  ‘She didn’t ask for help?’

  Alan looked up sharply and shook his head.

  ‘She didn’t ask to speak to you or Helena?’

  Alan was getting flustered. ‘No. I… I don’t know.’

  ‘She didn’t send you her love?’

  This earned Joe an open glare of reproach.

  ‘Or ask if you were well? Or how you’d enjoyed your birthday? Anything apart from this speech that Marc has managed to record in perfect detail? I’m sorry, Alan, but if we’re going to talk about people being seriously frightened, I think it’s important to get the facts straight.’ Not caring for the badgering note in his voice, he added in milder tone, ‘Look, is Marc around? Can we get him on the phone?’

  ‘But what other facts do we need?’ Alan cried. ‘She’s under duress. That’s all we need to know!’

  ‘Duress?’ Joe took an instant dislike to this word, which smacked of a thousand cheap American TV dramas. ‘I’m not even sure I know what that means, Alan.’

/>   ‘Well, that’s the term they use, isn’t it? I’m sure that’s what Marc said. That’s the term the police use.’

  Joe stared at him. Now he understood everything. ‘The police are involved?’

  Alan nodded mutely and began to shuffle papers.

  ‘Marc’s idea, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. No/ It’s what we all want, Joe! It’s the only way to find her.’

  ‘It’s going to be a full search?’

  ‘That’s what they said. That’s what they promised.’

  ‘Starting when?’

  ‘Now. Already. Yesterday.’

  And still the implications were sinking in. ‘On the premise that Jenna’s in danger?’

  ‘Yes, Joe. Yes!’

  ‘So Chetwood’s going to be under suspicion of - what? assault? For God’s sake, Alan - this is mad. This has gone way too far. An accusation like that - it could ruin people’s lives.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about ruining people’s lives,’ Alan stated with ragged dignity.

  Joe nodded in rapid surrender. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Of course you must find her. You’re right.’ Getting up, he paced the room and found himself looking at a stack of children’s picture books. ‘For what it’s worth, Alan, Jenna seems to be back in Hereford. I didn’t bother to tell you before because well, to be honest I never dreamt she’d get to see the thing but I placed an ad in a local paper, asking her to call me.’ He explained about the postmark and the Hereford Times.

  Alan seemed to absorb this information with difficulty; he asked Joe to repeat every detail. The postmark. The name of the paper. ‘And when was this again, Joe? When did this advertisement appear?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  Alan shook his head and kept shaking it while he said, ‘No, no, Joe, it can’t have been your advertisement she saw. No, it’s not possible. You see, the call came some days ago.’

  For the second time in as many minutes, Joe stared at him.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Four days ago? No, three.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I…’ He cast around the room as if for confirmation.

  ‘Tuesday?’

  Joe understood then. Immediately after his coffeehouse meeting with Ines on Monday night, she’d called Chetwood and told him. And Jenna had found out. Maybe Jenna had overheard the phone call, maybe Chetwood had lied about not having told her. Either way, she’d decided to call home, to make contact again, to cry a little over lost time, to talk about a reunion. But instead of her parents she’d got her brother. Yes - he was beginning to like this story - she’d got Marc, who’d started to get difficult, demanding to know where she was, making her thoroughly defensive, and she’d told him she was taking a risk even speaking to him because … He was stuck for a while. Because they were on the run? The old-fashioned phrase appealed to him. On the run. Or - almost as good - in hiding. Yes: they were in hiding and Chetwood would give her hell if he caught her on the phone. He would ‘kill’ her if he found out. Yes, this had to be the story, surely: it was neat, it fitted the facts, and, best of all, the plot demanded no villains.

  ‘Tell me,’ Joe said, ‘after Jenna called, did Marc try last number recall?’

  Alan seemed confused.

  ‘Did he dial 1471 to find out where the call had come from?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Joe looked at the punished face, the baffled expression of injury, the way Alan’s breath was coming in short gasps, and said gently, ‘Why don’t you leave the paperwork, old fellow?

  Go home and have some rest?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Have you had any dinner?’

  ‘Helena’s left me something.’

  ‘She’s not at home?’

  ‘Her evening at the community centre. She organises sing-alongs for the pensioners.’

  ‘Come on, then. Why don’t I pick up a takeaway and the two of us find ourselves a nice bottle of wine?’

  They ate curry and cold meat with a bottle of Australian Shiraz. By the end of the meal some of the life had come back into Alan’s face; he laughed at the memory of the summer holiday in Torbay when it had rained every day, he talked about Jenna with some of his old pride. They promised they would go on their much-postponed hill walk over the Christmas holiday. Only at the door did his smile falter.

  When Joe reached his father’s house no lights were showing, but a key had appeared on the nail in the shed. Inside the house the temperature was icy. In recompense, an ancient hot-water bottle had been placed on Joe’s old bed. He knew better than to leave this token of hospitality unused and, going down to the kitchen, filled it through an alarmingly perished neck to the sweet smell of ripening apples.

  The day was dark with low scudding cloud. Dawn had glimmered into uncertain life an hour before, but for all the light it had brought it could have been dusk already. Through the murk, the motorway service area blazed with the jaunty illuminations of retail festivity. Flashing lights chased around the shopping arcade, dwarf Christmas trees spiked the roof, while inside the entrance an ungainly youth in a Santa outfit tried to force leaflets into unwilling hands. The tinny treble of ‘Jingle Bells’ set up a feeble accompaniment to the rumble of the traffic heading away for the holiday.

  It was five to ten when Joe stationed himself on a corner of the sprawling car park, within sight of the arcade entrance. He had set off before seven, driving across country on minor roads, and arrived an hour early. Over a cup of coffee and a spongy croissant, he’d skimmed a newspaper and watched the motorists traipsing through the arcade, a shuffling band of Lycra pilgrims in tight-fitting tracksuits and scruffy trainers.

  When he took up his position outside, the wind was skirring sleet around the arc-lights, the racing clouds seemed barely to clear the trees, and the only colour that pierced the gloom was the rear lights of the maneuvering cars.

  At ten past ten, Joe walked along the edge of the car park and back again, before stationing himself a little closer to the arcade entrance. The sound system was croaking ‘White Christmas’ and by the doors the scrawny Santa had stopped someone to ask him the time. A party of senior citizens streamed past, twittering and whooping in the wind as their hair and coats were swept before them. A child in a pushchair howled at full volume, an adult shouted to be heard, and down the embankment six lanes of traffic thundered past.

  At twenty past ten, Joe told himself Chetwood wasn’t coming. Five minutes later, he decided to give him ten more minutes, knowing full well he’d make it thirty. Chetwood’s grip on time had always been tenuous. Only planes and films had ever brought him close to punctuality. Though once - a small stab of memory - he’d actually been early. When Jenna first came down to Bristol Chetwood had arrived at the pub well before anyone else. Joe saw him now, waiting in a corner seat, deep in some esoteric reading matter, looking up with surprise, clambering awkwardly to his feet to greet them, gazing at Jenna with an oddly diffident smile. Later, when the rest of the gang arrived and the meal began, Joe had a picture of Chetwood watching Jenna, listening with quiet attention, letting other people do most of the talking, casting an occasional smile in Joe’s direction, as if to say: lucky man, good choice. But she’s not mine, Joe had wanted to argue. And in the next instant; I’m not sure she ever will be.

  He couldn’t remember how the meal had ended, but he had the impression that Chetwood had vanished before the party broke up. At the station, when Joe saw Jenna onto the train, she’d said, ‘I liked your tall friend.’ He had a memory of her giving a jokey wave, a neat imitation of a windsereen wiper, from the train as it gathered speed.

  The wind seemed to have reached storm force. Wires were strumming, and, somewhere close by, metal was, vibrating in intermittent crescendo. Joe’s feet had gone numb, and the feeling was going in his nose.

  It was ten to eleven. Chetwood wasn’t coming; perhaps he had never intended to come. It wouldn’t be the first time he had stood Joe up. Even as he thought this,
he heard a quiet voice at his elbow.

  ‘Watcha, Joe.’

  He spun round. ‘For God’s sake,’ he laughed.

  They embraced.

  ‘Where the hell did you spring from?’ Joe demanded with another laugh.

  ‘Good to see you, Joe.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Too long.’

  Chetwood seemed taller, or at least thinner, an effect of his haircut perhaps, which was positively short by past standards, close at the sides and not much longer on top. His eyes had gathered a few lines, and his forehead too, and there was a faint patch of colour high on each cheek, like skin scoured by long exposure to the wind. But his face was as striking as ever, with the steady black eyes and the dark eyebrows that swept out like paint strokes and the fine-drawn mouth over white teeth. ‘Come on!’ Chetwood beckoned with a shiver, as if Joe had been the one keeping them from the warmth. Walking down the arcade, he declared, ‘The places we meet, Joe. Never let it be said I don’t bring exotica into your life. Where was it last time?’

  ‘Gresham Gardens.’

  ‘That tandoori house in Cricklewood,’ he said, talking across Joe’s words. ‘The place with the curried dog meat and those suspicious raisins. A little too black for comfort, didn’t you think? And what about Bristol? That caff with the teeth-curdling tea and the anaemic eggs and, the brassy bacon. Yes, Joe, never let it be said we don’t hit the gastronomic high spots.’ He led the way into the Happy Wayfarer and up to the servery. ‘And here we have the best of British cuisine. Isn’t that right?’ - this to the girl behind the counter.

  ‘Yes?’ She held her spatula like a weapon.

  ‘Your very best breakfast, please.’

  ‘The Great English?’ With a stabbing motion of the spatula, she gestured towards the bill of fare on the wall over her head.

  ‘Is that what you recommend?’

  ‘It comes with everything.’

  Chetwood threw out a hand. ‘Well, everything’s what I’ve always wanted.’

  The girl’s eyes flickered dangerously.

  Chetwood said, ‘He’ll have the same.’

  ‘No, no,’ Joe said hastily. ‘Just coffee for me.’