Beyond Angel Avenue

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  She wipes her eyes and nose again and whispers, “Yes.”

  She stands and tries to look at all the papers strewn across my desk. I should roll it all up and toss it all onto the fire downstairs, but… I can’t. Maybe, she could actually help. Jules may be the link in the chain. She sits behind my desk and after shuffling through a few things, she turns to me and admits, “It’s my dream.”

  “The one you had in May?”

  “There’s been no other like it since,” she says. Her eyes dart around as she searches her memory. “I just run it over and over in my mind. It’s like there was a reason I remember it all so well. I keep thinking there’s meaning to it all. I mean, look… I dreamt about Joe doing, you know… and that came true.”

  I inwardly baulk. “Don’t remind me of that.”

  “Then, I dreamt Anna died and I read up on the meaning of dreams and someone dying sometimes means they’re entering a new era in their lives. Maybe, that’s what that meant. Plus, you died in my dream too. Now you’ve quit your job and you’re doing something else. So, I don’t know? What do you think?”

  “Could be,” I agree, nodding along.

  “But the rest, the rest of it seemed all so real… so raw… there’s some meaning there I don’t yet understand. There has to be something.”

  She goes back to sifting through the pages and she tells me slowly, “You know how I said I still see Mum?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s because she’s trying to show us the way, I know it.”

  I don’t know that, nor do I feel it, but whatever beliefs she has – if they make the day go smoother, they’re fine by me. I stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders. I massage her weary bones and wonder if I should force her back to bed. She has an early start tomorrow. She leans forward onto my desk and puts her head in her hands. “The dream… it must be a throwback somehow. There’s something, something here… I don’t know what it is. There’s something in my mind screaming for release, but I just can’t lift it from the archives. I don’t know which file it’s in or what I’m even looking for, but I know it’s there. Wait…”

  She taps her forehead, something triggering a memory maybe. “I dreamt something, but I remember… it’s actually a real memory. I was three and I was sat on Mum’s lap. I had a big doll. It seemed huge. It was my birthday present. Her friend Kim was in town and popped by. Mum seemed delighted to see Kim. For some reason, I remember being aware Kim was younger than Mum but had been in the same year at school as her. Anyway my father walked in the door grumpy that day, went upstairs to take his work clothes off and Kim said he seemed like a man in trouble. The only thing that seems odd to me now is that when my father walked in through the door, he said something like, ‘What’s she doing here?’ like he knew Kim already. But how could he have done? He was three years older than Mum so that would have meant even though Kim was bumped up a couple of years at school because she was so brainy, she was at least five years younger than Dad. Also, Kim had been out of town for years, she said, working away. She left her hometown when she was young, I’d bet, with the brains she had.”

  “Okay, there could be something here,” I reassure her, kneeling to look into her frightened eyes. I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek. “Let’s rationalise this. So… there was a familiarity there between your dad and Kim, who later called herself Miranda. They knew each other all those years ago. Somehow? But how? If she was just an old school buddy of your mother’s… it doesn’t make sense…”

  “Kim went to their wedding or something… I don’t know?”

  I look into her eyes and ask, “In your mother’s things, were there any old school photos featuring Kim? Were they close or acquaintances? If they weren’t close, it seems odd Kim would pop by for a visit after so many years. A photograph might not explain how your father knew her face, but we don’t know…”

  Jules shakes her head. “Mum kept absolutely nothing from childhood. The only things I have of hers are photo albums with pictures of me. Lots of pictures of me…”

  Her mind wanders and she looks at me. “I may have something.”

  She crosses the room to the sideboard running alongside the wall by her desk. We keep all our photo albums and certificates in there. She drags out an album and brings it over, explaining, “Mum wrote my age inside every album, one for each year. I know this is three because I’ve studied all of these closely but I never knew until now the significance of this…”

  She pulls open the album and sure enough, the first shots are pictures of Jules’ third birthday party, featuring lots of cake and balloons and babies crawling around. Following those are lots of pictures of Jules at the playground, or swimming, at the park or baking in the kitchen with her mother. There aren’t any pictures of Lorraine, though. Which I think is odd. Maybe she was always behind the camera or something?

  We get to the third or fourth page and there is a picture Lorraine must have taken. Kim has Jules on her knee and the doll is in the image, too.

  The resemblance is immediately blinding. The woman we saw a few months ago was different and had been made to look different to hide her true identity. She’d also aged, of course, and we’d not realised then what the deal was. Kim used to have black hair but her features are very similar to Jules’.

  “Mum had black hair too. I wonder if she wasn’t my mother’s sister? I don’t know why I never noticed until now except, I haven’t looked at these photos in years. Now I’m older, I can see how much alike my mother and aunt must have been.”

  I grunt. “This explains how your dad knew her without introduction, and why he disregarded her that day when you were small. Some family rivalry, or jealousy. Maybe it made him nervous, knowing she was a cop. It still doesn’t explain how she ended up being his care worker.”

  “It also doesn’t explain why Mum never mentioned I had an aunt, but then again, she never talked about any of her family. I never met my grandparents or any of them. They all went back to Poland when I was young, apparently.”

  It all slots into place like the last brick in a wall. My head fills with the explanation and I reel off quickly, “She finds out your dad’s ill so she spots an opportunity. She’s after Fitzgerald, on some personal vendetta.”

  “Oh my god!”

  “She’s lied about this whole thing. She’s just after Fitzgerald. That’s all she cares about. Everyone else is caught in the crossfire.”

  Jules’ eyes water. “I wonder if…”

  “…your mum tried to save your father but it ended up getting her killed.”

  A sob escapes her mouth and she throws her arms around me.

  “I think she heard your father was dying and something in her snapped, made her realise this was maybe her one, last chance. Maybe she thought in his last days, he would come clean about what really happened to your mother… or hoped he’d finally rat out Ronnie.”

  Jules gathers her breath. “Did Janice know… did she… know Kim?”

  “Perhaps… but I think we should really get to bed now.”

  She nods wearily and we trudge back to bed together, sliding under the covers. She kisses me goodnight and murmurs, “Never withhold again. Promise me. We’re in this together. I love you so much.”

  “I can’t help wanting to protect you.”

  She lifts up and her eyes shine midnight-purple in the dark. “I survived all that… and you think I need protecting?”

  I smirk. “You’re right.”

  “Finally, he admits it.”

  We chuckle quietly but neither of us is going to drop off easily and she adds, “I’m scared of what we may discover. I’m scared and afraid. I’m scared of things out there in the world I don’t want to know about. I want to stay in our happy bubble and never leave. You’ve made me beyond happy, beyond anything I ever imagined happiness could be.”

  “I’m here Jules, I’m not going anywhere. I love you and our family so very much, you know that, right?”

  “I know. I j
ust get so afraid sometimes, I can’t actually say how I’m feeling without it coming out all wrong. I don’t trust happiness, I never have done, not since Mum. Sometimes, I find it easier to languish in morbid despair because it’s what I know and it’s all the same and it never changes. I can’t explain it except it must be a coping mechanism and maybe my ignorance all these years has been my saviour, I don’t know.”

  She rests tight in my arms. “You need sleep sweetheart.”

  I curl my fingers into her hair and stroke her long strands. She falls asleep within minutes. Meanwhile I lay awake, wondering how I’m going to tackle Janice. The woman knows something, and obviously – she’s caught up in it all.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Warrick

  The morning after, and Jules is off to work. I’m staring hard at her arse as she bends over to put Harry’s car seat inside the vehicle. She’s wearing a smart jumpsuit and god knows those teenage boys are going to get A stars this year, if only to please Mrs Jones. My Mrs Jones. I grin to myself as she waves, her bum shaking as she walks round the car.

  “Love you. Pasta bake for tea.”

  “Love you.” She blows me a kiss.

  I walk back into the house, deafened by the sound of Joe making his morning shake. I’m sure he’s trying to break the blades on that thing with all the stuff he puts in his drinks.

  I tap my watch and warn him. “You better get a wriggle on. Mrs Jones first period, right?”

  He gurns. “Do not remind me. I’m gonna get it all day, asking if I’ve seen her naked and stuff.”

  The machine quiets down and he pours his drink into a big, clear glass. I can see all sorts floating in that concoction. If it were me, I’d probably be holding my nose trying to swallow that stuff. Three seconds later, he’s grabbing his bag from the hall and carrying his bike lock.

  “Have a good day. Don’t do anything to embarrass your stepmother.”

  He groans. “She’s not your normal stepmother, though, is she?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Joe leaves the house and when all is quiet, I shoot upstairs and put a suit on. Ten minutes later, I’m out of the door.

  Janice might be frightened. She might be being watched. I’ve taken all these things into consideration but I have to take this risk. My wife’s whole life has been affected by this and she needs to know the truth, so do I.

  The £50,000 we found in the mattress is in the safe at home and so far, I haven’t touched it and neither has Jules, because she doesn’t know it’s even there. She doesn’t even realise we have a safe. I found it behind a cupboard one day, shortly after we moved. It was listed on the plans but Jules was pregnant then and she didn’t need to know, neither did she ask if the house had one. For all I know, she may have seen it one day, but she doesn’t know the code.

  Today, I feel like I should’ve brought some of that money along with me. I might need it, but I don’t know. Will Janice talk?

  Crossing the bridge for the first time in a few months, I feel uneasy. I feel wrong. There’s something about all this that doesn’t smell right.

  As I’m driving, I have to take into consideration the unknown danger. What if someone knows I have evidence on Janice? How deep does the corruption go?

  I have an idea, and, I have to hope it works.

  I park up in the town centre of Jules’ childhood and walk to the solicitors dealing with the closure on the farm. Maybe if I’m spotted hanging around the place, word will get back to Nosey Janice. I don’t exactly fit the norm round here and a guy in a suit with shaggy hair – there’s few matching my description here. She’s bound to get word if I hang around a bit, eke this out.

  I step into the office and I’m greeted by the secretary Jules hates. I can’t remember her first name but she always has a smile for me.

  “Mr Jones, what can we help you with?”

  It hits me. The secretary’s in on this, too. The whole sodding town might be. All bought and paid for.

  “I was in the area and wanted to see if there was anything I could do that would help speed up the sale of the farm?”

  She purses her lips, such fat, ruby lips dripping with slaver. “Mr Jones, as I told you on the phone, we have no control. The buyers want to know if they can build on that land behind the house otherwise they may withdraw. It’s planning permission we’re waiting on, and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Okay then,” I run my hand through my hair, “guess I’ll have to be more patient, although we’re actually waiting on the money so we can build a community centre. My wife and I are very involved in protecting and serving our community.”

  Hand in my pocket, I hope to god she bites. “Well, I do have a friend…”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “It’ll cost, though.”

  “Okay…”

  “We could try to help push the surveys through and force the council to make a decision a bit quicker, but that might require a little donation.”

  “Little?”

  “One thousand pounds?”

  “Cheque okay?”

  “Yes!!”

  She looks surprised I actually agreed. I’m not going to tell her I’m writing a cheque which will most certainly bounce – because there’s no money in our account, not a penny. Everything’s on credit cards at the minute. Anyway, after Miss Secretary has made one, small phone call to a friend on the council (a call she’s happily going to charge me £1,000 for and donate to her lipstick fund no doubt) it’ll be too late and she’ll realise she’s been had.

  I hand over a cheque from my pocket. I’m wasting time but I’d rather waste it without her dodgy perfume gassing me out.

  “See you then. I hope to see movement very soon.”

  “Not staying for a coffee?” She folds the cheque and puts it in her bra, imagining I’m as dodgy as she is.

  “Gotta run, bye!”

  Outside, I hope the eagle’s in the nest and she’s ready to finally lay her eggs.

  I wander the town, pick up some food from the bakery and a coffee from a hutch near the bus station. I’m wandering about when a young lad whispers to me, “Janice says be at her house in ten.”

  I nod without replying and continue prancing round town like I got lost on my way to somewhere better. Men and women shuffle round me with their coats buttoned up, faggies hanging out of their mouths, shopping baskets dragging behind them as they navigate the blustery streets.

  How did Jules survive this? All these people, shuffling round, hating their lives or not bothered at all – because this is all they’ve ever known. Nobody smiles at me as I wander the streets.

  Nobody.

  I step into Amy’s shop and get knocked sideways by the smell of incense. She’s carrying a baby in a papoose against her and squeals, “Warrick Jones!”

  We hug and she remarks, “Like the longer hair. Looks great.”

  “I used to have it like this when I first met Jules. I think it suits me better.”

  “It does. So, what are you doing round here?”

  I survey the shop, with its various paraphernalia including a rack full of Gothic clothes similar to hers and an array of stick-on tattoos. There’s a sign saying, Tattoo Parlour Upstairs and I’m guessing that’s her boy’s gig.

  “I want a tattoo. I just decided, today. This morning.”

  She chuckles. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Your guy about?”

  “Shugs, you up?” she screams unceremoniously up the stairs. The baby attached to her doesn’t budge an inch, used to the screeching no doubt.

  “Yeah, I’m taking a dump!”

  “Well, after that, you have a customer.”

  Great, so now I’m going to be getting shit injected into my skin today.

  “It’s alright, I’ll come back–”

  Maybe I should make Janice sweat for a bit, though? I don’t know. What am I doing?

  “Coming,” the
voice from upstairs says, and steps thunder down to greet me.

  A big fella stares from beneath black, bushy brows and asks, “Seen you before.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I have,” he says in a West Country accent, “I seen you with Jules, ain’t that right? You was walking round town with her once. I saw’s you.”

  “Oh, right.” Thank goodness he’s not an enemy from a former life of mine.

  “Upstairs then, boy.”

  I don’t know how I got here, but I did. I get into his parlour, which is really a cupboard with a dentist chair inside.

  “What we doing for ya?”

  “Urm, where’s the easiest place to tattoo?”

  “Arm,” he says, gesturing I take the chair and remove my suit jacket.

  I do as he suggests and he guesses, “Little something for the lady?”

  “Yeah, Jules.”

  “Shirt up then. You want something you can hide?”

  “Might be handy, although I don’t care.” I’m not exactly employed anymore.

  “Hmm. Well,” he picks up some templates and shows me some fonts, “if we tattoo her name across your wrist here, you can always look down and see it, like I does with Amy.”

  He shows me his and I remark, “Nice.”

  It’s in some sort of vampiric script and he’s so proud of it, bless him.

  “Big swirls and stuff. She’s a classy lady, she’ll like it you chose big swirls to write her name in.”

  I’m laughing on the inside, and also, a tiny bit horrified.

  He shaves the edge of my wrist and wipes me down. I hear the needles and before I know it, I’m being drawn on. Marked. Branded. Once the initial fear wears off, it feels good actually.

  “Should’ve done this ages ago.”

  “First one, dude?” He grins wryly.

  “I don’t know why… but if there was ever going to be a woman’s name branded on me, it would be hers.”

  He concentrates on getting the huge J right, with a big swirl at the bottom. “Amy talks about her all the time, even though they never talk much anymore.”