Cry for Help

by Steve Mosby

  A minute later I approached a large Victorian house, set back and down from the road. The huge outside walls were soot-black with age, and a driveway curled away out of sight.

  If I closed my eyes I could picture it.

  Behind the building, a garden spread down over three tiers, most of it untended and overgrown now. Outside the front door, washing lines spanned the first level, and the memory associated with this was my mother stretching up to hang out wet clothes, spare pegs clipped to her sleeve. The second garden still had a bare patch of ground from the bonfires my father used to make for some reason known only to himself. I’d managed to reach the age of twenty-eight without needing to build a fire, but he was always burning something. And, at the bottom, a slope of long grass ended in the bushes and fence that marked the edge of my parents’ property. Beyond them, the woods where Owen had been killed.

  My brother was for ever frozen in my memory at the age of twelve. He’d gone out to play in the woods by himself, and my parents hadn’t even realised there might be anything wrong until the police knocked on the door just before tea-time. Owen had been shot in the side by an air-rifle. Someone out walking had found him, curled up on the dusty ground like a caterpillar. Motorists reported seeing a group of older kids that afternoon, leaving the woods at the far end by the ring road, but they were never identified. Teenagers messing around. Over the years, I’ve wondered if they even realised what they’d done.

  I parked up behind the Domestic Goddess van and made my way down the long tarmac drive. There were small trees on either side of the steps at the bottom, grown together overhead to create an arch. I paused underneath, peering up into the dark mass of branches above. I remembered climbing these as a kid - but now I could have reached at least halfway up on tiptoes and touched branches that would never support me again.

  Time moves on.

  My mother’s old clothes-line still hung slackly across the top garden, running from a rusted hook in the house wall to a thick green tree by the fence, and the same grey slabs formed the path. It led to the front door, next to the set of sharp, rusty railings that edged the short drop to the second garden.

  The front door was open. From inside, I could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

  It had been over three years since my mother‘s death, and a year since my father’s, and in the intervening time I’d done absolutely nothing with the property beyond hire Linda - the Domestic Goddess - to come round and clean once a month. The house had been effectively held in stasis while I worked up the resolve to deal with it. The contents had to be boxed up and disposed of. Everything would need redecorating.

  A big job, basically, and I could pretend that was the reason. In truth, it wasn’t the size of the task that daunted me so much as the details. My memories of the first half of my childhood were good, but they were tarnished by the gulf that had developed in my family after Owen died. I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to deal with this place even now, but the events of the last few weeks had sharpened my intent a little.

  If not now, when?

  ‘Linda?’

  I called out and knocked twice on the open door as I went in. She was expecting me - I heard a click, and then the whirr of the vacuum cleaner winding down.

  Linda was in her early forties and pleasantly rounded: a lovely, amiable woman who turned up in old jeans and jumpers and seemed to get a kick out of cleaning. Which is a pretty enviable gene to have. She was standing just outside the kitchen now, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm. As I walked up, she smiled at me and blew hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘Seems fine to me.’ I looked dubiously at the carpet, worn down to a grey grid in the middle, and then at the cream woodchip wallpaper. ‘I’ll have to rip all this out anyway.’

  Linda nodded.

  ‘It’ll be nice when it’s done up. Are you going to sell it?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  For a terrible moment, I imagined moving in here.

  ‘Well, it’ll make someone a nice home,’ she said.

  ‘Here’s hoping.’

  Next to Linda, opposite the kitchen, was the closed door to my brother’s old bedroom. It was the one area of the house I’d asked Linda not to touch. Nobody had been in there since the day Owen died. My parents never threw any of his things away, none of us went in, and the door remained closed. It was an unwritten rule. The room was sealed and buried, like a time capsule.

  Occasionally I’d watch my mother in the kitchen, wrists foam-deep in the sink - and suddenly she’d look around, startled, as though she’d forgotten to do something very important. Then, she’d see that closed door and remember that Owen wasn’t dead after all. He was just in his bedroom, out of sight, and it was all okay. Almost everything my parents did was built around a similar principle.

  ‘It’s fifty, isn’t it?’ I took the money out of my wallet.

  Linda nodded and accepted it, then unplugged the vacuum cleaner. A touch of a button sent the cable clattering back inside.

  Out on the path, she handed me the spare keys and looked up at the tall, looming face of the house with something close to regret.

  ‘I’ll miss working here.’

  ‘You’ve done a great job.’

  I meant it. Obviously, I’d paid her to clean, but there was more to it than that. When I first showed her around, for example, I hadn’t known we’d be faced with more than fifty empty bottles of vodka secreted in the kitchen pantry. They were gone now, and Linda had never mentioned them to me, or done anything at all to underline the moment of complicated shame I’d felt when I saw them. Why didn’t you know how your father spent his last months?

  ‘It’s just time I sorted the place out.’

  ‘I understand. Take care, Dave. Best of luck.’

  ‘You too.’

  After she left, I locked up, and realised this was it: the responsibility for the house rested entirely with me again. Should I take a look around? I decided not to. I already knew about the scale of the job, and it felt like I’d done enough for the moment. One step at a time.

  Back at the car, I turned on the radio and lit a cigarette. Halfway through, the local news came on: a lorry was jack-knifed south-bound on the motorway; a local councillor had been caught forwarding a joke email about Asians; and the police were no closer to catching the killer of Alison Wilcox.

  I put the cigarette out. As I did, my mobile vibrated in my pocket.

  Hi there. Just checking we’re still on for later? Hope so - looking forward to it. Tor xx

  I smiled - she always signed off texts like that - and then sent a reply:

  Definitely still on; looking forward to it too.

  That was the one good thing that had happened recently. Tori had been signed off by the hospital at the end of last week, and we were going to meet up for a drink and a catch-up tonight.

  If it doesn’t work out with her, there’s always me.

  A stupid clump inside my heart twitched at the memory of that, and I reminded myself to forget it. Then I put my phone on the passenger seat and started the engine.

  I met Tori at half past six inside the Sphere. It was an argumentatively-titled rectangular shopping precinct in the centre of town, comprised almost entirely of fashion shops, jewellers and a handful of expensive restaurants, none of which I’d ever felt the need to frequent. I was sitting on a bench on the ground floor. At this time of night the shops were either closed or closing up, but the walkways were still busy with people cutting through after work: suits and students. From one open storey above, beyond the escalators, I could hear the sounds of the cinema crowds and the chatter of slot machines. Nearby, a waitress stacked plates on her arm and carried them in from the terrace, while a lanky security guard meandered past.

  ‘Hey there.’

  Tori nudged me on the shoulder, and I turned around.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I was expecting you from the other way in.’

  She smiled. ‘
Keeping you on your toes.’

  I stood up and we hugged. She turned her face against my chest and we held on for a few seconds - it’s so good to see you - then I rubbed the back of her coat and we parted. I kept my hands on her upper arms for a moment and smiled back.

  ‘Looking fine.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, but I’m a mess and I know it.’

  Well, maybe a little. Her skin was in bad shape, and the make-up she’d used to cover it was a bit patchy, but it didn’t make any difference. Part of Tori’s appeal to me had always been that she was pretty but didn’t care too much about any flaws that made it through - as honest about herself as everything else.

  ‘I think you look fine.’ I held out my arm for her. ‘Shall we?’

  She took it decisively. ‘Let’s.’

  We went to the Ivy, a posh wine bar on the edge of the complex. In a past life it had been an ornate hotel lobby, and it seemed slightly resentful of those better days, like an ancient, impeccably dressed butler reduced to waiting on a family of degenerates. The palm trees dotted around in enormous bulb vases were utterly incongruous. The tables and chairs were all sculpted from black wire, and about half of them were occupied with well-dressed couples, or businessmen impressing guests. I bought a Guinness for me and a Diet Coke for Tori - receiving scant change from a tenner - then we found a place to sit. A gold-plated fan hummed around overhead.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said as we clinked glasses. ‘To your freedom.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s good to be out.’

  ‘And are you okay now?’

  She grimaced, as though she didn’t know how to answer that question. I thought again of when she’d first told me about her illness, and tried to imagine what she was feeling right now.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said. ‘I have someone calling in to see me, but it looks like I’m back on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘For now, anyway.’

  ‘It was strange seeing you there. It wasn’t what I was expecting.’

  Tori looked at me, her head cocked a little quizzically.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d come. I appreciate it.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ Despite myself, I felt crestfallen. If she didn’t remember my visit, then she didn’t remember what she’d said. ‘I was there when Choc was.’

  ‘Choc was there a lot.’ She frowned at that. ‘How was I?’

  I paused, considering the question, but deep down I was thinking:

  If it doesn’t work out with her, there’s always me.

  A part of me had taken that seriously, and now I felt stupidly crushed.

  ‘You were fine,’ I said. ‘I was sad that you were in there, but it was good to see you were doing okay.’

  I smiled at her. All else aside, that much was true.

  ‘It’s always good to see you, in fact.’

  She smiled back. ‘You as well.’

  After that, we chatted about nothing much over a couple of drinks. One of the problems back when we were a couple was that we didn’t have a lot to say to each other, but weren’t together long enough for those silences to be comfortable. In the intervening years, we’d become a lot more relaxed, and even when we were quiet, it was usually okay. Tonight, things felt different. I did my best, but it began to feel like I was wearing a mask with an unconvincing smile painted on it, and that any second she was going to notice. As the evening went on, I searched for any sign this might be more to her than a quiet drink with a friend. There was nothing. I’d been an idiot, and the events of the past month - everything from Emma leaving to what had happened with Eddie - suddenly all seemed present, correct and unbearably heavy.

  By nine o’clock, she was yawning.

  ‘Home time?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll walk you.’

  We crossed the centre, arm in arm, and when we reached her stop the bus was already there, a queue of people boarding it slowly. She turned to me and gave me one of those big, affectionate hugs.

  ‘Oh, it’s been so good to see you. Thank you for everything.’

  I rubbed her back gently. ‘You too. Go on - you’ll miss your bus.’

  ‘Okay. Keep in touch, you.’

  She got on and the doors hissed shut, and the pit in my stomach suddenly doubled in depth because I’d just realised something: I wasn’t going to keep in touch with her. The realisation brought with it a profound sense of sadness, but I knew it was inevitable; it had to be. The mental weight I’d given this evening cast everything in a different light, bringing out sharp, complex angles on surfaces that had previously seemed so smooth and simple.

  Tori waved to me from the aisle as the bus pulled away, and I waved back and thought, ridiculously: I still love you. I don’t think I ever stopped.

  So I don’t think I can have you around anymore.

  And a moment later, she was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday 23rd August

  As she walked along the pavement carrying two heavy shopping bags, so overloaded that the plastic was cutting into her palms, Mary remembered the night her childhood had ended.

  In her mind, she saw two shivering children, struggling through the night. The girl was fifteen years old, walking barefoot in the snow, wearing only a T-shirt. With one hand she was pressing the garment tightly against her skin, trying to hug some heat into her body; with the other, she was clinging onto her brother’s hand, pulling him along behind her. He was almost catatonic, and he walked placidly wherever she led him, apparently oblivious to the tears streaming down her face and the raw skin of her wrists.

  The houses around them were all dark. The girl had no idea where they were going. All she knew was that nobody would help them, and they couldn’t go back. And yet, somehow, she had to look after the little boy she pulled along behind her.

  She was terrified.

  Now, twelve years later, she turned the corner into her street, feeling something similar. The memory had been on her mind a great deal over the past two weeks. Since the Sunday she had made the call to the police, her whole life had felt like it was precariously balanced, ready to tumble in either direction at any moment. She wavered between panic and hope, aware deep down that both emotions were equally dangerous. She mustn’t panic, because that would freeze her up when she had to keep moving forwards. And she mustn’t hope, because nobody would help …

  And then Mary saw him - standing outside her house, up ahead - and felt the balance shift. She recognised him. It was the policeman from the news conference she’d seen on the television that day, and he was looking directly at her. Even as she tried to press it back down, hope flowered beneath her hands. Its petals twirled up through her fingers and she stopped attempting to control it:

  They’ve found him.

  Her heart could have been dancing.

  They listened to you.

  As she approached the house, Mary realised that they’d also found her, and that was less good - she was annoyed with herself for losing concentration and being spotted first. A lifetime spent looking over her shoulder ought to have prepared her better than that. She’d always been so careful in the past, even when there was no need. You were meticulous when you didn’t have to be, so you’d be prepared when you did. And yet all that practice seemed to have failed her now, when it mattered more than ever. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down like that.

  What if it had been someone else?

  The policeman stepped to one side. ‘Mary Carroll?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Any other time she would have been aghast to hear her name being spoken out loud like that. She might have openly denied it, even to a policeman. But today she nodded, then gratefully put the bags down on the tarmac where they half-collapsed, like hot-air balloons crumpling on landing.

  The policeman smiled.

  ‘I thought I recognised you - from the picture in your file. I’m Detective Sam Currie. I wanted to
talk to you about the phone call you made a couple of weeks ago.’

  He has a kind voice, too.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Just a quick word, really. We followed up on the information you gave us, and I wanted to reassure you about your concerns.’

  Concerns, she thought. Reassure you.

  Suddenly, everything inside her felt dead.

  Better to feel panic than this.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  Five minutes later, Mary brought two coffees through into the front room. She’d waited for the kettle to boil with her elbows on the kitchen counter and her face in her hands, hair brushing the crumbs of sugar around the base of her mug. Taking deep breaths and trying to gain some control over herself. How could she have been so stupid?

  You have to convince him.

  The thought took hold of her, but even as it did she knew it was just another burst of hope, destined to knock her down harder. What else could she do, though?

  The policeman - Currie - was perched right at the front of the armchair, flicking through a book. He held it up as she walked in.

  ‘The Knight Errant,’ he said. ‘I remember this. I used to read it to my son when he was little.’

  She was annoyed with herself for leaving that out. It was only a kids’ book, but she didn’t like anyone getting such a personal insight into her childhood. Especially in circumstances like this.

  ‘It was my favourite book when I was younger,’ she said.

  He swapped it for the coffee, then held the mug tightly between his hands, as though he’d been out in the cold for days.

  Mary curled up at the far end of the settee, her legs beneath her.

  ‘How did you know where I was living?’

  ‘Your brother,’ Currie said.

  That startled her for a moment. Instead of the memory of the two of them in the snow, she thought now about the nightmare she’d had. Her brother, the small, innocent boy that she’d tried so desperately to shield from their father’s violence.