She shivers and suffers not knowing his whereabouts.
‘Don’t be silly, pet.’ Len sees right through her arguments into the neurosis within. ‘There’s no need for you to be down there. There’ll be plenty of time to measure and match once we move; we’re in no hurry for that sort of thing.’ And then he looks at her sadly, in the patronising way she is getting used to. ‘You won’t find him, you know. And what would be the use if you did?’
‘I’m not discussing the matter with you any more, Lenny. You don’t understand a mother’s feelings and that’s all there is to it. I am going down there for a couple of days to stay at the Old Mill and I’ve already booked so don’t try to dissuade me.’
‘Dawn and Cindy might quite like to come. It’d give them something different to do, choosing some colour schemes for their new bedrooms. Why don’t you ask them? You could have fun with some company, go round the shops, eat out, a day on the beach, take some time off for yourself.’
Babs looks at him sharply, her brain almost too disorganised to find the appropriate words. ‘I do not want Dawn and Cindy with me just in case Jody should get in contact. You know that, Len, so what are you really trying to do? Keep Jody from me, that’s the truth, isn’t it?’
His is a heavier sigh than hers had been. He pities her; but he finds it increasingly difficult to resist the longing to shake her. In a score of ways Lenny has tried to protect Babs from these debilitating hopes of hers, tried to help her accept the reality that Jody is probably lost to her for a long, long time, soothing her in her nervousness, ministering to her physical needs but he knows he has lost the battle. She seems intent on self-torture. None of them are enough for her. The sunshine has gone out of her life. Dawn and Cindy have tried in their own ways, too, helping round the house, bringing back videos they thought might distract her, using the recipe book to make interesting meals, all to no avail. Babs is possessed with the image of her son as an innocent, much-maligned little boy who still needs her in the way that he used to. And although this is true, she will not see that it must be left to the process of law and that by interfering she can only damage his chances further. Jody might be temporarily free but Babs is imprisoned and driven. There seems to be some sickness in her that only Jody’s need can cure. Take it away and it starts afresh, the buried conflicts, draining all energy. It is awful. Awful. There is now a wide gulf between him and his daughters and the restless Babs, so often overwrought with worry, dominated by an all-pervasive urge to find and protect the missing Jody, hungry, lonely, unloved and unsatisfied.
Their life of persecution goes on in the Close, more intermittent now, but bad enough all the same. The odd anonymous letter comes with horrible regularity through the door, as well as the occasional abusive phone call; the standoffishness of the neighbours and the nasty whispering in the street goes on. Dawn and Cindy dare not return to school and a teacher comes in twice a week to give them work. But at least the police have relaxed their vigilance now they know that Jody has left the area, and the Middletons don’t feel quite so much like fish in a bowl. The sooner they move house the better, and thank God everything seems to be working to plan. The Smedleys, although hard to contact according to their solicitor, are still pressing ahead with the purchase of Penmore House. Len will be sad to leave it, although since Jody’s arrest there has been a shadow cast over it. No matter how hard Babs and he try to make a happy home again, nothing they do can override the unjust fate of their first-born child.
If there was anything to be done to help Jody, anything in this world, Len would be doing it. How many more times can he try to convince Babs of this simple fact?
Babs flees to Devon, in pursuit of wholeness and fulfilment.
She has never really thought about her new home before. She hardly took it in when she came to view with Lenny, Dawn and Cindy. Now she must take notes of the details and concentrate, make out she is interested when she is not. It’s a small house, and lacking in character, with an empty feel about it although it is full of matching furniture, mix and match, and the neighbours are very close. There’s not much protection or natural cover in the form of fully grown trees or hedges; it seems that some people prefer the open-plan idea. How on earth will she manage to fit everything into this minute but squeaky clean kitchen?
‘It is good of you to let me come. It must be a nuisance, especially when you are so concerned about your wife.’
‘No problem,’ says the courteous and helpful Vernon Marsh, with a bright unconcern. Such a nice, gentle man, rather red-faced and overweight, but quite prepared to hold the other end of the tape when she needs him to. ‘These things have to be done.’
She smiles at him disarmingly. ‘Did Jody say anything else?’
He must be getting fed up with her unending questions by now.
Vernon thinks harder. ‘No, as I told you already, he really didn’t say much. He asked lots of questions about my wife, looked at all the photographs with very great interest—that surprised me, I must say. But I am absolutely positive he made no mention of where he was going. I didn’t even know he was leaving, you see. He left some time in the night after the photograph had been taken.’
‘And you don’t know where he was staying before he decided to come here?’
‘No, well, he’d only just arrived down here. He can only have spent one night in the open, camping, I suppose. His legs and arms were burnt. That would be the effect of the cycling.’
They are sitting discussing Jody’s visit, nibbling biscuits and drinking coffee, when a serious knock which is obviously not just a chatty neighbour popping in, sounds at the door. Vernon jumps up to answer it.
He shows the two official-looking men, who are wearing jackets and ties on this warm day, into the kitchen where Babs is sitting. She knows at once they are police. She’s had enough dealings with them recently to know a policeman, plain-clothed or not, when she sees one.
Neither visitor enquires as to her identity; clearly they have more important matters on their minds. ‘We have some very sad and rather shocking news, I’m afraid, Mr Marsh,’ says the front one grimly. ‘Perhaps you might like to sit down.’
Vernon sits down heavily at the kitchen table. With his cuff he clumsily knocks the teaspoon from his saucer on to the cloth and even at this crucial moment he is trained well enough to pick it up and wipe it.
‘I think we have found the body of your wife.’
An unnatural hush. And that short statement wraps the room in a freezing blanket.
Vernon jerks, props himself up on one arm. The other hand is clenched beside him. ‘The body of my wife?’
‘Yes. I am afraid she is dead, Mr Marsh.’
‘She can’t be dead! We were moving house—’
‘And when you feel able, we would like you to come and identify the body.’
Vernon looks like a man who has just been told he is dying of cancer. His skin turns grey. He pants for breath. He removes his glasses and shakes his head. The loose flesh under his chin shakes like the jowls of a dog and the only expression in his soft brown eyes is a total bewilderment. ‘You must have got the wrong person.’
‘I doubt it. I wish I could say otherwise.’ The policeman, used to delivering such news, is sympathetic yet necessarily distanced.
Vernon looks at Babs and gives her a sickly smile, blunted by perplexity. ‘Would you believe it? They are telling me that my wife is dead.’
Babs, dazed and nauseated by such sudden horror, sits there in hopeless silence. She experiences the most blistering pity, but what words can you give in this situation? What possible gestures can you make?
And then the final blow, delivered in a decently sombre tone. ‘I have to tell you, it looks as if she has been murdered, Mr Marsh.’
The shock is so great that Vernon falls back in his chair, his mouth wide open so his bottom teeth show as if he has suffered a physical blow and the pain of it is too much to take. A great shiver runs through him. His head begins to roll in
an agony of realisation. His despair seems too complete for tears. The first policeman puts a supportive hand on his shoulder while the second gazes out of the window, absent-mindedly folding and re-folding a piece of paper. Babs wishes she’d never come; she wishes she was miles away. This is the sort of thing that ought to stay on the television. You should never have to experience it in real life.
Eventually, and his words are so slurred it sounds as if he is gibbering. ‘But who would want to kill Joy?’
‘At the moment it looks as if it was one of those sickening coincidences.’ The policeman speaks as if he knows his words are wasted, but he speaks all the same. ‘A man who the police are seeking quite urgently was hiding out at a cottage on the moor and your wife must have made her way there and surprised him.’
‘You’ve got him? You’ve got the man who did it?’ A sudden stab of life appears in what seemed, only a moment before, to be dead man’s eyes.
‘We haven’t found him yet, I’m afraid, Mr Marsh. But we think we know who he is. It won’t take us long to apprehend him.’
‘Who? Tell me? Who? Who would do such a terrible thing?’
‘His name is Jody Middleton, sir, the boy I believe you allowed to stay here three nights ago. The one who acted so strangely and showed such a peculiar interest in your wife.’
Slowly, slowly, it seems to take a lifetime, Vernon turns his heavy eyes towards Babs. She doesn’t see. She faints completely away and slides off her chair onto the spotless and brightly polished floor.
Three hours later, Jody Middleton, pedalling away and feeling healthier than he has felt in a long time, wonders vaguely why the police car is following so slowly and deliberately behind him. He has seen so many in his hours on the road he no longer suffers that stab of fear every time one passes. His confidence grows by the mile, and he has found a reasonable place to stay—an old, disused Army hut where he has spent the last two nights and managed to light a fire. He even began to enjoy it as he lay out on the short moor grass on a midnight that felt as warm as noon and only the dark hills rolled beneath the stars. As he watched the rosy tint of morning flush the tor tips, and the sky, his hope started to grow. Perhaps, after all, if he is caught he will be able to fight the ludicrous charge against him. Perhaps Janice Plunket will speak out and defend him. She loves him, or she used to say that she did. And then he can go home, take up his university place and start all over again. Life’s not so bad after all. Today he ventured into a shop for the first time, a supermarket where he’d less easily be recognised. He managed to refill his rucksack and buy a couple of good paperbacks while he was at it.
He even has the confidence to gesture them past with a wide arm signal.
Hey. They are driving him right off the road and into the verge!
‘Get in!’
‘What?’
‘I said get in!’
‘But what about my bike?’
‘I’ll deal with your bike.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘A description, a good description, given by the bloke you skived off the other night.’
Jody cannot believe this. ‘Vernon Marsh? Vernon Marsh gave you a description of me? But why would he do that?’
‘Because he knew who you were and what you have done. What other reason would anyone need?’
Jody’s lips go tight; his jaw sets in a tense line. He sits numbly in the back of the car between two policemen, breathing harshly and fanning himself. He is suddenly conscious of a feeling of alarm. There’s something wrong here, unless Vernon has given himself up and been overcome by the need to confess.
Back at the station in a spartan interview room he is surprised at the interest his arrest is causing. OK, so his case is a big one back in Preston, but he hadn’t realised he’d made those sort of headlines here. What’s going on? Why all the kerfuffle? The maddening pressure of another locked door begins to unnerve him. Where is everyone?
‘Your mum’s here, Jody.’
He almost cries with relief. ‘Mum? That was quick!’
‘She was down here anyway. She came to take another look at the new house—you know, the one at the Blagdons, number eleven, where you stayed with Vernon Marsh, and where you had your photograph taken.’
‘Yes. I know the house.’
There are two detectives at the table and a uniformed policeman by the door. He can feel that man’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. What’s all this about?
‘You knew the wife, too, didn’t you, Jody?’
Jody’s eyes widen. Every nerve in his body goes taut. ‘What’s Vernon told you? Has he confessed—is that it?’
Jody’s interviewer smiles, but it’s a cold one as he delivers the official warning. The tape recorder goes on and he introduces everyone in the room. ‘Charged with the murder—’
‘Hey! Wait a minute! What did you say? What’s this about? Murder? How come you’re charging me with murder? Mrs Joy Marsh! Vernon’s wife? You’re way out, this can’t be true. I watched him get rid of the body, down the well. I was there, upstairs, and I watched him.’
They listen to him with placid, plastic faces, not believing a word he is saying, acting as if this is just everyday tedious business. The first interrogator, the hairy guy with the permanently knitted brows, moves towards the tape and states clearly, ‘The accused’s mother is at present outside arranging for a solicitor, so until the accused has representation, we will interrupt this interview.’ But Jody isn’t listening. His heart deadens. This is astounding. He can’t cope with this. Good God, is this some sort of nightmare? Surely he’s going to wake up in a minute. He feels that old terror that comes when disaster knocks on your door. He sees his whole future laid waste before him.
‘Where’s my mum? I want to talk to my mum.’
Pathetic little prat. His eyes flash and his voice rises as the detective throws down his papers. He’s seen so many of these cringing creeps in his life, and Detective Inspector Martin Lane firmly believes they ought to be put down. No good to man nor beast, nor ever will be, while decent upstanding citizens like Vernon Marsh have their lives torn in half by the scrotes. He is going to do his damnable best to make sure this little wanker goes down for the rest of his life. Only for the sake of his future career must he force himself to be reasonable. ‘Later, when we’re through with all this. When you tell us what’s been going on, you creepy little bastard!’
Sobbing as if her heart’s going to break, faced with such blinding desolation…
‘Please, I beg of you, listen to me! I know my boy, I know him better than myself. Jody would never harm a fly let alone murder anyone, let alone beat them to death and then throw them down a well. Can’t you see it for yourselves? You must have some experience of the criminal mind, of the thug and the brutal psychopath? Where does my Jody come into that? Can’t you use your eyes, your common sense? Does he look that type? There’s been another awful mistake, just like the rape was a terrible misunderstanding, and I know they shouldn’t have escaped and hit that poor prison officer, but wouldn’t you feel desperate if you had been held in custody for something you hadn’t done, if you’d been deprived of your freedom, despised by the whole community, threatened by your peers, seen your family forced out of their home and when all’s said and done Jody is only eighteen years old, a mere child, and if he’s saying Vernon Marsh did it then I’m afraid he probably did, OK he doesn’t seem like a murderer and he’s having treatment for shock, I know, but Jody doesn’t tell lies…’
‘Now why don’t you just sit down, Mrs Middleton, drink your tea and wait for your son’s solicitor to arrive. You can talk to him. He is paid to listen. Quite frankly, we have neither the time nor the inclination.’
Gawd. Why doesn’t somebody get that daft bat out of here?
THIRTY-FOUR
The Grange, Dunsop, Nr Clitheroe, Lancs
HEY HEY HEY! HOW different everything suddenly looks, rose-coloured and glorious, and Jacy raises his eyes to the sky and it’
s almost a prayer. He could almost fall to his knees and worship himself with his arms outstretched in supplication to the powerful, greater being he knew has been merely resting inside him.
Piercingly sweet, it is like returning from the dead, wiser, and with a brand new chance of fulfilment, thanks to the bluff and outspoken Walter Mathews who knows damn well what he’s talking about, knows exactly what he wants and is keen to re-launch the new group, Haze, with Jacy in front as lead singer. It’s an appeal, not to the kids any more, but the new young adults who are looking for something familiar to latch onto, something with class, something with which they, with all their hopes and fears in this crazy world, can identify. He’s got hold of this new song-writer—Jacy was slightly miffed about that because he used to write all the songs in the balmy days of Sugarshack—and Walt is eager to try this new guy out. There’s almost too much going on so you don’t know what to talk about first, but as it goes they don’t talk much on the train on the way home. Instead, Jacy, Cyd and Darcy get through three packs of lager between them and upset the rest of the carriage with their lewd and dirty jokes and smoke themselves into a yellowy nicotine sickness.
Celebration!!! But how? How do you celebrate something too big to put a name to? It’s a case of silent ecstasy. The joy is almost intolerable.
That’s part of the reason he hasn’t told Belle the true enormity of their expectations. Right to the top, is what Walt believes, and he’s got the charisma to make everyone else believe it, too. Oh sweet Jesus, this must be like climbing the highest mountain in the world and catching sight of the summit again. Golden and glorious amongst the clouds…
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