Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  “I can trust Sarah. You don’t know her”.

  “You hardly seem to know her”, Emma argues hopefully. Thom can’t understand this himself. He feels as though someone has written Emma out of the story of his life and Sarah has been written in instead. Yet he can’t tell Emma these things. He can only push her away and hope she realises how deep he has fallen into a white hole where there are endless possibilities and directions he can go.

  “I love you”, Emma confesses. Thom freezes, taking in her sincere tone. He has flashbacks of them laying in bed at weekends, tangled in the covers, her soft voice whispering those words, the movement of her throat on his shoulder where she is resting it. He is sure the movement and vibration would be exactly the same now. Yet he closes his eyes and the white world recaptures him.

  “I’m sorry Emma”, Thom manages. He feels certain in his mind, or at least he thinks he is. His body, however, seems to be swaying slightly, his eyelid twitching.

  “I’ll come back, Thom. Just to see how you are”, Emma promises, gathering up her handbag and coat. “I didn’t realise you would still be in such a state”.

  “I’m not in a state”, Thom sulks. “I’m getting things sorted now”.

  “If you say so, Thom”. She nods, unconvinced and makes her way towards the door. Just as she opens it, Thom’s legs go soft. He grabs onto the edge of the sofa.

  “Emma”, he calls out. She peeks back around the door at him, her spark still not diminished. Perhaps this is why he says, “There’s nothing going on with Sarah”, because she still believes in him.

  Emma nods and asks, “So she doesn’t know about these ‘things’ you need to sort out either?”

  “No she doesn’t. She doesn’t know anything”.

  Thom and Emma both seem comforted by the words, neither knowing quite why. Thom likes to think it is because he is neither together with her, nor together with Sarah so that’s some consolation at least. There is a way back for them.

  “You know my number”, Emma tells him, clearly hoping this isn’t the end. Thom nods and lets the door close behind her.

  27 Red Trail

  Who does he think he is? I know nothing? How dare he tell that stupid bitch that I know nothing? I’ve been around him more than she has the last few weeks. He hasn’t even phoned her back. But why does he care what she thinks of me anyway? I can tell he was just trying to reassure her, let her know that she’s not the only one in the dark. But how can he say that?

  I’ve definitely seen what’s been going on: his moods, his obsessive examination of certain strange objects, his comings and goings, his relationship with his aunt. I may not know exactly what he’s thinking or doing but I do know more than he told her.

  He pretends that I’m not really in his life, yet he seems to want me around. He wants to protect me, as I saw with Michael. He wants to be near me but at the same time is afraid. I know these things, probably more than he does himself! And now, I am only more determined to find out something about Daniel. I will find out how and why Daniel planned for me to push him, and that way I’ll prove I know more than Thom thinks. He’ll be shocked when I tell him all the things I’ve found out.

  Mum, we’ll prove him wrong, won’t we? Of course, I won’t tell him I pushed Daniel; that’s our secret.

  It had been hard to listen through the living room door but I managed to catch most of it. My skin burnt hearing them together, sharing a connection, her trying to crawl underneath his skin and see the damage. After all, where has she been all this time? I have been the one turning on lights for Thom, leaving him food, watching he and his family day and night, swabbing Thom’s slashed skin. I deserve to hear his plans, his need to find things out and discover what things mean.

  The first thing I have to do is talk to Thom; perhaps even find out exactly what he’s been up to. He might be willing to tell me, everyone likes to halve a burden when they can. And I am the perfect outlet. He doesn’t want to hurt Val, and Richard isn’t interested in anything being harder than it is.

  Why can’t Thom see me? Why doesn’t he tell me about the objects he stares at for hours? Why won’t he stop being afraid?

  I really thought that Michael might have succeeded in turning Thom against me. Yet fate seems to have saved me. Perhaps because fate knows that this family needs saving and I am the one who can protect them. Yet at this moment, all I want to do is prove I can find out the truth, the plot that led up to the climax as the train bulldozed Daniel out of the family’s lives, the reason he led me to them.

  When Thom lets Emma out, I am sitting at the top of the stairs again. As he turns back, his face drained, he sees me. He freezes for a millisecond, clearly wondering if, or what, I heard. I smile, writhing inside. Reassured, he returns the gesture and walks slowly towards the kitchen.

  Later that night, as he sleeps, I creep into Daniel’s room again. Closing the door quietly, I turn the light on.

  This is where it begins Mum; the answers…

  From the doorway, all the way across the carpet, there is the red trail of blood that Thom left behind. I tiptoe across the trail and arrive at the wardrobe, still gutted. I peel the door away and place it on the ground. The cracked pieces of mirror make a jingling giggle against the carpet. I reach inside the wardrobe and let my fingers dance along the wood inside, each surface, the corners. I find nothing.

  Next I open the small drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. Nothing either. Yet just as it is about to close, I see it. On the left side of the drawer, carved in red pen, is a combination. Underneath that there is a street number and a street name. I wrench the drawer out and it tumbles onto my lap.

  Mum – it’s here!

  Remembering where I am, I sit still for a moment and listen to the movements of the house. Yet there seems to be only ordinary noises, no one has awoken. I give my attention back to the tattooed wood and feel blood rushing to my fingertips that I press against the words. I almost don’t have to read them with my eyes because I can feel their shape. If I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful, I forget then. These carved words are a salvation, a way into a maze that I have only just realised I want to enter.

  I memorise those numbers and words. In a few days, I’ll follow them to wherever they want to take me. Weeks and months after his death, Daniel is still leading me. This revelation once again is like a set meal, easy and comforting in one sense, yet depressing and controlling in another.

  As I am returning the drawer to its place I hear the click of the door handle. The door begins to open as I get to my feet. Although instead of Thom as expected, it is Richard who materializes.

  “What’s going on?” he pulls at his left ear as though it is helping him wake up.

  “Nothing. I thought I heard something in here”.

  “And is there anything in here?” he persists, looking doubtful.

  “No. There’s nothing”, I say but inside my heart dances with my discovery.

  “No ghosts? No poltergeists?” Richard mocks. He is scanning the room, perhaps surprised to see the trail of blood and the carcass of the wardrobe, yet he doesn’t mention it.

  “Why, have you seen one?” I retort. He has hardly spoken to me. Every time he sees me, he looks at me as though I’m wearing a prison uniform or brandishing a knife.

  “No”, he answers; his lip and nose curling upwards.

  “Well then, let’s get back to bed then”.

  I make to move past him but his hand springs out and grasps my arm. His face is close to mine. His eyes seem to be flickering, like he is staring into fire and the heat is twisting its tongue in the air in front of his face.

  “I don’t know who you are”, he tells me, “but you’d better not hurt my family. They’ve had enough”. He reminds me of a child standing up to a bully for the first time, worried it will result in a heavier beating.

  “I don’t want to hurt your family”, I say truthfully.

  “What do you want then?” Richard’s hand seems to be trembling
slightly. Goose bumps have risen on his bare arm from the cold of the air or the cold of my manner. This must be what keeps him away from me.

  “I want to be their friend”. I want to understand your brother Daniel, I add to myself.

  “Okay”, Richard whispers, as though I had been asking his permission. As far as I am concerned, he is irrelevant.

  “I’m going to bed now”, I tell him and without realizing, glance behind at the drawer that contains the secret message I have discovered. When I have left the room, Richard stares in the direction in which I glanced and tries to see something revealing but all he can make out is a broken wardrobe, a door laid out like a body having jumped to its death and the blobs of blood scattered on the carpet like paint splattered without consideration.

  28 Red m & m’s

  “I bought you some m & m’s”, I tell Thom and take the place next to him on the front step. He is open-mouthed for a moment, looking like I have just handed him a bar of gold and then smiles brightly.

  “I love m & m’s. Thanks”. It is pure joy beaming out of him and although I still feel angry with him about last night, it makes me proud in the same instance.

  He tears open the packet and unashamedly begins his ritual of eating them in a certain order. I have only watched this from afar several times and I can’t help but stare. Now that I am so close to him, I can see the chocolate melting into his fingerprints, the m & m’s brand on each sweet, hear the crunching of the shells and nuts under his teeth.

  He has eaten four when he offers me the pack. Despite holding it towards me, I see he is biting his lip. I doubt he is being greedy, more concerned that his ritual is being interrupted. I reach carefully into the packet and luckily; my fingers emerge with a red one. I squeal quietly.

  “You got your favourite”, he notices and after several seconds’ hesitation continues; “my favourite is the yellow”. He is currently making his way through the blue ones. He hasn’t touched any but the brown and blue ones. Next, he will progress to the red, the green and finally his beloved yellow.

  “They insist they all taste the same but I’ve tried them all and I’m happiest when it’s the yellow last”. He lowers his head as he talks.

  I want to tell him I love his quirk and could watch it for hours. Yet, I don’t want to scare him so instead I say, “You have to do what you enjoy”. He appreciates this, rolling a red sweet around on his tongue and finally biting into it.

  “It’s nice you didn’t laugh at me”.

  “Has anyone before?”

  “I’ve had some strange looks!”

  For the first time in weeks, Thom seems relaxed. His muscles are allowing him to smile. How long will it last though?

  “How was Emma last night?” I ask, almost pushing him to lose his smile. He falters slightly but manages to shrug it off.

  “Okay, I guess. I just can’t be what she wants at the moment”.

  “And what does she want you to be?”

  “My old self”. Thom shrugs again, finally moving onto the yellow. He takes each one and holds it in his mouth, letting his tongue absorb the luminous taste.

  “What are you like now?” I am desperate to know. Part of me wishes I’d seen him being his ‘old self’. Would I have liked him then?

  “I have more in my head”, he says but frowns instantly, unsure this is what he wants to say. He opens his mouth again but, straight after, closes it and shakes his head.

  “What’s in your head?”

  “Lots of thoughts and questions and ideas”.

  “Isn’t that what everyone’s head is filled with?”

  Thom appreciates the comment, giving me a small smile. “I guess it depends what all those things are related to”.

  “And yours are related to Daniel?”

  “I guess that’s obvious to you, being around me”. Thom takes his last sweet and considers it before devouring it like the rest. He crumples the wrapper and stuffs it into his pocket.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “No”, Thom says, clasping his hands together. “I think the only one who might be able to help is Daniel”. He grimaces, reminding himself of the impossible.

  “What’s so confusing about it all?” I ask, wondering what it is that Thom knows. Does he know Daniel was pushed? Is he looking for me without realizing it?

  “I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this”, Thom begins tapping the step with his clenched fist. “I should’ve talked to Emma, if anyone. She cares about me but… she’s just been so far away”. He is toiling with himself in front of my eyes. I know I must act in order to get him to trust me, so I reach across and place my hand on his knee. He looks up sharply.

  “I’m here for you Thom”, I vow. He doesn’t know how much I mean it but even a fraction of it is enough for him. His ignorance over my physical attention is beginning to lose its simplicity. He must acknowledge me soon, either positively or negatively.

  “You’re right, you have been. And that’s what I told Emma…” he reassures me, hoping he won’t have to get any closer to me for now. I can’t tell if he would like to or not, now or ever...

  I wish I could ask you what you think, Mum.

  “I do want to talk to someone… but when she asked me last night, I knew it wasn’t her I wanted to tell”. Thom is thrashing with his conscience, guilt, and the desire inside.

  “Who do you want to tell?” I ask; praying please say me, please say me.

  “I can’t be sure of anything anymore”. Thom ruffles his own hair as though he is trying to perk himself up. Then unexpectedly, he leans his head onto my shoulder. Like a parent who hasn’t been in their child’s life for years and suddenly is faced with comforting them, or a person who hates animals and finds themselves having to care for one’s wounds, I don’t know how to respond initially. I just let his head rest there. Somehow a shoulder is always a perfect pillow.

  My heart is thudding heavily – heavier than the moment before I pushed Daniel onto those tracks? I can’t decide. I can only think clearly about the present: Thom’s beard poking through my jumper, the dull smell of chocolate on his breath, his increasingly wavy hair squashed against my neck.

  “I think Daniel knew he was going to die”, Thom mutters, just when I have started to believe my heart can’t race any quicker. Or rather instead, stop completely.

  The world is swaying slightly, yet the cars continue to chug by, the trees continue to stand motionless in the icy air, and Thom continues to hold his breath.

  “What?” I say because it’s the easiest thing to say. In a million films and books and useless conversations, people have said ‘what’ in response to questions for lack of something better. I am disappointed I have joined the masses on this one.

  “I’ve been finding things he left behind…” Thom whispers, keeping it a secret from those cars and those trees. “It all points to him knowing”.

  A shudder makes my back spasm and I am sure Thom feels it but perhaps he attributes it to the peculiar notion he has just suggested. It is probably how he first reacted when the facts finally crystallized into sense.

  “How could he know?” I splutter. Thom reaches his hand across my stomach and grabs onto my rib. I wonder if this is the moment when he will reveal he knows, when he will squeeze me so hard that my heart will suffocate and die. Yet he doesn’t move after the initial movement, just grasps onto the place where he has seized initially.

  “He left a letter, a note, notebooks and clues and rubbish. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it all”. Thom isn’t crying but his fingers are beginning to clutch so fiercely that they are settling into the structure of my rib bones. It’s as though he wants to dig a way in and hide himself.

  “What did he write?” I almost plead. Thom doesn’t notice that I am asking the wrong question. He accepts it because he doesn’t know what to ask either.

  “He wrote terrible things or maybe I did, I still don’t know”. Thom sinks into my shoulder furthe
r, a rock sinking in quicksand. “He knew when he was going to die”, Thom adds so quietly I almost don’t hear it, or maybe I just wish I hadn’t.

  I’m glad that Thom is on my shoulder because although he thinks it’s for his benefit, to hide his face, I am relieved he can’t see mine. If he could, he would see my curls shivering and my eye-lashes flicking in unison. He would see guilt screaming out of my pores and features like a spontaneous eruption.

  “Did he know how?” I ask, realising that Daniel did but trying to gauge what Thom knows.

  “He wrote down the train station”, Thom answers and begins digging into his pocket. This causes him pain, as his palms are still raw underneath the bandages. Finally he drags a piece of paper out, as wrinkled and as ragged as his beard. He hands it to me and I can barely move my fingers to open it. Before me are words, words that would seem irrelevant to someone else, someone who didn’t know Daniel, someone who didn’t push him.

  Highbury and Islington station. 15:30 Sunday.

  I stare at the words until they seem as hard as brick, as though Daniel is head butting me. And I have only one thought: it says the wrong time; it should say 15:32.

  29 Disclosure

  Once Thom shows Sarah the note, and tells her about his beliefs, his investigation seems to spill out of him. One tiny incision and Sarah has unleashed a waterfall. Unknown to him, Sarah has struck at exactly the right time and will easily gain the knowledge she thought she would have to work much harder to attain.

  From the front step, Thom takes Sarah upstairs and shows her the notebook (but doesn’t let her read it), he shows her the collection of items he took from the lock up, he tells her about the lock up and how Daniel left it specifically for him, he tells her he met someone who has proof Daniel knew about his own death in advance.