by Martyn Ford
However, it changed as the drugs began to work their magic. The ache was still there, but it was fuzzy. Like a thick covering of snow at night – the world hasn’t disappeared per se, but it sounds different, it feels soft. By the time Jeremy had finished his spiel, everywhere was white with fresh powder. Not a single footprint, nor any echo. Just like those Canadian winters he remembered so fondly.
Inverted now, the tooth hurt only when he bit down. Francis was in control of the pain – he could feel it whenever he wanted. That, plus the gentle opiate embrace, had half soothed the sting of this ordeal.
He realised he hadn’t been listening to Jeremy for a while now.
‘You should be careful not to touch the lenses,’ Francis said, interrupting him. ‘Sorry . . . it’s . . . ignore me.’
Jeremy didn’t like criticism, but he removed the dirty glasses and placed them across his notepad. His client’s requests mattered more than 20/20 vision.
Finally, he shuffled in his seat and took a long breath. Finally, he was moving towards what Francis really wanted to know. He could tell that the subject, the elephant in the room, was the last thing left to discuss. Jeremy seemed agitated – a couple of false starts before he spoke.
‘I . . . liaised with the private investigator you recommended, and he’s working on something,’ he said, closing a folder and screwing the lid on his pen.
‘Yeah, what?’ Francis asked. ‘What’s he working on?’
Leaning forwards, hand on the table, Jeremy whispered, ‘Listen, it’s . . .’ He groaned. ‘It’s difficult to shadow as he normally would, because she doesn’t go anywhere without a police escort. They’re keeping her location quiet, for obvious reasons. Hasn’t worked, mind. You know what the press are like.’
‘I told you where she’s staying.’
‘And, as I said, he’s made arrangements.’
‘Tell me. Please.’
Jeremy closed his eyes and rested his head in his hand. ‘Anything we discover can’t come . . . My role in this is strictly—’
‘Yes, of course. By all means, deny it. I don’t care. Just tell me what he’s actually done.’
A nervous tap with his pen sounded like a modest drumroll. ‘He paid a chambermaid to install a camera and a microphone in the hotel room – he gave her a modified alarm clock. All she had to do was plug it in and, hey presto, hours of footage.’
This was a better answer than Francis was expecting. ‘Well . . . I . . . How much did that cost?’
‘Enough for the chambermaid to risk her job and even prison, put it that way. You’ll get the bill, don’t worry. Quite a tab.’
‘Has he . . . has he seen or heard anything?’
‘I imagine he’s seen your wife in varying states of dress, and her most intimate moments – does that bother you?’
Francis looked down.
‘And Sam and . . .’ Jeremy checked his phone ‘. . . a detective called Isabelle Lewin visited Anna at the hotel. He says he can copy me in with raw video.’
‘Thank you, Jeremy. Really.’
‘What are you hoping to find?’
Biting down, once, twice, three times – three expansions of pain in his jaw, in his neck, melting the snow. In truth, Francis did feel uneasy about the arrangement. Should this breach of privacy ever come to light, as he suspected it inevitably would, it might be the final nail in their coffin. And this was regrettable. Despite their differences, the strain and de facto separation of late, he did still love her. Anna. Her thick vanilla hair, her perfect skin. Those kind eyes she’d given both the children. Beautiful Anna. Clasping her hands at her chest and crying real tears on that bus as she said, ‘Yes, yes of course I’ll marry you,’ beneath that falling Montreal sky. Her lips and nose cold and red. A baby face almost too pure for lust.
Anna. Beautiful Anna.
The only witness on earth who could attest his innocence. Anna, who slept, zonked off her head on those benzodiazepines she swallowed like Skittles.
He doubted any revelations would restore his liberty – he didn’t for a moment think Anna was capable of anything on a par with the accusations thrown at him. She’d give her life a thousand times to bring Ethan and Robin back.
However, the brutal, aching, irrefutable fact was: Francis Clarke did not trust his wife.
Chapter 10
We see a dark room. A bed. A window boarded up with wooden planks and metal bars. The only light in here is from a small reading lamp, on its side, on the floor – a short tear of warmth on the plain carpet. In the centre of the room, lying perfectly still, we see a shape. It could be an eight-year-old girl, facing away, looking towards the bed.
As we watch, it seems this might be a photograph – or possibly a piece of looping footage, less than a second long.
The figure on the ground, lying with an arm stretched straight, is cast in modest resolution. Such quality makes it impossible to detect subtle movements, like the slow breaths found in deep sleep. All we see is the faint shift of pixels, gradients, light levels fluctuating ever so slightly.
But we hear a noise, a clunk. A door. And yet, still no motion.
Again, another sound. Now a vivid change in colour – the floor hosts a triangle of white glare that strains the lens and darkens the walls.
Finally, with a long yawn, the girl pushes herself upright and shuffles to a seated position. She turns, leans over and takes a bowl from the carpet by the door, now closed. Pink pyjamas, curly blonde hair, the iconic face we’ve seen a thousand times this week.
And then, as though she’s felt something, as though the camera’s gaze has activated a sixth sense, Robin Clarke lifts her head and looks directly at us.
Chapter 11
Hallowfield’s high street offers haircuts from fizzing neon signs, alive even in the day. We see its boarded shops, its shuttered doorways, its parade of stores selling coffee, fast food, the last few things you cannot buy online. Some familiar chains hold on – commercial reminders that, to survive, you must look like everywhere else.
Local people know it for its history, its former affluence, its weekly farmers’ market. We know it only because we hear its name every day. We know it because at the furthest edges of this place, where sparse streets widen and grey things turn green, there is a row of houses called Orchard Court. And this is where they live. This is where it happened.
But now we look across the pavements, from camera to camera, and see a man and his son stepping across a grass verge and towards the path that leads to the city’s old football ground. Disused, but kept in reasonable condition for the general public. At the side of the grandstand the late-afternoon sun streams across the open playing fields – each tree dotted throughout the acres of land hosts a shadow, twice the length of its looming height. A sprawling park disappears out of view – it’s quiet, just a few children near the play equipment, and a few more walking along the path in their school uniforms. Suburbia at 4 p.m. We really could be anywhere.
The man is carrying a plastic bag and his son bounces a football on the tarmac as they go. The boy’s dressed in what looks like a PE kit. And he’s happy.
‘Mr Thomson wouldn’t even listen,’ he was saying.
‘Did you explain?’ Sam asked. He had decided to give him the gift when they arrived at Kendell Street, but Freddie’s eyes kept drifting to the bag.
‘Yeah, I told him everything.’
‘Believe it or not, teachers are only human. They make mistakes.’
‘I have no idea what species Mr Thomson is but, trust me, it’s not human.’
As they entered the open park, warm now off the shaded path, Freddie dropped the ball and kicked it as hard as he could. It flew over the play equipment, curling into the next field, where it bounced through the stretched shadow of a tree.
‘Gone.’
‘I’m not getting that,’ Sam said.
‘It’s not mine. Found it on the path.’
‘You stole it?’
‘No, I found it. On
the path. And now I’ve donated it to the park.’ Freddie turned and walked backwards. ‘So, what’s in the bag?’
‘It’s . . .’ They slowed down. Stopped. ‘It’s actually for you.’
There was cautious excitement as Sam slid the plain shoebox from the plastic bag – it was the right size, right logo, but it couldn’t possibly be . . . and yet, it was. Freddie held it, kept it horizontal like a delicate cake, as he lifted the lid.
He’d had to liaise with Marilyn for the specifics of this brand. She warned him they’d be expensive, but he still double-checked the receipt in the shop, to make sure it wasn’t some kind of error. The clerk also offered some advice and bombarded Sam with phrases he did not understand.
‘Great boots though, no question,’ he had concluded.
Freddie wasn’t one for big leaps of joy – it had been years since he hugged an object to his chest and declared it the best thing to grace this universe. Nor, thankfully, was he ‘too cool’ to show any gratitude. One foot still in childhood, the other stepping tentatively into a strange new place.
‘Thank you,’ Freddie said, pulling one of the boots out of the box, taking some of the glossy paper with it. He placed the cardboard on the ground and stroked the leather – sturdy, thick stitches, expensive – oh, so fucking expensive. Freddie turned the boot and looked at the studs, inspected them like this was a career-defining archaeological discovery, a lost treasure assumed by most to be mere myth. ‘Really, Dad . . . thank you.’ He checked the label. ‘Oh. But I’m . . . I’m actually size seven.’
‘What?’
‘Ha ha, your face.’
They repackaged them, and carried on across the playing field. It was hot today and Freddie’s hair was still damp at his ears from PE – a few strands making a sideburn. He’d also caught the sun on his cheeks and the grass on his knees.
‘You can wear them on Sunday.’
‘Mum told you.’
‘It’s a big deal, Freddie.’
‘I . . . I feel bad about it.’
‘What do you mean? The academy is . . . It’ll be brilliant. Think of all those names in the hall of fame. Yours will be on that wall one day.’
‘It’s just . . . no one else got in, no one from school, no one from the team. I’ll be on my own.’
‘You’re saying that’s a bad thing? That you’re literally the best player you know?’
Freddie smiled. This wasn’t just parental flattery – this was an objective fact. Sam’s commitment to honesty wasn’t exempt here. His son had been under no illusion about the coins under the pillow, or the presents under the tree. This isn’t to say that Sam, with Marilyn’s insistence, didn’t play along. Of course he did. He played his part right up until Freddie asked him outright. And yet, even when exposed as fabrication, the stories retained their magic – it was a small price to pay for trust. The truth always, always gave more than it took.
So, Sam’s praise would invariably mean something. Freddie was, by any measure, very good at football – there was no need to encourage him with considered language. Reality sufficed. Sam had no idea where this athleticism came from – if it wasn’t for his eyes and that dry humour, it’d be quite reasonable to demand a DNA test.
‘I guess.’
‘Look, Freddie, I’ll level with you. The boots, they’re an investment. Those feet are little money-makers. I need you to pay for my retirement.’
‘You could always get a job?’
‘Sore back. Tired knees.’
‘And an undying love for Countdown.’
Sam laughed. This kid was definitely his. They passed through the wide opening in the hedgerow at the edge of the grounds, and came into the alleyway just off Kendell Street.
‘Sorry, about the other day,’ Freddie said. ‘I was just cold and wet.’
‘No.’ Sam could have cried. ‘Don’t apologise. I was in the wrong. I should have let you know I’d be late. It won’t happen again.’
‘David said I should give you some slack.’
He shot Freddie a fake scowl. ‘That guy . . .’
‘He said you’re only human – bit like a teacher, I guess. And that you’re helping the police again and it’s important.’
‘Aw for God’s sake.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just . . . I really try and hate David but I can’t do it. Why is he so reasonable?’
Freddie laughed. ‘Sometimes he doesn’t use a coaster, if that helps.’
‘Scum. Maybe I should arrest him.’
That wry smile again. ‘If only you could.’
The truth was that David, despite Sam’s primal, caveman hostility, was a good person. Kind, smart, honest and, crucially, there in all the ways he wasn’t. In all the ways that mattered.
‘You let me know how you get on,’ he said, holding the gate open when they arrived.
‘If we argue, we should always make up before you leave.’ Freddie looked up at him. ‘I don’t want our last conversation to ever be a sad one.’
A nerve here. Sam opened his mouth to speak. To tell him. But couldn’t do it. He half wished Freddie would just ask – say something like, ‘Are you ill?’
And then, cornered, he’d have to share what only he and two doctors knew.
A grey flurry on a scan – the headaches, and the blinking, both explained with a straight-faced diagnosis. The consultant called it a ‘malignant’ growth, no larger than a penny, swelling inside his skull. That adjective seemed somewhat unnecessary. Sam would have assumed his well-being wasn’t at the top of its agenda.
There was a strange pride in the grading – the scale goes up to four. He had the worst one on the market. Top shelf. Absolute state-of-the-art death. They threw a load of jargon at him, but the headline was – you, sir, are fucked. Timings were difficult to forecast but, long and short, don’t bother buying a whole calendar for next year. Sam had joked that he might as well take up smoking again. It was an unusually intimate moment – both doctors had been relaxed enough to drop their medical facades and smile. ‘Sure,’ one of them had said. ‘Why not?’
If there was any misery to be found, it was here, standing in front of him.
‘Deal,’ Sam agreed. They shook hands.
Freddie disappeared up the path, past the rose bush and into a place that still, on days like this, when the light was just right, looked like home.
Chapter 12
We remember the man. We have seen him before, on TV, in the newspapers, quoted in reports about Ethan Clarke. But he looks quite different now, out of his white shirt, away from blue press-conference banners emblazoned with the constabulary crest – cameras, cameras, cameras flashing. Today, in his one-bedroom flat, he looks lost, sitting on his sofa, smoking a cigarette, watching a film on mute. Colours flash and paint him blue, then green and back to blue again. He sips a drink and checks his phone at regular intervals. When it does ring, he’s frowning. Clearly, he does not recognise this number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Sam?’
‘Speaking.’ He cleared his throat and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
‘Not sure if you remember me. I worked in intelligence for a couple of months, just before you left the force. Kelly Howells.’
‘Hello, Kelly.’
She was young. A redhead. Her husband’s name was Neil. She had a tiny hole below her bottom lip – a piercing he’d never seen filled with metal. Other than that, he couldn’t remember her – he couldn’t recall a single conversation. She was just a picture – a static hologram, her features disappearing if he looked too hard.
‘I . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you this and, you should know, I’ve already gone down the official channels. But, something Isabelle said. And I . . . I remember you were honest, and kind to me after the whole dispute.’
The whole dispute. Something there, but vague. An internal issue. One of any number of staffing matters he’d dealt with – something relevant to her and not even worthy o
f long-term memory to him.
‘What is it?’
‘A friend of my father’s, he works down at Bronzegate. The prison.’
‘I know it well.’
‘So, he works on one of the open wings, not totally open but it’s quite relaxed – where they did all those exercise schemes last year.’ Sam heard a pen click and saw her sitting at her desk, leaning back in her chair. Maybe glancing around the office. But he knew his imagination was flawed, tainted by memory, as it had cast an old CRT computer monitor in front of her, instead of the flat screens they used now.
‘Right?’
‘Anyway, they do woodwork, in the shop – spice racks for the girlfriend, wooden spoons, sanding tables, whatever. I showed him the picture of that thing, that doll. It’s been doing the rounds here.’ She moved – he heard some paper turn. ‘The crying Hecate.’
Sam’s gaze lifted a bit higher – he looked at the wall but didn’t see it.
‘Well, everyone else I’ve shown it to just shrugged. But he recognised it straight away. He says there’s an inmate on his wing called Joe, I think. The guy’s got crazy tattoos, heavily into the Bible. This bloke, he loves woodwork, goes every chance he gets. A while back, they’re turning over his cell and they find a box, a whopping cardboard box full of these things. He’d made fifty dolls.’
Standing, Sam stepped over to the window, pleased that honesty, or if you could stretch as far as Kelly, kindness, really did pay dividends. He was curious, but nothing more than that. Adriana did say these Hecate figures crop up from time to time. Only thing unique about the one they’d found was the charcoaled face.
‘What were their heads like?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, it must have taken a fair while with a cigarette lighter.’
