A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  Then she phoned Dave’s father and got a response at the other end of the drama spectrum. When she’d told him what had hap­pened, there was a long silence.

  ‘Mr Robbins,’ she asked. ‘Are you still there?’ They’d met only a handful of times. Christmas and birthdays, and never had the chance to build any sort of relationship, so the man was effectively a stranger.

  ‘Sorry.’ He roused himself. ‘Ah … I … does he have access to a lawyer?’

  ‘My lawyer was going to be my next call. She’s an entertainment lawyer, but I’m sure she’ll have a few contacts in the criminal side of things.’

  ‘This far into a bank holiday, that’s a bit of an ask.’ He paused. ‘Leave that with me. I’ll be able to draw in a favour.’

  His measured delivery and pragmatic approach had a tempor­ary calming effect on Amelie, and she wondered if he was always that controlled.

  ‘How is he?’ Peter Robbins asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ Amelie replied. ‘They whipped him away without me getting a chance to talk to him.

  ‘What can you tell me about what happened?’

  Amelie relayed as much as she knew. ‘It’s a steaming pile of horse shit,’ she added. ‘No way Dave would touch that little girl.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Miss Hart?’ A female voice interrupted her musings.

  She looked up. ‘Yes?’ It was the woman from earlier, and she was wearing a quite different expression now. Gone was the warm tone and in its place, raw judgement. What kind of person are you who would associate with a man like that?

  ‘We can’t tell you much at the moment. Best if you go home and phone in on Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday?’ But this was Friday. That may be a perfectly reason­able explanation to you, lady, thought Amelie, but it means nothing to me. ‘Tuesday?’ she asked again. Then realised: Bank Holiday weekend, pretty much everything ground to a halt.

  Back home, with mounting trepidation, she had to turn on every light in the house, checked every door and window, and closed every curtain before she could relax. Then, on the sofa, with a large glass of wine in her hand, she noted how badly she was shaking.

  And with a strong sense of dismay realised she’d just performed a home-entry checklist she hadn’t run through for years, not since life with Dave had banished most of her fears about life with a stalker.

  Next morning, Amelie came to on the sofa, still wearing the same cardigan and leggings, eyes nipping with lack of sleep. This had been her tactic of adapting to life after that night. Sleeping on the sofa, dressed, ready to run for the door should someone be in her house. Again, something she hadn’t done since setting up home with Dave.

  There was a timid tapping against glass, so quiet that she thought she might be imagining things. It sounded again. And again. Was it a bird? A bird wouldn’t be that persistent. She sat up, rubbed at her eyes and looked over at the patio doors that led out into the garden. The curtains were shut so she couldn’t see what, or who, it was.

  With a groan that protested her aching muscles and joints, she got to her feet, walked round the sofa, and pulled back one side of the ceiling-to-floor curtains.

  Damaris was standing on the other side of the glass, in her My Little Pony pyjamas, hands clasped in front of her, eyes large with confusion, looking a lot younger than her eleven years.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ Amelie shouted through the glass.

  Damaris screwed her eyes almost shut as if that might help her hearing, and cocked her head to the side just like a pup keen to understand might do.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Amelie said when she pulled the door open.

  ‘Mum and Dad are still sleeping,’ the little girl said. ‘I saw Dave in the police car.’ She stood completely still as if movement was forbidden to her. ‘Will he want to play today?’

  Amelie got down onto her knees so that she was at eye level with the girl. A number of replies coursed through her mind in a blink. She felt a confusing mix of emotions. Wanted to call her a stupid little girl, demand she tell her exactly what she told her mother, tell her to piss off. Instead she did none of that. She saw nothing but a large-eyed, scared little girl and with a charge of guilt for her previous thoughts, she wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull her into a hug and reassure her that every­thing would be okay. Instead, she let her arms hang by her sides, hands as useless as rocks.

  ‘Oh, Damaris,’ she said with muscle-draining sadness. None of this was her doing, her parents were completely to blame. ‘I really don’t know if Dave will be okay. Thing is the police think he hurt you yesterday. Did Dave hurt you?’

  The girl just stared at her while chewing on a thumbnail, as if answering that question was completely beyond her. It occurred to Amelie that Damaris was every bit as lost as she was.

  Amelie got to her feet, put a hand on each of the girl’s shoulders, turned her to face her own garden, and, keeping her tone as gentle as she could, said, ‘Off you go before Mum and Dad notice you’re missing.’

  Amelie knew, and thought that any right-minded person would agree, that it had to be easier for victims of such crimes to be able to come forward and seek the help they needed. Some­where out there, likely within a short distance of where she was standing, there was a girl, or a boy, who needed the abuse to stop, needed to be protected; needed to be listened to. But as sure as night follows day, it wasn’t Damaris Brown.

  Chapter 8

  After Damaris left, Amelie phoned Dave’s father and asked for the lawyer’s details. Then she phoned the lawyer, introduced herself and was impressed by how unimpressed he appeared to be that she was the Amelie Hart. She listened to what he had to say, and no sooner had she ended the call, than there was a knock at the door.

  She swore out loud and marched through to see who it was. When she opened the door she was almost bowled over by a close-to-tears Lisa.

  ‘Darling, how the hell are you?’ Lisa asked. Then she stepped back, recovered her equilibrium with remarkable ease, looked her up and down and said, ‘Jesus, you look like shit.’

  Lisa was her usual impeccable self. Hair a black sheen, make-up artfully applied, and wearing an outfit that probably cost more than most people earn in a month. Then Amelie noticed her luggage: two large suitcases and a massive handbag arranged around her like a pack of at-heel dogs.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Amelie asked.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in? Quick, before the neighbours dive out and take a selfie.’ She bent down and picked up one case.

  Despite herself, Amelie felt a lift from Lisa’s energy.

  Her friend bustled past her, as she did so, throwing over her shoulder, ‘Get the rest of my luggage in, will you?’

  Thinking she should be miffed at her friend’s assumption that she was there to lift for her, Amelie nevertheless did as she was asked, and arranged the cases in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Then she went into the living room. No Lisa. She found her in the kitchen staring at the coffee machine as if the instructions for use were printed in the air in front of it.

  ‘Not that I’m not happy to see you, Lisa, but what are you doing here?’

  ‘My BFF needs me.’ She turned to face Amelie, hands out to the sides.

  They hugged and Amelie fought desperately to keep her emo­tions in check. She stepped back from Lisa, cleared her throat and asked, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I could murder my Granny for a coffee.’

  ‘And then you’d get your trust fund sooner.’ Amelie joined in with their usual banter, wondering where that energy had just come from.

  ‘You know me so well.’ Lisa’s half-smile acknowledged Amanda’s effort.

  Moments later, warm mug in hand, Lisa looked Amelie up and down again. Made a sad face as if she was on the verge of grief because Amelie had let herself go so badly. ‘You’ve been wearing those clothes for days, haven’t you
?’

  Amelie laughed, and when the sound hit her ears was amazed that she was still capable of such a response. ‘You are incorrigible.’ Then the emotion that had been building since Lisa appeared at the door breached through her defences and she started to cry.

  ‘Oh, honey…’ Lisa sat her mug on the work surface, stepped closer to her friend and pulled her into a hug. Amelie felt the arms around her, rested her head on Lisa’s shoulder and allowed the emotion to take over.

  Minutes later, Lisa stepped back, reached over with a thumb and wiped a tear from Amelie’s face. ‘Puffy eyes are not a good look on you, babes.’

  ‘Shut it,’ Amelie said and sniffed. Wiped at her face with the heel of her hand and then crossed her arms. ‘This is all so unfair. I can’t stop thinking about Dave in that awful police station.’ She paused. ‘You know, you rarely give them much of a thought, do you? The police. Aware that they’re there. Grateful. But when you become the focus…’ She shuddered. ‘Officialdom can be quite scary.’

  Lisa took her hand. ‘C’mon through for a comfy seat. My feet are killing me.’

  Amelie looked at her feet. Raised an eyebrow at the toe-pinch­ing shape of Lisa’s shoes. ‘Serves you right.’

  Lisa breezed past her and made her way into the living room. ‘I could walk for miles in these babies, and look fabulous doing it.’ She reached the sofa. Sat. Pushed off each shoe with a groan. ‘But my pinkie toes wouldn’t thank me later.’

  Amelie sat beside her, kicked off her slippers and pulled her feet to her side. When she’d first seen Lisa at the door, she didn’t think she could handle another living being around her, but now she was almost pathetically grateful for the company.

  ‘What’s the latest then?’ Lisa asked, the rim of her mug poised before her mouth. Amelie told her everything that she knew. Lisa listened intently, taking everything in and then when Amelie stopped she said, ‘Follow the money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is there any chance that Dave is secretly a paedophile?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Amelie assessed her knee-jerk response. Was there a chance this was true? She couldn’t meet Lisa’s eyes.

  ‘Lots of people have been fooled by loved ones, you know,’ Lisa said as if she read Amelie’s failure to look at her.

  ‘Yeah, but Dave? Doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Lisa cocked her head to the side. ‘Not sure I’m com­pletely buying that. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet, but if, as you say, he’s to be completely believed, then you need to follow the money.’

  Amelie shook her head. ‘Nope, still not getting you.’

  ‘A little girl that age is not going to report that sort of intimate contact from a man unless it actually happened, or without some sort of direction.’

  ‘No…’

  What Lisa was getting at dawned on her. She fought down the impulse to doubt the man she’d been living with for over three years.

  ‘I’m going with an extreme overreaction on the part of Damaris’s mum and dad,’ Amelie continued. ‘Those two next door are never going to win Parent of the Year, but to allege something like that in order to make money?’

  ‘Jesus, you’ve practically been living in a cave, Amelie. People, given the chance, are vile. Have you forgotten that already? Mummy and Daddy will be praying for a conviction so they can sell their story to the highest bidder.’

  Amelie shook her head. ‘I’m not buying that.’

  Lisa tapped the side of her nose. ‘Trust me. What other possible motivation could there be?’

  ‘They really believe Dave hurt their child?’

  ‘And Dave just happens to be living with one of the most popular media darlings since, well, Princess Di.’

  ‘Princess Di, my backside,’ Amelie said as she allowed the rest of what Lisa said to settle in her mind. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I really, really think so.’

  They made a pact to have a news blackout. No TV and phones switched off, in case the media had got hold of the story already, and Saturday passed in an aimless mix of chat, wine, tears and long silences. On Easter Sunday, Amelie made the dinner Dave had planned for her. Turkey and all the Christmas trimmings, to be followed by trifle she announced with a smile.

  ‘Really?’ asked Lisa, screwing her face up when Amelie placed it on the table in front of her.

  ‘We never have proper Christmas dinners at Christmas, for some reason, so Dave joked that we should do it at Easter.’ Shrug. ‘Kinda makes sense to us.’

  ‘Kinda does,’ said Lisa with a smile. ‘And it’s cute.’ She watched Amelie as she took her seat at the table. ‘And this is the guy you wanted to dump?’

  Amelie shivered, reached for her cutlery and whispered, ‘God, I’m such a bitch.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself, babes. You weren’t to know this bomb was going to drop.’ She reached across and grabbed Amelie’s right hand.

  ‘And now if I do dump him he’ll think it’s because of all of this.’

  Lisa pursed her lips. Exhaled. ‘And the delights keep coming.’ She forked a piece of white meat into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. ‘Still, you serve up a delicious slice of turkey.’

  On the Monday, when Lisa eventually got out of bed, she came into the living room and found Amelie laid out on the sofa, fol­lowing another sleepless night.

  ‘You been here all night?’ she asked, sitting on the edge of one of the cushions.

  ‘Better if I’m restless here rather than in the next room to you. At least one of us gets a good sleep.’

  ‘You’re a proper saint, babes.’ Lisa rubbed at her eyes. ‘Now get your scrawny arse through to the kitchen and make me some scrambled eggs.’

  Amelie pushed herself into a sitting position. ‘I would if I had any eggs.’

  ‘Croissants?’

  Amelie snorted.

  ‘Toast.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘A girl’s got to eat, Amelie. What have you got?’

  ‘Turkey leftovers.’

  ‘Not going there again until I’m surrounded by snow and jing­ling bells.’

  ‘Sorry, Lisa. I need to go into town for some stuff. Not sure I can face it. What if everyone knows? They’ll all be looking at me and judging.’

  ‘Then, babes, you put your slap on and stare them down. How dare they judge you?’ She jumped to her feet, her expression sug­gesting she’d just hit upon a cunning plan. ‘I’m getting stir crazy.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I have a plan and it involves you having an actual wash and change. Then I’ll disguise you and we’ll hit the town.’

  ‘Disguise? No,’ Amelie said and crossed her arms.

  Lisa leaned down, took hold of her right forearm and, with sur­prising speed and strength, pulled Amelie to her feet.

  ‘C’mon,’ Lisa said. ‘If you’re going to be miserable, at least look magnificent while you’re doing it.’

  Ninety minutes later, they were both standing in front of the full-length mirror in Amelie’s bedroom, neither of them recognisable.

  ‘What the hell, Lisa?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you never go out in public in disguise?’

  ‘Dark glasses and a big hat are my go-to.’

  ‘But don’t you look bloody amazing?’

  Lisa had dressed herself down and Amelie up. Amelie’s famous blonde hair was underneath an auburn wig cut in a chin-length bob, and thick eye make-up on the upper lid only completely changed the shape of her eyes. Lisa on the other hand was wearing a long blonde wig and the lightest make-up she could apply.

  ‘I like the natural look on you, Lisa. You should do it more often.’

  Lisa made a dismissive sound and put a hand on her hip as if she was on the end of the catwalk. ‘See how much I love you, that I put myself through this?’

  ‘Shut up. You look amazing.’
Amelie studied them both in the mirror and it occurred to her that this might be the way to go about in public from now on. Not even her mother would know her.

  After a whistle-stop tour of the supermarket, which involved buying mostly eggs, bread products, wine and cheese – and avoid­ing the newspaper stand – they loaded the backseat of the car and Amelie made as if to drive back to the house.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ she said as she put the key in the ignition. ‘I can’t face going back to the house just now. There’s a lovely wee place over on the Braehead Road that Dave and I went to once for lunch. I’ve heard they do an amazing all-day breakfast.’

  ‘You will eat something?’ Lisa’s eyes were piercing.

  Amelie nodded, feeling the lie diminish the energy of her re­sponse as her head moved.

  The car park at The Hungry Monk was half empty, so, embol­dened by her success at the supermarket, Amelie was on her way to being almost relaxed when she made her way to the front door of the white two-storey building with a roof that sloped at a sur­prisingly steep angle. Half-barrels filled with daffodils that had lost their heads stood sentry at either side of the door.

  Inside, the room was just as she remembered. White walls, dark beams, low ceilings. A long oak-topped bar lining the far side of the pub, and beyond that a wall covered in blackboards looked as if the owner had raided an old school after it had been shut down.

  They’d been here several times over the years they’d lived in the region. The first time was a folk night, and her celebrity status had caused quite a stir. It seemed that everyone turned to stare at her. Then they’d look at Dave for a moment as if searching for some sort of recognition. Finding none, they’d gone back to staring at her.