One couple sailed over on a wave of craft beer and gin, smiles too large in that way of the pleasantly pissed.
‘Oh my God, you’re her, aren’t you?’ the woman said. And Amelie thought now that she was up close that she was way too old to be fawning over a celeb. The woman then turned to Dave. ‘Are you anyone?’
Amelie almost left there and then, but sensing her movement, Dave grabbed her wrist. Held her. Sent her a signal with his eyes. This is fine. We’re fine.
‘I’m a film director,’ Dave said. ‘You seen the new Alien movies? That’s me.’
The lie was so outrageous but so casually delivered that Amelie relaxed as if she’d been given a shot of something.
Now, no one turned and looked when they walked in. They were just two women out for lunch. Not a whisper of fame and its glamour in the vicinity. A good sign, thought Amelie, and then gave herself a row. She needed to stop looking for omens. This wasn’t the sixteenth century.
Lisa made for a table near the corner, in front of a small window. Amelie followed, but then with a start realised the couple she had to walk past to get there lived in an apartment in the big house on her estate. She struggled to remember their names, but they were usually friendly enough, always gave her a wave if they came across her when she was out walking. She stiffened as she passed them, but they gave no signal that they’d seen through her disguise.
With a grateful sigh she took a seat beside Lisa.
‘What?’ her friend asked.
‘Jesus, you miss nothing.’
Smug grin. ‘My brother always said I should work for the CID. Anyway…’ She planted both hands on the small surface of the dark wooden table between them. ‘Feed me.’
‘The menu is on the blackboard behind the bar.’
Lisa looked across. Spotted the young, slim-waisted man. She watched him for a moment. ‘He’s barely looked at me and he can’t take his filthy eyes off you.’ She harrumphed. ‘Now you see why I don’t much go out au natural.’
‘I thought we were here not to be noticed?’
‘There’s being noticed and there’s being noticed, babes.’ Smile. ‘What do you fancy eating?’
Amelie ordered scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and when it arrived was genuinely surprised at finding she had an appetite. She even managed to eat some of the extra toast that Lisa ordered.
She washed it all down with a second cup of black coffee, trying to force down her guilt at being so well looked-after while Dave was in a cell.
‘Stop it,’ Lisa said while dabbing at the side of her mouth.
‘What?’
‘I could read your expression. You’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no need for you to feel guilty.’
Just then a woman walked in the front door. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was wearing a navy cable-knit jumper and a pair of tan jodhpurs. Her face split in a smile when she spotted the couple beside Amelie. She was so lean Amelie could almost see the individual muscles in her face work as her lips were pulled away to display her expensive veneers.
‘Honey,’ the woman cried and made her way over to Amelie’s neighbours, giving them both a hug. ‘This was a champion idea. Have people cook breakfast after the night before.’
‘It was a fun night, eh?’ her female friend said. ‘Although that last cocktail was definitely one too many.’ Her name, Amelie suddenly remembered, was Helen. Her husband was Drew.
Pony-tailed woman sat, spine rigid as if she was holding in something incredibly exciting. ‘And did you happen to see the news this morning?’ Her anticipation at delivering something of shock value was palpable
Amelie felt Lisa’s hand on her knee.
‘What?’ Helen sat forward.
‘Your neighbour who was in that shit movie?’
‘It wasn’t shit, I loved it,’ said Helen.’
‘It was dreadful,’ said Drew, looking from his wife to the other woman. ‘Well, Mags, don’t keep us waiting. What about her?’
‘Her boyfriend’s a paedophile.’
Amelie noticed that she was so excited at passing this on that she was sitting on her hands. ‘The bitch is actually thrilled about this,’ she hissed at Lisa.
‘Don’t say anything,’ Lisa whispered in reply. ‘I want to hear.’
‘Her boyfriend’s a what?’ asked Helen.
‘He’s been locked up for molesting the little girl who lives next door to them.’
‘What? There’s been a trial and everything?’ asked Drew.
‘No, silly,’ answered Mags. ‘This just happened on Friday. The police were called. He was locked up. He goes in front of the Procurator Fiscal tomorrow.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Helen.
‘Poor guy,’ said Drew. And Amelie felt a little heartened.
His wife punched his arm. ‘He molested a child. How can you say, poor guy?’
‘Typical bloody man,’ said Mags. ‘You’ll believe the accused first.’
‘How long’s he been living there, and he suddenly turned paedo? I ain’t buying it,’ Drew said while rubbing his arm, otherwise fine that his wife was so willing to strike him. ‘He played cricket last summer with the lads at the village fete. He was a decent sort. There were loads of kids there that day and he never as much as gave them a look.’
‘Call yourself a Scotsman? You and your bloody cricket,’ said Helen. ‘And they’re much more subtle than that. He’s hardly likely to go full on grooming mode when every parent in the village is in attendance.’
‘I never liked him,’ said Mags, relieving her hands from their trap under the bones of her thighs and crossing her arms. ‘Gave me the willies.’
‘Oh my God,’ Amelie said quietly. ‘Would you listen to her? I can’t believe these people.’
Lisa shushed her. ‘Just a little more, babes. We need to get a feel for what people are going to be saying.’ Lisa managed to speak while barely moving her mouth.
‘He did help me out of a spot one year when my accountant took ill just before a big tax deadline,’ said Helen with a face of apology, as if sorry that she wasn’t fully supporting Mags’ narrative.
‘Cunning bastard,’ replied Mags. ‘That’s what they do, innit? Play all respectable and helpful to your face, while behind your back they’re totally fiddling with your kids.’
‘Why are you suddenly defending him, Drew?’ Helen now demanded of her husband. ‘I remember you after that cricket match, you said he was a wrong ’un.’
‘He couldn’t catch the ball, is what I meant. Not that he was some sort of deviant.’ His expression was full of disbelief.
‘Tried too hard for my liking,’ said Helen. ‘All that smiling and not charging for doing my accounts. Nobody’s that nice, really.’
You’re certainly not, you witch, thought Amelie. And there’s your reward for your kindness, Dave.
‘I just met him once,’ said Mags. She chewed on the inside of her mouth as if trying to come up with the right words to match her thoughts. ‘It was like he’d learned to be nice out of a book, you know?’
‘Exactly,’ said Helen. ‘Totally dodgy.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Amelie said loudly and got to her feet. She stepped closer and looked down at the surprised faces staring back up at her. ‘Idiots. Pitchforks at the ready. Let’s go and storm the local nick, eh?’
Chapter 9
Tuesday morning announced itself with the small shutter at head height on Dave’s cell door being slid open.
‘Tea or coffee?’ the policeman on the other side asked him.
‘Tea, please,’ Dave answered as he slid his legs to the side and sat up. He groaned, feeling the weight of fatigue in his eyes, his mind, his limbs. Had he slept? He tried to re-collect if there were any moments in the night when he wasn’t acutely aware of his surroundings and what he’d been accused of.
‘And
would sir like marmalade on his toast this fine morning?’
He paused before he replied to this one. The ‘toast’ he’d received each morning had yet to defrost properly, and the butter had been a solid clump in the middle of the bread.
The policeman made a sharp buzzer noise. ‘Eeee. Too late. Just butter it is.’
It didn’t much matter in any case. Dave had no appetite and had only eaten the food he’d been served since he was locked up in an attempt to keep his wits about him. Each mouthful had the taste and texture of card, and his jaw muscles ached as if he had been working his way through thick board. Still, he recognised that he needed nourishment and having something in his stomach would help his brain process events.
That was the theory. In reality, he ate, sipped, slept and shit on some kind of automatic process. The only thing that felt real was the solid surface of the bunk in his cell, the coarse blanket under his chin when he pulled it there in an attempt to sleep, and the apparent restraint from a succession of turnkey police officers. They were all far too professional to be explicit in their wish to see him come to harm, but it was apparent in every pair of eyes that moved in his direction.
He rubbed at his face and heard the rasp of bristle. Boy, did he need a shave. He’d never been one of those guys who looked good with designer stubble. It made him look like he was a breath away from stealing someone’s wallet.
Now, after an interminable weekend of long minutes and excoriating thoughts it seemed that officialdom was moving. He was on the wheel and there was no way he was getting off. After he’d made a stab at eating his ‘breakfast’ his shoe-laces and belt were returned to him, signalling he’d be making his way into the court for his hearing.
‘Not guilty,’ he said, practising for the moment when he’d be asked how he intended to plead. Again and again he said the two words. Under his breath. Out loud. With a defiant tone. An apologetic tone. A tone of fuck you and fuck that pair of stupid bastards masquerading as parents who lived next door.
The hearing, like everything else that had occurred since his nightmare began came at him through a surreal fog. He found it difficult to believe that this was happening to him, and was terrified by the process. The whole system was set up to intimidate and he felt the weight of the centuries of that process like a pressing on his brain; an ache in his lungs.
Breathing was difficult.
Clear thought impossible.
Mum and Dad were there, sitting beside Amelie. Dad, unreadable as always. Mum looked older, as if the simple process of walking through the door and taking a seat had added twenty years to her life. Dave tried to signal to them that he could deal with all of this. But he couldn’t raise enough energy to press past the fear and worry.
Chapter 10
Peter Robbins looked at the young man in the dock flanked by policemen. Saw himself in the oval of his face. The hook of his nose. But he had his mother’s eyes and they cast a benevolent air. Normally. Today his son was strained beyond measure. His skin grey, eyes shadowed, mouth a tight line of trepidation and disbelief.
His wife gripped his forearm. He turned to her, with the aim of offering a smile of encouragement. A smile that would say this would all be over soon – they’d see their son was incapable of this kind of thing. But his message failed. Norma was looking straight ahead, eyes fixed on Dave, every line and curve of her frayed with worry.
The magistrate said something. Norma whispered out the side of her mouth. ‘What’s that? What does that mean?’
‘Ssshh,’ he answered, more harshly than he intended. He’d been so intent on studying the two most important people in his world that he missed what the judge had said.
That morning, sitting outside in the car, he’d been amazed that he’d managed to arrive at the court in one piece. Couldn’t remember most of the journey. How did you process this? Where was the context? In a movie? Some sordid drama on TV?
Staring straight ahead in the passenger seat, Norma had said, ‘No smoke without fire.’
‘What?’ Peter demanded, ready to be outraged. How could his wife, Dave’s mother of all people …
‘That’s what people will be saying. No smoke without fire. I could see Jenny Johnson next door at her curtains, watching us leave.’ She gave a little hiccough of a sob, and reined it in as if she’d promised herself there would be no crying.
‘We don’t care what those idiots say, dear. The Johnsons can go to hell.’
‘They’re nice people really,’ Norma said. Her default state of politeness asserting itself. ‘But they can be pretty small-minded. Remember that time the McKee’s eldest boy came home with an arm full of tattoos? You’d have thought he’d signed a pact with the devil the way they carried on.’ Then she had fallen into silence, eyes fixed on the building ahead of her as if she was lost in a sulk of memory.
Peter felt guilty on hearing the news of Dave’s arrest because his first thought hadn’t been about Dave, it had been a stab of worry at how the news would affect Norma. Dave’s twin sister died hours after her birth, and Norma focused all of her grief, all of her energy, into making Dave’s life as safe and easy as it could possibly be.
They’d named the dead child Sarah, after Norma’s mother. Then worried that might send the wrong signal, but by the time that had occurred to Norma the registration had been completed, the child’s remains were buried and nothing was going to change. Granny was just going to have to live with having a dead infant in her name.
Of course, Granny Sandison had loved the idea; she was a generous soul, if not a little fey, and was convinced baby Sarah would be waiting for her at the pearly gates just as soon as she turned up.
One dead and one living child presented its own kind of waking nightmare. Celebrate one child too much and Norma worried you gave less to the other. So there followed three decades of his wife living a half-life. Her spirit wilted, a weakness dragged on her heart and soul, and she’d gone from never even having as much as a cold to falling prey to all kinds of illnesses. She’d live part of each day in melancholy and the other part as if fully engaged in Dave’s development. They’d come to see those regular occasions when she was close to a faint while still functioning, as ‘Mum’s episodes’, and did everything they could to help until they passed. If this all didn’t turn out well, Peter worried what it would do to his wife’s sanity.
Now, in the court, he reached across and held the hand that gripped on to his forearm, praying that the heat from his skin would transfer strength and positivity.
Everything would turn out fine, he told himself.
Of course it would.
Dave was no child molester. As a boy he’d brought home countless injured birds and small mammals. Looking after his mother demonstrated an empathy that almost made the boy shine. At this thought Peter gave himself a mental ticking-off. Of course he was no saint. He got into scrapes just like any other kid, and there was that assault charge around his twenty-first, but there was a softness in him he hadn’t observed in many other lads. Norma often said it was the soul of his dead sister. He’d got the best of the masculine and the feminine.
Whatever it was, his son was no paedophile.
They’d spent the Easter weekend trying to make sense of it all.
‘Ever since he took up with that Amelie woman he’s been a different boy,’ Norma had said earlier, before they left the car. They had paused in the act of leaving the safety of the vehicle, each taking a moment before the world crashed back into their lives. Norma had played with the fastener of her handbag, which was resting on her lap like a comforter. ‘Nothing good comes from falling in love with an older woman.’
Peter had almost corrected her. There was only six years between them, as far as he could remember. And David was a man, not a boy. But that was how she’d always see him.
‘And you,’ she aimed at Peter. ‘You encouraged him. Caught up in all that glamo
ur. Can’t see past a pretty face, Peter.’
‘What are you talking about? So, she’s a good-looking woman. Does that make her Satan?’
‘No, but he’s been a little bit weird since he moved in with her.’ She crossed her arms and he was reminded of how slight she was. A draught from a passing lorry would be enough to push her over.
‘When you say weird, you mean he has less time for us. That’s inevitable, Norma. The lad has his own life to live.’
‘Weird, I tell you. Weird. Who runs away from a career like that?’ she asked. ‘Other people would give their left arm for a life like that.’
Norma folded in on herself. Everything seemed so big, and it all reeked of power and formality. Wood panels everywhere. Grand crests. Coats of armour, whatever. All of it made her feel that if she spoke into the heavy space the only sound from her throat would be the squeak of a mouse.
The Fiscal sat, shoulders back, her expression chipped from ice, and Norma couldn’t help but feel Dave was being judged and found wanting even before the facts of the case had been aired.
He’s a good boy, she wanted to shout. Never harmed a soul in his life. Good to his mum. Or he was until he met that woman.
She stole a look to the side and looked at Amelie. All glossy hair and cheekbones. And easily the most striking woman in the room.
Norma felt a pang of guilt. She was better than that. Aiming insults at the woman. She was suffering too, judging by the slump of her features. Besides, surely the court would look at this wonderful example of womanhood and be certain that if her son could win the heart of a woman like that, there was no way he was a pervert.
The judge was speaking but Norma was so distressed by the strain showing on her son’s face she couldn’t take in what was being said. Help him, she wanted to shout at the Fiscal. Couldn’t she look at him and see the innocence blazing out of him?
That need for her to constantly protect Dave almost ended her marriage. Right up until Dave was a preteen he often – almost nightly if she was being honest – climbed into her and Peter’s bed. She would never have the heart to refuse him and was often unable to sleep with their son spread out like he was attempting a snow angel. With a low groan of dissatisfaction Peter would pad through to Dave’s bed.
A Song of Isolation Page 5
