Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  Robin frowns. This is hardly news. ‘They wouldn’t have arrested him if they didn’t think that, Sophie. How is Finn?’

  ‘Same. No change.’ He hears sniffling at the end of the line and feels sympathy for the girl. This is the man she loves, after all. He should be a bit kinder to her. ‘It’s just… they mentioned there’s some camera footage from inside the van, but they can’t find it.’

  ‘I heard that, too.’

  ‘But… but shouldn’t they be trying a bit harder to track it down?’ Her voice is getting hysterical again. ‘Isn’t that their job? To find every bit of evidence?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s—’

  ‘Can you make sure they are? Phone them, shout at them or something?’

  ‘For a start, my involvement in the investigation is only as an observer. Any evidence recovered by me would be inadmissible in court. Secondly, Craig is a higher rank than me…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, she’s in charge. That’s how it works.’ Robin pauses, and he hears her crying again. ‘I’ll call her,’ he says, resigned to his fate. ‘See what I can do.’

  Sophie hangs up, and he collapses back on the bed with a sigh. Like he can influence Craig. But he’ll do as he said, and put another call in. Perhaps he could phone DC Grey. The boy seems far easier to bully.

  He glances at the clock. It’ll have to wait: he needs to have a shower and change. And he has to admit, he’s looking forward to seeing Sandra. Catching up properly for the first time in twenty-two years.

  * * *

  He knocks on the door to Freya’s room half an hour later, and she answers it. Like him, she’s got showered, and her long blonde hair is loose over her shoulders, smelling of something lovely. She’s even wearing a dress, a casual, flowing… thing. He doesn’t know how to describe it; fashion has never been his forte. Navy blue, with small white flowers. It suits her.

  ‘You look nice,’ he manages, after a shocked pause.

  ‘You don’t need to sound so surprised. You’ve made an effort, too,’ she says, shutting the door behind her.

  ‘I’m wearing a shirt,’ Robin mutters.

  ‘Exactly,’ Freya replies. ‘For you, out of work, that’s practically black tie.’

  * * *

  Robin drives the short journey from Newton Abbot back to Kingskerswell and parks at the Co-op. They walk down the road towards the small row of terraced houses where Robin lived his entire childhood. Brick walls, with bay windows and tiny front yards. A small metal fence runs along the front, matching metal gates. Robin points to the one on the left.

  ‘That was ours. We sold it when Dad died.’ He points down the row. ‘Then Sandra’s, then Josie and Finn.’

  ‘Poor Sandra, being sandwiched between the noisy teenagers,’ Freya remarks.

  ‘We used to treat her house like a second home. If ever we rowed with our parents, we’d end up at her kitchen table. And if we were all in trouble, we’d all be there, Georgia included.’

  ‘And Sandra never got married?’

  ‘No, I don’t know why. It’s just the way it was. You don’t ask when you’re a kid.’

  They open the squeaky gate leading to Sandra’s front door. Two pretty pots with flowers sit on the concrete of the small yard. Robin rings the doorbell.

  The door opens, letting out a waft of tantalising smells, and Robin’s stomach rumbles in response.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Sandra says warmly to Robin, then steps back when she sees Freya. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Freya.’

  Sandra gives Robin an impressed look. ‘When you said your partner was coming, too, I was expecting a bloke. I thought it was your backhanded way of coming out, Robin. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ she adds hastily. ‘But this young lady, well!’ She gives Freya a warm hug. ‘What on earth are you doing with him, my love?’

  ‘No, we’re not—’

  ‘She’s not my—’ they both say at the same time.

  Robin finishes the sentence. ‘Freya’s my colleague. We work together.’

  ‘Oh! That explains it. She’s much too pretty for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Robin replies gruffly, while Freya laughs.

  The three of them file through to Sandra’s living room. The decor is new and tidy, light blue sofas, undoubtably feminine, with a candle burning on the coffee table. A dining table with four chairs is in the room behind, and a kitchen past that.

  ‘What will you have to drink? I’ve roasted a chicken.’

  They agree on wine. Freya offers to drive and Robin’s relieved. He’d fancied more than one tonight. They sit on the comfy sofas, glasses in hand, and talk inevitably turns to Finn and Josie. Sandra’s been speaking to Josie every day, but she’s worried about how she’s coping.

  ‘She’s barely sleeping, Robin,’ Sandra says. ‘All she’s ever lived for is that boy, and now he’s in trouble.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘I’m worried about them both. So how bad is it looking for Finn?’

  Robin catches a look from Freya. But there’s no point in lying. ‘It’s not good,’ he replies. ‘They have a substantial amount of evidence pointing towards Sharp’s death being carried out by Finn.’ He sees Sandra about to say something. ‘Whether he meant to or not. Finn and Sharp were the only two in that van. Footage from the outside shows nobody else arriving after the cameraman left. And with Finn still in hospital, we’re in a catch-22 situation. Nobody knows what happened, except him. He gets better, and they’ll interview him then charge him. He stays ill, and we’ll never find out.’

  There’s a long pause while they all take a sip from their drinks. The wine has gone straight to Robin’s head on his empty stomach, but he appreciates the bit of anaesthesia.

  ‘What happens…’ Sandra starts. ‘What happens if he doesn’t get better?’

  Robin sighs. ‘A doctor will need to assess if he’s fit to stand trial. And if not, my best guess is he’ll end up in a secure unit.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as he needs.’

  The room plunges into silence again. Sandra isn’t as close to the realities of policing as Robin or Freya, but she’s realised. One way or the other, Finn’s in a prison.

  His life, as he knew it, is over.

  35

  Robin’s given Freya the headlines from the case against Finn, but hearing him laying it all out for Sandra is sobering. She knows, as well as Robin does, that there is no good news here.

  Fortunately, the oven timer rings, disturbing them all from their silence, and Sandra stands up. She shakes her head, as if the physical movement could obliterate the bad feeling in the room.

  ‘Come on, both of you,’ she says. ‘Let’s eat.’

  The roast chicken and crisp potatoes are the best meal Freya has eaten in a long time. And, with the delicious food, the mood has changed. Sandra has been happily telling Freya about what it was like living between the Butlers and the Masons. Freya laughing in response, Robin shaking his head, good-natured, as Sandra tells her stories.

  ‘There is nothing about this one I don’t know,’ she says. ‘These walls are paper-thin. Paper!’ she exclaims. ‘And my bedroom was next to Robin’s.’

  ‘Sandra…’ Robin says, groaning in embarrassment. ‘She doesn’t want to hear this.’

  ‘She bloody does,’ Freya laughs.

  ‘I’ll spare you the worst of it, but let’s just say, I knew before his father when Robin Butler lost his virginity.’

  Robin jumps up from the table, his hands over his ears. ‘Enough, Sandra. Move on!’ He gets a new bottle of white wine from the fridge and brings it back to the table.

  Freya leans across to Sandra when Robin’s back is turned. ‘Which was when?’ she whispers.

  ‘He must have been, maybe, seventeen? I remember the girl, she was sweet. Carrie, wasn’t it, Robin?’

  Robin can only groan again in response.

  ‘Used to see them down at the playpark, where all the teenagers hung
out, drinking their cider. Hand in hand. What happened to her?’

  ‘No idea,’ Robin grunts. ‘Didn’t care after she dumped me,’ he adds pointedly.

  ‘Aw,’ Freya says. ‘Broke your little heart.’

  ‘She did.’ Robin pours himself and Sandra generous glassfuls from the new bottle. ‘Finn was happy, though. Meant he could hang out with me again.’

  ‘Never was a popular one with the girls, our Finn,’ Sandra explained. ‘Too quiet, too awkward.’ She laughs again. ‘But still got in some spectacular rows with Josie. I would hear it through the walls. Him and Josie on one side, you scrapping with Georgia on the other. Oh,’ she says, with a chortle, ‘the screaming!’

  ‘Why didn’t you have kids?’ Freya asks, curious. She knows it’s a personal question and she hates it when people ask her, but Sandra doesn’t seem to be the sort of woman to mind.

  ‘Just never happened,’ Sandra says. ‘Didn’t meet the right man, and then time passed and I was too old.’ She takes a sip from her glass. ‘There wasn’t the same option to go it alone in those days. Being a single parent was something you did because your partner died, like your dad, Robin, or because the shitbag had left, like Josie. You didn’t do it willingly.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Freya says.

  But Sandra smiles. ‘Don’t be. I have a brilliant life. I have my freedom. A great job. I’ve travelled, been to places that I would have never been to if I’d had kids. But maybe it would have been nice.’ She pauses for a moment, lost in thought. ‘Still, I had you lot, didn’t I?’ She reaches across and ruffles Robin’s hair affectionately. ‘All the good bits with you kids at my kitchen table, sharing your secrets. I miss your sister, Robin. Georgia called, every week without fail. Did you know that?’

  Robin shakes his head, solemn.

  ‘She loved those boys. And she loved you, Robin. She’d tell me your news. How well you were doing at work. What unsuitable woman you were dating.’

  He laughs. ‘There were many of those.’

  ‘No one now?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Too busy.’

  ‘Too lazy, more like. You have to make the effort, you know. Beautiful women don’t just drop into your lap. You’re not getting any younger. Or better-looking.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Freya listens to this warm exchange and resolves to call her own parents. Make the time to go and visit. It’s been too long.

  The conversation moves on, and Freya watches as Sandra and Robin reminisce. Now that the subject has shifted from his embarrassing teenage encounters, Robin’s happy to swap stories. Talking about his parents, his sister. Growing up together in the tiny Devon village. Dinner has finished, and Robin sits back in his chair, wine glass clutched in his hand, smiling more broadly than Freya thinks she has ever seen. It’s a different side to him. Relaxed. Himself. She realises just how little about Robin she actually knows.

  This guy here teases and jokes. He’s more tactile with Sandra than she’s seen him with anyone else. And she is with him, at one point leaning over and enveloping him in a big hug. He helps himself to more wine without asking; this is somewhere he undoubtedly feels at home, despite all the years that have passed. His accent is more West Country: the long a, the drop of the h.

  But then, she thinks, he’s never been this drunk around her before.

  Either his new healthy way of life has lowered his alcohol tolerance or it’s the sheer amount of white he and Sandra are sinking, but Freya realises as they finish pudding that he is wasted. Sandra, too. They’ve moved back into the living room; Freya’s offer to wash up is dismissed quickly and Sandra’s eyes are half closed. Robin’s head lolls to one side.

  She looks at the clock – it’s nearly eleven p.m.

  ‘Come on, Sarge,’ she says, rousing Robin from where he is clearly planning on taking a nap. ‘Let’s take you home.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?’ Sandra asks, eyeing them slightly cross-eyed.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Freya says. But as she grabs Robin’s hand to pull him up from the sofa, his other goes round her waist, steadying himself. And she has to admit, she kind of likes it.

  They say their goodbyes, earning another bear hug from Sandra, and they stagger back to the old Volvo. This must be the only way Robin will let her drive, she thinks. When he’s so paralytic that unconsciousness prevents his usual hesitation.

  His eyes close again the moment he’s strapped in the passenger seat.

  ‘Great,’ she mutters. She has no sodding clue where she’s going.

  But intelligent guesses take her to road signs, and then streets she recognises. Sighing with relief, she pulls up in the car park of the Premier Inn. She nudges her boss, who’s started snoring.

  ‘Robin!’ she hisses. ‘Butler! You stupid twat,’ she adds under her breath. She considers leaving him in the car park, but he wakes at the sound of her door opening and the interior light coming on.

  ‘Oh! We’re back! Good job,’ he mumbles at her, patronising.

  He manages a wobbly shuffle into the hotel, then into the lift, and along the corridor. She finds his room key in his back pocket – a more intimate experience than she would have liked – and puts it in his door. He leans in the door frame and looks at her from half-open eyes.

  ‘We make a good team, you and me,’ he slurs with a lopsided smile.

  ‘Yes, Robin,’ she says, humouring him. ‘Now go to bed.’

  He leans forward and, to her surprise, gives her a kiss on her cheek. But in his drunkenness he ends up missing slightly, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Right then,’ he says. ‘Bedtime.’

  And with a loud slam of the door, he’s gone.

  She looks at the closed door for a second, then shakes her head in disbelief. Just when she thinks she’s got the measure of Robin Butler, it turns out she’s wrong.

  36

  Sunday

  Robin can remember most of last night. Most. But despite the banging in his head and the desperate need for water, he feels okay. None of the usual haunting regret of having said something ridiculous, although he’s pretty sure he did. What made the difference was the company. Sandra had seen it all: the late-night vomiting with Finn, the fights, the teenage acne. And, as it was revealed last night, his early attempts with girls. One night with too much wine wouldn’t have fazed her.

  And Freya… Well, Freya knows the worst of him. Trevor Stevens, and everything that happened there. The despair, the depths of his depression. And she took it all on, still working with him, day in, day out.

  He lies in bed, listening to the hum of the air conditioner, the clatter and slam of doors opening and closing outside. Conversations in the corridor. He picks up his phone: no messages. He sends a quick text to Freya: Have a lie-in, this is your holiday after all. Will be back later. Then he adds a smiley face, which feels out of character but necessary.

  He has a long shower under surprisingly hot and powerful jets, and gets dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt as yesterday. Out in the corridor, he pauses. There’s no noise coming from behind Freya’s door, and in the fuzz of his hangover he remembers saying good night. A kiss on the cheek missing, and a slight touch of the lips.

  He feels something: a worry that he might have revealed more about himself than he intended. He shakes his head, dismissing it, and leaves the hotel.

  * * *

  Robin arrives at the industrial estate in good time and parks outside the self-storage facility. He hasn’t been back here since his dad died, when he and Georgia painfully and quickly packed up their father’s belongings into boxes so the house could be sold. The intention was always to come back and sort it – a thought that occurs to Robin every month as the direct debit payment goes out. Up until now he hasn’t had the inclination.

  But being home, speaking to Sandra and fondly remembering his childhood, has made him feel differently. For years he hasn’t felt strong enough to dig this stuff out, bu
t now he feels a pull. More than a curiosity; a desire to remember rather than a need to run away.

  He heads inside the building. This place impressed him at the time, with the CCTV cameras and the security guard who nods at him as he goes inside. Luckily, the number of the unit has been printed on the key ring or Robin wouldn’t have had a clue, looking at the identical orange doors. He puts the key in the padlock, and he’s in.

  There’s more than he remembered. Way more. Boxes are stacked on boxes, then piled on furniture. He recognises their old family dining table – why did they keep it? – chairs lined up down the side. He must, must get round to sorting all this stuff out: what a waste of money to keep paying month after month in misplaced nostalgia. Their dad wasn’t one for sentimentality; he would only keep what he needed, and the rest went in the bin. That almost went as far as their old childhood drawings, although he remembers their mum intervening. After she died, Robin expects nothing stayed.

  Still, there are boxes and boxes here. Robin pulls the closest one towards him, Mum Ornaments written on the side in Georgia’s recognisable print. He opens it: their mother’s china figurines all carefully interred in bubble wrap. Even after her death, they stayed in their glass cabinet – a strange house decoration for a newly single man. But Robin knows their father never found anybody else to spend his life with, and marvels at the love that must have existed between his parents.

  Even now, at the age of forty-two, it still seems impossible to Robin that he could find someone and get married. Steph was the closest he’d come to any sort of permanent attachment, and that had been over in less than a week. His thoughts turn to Liv, and the spectre of the baby hanging over him. Christ, to be a father? Was that something he could do?

  He remembers his own dad. Gordon Butler was a mechanic by trade, a skill that hasn’t been passed down to his son. Robin remembers him always twiddling with something in his hand, a screwdriver never far out of reach. A toy of Robin’s that no longer worked. A piece of oily carburettor. A plug that needed rewiring. He left the discipline to Robin’s mother, and then, after she died, to Georgia, even though she was only two years older than her brother. He was a quiet man, undemonstrative about his love for his children, but unwavering in his presence. He never missed a football game or rugby match, and there were many.