’81. Is there any chance Mr Meyer might recall that far back?’ Tom asks, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
‘Detective Inspector Bevans. If Maarten Meyer met a man in connection with his work, he will remember him. His memory is astonishing.’
Tom sees the day stretch out before him. He has never liked Sundays, they were always so boring when he was a child. Usually he would wake at six and know his parents would sleep until noon at least – both with dreadful hangovers. The living room was normally dark and full of empty bottles and ashtrays that stank. TV was not allowed until his parents were up and he was not allowed to leave the flat until then. He would read, that was his way to escape. At about 2 p.m. when at least his mum was awake, they would walk over to his grandmother’s for lunch. It would be roast chicken or roast pork. Either way the meat was dry, the potatoes like bullets and the vegetables had been boiling since Tuesday. Only the gravy was edible. Sometimes he dreamt of that gravy. After lunch everyone but him wouldfall asleep and he would have to watch the television, which was mostly boring except The High Chaparral . He drew the line at Last of the Summer Wine and would rather sit in the kitchen, at his nan’s Formica table reading the local newspaper. At about 7 p.m. they would have tea. He would make a grilled sandwich of tinned sardines, cold baked beans and cheese. Then they’d go home and his parents would start to drink again. Sunday bloody Sunday.
He walks into the park and over to the Observatory. He remembers lying on the grass there years before, what eighteen years ago? Observing the skies with Dani and Izzy. There was supposed to be a meteor shower. It was a bust though – the cloud was too heavy and the three of them just lay there and talked about the future, what they would like to be when they were grown. Izzy wanted to travel the world, maybe as a wildlife photographer. Dani was still running then and wanted to be an international athlete. Tom remembers his mind going blank, all he wanted to say was – I’ll tag along with you . But he couldn’t. Instead he mumbled something about international aid – it sounded good and kind and laudable. He hadn’t meant it; his head had been full of Dani.
Here, in the present, he lies down in the grass and looks up at the clouds that skit above him. What would he tell the young Tom, if he could go back in time? He thinks hard, but doesn’t know what he would say. His imagination has entropied – that was what twelve years in the police did for you. Fact after fact after fact. Then he remembers: just as they were about to leave, the sky cleared and they saw a meteor fizz by. Then another, and another, all in CinemaScope. The shooting stars were all they could see.
He lies there for an hour. It is 2 p.m. and he realises he is quite depressed. Without work to keep his mind occupied he drifts into the past and seeks memories of her. He needs to stay in the present. Be here now , he tells himself.
‘Yeah, right,’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.
He walks to Valerie Brindley-Black’s house. A question is forming in his head but he can’t quite grasp its tail. It takes an hour to get there and as he walks, he thinks about Charlie and the knot of blood. On arrival he rings the doorbell. As it opens he begins to greet her.
‘Mrs Brindley-Bl …’ He trails off. The woman at the door looks like Valerie but it is not her.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her voice soft.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Bevans. Is … your sister here?’ He instinctively knows this is the woman she went to when her husband died of cancer. Sophie Brindley.
‘She’s asleep. Sedated. I don’t think I could wake her even if I wanted to.’
Tom nods, he understands. He is reminded of Patty, Dani’s mother. She was a crime journalist, prided herself that she had seen the very worst of human vice and corruption and still remained distanced enough
‘Detective Inspector Bevans. If Maarten Meyer met a man in connection with his work, he will remember him. His memory is astonishing.’
Tom sees the day stretch out before him. He has never liked Sundays, they were always so boring when he was a child. Usually he would wake at six and know his parents would sleep until noon at least – both with dreadful hangovers. The living room was normally dark and full of empty bottles and ashtrays that stank. TV was not allowed until his parents were up and he was not allowed to leave the flat until then. He would read, that was his way to escape. At about 2 p.m. when at least his mum was awake, they would walk over to his grandmother’s for lunch. It would be roast chicken or roast pork. Either way the meat was dry, the potatoes like bullets and the vegetables had been boiling since Tuesday. Only the gravy was edible. Sometimes he dreamt of that gravy. After lunch everyone but him wouldfall asleep and he would have to watch the television, which was mostly boring except The High Chaparral . He drew the line at Last of the Summer Wine and would rather sit in the kitchen, at his nan’s Formica table reading the local newspaper. At about 7 p.m. they would have tea. He would make a grilled sandwich of tinned sardines, cold baked beans and cheese. Then they’d go home and his parents would start to drink again. Sunday bloody Sunday.
He walks into the park and over to the Observatory. He remembers lying on the grass there years before, what eighteen years ago? Observing the skies with Dani and Izzy. There was supposed to be a meteor shower. It was a bust though – the cloud was too heavy and the three of them just lay there and talked about the future, what they would like to be when they were grown. Izzy wanted to travel the world, maybe as a wildlife photographer. Dani was still running then and wanted to be an international athlete. Tom remembers his mind going blank, all he wanted to say was – I’ll tag along with you . But he couldn’t. Instead he mumbled something about international aid – it sounded good and kind and laudable. He hadn’t meant it; his head had been full of Dani.
Here, in the present, he lies down in the grass and looks up at the clouds that skit above him. What would he tell the young Tom, if he could go back in time? He thinks hard, but doesn’t know what he would say. His imagination has entropied – that was what twelve years in the police did for you. Fact after fact after fact. Then he remembers: just as they were about to leave, the sky cleared and they saw a meteor fizz by. Then another, and another, all in CinemaScope. The shooting stars were all they could see.
He lies there for an hour. It is 2 p.m. and he realises he is quite depressed. Without work to keep his mind occupied he drifts into the past and seeks memories of her. He needs to stay in the present. Be here now , he tells himself.
‘Yeah, right,’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.
He walks to Valerie Brindley-Black’s house. A question is forming in his head but he can’t quite grasp its tail. It takes an hour to get there and as he walks, he thinks about Charlie and the knot of blood. On arrival he rings the doorbell. As it opens he begins to greet her.
‘Mrs Brindley-Bl …’ He trails off. The woman at the door looks like Valerie but it is not her.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her voice soft.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Bevans. Is … your sister here?’ He instinctively knows this is the woman she went to when her husband died of cancer. Sophie Brindley.
‘She’s asleep. Sedated. I don’t think I could wake her even if I wanted to.’
Tom nods, he understands. He is reminded of Patty, Dani’s mother. She was a crime journalist, prided herself that she had seen the very worst of human vice and corruption and still remained distanced enough
Similar Books
