Flesh And Blood (11 page)

Elder smiled. ‘It’s Katherine, she’s running tomorrow. The Club County Championships out at Harvey Hadden.’

‘You’re staying over then?’

‘That’s the idea. I was going to book into one of those bed-and-breakfast places on the Mansfield Road.’

Maureen made a face. ‘Tinned tomatoes and stewed tea with the sales reps over breakfast? Why not give Willie Bell a ring? He’s got this place near Mapperley Top, lives there on his own. He takes in lodgers sometimes, on the force, you know. Likes the company, I think, as well as the cash. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean. Far as I’ve heard.’

Elder knew Willie Bell. A DS who’d come down from Dumfries and Galloway ten years since and had still to lose the soft Scots burr to his voice; he’d been married once, Elder seemed to recall. But then so had they all.

‘If you’ve got a number for him,’ Elder said, ‘I’ll get in touch later.’

Taking her mobile from her bag, Maureen pressed
menu
then
phone book
and then
call
. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it across. ‘Why not do it now?’

Pam Wilson stood in Peter Gribbens’s office, midmorning, looking at the photograph on his desk. Gribbens and his wife. Vanessa, was it? She thought it was Vanessa. The pair of them in walking gear and half way up some mountain somewhere, the Lake District probably, both beaming God-given smiles, all right in this particular part of His garden. She’d asked him once, Gribbens, after one of his charges had absconded, taken his trust and shoved in back in his face, how he managed to stay so positive, smiling even, day after day after disappointing day.

‘I pray,’ he’d said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Ask the Lord for strength and pray.’ Then added, laughing, ‘And Marmite, of course, toast and Marmite. That and a good, strong cup of tea.’

Pam had never liked Marmite, not even as a child. Marmite soldiers her dad had lined up around her plate. And as for the rest… one visit to Sunday school and a now totally implausible pre-teen crush on Cliff Richard do not a Christian make.

The door opened and Shane Donald sidled in.

‘Shane. Come on in. Take a seat.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was supposed to be seein’ you at your office, that’s what you said.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well then.’

‘I was passing, that’s all. And I’ve got what might be good news.’

She sat down and waited for Donald to do the same, his eyes never really seeming to focus, blinking out from beneath slightly lowered lids. Pam this morning wearing a black cotton jacket over a loose grey top, black cords and an old pair of weathered blue Kickers she’d had for years.

‘The news. It’s about a job. One of the supermarkets, the big ones, they’ve got a vacancy…’

‘Not for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They won’t take me on.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You know why.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Not once they know what I done.’

‘They won’t. Not in any detail. None at all.’

‘They’ll know I’ve been inside.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why…’

‘Shane, look, we’ve talked about all this before. And besides, I’ve spoken to them. They know me. They’ve helped out before. It’s part of their policy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘This job, what is it then?’

‘Oh, working in the store mainly, stacking shelves, that kind of thing. Collecting trolleys from the car park once in a while, making sure they’re in the right place. Helping out generally.’

Donald was fidgeting on his chair, chewing his nails, looking at the floor.

‘It’s a start, Shane…’

‘It’s bollocks, that’s what it is.’ The sharpness in his voice took her by surprise. ‘It’s a job for kids jackin’ off school.’

‘Shane, like I say, it’s a start, that’s the important thing. Prove you can hold this down and then we’ll see. See what else you might go on to. All right?’

No answer.

‘Shane?’

Suddenly he was looking at her, his eyes unwavering. ‘Is that it?’ Donald said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘All you wanted to see me about?’ Half out of his chair.

‘No. Not, not really. I was wondering, your sister…’

Slowly, he sat back down.

‘If you’d been in touch with her?’

‘I said I would, didn’t I? What’s the matter? You don’t trust me?’

‘No, it’s not that at all. I just wanted to know how you got on, what arrangements you’d made. I was interested.’

‘I’m meeting her in town, some café.’

‘Instead of going round.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘The first time, I suppose it’s a good idea.’

Donald snorted. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? That cunt, Neville.’

‘Irene’s husband, d’you mean?’

‘That cunt, yeah.’

‘Shane, please…’

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Your language, it doesn’t help.’

‘Language?’

‘Yes.’

‘About him?’ Donald laughed low in his throat. ‘You’ve met him, right?’

‘Once. Yes. Briefly.’

‘Then you know he’s a cunt.’

Instead of counting to ten, slowly inside her head, Pam was remembering a lecture on Suitable Forms of Address in a Multi-cultural Society – when speaking to clients at all costs avoid ‘nitty-gritty’, ‘good egg’, ‘gobbledegook’, ‘egg and spoon’. As far as Pam could recall, nothing had been said about the word ‘cunt’.

‘Shane,’ she said, ‘why do you feel that way about him? Your brother-in-law?’

‘Why? ’Cause he hates my guts, that’s why. ’Cause he don’t want Irene to have nothin’ to do with me. ’Cause he wishes I was dead.’

‘I’m sure that’s an exaggeration. And we know Irene wants to help, don’t we? We just have to hope Neville will come round with time.’ She eased back her chair. ‘When are you meeting her?’

‘This afternoon. Three o’clock.’

‘Good. And the interview at the supermarket’s Monday morning. At eleven. I’ll come with you to that, if you want.’

♦

The café was near the old market hall, small and low, with slatted-wood chairs and round tables that wobbled the instant they were touched. The windows, front and back, were frosted over with steam. Plants trailed haplessly from plastic pots in varying stages of decay. Out of place and out of time, a small CD player splurged out songs of sea and surf: ‘California Dreaming’, ‘California Girls’, ‘Surf’s Up’, ‘Surfin’ USA’.

‘A total wank, all that,’ Donald remembered McKeirnan saying. ‘A total fuckin’ wank.’

Himself, he didn’t care either way.

‘Shane, over here!’

And there was Irene, heavily up to meet him – God! She’d put on some weight. Never pregnant again, was she? Not at her age.

‘Shane, it’s lovely to see you.’

Kisses all round his face and hugs fit to break his back.

‘All right, all right. Okay. That’ll do.’ Donald, embarrassed, pushing her away.

‘Pleased to see you, aren’t I?’ Irene’s face bright with smiles. ‘Here,’ pushing some money into his hand. ‘Get yourself something to drink. Eat, too, by the look of you. Starving you at that place, are they, or what?’

‘Looks like you got enough for both of us.’

‘Thanks very much.’

She sat with a cigarette, stirring sugar into her tea and waiting for him to get served. Her baby brother. When she’d heard the evidence at the trial, what he and that other bloke had done, she’d felt sick to her stomach; vomited later until the back of her throat was raw.

‘So what’s it like?’ she asked as soon as he’d sat down. ‘Are they treating you okay?’

‘Yeah, all right. I’m fine. How ’bout you and the kids?’

‘Oh, you know.’ The oldest, Irene thought, was not much older than Shane had been when he’d gone inside; the second, a girl, was less than a year younger than the one they’d murdered. Murdered and the rest.

‘You think I’m going to let him come within a mile of here?’ Neville had said. ‘Within a mile of our Alice? After what he did.’

And he’d seized Irene’s arm and swung her round, twisting it up behind her back, forcing her towards their thirteen-year-old, who stood, uncertain and half-terrified, beside the kitchen door.

‘Look at her. Go on, take a good look at her. Go on. Now think back on what he did, your precious bloody brother. And tell me you want him here, in our home.’

Releasing her, he’d slammed through the door, leaving mother and daughter facing one another till Vicky reached out a hand and then, when Irene put out her own hand to meet it, spun away and followed her father into the other room.

‘Your place,’ Donald said. ‘He’s not going to let me come, is he?’

‘No, love. No,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not. Not for a while, anyway.’

‘I am their uncle, you know. Family. Don’t that count for nothin’?’

Less than steadily, Irene lit one cigarette from the butt of another. She’d told herself she wasn’t going to cry. She was not.

♦

Donald watched
EastEnders
and
The Bill
, then played pool with Royal Jeavons, winning two games out of five, the best he’d done. When he’d mentioned the supermarket job, instead of dissing him in some way, Jeavons had surprised him. ‘Shit, man, it’s not cool, but it’s a job, right? Not the rest of your life. Six months, innit? After you was inside how long? No. Check off the days, count the time, you know how it goes.’ Not long after that Jeavons had got into conversation with a bunch of the others, backslapping and laughing, and Donald had drifted away.

‘Everything okay, Shane?’ Peter Gribbens met him on the stairs. ‘Saw your sister today, I believe. How did that go?’

‘Great, yeah. Just great.’

‘Off to spend a weekend soon, eh? All the family together.’

‘Yeah. Soon.’

‘Capital. That’s the stuff.’

Donald slammed the door closed and tore the sheets and blanket from the bed, hurled the pillows across the room and turned the bed itself over on its side; he pulled the drawers from the chest and spilled their contents on the floor, tried to overturn the wardrobe and failed, finally threw himself against the wall and smacked his head against it hard. Punched himself in the face. Once, twice, three times, more.

He was on his knees, blood running from his nose, a cut above his eye, when Royal Jeavons came into the room.

‘Shit, man. Oh, shit.’

He righted Donald’s bed and sat him down, head back to stop the flow of blood, went back downstairs and returned with some ice wrapped in a towel which he placed over the swelling around the eye. ‘Here. Hold that in place.’ With a flannel and paper towels, he cleaned Donald up as best as he could. Disappeared again for several minutes and came back with aspirin. A plastic cup of water from the sink. ‘Swallow these.’

He set to rights the chest of drawers, then collected the bedding from where it was strewn across the room.

‘Best lie down now, right?’

When Donald was curled on the mattress, knees pulled up towards his chest, Jeavons spread first the sheet and then the blanket carefully over him.

‘We’re gonna have to make up some story for this, you know that, don’t you? Tripped and fell downstairs, something Gribbens is gonna swallow. Let’s hope it don’t look so bad in the mornin’, innit? Now you get some sleep.’

Back at his own side of the room, cross-legged on his bed, Jeavons reached for his Walkman and slipped the headphones in place over his head.

Katherine was drawn in the outside lane, Elder feeling the tension in his stomach as, along with other runners, eight in all, she jiggled and stretched, waiting for the starter to call them to their marks. Three hundred metres, less than a complete circuit of the track. Katherine’s hair tied back behind her, her competitor’s number lifting a little in the May breeze. And now they were moving to their places, a final stretch from Katherine, reaching high above her head before easing her feet down into the blocks and then leaning forward, fingers splayed, just nudging the edge of the line, shoulders tense and arms taut, eyes focused and head perfectly still. The gun, sooner always than Elder could anticipate, and they were off, Katherine well away, but so were they all, fifteen metres, twenty-five, thirty. The stagger making it impossible to judge which of them, if any, had the early advantage.

Katherine, by virtue of her position, was first into the bend, the rest stretched in an almost perfect half-chevron behind her. The national standard was 40.70 seconds, 41.60 the entry standard required for the English Schools Championships. The figures drummed into him.

One of the three black athletes, muscular and strong, was gaining ground now in the second lane; tall, with pale skin and long, flowing hair, the girl immediately inside Katherine was matching her stride for stride; the three of them with a clear space between themselves and the rest as they came out of the final bend and into the straight. Elder aware that he was shouting Katherine’s name, loud above the noise of the crowd that had gathered close to the finishing line. The black runner forcing ahead, two strides, three, and then Katherine coming back at her, drawing level with twenty metres to go, mouth open, chest pushed forward, head back; the two of them, neck and neck, head to head and stretching for the line until the tall girl surged between them, breasting the tape, hand punching the air in triumph.

All around Elder excited voices, recounting the finish of the race, and all of his attention upon Katherine as she squatted near the side of the track, head bowed, staring at the ground.

♦

‘She did well.’

Elder turned at the sound of his wife’s voice, tense again but in a different way.

‘Don’t you think so?’ Joanne said. ‘She ran well.’

‘Yes, she did.’