September Starlings (49 page)

Those two years had been strange, because they seemed to have changed me completely. Gone was the girl who had feared marked photographs and knocks at the door. My anger was so intense, so constant, that it burned out all the terror.

In the kitchen, I kept the cuttings from local and national papers. They were in a tin box at the bottom of a drawer, stashed away from the clutches of my older child, as his reading age was well in advance of his chronological status. Alongside them and in the same tin were the cheques from Mother. She never visited us and I never
cashed her conscience payments, didn’t use a penny of the money.

Sometimes, when the children were asleep, I would spread the ‘mystery’ across the floor, placing the cuttings in order on the scarlet rug that fronted a two-bar electric fire. ‘LOCAL MAN FOUND IN RIVER’ said the first. Oh I remembered that day. Anne standing beside my hospital bed, her clothes shabby and paint-spattered. Two weeks I spent in there. They were talking about sending me to the psychiatric ward, but I thought of the boys and pulled out of my nosedive. Anne dragged me from the bed, forced me to dress, took me home, took time off work, fed me, dressed me.

‘WAS FRANK THOMPSON MURDERED?’ was another piece of journalism from the
Bolton Evening News
. Yes, he was murdered. And no, they never punished him. Him. I knew him well. Frank’s car had been parked next to the river, keys still in the ignition. A parcel of haddock was on the passenger seat, so he had bought our fish and was on his way home. This was all very understandable, all very plausible. Except for one tiny detail. He had been driving in the wrong direction.

I kept diaries now, noted down the dates and times when I had seen Tommo, when I’d thought I had seen him. The house was in the middle of the terrace, and was far from soundproof. The man on one side snored and kept me awake, while the woman at the opposite side had a consumptive-sounding cough that rattled every bedspring in the street. I was safe.

On a Saturday evening towards the end of June, Anne visited me. She brought two chops, some potatoes and a cabbage. Anne was the sort of person from whom I could accept charity. She got a bit high-horseish at times, but we had shared so much throughout our lives that I felt no shame in her presence. Had our positions been reversed, then she would have accepted help from me.

She threw herself into that old sagging sofa, wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘I’ve had to have the bloody thing
towed away,’ she announced. Her relationship with her car was on a par with mine with the cooker. ‘Clutch went halfway up Derby Street. I’ve had it decoked, tuned, serviced three hundred times, but it still fizzles out on me. In fact, the mechanic suggested that the only cure was to jack up the number plate and slide a different car behind it.’ She looked at the cuttings on the rug. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

She picked up a photograph of Frank. ‘This won’t bring him back, love.’

There were times when I just had to look at his face, when I had to read about that terrible day. He was slipping away from me, leaving me more alone with every passing moment. I needed him. If I couldn’t have him alive, then I would carry on searching my memory and using the printed word to help me feel close to him. ‘I just have to do it, that’s all.’

Anne’s face was a picture of misery. ‘Irene and Enid Corcoran,’ she muttered. ‘What a wonderful alibi.’

I stared into the distant past, remembered those little clones with the matching nit-caps. ‘They’d do anything for him when they were children. I suppose they’re afraid of him now. Playing card games? Whenever did he sit down and play whist?’

‘Well, they stuck to their story all right.’

I picked up a piece from the
News of the World
, ‘MAN CLEARED OF MURDERING HIS BROTHER’, and waved it under Anne’s nose. ‘Not guilty of murder, just as he was innocent that other time, when the girl was raped. There’s absolutely nothing we can do.’

‘Don’t cry,’ she said.

‘I’m not crying.’

‘Ah, so your eyes are just leaking, I take it?’

I rubbed my eyelids, mumbled that I probably needed a new washer fitted to my dripping tear duct. ‘One of the most awful things was when I got into trouble for harassment. Imagine those two girls taking out an
injunction just because I’d asked a few questions.’ I chose not to dwell on the real facts, which were that I’d followed them mercilessly, had beaten their doors to sawdust at midnight, had written repeatedly to the twins.

Anne stretched out her legs. ‘At least you can talk about it at last. I’m sure that’s a healthy sign. Have you heard from Frank’s father at all?’

‘No.’ Poor Colin Thompson had disappeared after Frank’s funeral. Before leaving the town, he had visited me. ‘I can’t stay,’ he said that night. ‘There’s nothing here for me now. I know I’ve got the two grandchildren, but Frank was … important to me. All we can hope is that our Bernard gets his come-uppance in time.’

‘Shame,’ said Anne. ‘He was a good bloke.’

We put away my press cuttings, switched on the television, sat through a tedious comedy and a police series. ‘Are you staying?’ I asked her at about ten o’clock.

‘Well, I’m not walking to town and I don’t fancy waiting for the bus. Lend me a nightie and a toothbrush.’

I watched Anne as she prepared for bed. She was a true citizen of the world, never turned a hair when it came to outside lavatories and no bath or shower. She often kept me company at the weekends, and we always slept together in the double bed. On this occasion, we threw off most of the covers, as the night was hot.

Perhaps the heat affected me, or perhaps I was just overwrought, but the dreams that night were terrible. I was in a different bed, a high one with a metal frame and a white quilt. Someone held me down, prevented me from running outside. Through the window, I saw a coffin being carried by some men in black. One of the men turned and looked at me, smiled, made me shiver. The hatred bubbled up, made me fight the nurses, but I could not rise from that hard, plastic-covered mattress, could not run after the funeral and tell the mourners that my Frank was being carried to the grave by his murderer. The murderer was the one with the strawberry blond hair and
the curled upper lip. As in reality, I never got to the funeral.

The scene changed. There was a nun behind a counter, a pretty nun with an Irish accent. That was all right, because I had no qualms about meeting Confetti. But she changed, her features melting then setting until they were hard, masculine, were the property of a worldly wise police sergeant. ‘Mrs Thompson, there is no proof. And you never reported him when he broke your leg, did you? Or on any of the other occasions when he supposedly assaulted you?’

‘No. I’ve been scared. But he hurt that girl, the one who ran away. It’s not just me! He’s killed his brother now.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but there’s no evidence.’

‘Then I’ll tackle him myself. When you find my body, you’ll know who killed me, who killed Frank, who’s going to kill my … Teddy! If I’m not here, who’ll look after the babies? Auntie Maisie’s old and my mother hates children.’

He was dissolving, becoming someone else. ‘You’re getting exactly what you deserve, Laura McNally.’ My mother wore a police uniform and an air of sheer delight. ‘I told him where you were. I told him so that he would kill Frank and leave you on your own. That’s all my doing, all my own work.’

‘I hate you,’ I said.

‘Really?’ She was laughing. Smoke poured out of her mouth in a stream that promised to be endless. ‘You’ll be next. You and your children will be next.’ She reached over the counter and pushed me to the floor. I was small, wore white ankle socks and strappy brown sandals. And she hit me, beat me on the skull with her fist, crashed my head into the wall. I wondered why I had not lifted up my arms, but I realized that they were fastened down, pinned to the bed by two women in blue. ‘She’s crazy,’ said one.

‘Laura?’ It was Frank. ‘It’s all been a mistake. I’m not dead after all.’

‘Frank, stay this time.’ I’m dreaming, I told myself. I’ll wake up in a minute and Frank will be gone.

‘He kidnapped me,’ said Frank. ‘Bernard forced me to drive to the river. I told him about the fish from the market, but he didn’t care. And then he hit me on the head. That’s why the doctor said I hadn’t drowned.’ He turned, showed me the hole in his temple. Like Doubting Thomas, I reached out to touch the wound, and my lover disappeared. ‘Frank! Come back! You’re not dead, so come back. We can move back into the flat and you can work for Mr Saunders again.’

The only answer was a maniacal laugh. ‘I won’t hit you. Come here, you’re quite safe. I promise to be good.’

‘Go away, Tommo. You are sick in the head.’

The room was filled by grey people. This is a dream, I said firmly. Dreams are sometimes in black and white. Anne was there, but not in her official capacity. Papers were turning over and over on a desk, as if they were being worked by some mechanical contraption. The verdict came up on a screen, UNLAWFUL KILLING. This was followed by advertisements for Camay soap and Birds Eye peas. Someone spoke about a blunt object, perhaps a hammer. It had been wielded by person or persons unknown.

‘I know!’ I shouted.

‘She knows!’ chorused the court.

I woke, sweat pouring down my face. They had questioned him, held him overnight, released him. And he had talked to the press, had told them of his grief at the loss of a dear brother. No, he didn’t mind the fact that his wife had run off and set up home with Frank, didn’t mind at all about the second baby. He would take us back tomorrow, would rear both boys as his own.

‘Laura?’

‘What?’

‘Is every night like this?’

‘No.’ I swallowed and my throat was like sandpaper. ‘It’s just now and then, after I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘You were screaming for Frank.’

‘Yes.’

She held my hand tightly. ‘Shall I go and put the kettle on? A nice cup of tea and a bit of toast?’

‘All right.’

I lay as still as a stone, concentrated on relaxing. But every time I ironed out the tension, it simply moved to a different part of my body. Anne was clattering the kettle and I found the sound comforting. I heard the hinges on the tea caddy, a cup rattling in its saucer. The luminous green hands on my clock announced a quarter to twelve. The dream had lasted for ever, yet I had been asleep for less than an hour.

The back door opened. Anne was no doubt visiting the lavatory. No. No, she wasn’t. I sat up, pulled on my dressing gown, held on to the rail at the top of the steep stairs. There was a door at the bottom of the flight, and it led straight into the kitchen. I thought I could hear Anne breathing.

‘Who’s there?’ she called. The back door squealed – it wanted oil – and I heard her bare feet slapping the flags. ‘You bloody swine!’ Her voice was loud, powerful, was the voice of someone whose word was law. ‘How many times have you skulked round here? Did you think she was alone? Well, don’t be fooled just because my car isn’t outside. I often come without my car. In fact, I practically live here, so bugger off.’

‘I’ve every right to visit my son.’ It was Tommo.

‘At midnight?’ asked Anne. ‘He’s asleep, has been in bed for hours. Anyway, you’d better stay away from here. Laura won’t take kindly to your visit, I can tell you that for nothing.’

‘Really? Don’t solicitors always charge for advice?’

‘You thought she’d be by herself, didn’t you? Get away – go on, leave her in peace.’

I was down those stairs before I had thought about moving. The yard brush was next to a mop bucket under the kitchen window. I grabbed it, flew to the gate, pushed
Anne to one side. He just stood there while I went for him, didn’t even try to defend himself. By the time Anne reached me, there was blood on his face. The light from the kitchen streamed out into the darkness, settled on the mess around his nose. ‘They can put you away for that,’ he said softly. ‘Crazy behaviour, this is. Ask your fancy lawyer cousin about assault, Laura.’

Rage pumped through my veins, fed adrenalin to my brain where it exploded and prepared to fuel my tongue. There was little or no fear, as it is difficult to be furious and afraid simultaneously. Anger as justifiable as mine left no space for timidity, allowed no quarter for caution. I wanted to kill him, needed to dance on his grave. Above all, I wanted to avenge Frank and keep my children safe.

‘Cage bars been rattled, Laura?’ he asked smoothly as the blood dripped from his nose.

‘Anne knows everything,’ I managed at last. ‘I’ve told her and she’s a lawyer and—’

‘Laura,’ said Anne. ‘Come on, now.’

I was going nowhere, listening to no-one. ‘Murder,’ I gasped. ‘You killed my Frank. You’re not a man, you’re something else, something that crawled from slime, cold-blooded, evil, nasty …’

‘Stop this, Laura.’ Anne took the brush away from me. ‘This will get us nowhere.’

‘He was a man. Your brother, the one you murdered. He was so different from you, so gentle and loving. Killer,’ I shouted. ‘Killer, killer, killer!’

He took a step towards us, wiping his face as he moved. ‘Being gentle and kind didn’t stop him taking my wife and my son, did it? He had no right to do that.’

‘He didn’t take me,’ I screamed. ‘I went. I went of my own free will, away from you and your rotten ways. No-one took me. I’d have gone to hell before going back to you.’

A few lights appeared in surrounding windows. ‘Come on out, all of you,’ I yelled. ‘Come and look at this murdering swine. He killed his own brother.’

‘Slander,’ he said. The lip curled. I wanted to smash that lip, but Anne hung on to the yard brush, wouldn’t let me take it. ‘I didn’t kill Frank,’ he said.

‘Oh, but you did.’ My quieter tone obviously alarmed him. He could cope with the shouting, but a normal voice seemed to unnerve him. ‘You did it. You sat in that car with a hammer, then you made him drive to the river. When he got out of the car, he couldn’t run. You knew about his leg, didn’t you? Oh yes, you plagued him all his life about that leg. When you caught Frank, you hit him on the head, bashed out his brain. You must have felt really proud about that, really powerful. I mean, it takes guts to kill, doesn’t it? When he was dead, you threw him in the river. Then you ran home across the fields.’