The Shape of Snakes (42 page)

It would be impossible to relate what he said in the way he said it. Once released, his emotions were a river in spate, sweeping aside everyone's sensibilities but his own and given in stuttered sentences which were barely comprehensible at times. We became party to his mother's hatred of sex, his father's brutal taking of her whenever he wanted it, their drunkenness, their violence toward each other and their children. But, more than anything, he dwelt on Maureen's slaughter of the marmalade cat, repeating over and over that when he tried to stop her she turned the baseball bat on him.

I asked him why she'd done it and, like Michael, the only explanation he could offer was that it made her feel "good." She laughed when its brains went everywhere, he said, and she wished it had been the nigger's head she'd smashed.

"What about the other cats?" I asked him. "Why did she go on with it?"

"Because it sent Annie 'round the bend to have them put through her flap. She took to wailing and hollering all the time and behaving like a crazy woman, and Mum reckoned if she didn't pack up and go of her own accord, it was a dead cert she'd be taken out in a straitjacket."

"But if hurting animals upset you so much, why did you help?"

"I wasn't the only one," he muttered. "We all did it-the girls, Mike, Rosie, Bridget. We used to go out looking for strays and bring them home in boxes."

I wondered sadly if that was the real explanation for Bridget's sacrifice of her hair. "But why, if you knew what was going to happen to them?"

"It wasn't as bad as having their heads split open."

"Only if you believe a quick death is worse than a slow one."

"They didn't all die ... Annie saved most of them ... and that's what we reckoned would happen." He pressed his forehead into his hands. "It was better than having Mum kill them straight off, which is what she wanted to do. It was them dying that got Annie worked up."

"The ones you put under my floorboards died," I said, "because I didn't know they were there."

He raised his head with a look of bafflement in his eyes, but didn't say anything.

"And if you'd refused your mother," I pointed out, "none of the cats need have died. Surely Michael was bright enough to work that out even if you couldn't."

"Us kids wanted rid of Annie, too," he said sullenly. "It wasn't right to make us live next door to a nigger."

I don't know what was going through Maureen's mind while he spoke. She made one or two halfhearted attempts to stop him but I think she realized it was too late. The odd thing is I believe she was genuinely ashamed of her cruelty-perhaps because it had been the one crime she committed herself. More interestingly, she had eyes only for Sharon when Alan admitted that he and Michael had entered Annie's house together around 8:30 on the night she died.

"It was Mike spotted the door was ajar," he said. "We were going into his place to watch telly because we knew his mum was out, and he says to me, 'The coon's left her door open.' The place was black as the ace of spades ... no lights ... nothing ... and he says, 'Let's do a prowl before she gets back.' So we creep into the front room and damn near fall over her. It was Mike started it," he insisted. "He turns on the lamp on the table ... reckons she's drunk as a skunk and pulls out his dick-" He broke off, refusing to go any further.

"Did she speak to you?"

He raised his eyes briefly to Sharon's. "Kept saying the tart had hit her ... so Mike goes apeshit and kicks her till she shuts up. After that we went down the arcade, and Mike says he'll kill me if I ever breathe a word about his mum ... and I say, 'Who cares? It's good riddance, whoever did it...' "

"I told you it wasn't us," jeered Maureen with a gloating smile on her face. " 'Look to the tart,' I said. It was her and her son did it between them." She jabbed two fingers in the air at Geoffrey. "That's why you shoved the mad cow in the gutter-because she told you who'd hit her."

I felt physically sick. Even though I'd suspected Michael had known how Annie had died, I'd always hoped he hadn't been involved.
But could a "kicking" at 8:30 have caused the sort of blood-seepage into Annie's thighs that was so obvious in the photographs?
I looked at Sharon. "
Stand up for your son
," 1 wanted to shout at her.
Tell them how small he was for his age ... and how murderous kicks like that must have come earlier... from someone who was stronger...

"Is that true, Geoffrey?" asked Wendy in shocked tones.

"No," he muttered, looking at Sharon in sudden disbelief. "She didn't say anything ... just kept grabbing at my sleeve, trying to hold herself up ... so I pushed her away..." His voice petered into silence as he began to question how many lies Sharon had fed him. "No wonder you let me think it was my fault," he said resentfully. "Who were you protecting? Yourself or that bloody son of yours?"

But Sharon's only response was a tiny gesture of denial as the last vestiges of color fled from her face.

"If she faints she'll hurt herself," I warned.

"Let her," said Maureen spitefully. "It's no more than she deserves."

"Oh, for God's sake," I sighed wearily, standing up to help Wendy support the limp body. "If you believed that then why didn't you tell Mr. Drury the truth at the time?"

But it was a stupid question, which she didn't bother to answer. She had no regrets over Annie's death. Indeed her only goal had been to steer retribution well away from herself so that she could indulge her spoils to good advantage. And if that meant exploiting men's baser instincts to instill terror in women, then so be it. In a bizarre sort of way I could even admire her for it, for hers was a vicious world, where greed-be it material or sexual-was a way of life, and by her own standards she had made a success of it. Certainly she was the only person in that room who owned her house through the quickness of her mind.

I touched a hand to Sharon's peroxide hair and it felt dry and dusty beneath my fingers. "The worst thing this lady ever did to Annie was pour a bucket of water over her head and make a few complaints to the council," I told Geoffrey, "but if you can't believe that then you should bugger off and give her a chance to get her son back. Wendy's right. All you've ever done is make her a prisoner to the truth."

"But-"

"But what?" I snapped. "Would you rather trust Maureen's version of events? Mine come free, remember, and hers come at a price." I grabbed his elbow and forced him to look at Sharon. "This woman has stood by you for over twenty years-how much longer do you need to know her before you trust her? Or must she always be judged by the rotten standards that you"-I gestured toward the sofa-"and this vermin over here choose to live by?" I spoke as much for myself as I did for Sharon, for I knew all too well the pain of living in an atmosphere of disbelief and distrust. You sink or swim ... fight or give in ... and whichever route you choose, you take it alone.

Geoffrey gave an uncertain shake of his head.

I knelt down abruptly in front of Sharon and took her hands in mine. "Sell your house and move," I urged her. "Cut this man out of your life and start again. Make friends with Bridget ... help Michael go straight. He needs his mother's love just as much as he needs his wife's ... and you owe him that much. He thought you were a murderer, Sharon ... but he protected you ... and he doesn't understand why you were so quick to abandon him. Fight for him. Be the mother he wants you to be."

She was too dazed to grasp what I was talking about and stared helplessly from me to Geoffrey, her subservience to men so ingrained that she would do whatever he told her to do.

Maureen's triumphant voice came at me from the sofa. "There's only ever been one tart in this street, and she's gone down like a sack of potatoes because she's been found out. So go tell that to the police and see if they care about the few bits of trash we pilfered."

I wanted to kill her. I wanted to squeeze her scrawny throat between my fingers and choke the venom out of her. Instead, I stood up with a sigh and reached for my rucksack. "Annie never called Sharon a 'tart,' Maureen, she called her a 'whore.' You told me that yourself."

Her mouth dropped open, for once unable to find words, because she knew I was right. I longed to be strident ... to scream and yell ... to stamp my feet ... to roar my frustration to the winds. I had hoped for the miracle that would prove me wrong, but instead I just felt desperately sad and desperately weary.

"And I wouldn't rely on the police letting you get away scot-free if I were you," I went on with commendable steadiness, exercising the sort of ladylike control that would have brought a smile of approval to my mother's face. "The only protection you've ever had was other people's silence. As long as they had secrets to hide you were safe." I shrugged. "But there aren't any secrets anymore, Maureen. So where does that leave you?"

Derek gave an unexpected laugh. "I told her you'd never give up," he said, "but she wouldn't listen. Said schoolteachers were too prissy to get up off their knees and fight." Maureen pursued Wendy and me to the door, demanding answers, which I refused to give. Who did it if it wasn't Sharon? How much was I going to tell the police? What proof had I of anything? Her lip had fattened from the punch I'd delivered and she caught at my sleeve to hold me back, threatening me with prosecution if I didn't give her some "
fucking
explanations."

I pulled away from her. "Go ahead," I urged. "I'll even tell you where I'm going-I'll be with Mr. Jock Williams at 7 Alveston Road, Richmond-so by all means send the police 'round to arrest me. It'll save me having to call them. And, as for giving you answers"-I shook my head-"no chance. What you don't know can't help you, and I'm damned if I'll be party to Derek and Alan telling any more lies for you." I raised my eyes to where Alan was standing in the shadows of the hall. "I have every reason to hate and despise you," I told him, "but I think your wife is the one woman in a million who can rescue you from your mother. So my best advice is, go home now and take your father with you. If Beth hears the truth about you from Derek, then she may understand and forgive. If she hears it from your mother, she won't."
 

"Goodness me!" Wendy gasped, patting her fluttering heart as we walked away. "That's the first time I've seen her afraid."

"Are you all right?" I asked in concern, reaching out to support her under the elbow.

"Absolutely not. I've never had so many shocks in my life." She lowered her bottom on to the garden wall of number 18. "Just let me get my breath back." She took some deep breaths, then wagged a finger at me as she began to recover. "Peter would counsel you strongly against this obsession with revenge, my dear. He'd say the only path to heaven is through forgiveness."

"Mm," I agreed. "That's the advice he gave me when I told him about Derek and Alan."

She tut-tutted crossly. "Is that the time he let you down?"

I watched a car negotiate the speed bumps in the road. "He didn't do it on purpose," I demurred. "He was like everyone else ... He thought I was hysterical." I looked toward Maureen, who still hovered by her gate. "I think I know why now. I never remained objective long enough to keep my voice under control. And that worries people."

"But why Peter?" she asked curiously. "Didn't you have anyone else to talk to?"

Only Libby
... "It was the church more than Peter," I said noncommittally. "I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. You really
were
let down then.''

I shook my head. "Rather the opposite actually. I went in weepy and pathetic, looking for sympathy, and came out like an avenging angel." I gave an abrupt laugh. "I kept thinking, if I
ever
forgive, it'll be on my terms and not on the say-so of a fat, sweaty bloke in a dress who thinks I'm lying." I sobered just as suddenly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

Wendy squared her thin shoulders and stood up. "It's a good description of Peter," she said tartly. "He's an actor at heart so he's only really happy when he's in costume. He thinks it lends authority to what he's saying."

"I was pretty peculiar at the time," I said by way of apology, "and he did try to be kind."

"He's got no fire in his belly, that's his problem. I keep telling him his sermons are ridiculously PC. He's supposed to be addressing evil, not offering a policy statement on behalf of liberals."

I chuckled. "You'd be a thunderbolts-and-lightning vicar then?"

"It's the only kind to be," she agreed cheerfully. "A whiff of brimstone and sulphur puts sin to flight quicker than anything.
And
it's more dramatic. The fires of hell and damnation are a great deal more exciting than the bliss and majesty of heaven."

I adored her ... for her openness ... her steadfastness ...
God save me, her similarity to my mother
... but I could see she was too exhausted to take another step. I persuaded her to sit back down while I fished in my rucksack for the mobile I'd borrowed off Luke that morning for the purpose of calling a minicab. A car drew up beside us before I could find it.

"Do you want a lift?" asked Alan gruffly through the open passenger window as he leaned across to fasten his father's seat belt. "We'll be passing Alveston Road."

I was too startled to answer, and looked at Wendy.

"Thank you, my dears," she said, rising graciously to her feet. "That's most generous of you."