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  ‘I know exactly what you think of him. But he’s turned out to be not too bad considering: married five years, lovely wife, just about to move into a new house.’ Jack pushed his glasses back up his nose and gazed at me before saying, ‘He went a little mad when he was fifteen, gave you and your rabble-rousing friends a hard time. It’s not unusual for a teenage boy to behave like that, especially given all the things that were going on then.’

  ‘He’s as bad as his father, and he was always strange. When Declan vanished.’ I stood up and wagged my finger at Jack. ‘Kenny went crazy, absolutely barking. It’s no wonder I think what I do.’

  Jack smiled. ‘And you’ve forever believed, from that moment on, that he had something to do with your little friend’s disappearance?’ He drummed the bar with his fingers. ‘He went mad because his mother was about to run off with your uncle. He was sick with worry. Don’t forget he’d seen the whole affair develop at very close quarters by all accounts.’ He stubbed his cigarette out, chasing it around the ash-tray for a few seconds.

  I sighed. For once, Jack was way off the mark. Kenny tried to kill me, I knew that, even if nobody else in the world believed it. I tried once more. ‘Him and his father both went crazy within hours of Declan disappearing. Ron tried to kill my uncle and Kenny did the same to me.’

  Jack showed me the palm of his right hand. ‘Stuart, Stuart, this has bubbled away inside you for over twelve years. I can’t believe that a fifteen year old boy tries to kill…’

  He trailed off. Apparently, even the most logical man in town couldn’t see something so obvious. I sighed again.

  Jack pushed his empty pint glass my way and I held it under the bitter tap and filled it up. I liked Jack; serious, considerate, hard working; but fussy. He preferred, no demanded, a head on his beer, a thick, dense froth that had to be no less than three eighths and no more than one half of an inch. I adjusted the sparklet on the tap, finished the head to Jack’s specification and slid it back his way.

  He stared at it for a while and then gazed up at me. ‘Where were we? Ah yes, now if you had the same suspicions about Ron, then you might be on safer ground. No forensic evidence of course, but more of an intuitive feeling that we could all empathise with.’

  I stared at Jack, kept my voice flat. ‘Ron’s just a nasty little blackmailing rat.’

  Jack’s head snapped back. He threw some beer down his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, ‘Whatever put that idea into your head?’

  I never told Jack what I’d seen twelve years ago – never brave enough, maybe. But I’d seen Ron doing just that and Jack was the victim. I saw him blackmailing Jack; saw it and heard it with my own ears.

  Jack frowned as he asked the same question again, ‘Why do you think he’s a blackmailer?’

  I just shrugged and said, ‘Just another irrational intuition of mine I suppose. And I’m always way off the mark with those aren’t I?’

  ‘You certainly are. I’ve seen more perceptive Jersey cows.’

  We both laughed as the phone clattered away behind me.

  ***

  I walked up Lock’s Lane, accompanied by sleet and heavy, sombre clouds filled with snow – the clear skies of the morning replaced by the solemn impression that spreads itself around you before it really snows. Just after three in the afternoon and the dense clouds meant that it was as good as dark already. The solemn skies didn’t match my mood; anticipation surged through me like water pulses through a high-powered impellor.

  Inside the house; cathedral-quiet, heavy, drawn curtains, a pitch-black bedroom and me, impatient in bed under a heavy eiderdown. This early into our affair and we already had a sensuous, sexy ritual in place. Kathy teased in the darkness and her undressing became the most powerful of mental images. I listened to buttons being undone, static electricity crackled away as she pulled a thin jumper over her head. A skirt slid down the length of her tights, a bra was unhooked and finally tights and knickers were levered off. All followed by a couple of barefoot strides across a heavy carpet.

  Then a warning, ‘I’m putting the light on.’

  Kathy fumbled with the bedside lamp and I blinked into her narrow waist and slim legs. I watched the slow spread of her smile, my head propped up by my left hand as she said, ‘I’ve missed you.’ I nodded as Kathy slipped alongside and as she touched me. ‘You’re scorching.’

  Arms around one another and her face touched mine. I felt the muscles in Kathy’s face tighten as her eyes squeezed shut, felt her break into another smile and then her warm breath on my neck. Time raced away, accompanied by her loud gasps. An eight stone woman held me like a frenzied Turkish wrestler.

  Everything confused me, her concentration, our highly-strung sensuality, both with blast furnaces and racing engines clattering away at our temples. Alcohol made no difference – Kathy was just as fervent sober, just as frantic. Kathy’s hands were on my cheekbones, her eyes boring into mine.

  I tried to look away; Kathy unnerved me. ‘Don’t move.’ She searched my eyes. I may have been deep inside her, but Kathy had already burrowed deep inside my head. She said it again, ‘Don’t move.’ Motionless, lifeless in a frictionless well, Kathy needed eye contact, staring at me as her hands gripped tight against my cheekbones. ‘Call my name.’ Gazing on and on. ‘Look into my eyes, call my name, perfect.’

  She became quiet, preoccupied, hushed and sad. A warm bedroom, a baking hot bed and she became a little miserable. Kathy frightened me. I touched her cheekbone, ran my finger along its length. We kissed gently. She took her hands away from my face and ran them down my back.

  I was unsure how long we stayed like that, kissing, our breathing gradually slowing. I tried to fight it, but my eyes closed, inevitably, as sure as the full moon always sets whenever lovers hold each other and look towards the horizon – then sleep. We were woken a few minutes later, a car horn, a dog barking – something in the lifeless heart of a cloudy January evening. No winter stars in a jet-black sky like that first night, outside; just blackness and snow-laden clouds. Then more sleep, longer and deeper this time, tight together. Sometimes her arms came around, pulling me close. Kathy’s sleep noises, a mumble, a muted strangled cry, her breathing regular. I wanted to dream the night away like that.

  I thought I’d developed some genetically programmed inevitability that made me sleep after a spine-juddering climax; either that or the smell of female, perfume, sex and clean sheets became an irresistible narcotic. Her perfume was on me as the room twisted and turned; later a distant memory of Kathy leaning over me and turning the bedside lamp off. I opened my eyes to a twilight world, another distant recollection of her kissing my cheek – then nothing except more dim memories, her arse pressed into me, my arms around her.

  We woke with a start, my head throbbed and my mouth was as dry as a snooker player’s chalk. Waking would not loosen the sleep in my eyes.

  ‘Listen. Look at me… Stu, listen.’ Kathy sighed, took my left hand in both of hers. ‘Sometimes you worry me. Nothing to anyone, not a word, understand? And don’t fall in love with me. That’s how it has to be – okay? This is so risky, remember what happened between your uncle and…’

  Kathy let the words hang in the air; how could I forget? A passionate affair that ended violently. But, my sense of perspective had been destroyed by her sensuous beauty; I could only see Kathy, she made me deliriously happy. Even if the bit about not falling in love had been breached already – albeit in a very one-sided way.

  Kathy propped herself up on her elbow and her face developed a conspiratorial look. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  I shook my head and told a little lie. ‘Just you.’

  ‘Hmm!’ She ridiculed me with her eyes. ‘You fancy yourself and the woman you’re talking to – at this moment in time, it happens to be me.’

  I laughed, impressed with her accomplished ridicule.

  ‘You make Shirley laugh, she says…’ She left me hanging, affect
ing internal conflict, I don’t know if I should be telling you this. ‘My mother-in-law always says that you’re a very nice boy – despite what everyone says, you’re just a very, very nice bighead.’

  Her eyes shone at the perfect execution of her modest insult.

  Now, do I believe that? Probably; it’s the sort of thing Shirley would say. I shrugged, amused at how easily Kathy confused me. I said, ‘You could have worse mother-in-laws. Jack thinks Shirley’s made a pact with the devil, got a Dorian Gray picture of herself in the attic. It looks like a cross between Old Ma Riley and a warthog.’

  Kathy laughed, ‘She does look good.’

  ***

  When I walked up earlier, the wet snow and warm pavements hinted at a damp walk home. Now, as I ambled back, a soft, fluffy snow drifted aimlessly down from a windless sky. There was enough snow on the ground to generate an agreeable crunch beneath my shoes. Rooftops were covered, hedges and branches with their profiles blurred. Heavy snowflakes mixed with the thick, heavy wood smoke rising from the chimney pots. I began to run, energy to burn, post-coital jubilation. The wet snow gripped well as I ran easily up Mill Street and down Grove Street. In front of me was the blurred but familiar figure of Mr Goldstone.

  In the winter months, he scurried down the hill, like an anxious verger walking past a West End brothel. Mr Goldstone didn’t belong outside in the dark and he worried constantly about a punch in the mouth. I drew alongside and watched him shiver and pull his coat tight, collar turned up. I knew he could sense someone alongside, but his eyes stared down at the path. Snowflakes produced an unearthly light indigo halo around the blue street light, continuing their irregular decent, twisting around him, settling and starkly standing out on his black coat and hat. Cars slipped silently past, the hissing snow blurred the redness of their rear lights.

  ‘Horrible evening.’

  He jumped, stared wide eyed at me, who is it?

  ‘Oh – Stuart – yes, nasty.’ Reassured by a familiar face, he took a deep breath. ‘I hate walking down here in the dark.’

  ‘Easier going home though.’

  ‘Alcohol makes me much braver.’

  He chuckled away as we went in through the front door. The heat rushing out to greet us caused Mr Goldstone’s steel-rimmed glasses to steam up. He took them off and blinked myopically at the blurred shapes sat around a formless bar. He appeared to enjoy his entrance, like he’d turned into a ghost emerging from an icy mist. My old man’s impressive growl came from behind the bar and across the warm air towards him, jolting him back into this world.

  ‘David, put your glasses back on before you fall over Wyn’s dog.’

  My old man would have normally chortled away at this. But he remained stony faced and just looked back at my Uncle Wyn, their heads together, whispering away. One smoked a cigar, the other a cigarette; one immaculate, the other, in comparison, a touch shabby. This is all relative; Wyn never anything less than stylishly perfect – next to him, a Regency fop would look dilapidated. Wyn began to absentmindedly finger his scar. It stood out on his broad tanned cheek, like a winding railway embankment viewed from a hot air balloon. Its raised ugliness was a harbinger, a warning sign that never registered; there was just one item on my radar screen and it wasn’t consequences.

  They said nothing to me, I never existed. Silence screeched my way. I looked around the bar. Wyn’s eyes stared at his coffee pot. Dad found the dartboard mesmerizing for some reason. Jack gave me the briefest of nods, then his gaze remained firmly on his ashtray.

  I stared from one to the other. ‘What’s happened?’

  No one said anything. Jack sighed and walked up close, put his hand on my shoulder and stared into my eyes. ‘They’ve found a body. In the canal, by limekiln lock. A young boy; been there years, judging by the state it’s in.’

  Jack nodded at dad, who slid a pint my way.

  I said, ‘It can’t be…’

  But I knew that it was.

  Chapter 3

  June 1960

  ‘What did your dad call your uncle?’

  The whole school were gathered by the school gates, bunched up, milling about like a herd of Jersey cows waiting to be milked. Except for me. I was under starters orders, front of the queue, poised for a flying start. I looked at Declan and shrugged; if I answered him, it would mean more questions. Ignore him and it would lead to more questions. They often rained around my head like a well-directed mortar attack. I said nothing and waited, only a few seconds as it happened.

  ‘Are you running home?’

  Of course I was running home; my Uncle Wyn was going to be waiting there. I adored my uncle, and couldn’t wait to see him again, even if I felt that everyone else in the world hated hi in some way. Apart from the women who loved him, that is. This dichotomy bounced around inside my head as I left Declan for dust and galloped the short distance home. I scampered across the car park and crashed through the back door. I ignored the dog bouncing around me and there he was; my Uncle Wyn, sat hunched at the table. My old man sat in his chair silently fuming, his afternoon siesta interrupted by an intrusive elder sibling. Wyn welcomed the distraction of my noisy entrance. His articulate brown eyes fixed on me and his face broke into a grin. He stood and offered me his hand, a warm welcome into his adult world.

  ‘Stuart – young man.’ The aroma of expensive cologne and cigars hung like morning mist around Wyn as he said. ‘How are you?’

  I nodded and replied, ‘Are you stopping for dinner?’

  He laughed for some reason. ‘I’m stopping for a few days. Got some things to sort out.’

  My old man grunted at that and mum looked the other way.

  This is what confused me; both of their reactions suggested disapproval of some sort, whereas I thought he was just the best uncle any boy could have. But Declan had heard dad call him ‘a smarmy, trouble-making, womanising fuckpig’ this morning. I was unsure what a womaniser was, but he did have this indefinable air that I couldn’t put my eleven-year-old finger on. Perhaps his matinee idol’s moustache and faultless manners helped set him apart – it certainly couldn’t be described as a military bearing. He’d managed to avoid service of any sort during the war. Despite many reverses, Wyn’s face reflected resilience and the look of an insolent bulldog played across his broad features.

  ‘C’mon young man, give me a hand with my things and I suppose you’ll expect a tip for helping me with my bags.’

  I nodded eagerly, my financial circumstances about to significantly improve.

  Wyn turned his soft brown eyes back to mum, ‘I’ll take my things up. Got some letters to write and then I might even have a little doze – I’m exhausted.’

  I stayed with Wyn for half an hour and watched his meticulous unpacking, listening to his one-sided conversation about conspiring bank managers, corrupt solicitors… and women. In amongst all of his words, he never actually told me why he was staying with us.

  ‘Avoid upsetting women. More importantly, avoid upsetting their husbands and you’ll have a long and happy life.’

  ‘How’s Auntie Doris?’

  ‘Upset – that’s why I’m here.’

  I finally left Wyn to his unpacking a shilling richer. His words about a brief visit contradicted by three huge suitcases, a brief case, an attaché case, two suits in large plastic bags suspended on coat hangers and his set of golf clubs.

  As I went down the stairs, confusion swirled around me. Wyn always made me feel like this. He still makes me feel that way. I couldn’t help liking him, despite what everyone always said. I loved the smooth way he talked, the way he gazed into my eyes and always looked and sounded so sincere.

  All of which violently contrasted with my old man, the centre of my universe – his blistering Sun to my red hot Mercury. We just blazed away at each other all the time, his gravitational force overwhelming me. I followed him around and waited for him to say something; ‘go and get the boxing gloves then.’ Or ‘keep that eff
ing dog of yours under control.’ Whatever his frame of mind, I followed him relentlessly, reading his moods better than anyone; better than a Navajo Indian reads the wind, better than mum even.

  But now I had a gentle, persuasive dark star of a man, who twisted me and made me tingle when he talked to me with his soft, even voice. A well-dressed man; who bought his shirts in Jermyn Street, smelt of cologne and cigars and freshly-made coffee. I frowned away as I went down the stairs, bewildered as I dreaded kissing dad goodnight – a Judas kiss – and he would realise straight away that I had betrayed him. My uncle had this affect on everyone; an ability to stretch the allegiance of the most loyal. Especially a talent for peeling wives away from devoted husbands.

  Evidently, he was very good at that.

  ***

  I took my confusion back into the living room for a quiet think. Only to see Shirley stood in front of the mirror, all cold Scandinavian eyes and fair hair. Mum and her made an interesting pairing: Shirley looked ice cool and wasn’t; mum appeared warm and approachable, but wasn’t, being distinctly chilly most of the time. I never questioned what Shirley was doing here. I guessed, wrongly as it turned out this time, that Ron may have punched her in the mouth again.

  I said, ‘What are you doing?’

  Shirley never answered my question, instead she said, ‘My bloody immersion’s packed up. Is Ron in the bar? Go and have a look for me, lover.’

  Shirley said ‘jump’ and we all jumped. Every man in the world, apart from Ron, would do anything for her. I crept into the bar, glanced along the ragged line of drinkers either sat on stools or leant against the counter. He stood out like a weasel sat amongst a half dozen chimpanzees. An undersized, embittered man, with small hard eyes set in oversize sockets, he had the appearance of a Dickensian grave robber, with depressed, unshaven cheeks that forever twitched spastically. Ron’s edginess made everyone else jumpy. Unpredictable and pessimistic one minute, jealous and anxious the next, after two pints he relaxed a little and became both generous and sad at the same time.