Your Father Sends His Love (20 page)

‘I'm going to need to get these verified,' he said. ‘Do you mind?'

‘Not at all, I'm in no hurry,' he said.

They wrapped the books in evidence bags. Simon took cigarettes from his pocket.

‘Do you mind?' he said.

‘Not at all,' said DC Watt. ‘Here.' He passed a small metal ashtray.

‘So' – a look down to the notes in front of him, check
the name that does not need checking – ‘Mr Connelly. Looks like you had quite a find yesterday.'

‘It was something, yes,' Simon said. ‘I still can't quite believe it.'

‘Would you mind explaining to me,' Watt said. ‘I know you've already given a statement, but I'd like to hear it from you. If you wouldn't mind.'

Eleven forty-six. Simon told the same story. Same words. Without inflection. Without impatience.

‘Do you know?' Watt said to Sergeant Hoggart. ‘You'll like this, you like a quiz, don't you, Frank? Do you know the one thing a newspaper isn't allowed to print in an advertisement for lost items?'

‘I don't know, sir,' Frank said. ‘But here's a guess: “no questions asked”?'

Watts thumbed at Frank.

‘He's a clever bastard this one, clever as you like. He's right too. You can't just say no questions asked. Because it's like . . . I dunno, dealing with terrorists and hostage-takers: you're encouraging others to do the same. Commit the same crime. Theft for example.'

‘I'm not sure I follow.'

‘Questions need to be asked, that's all. Questions need to be answered.'

‘I'm not sure how much more help I can be,' Simon said. ‘I've told you all I know.'

There was a knock on the door. A lift of the blind. Eleven fifty-one. DC Watt stood. The uniform at the door whispered something to him. The blind rose again and fell.

‘I'll be right back,' Watt said. Sergeant Hoggart paused the tape. Simon stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Is this going to go on much longer?

‘It'll take as long as it takes,' Hoggart said. Learned from a parent that voice, learned from a teacher. Simon looked at the clock. Shame. To lose this. To lose everything for so little.

‘Would you like a coffee, sir?'

‘No, I'd just like to know what is going on, please.'

‘Won't be long now.'

The door opened. The blind opened and closed again. DC Watt came in holding a bag. Holdall, brown leather.

‘Thank you for your patience, Mr Connelly,' Watt said. He slid the bag on the table. Tapped it with his right hand.

‘All yours, Mr Connelly. Your reward.'

Simon stood and looked at the bag of money.

The needle is still in his arm, wagging. Shame, yes. Redemption, yes.

Watt looked at him, Simon looked at the bag. Three grand to pay off and then seven clear. Seven grand. Seven grand not to put up his nose. Seven grand to save. Seven
grand to build up. Seven grand. A pitiful amount. Seven grand. If there were no threats. If it wasn't so far down the line. Seven grand. But something, yes. Something to begin with.

‘Thank you,' he said. He walked to the door, the door held open by Watt. Watt smiling.

‘Oh, by the way,' Watt said. ‘Your father sends his love.'

Ah yes. Timing. A joke is all in the timing. Shame, yes. Redemption, yes. The inevitable reunion. Yes. His father in the corner. His father dabbing a pocket square to his forehead.

‘It's hard to deal with death when it's someone close to you,' he says. ‘You don't know whether to prop them up or let them fall.'

His father waits for the laughter. His father waits for his applause. Days later. Yes, days. Door kicked open. The needle still in his arm. Stiff. Let fall.

7

He can remember everything. A whole life, all of it. Every moment, every detail; every breath, every beat. Everything,
all the way back to the moment of his birth. Sitting in the annexe, under lamplight, of this he is momentarily certain. The whole of his life. A whole life in a straight line from birth to death. How simple, how easy it seems, sitting in the annexe, under the lamplight. How simple and clear.

A video recorder begins to pull and wind; another stops spooling. He turns off the machines. All of them. He does not remember everything. He was not there. How could he remember? And now, he cannot even remember his son's face.

He turns seven pages and the third line is in blue ink, written while on a flight to Barbados.
I came home to find my son taking drugs – all my best ones, too.
He remembers the Lambeth flat. The photographs of the Thai hotel room. His letter. He remembers the absence. The phone call from Peter. What Peter said. He remembers Peter asking him what he wanted to do. Saying: are you sure? Peter saying: I can see him from here, from behind the blind. He remembers saying let him have it all, all £10,000. The bankbook, returned to Bob later. He remembers looking at it, up and down. He remembers the single deposit, cash £7,000, the day after the reward was paid. He remembers the way the money sat for years. The gradual accrual of interest, and then the first withdrawal.
He remembers a large withdrawal, the flight, and then the same amount withdrawn every subsequent day. He remembers what he instructed Peter to tell the police. He remembers clearly what he told Peter. Give him the money, Peter. Give him the money and tell him this. Tell him his father sends his love.

CHARTER YEAR, 1972

She had been told, tucked up, kissed goodbye: expected to rest. He had given her earplugs, placed them in the palm of her hand. Sleep, he'd said. You need it. Sleep. They were on the bedside table, sticky-ended with wax, slightly crushed. Her heart was audible when she wore them, an uncomfortable sound, so she'd taken them out just as soon as he'd inched the bedroom door shut.

Yvette's eyes were closed, better to concentrate on the pram-wheels scraping the hallway floor, his duffel coat being taken from the hat rack, the controlled rattle of the door chain, her child's choking sobs. She opened them as the front door quietly closed and, in her nightdress, hurried to the front-room window.

She leant against the sill and looked up the road, him and the pram under lamppost halos. The road was steep, winding; bungalows neatly spaced along it. She missed stairs. She missed height. And now she missed Owen, and their child.

While Owen tried to soothe Dylan, tried to stop his
constant screams with movement, she stayed by the window, waiting. She would not sleep. Could not: with the screams or without. It was more for him. For Owen. To make him feel he was doing something. On his return, she would pretend she'd slept. See him and the pram walking down the gradient, and then hurry to bed. He would come to the room and she would perform. It was an accomplished act: a stretching yawn, a quarter roll to the other side of the bed, an unnecessary ‘What time is it?'

There were pills in the house. Bottles of them, brown like beer. The doctor urged her to take them. Sometimes she weighed them in her hand, but always put them back under their cotton wool. There were natural remedies too; herbal tonics and St John's wort. These she had taken in quantity, but their effectiveness was minimal. This wasn't something she liked to admit. She told Owen that she was fine. Just tired. Be better with rest.

He would come home from work in the car and busy himself with their son. He'd kiss her and ask her seriously about her day. She'd talk about Dylan: his bowel movements, his sleep patterns, his brief moments of quiet. And Owen would say, ‘But what about you? How have you been?' At this she'd seethe, make claws of hands. His understanding, his kindness, his patience! And she would say, ‘Fine. I'm fine, my love.'

His smile would be perfect. It told her flatly of her
own, singular failures. She watched the road for a long time, then saw Owen at the top of the hill. She took herself back to bed, quickly stepping through the house.

A car had pulled up outside their bungalow. Owen had seen it overtake them at the top of the hill and surprisingly stop. Its interior light was on, the engine idling. Dylan was finally asleep in the pram and Owen was careful to keep a steady speed on the way down, avoiding ruts in the pavement, the occasional patches of ice. When he reached the third lamppost, he recognized the car. It was a Jaguar, an older model: racing green, creamy leather seats. He quickly pushed the pram past the car, the door opening as he passed.

‘Mr Coville?' The man smiled. ‘I saw you on Moody Street. You passed my house. I would have called but I don't have your telephone number.'

‘We don't have a phone, Mr Stevens,' Owen said.

‘No. Of course not. How silly of me. May I come inside? I need to talk to you about a few things.'

‘We were just going to get the little one off to bed, Mr Stevens.'

‘It won't take a moment,' he said, getting out of the car and putting on a hat. ‘Won't take any time at all.'

Stevens was tall, taller with the hat. He picked up an
briefcase from the passenger seat. Owen looked down at Dylan and waved Stevens towards the house.

‘That's a beauty,' Stevens said pointing at the car on the driveway. ‘French, is it?'

‘Swedish,' Owen said. ‘A Volvo.'

‘I only buy British myself,' Stevens said. ‘You always know where you are with a Jaguar.'

Owen nodded and opened the door. Yvette would pretend to be asleep. He wondered how long she would keep up the pretence. Long enough, he hoped, for Stevens to be long gone.

Dylan was born to the sound of fireworks and firecrackers, a few moments after the turn of 1972 – the seven-hundredth anniversary of the town's charter being granted. There had been complications. A caesarean section required. It would have been a natural birth, home conducted and drug-free. But instead, Owen had stood in a waiting room, drinking coffee, making small talk with a man from the town. It was the man's fourth and he had not been present at any of the births. He was red-faced and swaying drunk. Without Yvette's complications, Owen would have been there when Dylan was born, and this man's daughter would have been the baby on the
front page of the local newspaper. The headline: ‘Charter Baby Arrives Right on Time'.

‘I've been to India,' Stevens said. ‘During the war it was. Hot. Damned hot.'

He was standing next to the crammed bookshelves, holding one of the small Vishnus. Most of them had been bought at a head shop in Liverpool.

‘Yvette and I went after university. We stayed on an ashram. It was quite something.'

‘Is that right? There's an Indian family in town now, you know that? Moved here from Stockport. They're opening a restaurant, so I hear.'

His accent was neutral; unlike any Owen had heard in the town. He sat down. Stevens' briefcase was filled with paper, his handwriting all over them.

‘Sorry, Mr Stevens—'

‘Ron, please.'

‘Sorry, Ron, but Yvette is sleeping and I have to get the dinner on . . .'

‘I completely understand. New family, new pressures, what? I just want to run through some things with you.'