Chapter 1
The truth unseen lies clear for all to see,
Yet man’s distracted gaze cannot perceive.
His unbelieving eyes but shadows see,
For lies eclipse the truth
Like flies in a window.
‘STOP POLICE’
The dayglo letters reflected the headlights of the big bike. The man holding the sign stood black and bulky on the roadside. He shook the crudely made sign at the oncoming rider.
The bike steered to swing past it, but then the brake light flared red in the November mist, and the machine slowed. The rider de-clutched through the gears, gently revving the engine. He kept his visor down, waiting, hiding his face. His black leathers glistened with beads of dew.
The man rolled the sign into a tube and walked to the rider. He produced a gun from his pocket. His word of command was abrupt, urgent. Seconds passed. The command came again. Spittle flew from his mouth.
Without warning, the rider dropped the clutch and raced away. The man fell to the ground. The note of the engine screamed across the city, rising and falling, rising again. The bike swerved, wobbling violently as the rider fought for control. He failed. It dropped onto its side and slewed into a post. The bike burst apart like a firework, pasting the road with glass and debris. The rider flew from the seat, landing like a rag doll onto the black tarmac.
A woman screamed. An oncoming van jerked to a halt. The driver got out. People were running. Oil dripped from the wreck into the gutter.
A hundred yards back down the hill, the man stood to his feet and stared at the scene. He picked up his sign and stumbled away.
***
Wendy slammed the front door behind her. Its solid clump telegraphed more than her departure from the house. It was an end and a beginning. Maybe that’s what she wanted, anyway. Maybe that’s what they all wanted. She didn’t care. The pain ate her insides like a leech, a living thing, parasitic, digging up the words again, ‘While the balance of his mind was disturbed.’
The clammy mist engulfed her, sogging her hair. She wrapped her Puffa tighter around her school uniform against the cold. The front gate snicked as it closed. At the road, the last of the chestnut leaves had dotted the pavement with yellow.
Wendy turned right down the hill towards the bus stop, her head bowed. The tyres of the morning traffic kissed the puddles, their wipers slapping at the fog. Still she couldn’t cry.
The bus smelt of diesel and stale chips. Most of the kids sat silent in morning thoughts, their bags on their laps. Chris, the girl beside her, glanced at her, then turned and rubbed the window with her hand. The condensation on the glass made little trickles of tears, running down onto the rubber seals, down the wall, down. Gaunt trees flashed past like black sticks, each one turning a page. Dead.
A monstrous voice echoed in her head. ‘Here is the News. This court finds Nicholas Robert Dalton of 14 Whiteknights Crescent, Reading, took his own life on the 1st day of October, 1998, by jumping from a fourth-floor window, while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’
Two girls from her class chattered in the seat behind. No one spoke to her. They all knew. Without warning, a huge wave of grief surged from nowhere. It struck Wendy with almost physical force, taking her breath away. Now the tears gushed like fountains. She tilted her head forward, hiding behind her limp hair. A great sob erupted from her throat. She struggled for control, but it was gone. The tears ran like condensation, dripping onto her grey skirt, making small black patches in her lap. She wept aloud, beyond care, her shoulders heaving.
The bus stopped at lights with a squeak of brakes. Steam clouded past the window. At last, she squeezed her eyes and hunted in her bag for a tissue.
Chris touched her gently on the arm. ‘You all right, Wendy?’
She bit her lip and nodded. The kind gesture was unexpected and released another flood of tears. This time she managed to control her sobs, the water running down her cheeks like rain. Wendy wiped her face and smiled a tight, red smile. ‘Thanks.’
The wave receded a little. Instead, anger shouldered into her heart. The rage that smote her yesterday in the courtroom now returned with full force. What did these stupid people know? These fat pigs with their fancy clothes and impersonal, polished mahogany stares. How could they ‘find’ anything? They weren’t there. They didn’t see what happened. They didn’t know him. How dare he say Nicky was mad? How dare he?
And her parents! They sat like stuffed dummies, taking it with a British stiff upper lip, while that madman of a coroner raged about their only son having ‘the balance of his mind disturbed.’ They said nothing. They just looked at each other, emotionless, and said absolutely nothing!
‘Let’s go home,’ her mum had said, ‘I’ll make us all some tea.’ Tea! My brother kills himself and we have a tea party.
POSH VOICE:
‘Mr and Mrs Robert Dalton kaindly request the pleasure of Lord and Lady Carruthers to a tea-parteh to celebrate the suicide of their only son. RSVP.’
‘Lord and Lady Lah-di-dah-Carruthers thank Mr & Mrs Dalton very much for the kaind invitation to a tea-parteh on 14th November and congratulate them on the death by suicide of their only son Nicholas. They should take great pleasure in accepting.’
Wendy’s teeth clenched so tight her jaw ached. Her mouth worked grimaces around her face. She wanted to break something, to hurl something. She looked around for ammunition.
The class was staring at her.
The teacher raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you hear what I said, Wendy?’
Miss Rabot wore a bun and two purple cardigans, one over the other. Her mother lived in Paris and was dying of multiple sclerosis. She never talked about it, but everybody knew.
‘No, Miss Rabot, I’m sorry.’ She lowered her eyes, the rage dissolving like a valley mist beneath morning sunshine. Though I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. The quotation from somewhere or other sprang unbidden into her head. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘You mean you weren’t listening. Come up here.’ Miss Rabot tried to be severe. She peered over spectacles.
Wendy rose from her desk and walked to the front, the eyes of the class drilling holes in her back.
‘So. What’s the matter?’ The slight French accent stressed the last syllable so that it sounded more like ‘mattaire,’ drawing the teeth of the question, softening it.
Wendy struggled to find words, but nothing came except the weight in her stomach. The blackness returned once more. This time it seemed to have shape, as though there was something she needed to do—something she had to do, but she wasn’t sure what. How could she change anything? How could she find any answers? She stood dumb. She noticed her shoes needed cleaning. Her mum hated dirty shoes. Clean shoes, clean heart, that’s what I always say. She was right. That’s what she always did say.
‘Well?’
‘Excuse me, Miss Rabot, but I think she is upset about…’ It was Chris, the girl beside her on the bus. The class looked at her. ‘About yesterday.’ Her voice faded.
‘What happened yesterday? But yes, it was the court hearing, wasn’t it?’ She removed her spectacles. Sympathy melted her voice. ‘Of course, you must be so upset. What a terrible thing, no? Perhaps it would be better if you went home today.’
Wendy found her voice. ‘No, that’s all right.’ But the tears began again, welling into her eyes, and patting onto the wooden floor like autumn leaves.
‘I’ll speak to Mrs Benson,’ said Miss Rabot, ‘and get you leave.’
Wendy had never bunked off school, and was rarely sick, so a free day was new to her. She couldn’t go home and face the questions and the morbid silences, so she turned out of the school gate and walked down towards the city centre. Wild fantasies surged through her mind. She had a little money in her bag. She could go to London and never come back. She could go abroad and begin a new life.
But the blackness clouded her thoughts again, and once more brought the sense that she needed to do something. Something about what had happened. However much she felt like escaping, she couldn’t simply run away. That would solve nothing. She knew the blackness inside would follow, making it worse. Somehow she had to face it, to drive it away. She needed to think. If only her mind was clearer. If only she had a sense of purpose, of what she could do to fight the despair.
A whistle filtered into her thoughts, and she looked up. A builder grinned down from a scaffolding. ‘Morning, luv. Skipping school, are we?’ he laughed. His mates jeered at him for cradle snatching.
Wendy felt humiliated and dirty. She longed to change out of her uniform, but that would mean going home. On an impulse, she turned into a charity shop.
When she emerged fifteen minutes later, a different girl faced the world. Wendy was tall and slim, and carried herself well, moving like the athlete she was. At five feet ten, she was the envy of many at school, who said she should go into modelling. Her high cheekbones and pointed chin, too long to allow her to be called beautiful, gave an Eastern European tilt to her face. Clear blue, intelligent eyes and a firm mouth suggested a person of determination, if not of self-will.
For Wendy, her letdown was her hair. It was dead straight and mousy-brown. Never mind that others told her it was a cascade of honey. She hated it. She wore it in a bob because, she said, long hair was impractical for running. Oddly enough, when she turned sixteen, her mother gave her a complete make-up set, but still refused to let her colour her awful hair. ‘You’ll ruin it, or look like those punks,’ she had cried.
In the charity shop, she found some black jeans and a navy sweatshirt for three pounds. She bundled her school greys into her bag and wore the jersey under the sweatshirt to keep warm. She changed, washed her face, and fixed her makeup in the loo.
Her mood changed with her clothes, despair dissolving into gentle sadness. She still wanted to shout to the world, ‘Why?’ which had been on her lips since she first heard the news six weeks earlier. But now the question was not so much threatening as challenging—not so much a cry for help as a cry for action.
She must do something about it, if only for Nicky’s sake. Was he calling to her from the grave? Could such a thing happen? She’d heard about mediums and people contacting the dead. Perhaps she should try. But the thought brought another wave of blackness and she pushed it away. No. Too soon.
The mist had congealed into rain. Across the road, ‘Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe’ offered warmth and quiet. She stepped in.
The bell attached to the door tinkled pointlessly. Inside was noise, smoke, old wooden furniture and university students. All the tables seemed full. She shook her head—she couldn’t face a crowd.
The group at the nearest table broke off their discussion and looked at her. The day paused. It was one of those pauses that last a second but change a lifetime—as if the whole world hung on what she chose next. Her pudgy five-year-old hand poised over her first box of chocolates. Everyone waiting ’til the birthday girl chose. She could easily have turned and left.
© John Fergusson