Crying in the Dark (16 page)

As I roved out on a bright May morning

To view the meadows and flowers gay,

Whom should I spy but my own true lover

As she sat under yon willow tree.

I took off my hat and I did salute her –

I did salute her most courageously.

But she turned around and the tears fell from her

Crying: ‘False young man, you have deluded me.'

There are musicians who believe that some songs and tunes are haunted; that the spirit, not only of the composer, but also of the thousands of musicians who have played them and kept them alive and put their stamp and individual mark on them down through the centuries, enters the room and the hearts of the players when they are performed. This was one of those songs, and everyone in the bar that night felt it. A hush fell as the lyric, written more than a century ago, told the story of the sorrowful meeting of these two lost lovers.

And at nights when I go to my bed of slumber

The thoughts of my true love run in my mind.

But when I turn around to embrace my darling

Instead of gold, sure 'tis brass I find.

And I wish the queen would call home her armies

From the West Indies, America and Spain.

And every man to his wedded woman

In the hopes that you and I may meet again …

I led the group through the closing salvo, and we finished together. The hush continued for a long moment, then the room erupted with applause.

‘Nice one,' Ben mouthed at me, as the percussionist slapped me on the back.

The music was over. Instruments had been put back into their cases and small groups were gathered around the room, chatting over glasses of whiskey. Ben and I sat at the bar, waiting for a taxi.

‘That was a good night,' Ben said.

‘It was.'

‘Will we see you here again?'

‘You will.'

‘Excellent. Maybe we'll get a few more songs next time.'

‘I'll have to dust some off. I'm a bit rusty.'

‘I saw no rust tonight.'

‘Nice of you to say so.'

I gestured to the barman for another couple of whiskies.

‘How're the cases going?'

‘I don't want to talk shop tonight, Ben.'

‘Fair enough. I just thought that was an interesting choice of song, that's all.'

‘You are a shrewd bastard, aren't you?'

‘The Walshes getting to you?'

I looked at him in wonder and pushed my money over the bar as the glasses were placed before us.

‘Would you believe, I was thinking of the Byrnes and Henrys when I chose it. But yes, it has parallels with the Walsh situation too.'

‘Must be one of those catch-all songs.'

‘It must be.'

We sampled the whiskey and sat for a while.

‘I wish I knew what was going on with the Walshes though. I am utterly stumped.'

‘How so?'

‘Ben, they truly believe that they are seeing their dead father. They're so fucking convincing, I'm even starting to believe there's something going on. I mean …
could
they be seeing something?'

Ben picked up his glass and gestured with his head. We went out into the beer garden to the rear of the pub. It was empty except for the two of us. The night sky was an explosion of stars, the air still dense with heat. Ben sat down on one of the tables, took out his pouch and started to roll a smoke.

‘The answer to your question, Shane,' he said, licking the gummed edge of the cigarette paper, ‘is that I don't know. And I'm not sure it's important.'

‘It's important to them. It's about the most important thing in their lives.'

‘Maybe it's not, though. This is a highly unusual case, and I think maybe you've started to dwell on the stranger aspects of it. Don't obsess on the weird stuff. What the boys need is closure: an end to this unhappiness and the chance to say goodbye once and for all to their father. I believe he was and is bad for them, but he remains their father and they love him. Help them achieve these things, and the other stuff should follow.'

‘I don't see how they can ever get closure when … when they're being haunted, Ben. Because, to all intents and purposes, that is what is happening. There's no other way of putting it.'

He exhaled smoke out of his nose and spat a bit of loose tobacco out of the corner of his mouth.

‘They may be. They just may. You have to keep an open mind about everything in this work. It's not the first time I've come across apparently supernatural elements to cases. What we need to remember is that these are two upset, frightened little boys, and our job is to help them deal with their pain. You should stop trying to prove or disprove the genuineness of the alleged haunting, and start to focus on what is right for the boys. It would be better if they were away from their father. If he was alive, and we were working on this case, I'd be pushing for some kind of separation. Whatever way you look at it, his influence is malevolent. Now, try and think of it like that. Their father is who he is, regardless of whether he is corporeal or not. Effect a separation.'

I knew he was right. I just wished the case wasn't so damned difficult.

Jacob Benedict had given me an idea.

The following Saturday I sat at a table outside the pub opposite where Sylvie, Gloria and their father lived. I arrived just as the bar was opening, and took up my post facing their front door. I didn't think that Mr Lambe would have risen yet, so I ordered some coffee, lit a smoke and read the paper, keeping one eye on the street.

At one thirty a dishevelled Joseph Lambe stepped onto the pavement. He was dressed in a loose-fitting vest that bunched up around the waist of his baggy jeans and displayed a scrawny, hairless chest and sinewy arms, and the same sandals he had been wearing when I had seen him before. A hand-rolled cigarette again hung from his lips, and he had on a cheap pair of imitation Ray-Bans. Several days' worth of stubble adorned his face and his hair stuck up at alarming angles from his head. He looked for all the world like a man in the throes of a wretched hangover. I let him get ten metres or so up the street, then followed, falling into the flow of pedestrians but keeping him in my line of sight.

I didn't know exactly where he was going, but I knew his purpose. He was off to get a cure. I'd never met Joe Lambe in person, but I'd met plenty like him. He was feeling sick to his stomach. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. The only thing that was going to make it all go away was the hair of the dog.

Sure enough, ten minutes later he ducked into a small pub off the main thoroughfare. There was no name over the door, just a small, cracked window, an open door and a sign that said
Bar.
Just the kind of place I would have expected him to frequent – anonymous. I hung outside for five minutes, then went in.

I sensed rather than saw him at a low table by the window. I ordered a soda water and leant on the bar, watching him in my peripheral vision. He had a large bottle of cider and a glass of ice in front of him, but that was for a chaser. He was gulping a large whiskey, and when he had drained the last drop from the glass, he carefully poured the cider over the ice and took a long swallow.

I wanted him to take in just enough so that the Delirium Tremens were under control. It was important that he understood and took in every word I would say to him. I lit a cigarette and waited. There was no hurry. He wasn't going anywhere for a while.

‘Frankie, gimme another round,' he called to the barman three minutes later.

‘Right y'are, Joey.'

When the drinks were lined up, I winked at Frankie, who was a surprisingly well-groomed man in early middle age. ‘I'll drop them down for you.'

‘Cheers, bud.'

I picked up the cider and whiskey and went over to where the small man was sitting, rolling another cigarette from a pouch of Old Holborn. I set the glasses on the table, and pulled over a stool. He put the finished product in the corner of his mouth and I struck my Zippo and lit it for him.

‘Do I know you, friend?' His voice was thin and reedy, not high-pitched, but with a guttural edge that spoke of cruelty.

‘No, you don't know me, Joey. We've never met.'

‘Well, how can I be of service to you then?'

He was looking at me closely, trying to sum me up. He had come back to his full faculties rapidly, and a wicked intellect showed in his hooded eyes. He was not a man to underestimate.

‘I'd like to chat to you about your daughter. Your
eldest
daughter. Sylvie.'

His eyes narrowed, and he picked up the whiskey and sipped it.

‘She usually doesn't do appointments. But if the price is right, as they say …'

‘That's not why I'm here. You see, I know Sylvie from before you reappeared from whichever stone you'd crawled under. I used to work with her when she was in care. Now, it caused me some distress when I saw that, rather than being in the bosom of a loving foster family, which is what was always intended for her, she'd been placed with a sick, twisted fuck of a father, who sexually and physically abused her and put her out on the game.'

He said nothing, eyeing me closely.

‘Give me one reason why I shouldn't kick the living shit out of you right now, you slimy little bastard,' I said.

He stubbed out the cigarette. He was tougher than he looked. I wasn't scaring him.

‘What are you? Some kind of social worker? Bleeding fucking heart do-gooder?'

‘Something like that. But the meter isn't running now, Joey. This is purely personal.'

He laughed, but stopped quickly. His head hadn't completely stopped aching yet.

‘You cunts're all the same. You can talk hard, but you're all fucking mouth. You want a half hour with Sylvia, she's down the docks most nights. You want to get your kicks beatin' up on a sick man, well let's go outside and you can take your shot. I've taken hidin's before and you don't frighten me. But if this is all you've got to say, fuck off and let me enjoy my afternoon pints, will you?'

‘You don't get off that easy.'

‘What are you gettin' at, bud? Make your point, will you?'

‘I know where you live. I know where Sylvie works. I know that you have fathered a child by her. I want you to take her off the streets, and I want you to stop raping her and beating her. If I find that you have continued, I will be all over you with social workers and cops so fast you won't even feel the impact. You won't be able to take a piss without being watched. I am giving you this one chance – a chance you don't deserve – to get your act together. Consider what I say very carefully, because I mean every fucking word of it. Do you understand me?'

He looked at me silently for a second.

‘She's only a little whore,' he said in disgust, spitting the words at me. ‘What do you care about a little whore?'

Before I knew I'd done it, I knocked the table over and had him by the front of his vest against the wall. Glass crunched on the floor beneath my boots. Cider ran across the floorboards.

‘She is a whore because you made her one,' I said through gritted teeth. ‘You've worked your poison on her for long enough. Take her off the streets tonight, do you hear me?'

He was staring right into my eyes. Again, I saw no fear, only resentment. He was a little man who had been pushed around all his life. It was probably why he came back for Sylvie in the first place: he wanted someone to push around. Now, here was someone else, bigger and stronger, pushing him around again.

‘I hear you,' he said. ‘Loud and clear.'

I shook him like a dog shakes a rabbit.

‘Then mark me, Joey. Mark what I say.'

I let him go. Frankie was polishing glasses at the bar, whistling
The Wild Colonial Boy.
It seemed that outbursts like this were not uncommon in his establishment. I walked out the door, suddenly realizing that I was shaking and that my eyes were wet.

‘Another round, Frankie,' I heard Joseph Lambe call before the door closed. Business as usual.

I stood at Mina's bedroom door. Her parents were outside in the preened garden, drinking lemonade, enjoying the sunshine and listening to classical music on Lyric FM. Mina was still walled up in her boudoir, refusing to see or speak to anyone. I'd had enough of it, and told her so.

‘You can't stay in there for ever. I'm not leaving until you see me. I've got a sleeping bag in the car, and I'll go and get it. How would you like to have me out here, singing sea shanties at three o'clock in the morning? I'll do it. Don't say I didn't warn you.'

Implacable silence. There was a smell of roses and pollen from the open window at the end of the landing. Inside, the house was cool and had that odd atmosphere houses have when they are empty. I always felt like a trespasser at the Henrys' anyway, but it was worse when I was on my own. Mina was there, but she seemed out of place too. That was probably a big part of the problem.

‘Jacob came to see me,' I said, deciding it was time to pull the ace out of the deck. ‘We had a long talk.'

I waited, listening intently for movement behind the door. Nothing for a second, then a key rattled, and it opened. Mina stood in the space, her hair tousled; she was dressed in shorts and a faded T-shirt with Care Bears on it.

‘Hey there, stranger,' I said.

‘What did Jacob say?'

‘He told me he loved you and you loved him, and that the workshop and your parents didn't want you to be together. He said that was why you've been running away. You're unhappy because you're different, and can't do the things “normal” people do, so you go where people don't know you, and try to do all the stuff you aren't allowed to do at home.'

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped at it absently.

‘Is that about it, Mina? You have to tell me, or I can't do anything to help.'

Yes,' she said, turning and going back into the room, but leaving the door open, now.

Her room was in an advanced state of disarray. Plates and bowls were strewn here and there, most with bits of partially eaten food encrusted onto them. Clothes, magazines and CD cases lay on the floor. The window was closed, and there was a smell of humanity lingering in the air. Mina sat on the unmade bed and pulled her knees up to her chin.

‘I love him. He's a beautiful person. He's not smart or handsome or tough, but he's gentle and decent and he loves me for who I am, not what he wants me to be or thinks I should be.'

‘He doesn't know about your … um … activities in The Sailing Cot.'

A look of panic. ‘No! You didn't tell him, did you?'

‘No. I didn't want to hurt him. I don't suppose you want to tell me exactly what
did
happen, by any chance, because I'm still a bit confused –'

‘No, it doesn't matter, anyway. You can't help. No one can help.'

‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.'

‘They', she gestured with her head at the window, ‘can't stand the sight of Jacob. He's below me. And anyway, they don't want me to have a boyfriend. They think I'm still a child.'

‘All parents feel that way about their children, Mina. It's part of being a parent. It doesn't mean they don't love you, and it doesn't mean that they can't learn to see things differently. You're still very young. Seventeen is not
exactly
adulthood, you know. Give them a chance. Let me talk to them.'

She shook her head and sighed deeply. A wistful look had come over her, and she didn't seem to be really with me any more.

‘We've talked about getting married, some day. We'd have to run away together, and Jacob's very afraid of leaving his parents, but he said he'd go, for me. We'd get a little house, somewhere, and I'd keep a garden, maybe grow some vegetables to sell. Jacob could work in a shop or a factory. He could do that; it wouldn't be too hard. We wouldn't have much money, but we'd have enough.' She looked at me, her eyes soft with sadness. ‘Isn't that a lovely dream, Shane?'

‘It sounds wonderful. I'd like to come and visit, if you'd have me.'

She laughed with no humour at all.

‘It's just a dream, stupid. Go and talk to Mum and Dad. Good luck with it. Maybe then you'll see what I mean.'

Insects droned in the flowers and hedges of the Henrys' garden, and the sound of the ornamental fountain was like liquor over ice. Molly and Dirk sat in front of me, and they were not happy people.

‘We are familiar with this Jacob person,' Dirk said. ‘We have discussed the issue at length with Mina, and I thought that it had been settled. He is not a suitable person for her to be associating with. Not suitable by any means.'

‘He seemed to be a nice guy when I met him.'

‘That is neither here nor there,' Molly said.

‘Surely it is. I mean, if he's a decent bloke and you know him … I just don't see the problem.'

‘There are several rather pertinent problems,' Dirk said.

He was dressed in a snazzy polo-shirt and shorts combo with dazzlingly white tennis shoes. His sunglasses probably cost more than my car.

‘Enlighten me,' I said, ‘because I think that we might just be able to sort out this entire mess.'

‘Mina and Jacob are from different … different echelons of society,' Dirk said, looking uncomfortable just speaking about Mina's suitor. ‘The Benedicts are nice enough people, but they are, well … Jacob's father works in a factory, for God's sake!'

‘Their home is a tiny little place,' Molly continued. ‘Terraced.'

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You are trying to tell me that you won't let Mina have a relationship with this boy whom she obviously adores because he comes from a working-class background? Tell me you're not serious.'

‘There is more to it than that,' Dirk said irritably. ‘There is the whole issue of the … er … the physicality.'

‘The sex,' I helped him out.

‘Yes.'

‘Mina is not worldly,' Molly said. ‘She does not understand the implications of her actions.'

‘You are worried that she may get pregnant.'

‘Yes. And there are diseases. It is too complex an issue for someone of her abilities. She's too young.'

‘Mina's seventeen, Molly. I'm not suggesting for a second that she and Jacob should be hopping into bed with one another. Most seventeen-year-olds
are,
by the way, but that's another story. They just want to be able to have a relationship out in the open, with your blessing. I don't think that's too much to ask.'

‘It's not really your business, Shane, with respect,' Dirk said.

‘You asked me to come out here and help you deal with Mina's unhappiness and her running away. I believe that I have found the reason for it. Now, you're telling me that it's none of my business. I'm confused, Dirk.'

‘She has not run now in weeks,' Molly said.

‘She's been locked in her room! She's embarrassed and miserable. I'd hardly write that up as a victory.'