Past Caring (82 page)

“What are you doing here?” My tone had altered without my meaning it to. It must have sounded cold and stiff and forbidding.

“Came to see . . .” He spoke slowly, slurring the words. His gaze lingered on me with a strange mild curiosity. “Came to see . . . you.”

“Me?”

“Read . . . about this.” He tugged what looked like a scrap of newspaper from the pocket of his mac and held it up. I took it for a cutting from the local paper, and guessed Trevor might have in-serted some notice about the wedding. But what was Nicky’s interest in it? He didn’t even live in the area. Did he? “Knew . . .

you’d be here.”

“You’ve been . . . waiting for me?”

“Mum’s dead.”

“Your mother? I’m sorry. I . . .”

“My sister too.”

Nicky’s younger sister, Freda, had died of whooping cough during the war. Mentioning her death, of which he must have known I was aware, seemed pointless, if not perverse, but I assumed it had some significance only he could understand. “What do you want, Nicky?”

“Mum and Dad . . . together.”

“Perhaps they are now.”

“Not with me.”

“When did your mother die?”

“Six months . . . ago.” He stuffed the scrap of paper back into his pocket. “Cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

His gaze hardened. “Why should you be?”

“Because I liked her.”

“Liar.”

“It’s true.”

“Liar!” He shouted the word this time, his face flushing with a rush of anger.
“Liar!”

“Calm down, for God’s sake.”

“Why . . . should I?”

“This is my niece’s wedding day. We don’t want any . . . unpleasantness.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d used them. His own life had contained more than enough unpleasantness, and it was certain he’d wanted none of that either. “What are you . . . doing these days?”

“Looking.”

“For what?”

“The answer.”

“To what?”

“You know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“But do you . . . know the answer? Do you, Chris?”

“The answer to what?”

“Who killed my father?” The question was so bizarre, yet so evidently sincere, that I simply stared at him in response, trying to read in his despairing gaze the harshness of the road he’d trodden since the summer of 1947. “Who did it?”

“What the hell’s going on?” Trevor’s voice, raised and peremptory, cut through the seclusion of our exchanges. I turned round and saw him striding towards us, drink and disapproval darkening his expression. “What’s the shouting about?”

“Nothing. It’s all right. There’s no need—”

“Who’s he?” Trevor glared past me at Nicky. “Looks like some bloody dosser.”

“Nothing of the kind. I can—”

“This is a private party,” said Trevor, cutting across me. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Hold on, Trevor. You don’t understand.”

But lack of understanding had never restrained my brother-in-law. He marched towards Nicky, one arm gesturing in the direction of the road. Nicky stumbled back, raising his hands and lowering his head submissively. Sorrow—and guilt—lanced into me at this show of weakness. I called his name, but it was too late.

He turned and began to run, stooping beneath the branches, heading for the part of the wall we’d often scaled together as boys, with Trevor in token pursuit. It was no contest. Nicky ran like a fox before the hounds, vanishing into the deeper shade of the trees. In my mind’s eye, I saw him climb by the remembered footholds up onto the wall, drop down the other side, descend the bank to the pavement below, then jog away along the road.

“The bastard’s gone,” panted Trevor as he rejoined me by the bench. “Legged it.”

“So I see.”

“You should have sent him packing yourself. Drunks and derelicts. You can’t afford to give them any encouragement.”

“He was as sober as I am, and no derelict.”

“You talk as if he was a friend of yours from Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“A friend? Yes. Well, as a matter of fact he is.” I sighed.

“Or was.”

“A friend of yours? Should I know him, then?”

“In a sense, you do.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Nicky Lanyon.”

“Lanyon?”

“Yes. Son of Michael Lanyon.”

“What? The man who . . .”

“That’s right. The man they hanged for Uncle Joshua’s murder.”