Killing a Stranger (11 page)

‘Patrick,' he said. Then shouted at the door, ‘Patrick!' But the barrier was now in place and by the time he reached the entrance and looked up and down the street, there was no sign of his son.

‘Harry, what the hell?' Alec had pulled on a pair of jeans and Naomi appeared in the background fastening the tie on her robe. ‘What's happened, what's wrong?'

‘Is he here? Patrick, did he come here?'

‘Patrick? No, what makes you think? God's sake, you're shaking like a leaf, are you sick? What's going on?'

Harry allowed Alec to sit him down. Napoleon whined anxiously and nuzzled at his hand. ‘Patrick ran out on me,' he said. ‘We had a stupid argument and he ran off. Alec, I told him to go.'

‘OK, now start at the start and we'll sort it out.'

‘Shall I make some tea?' Naomi asked.

‘No. No, thank you. I've got to get out again. Look for him.'

‘You've got to sit down and wait while we get dressed,' Alec told him. ‘Then we'll all go. You're in no fit state to drive. Have you been drinking?'

‘I … Oh God, Alec I don't know. I had a couple with Mari, then a couple more while I was waiting for Patrick to turn up. I …'

‘OK, lucky you didn't get pulled over. Now, sit tight.'

Harry waited impatiently while they dressed and then they bundled into Alec's car, Napoleon grumbling at being left behind in the flat.

Where would he go? Harry couldn't think. For a while they drove aimlessly, Harry knowing approximately where Charlie and Becky lived but not the exact address. It was Naomi who finally had the brain wave.

‘The canal,' she said. ‘He goes down there to think.'

‘The canal?' She heard the sudden panic in Harry's voice and wished she'd kept her mouth shut. ‘This time of the morning. It's not safe down there any time. He's got no right.'

No right to do what? Naomi wondered. To scare Harry like this? Or to put himself in danger. Maybe they were one and the same. ‘It's OK, Harry. We'll find him. Alec, if you drive towards the marina, you can see back along a good length.'

‘Already on my way,' Alec told her. Then, ‘Harry, that looks like him, standing on the bridge.'

Which bridge, Naomi thought. The one Rob jumped from?

Alec stopped the car and Harry was out before he cut the engine, running towards the footbridge and calling Patrick's name.

C
hristmas morning was a subdued affair. Patrick
felt
as though he had a hangover even though he'd imbibed no alcohol, and Harry probably really did. He drove the mile or so to his mother's house with overweening care and winced when Patrick slammed the door.

Mari took one look at their faces and Patrick could see her make the decision not to lecture or even ask for an explanation. Instead, she hugged him hard; strong beyond belief for such a small woman, she almost knocked the breath from him. Then hugged her son too and ushered them inside.

Mari's living room was always cramped. Oversized sofas and a large TV filled the available space. Christmas saw the addition of a massive tree, piled and festooned with ornaments that had been around since her own children were tiny. This largesse was added to every year until the green branches were almost hidden beneath the festival of red and gold and purple and blue. Mari bought what she fancied. Co-ordination was something they did on television make-over programmes. Nice to look at, but not for her.

Parcels wrapped in garish paper filled what little space was left beneath the tree and spread out on to the hearth rug, dangerously close to the fire. The room was a little too warm, but today, Patrick didn't mind. He had felt chilled ever since his dad had found him on the bridge. Chilled and shivery as though coming down with the flu, though he figured viruses had nothing to do with it.

The door bell rang again just as he flopped down in the chair next to the tree. Naomi and Alec's voices reached him. He was glad they were here; it diluted the attention that might otherwise be directed his way. His dad hovered in the doorway, glancing anxiously in Patrick's direction and then turning expectantly to greet their friends.

He should tell her how he feels, Patrick thought suddenly. Tell her to ditch Alec and move in with him. It was, he recognized, a pretty silly thought. Naomi was probably in no doubt about the depth of Harry's feelings, but she'd made her choice and gone for handsome rather than blandly dependable. Not, Patrick admitted, that he'd anything against Alec. He liked him a lot and then there'd be that weirdness of having Naomi as his step-mother. Patrick wasn't really sure either of them could handle that.

His reverie was interrupted by Naomi bending to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You OK?' she asked under her breath.

‘Yeah.' He kissed her back. ‘It's all right, thanks.'

‘Good.' She straightened up and turned back to talk to Mari. ‘Mum says to thank you for the brooch, she loves it.'

‘Oh, she's welcome. I'm looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. It'll be lovely getting us all together.'

Patrick groaned inwardly. Oh yes, the gathering of the Blake and Jones clans and anyone else counted as family. He was glad it wasn't happening here, at Mari's; hard enough to cram the five of them in as it was. Alec's family, he knew, lived quite a distance away, which simplified that, he supposed. He thought of the other part of his own family, his mum and step-father and step-brothers over in the States. They'd be phoning later, and just for the merest instant he thought how much better it might have been had he gone there for the celebrations.

Then he caught sight of his dad, looking at him with that intense expression on his face that Patrick vaguely recognized as love and he knew he'd rather be here and, more to the point, that he should be making an effort of some sort.

Awkwardly, Patrick got up and went over to Harry. ‘I'm sorry,' he mumbled.

‘So am I.' Harry said. ‘Now, let it go, eh?'

Patrick nodded and relaxed, just a little, switched his attention to Mari, the apron-clad Father Christmas, struggling to fetch the stack of parcels out from beneath the tree.

Jennifer tried not to mind that a lot of the presents seemed to have considered the baby rather than her. It was kind of Great-Aunt Sheila to have knitted and Uncle Joe's toys meant for a one-year-old were well meaning. Even her parents seemed determined to get in on the act, unveiling the combination baby buggy come car seat with all the ceremony with which they might have revealed a rocking horse or a new bike in the years before.

Sure, they'd also got her some CDs she wanted and there was the promise of a shopping trip to get new clothes after the baby arrived, but it all felt a little flat.

Uncle Adam would have found her something special, Jenny thought and the idea brought fresh tears flooding to her eyes. He always did, managing to find something unusual or beautiful or just plain weird. One year it had been an antique bracelet decorated with blue enamel flowers. Another, a music box with a marquetry lid. Last year a locket, large and silver, heavily engraved and inside pictures of a Victorian couple and a lock of hair.

Her mother had found it macabre not to say unsuitable, but Jennifer had been enchanted. Who were they? What happened to them? Was this to commemorate their wedding day?

This year there would be no special gift, no stolen moments sitting on the stairs to chat, no laughing Christmas kiss beneath the mistletoe in the hall – no mistletoe anyway this year – no Uncle Adam.

She tried to smile, to thank everyone, to nod gratefully at the advice and the demonstrations – look, I've put these little bow buttons on the cardi … the seat lifts off like this so it goes straight into the car … the little train makes five different noises when you press the different buttons. Very educational, but it was hard. Suddenly, she was being treated as an
almost
adult. A not very intelligent one, having to be given loads of support, special needs kind of adult, but an adult of sorts just the same. Jen found herself thinking she would have given anything just to be five years old again. Just, even, to have set the clock back five months or so and to know how not to be so stupid this time around.

Grandfather Ernst saved his gift until last and then slipped a small box into her hand. She was puzzled. Granddad always gave her money, telling her he never knew what to buy and the card, with its usual cash gift had already been supplied. She opened the box. ‘Oh. But this was Grammer's.'

Ernst nodded. ‘She always wanted that it should be yours.'

Her mother came over to see. Jen saw her expression change from one of mild interest to one of pain. ‘Dad, this was mother's ring. Her
wedding
ring.'

‘And I gave
you
the engagement ring, Beth. She intended always that this should go to Jennifer.'

‘Yes, sure, but for when she …'

Married, Jennifer supplied. For when she got married. Not for now. It was a very simple ring, narrow and plain and worn but with three tiny chips of diamond set at equal distance round the band. Jennifer had always loved it. ‘Thank you,' she told Ernst, but she didn't know what felt worse, receiving the ring now, at such a wrong and disappointing time or seeing in her mother's eyes just how much she felt that Jennifer had let them down.

Clara had never spent this day alone but she was surprised by how little she minded after all. It was as though Christmas, normally a time of such over the top celebration, as she tried to make up to Rob for the lack of family and lack of other people's gifts, had simply failed to happen this year.

She watched the television, she reminded herself to eat and even cooked a proper meal – pasta rather than turkey and all the trimmings, but it was still better than she had been doing. She dozed in the chair and ignored the world. Charlie's promised phone call, closely followed by Becky's, took her by surprise. Both were brief, but genuinely caring and some part of her that she allowed to feel was grateful. ‘Patrick probably won't call until later,' Charlie told her. ‘He has to keep the line clear for his mam to phone from Florida.'

‘Florida?'

‘Yeah, she got married again, lives over there.'

‘Oh, I see. Thanks, Charlie.' She finished the call and put down the phone, suddenly surprised at how little she actually knew about these three youngsters who had taken her under their collective wing.

Rob, she thought, had chosen his friends well. Or, at least some of them. Her thoughts drifted to Ernst Hensel and she wondered what he was doing today and if he was allowing himself, as she was not, to miss his son.

N
ew Year's day. It always felt like you should make a special effort to do something different, Naomi thought. She wasn't one for resolutions – the longest she'd ever kept one was about a week – but she did like using the day to make plans.

She and Alec had been to a party the night before. He'd been lucky this year, not on the rota for either Christmas day or New Year's Eve. She couldn't recall the last time that had happened. Both were now feeling the effects of the night before and Alec suggested a walk by the sea to clear their collective heads and give Napoleon a proper run. The dog loved the shingle beach. They'd left his harness at home, putting him on the lead so he knew this was time off. Once she felt the stones crunching beneath her boots, Naomi bent to unhook the lead. She laughed, as with an excited yip, Napoleon raced off to snap at the breaking waves.

‘He's trying to eat the foam,' Alec said. ‘Do you think it will do him any harm?'

‘If he can survive eating the bits of bacon you've carried around in your pocket all day, I'm sure he'll be OK with a bit of salt water.' Naomi said.

‘Left-overs,' Alec said. ‘Always seems such a waste to throw them away.'

‘And, of course, you don't order a bit extra just so you
have
some left-overs.'

‘I might. I also accept donations. Napoleon's a popular fellow.'

‘I don't think I want to know.' She clasped Alec's arm securely, still a little wary of the uneven surface and turned her face into the blustery, salt tanged wind. She could feel it roughening her cheeks and blowing her shoulder length hair into utter disarray. She imagined that it blew as hard through her thoughts, taking away all the dead and dried and empty stuff like so many decaying leaves, sweeping her mind clean.

‘We should set a date,' Alec said, interrupting her spring cleaning.

‘A date? For what?'

‘For the wedding, of course. You don't think I'm going to let you go through another year as a single woman, do you?'

Naomi laughed. ‘And why not?'

‘Because,' he said seriously, turning her to face him. ‘Because I have this horrible fear that you might still get away.'

Even before they had a grave to visit, Mari and Harry Jones had made the New Year pilgrimage to lay flowers for Helen. Patrick had accompanied them the past three years and he came this year too, laden with flowers as Mari linked her arm through her son's and walked a little ahead. They chatted softly and they walked slowly, pausing now and then to admire a pile of tributes or acknowledge the grave of someone they knew. Or Mari knew. Mari, Patrick thought ruefully, seemed to have something to say about just about everyone laid to rest here. Patrick, arms filled with roses and lilies, didn't join the conversation. This, he had always sensed, was their time and, though he was welcome, this visit represented a shared past he knew only in the most storylike of ways. Aunt Helen as she would have been was, for Patrick, a ghost at every feast, though a benign one. For his father and Nan, she was solid flesh and blood with all the sensory reminders that brought. She laughed, she talked, she argued, she hugged and played with toys. She had opinions and cried when her hamster died.