Broadchurch (23 page)

There are no customers in the newsagent’s. The only movement in the shop is the soft plastic ripple of the rainbow curtain.

Jack Marshall stands behind the counter, a copy of the
Daily Herald
before him, staring down into the terrible mirror of the front page.

I DID NOT KILL YOUR SON

EXCLUSIVE
:
EX
-
CON
SHOPKEEPER
’
S
PLEA
TO
DANNY
’
S
PARENTS
 

His face is blank.

35

Mark’s been drinking in the King’s Arms since he was fourteen, but tonight when he enters, the place goes as quiet as the saloon in a Western when a stranger comes to town. Just for a second, there’s no sound but the fruit machines, then the low rumble of conversation strikes up again. Unable to face the bar, Mark sends Nige up to get the beers in. When he comes back he’s got a pint in each hand and a copy of the
Herald
tucked under his arm. He spreads it on the table between them: Jack Marshall eyeballs them from the page.

‘He’s got a conviction for kiddy-fiddling and they’re letting him serve ice creams,’ he says. ‘Mate, who
are
we? We look after things ourselves. If things are wrong, we sort them out. Like with that Neil from the Lion, when we heard he was nicking bikes out of gardens.’

Mark turns the paper over and folds it in half, so that only a small column of football news and the crossword are visible. ‘This isn’t nicking bikes,’ he says. ‘Until we have evidence —’

‘And what if waiting for evidence means it’s too late?’ Nige demands. ‘What if it’s another kid? Say he has got something to do with this, and we’ve just let him carry on. How sick are we gonna feel?’

‘
Enough!
’ Mark erupts. Every head swivels in their direction, then turns away as quickly. Mark speaks in an urgent whisper: ‘Stop banging on at me! You think I’m not being eaten up by this? You know
I
can’t do nothing! You want to do something, fine.’

Nige lets the paper fall on to his lap and holds his hands up in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘’Course. I understand.’

‘I haven’t got a thirst for this,’ says Mark, pushing his pint away. ‘I’m off home.’

‘No worries,’ says Nige. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

There’s a huge toolbag on the passenger seat of Nige’s car. When Mark leans to move it, Nige almost sprints to intercept it.

‘What’ve you got in there, anyway?’ asks Mark as the bag sags in Nige’s hands. ‘A kitchen sink? You haven’t been taking scrap without permission again, have you, mate? You know we can’t afford to piss off the customers.’

‘No, no,’ says Nige, slinging it into the boot. ‘It’s only tools. Don’t worry. Your business is safe in my hands.’

He holds up the hands in question: they are large, slightly dirty, and calloused.

Mark grins. ‘Sooner I get back to work the better.’

Back at home, Nige heaves his bag into the garage, unzips it and pauses for a moment to look at the dirty blanket inside. Slowly, almost reverentially, he removes the blanket and unwraps it to reveal a crossbow.

The weapon is large and heavy. Although it is modern, made of matte black steel, there is something mediaeval about it. Unlike a gun, where the deadly mechanism is hidden on the inside, a crossbow, with its exposed wires and triggers, makes its intentions clear. There is no such thing as a rapid-fire crossbow. Ammunition has to be reloaded before each premeditated shot. You really have to know what you’re doing with a crossbow, and self-control is vital. You wouldn’t want it to get into the wrong hands.

That evening, Chloe and Dean are in the alleyway that threads around the back of her house, pressed together against the fence. Her face is buried in his T-shirt: his chin rests on the top of her head. A car door slams on the other side of the fence; she does not hear it.

‘This is the closest I’ve ever been to your house,’ says Dean. ‘I’ll get to go inside in about six months at this rate. Your dad ain’t that scary, is he?’

‘Let’s just say it’s not a coincidence that my last two boyfriends became my exes within about two hours of my dad finding out.’ She flicks a small smile at Dean’s chest, then says, ‘You been speaking to the others, about Jack?’

‘Yeah. I can’t believe it. Makes me feel all…’ He gives a theatrical shudder.

‘I’m gonna ring around everyone, tell them to boycott the shop,’ says Chloe. Dean nods wisely.

‘Look, I better go,’ he says.

They pull apart only to come together in a long kiss. Chloe’s blonde hair dances in the breeze. Dean smooths it down and tucks it behind her ears. She watches him walk the length of the alleyway to the street where the bike is parked up, hugging her arms to her chest, and blows him a kiss before his visor goes down. Then she turns around and walks slap bang into her father.

‘In the house,’ says Mark. ‘Now.’

Chloe obeys immediately, but her mouth is pursed in a mutinous rosebud. In the sitting room, she toys with her phone for security, sliding her fingers absently over the screen. Mark paces up and down, visibly trying to keep his cool.

‘Who was that?’ he asks her. ‘And don’t mess me about, ’cause we’re way beyond that in this house now.’

Chloe fights anger with truth. ‘His name’s Dean.’ She meets Mark’s eyes as he puts his fists on his hips.

‘How old is he?’

‘Seventeen.’ Chloe straightens her back, ready to face the eruption head on.

‘And he’s going out with a fifteen-year-old!’

‘Yes,’ she fires back. ‘Just like you did with Mum.’

‘Don’t get smart with me!’ shouts Mark, but he hasn’t got a leg to stand on and they both know it. He paces faster now, his breathing slow, deliberate and controlled. It doesn’t leave much room for talking, and in the end it’s Chloe who moves the conversation forward.

‘Just ask me, Dad,’ she sing-songs, ‘I know you’re dying to.’ She turns her face up to him, hiding nothing. Mark falters for a second. His daughter might be half his age and size, but she’s the closest thing he’s got to a true sparring partner.

‘You having sex with him?’

‘Yes,’ says Chloe. She can’t hide her pride. Mark looks at the wall as though he wants to punch it. He raises his hand as if to hit her but instead runs it down the back of his hair with laborious self-control. ‘
And
we use condoms, which is more than you and Mum did.’

Mark turns puce. ‘I’m not having you talking to me like this, Chloe.’

Chloe stands up to him now, literally. She points a finger at his chest.

‘I got you out of a
police
cell,’ she says. Mark frowns in confusion. ‘Because I’d seen how you and Becca Fisher were looking at each other. Now you want to talk about that too?’

The shock of being discovered shoves Mark roughly into an armchair. He is not qualified to set one toe on the moral high ground. He lets his head fall into his hands.

In one short conversation their relationship has been bent into a new shape. Chloe, sensing the fragility of the new order, shifts temporarily back into little-girl mode.

‘Are you going to tell Mum about me and Dean?’ she says in a small voice.

Mark lets out a long breath. ‘It’d be better coming from you,’ he suggests. ‘She’ll like it, you confiding in her.’

Chloe shakes her head. ‘I will, but not today. She’s got enough on her plate right now, what with finding out about you and Becca.’

Mark’s mortification deepens. ‘How’d you know she knows?’

‘Oh, come on, Dad. I’m not deaf. Let’s give her a bit of time for that to sink in before we go dropping any more bombshells.’ She looks around the house, registering Beth’s absence for the first time. ‘Where is she, anyway?’

36

A
VACANCIES
sign hangs in the window of the Traders Hotel. This is unheard of in August. Beth hesitates at the open front door, then walks slowly into reception. A room key hangs on almost every hook. There are no guests in the lobby and no one behind the desk.

Low conversation rumbles from the bar. Beth rounds the doorway to see Becca sharing a table with Reverend Paul Coates. They are poring over open books together, their heads bent so close that they are almost touching. It hasn’t taken Becca long to find a new target. Beth, who has come to see Paul as her confidant over the last few days, feels the now-familiar kick of betrayal. She holds her breath the better to eavesdrop.

‘So basically you’re a year behind the projections, with no sign of an upturn,’ says Paul. ‘And the bank is demanding a repayment of ten thousand pounds within forty-two days or they repossess.’

Becca blows a blonde curl from her eyes. ‘What with the weather, and then
this
…’

This
, thinks Beth. My son’s death. How dare she? A small sound escapes her and Becca looks up. Shame darkens her face.

‘Beth! Didn’t expect to see you…’ she begins.

I bet you fucking didn’t, thinks Beth as she barges her way behind the bar. The first breakable to hand is an empty pint glass, still warm from the dishwasher. Beth hurls it at the floor where it shatters into diamonds. It feels fantastic. There’s a row of highball tumblers at eye-level. Beth quickly establishes a rhythm: grab, smash, grab, smash, grab, smash. The champagne flutes, with their crystal chime at the breaking point, are the most satisfying. She flips the taps on the beer pumps so that the drink pours freely, overflowing the drip trays and flooding the floor. Let Becca’s profits drain to nothing. The sooner she’s out of Broadchurch, the better.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ explodes Becca when Beth reaches for the spirits. ‘That’s
enough
!’

Beth stifles a manic laugh. ‘Enough? I’m doing your windows next.’ A shard of glass, long as a dagger, rests on the bar. Beth could pick it up now, run it across Becca’s neck. It’s easy to take a life, easy.

‘Beth,’ says Becca, turning off the cider tap. ‘I’m so sorry, it was a mistake.’

‘Fucking right, it was!’ says Beth, turning the tap back on. ‘
My
husband. I will nail you to the floor before I let you wreck fifteen years of my life!’

Becca looks helplessly to Paul. ‘If we’d known what was going to happen…’

‘Don’t you dare!’ shrieks Beth. ‘Don’t you
dare
bring that into it. Come near my family and I will break your fuckin’
face
.’ She is out of control, like she’s drunk all the booze she’s spilling. She doesn’t recognise the way she’s speaking.

She feels hands on her upper arms and tries to break free, but Paul’s hands are large and his grip is strong. ‘All right,’ he says, guiding Beth away from the bar. ‘We should get some air.’

‘D’you know what she did?’ says Beth.

‘I’ve got the gist,’ he replies.

The fight goes out of Beth as suddenly as it arrived, and she lets him steer her across the sodden carpet, glass crunching under their feet. They turn left out of the Traders: he’s walking her home. Beth wonders bitterly whether it’s for her protection or Becca’s.

There’s a sobering breeze on the High Street and Beth starts to come down from the high of destruction.

‘Sorry. To you, not to her.’ She wants to laugh but the tiny detached part of her that still cares about these things knows how it will look, and she bites it back. ‘It felt good, actually. Do you think I’ll have to pay her? I’m not paying her, she can whistle for it.’

‘Beth…’ Paul stops her in her tracks. ‘Have you thought about seeing a bereavement counsellor?’

Not him too. They’ve got themselves on some kind of mailing list. Victim Support and the doctor keep writing to them with offers to talk it through. So far she’s managed to stash the letters and leaflets in the bookshelves where Mark never goes. ‘I don’t want to see a counsellor,’ she tells him. ‘A counsellor will want me to stop being angry. I need my anger. It’s all I’ve got right now.’

Paul doesn’t flinch, merely nods to show his understanding. He mirrors her pace as they turn right out of the High Street. Not for the first time, Beth wonders what’s really going through his mind. Is he honestly as non-judgemental as he seems, a forgiving Christian through to the bone? Or is his mind a relentless stream of suppressed criticism? She finds that she doesn’t much care, as long as he listens. This priest, a virtual stranger up until a few weeks ago, has become one of the few constants in her life, and in some ways she is more intimate with him than she is with her husband. Thinking about this prompts another confidence.

‘Mark knows,’ she blurts. ‘About the baby. He said I had to keep it.’

He gives the only answer a priest is allowed to. ‘I think he’s right.’

‘Oh well, if the men think that’s what’s best, let’s do it,’ Beth deadpans, then grows suddenly shrill. ‘I hate it!’ Paul’s eyes mirror her own shock. It’s the first time she’s said it out loud, but she’s started now and she can’t stop. ‘This thing, growing inside me. I don’t want it. It’s not right. Danny should be growing, I’m not done with Danny yet, I didn’t finish my job. I want
him
.’ Her voice cracks and rises. She doesn’t care if anyone overheard her. ‘I had one job as his mum. Get him ready for the world, set him up to meet it and be the best he could be. And I failed him. I let him down.’

‘No. You didn’t. He was taken.’

She turns on him. ‘Why? Why did your God create him, and then take him back?’

‘I don’t know. Some people think He takes those He loves most first.’

‘Pretty bloody selfish God. Why am I being punished?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’ At least he’s got the grace to look apologetic while he says it. He clears his throat. ‘Have you thought any more about a memorial service for Danny? It’d be a service of thanksgiving for his life. The shape of it’s completely up to you. We can have music he liked, people can talk about him.’

What Beth really wants is a funeral. A coffin. A goodbye. But that impulse to move, to act, to do something for her son, remains irresistible. Something dormant stirs within her as she realises that she must not let his death overshadow his life. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I want to do it. Mark’ll agree with me.’