Patchwork Man (20 page)

‘Met him again? You knew him already?’

‘Yeah, and so did you, little brother. Willy Johns – Jonno.’

‘Christ! I had no idea. Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘Would it have made a difference?’

I didn’t know – maybe. I could withhold what I had surmised, but what did it matter now – and what good would it do? There was no discernible name for Win to go after and the past was merely the past without that. I’d gone far enough down the wrong route with the case already. Another step was neither here, nor there if it got Win off my back – and knowing who the scapegoat was made me more sympathetic.

‘I want something from you as well, and then if you use what I tell you, you’ll have to OK it with me first, right? My timing.’

‘Explosive, is it?’

‘I have no idea – if you can read between the lines and figure it out, possibly.’ I was thinking of that single nail clipping and what it might mean – however impossible.

‘OK, what do you want to know?’

‘How much does Kimberley know? And who else knows? Who’s she told?’

‘Oh, you worked it out then? Sarah and Binnie, maybe Mary.’

‘Mary, for God’s sake! Why Mary?’

‘They got on.’

‘Jesus! Will they talk?’

‘I dunno. You’ll have to find out yourself, won’t you? You know where they are now.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Welcome.’

‘I was being sarcastic. And what about Kimberley – will she talk to anyone? Danny’s social worker for instance?’

‘Nah. She don’t trust authorities, but if I can find it out, they can too.’

‘What about my wife?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘I know, but she seems to have been involved with some dealings over Danny before she was killed. Would Kimberley have talked to her?’

‘Like I said, she don’t trust authorities. Depends whether your wife was talking authorities or personal, don’t it? When do I get the goods?’

‘Talking personal? What the hell does that mean? And no – I’m not handing over the file to you. I’ll tell you the facts, when I’m ready to. I’ve something I have to do first.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Get Danny out of this mess, somehow.’ It was the only thing I could do – should do. It was probably my fault he was even born – a mess I could do nothing about, no matter how guilty I felt. It wasn’t much. It hardly made atonement – or substituted for burning in hell for eternity for the oldest sin – apart from murder – that there was, if you believed in that kind of thing. But it was the only thing I
could
do. Although how the hell I was going to do it, God only knew.

Win took some persuading but eventually he agreed to wait. ‘
Win Juss – gets you what you want when you want it
.’ Not on my watch, I thought, the most incredible of potential long-hidden murderers burning into my brain insidiously. It seemed at every turn there was another new and excruciating twist to this tale. He’d said that Kimberley wouldn’t have said anything to Kat, but that could all change at any time, of course. I could play the innocent, but that was difficult to do when one of your audience knows you’re as guilty as hell. What would Atticus do?
Never bloody get into this mess!
Apart from that, he would weigh the benefits of deception against the impunity of honesty. There was no doubt on the scales of justice, honesty would outweigh everything, no matter how uncomfortable or delicate the balance it also created between acceptance and rejection. He’d tell her the truth. But only after he knew what Sarah and Binnie were likely to do first.

‘I should talk to Jill and Emm too, if I were you.’

‘Why?’

There was amusement in his voice. ‘Just in case ...’

He was playing cat and mouse with me too.

I
went to see Sarah first. Little Mother. That’s what someone had called her once and the name had stuck. Binnie was fun and I’d liked teasing her and getting that routine response that left us both secure in our relationship as children – best of enemies – funny how security is as much about expectations as reality, isn’t it? But Sarah had always been our mother when Ma couldn’t be. Whether that would make her a kinder or harsher judge now, of course, I couldn’t tell. It was a gamble; all of it was.

The address was a small backstreet terrace, neat, well-kept and unimaginative. It was as unlike the Sarah I remembered as my own life now was unlike the child I’d been. What did that say about either of us? We grow, we change, we find – or maybe we lose – ourselves. I loitered by the gate for a good ten minutes before I steeled myself enough to knock on the pristine dark blue front door. Sarah’s choice would have been red; pillar box red. It had been her favourite colour. Someone else, surely, had chosen this dull blue? She looked exactly as she had in the photograph Win had shown me – sad.

‘Oh.’

It wasn’t a surprised ‘Oh’, it was more an ‘Oh, there you are – where have you been?’ kind of ‘Oh’. I’d expected hostility. This was almost too neutral. I didn’t know what to say in return. The slick protagonist of the courtroom was lost in childish mumbles. I managed to get something out in the end, still unsure whether the ‘Oh’ was welcoming or not. She scrutinised me as I shifted awkwardly on the doorstep.

‘You’ve grown taller than I expected you to.’ Another remark that I couldn’t quite assess. I was neither overly-tall or under-sized short. Average in fact. So Sarah had anticipated me being short in stature. In height or in other ways too? Who might have given her that impression – or maybe I should add,
and what?
That galvanised me. The interfering bastard might think he had a hold on me but I was damned if I was going to let Win belittle or impugn me.

‘May I come in?’ The hesitation was fractional before she opened the door wide.

‘Of course you can.’ There was a pause, ‘Kenny? Or are you Lawrence now, even to me?’

‘I’m Lawrence to everyone now, Sarah.’ Her face became even sadder, if that was possible and a hidden string tugged, making my chest hurt just under my ribs. I softened the statement with, ‘but if you’d rather call me Kenny, that’s OK I suppose.’

‘Thank you.’ She led me into a small backroom, chintzily cheerful – so out of sorts with her now, yet so Sarah of then. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Ma’s ever-ready remedy for any situation. Cuppa if you were cold, cuppa if you were sad, cuppa if you were cross, cuppa with sugar if you were poorly. She didn’t wait for, or I suspected even expect, an answer. I followed her out the kitchen, equally small, but drab and worn – very like her.

‘So,’ we both said it together as the kettle whistled on the hob.

‘You first,’ I acceded politely. She turned off the gas and wrapped a flowered teacloth around the handle of the kettle, spilling some of it as she carried it shakily to the teapot.

‘Here, let me.’ I took it from here and filled the pot. The cosy was almost identical to the one Ma had used. Maybe it was the same one.

‘Thank you.’ I turned round to find her watching me silently.

‘Let it brew,’ I said to fill the gap.

‘You’re exactly how they describe you in the papers though, otherwise.’

‘Oh, how is that?’

‘Distinguished. That’s what they call you. Handsome.’ I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Really Sarah, it’s only to sell papers. I’m pretty average as you can see.’ She shook her head.

‘They call you charming too. You always did have the gift of the gab, Kenny – even when you were only up to here.’ She set her hand at her chest height. ‘Stick-thin, but a charmer.’

‘I always thought it was Pip and Jim who were the charmers.’

‘We never see ourselves how others do.’ She smiled suddenly and her face transformed. I saw the Sarah from childhood in the fragile, prematurely aged woman.

‘Maybe not. Maybe we don’t see others too clearly either, at times.’

‘I know what happened.’ It was such a sudden change of subject the thrill of surprise arced through me like a warning shock.

‘When?’

‘In the children’s home.’

‘Oh, whose version – Win’s or mine?’

‘Win’s. But I think he was telling the truth. He didn’t make himself out to be no angel.’

‘Oh, and what did he make me out to be?’

‘Miserable.’

‘Oh.’ We observed each other again. ‘Yes, I was. Did he tell you anything else about then?’

‘What you did to him, but then I reckon he might have deserved it if I read between the lines. The quarrel ain’t between me and you though, Kenny – never has been.’

‘No,’ and then, because it was true. ‘I’m glad about that.’ I waited.

‘Is it done?’ She motioned towards the teapot.

‘I expect so.’

‘We’ll go in the lounge then.’ She produced a floral melamine tray and filled it with cups, saucers, sugar bowl, milk jug and spoons. ‘Will you do the honours? Me grip ain’t so good these days.’

‘Of course.’ I put the teapot and cosy on the tray and carried it ceremoniously into the lounge behind her. She indicated a small side table I could put it on and eased herself into one of the overstuffed monstrosities that passed for an armchair. I perched awkwardly on the matching sofa, legs too far out in front of me because there was nowhere else to put them. I felt gangly as I had as a child. ‘Would you like me to pour too?’ She was resting against the back of the chair as if exhausted, face completely grey. The similarity between me a few days earlier, after my alcohol and vomit episode, would have been marked if we’d been placed side by side. ‘Are you all right?’

She opened her eyes and smiled again.

‘Yes, just gets me from time to time.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘Cancer, but don’t tell any of the others.’

‘Sarah, I’m so sorry. Are you having treatment?’

‘No, it’s long past that.’

‘So...’ I didn’t know how to ask the unaskable.

‘Maybe six months but no more than a year. It’s in me insides. Tummy.’ She looked rueful. ‘Just wish I could still enjoy me food for the rest of me time here. Always did like me food.’ I thought of the once rounded cheeks and tendency to puppy fat, and realised then, apart from age and the air of sadness, what it was that made Sarah seem so different. She was way too thin under the baggy cardigan and bulky skirt.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You came to see me. That’s enough.’

‘But why don’t you want the others to know?’

‘Don’t want them worrying. Nothing to be done about it so what’s the point of wasting the time worrying?’

‘But they could care for you?’

‘They do care. I care more about them worrying, that’s all. Don’t fret. I’m all right. More to the point, what can I do for you?’

‘Maybe more what you could
not
do.’

‘Which is?’ Win had said she and Binnie knew, yet there wasn’t the slightest inkling that she did from the way she was talking. I hesitated. ‘Oh, that,’ she added. ‘Ain’t nothing to be done about that either, Kenny. Live with it.’

‘But ...’

‘No; no buts. Haven’t you got more important things to be dealing with? Win said your wife died recently. That’s a shame.’

‘The funeral is in three weeks. I’ve had to wait for the coroner and the pathologists to complete their investigation. Sarah, I really can’t believe you think it’s so unimportant ...’ She cut me off.

‘There’s one more child in the world because of it, no matter how he got here. You can’t change that either, so stop worrying about it. Think about what you’re going to do in the future, not what’s been done in the past. Make it right.’

‘I don’t see how I can.’

‘There’s more ways in heaven and earth, as Ma used to say. You’ll come up with the right one. You’re meant to. Wouldn’t have found out, if you weren’t.’

‘I found out because of Win,’ I replied tartly.

‘Well maybe it’s how you’ll settle your quarrel then?’

‘How?’

‘Family sticks together.’

‘Ours didn’t.’ I said bitterly.

‘Sticking together ain’t always obvious, Kenny. Sometimes it ain’t seen, but it still happens. Win’s sticking with you, ain’t he?’

‘Sticking with me? My God, Sarah, he’s trying to hang, draw and quarter me, not stick with me. Have you any idea what he’s like and what he’s up to?’

‘I’ve known him for over fifty-odd years, Kenny. Course I know what he’s like – and what he’s up to now, most like too. But maybe you ain’t seeing the whole picture yet.’ I left it. I wasn’t going to make her change her mind. In her eyes Win might be the less savoury of the two of us, but he was also the one who’d stuck around, whereas I? I’d deliberately and determinedly jettisoned my whole family to create the man I was now. Who was worse under the circumstances? Win, or me?

It was clear she wasn’t going to make things difficult for me, anyway. Lawrence Juste prepared to walk away, but inexplicably Kenny found he wanted to stay. I poured the tea and listened to her narrative describing how my siblings had lived their lives in my absence. I balanced the cup and saucer, with its tea biscuit accompaniment, on my knee, but had no appetite for either. My legs stiffened into position and in shifting to stretch them the tea slopped into the saucer, turning the biscuit into a congealing brown poultice. I put the cup and saucer back on the table, tea undrunk.

‘You still got it, then?’

‘What? Oh, that – yes.’ The strawberry birth mark on my inner wrist had showed as I reached for the table and my cuff slipped back with the movement. It was my guardian angel according to Sarah – shaped like a tiny body with wings.
‘Kenny likes fairies!’
Chanted the other kids, egged on callously by Win until the tears had stung in my eyes and I’d run away, more to hide them than to hide my small body from unending taunt. I’d vowed to get rid of it somehow when I was older, even recklessly planning to burn it off once. ‘It didn’t seem to matter the older I got.’

‘It’ll help you one of these days, mark my words.’

‘You always used to say that when I came home in tears over it.’

‘That’s because I meant it. Ma had one too, did you know?’

‘No, I never saw it.’

‘Not on her wrist. On her back. I saw it once when she was undressed. Seems like it pops up once each generation.’