Patchwork Man (31 page)

‘Just over a year ago – he was acquitted about three months later.’

‘The archives that were disturbed by Mr Tibbs.’

‘What?’

‘Gregory was having to tidy up the archives the cat supposedly disturbed but Heather thinks the case notes have gone missing.’

‘Oh, the paper god.’

I laughed despite myself. ‘Yes, the paper god.’

‘So where are they – the papers? And how could Win have got hold of them?’

‘Fairly obvious, I would say. Money talks – whoever you are; god or not.’

‘So what is the thing that hasn’t been explained yet, if you think Win has the notes?’

‘How Danny got my address. Someone must have given it to him – and I don’t suppose that was also Heather, was it?’

‘Win?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So was Danny lying to us about being afraid?’

‘We’ll have to find out after we’ve been to see Mary, won’t we?’

We went the next day. My sister Mary. Big-eyed, Ma’s, but more extreme and unfocused. Pale-skinned and slack-limbed. More or less how I remembered her, in fact – but aged. The passing of time had taken the bloom of youth from her cheeks and transformed the spring of the athlete to the measured tread of middle age. She was younger than me, but the fire of intellect can dispense with age, or the lack of it add to senility. The venerable man or woman who still inspires through their enthusiasm proves that. They are forever young whilst still burning with the passion of their inner fire. Mary had never had that – or any – fire, other than of a lithe body which could perform better than we fully-witted comparatives. She could run faster, longer and with more agility than any of us. But when the race was run, the fire would die from her eyes and she would sink back to slothfulness. She’d joined in my stampede down the bunker a few times, and watching how she’d navigated the lumpier and more difficult parts of the terrain, I’d learned some of the skills of the runner. My next attempt had been considerably faster and Mary had stood at the bottom of the slope and smiled before wandering off to make daisy chains, singing tunelessly to herself. I hadn’t known if it had been at my achievement or merely because the sun was shining and the grass was green. Maybe it didn’t matter. I had learned from her anyway.

At other times she would comment on one of us, suddenly and without apparent criticism, but inevitably it was something one of us wouldn’t want known.
“Jim pulled Binnie’s hair. She cried.”
Jim had protested he’d been nowhere near the inconsolable Binnie.
“It was when she threw his toy car over the fence.”
Now Binnie was in disgrace too.
“Sarah bosses Jill and Emm around. She makes them sit in the corner when she eats their malt.”
Malt – nectar of the gods and rationed because it was so expensive, but recommended as an essential to correcting health problems. First acquired when the girl twins had rickets, and meant to be mainly for them, but it was Sarah the food lover’s biggest weakness. We all knew that but would never have told on Little Mother. For Mary, it was merely an observation.
“Win smoked one of Pop’s cigarettes when Pop was down the bookies.”
With both Pop and Win accused, we knew only Win would suffer punishment – the belt with its vicious buckle, no doubt. The look between Ma and Pop chastened him for his perfidy when money was already non-existent for basic food, but Pop would never have to pay for it. It was only me she hadn’t ever named and shamed and yet I felt such disquiet near her that apart from the episode on the bunker, I avoided her whenever possible.
“Kenny”
was all she said.
“Kenny”
with that beatific smile.

I suppose it was her very disconnection from us all had made me uneasy with her, as well as the way she never told on me. She was the most harmless soul one could imagine, yet she was a stranger to me and as such, I was afraid of her. I couldn’t see into her world as I could see into my brothers’, or sisters’ worlds. She was alien. The apprehension of what she might suddenly do or say was still with me in my forties, long past the days of over-imagination and flights of fancy, and although she’d never accused me of anything, it felt as if all those accusations might have been stored up ready to tumble out now, when I least wanted more trouble toppling over me.

I tried to describe Mary to Kat on the way to the home she was in. The address was on both lists – Win’s and Margaret’s. In my head I toyed with which name I should use for Margaret now I knew she’d been Molly Wemmick too. She remained Margaret. I hadn’t known her as anything other than that, or rather I hadn’t
even
known her as that. In the end I gave up. None of my explanations explained why I was more afraid of this meeting than I had been of confronting Win, or in due course, Jaggers. The harder I tried, the more indefinable it became, other than for the possibility she might tell Kat the one thing I wanted kept secret above all else: Danny being my son – and that I couldn’t admit to. We talked about Danny’s future instead.

‘He will go back to the people he belongs with – his family.’

‘Which is?’

She was pushing it, but I played dumb.

‘His mother and father, of course.’

‘Right – a prostitute and a fence.’ I didn’t answer. She replied as if I had. ‘Exactly.’ The silence lengthened between us, until she changed the subject. ‘By the way, have you had your blood test done yet?’

‘First thing this morning so I’m forewarned.’

‘Forewarned before what?’

‘Before the trial.’

‘But you know he’s your nephew. That’s not a crime.’

‘But hiding the connection is – or improper, anyway. Anyway – I’m purported to be his uncle – by Win. I’m still not absolutely sure of the facts – or Win’s readiness to tell me them. I work on truths not suppositions.’

‘Well, you still
know
you’re sending him back somewhere he shouldn’t be.’

‘Somewhere he shouldn’t be? So where
should
he be?’

‘Well, with people who could
really
care ... I know he has to go back to his parents to begin with, but if his mother is convicted of prostitution and his father for receiving he’ll be back in state care again. He wanted to stay with you – you heard him say so yesterday.’

The inner certainty of yesterday seemed to have deserted me. The
intact
Lawrence felt more present today than the
human
one.

‘Oh, God, Kat – that was merely meaning he didn’t want to go back to the hospital. I was the best alternative and we were standing in my house. What else was he likely to come up with?’

‘Me – my place. He’s spent more time with me than you. He knows me better than you. I’m female; a substitute for his mum – but he didn’t opt for my place, did he? He hero-worships you.’

‘Oh, rubbish!’

‘He does. You’re Mister Big.’

‘That’s just a name – and probably taking the piss in reality.’

‘OK, so why did you come up with the idea of going to the funfair instead of taking him straight back to the hospital?’

She’d got me, but years of court appearances saved me. I might not be able to control how my emotions reflected on my face around her, but if I imagined I was in court, I could dissemble with the best.

‘I felt sorry for him. Christ, as if he hadn’t had enough bad luck, this last bit – the haemophilia – takes the prize.’

‘It’s also going to get him off the hook though, too. And then he’ll go back home ...’ And we were back to where we’d started. I didn’t reply to that and we drove in silence for a while. It was pretty countryside, heading for Oxfordshire. Rolling hills and lush greenery. The upper level of my mind admired it, but the depths were really still on Kat’s question. Why
had
I suggested taking Danny to the funfair?
Altruism. Really? OK, no.
The motivation had been vague at best at the time, other than I felt it was the right thing to do. Something in my gut had said ‘go’. I was so far out of my comfort zone I might as well be in a foreign land – the same one Mary inhabited. No, guilt. That was it. Guilt and pity. But it was more than that too – I just didn’t want to categorise it.

‘You know, there’s another option,’ she said suddenly.

‘No, I have to see her.’ I could feel her eyes on me. I risked a glance. She was staring at me.

‘I meant for Danny.’

‘Oh? What?’

‘Margaret’s idea; adoption.’

The papers tucked in the folder fluttered at me. The fluorescent orange post-it with its
‘insert adoption papers here.’
I didn’t think Kat had seen the folder with that tag attached like target practice to it. I tried to appear unflustered.

‘Who by?’ I didn’t really need her to answer, but I was curious how far she would push it.

‘Well, like I said, he wanted to stay with you ...’

‘No.’

‘But you are family ...’

‘Right. Would you like to take that case? My Lord, I’m taking the case for the defence; I’m also the boy’s uncle, and considering adopting him even though I’m involved in a rather dodgy criminal cover-up myself. But I’m entirely impartial here so I’m sure I could be made to appear eminently suitable with a little airbrushing.

‘OK, so it’s not ideal, but I think Margaret had got some the papers together already, and a possible placement, and Kimberley was in agreement.’

‘So it would seem.’ My mouth twisted ironically but it could hardly have been called a smile – more like a grimace. I wondered if Kat also knew where the placement Margaret had found was. ‘And how much was FFF paying her?’

‘I didn’t know about that side of it then.’

‘And who were the happy couple to be?’

‘Well – I don’t know for certain.’ She hesitated, ‘but I think I’d be right in saying
family,
wouldn’t I?’

‘Possibly, but it’s not happening. For a start he’d already be half-orphaned, don’t forget. And don’t you need two prospective parents to adopt? Or had you someone to fill the gap there too?’

She blushed. ‘I know, I know. But you’re still officially related, so what if it were possible?’

‘No.’

We pulled up the drive to the care home and the gravel crackled under the tyres. The noise cut off her next suggestion and I got out of the car before she could take advantage of the silence to rally with another attack. Without the privacy of the car, intimacy was denied. I catapulted myself into Mary’s world as a welcome alternative to the one Kat was suggesting. The home manager met us on the steps.

‘Mr Juste, how lovely that you’ve found your sister after all this time. You know she often talks about her siblings. I believe a couple of them are no longer with us – Pip and Kenny, but she will be delighted to see you, I’m sure.’ Kat and I exchanged glances.

‘She thinks Kenny is dead?’ Kat whispered as we followed our escort along the plushly carpeted corridor.

‘He is, I suppose,’ I countered.

‘Expensive place?’

‘Yes.’ It had occurred to me too – and to wonder who might be footing the bill for it.

The corridor led off to a smaller one and at the end of that, a door. ‘Mary’s place’ it said on the door, and then underneath: ‘Hush, listen for the words that aren’t spoken and the silence you can’t hear’.

‘Cryptic.’

‘She is at times – prepare yourself!’ The manager laughed, and opened the door into Mary’s ‘place’.

Across the room, hanging on strings from the ceiling, from the curtain poles at the windows, draped over the corners of pictures and chairs, arranged artistically across every surface, were origami birds. It was like looking through a fog of paper to the vista beyond. In the vista beyond was Mary; twisting, folding and shaping yet another creation. ‘Mary – your visitors are here. Your brother and his wife.’

Kat raised her eyebrows at me. An idea struck me just as Mary threw the paper bird she’d been making and it landed at my feet.

‘Go away. I don’t like you.’

‘It’s not Win, Mary. It’s your other brother, Lawrence.’ The manager sounded persuasive.

‘Lawrence?’ She came at me through the curtain of birds with a speed I hadn’t expected – and yet should have, given her youthful alacrity. She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the curtain with her, like a spider into a web. ‘Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. I knew you’d come back.’

‘No Mary, this is Lawrence.’ The manager corrected her kindly.

‘Actually it
is
Kenny. Kenneth Lawrence Juss,’ I explained.

‘Oh, you’re not dead then.’

‘Not yet,’ I replied heavily.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ Her earlier bonhomie had frosted over. A woman who always liked to be right. Another Margaret. I watched her withdraw through the veil of birds, still swinging from my incursion into them. A faint sickly sweet smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, mixed with Mary’s lavender perfume.

‘Can Kat come and join us?’ I asked tentatively, my hands still tightly encased in hers as she dragged me deeper into the room and to the window where she had been sitting. There was only one other chair there. She positioned me in front of it. I was expected to sit.

‘Kit-kat,’ she said, high-pitched and sing-song. Now I could see her clearly I saw the features of the Mary I’d known at nine were clearly recognisable in the older face of the woman peering at me. ‘Where’s the kit-kat?’

‘Kat, my friend.’ I turned to squint through the curtain of birds and saw Kat lingering uncertainly just the other side of them, a small brown berry awaiting consumption. Mary gazed after me.

‘Her? The brown lady?’

The insensitive description wouldn’t have been lost on Kat normally, but from her expression I guessed she was feeling far from normal in this strange world of paper pretence.

‘Yes, the brown lady.’

‘Stay here,’ she instructed, and went to collect Kat. ‘She’s sweet, like a nut. Yum, yum. Better not let my birds have her.’ She laughed girlishly. Kat laughed too, but nervously. She placed Kat alongside me as if positioning mannequins in a shop window, then sat down opposite us.

‘Mary, do you know who I am?’

‘Oh yes, you’re Kenny.’

‘I call myself Lawrence now – it was my middle name as a child.’