Sewing the Shadows Together (22 page)

The sun beats down and the air is mid-summer heavy. Shona and I are sitting on the wall of the prom, the concrete scratchy on my bare legs. We’re wearing our shorts and suntops, the melting dribbles of ice-cream sliding down the cone and onto my hand, however quickly I try to lick it away. The air is sweet with the smell of candyfloss spinning onto sticks in aluminium tubs, suntan oil and the pungent tar melting at the edge of the promenade.

Portobello beach is scattered with family groups, reddening in the uncustomary heat of the sun. The air is broken by the barking of dogs and the lone cry of a child temporarily separated from his mother. My shoulders sting with the beginnings of sunburn as I look out over the crowds at the heat haze shimmering over the Firth of Forth.

As the heat beats down on my head I look around. I see Logan Baird in the shadows of the tenements, wearing his long dark coat despite the heat. I see Tom walking past us with two friends, drinking coke and laughing, ignoring us. Shona shouts something cheeky and they look round. One of them is Rory, sculpted cheekbones, dark hair curling softly in the nape of his neck. He winks at Shona.

My eyes are on Tom, his blond hair framing his face with the deep eyes and the wide mouth. I feel disappointment as my eyes follow the back of their heads growing smaller in the distance.

Faces loom nearer, HJ Kidd, recognisable but his features distorted like Batman’s joker, taunting us. Images from the poem he read at school come back – but instead of the swallows, all that remain are the ugly bats, like broken umbrellas, hanging like old rags. Kidd’s face melts into a grinning bat skull.

The sounds of the beach become louder as the face dissolves and I’m alone on the wall. The space is empty where Shona was sitting and the air chills. My father’s face stares down on me. I’m conscious of the brevity of my shorts and try to cover my bare legs with my hands. The smell of the tarmac lingers in my nostrils.

Sarah sat up in bed and felt for the bedside light. The memory hung over her, with the briny smell of the melting tar in that hottest-ever summer of 1976.

She looked at her watch, only half past four but she felt strangely wide awake. She picked up the copy of DH Lawrence’s poem
Bat
that she’d printed out from the internet. She remembered snippets so clearly from that lesson with Captain Kidd, the lesson when she found out that Shona was missing.

She read it through again. It was so vivid and beautiful, describing the swallows flying in the early evening under the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. She, Rory and the twins had once gone to Tuscany on a family holiday, and she’d loved that view. But reading to the end of the poem, the tone became more sinister as the poet realised the swallows had gone and been replaced by the ugly bats.

She walked restlessly into the kitchen where the shutters were not completely closed, allowing the street lights to throw fluid shadows onto the walls and units. On the kitchen table she saw her mobile phone flashing.
Missing you. Will be back in Edinburgh 20th xxx

Tom was thinking of her and would be back in a few days. She texted back.
Missing you too. So looking forward to seeing you xxx
.
How banal
, she thought, but the words didn’t really matter. It was the communication that counted. She held the phone close to her chest, somehow bringing Tom close to her in the only way she could. She missed him so much, wished he could be here with her. But he was coming back; coming back,
and
going to stay in Edinburgh.

She couldn’t help but smile at the thought. She had to use this time when he was away profitably, get herself organised. The memorial service had been fixed for December 6
^th
, and although the planning was out of her hands, taken over by BBC Scotland, she would check to see how it was getting on; she’d phone Lottie and arrange to have lunch with her, and contact her mother. And, of course, she had to speak to the police about Kidd.

She picked up an old envelope and started to write a to-do list on the back. She’d been numb for the past few weeks, in a daze. There were piles of envelopes on the hall table, letters of condolence. She’d been ignoring them, unable to face the words of comfort, praise, reminiscence, all of them avoiding the elephant in the room that Rory had been constantly, serially unfaithful to her.

She would have to find a way to acknowledge them. Archie had suggested a printed card with a photo of Rory that she could send out. She’d look for a photo today.

The unsettling memories that had disturbed her sleep began to fade as she felt the heady buzz of having ‘a plan’. She looked at her watch. Too early to phone Lottie. Her daughter had been great after the accident and at the private funeral and she’d hoped that whatever had been troubling her had blown over. But she hadn’t heard from her for days and she hoped everything was all right with her.

She sat down at the table with a mug of coffee and idly picked dead heads off the chrysanthemums someone had sent. Tom. Her thoughts returned to him every few minutes. All this planning activity was just displacement; she was filling the space left by him. When he was there he filled her time, every moment was meaningful, everything was better with him.

Almost to her surprise Rory came into her mind. She was astonished how little she thought of him. Although it was only a few weeks since his death, he seemed to have slipped away into the past, leaving hardly a gap in her life. Of course, he’d never really been around much.

The phone rang, bringing her back to reality. She looked at her watch. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock,

‘Mum,’ it was Nick’s voice. ‘Mum, you’re not to worry, but I’m in the Royal Infirmary.’

‘What?’ Sarah gasped. Not again, she couldn’t bear it.

‘Olly and I were jumped by some neds last night and they gave us a bit of a kicking so we were brought here. But I’m all right, Mum. Just superficial wounds.’

‘When did this happen? Why didn’t you ring me immediately?’

‘This is the first chance I’ve had really, because there were X-rays and things. Anyway, I didn’t look too pretty, but they’ve patched me up now.’ His voice cracked a little and Sarah could tell he was not as upbeat as he pretended. ‘And Olly came off worse than me.’

‘Oh Nick. I’ll be right over. Is there anything I can bring?’

Nick gave an order for a few items of clothing and toiletries and Sarah quickly looked round the flat to see what she could take from there. She could go shopping for the rest later.

When she arrived at the main entrance of the hospital, she couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d been there. Nick was on a different floor but the shiny clack of her footsteps on the corridors and the smell of disinfectant and polish took her back to that day they’d all visited Rory, the day he died. It was unbelievable that it was less than a month ago.

Tiptoeing quietly into the ward, she saw Nick lying in the bed nearest the door. She gasped in horror when she saw him, a bandage round his head, his face covered with stitches, one eye almost closed with a plum-coloured swelling.

He forced a smile and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming, Mum.’

Sarah stifled the scream rising in her throat and tried to remain normal for his sake. She found a patch of skin to kiss and sat down next to him. ‘Oh, Nick. What happened?’

‘Jumped by a gang of thugs on Castle Terrace.’ He strained a smile. ‘But I managed to get a few punches in before they got us on the ground and started to kick our heads in.’ His voice faltered and Sarah saw that he was putting on a brave front for her benefit.

‘Are you in pain?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ He raised his left hand slightly showing the drip. ‘They’re keeping me hopped to the eyeballs.’ He hesitated and Sarah saw a tear sliding from the corner of his swollen eye. ‘It’s Olly. They won’t let me see him. They say he’s all right, but he hasn’t regained consciousness yet.’ Sarah gulped. The picture of Rory lying still in his bed in the same hospital came into her mind and she knew that Nick was thinking of that too.

‘I’ll go and see if they’ll let me visit him.’ She looked at his injuries again. ‘Did they catch the people who did this to you?’

‘Not yet, but the police say they’re looking at the CCTV images and they hope they’ll be able to identify them. There has been a spate of homophobic attacks over the last few weeks and they’ve got a team working on it. Can you bring me some other clothes next time you come? They’ve taken the ones I was wearing away for analysis.’

Sarah gripped the side of the bed tightly. What was happening? Everything seemed to be crumbling around her. The words of the poem came back, where the swallows had turned out to be bats. Her beautiful life was being destroyed, tainted. The picture of a row of grinning bats hanging like dirty disgusting rags flashed before her eyes. She blinked and tried to seem as normal as possible for Nick’s sake.

They talked a bit about the memorial service. Sarah suggested he could use his injuries as an excuse to get out of speaking at it, but Nick’s eyes shone defiantly. ‘I’m speaking at that service even if my face is still covered with bruises. I’m doing it for our family, for you.’ He held her hand tightly, and Sarah felt her heart bursting with love.

Behind her she heard the efficient footsteps of a nurse who drew the curtains round, asking Sarah to wait outside.

Sarah went into the corridor thinking of Olly. She discovered his room number from the nurses’ station and approached the door nervously. She hesitated, wondering if she would be intruding, but she plucked up the courage to knock at the door. She’d only met Olly the once but she liked him and he was Nick’s partner. She wanted to show her solidarity; he was part of the family.

A faint voice came from inside and as she slowly opened the door she saw Olly lying in the single room, with an older couple sitting on chairs at the side of the bed. They turned and looked at her as she approached but didn’t stand up. Sarah smiled and extended her hand; there was no reciprocating movement so she took her hand back and let it fall loosely by her side.

She kept her smile bright, ‘I’m Sarah Dunbar, Nick’s mother. How is Olly?’

The woman stared blankly at her with tired pale eyes and pursed her lips. Her husband, a short wide-shouldered man with a broad face and a monk’s tonsure bald head, looked at her. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but we don’t want you here. It’s your son’s fault that Oliver is here and from what I hear he got off lightly.’ He raised a soiled linen handkerchief to his eyes. ‘Oliver’s unconscious and the doctors can’t tell us when he’ll come round.’

His wife blinked as if she was having difficulty understanding what was going on. Sarah guessed she was on very strong medication. She wanted to defend Nick but realised it would be pointless. She apologised for the disturbance and wishing their son a speedy recovery gently closed the door.

Her heart was thumping with embarrassment. She’d thought she couldn’t feel any worse but she did now. The injustice of it inflamed her. She knew that Olly had been in the gay scene for longer than Nick, but he hadn’t been able to tell his parents. Her annoyance quickly disappeared; she knew how she would feel if Nick were the one lying silent and unresponsive now.

*

Tom sat in the Central Beach Bar, feeling the sun on the back of his neck and the sand warm between his toes. He looked out at the sparkling horizon where the sea met the clear blue sky and sipped his beer. It was beautiful; he would love to bring Sarah here one day, so that she could share what had been such a large part of his life. He shook his head sadly. That was just a dream. He barely had enough money to fly back to Scotland. He would never be able to finance that.

Of course, he had a job now, he thought with a wry smile. After the initial euphoria, the thought of the Canongate Centre filled him with gloom. The living accommodation, filled with the cheap chipboard furniture, seemed to grow smaller, darker and meaner in his imagination. The work was dull and pointless, however much Kidd tried to dress it up as supporting an Arts Centre.

He looked at the long sweep of coastline and smelled the fresh smell of the Fynbos shrubs on the dunes mixing with the sea air. Life was cheaper here and he could always find work. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of the bleached pieces of driftwood he’d found on the beach. He saw beauty in the shapes and knew he could make them into works of art, which would sell well in the tourist shops up on Main Street. It was seductive, the thought of staying here.

Then he saw Sarah’s face with her wide grey eyes, soft brown hair and her soft full lips. He felt a wave of lust, love, tenderness that nearly took his breath away. He had to go back to her, back to Portobello, where he belonged.

He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Could it be Sarah? He looked at the display and saw it was a local number. It must be the clinic. As he answered he felt a cold shudder; he should come to the hospital as soon as possible.

Sarah was just gathering together some clothes for Nick when the phone rang. It was a Detective Inspector Chisholm of the Lothian and Borders Police wondering if it would be convenient for her to come to the Fettes Police Headquarters that afternoon to discuss the reopened enquiry into the murder of Shona McIver.

Sarah hesitated; she’d almost forgotten about this with everything that had happened. She was about to ask for another appointment, but stopped; she had to go to tell them everything she knew about HJ Kidd as soon as possible. She could fit the appointment in between hospital visits.

As she approached the enquiry desk at Fettes and gave her name, she couldn’t remember ever having been in a police station before. She was sure she’d been interviewed at home when Shona disappeared and since then she’d never had any contact with the police. How sheltered her life had been; but now she was being sucked into a world she didn’t know, a world of death and hospitals and police investigations.

DI Chisholm came to collect her from the waiting area and took her into a comfortable office, nothing like the interview rooms she’d seen on television.

He started off by offering condolences for the loss of her husband and apologised for calling her in now. They had not been able to trace many of the original witnesses and, as she was one of the last people to see Shona alive, her recollections of the events of that day would be very valuable.

In answer to his questions, Sarah went through the events of that evening in detail, able to see the scene again in her mind. ‘When she ran away she was excited, told me she had a secret. I didn’t know then where she was going but I know now. She went to our teacher’s house, to HJ Kidd.’

Chishom smiled encouragingly. ‘Yes, we’re aware of that.’

Sarah was surprised. She’d though she’d be dropping a bombshell. ‘But surely that must place him under suspicion? He didn’t tell the original investigation. He lied about what happened that night.’

‘Mr Kidd has been to see us and was very open and candid about the events of that evening. We’ve also interviewed his wife, who corroborated her husband’s account of the events. People often withhold evidence they think may place them under suspicion and that in itself is no proof of guilt. I can assure you that we are keeping an open mind about the case as we continue our investigation.’

Sarah was furious. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. He fools everyone with his old school charm.’ Then all her suspicions tumbled out: Kidd’s behaviour at the After School Writing Club, the poem with the little pink tongues, his estrangement from his family. Chisolm let her tell her story without interruption, nodding encouragingly. Sarah’s voice rose to a crescendo. ‘Not only did he murder Shona, but I’m sure my husband’s death was no accident.’

Chisholm watched her, without speaking. Sarah let her voice peter out and trail away. She looked down at her lap, feeling she’d said too much. The policeman took his glasses off and put them on the desk.

‘Mrs Dunbar. I appreciate the strain you’re under at the moment and I understand your concerns about the distressing circumstances of your husband’s death. However, the focus of my investigation is the McIver case and we are following all possible avenues of enquiry. Our best hope of finding the murderer is a match for the DNA samples in the semen we took from the victim’s cardigan. We’ve already interviewed Mr Kidd and with his permission we have taken a DNA swab which we will be comparing with those samples.’

Sarah felt she was being patronised. ‘But don’t you see that the two cases are connected? I’m sure Rory found out about Kidd’s involvement in Shona’s death and challenged him with it. That’s why Rory fell. Maybe Kidd didn’t actually push him, but I’m sure he was the cause.’

Chisholm pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Mr Kidd was interviewed by my colleagues after the incident and was a very helpful witness. Your husband’s injuries were entirely consistent with Mr Kidd’s version of events and, although there were no other witnesses, the camera being used has been found and the film, although damaged, is being analysed at the moment. I know it is hard for you but I can assure you that you will feel better and gain closure if you accept that it was just a very tragic accident.’

He hesitated, as if wondering whether to go on. Sarah leant forward, willing him to continue.

‘In fact, your husband was one of the people who gave a statement after the murder of Shona McIver and we would certainly have interviewed him if he had not unfortunately predeceased our enquiry. Mr Kidd placed him as being in the park on the evening of the murder and he mentioned that Mr Dunbar had admitted to him the fact that he felt great remorse for an event in the past. It seems that something he had done was preying on his mind.’

Sarah felt rage building up in her. ‘Kidd’s trying to direct suspicion towards Rory to deflect attention from himself. You’re not falling for this, are you?’

Chisholm gave a patient smile. ‘Mr Kidd didn’t make any accusations. He was just recounting his memories of the day of the murder and also a conversation he’d had, resulting from his reading of one of his pieces of work.’

‘Which you only have his word for! Kidd is a very cunning man…’ she found herself speechless with frustration. She opened her mouth but then closed it again. What good would it do to say anything more? Kidd seemed to have charmed them all. ‘How long does it take to test the DNA?’

‘Several weeks, I’m afraid. I am putting pressure on the labs to give me results as soon as possible but there’s always a backlog of cases.’

Sarah’s face fell and she went through the rest of the interview in a numb daze, answering Chisholm’s questions about Shona, trying to remember which boys she’d liked, and other details of her interests and hobbies.

When she’d finished, Chisholm put his pen down and looked at her in a kindly way. ‘Thank you very much for coming in and helping us with our enquiries, Mrs Dunbar. Be assured that we will do everything in our power to find the murderer of your friend.’

Sarah accepted his offered hand and allowed him to escort her to the door. She felt totally drained. Sitting in her car, she leant her head forward on the steering-wheel. She felt weak, as if she didn’t have the strength to drive home, and more alone than she could ever remember.

Who could she speak to? The thought of phoning her mother came into her mind, but only very briefly. She hadn’t told her mother about Nick yet, and remembering her hysterical behaviour when Rory died she knew she didn’t feel strong enough to play the role of her mother’s comfort and support today.

Lottie. She took out her mobile phone and tried to call her again. Lottie had gone to the hospital to see her brother, but had looked pale and shaky and had only stayed a short while. Now she wasn’t answering her phone.

She needed the strength of Tom’s arms around her.
Tom, come back soon.

Her phone rang – it was Nick.

‘Mum, great news. Olly’s regained consciousness and he’s going to be all right. They’ve allowed me to see him. He has to stay in hospital for a few more days, just to make sure, but I can come home today, provided I’m with someone. Can I stay with you, Mum? Will you come and pick me up?’

Sarah breathed a huge sigh of relief. Nick was going to be all right and he needed her. She drove straight to the hospital.

*

Tom arrived at the clinic and went straight to Betty’s room, nearly bumping into Carl, who was hovering outside the door. Carl was about the same age as him, but since they’d first met as teenagers he’d always treated Tom as an inferior. He had the inborn arrogance of the spoilt only son of a rich Pretoria lawyer, educated at an expensive private college.

He stood in front of Tom, broader but not nearly as tall, with short legs and no neck, barring his way into the room. ‘You can’t go in there. My aunt is too ill.’

Carl’s bullying arrogance annoyed Tom. ‘I got a phone call. They told me to come immediately.’

‘You’ve had a wasted journey then, because nobody’s going in to disturb her last peace now.’

A nurse, a light-skinned Griqua with caring eyes and a determined mouth, stepped out of the room and looked at Tom. ‘It’s good you’ve got here, Mr McIver. Your aunt has been asking for you.’

Carl’s beefy face became even more florid and he opened his mouth to say something, but Tom pushed past him and the nurse blocked the lawyer’s path as she ushered Tom into the room.

Betty looked up at him with something approaching a smile hovering on her lips. Her mouth was moving as she tried to say something. Tom moved closer and lowered his head to her face. ‘Go to Peter Roberts. Something for you.’ The words came out slowly and painfully in rasping breaths.

‘Aunty Betty?’ Tom was not sure that he’d heard correctly. He pressed a kiss onto her spongy cheek and remembered what she’d been like when he was younger. She reached out and held his hand. A breathy rasp came out of her lips. It sounded like, ‘Love you.’

‘Love you, Aunty Betty.’ He held her hand more tightly, then noticed a difference in her breathing. A look of peace came over her face and her whole body seemed to relax.

The nurse, who had been standing in the background, moved forward. ‘She was waiting for you. She couldn’t go in peace until you came.’ She turned to Betty and muttered a few words. All that Tom could make out was ‘Amen’ at the end.

The door swung open and Carl pushed his way in. ‘What have you done?’

The nurse turned round with an air of calm authority. ‘Mr Van Wyk. Your aunt has died peacefully, very happy that she could say goodbye to her two nephews.’

‘I’m her nephew. He’s not part of our family.’

The nurse spoke with quiet determination. ‘I spent a lot of time with your dear aunt and I know she loved you both. Now if you could please leave the room, there are some procedures that need to take place. Then you can both come in again to take your leave of her in your own way.’

The two men left the room. As soon as they were out of the door, Carl pushed Tom against the wall. ‘Right, she’s gone now so you can totally forget anything about being a member of our family.’ As Carl spoke his voice became more heavily accented with Afrikaans and he lost control of his English. ‘And don’t think she have left you money because she don’t. I have the testament and everything is left to me, to our family. Now go.’

Tom turned away and walked down the stairs. Carl had always been a bully, and Betty had showed her distaste for him when he came down for the holidays. He felt a tear coming to his eye; Betty had been his friend and now she was gone.

He walked slowly down the hill towards the centre of town. In some ways he missed Betty more than his mother. His mother had been soft, passive, unassertive, always lost in the sorrows of the past, whereas Betty had been strong, with a fierce sense of loyalty, loud and opinionated, not caring what other people thought. Uncle Gus had been her one true love and she had always stood up for him and his family against the pressure from her sister and brother-in-law. Now Carl had everything and Tom had nobody left in South Africa. Tom went to the Central Beach Bar and drank himself into oblivion.

*

Sarah stood in the kitchen, chopping onions, making creamy chicken and pasta, a special request from Nick. When he was young he’d always wanted that when he was ill. Sarah felt strangely content as she smelled the butter sizzling in the pan and blinked back tears from the onion. She missed having the children at home, missed having someone to take care of.

Nick was lying on the sofa in the snug with the duvet round him, watching the
Simpsons
. Sultan was lying next to him purring. He’d gone back to childhood. He was laughing at the cartoon, when his phone rang and Sarah heard a couple of words that suggested it was Olly.

‘Mum, Olly’s getting out tomorrow. Can he come here?’

‘Of course.’ Sarah didn’t hesitate. She heard Nick making some arrangements and then he clicked his phone.

‘He can get out after the doctor’s round tomorrow morning. Can you collect him? He has to go home with someone and he really doesn’t want to go to his parents. Apparently the police said something about homophobic crime and once they understood what that meant, they flipped.’

‘Are the police doing something about it then? Have they got any leads?’

‘Oh yes. As well as the CCTV, they’re analysing three different types on blood on my coat.’ He gave a lop-sided grin from the uninjured side of his mouth. ‘I told you that I got a few punches in on them too so perhaps they can get a match from that. Olly and I had to give buccal swabs too, for exclusion purposes.’

Sarah looked at her son’s face. Some of the swelling had gone down, but green and yellow bruising circled both eyes, replacing the purple. He would have the stitches out next week. She hoped he wouldn’t be too scarred; he had been such a beautiful child and as a young man still had fine features. She pushed these superficial thoughts aside; it was just so fortunate the attack had not been worse. Nick wasn’t certain, but he thought it was a gang of about seven or eight and CCTV footage had confirmed the numbers. With those odds they’d got off lightly.

She stirred the pan and looked at the amount. How many people was she cooking for? She seemed to have forgotten quantities. She looked at the pan again and thought about Lottie. If she cooked lots of pasta and put a bit more cream in there would be plenty for four. She picked up the phone and dialled Lottie’s number again.

Liam answered. Lottie was just lying down but he took the phone to her. Sarah was shocked by the weakness of her voice.

‘I’d love to have chicken and pasta, but I’m sorry Mum, I can’t. I’m really not feeling well.’

‘What’s the matter? Have you been to the doctor?’

‘Not yet, but if I feel like this tomorrow I’ll go.’

Sarah began to suggest remedies but Lottie interrupted her. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m going to have to go.’

‘Go to the doctor please, and phone me tomorrow and let me know how you get on.’

Sarah put the phone down. She felt so guilty. She’d been worrying so much about Nick that she’d almost forgotten about Lottie. She thought back to Lottie’s accusations; she would always have said she loved her children equally but now she questioned herself. She’d go to Lottie’s tomorrow and take her to the doctor.