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Beneath

By Gerald Wixey

Published by Gerald Wixey at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Gerald Wixey

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### 1

### Helen Mably

I twisted around in my bed, sat up and stared out of the window, it was still dark and the man alongside was sleeping the deep sleep that his vigour fully deserved. I thought back to a curiously, abstracted night. Oh he wasn't distracted, just the opposite. But I had this feeling, all through the thundery early evening, something, some crisis was approaching. We made love accompanied by lightning flashes darting across the leaded glass of the bedroom window. Followed by the heavy, sombre rumbles of thunder. It's a neat example of how preoccupied I felt, counting the seconds between an arcing lightning flash and then waiting for the grumbling, complaining window rattle of thunder. I counted as my lover moved inside me... he didn't seem to notice my troubled state.

No rain though, that was another sign, although I couldn't think what it meant. I slid out of bed, the feeling of encroaching doom wrapping its unwelcome cape around my shoulders. Something dreadful was trying to trip me up, something so outrageously shocking was heading my way and I listened to its thunderous warning coming through the open window. Perhaps my already unstable life was turning into some sort of gothic nightmare, or perhaps it was just another of my grotesque hallucinations? Everything critical, every crisis in my life happened in the summer months, usually during hot spells and this was the middle of a long dry spell. I stared down at the man, took a deep breath and silently threw some clothes on. I waved him a cheery farewell and walked out onto an already humid August morning.

I glanced towards the east, heavy cloud gave no clue of the sunrise and the gates of the Parks were never opened before then. No one else alive in the world, just the way I liked it, too early for joggers and dog-walkers, even the University staff had yet to make an appearance. I was waiting by the park gates for a few minutes, before the security guard finally arrived puffing away. He unlocked the gate, sniffed the air – did he smell the sex on me? I hoped so, he ushered me through and I entered another silent, early morning world. I strolled in an anti-clockwise arc around the Parks, stopping by the footbridge I'd crossed with Stuart all of those years ago. I considered going over, but I hadn't crossed it since that one time with him and to do now seemed a desecration somehow. I followed the Cherwell's river edge and walked on, the sound of a cheerful blackbird failed to lift the gloom that had enveloped me.

I pulled up quickly when I saw the man. I was sure that he was dead, curled up on a park bench in the recovery position, a heavy parka wrapped around him – well he never needed that I thought. The temperature had barely dropped below twenty degrees all night. The park gates shut at sundown; he must have been on the bench all night. I walked closer, so many empty cans of Special Brew under the bench. I was surprised for a couple of reasons, finding a dead body for a start, that was a first and the drunks and deadbeats didn't end up in this part of town, this was the exclusive preserve of the privileged undergraduate. I stared at his face, my gaze fixing on the habitual stubble on his chin and the wispy grey hair that he scrapped over his head.

I whispered to myself, 'why do they always look the same.' The arm of the park bench stored the habitual deadbeat's survival kit. As if to confirm this, I whispered, 'a packet of rolling tobacco, a packet of cigarette papers and a box of Swan Vesta matches. Where's the hypodermic big boy?'

I turned my gaze back to the man's face, still convinced that he was indeed dead, it looked as if all of the signs from my fearful, doom-laden night were proving me right. I edged closer, barely a few inches from him, I was about to poke him in the chest, when the right eye opened and it stared unfocused off into space. I jumped back. Despite this shock, I was still convinced that he was dead. I mean you hear of dead people's eyes opening well after they die. I was struggling to breathe when the other eye opened and seconds later, his mouth swung open like an empty excavator bucket.

I spoke softly, 'are you ok?'

He tried to sit up, but fighting too much beer and lungs that barely functioned had turned this into some sort of monumental struggle. Hardly King Sisyphus rolling a huge boulder up a steep hill, but the analogy worked well enough, the drunk fought gamely against his weak constitution and gravity, until finally, he managed to sit upright. Then something startled him, his eyes widened just like those of a tethered goat that suddenly spots a prowling tiger, his eyebrows raised and he stared at me. It was so obvious that he recognised me. I felt my own mouth hang open, he looked familiar.

The voice, roughened by years of tobacco croaked just two words, 'Helen Mably.'

I stepped back.

'Helen Mably... what do you want?'

I shook my head and whispered, 'no.'

'It wasn't me.'

'No.'

I hadn't seen this man since the summer of love and yet I recognised him twenty three years later. I pushed the heel of each hand into my temples and rubbed hard, but still couldn't remember his name.

'Helen,' he spoke my name like I was a long lost friend. 'It wasn't my idea.'

I blinked at him, 'what?'

'You and that bastard father of yours, both as bad as each other.'

His voice had become just a hoarse whisper, I leaned closer, 'what about my father?'

'He fucked me up completely.'

That's funny I thought, he did the same to me. 'What are you talking about?'

'He stuck the knife into me, hung me out to dry good and proper. And as for you, you're just a cock teasing bitch.'

I struggled to breath, it felt like something heavy was bearing down on my chest. I spat the words at him, 'I'll never forget what you did to me.'

More irony in that brief statement of mine, I couldn't remember what he'd done.

'It wasn't my idea.'

What little colour he had left in his cheeks drained away and he turned, leant over the wooden arm of the bench and threw up in one smooth movement. I'd seen drunks perform this enough times, usually to make room for more strong lager. He wiped his mouth in the voluminous sleeve of his coat and stared up at me. I took a step closer, repelled enough by the thought of sour beer, stale tobacco and fresh vomit drifting up into my face, I held my breath. I looked deep into his black rimmed, bloodshot eyes and brought my arm back. He just stared up as if he knew what was coming; I slapped his cheek as hard as I could, turned and rushed away. His voice followed me as I walked away, wrapping itself around my shoulders like the filthy parka he was wearing, 'you deserved it.'

I hurried on for twenty yards or so, with my heart pummelling against my rib cage, I pulled up suddenly and looked back. Perhaps I had killed him, but he was still gazing at me and rolling a cigarette at the same time. My thoughts scrambling around in my head, what happened back then? I remembered confronting three men and got that spectacularly wrong. From the first minute they set eyes upon me, I got it so wrong when they were provoking me. Just as they got it wrong, it became a dazzling delusion empty of any insight. A high farce of confusion, I go over it time and again and never find the same answer. Any common sense that may have been ingrained within me, had become overrun by the circulation of sexual clichés throbbing away inside my body. The instant ignition of sex, the noise of sex, the misery of missing out on sex.

The three men leered away at me. Unperturbed, I pulled a stool up by the bar and sat. A high stool and a short skirt made for a less than graceful manoeuvre. Their eyes never left my thighs, which I was comfortable enough with. The filth that started to come my way suddenly made me think that I should leave. "She takes it up the arse, likes to be bitten, wants you to swear at her, just a wriggling little whore". It's possible that I wasn't the wriggling little whore in question, but then they laughed and pointed at me. I knew for sure that it was me and I wanted to walk away, that would have been the prudent thing to do. Walk away, but that would have only made them even more euphoric. For that's what they were, higher than three soaring vultures, circling around me, not descending yet.

Just watching at the moment.

Watching me.

I blinked and stared at the deadbeat. He lit his cigarette, took a wheezing, shallow inhalation and shouted, 'why did you do that? I'm bleeding you fucking bitch.'

What was his name and how did he know my father?

I screamed. This caused more chaos within, did I scream because I couldn't recall his name? Or was it because I couldn't remember what he did to me? But it brought into sharp focus how my father behaved, everything else was so blurred, apart from that one thing.

My father betrayed me that night.

I took one look back and my old antagonist was opening a can of beer. No longer was I his sole focus, he had more pressing things to consider.

I dragged myself away, was this the trigger I needed? Had my moment finally arrived?

'Helen Mably,' I whispered, 'it's all down to you now.'

Despite being enveloped by the heavy, early morning humidity, I shivered.

### 2

### Stuart

Ex-Chief Inspector David Mably sat in our small office rubbing his hands in obvious agitation. His daughter had disappeared, the police were involved and Mably looked understandably distraught. A man in his mid-sixties now and still strikingly good looking, with his high cheekbones, a thick headful of white hair, which he was forever combing back with his right hand. Stark blue eyes and a mellifluence to his voice that I imagined would have made him a bit of a lady-killer. If he was interested that is. I always felt that he was a prude, in fact his daughter told me just that on many occasions. An easy target to shock and Helen Mably did it on a daily basis.

Twenty three years earlier, I loved Helen with a passion that arrowed its way through my chest cavity, all the way into the bull's eye that was my heart. Balanced nicely by her father's hatred of me, my hot summer's relationship with Helen repulsed him as much as my delinquent ways horrified. My boss always said that if Mably could've locked me in a cell and thrown the key away, he would have done just that. Perhaps my presence in the confines of our small office caused another kind of tension to course through him. He'd been retired for a couple of years now, close friends for over forty years with my boss, who was about to run a front page piece about Helen's disappearance. Mably wanted Jack to do the interviewing, rather than some hysterical Fleet Street tabloid. I wondered about the wisdom of this, an independent, provincial newspaper might give it more authenticity, a national more publicity.

What surprised me most was that Mably requested my presence. Although what insight he hoped I might bring was beyond my simple comprehension. Jack had briefed me at length, but not about Helen's disappearance. I was told in no uncertain terms not to be my usual flippant self, don't provoke the good inspector. Listen, take a couple of flattering pictures and then disappear myself.

'I'm pleased you're both here. I need all the help I can get.'

My big mouth dictated that I tell Mably a few home truths. This was a man who wouldn't acknowledge my presence for years. I stared at Jack briefly before saying, 'I'm sorry to hear about Helen.'

Jack offered the merest of smiles at my response. He straightened his already perfectly positioned tie, lit a cigarette and said, 'What do you want to talk about David?'

'Helen of course, sometimes I think that I never knew her really. I certainly never understood her that's for sure.'

That's a really sad admission for any parent to make, I raised my eyebrows and glanced across at Jack. Do any of us know the innermost thoughts of our children? We might not know what goes on inside their heads, but who would actually admit to that?

'David, you must be so proud of her.' Jack leaned forwards in his seat, 'a lovely, intelligent and successful woman.'

Mably rested his elbows on the arm of the seat, brought his hands together and steepled the fingers together. Then he sighed, 'I'm told she was bright, amusing and good company.'

The use of tense in this brief exchange punched me between the eyes. Jack's use of words signifying a woman alive, Mably used the past tense as if he already feared the worst. Jack once again avoided my glance across at him.

'I didn't know her,' Mably said. He sighed again and looked me square in the eye. 'I guess you knew her better than me?'

How did he expect me to respond to that? I felt myself colour up a couple of shades. I did my best, 'I've seen her a few times recently, but the last time we talked at any length was straight after Christopher's funeral.'

I don't know why I brought his son into the discussion. Mably refused to accept Christopher's existence most of the time. I watched him squirm, perhaps I was still doing Helen's bidding, even after all of this time. Jack glanced at me and frowned. I think that it was the look of a moderate scolding. I looked down at my desk.

Mably tried to ignore my barb and twisted in his seat a touch, he cleared his throat before saying, 'missing persons are never a police issue. I mean priorities dictate that unless foul play is suspected, manpower is always directed elsewhere. I still have a little influence, but everyone knows that only a few cursory checks will take place.'

Jack said, 'the fact that she was well known locally will generate a lot of publicity in the media. That must be a positive?'

'I realise that I'm clutching at straws.' Mably turned back to me, 'but you knew her, I hoped she might have told you something.'

'She always seemed happy enough.' Whenever we met, I always assumed that Helen never wanted to talk in any great depth, about her past anyway. Some parts of our lives we like to lock away in the attic of our minds, rather like a demented grandmother. We lived different lives in different worlds. Helen's the cloistered, academia of an Oxford College, mine a cosy, hassle free small town world. It might have only been fifteen miles apart for a crow flying in a straight line, but a different universe to mine.

And it seemed David Mably as well.

Jack leaned forwards, 'when did you last see her?'

'She stopped talking to me years ago.' He shrugged, 'did she mention that to you?'

'She said that things were a bit tense between you.'

I didn't need to look at Jack, I sensed his agitation, the sighs, the fiddling with his cigarette packet. He wanted his old friend to himself. Jack resented Mably seeing me as his only hope. Me, a man who along with Helen, ran him ragged. A brawling thug in my youth, forever in trouble, but Helen had disappeared and he needed my help. I should have had no real issue with him these days. But my resentment simmered away, any antipathy I felt towards him was always directed by Helen anyway. She needed me to hate him as much as she did. Helen directed men with a Machiavellian flair, a talent I found amusing, others would call her a provocative tease, or worse.

She even managed to get me arrested after a fight in an Indian restaurant. Not that she did the fighting, that was down to me, Helen stirred me up more effectively than a tub-thumping preacher on a Welsh hillside. Like most men, we danced to a beautiful young woman's tune. While she danced on a table in a packed Indian restaurant, a brief fight flared and died within a few violent seconds. That in itself was a distraction when you're trying to fight. Helen waved the hem of her short summer dress around like an accomplished flamenco dancer. Her shapely legs on show underneath light coloured tights. But no knickers... they were in my jacket pocket.

We were both barely eighteen and some would call that sort of behaviour just high spirits. I strutted around in a small town, looking for trouble, creating some when I couldn't find any. Some people thought Helen had a malicious side to her, I just found her a touch mischievous, a young woman learning how to twist men around her little finger. She just liked a good time, enjoyed a drink and liked the company of men. I've often wondered if her excesses were a simple rebellion against a strait-laced father. I'm not so sure, not so much a mutiny, I think she just liked walking on the wild side. That summer, I saw a lot of Helen and she constantly railed against having her life mapped out by over-bearing parents. We'd been at primary school together, then she went to a girl's grammar school, then a place at Cambridge. She was a lovely, bright girl and I adored being with her.

Her father was a stickler for rules and regulations, never loved by his colleagues, he was always respected though. Immaculate in his uniform, highly polished black brogues, heavily starched shirt and perfectly knotted tie. I began to feel a degree of sympathy for a man that had caused me much grief. There, thinking only of myself again, I'd given him more aggravation in return. I've seen him testify in court over the years and he was a prosecutor's dream, credible, rational, impassive and organized whenever he was on the witness stand. As someone reporting on events I thought he always came across as too stiff and unfeeling. Too formal, something Helen would confirm. Mably thought that all men should be brave and all women virtuous.

Lost in my reverie, I looked up and saw Mably staring at me, could he read my thoughts? Finally he said, 'This is going to get really messy. I let her down, years and years ago, she's never forgiven me.'

This was not the material for a grieving father. Nothing for the front page here, a priest would be more appropriate I felt. Jack tried to steer him away from the confessional and back towards a father's appeal for news about his daughter. 'David – what do you want me to put in the newspaper?'

Mably held his hand up towards Jack and carried on staring at me, 'did she ever tell you about an ugly incident that happened when you and Helen were...?' Mably trailed off, unable to mention that we had once been lovers.

I shook my head, 'she said nothing.'

Mably suddenly lost interest in me and turned back to Jack, 'I suppose an appeal, the usual guff, a few lines about a successful woman,' Mably sighed, twisted in his seat and reached into his brief case. He pulled out a few pages of neatly typed A4 paper. He carefully placed it on the table and slid it between Jack and myself. 'It's Helen's journal, or the first ten pages. There was a letter accompanying this, Helen said that this was a sample of a manuscript that she was submitting to literary agents and publishers. She also said that if anything happened to her in the meantime, someone she trusted has the complete manuscript.'

Jack leaned forwards, 'what's in it?'

'It's filth.' Mably shouted and brought the flat of his hand down on Jack's polished mahogany desktop. Jack jumped and I stared, Mably's flash of temper had gone. Like a solitary meteor, it had flashed and disappeared within the blink of an eye.

I asked the obvious question. 'Why would she say if anything happens to me?'

'You must read this and draw your own conclusions.'

'Was she in danger?'

Mably shook his head, 'She was an unstable woman in many ways.'

'She wasn't unstable.' I snapped this back.

I stared at him and his face took on the expression of someone that had just trod in something left on the pavement by a big dog. He glanced back towards Jack and said, 'tell your minion to keep his opinions to himself.' He brought his stainless steel gaze back to me. 'If I have your permission, I'll continue uninterrupted this time. Things happened that I can't discuss. The journal doesn't recount the main event, although she hints at it.' Mably turned back to Jack, 'do you need a photograph of me before I go?'

Five minutes later, we both watched as Mably shut the door, I waited until his slender profile paced past the office window before saying. 'Why on earth did he want me in the same room? It only made both of us feel awkward.' Jack said nothing, so I pressed on. 'Anyway, since when did you become a father confessor?'

Jack ignored that and said, 'Why did you provoke him?'

'He implied that Helen was mad.'

'Unstable was the word he used.'

'Same thing, anyway I resented it.'

'That was obvious and while we're at it, why did you have to mention Christopher?'

'Because she was closer to her brother than she was her father,' I smiled, shrugged and said, 'just to remind him I suppose.'

'Remind him?'

'That I'm on Helen's side.'

'We're all on Helen's side.'

I shook my head, 'I'm unsure that Mably was ever on her side.'

'He's desperate.' Jack took a deep breath and sat back. 'He's a very interesting character. Don't look like that.'

'Hah! He's dull, repressed, an anal retentive.'

'I never realised you were a student of Freud?'

'Get on with it.'

'OK, he can be a touch dull, but Mably is an obsessive. He's vain, domineering, can't tolerate criticism, is a perfectionist, has trouble showing affection, but is totally competent and fully functional. Even you would have to admit that he was very good at his job.'

'He can't show affection, that's for sure. You heard what he said, they haven't talked for years. Helen hated him and he never loved her.'

Jack raised his hand, 'You're basing that on the comments of a highly strung seventeen year old girl. How many young girls have said the same thing about their parents and never meant it?'

'Plenty I guess, why did he say that he let her down?'

'Not a clue,' Jack shook his head, 'did Helen have a similar personality to her father?'

'Just the opposite, but she was stubborn and liked to control.'

My mind slipped back, random images and events were crystal clear. Helen rang me just before she was due to go off to university. She asked me for a lift. As always I jumped at the chance to be near her. I needed to talk, but she was subdued all the way up and we hardly exchanged a word. At times Helen appeared close to tears, I assumed leaving home and the giant step she was about to take was causes this distress.

'Stuart, Stuart – wake up.' Jack's calm, but insistent cajoling brought me out of my daydream. 'Stuart, you're miles away.'

I shrugged, 'I took her to university, when she started.'

'What's the significance in that?'

'Don't you think that odd? She asked me virtually the day before she was leaving. We hardly spoke, all the way, it was painful.'

'She must have been nervous, a life changing event, leaving home and all of that.'

'Helen said something that's stayed with me all of these years. She said that something terrible had happened and she was never going home again – ever. I asked her what and she was fighting the tears, for the rest of the journey.'

'What did she say?'

I shook my head, 'she wouldn't tell me. Don't you think her parents would be the ones to take her to university?'

Jack shrugged, but said nothing. He passed a single sheet of A4 across, 'perhaps this might explain how she felt.'

I looked at the banner headline.

### Helen Mably's Journal

I quickly scanned the brief forward. Then my mind switched off and the letters merged into a gelatinous mass of black and white.

I heard Jack, 'did you know?'

I shook my head, 'this can't be true, we spent so much time together that summer.'

'C'mon, she must have, you were as thick as thieves back then.'

'She never said a word.'

'Is she making this up?'

'I need to read the whole journal.'

'We haven't got that luxury.' Jack pointed at me, 'Do you think she's some kind of fantasist?'

I didn't know, twenty three years ago and I was in love with Helen. I glanced at Jack, 'I told her everything.'

Quick as a flash Jack came back at me, 'and it seems that Helen Mably told you nothing.'

### 3

### Helen Mably

'How did this fixation develop?'

'About my father? Do you think it is an obsession?'

Harvey Malkovitch scratched something into his notebook, 'You should know – a psychologist should recognise the signs of an obsession.'

'It's more than that,' I watched as Malkovitch scratched away in his notebook, a full-faced, heavy featured man, with thick, black wavy hair. Full of life, I smiled again, although if he smokes three cigarettes an hour, which he's done during this session, if he always smokes at this rate he's a fifty a day man and heading for a coronary. Not that I minded the smell of tobacco and the nicotine did seem to concentrate both of our minds. Harvey's whole focus is with my desolation. A contented and confident man, which I liked, he's also older than me, which I didn't.

During our first meeting, I railed against the obvious enjoyment Malkovitch got from the session. Plus the fact that he wore a bow tie, had pictures of smiling children scattered around his consulting room and wore a shirt two sizes too small. I soon developed a morbid fascination as to which of his shirt buttons would burst, especially when he bent forwards in his messianic zeal, which he always did whenever I revealed something of a sexual nature. A subject he prompted in a less than subtle manner. Malkovitch leaned back when he smoked, waved his arms around a lot and had more energy than is good for an overweight smoker.

I said nothing, Malkovitch prompted me, 'you have to go back, way back.'

I nodded, 'how far?'

'Did you love your parents?'

'Of course,' I pressed my lips together and stared out of the window. 'I don't like talking about my childhood.'

'Was it traumatic?'

'Repressed,' I shook my head. 'Just so cold, why was he always so cold towards me?'

I don't know how old I was when I began to realise that he was strange, I found my own father creepy. How does a child make that judgement? It's not like comparing a bar of chocolate against a different sweet, you've got nothing to equate a parent against. My parents were both stunning looking, both equally distant at times, but my father was downright unapproachable. Despite his coldness, I always thought he was proud of me, always happy to show me off. I twisted in the chair, my thoughts were heading in a direction I would rather have avoided. But with hindsight, it wasn't pride, I was just a trophy, a perfect, beautiful, blonde haired girl. He exhibited me just to demonstrate his ability to father the perfect child, just like my beautiful mother, I was just an appendage for his ego. The shame my brother brought down on my father, counterbalanced to a degree by his sumptuous daughter.

My god I wondered, am I sounding narcissistic enough? Perhaps my vanity just mirrored my fathers? We were both conceited, but he was cold, more than being a cold, unfeeling man. Something worse than that, much worse. Yet I did love him, always hanging onto his every word. I remember everything so clearly, clutching his hand as we strolled around the estate where I grew up. The place by definition that any child growing up feels secure. You filter nothing, yet the subconscious absorbs everything. I remembered every street, every house, every back garden and my father walking around it as if he was royalty. To be fair, all of our neighbours bowed and scraped around him like medieval surfs. This was no sudden flash of insight, it took years for me to realise that he was different.

We walked to church, he held my hand, Christopher and my mother walked behind us. As if we didn't belong in the same unit and being close to Christopher would taint him somehow. Leaving the front gate on our way to church, we walked through the estate in our Sunday finest. It comes to me in minute detail. I know I'm accurate in every feature, the safeness, being close to my father as he did what was effectively a tour of inspection. The microscopic accuracy of my recall testifies to how much I loved growing up there. Easily visualising the house numbers, the different brass door knockers. Even here in this middle class heartland, the differences in social status was cruelly emphasised by what was being cooked, or what the fitted carpet looked like. Who had a table lighter? Who had a petrol lawnmower? Who spent too much time in the pub? Who was a catholic, who hadn't washed? The belligerent, the passive, the friendly, the clever, each household had a distinctive identity. Most importantly for the Methodists like my father, the fear of shame.

He was ashamed of Christopher, this made me love my brother even more. As I nudged towards puberty, all of this adolescent contemplation blazed a trail for me. I was pubescent, obsessively curious and unhappy. I wanted to be six years old again, I wanted to love my father, I needed him to love me. Or at least tell me he loved me. No I thought, that wasn't good enough. I need him to love me unashamedly, unconditionally. But that never happened, we just separated, drifted away from one another as surely as the soul leaves a dying man.

When we came out of church, we turned and walked in the opposite direction to Christopher and my mother. We went the short distance to the police station and Christopher was led home by my mother, he was forever stopping her and staring after me like a tethered dog watching his master walking away. Which always induced some guilt in me at the time, now I find it heart rending. Despite all of the benefits, I didn't enjoy being the favoured one.

Our short walk always ended up under the blue lamp of the police station, I took a deep breath and couldn't wait to enter this world of the adult. He used me to lend these visits a more casual appearance. We'd pop in when he was off duty, he was obviously checking up on everyone, his usual "oh I was just passing" routine took nobody in. His control freakery wasn't applied only to me, everyone got it. His focus at the time was the social club, run by volunteers, policemen or civilian staff, one of them gave up an evening and of course anyone running the bar took a drink for this dubious privilege. He had his suspicions and was forever checking the till takings against inventories. It was his idea to get a full time steward in. The steward was the only one allowed behind the bar, in charge of ordering the stock and he took a percentage of whatever profit was generated. The fact that consecutive stewards were on the take never bothered him as much as one of his own policemen pulling himself a free pint.

I loved going in there and it was the quality of the light that first attracted me. Two snooker tables each with a low slung canopy over them and the light concentrated over the green surface, the rest of the club in semi-darkness apart from the bar itself. The players walked around the table with their top half in gloom, only when they bent over to play were their faces in the light. And then the brightness deepened their profiles, throwing long shadows across faces. The sound of ebony on ebony as the balls collided. The subdued atmosphere, mostly caused by my father's presence I always felt, although most would say that by their very nature, snooker halls are generally muted when it comes atmosphere. It's the nature of the game, not my father's presence. Not true, the mood changed whenever I followed him through the door.

I propped myself up on a bar stool, was given a packet of crisps and an orange juice and left by myself as he forensically sifted through his colleagues mostly imagined misdemeanours. Over time, this became a regular occurrence, he went off to his office and caught up with his paperwork. I was free to roam around the place, play pool, chat with anyone. My father wanted to constantly monitor where and what I was doing. He thought that it was safe and at the same time, he demonstrated himself to the world as the liberal father and it became my crèche in a way. By the time I battered my way through puberty, there were a couple of other girls my age, policemen's daughters that hung around and played pool, while their father's played snooker. The men talked to me as if I was an adult, it was relaxed and friendly.

This is where it gets difficult for me, for this is where I sowed the seeds for what happened two years later. Just after my fifteenth birthday, I began to play snooker with the policemen. Most were leering, lecherous heavy drinkers. Then there was Don Wilson, who used to give me lessons, stood so close behind me. Touching me as he addressed the faults with my bridge hand and my cue action. I saw it as just an audition for my womanhood, practicing my moves, unlike my friends out with boys of their own age, I used adults, men who because of the culture of their job, thought of every woman as just something to use, just a perk of the job.

At fifteen I was confident, precociously so. I've debated this long and hard, who used who here? I was sure they never used me, I knew what I was doing, short skirts and tight tops never went well bending over a snooker table. Not that dad ever saw me playing. He was happy enough to dump me in there, his interest in the social club waning once he found a steward he trusted. He always viewed the club as some sort of gathering place for his rough, salt of the earth policemen, never a den of iniquity, a safe place for his daughter. He went there for retirement presentations and commendations, never a place to socialise. He wasn't a social animal and I guessed that all of my behaviour could be down to my rejection of his values. The constraints he tried to place on me, just drove me on. If only things were that simple.

Some might say that it was blindingly obvious how this would all end up, even the social club steward was forever warning me about Don. He called him a bad boy and that just spurred me on. Don was a big, slightly heavy set man with a deep tan, who treated me like a grown-up, teased me about boys. Told me that as soon as I reached my sixteenth birthday, he was going to... well give me a good seeing to. I never saw this behaviour as manipulative, or abusive even. He wasn't grooming me for a ritual deflowering. They were all like it and some of them even tried it on with me.

It was the baby faced policeman called Andrew that came on the most. Always head on, I visualise him now so easily. Andrew had curly hair, tall and wide shouldered. Smiled at me a lot and whenever he asked me a question, I always felt myself colour up. That didn't stop our flirting becoming more and more libidinous in nature.

'What's your old man up to?'

'Dunno,' I shrugged, 'checking up on you I expect.'

Andrew laughed, 'where's your boyfriend?'

I lied, 'he's picking me up later.'

'I bet he can't keep his hands off you.'

I nodded, 'he loves everything about me.'

Why did I lie? Another question I've asked dozens of times. I likened it to the young girls that smoked, just an aid to enhance their age. Make them feel even more like an adult, my lie an implicit device to appear a woman of the world. A sensuous, experienced woman, not a fifteen year old girl who's only sexual experiences were boys fumbling around inside my underwear. I thought to myself that I was there for the taking and Andrew knew that. So did his thin faced friend who watched the whole dialogue with the tip of his tongue sticking out from his thin lips.

Andrew said, 'does he hit the spot?'

Unsure what he meant, I said, 'of course.'

'Do you smoke?' Andrew pushed his opened cigarette packet towards me, I glanced swiftly around the club, reading my mind he said. 'Let's smoke it out the back if you're worried about your dad.'

I nodded and followed him towards the fire exit. A grown man with a fifteen year old and I loved the attention. As soon as Andrew had crossed the threshold he turned and we kissed. We crashed together like opposite magnetic poles suddenly lurching inexorably towards one another. His hands were everywhere and I responded like a half-starved glutton presented a plateful of food. He pulled back and looked at me for a brief second and whispered, 'you would wouldn't you?'

His excitement was obvious, I just shook my head, 'you'd lose your job if anyone found out.'

He had both hands clamped to my backside, pulling me against his erection. I realised straight away that he would get into real trouble. I wanted him, but it appeared that I did have a responsible side. Here was another dichotomy I thought later, it wasn't so much me being responsible, I was quickly learning that I had the power. Not over life and death exactly, but a power to make men twist in the wind.

'C'mon, I know you want it?' He whispered in my ear, a degree of urgency in his hushed tone.

He was right, the wetness I felt between my legs as good an indicator as blue litmus paper turns red when dipped into an acid. One of his hands had released its grip on my buttock and had begun to twist my nipple between thumb and first finger.

I groaned and felt on the point of collapse.

'C'mon horny.'

I didn't feel another's presence behind me to begin with, just hot breath on my neck. I never made the connection, Andrew was kissing me and it wasn't until I heard a man's voice, 'she's ready for it.'

I pulled myself out of Andrew's all enveloping grasp and spun around to see the sallow faced policeman grinning away, 'You...' I was about to strike him across the face, when another voice halted me.

'Is this a private party, or can anyone join in.' Don stood in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted by the stark emergency lights. 'You two get back inside.' He gestured with his head and got an immediate response. Don had authority all right, the other two slipped by and never glanced his way.

We stared at one another, eventually I said, 'what?'

He shrugged, 'be careful, what were you doing out here with those two?'

'Just about to have a cigarette actually.'

Don rolled his eyes skywards, 'you'd all end up in trouble...'

'Don't lecture me, I wasn't about to let anything happen.'

He came up close, 'it didn't look like that to me.'

'What did it look like then?'

'You were all over each other. He gets married in a couple of months.'

'Did you just throw that in the mix to make me... what exactly?'

He was so close now, such a powerful presence. Good looking in a Mediterranean, earthy sort of way, 'perhaps you should make sure you're only out here with one at a time.'

'You mean just you?'

He smiled and I thought for a moment he was going to move in. Instead he stepped back, 'you better get back inside, your father's talking to the Chief Superintendent at the moment. He'd like to meet you.'

'Is that it?' I tried to appear calm, untroubled by Don's news, instead I pushed past and went back into the club. Andrew was leaning on a snooker cue, staring hard at me, he winked and smiled. I felt my cheeks colour up once again and glanced towards my father. He was deep in conversation with a fat faced man, I went and stood alongside him and waited. I soon realised that this man was more creepy if that were possible than my father. A bulbous, broken veined man, who stared and stared at me.

My father said, 'this is my daughter.'

The fat faced man stared at me, not my eyes, but my breasts. I wondered if my nipples had calmed down, but erect or not, this man would have gaped. He spoke in a phlegm induced rattle, 'my dear, you're truly beautiful and what is your name?'

I glanced at my father, unwilling to look at this repulsive creature. Finally having no choice when he thrust his meaty paw in my direction.

'This is Helen.' My father said after waiting all of five seconds for me to say something.

He wouldn't let go of my hand, eventually I looked into his eyes and saw President Kennedy's head getting blown away and column after column of bombs raking down on tiny Vietnamese villages. He horrified me, eventually and reluctantly the grip on my hand relaxed and I was able to step back. I looked towards the snooker players, aware of this man's eyes undressing me.

Perhaps my father noticed this leering, letch of a man giving me the treatment. His voice on the edge of a minor panic that I'd never noticed before, 'shall we go?'

As the fat man stood, he brushed me on the way. His crutch feathering against my buttocks, I was used to boys doing this at school and it amused rather than repulsed. Which is the effect this had on me. I wasn't sure if my father noticed or not, I watched as he steered the overweight lizard away and out of the club.

Andrew made as if to walk towards me, but Don was quicker, 'he's a real charmer.' Don mostly spoke to me in a conspiratorial whisper, always gaining my trust and attention.

'Who is he?'

'Don't you know? Mark Dawes is Chief Superintendent, only comes here to see your father for a chat.'

'Why?'

'Who knows?'

My father said nothing until we were in the car driving home, 'what were you doing?'

'What do you mean?'

'Out the back.'

'Nothing, they were smoking and we were just talking.'

'Have you been smoking?'

'I'm a good girl,' I shook my head, 'I'm never going to smoke.'

He considered this for a moment, 'don't you think it would be a good idea to spend more time revising now?'

Lost in my reverie, I eventually opened my eyes and glanced across at Harvey Malkovitch, 'I think it became a trigger for what happened a couple of years later.' I sat back in my chair, 'what do you think?'

He stared at his notes, jotted a couple of words down before lifting his head and saying. 'Were any of these men involved?'

'Yes, for years I thought about that evening and how it become so connected, so relevant to that night. I'd flirted outrageously with one of them, more than flirt, we'd kissed and it made my head spin. Like a spinning top out of balance and about to concede to this overwhelming force that was all over me. I responded in the fearful, yet incredulous wave of emotion and arousal that any young woman feels.'

'Another man close by didn't bother you?'

'I wasn't aware to begin with, it confused me a little, but not really. In fact having someone watching excited and this confused me even more.'

'So what happened next time you met these men?'

I nodded, 'I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to put some chronology on this. There were two years between the two incidents for a start.' Malkovitch frowned, 'I was fifteen when I was groped outside the social club. Someone must have told my father, I don't know if it was Don or the steward, but someone told him. He used my upcoming exams as an excuse and I was effectively confined to the house for the next couple of years.'

'So you never saw any of these men again?'

'I hardly left the house for two years, so no is the answer.'

'You accepted this?'

'Of course, my social life stopped abruptly, the excuse was my A-levels. I went along with this, I wanted Oxford or Cambridge more than my parents if that were possible. So my period of house arrest was a self-imposed one. I studied constantly and my fantasies weren't only sexual in nature, I imagined dreaming spires and academia. I thought of Don a lot too, if I was going to sleep with a policeman, it was Don I wanted, not any of the others. Not just wanted either, I wanted him to be the first.'

We looked at one another, I waited and finally he said, 'you sound like that fantasy bothers you?'

'I've thought about this for years, why would a teenage virgin crave a man twenty years older?'

'Teenage fantasy, we all had them.' He frowned, 'you keep telling me that your father never loved you, but he was acting in your best interests on this one.'

I took a deep breath and said something I didn't want to, 'it would appear so.'

### 4

### Stuart

It still makes me cringe, bearing in mind this was only a couple of weeks after we were arrested after the curry house fracas. Getting caught in bed with Helen merely confirmed Mably's opinion of not only me, but his beautiful daughter as well. She always made me feel like I was just the best lover in the world, hermetically sealed in a suppliant's world, all I could hear were her moans and the words of encouragement. I never heard a car parking outside. Never heard the slamming of car doors, never heard a front door, never heard footsteps on the stairs.

I did hear the bedroom door burst open and then a man's voice, 'what the...'

I pulled out of Helen, jumped out of the bed and stood within a split second. Inspector Mably with his wife stood by his shoulder. Both staring wide eyed, her mouth hanging open as my erection pointing towards them in some sort of obscene salute.

'Get out of here you... just get out.'

As I rushed down the stairs, Mably's attention turned towards his wayward daughter, 'you stupid little bitch.'

His wife trying to calm things down, 'David – let's try and be...'

I slammed the door behind me and finished dressing behind the car parked in the small drive and then ran quickly away.

'Rumour has it that Mably caught you in bed with his not so chaste daughter.' Jack abruptly dragged me back to the here and now. 'Is there any truth in that?'

Everyone knows everything in a small town and Jack had made a good living knowing more than everyone else. I looked up and into his eyes, 'the thought of it still makes me cringe.' I felt myself colour up, 'but the funny thing was, I always had this nagging suspicion that Helen knew exactly when they'd be home. I don't know this for sure, but it was as if she wanted to humiliate him. She did that all right, and me and Mrs Mably.'

'But not herself?'

I shook my head, 'Not in her own eyes anyway. What do you think?'

Jack was more than an amateur psychologist, he understood people and why they behaved the way they did. Asking him this type of question would set him up for the day. 'I'm guessing here, Helen saw herself in her father and David Mably saw himself in his daughter. Whether that pleased either of them I couldn't say. When Helen was young, she wanted her father's approval. Mably sees no threat to his dominance and just thinks of her as a chip off the old block. As you well know, the adolescent begins the rebellion, they both begin to voice criticisms of each other and the sparks begin to fly.'

Jack stared down at his notes, as I spoke. 'Well, I note everything you've just said, but Helen was quite clear even before he allegedly let her down, she hated him.'

He looked at me for a long time before speaking, 'I see you've heard everything I've just said, but listened to nothing. I understand people.'

'You're too modest.'

'We have an idea now why she hated her father.'

I shook my head and repeated my earlier claim, 'she hated him before this happened.'

'If anything happened.'

I nodded, 'if anything happened. I can't believe it was anything too serious, small town like this, we would have heard something.' I stood and pointed down at the manuscript, 'I'm popping out, can I read that when you've finished?'

He nodded, 'where are you going?'

'Meeting Kathy for a drink.'

*

I had a weakness for slim, dark haired women. When they were as attractive as the one sat on her own in the public bar of the Bear Hotel, I found the lure irresistible. Kathy was more than attractive as well, with her short dark hair, high cheekbones, slim and confident looking. My age, although most would say that she had aged better than me. I tried to hide the surge of anticipation that coursed through me like a river in flood. I ambled across, trying to make eye contact as I got close.

'Is this seat taken?'

Kathy looked up and smiled briefly, dressed like a well-paid executive skipping out for a quick drink and a break from her high-powered world. I slid my pint of beer onto the table and sat down. I watched her closely, she sipped a vodka and lemonade or maybe it was just a tonic.

I said, 'Not too many now, work beckons.'

Kathy brought her dazzling green eyes into mine, 'I suppose you've finished for the day.'

'A journalist's work is never done.'

'Journalist? You're just a man that takes bad photographs for the local rag more like.'

I nodded in a reluctant acquiescence, 'shall I book a room?'

'Well that's a nice thought,' Kathy glanced down at her watch. 'I have to get back soon.'

Despite living less than a mile away, we had used the hotel. Sometimes married couples need a charade in their lives, search for an island of pleasure in amongst the ocean of our busy lives. Once ensconced in the room, Kathy always turned the radio on and in amongst the static she tuned into some classical music. We made love to Schuman or Chopin, something that relieved the darkness of our minds. Release from her busy job, somewhere in the darkness where sleeplessness had become something of a religion we found sanctuary.

'How soon, when do you have to go?'

'Ten minutes.'

'That's plenty of time for me.' We both laughed, I sighed and said, 'Do you remember Helen Mably?'

Kathy blinked, 'wasn't she was with you during that brawl in the Indian restaurant? How did Jack cope with that one?'

'What do you mean?'

'Making his best friend's only son front page news.' Kathy smiled, 'for all of the wrong reasons.'

I laughed, 'My old man went crazy, Jack had warned him about the report in the newspaper as well.'

'What happened?'

'We were all a bit drunk. There were four squaddies eating. They were abusive towards the waiters. You know, all the usual racist stuff. Helen stoked us up into a frenzy, not that we needed much encouragement. Helen was good at inciting us poor, weak willed men. We were lucky, it never got to court.'

'What about her anyway?'

'She's vanished, disappeared of the face of the earth. Jack's running a piece about her in the paper.'

'She was a bit... I didn't really know her.'

I nodded, as a young man, the extremes of Helen's passions frightened me. At the other end of the scale she could be morose and at times downright rude. I wondered if I could cope with these extremes now. I said, 'Jack interviewed her father this morning. I was there, it was bizarre. Would you tell anyone that you didn't understand one of the kids? Or that you had never got on?'

'I'd tell you and maybe my mum.' Kathy snorted a stream of hot, sweet air my way. 'But I would desperately hope that I did have some understanding of what goes on in their crazy little worlds. What do you think has happened to her?'

I shrugged, 'looks bad, I can't get the image out of my head.'

'Image?'

'Helen being found floating face down in the river Thames.'

'I'm she'll turn up,' Kathy stood and brushed her skirt down, 'I have to get back, are you having another one?'

'I'm hoping to see Don Wilson.'

'Rather you than me.' Kathy leaned across and kissed me on the cheek. 'Don't get too drunk, see you later.'

I watched her walk away, finished my drink and stood. I walked back into the hotel's courtyard, dazed by it all. Despite the separation of two decades, Helen had induced a state of confusion within, a sensual highly strung state. A pounding diesel engine clattered away at my temples. Helen Mably was imprinted onto my frontal lobe and nothing would shift her, until I walked straight into Detective Sergeant Don Wilson.

'Why don't you watch...?'

'Don, I'm sorry – but just the man I want to see.'

My old man always believed that fate rules our lives. He was convinced that the bludgeoning hand of destiny, twisted and betrayed us. Throw into the mix some jealousy and desire. A bus missed here, a plane crash there. Then the devil tugs on the strings and we all dance to whatever tune he wants us to dance to. Bumping into Don Wilson, was this the simple deployment of chance? The town's finest detective strolls through a small hotel's courtyard and what did it mean?

Don had been having a bad time of things lately, a womanising, mildly corrupt policeman and an absent father. He could be good at his job on occasions though, almost killed in the line of duty when a sharp knife sliced through his small intestine. He stared at me, olive-skinned, thick sneering lips and thick black hair. Don tipped his head a touch, 'What can I do for you?'

I'd never forgiven him for smacking me around the head after he broke a fight up in town. He'd never forgiven me for breaking his nose when we played football against one another weeks later. Don had convinced himself that I'd deliberately head-butted him as we both went for a high ball. Of course his suspicions were well founded, I had my father's gene when it came to revenge. Don smacked me around the head, a month later I'd left him on the ground holding his bent nose and retribution was mine.

Don said, 'I've just seen Kathy leave five minutes earlier.'

He lusted after my wife, not that I took it personally. Don lusted after everybody's wife. I got close and whispered in his ear, 'She looked good didn't she? Kathy is such a sexy woman, not that you'll ever get the chance to find that one out.' Don pulled his head back and we stared at one another for a few seconds. He was on the edge of a smile, Don enjoyed confrontation almost as much as I did. 'I was talking to your ex-Inspector earlier.'

Don fat lips stretched into a grin, 'how is my much lamented boss anyway?'

'Buy me a pint and I'll tell you everything.'

Minutes later, Don picked his beer up, stared at it for a moment, then glanced down at his cigarette packet. He appeared unsure as to what to do next, cigarette or drink? Don sighed, he dwelt in upper echelons of the local police contingent. A crony of the newly installed Inspector, if not his equal in rank, Don had an awful lot of influence. He was a thickset, bulky man, handsome and comfortable within this bulk. A well cut blue pinstripe suit, the jacket usually buttoned, covered an ever expanding stomach. Don had sharp eyes that attracted the light, not that I was especially drawn to them. My own eyes were constantly looking at the effect my forehead had on his broken nose.

He sat opposite me with his knees apart, placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it with a disposable gas lighter. Took a long drag and then closed his eyes, held the smoke in his lungs for a couple of seconds, before the inevitable, long, whistling exhalation. Don listened with his eyes half closed. The apparent closeness to sleep shouldn't fool anyone. He was sharp and a good inquisitor. Sometimes he made a small noise, a grunt that might mean all sorts of things, sympathy or disbelief. Perhaps an acknowledgment that what you said was true, perhaps the groan of a man too often deceived. It was just a trick and meant nothing.

Don always spoke in a low, hoarse voice it had the effect of appearing rich with sympathy, despite finding all of his interviewees the most absurd collection of liars, crooks and sometimes, murderers. Sounding empathetic and asking questions with a face sneering like a teacher who knows his hopeless pupils will always give up the wrong answers, Don worked on the basis that everyone he interviewed was guilty. I understood his methodology, but never admired it. I countered by being aggressive and flippant. If I didn't play it this way I found myself confessing to things I'd never done.

'Apart from just seeing your gorgeous wife, what else is going on?'

I sat forwards in my chair, 'You knew Helen Mably?'

Don frowned, then blinked, 'Why?'

'She's gone missing.'

'How long?'

'Just over a week, Mably himself has just told us that she's been reported missing. I'm sure you'll hear soon enough.'

'Well I'm sorry to hear that, but what's this got to do with me?'

'Nothing, except that you slept with her.'

Don never blinked, 'She was always hanging around you.' I held his gaze, 'you as well?' Don shook his head and smiled, 'She was a game girl. You haven't said why you're digging around here.'

'If she's met an untimely end, Jack sniffs another book to write. Or at least we'll need a complete background job. Local girl, police Inspector's daughter, wild child, academic at the university, minor celebrity, writer of two books.'

Don held his hand up, 'All right, I get the message. You and Jack are a ghoulish pair.'

'It's our job. We have to be prepared, stories a story. Rumour is that she kept a diary, an explicit one as well.'

Don stopped smiling, sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. He pointed at me, 'I'm not married anymore. It can't hurt me.'

'Well at least Helen was of a legal age, unlike some of your...'

He leaned forwards and wagged his finger under my nose. 'Listen shit for brains, I've got things to do, get to the point or I'm going back to work.'

'How often did you see her?'

He shook his head, 'she was always playing snooker in the club, I saw her a lot.'

Don was struggling to get my drift, I nudged him in the right direction. 'I meant did you have long affair?'

Don stared at me, his eyes asking me why? But the male psyche meant that this information became a currency to be traded like any commodity. 'Just the once. We spent twenty four hours in a hotel room. I wanted to see her again, but there was something about her that frightened me a bit.'

'She was a bit intense?'

'Exactly,' Don nodded, 'she was too full on. We sometimes bumped into each other whenever she was down from university.'

A brief dart of jealousy stuck in between my shoulder blades, a dart landing some twenty years later. Don didn't appear too happy about the subject matter, but at the same time, he seemed relieved, as though he had the chance to unburden himself. 'You just said you only slept together once.'

'We did, I also said that we bumped into each other, nothing happened,' Don stared at the floor, 'what was strange, I do know that she never went home to her parents either.'

'When?'

'Whenever she came back to town.'

'What, Christmas or summer holidays?'

'From what I could make out.'

'Where did she stay?'

'I don't know.' He shook his head, 'she always made sure that Mably knew she was close by though.'

'How?'

'A couple of times Helen casually strolled past the police station car park as Mably pulled up for work in the morning. I saw it happen once, he wound the window down and called her name. She must have heard, but she just walked by as if he never existed.'

'What did Mably do?'

'Got out of the car, stared after her, saw me watching and he snapped something my way about getting on with my work.' Don fixed me with his best inquisitorial stare. 'I think she made sure Inspector Mably knew exactly who she was sleeping with.'

I said, 'Mably admitted that they never got on.'

'I can believe that,' Don slowly shook his head, 'Helen discovered a way to twist her father's balls.'

'How? What do you mean?'

'You know what a suspicious man he is, he thought that she slept with some of his policemen. I don't think she did anything to discourage his doubts.'

'Did she?'

Don shrugged and said, 'I don't think so.'

'Apart from you,' Don shrugged again, time for me to play my strongest card, 'I've heard the rumours.'

'What rumours?'

'You know what rumours.'

'Nope.' He shook his head.

I asked, 'about Helen?'

'Not a clue what you're on about,' Don's thick lips had compressed together. He glanced down at his watch, finished his beer and started to get up.

I said quickly, 'What happened? You just said that she never played around with any of them, apart from your good self.' Don stared off into the distance, I prompted him again. 'You weren't involved were you?' He shook his head, 'c'mon Don give me a break, something happened, were you involved?'

'Why do you keep pointing the finger at me?' He glared at me, 'I get plenty of cunt. I don't need to force anyone.'

Force?

'What do you mean, force?'

He looked at me a long time, then shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'What happened?'

Don sneered at me, 'If you find out, let me know.'

'Did Mably know about it?'

'He was the one that kept a cap on it all.'

Don's eyes blazed away at me. One more nudge I thought. 'C'mon Don.'

He sighed, 'I stopped a situation getting out of hand. David Mably persuaded Helen to drop the charges – for the good of everyone.'

'Except Helen.' I said in a whisper.

Don stood, 'I've said too much.'

'I don't think you've said enough.'

He nodded. 'Thanks for the pint. I hope she turns up alive and well. One more thing, if it had had ever gone to court, what I saw would have put three policemen in prison.'

'Perhaps they deserved it.'

'Oh they did.'

### 5

### Helen Mably

Perhaps I'm only capable of focusing on happy times. You'd think confronting the most important event in my life would be straight forwards? If only it was that easy, instead all I could recall was the argument with my father. I shut my eyes, that argument, that blinding, furious row with a puritanical, sanctimonious man.

'Please, please let me go.'

'I think that isn't possible.' Always so calm, a flat monotone delivery that just raised my anger another degree.

'Why am I the only student now allowed to go to the sixth form ball?'

'You're not the only one.'

I snorted, 'please.' I knew my mother was the weak link and she began to yield somewhat. 'C'mon mum.'

I didn't need to look at her, I easily visualised her quick glance across at my father before she said. 'You'd have to let your father pick you up.'

Her father snapped, 'wait a minute.'

I drifted away at the sound of his flat, even tone. He had an over-active police-inspector's gene that dictated his every decision. In this instance I would just have to stay at home. After all, he'd seen the destructive aftermath of these events. Eighteen year olds suddenly having the reins loosened. Fights everywhere, trails of vomit along footpaths. My god, his daughter might be sick, or worse, get laid, which is why I was so desperate to go in the first place.

He stood, 'I've seen the...'

I stamped my foot and screamed in frustrated impotence, 'what have you seen? Sixth form boy's fighting and throwing up. A pair of semen stained knickers hanging from the school gates?'

'Helen!' My mother's burgeoning liberalism crashed into the buffers of my crudeness head on.

Sensing an advantage, I shouted at him. 'What do you think's going to happen when I get to university?'

I always knew that my father had this not in my backyard philosophy when it came to crime. It seemed that he was applying the same attitude to the morals of his daughter. I could get drunk and have an alley cat's morality as long as I did it in another parish and no one could pass judgement. He couldn't be caught up in the mirror of his daughter's reflected, over-active libido. That was a laugh I thought, I didn't even have a boyfriend.

'Helen – we're only thinking of what's best for you. Try and see it from our point of view.' He went for the caring parent angle, it came across as the controlling bastard I always knew him to be.

'I'm going anyway. What are you going to do about that? Throw me in a cell?' I smiled, don't give him any ideas for God's sake. 'I'm going, get used to the idea.'

I turned, slammed the door behind me and stormed up to my bedroom and slammed the second door, all within ten seconds. I switched on the record player and carefully lined the needle up.

Jimi Hendrix dreamy lyrics calmed me, I lay down and shut my eyes. Clasped my hands behind my head and sighed. A knock on the door made me open my eyes, too soft for my father, too loud for my mother.

'Helen.'

Christopher's voice had its customary tremble. He couldn't cope with life, more especially the sound of raised voices, he'd head for his room and cover his ears. Sit on his bed weeping, rocking relentlessly back and forwards.

I said, 'I'm ok, you can come in.'

Christopher's eyes were still wet from his crying. He straightened his cowboy hat and checked the pair of six-guns strapped to his burgeoning waist. 'You're listening to that man. Dad hates him.'

I smiled, good old Christopher, the most sensitive boy in the world. My father thought Hendrix to be nothing other than the spawn of Beelzebub. A man that not only used his guitar as a rampant penis extension, he was black as well.

I sat up and patted the bed, 'c'mon, sit and listen to the music.'

I felt his bulk alongside and we lapsed into a comfortable silence.

'Why are they angry?'

'I want to go to the... I'm going to the Summer Ball.'

'Dad was shouting.'

'So was I.'

'When are you going to Cambridge?'

'Another four months, then...'

'I don't want you to go.' He blurted this out.

I knew well enough how much Christopher loved me, with an intensity that almost burned a hole in his chest. He had no real reasoning power, just the simple understanding that with me out of the way there would be no one to deflect our father's irrational controlling streak. 'I'll be home regularly to see you.'

Christopher pulled one of his toy guns out, 'I can shoot him if you want?'

I laughed and kissed him on his fat cheek.

*

My black ball gown showed enough cleavage to attract the most inhibited and myopic of students. I had a plan that dictated that I sneak out of the house and change in the public toilet. The sixties age of liberalism hadn't filtered into our little corner of South Oxfordshire. But I thought why should I? Show the courage of my convictions and just brazen things out. I showered, stared in the mirror and gazed at my thick and lustres, blonde hair. I didn't need make up or a bra, I knew well enough that I looked stunning. Did that make me vain or just confident I wondered?

My heart beat against my ribs, I tried to affect a degree of self-assurance on the outside as I wandered into the living room. My mother was watching something on the television, my father was reading a copy of the Police Gazette. He spoke without taking his eyes from the magazine. 'You're going then?'

I resisted the temptation to accuse him of stating the obvious. Instead I said, 'aren't you going to try and stop me?'

'Helen,' my mother had a talent for nipping and arguments in the bud. She said, 'you look lovely. Have a nice time. Try not to be too late.'

I took a step back in shock, barely capable of whispering, 'thank you.'

The door knocked and my carefully chosen date stood self-consciously waiting in dinner jacket and loose fitting trousers. He neatly matched four of my parent's criteria for any boyfriend, blond, three good A-levels, white and inoffensive. This sudden realisation that I had chosen someone that conformed to my parents expectations hit me between the eyes as if I'd been punched. I shrugged, there was already a small victory in the bank, but I needed to win the war.

I shut the front door behind me, euphoria tempered by my choice of date. But he would do I thought, bland and a touch dull, his good looks demonstrating a superficial trait that would stay with me forever, I liked pretty boys. The night was neither a success nor a disappointment. I had enough boys interested and this empowered in its customary way. My choice for the evening was callow in the extreme, although he kissed nicely enough and touched me in all of the right places. We walked slowly home, arms around one another. A sensation between my legs, a crude enough indicator that I wanted him, a glance down at his trousers confirmed the obvious.

The walk along Ormond Road delicious with anticipation, we skirted around the hospital, along the darkened footpath and the stretch of inviting grass.

'Shall we sit down?'

'It'll be damp.'

I thought he said this to put off the confrontation I was about to initiate. It was warm for May, but the grass was wet. We kissed and his hand was fumbling with the hem of my long dress. He grappled and I rummaged with his belt and then the zip. I grasped him, the heat and the hardness in the palm of my hand. I felt so dominant, then I soon felt the warmth of his semen shoot across and up my wrist.

'Helen.' He groaned.

I felt no disappointment, simply wiped the semen down the front of my dress. There would soon be other occasions – lots of them! He walked me home in a state of studious disillusion. Left me at the door, which I had to knock, still not trusted with a key. My mother opened the door and stared at my carefully created state of dishevelment.

'Well at least you're not late.'

'I'm going to bed.'

'You're lucky your dad's at work.'

I walked through and hoped the wet grass had left its mark on the back of my dress, my mother would find the semen down the front soon enough.

I thought that this had worked out well, I'd got home ready for a battle with my father. Instead I sat on the bed feeling a sense of release at the freedom stretching out in front of me. I went to sleep, happy with anticipation and Jimi Hendrix lilting melody.

"Will the wind ever remember

"The names it has blown in the past

And the wind cries Mary"

*

I watched my mother closely as she hand washed my dress the next morning, I shook my head, was this her pre-disposition to take the utmost care with expensive clothes? Or a morbid desire to closely inspect grass and semen stains? It could have been either, but she acted as if it was just another day. I pulled my head back when she said, 'did you have a nice time?'

Christopher was sat at the table scanning the back of a cereal box, his eyebrows twitched, his usually accurate antenna for confrontation well off beam, I thought. Until the kitchen door opened and my father burst through. Eyes blazing away at me, while addressing the others, 'will you leave and give me ten minutes while I talk to this wretch?'

My mother sighed and gestured to Christopher to follow her out.

I said to my mother, 'You don't have to leave.' She looked at me briefly, sighed and closed the door behind her. I said, 'obedience, blind obedience is what you expect from us all.'

'It's called loyalty, to me, to the family. Dress it up any way you like.'

'What's this all about, another lecture? She must have told you I was home on time.'

'Time isn't the issue, it's you acting just like the Whore of Babylon.'

'What?' I stood on tiptoe, 'what are you talking about?'

'You stupid little girl,' he began to wag his finger, 'rolling around on the grass with a boy.'

'Wha...'

'You disgust me, I've yet to tell your mother, what on earth will she think of you? What were you thinking?'

At the time I was thinking this is just the best feeling, holding a boy's rock hard erection made me feel so commanding. I stared waiting for more.

'He had his hand up your dress and you had your hand...' He came up so close, 'You won't be seeing him again and if something like that happens again...'

It suddenly came to me, like an icicle between the shoulder blades, 'you followed me.' He held my gaze easily, 'what were you sat in an unmarked police car by the school gates? Are you some sort of pervert?'

'It's not me that's the depraved one.'

'Why didn't you confront me last night then? Where were you?'

He blinked, moved back a pace and said nothing. The door knocked and my mother's head came uneasily around. Nothing was said for a few long seconds, finally 'is everything ok?'

'Well I'm all right.' I stared at him as I spat this out.

'You will suffer the penalty for your lewdness and bear the consequences of your sins of idolatry. Then you will know'

'He's ashamed of me.' I looked at my mother, 'he keeps quoting the bible at me, called me the Whore of Babylon earlier.'

'Go to your room.' He pointed the way and his outstretched arm reminded me of an old roadside signpost.

I had a television in my bedroom, a small one that offered an indistinct, small picture. It was on most of that day, not that much was transmitted. Just a fuzzy picture with no sound. I read and slept staying put apart from one brief visit to the bathroom, comfortable enough in my confinement. Nobody knocked, my mother and Christopher stayed well away. I could well imagine paternal orders giving one single, precise instruction, leave her alone. I dozed fitfully, waking and catching brief images before sleep trapped me again. It was the nine o'clock news that jolted me. Little men with shaved heads, wearing flowing robes, sat straight-backed and cross-legged, they all looked serene. Then the man sat at the apex of the small gathering upturned a large plastic canister of liquid over his head. So much of it, that the pavement around him was also soaked, then he lit the match and a corona of raggedy flame appeared to come spouting out from inside him. It was like a stage performer, a fire eater who shoots flames from his mouth. Assaulted by this furnace, he somehow remained vertical. Was he impervious to flame?

I sat up, imagining that the air itself that was ablaze, a magician's trick a stunt, I waited for the screams, but the posture never changed. Even more shocking was the crowds' lack of reaction. I was the one that screamed, I felt the pain, imagined my skin blistering and eyes bursting. I needed one of my parents to envelop me, wrap their arms around me and tell me it was all right. Then the image changed, gone was the burning monk as the news cut to striking dock workers. I rubbed my eyes and blinked into the screen, at first I couldn't even cry. Only later, a few minutes after going to sleep, the dreams began. I woke screaming, thought about running along the landing to their bedroom and get into bed with them. I switched my bedroom light on, read my book. The words merged into a bonfire, the letters burnt red. Flames leapt out of the page. My fingers burnt, I threw the book away.

I crept downstairs, hoping that both of my parents would be sat in their morbidly silent living room. Bud luck I thought, the kitchen light was on and voices drifted out of the half opened door. It was my father's perverted boss and they were in a whispered conversation, I caught snatches.

'I'm up before the selection committee.'

'For the next election?'

'I think so.'

'That could be four years away.'

'That suits me.'

Silence.

A long ten seconds later my father said, 'what do you think of Andrew Gates?'

'Bright boy, likes the ladies.'

One of them laughed, not my father.

*

I uncrossed my legs, pressed my knees demurely together, all the time watching Malkovitch. My skirt not short, but cut just above the knee. We smiled at one another, I was impressed with the way he maintained eye contact. I said, 'what do you think?'

'I think you've done well, we've covered a lot.' Harvey Malkovitch stood and stretched, stared down at me and said, 'did he really call you the Whore of Babylon?'

'And I never even lost my virginity.' I smiled, 'that came a week later.'

'Did it now?' His eyebrows arched, 'how did you manage to recall your father's conversation with his boss? You must attach a great deal importance to it.'

I sighed, 'I was just searching for something.'

'I'd wage a pound that you want to find something less than savoury about him?'

'There has to be...' I frowned and started again, 'I want to puncture his utopian public persona.'

'And you've never found anything.'

'Apart from what he did to me, nothing, not yet anyway.'

Malkovitch sat down again and said, 'one thing before we wrap this up, your mother never confronted you?'

'No, she even approved of my choice of date. Perhaps this tempered her curious nature and hence the reluctance to begin a new inquisition.'

'Parents like their offspring in stable relationships.'

I smiled, 'Her obvious fondness for him, soon resulted in my new status of having someone I could call an ex-boyfriend.'

Harvey Malkovitch laughed.

### 6

### Stuart

I remembered something Don's ex-wife said about him once. She was drunk at the time so it would explain the content. She said that the mighty Don Wilson was as thick as the thickest plank and only capable of thinking with his stupid, great big prick. That made me and Jack smile, Don wasn't stupid so much as lazy. Why else would he have remained a policeman in a small town? The irony of this wasn't lost on me, much the same reason Jack and myself never left the safety of a provincial town. Perhaps like me, Don just enjoyed it here.

I smiled to myself at the memory and walked towards the office on what was a soft summer evening. Early evening and a white mist hung in the tops of the willows and poplars that lined Letcombe Brook. A flock of swallows veered back and forth above the tree tops, the beating of their wings audible to those below. I went through the front door where Jack ignored me and carried on his laborious editing. Hunched over his desk, pen in one hand, cigarette in the other.

'Mrs Mably is popping in, try and moderate your language please.' Spoken to his desk, but I nodded anyway.

The door opened at the same time, Mrs Mably walked in and I stood, hands hanging limply by my side, awkward and tense. I wondered how she felt. She was wearing a simple summer dress, short enough for me to notice shapely legs and as she got closer, the resemblance to Helen was striking. I tried to work her age out, Helen was forty, Mrs Mably could be anything between sixty and seventy plus. Although she looked much closer to sixty than the upper limit, she still had a nicely profiled face, bone structure showing off her agreeably constructed cheekbones. She would have been a real beauty, but now events had caught up with her.

Jack took her hand first and went through the usual commiserations. I also shook her hand as Jack said, 'Sit down – please.'

Jack had made a pot of tea and we sat around his desk. Mrs Mably was drinking tea, but I needed something stronger. In the quietness of the office I was surprised to discover that Joan Mably had a Wiltshire or a Gloucestershire accent. I not picked up on this before, whenever we'd met before at different functions, I guessed the usual background noise masked the honeyed tones. She and Mably certainly made a striking looking couple. She was as I remembered, polite, charming, and gracious. But on this occasion, extremely tense, forever twisting her necklace between finger and thumb with one hand and picking her thumb nail with the first finger of the other.

Jack said, 'Joan, it's always so lovely to see you. I'm just so sorry about the circumstances.'

Joan Mably sighed, stopped fingering her necklace and picked up her tea cup. 'It's the not knowing – David won't talk about it, stiff upper lip and all of that rubbish.'

'Quite,' Jack replied, 'us men are not very good with our emotions are we?'

She just shrugged in confirmation and we sat in a stubborn silence.

I could stand the awkwardness no longer, 'But once you do get talking, it soon begins to unwind.'

I glanced at Jack, he certainly wouldn't agree, he was a fully paid up member of the stiff upper lip society.

'He hasn't coped with retirement, and now this – all I can think of is Helen in a shallow grave, or a ditch somewhere. Dead and alone, a parent's worst nightmare, we can't make our peace or bury her.'

'She's just disappeared, gone off the rails, gone on holiday – Joan, it's too early to be thinking like that.'

She put her cup down, turned and stared at me. 'I wonder where we went wrong. Do you think we were too strict?'

I smiled, 'I'm the last person on this earth that you should be talking about parenting skills.'

'Anyway,' Joan Mably picked her handbag up and brought two envelopes out. 'Don't read these while I'm here. I can't discuss the contents, it's all too upsetting. I'll just say Helen sent us a couple of letters, just after she went up to university. She held one envelope up, this is the first, David burnt the others. God knows why I kept it.'

I took the letters from her, Jack lips turned down a touch, he was head banana after all. He was the one who received all the important correspondence.

'I just hope it brings some insight into how things were between Helen and David.' Joan Mably leaned across and rested her hand on the back of mine, 'Promise, no looking at these until I'm well gone from here.'

'But the police should have anything that might...'

Jack's sentence cut short, 'David wouldn't consider that. There are details in that letter of a sexual nature, a man she'd...' A tear appeared and dribbled down and over the ridge of her cheekbone. 'A man she knew, I'm guessing that's the biblical known. Perhaps it will give you an idea of what she's put us through.'

'Was this after the incident with the three policemen?' I didn't look at Jack, but I felt a disapproving glare coming towards me.

'You've been digging around,' Joan Mably sighed, 'not a word about these to David, promise me that.' She held a manila envelope up. 'It's enough to send anyone mad. David was so shocked when he read it. He walked out of the house, I read it and kept it for some reason.' Joan Mably held the other envelope up, 'Look, we've all done terrible things, now all we want is closure somehow.'

I hardly waited for the door to close behind Joan Mably, before I opened the envelope.

'Just a minute – let the poor woman get away. You heard what she said.' Jack had his disgusted face on.

'It's like she wants Helen dead.' Jack lit a cigarette and I fanned the two envelopes out, 'Take a card, any card.'

Jack leant back and ignored me, I said, 'Well, I'll read it, dated the last day of September nineteen seventy.' I read the first couple of lines, 'Jees, I don't know if I can...'

'Read it out, you're the voyeur remember.'

I took a deep breath, '"I met Kenny Catmore in The Swan. You must remember him daddy? You arrested his father enough times."

'And the good Inspector also arrested Kenny a couple of years later.' I sat back and waited for Jack to ask the obvious question. 'Was he married to Kathy at this time?'

'Yes – they married two years before, Kathy was nineteen.'

And Kenny was four years older. An old antagonist of mine, I'd thieved Kathy away from him and Kenny was convicted of murdering his father a few months later. That couldn't be a briefer history of what happened, but it will have to do for now.

'Are you all right? You look dreadful.'

'I've got the gist of this already, you couldn't make it up, ready for more?' Jack nodded and I carried on. '"He bought me a drink and we chatted. He told me he was married, but who cares? I asked him if he had his car and Kenny said it was parked behind the church. We walked the short distance to his car. I sat on the front wing and parted my legs. He stood between them and pulled me towards him. We kissed, you could tell he was married, they're always desperate for it. He fucked me across the bonnet of his car. Right behind the church, how about that? I've seen him a few times since then, he wants to leave his wife. Don't worry, I'm off back to university and won't cause any scandal. I'll send you letters, an account as I fuck my way through the freshers and then the lecturers. I know you've had the solicitor's letter by now. You've hurt me more than you can ever imagine and I'll never forgive you."'

'Stop there. She sent this to her parents?' Jack hammered his cigarette out and gestured me to carry on.

'That's it apart from "Always your adoring daughter and lots of love – Helen."'

'Adoring daughter!' Jack snapped.

'I told you that she hated him.'

'Well what about the mother in all of this? What's she done wrong?'

'We don't know what David Mably's done wrong yet – apart from being a cold hearted father. That doesn't deserve this.' I waved the letter at Jack.

'Are you going to tell Kathy?'

'I don't know, she won't believe me anyway. Kathy truly believed that Kenny was faithful. That's where all of her conflict came from, she thought she was the only one messing around.'

Jack glared my way, 'It was only you she messed around with you by all accounts.'

'Your point is?' I stared back until Jack smiled, I pointed at the letter in Jack's hand, 'What have you got, more soft-porn?'

Jack turned many things into a ritual and now he managed to give a fair impression of an illusionist pulling a rabbit from a hat. He pulled his shirt cuffs up, showed me the palms of his hands, scratched his head as he scanned the desk for his paper knife.

'It's open.'

He stared at me, 'What?'

'The envelope isn't sealed.'

Jack nodded, lifted the envelope flap and slid a sheet of A4 paper out. He raised his eyebrows, then puffed his cheeks out. 'Headed notepaper, Austen Chamberlain and Sons – they're solicitors.'

'I know who they are.' Everyone knew who they are and what they did. We only had three solicitor's practices in town and Chamberlain's handled Kathy's divorce over twenty years ago anyway. It seemed that the whole town's recent history had been condensed into that short period.

Jack unfolded the single sheet of what looked like decent quality paper. 'Well, well, well.'

I groaned and slapped the walnut table top with the flat of my hand, 'Jack, for fuck sake...'

He smiled, 'It's a letter withdrawing the threat of legal action against the police. Or more specifically, informing David Mably of their client's decision to withdraw legal action against three police officers.'

'Can I see?'

'It's not very long, listen. "Against our best and current legal advice, my client has decided to withdraw her complaint against three of your officers. This decision resulted from disgraceful pressure exerted from forces very close to her." Jack placed the letter face down on the desk and said, 'that's it, short and sweet.'

'Withdraw pending legal action? I'm lost.'

### 7

### Helen Mably

'It's all too painful. Confront the demons sounds an easy enough way of progressing.' I shrugged, 'I can't do it, it's just too much. My mind gets pushed away from the cathartic, just like magnetic poles of the same polarity decline to ever meet, my mind refuses to consider anything remotely disturbing.'

'There's no rush,' as usual Malkovitch spoke to his notebook. 'You say you lost your virginity soon after the summer ball.'

I stared at him, but he kept his head down, I wanted to know just what he was thinking as much or if not more than he wanted to know what was rattling around in my head. 'I can talk about the summer, leading up to the attack. The summer of love, nineteen sixty seven and the end of my exams. Stuart always associated a hit record with an event, I never had that ability.'

'Stuart?'

'My boyfriend.'

'Your parents approved...'

'Of course not, but I'll come to why not soon enough.'

'Is your boyfriend, what was his name again?'

'Stuart.'

'Is he important in all of this?'

'Yes, we were so intense together, he certainly influenced my profane streak, he was quick tempered and foul mouthed, but never angry with me, he loved me and I loved being the focus of a man's love. Ever since it was that level of intensity that I always craved.'

'You were happy with him and wanted to recreate that intensity.'

'Well do you think he was the reason I developed a preference for the younger man?' I wanted some eye contact, but Malkovitch was busy scribbling away. 'You're going to tell me that it's a classic case of arrested sexual development?'

'Not necessarily,' He spoke to his notebook, 'maybe it's just a relationship that you've idealised.'

*

When I got home after my session with Malkovitch, I sat at the kitchen table and thought about the days after the summer ball. My sexuality resurfaced after that one brief encounter as quickly as a deep sea pearl diver breaks the water after a long dive. I was ready, my self-enforced stay at home about to end. I knew plenty of sexually retarded boys that would have jumped at me and would have made my parents comfortable with their bland politeness. I lied and used their names as an excuse to escape.

'Where are you going? Are you meeting whatshisname?'

'We're going to the cinema.'

Whatshisname became the alibi, my parents thought I was out with whatshisname, instead I went into town on my own. I thought that even in a small town, there must be young men with some life in them, some spirit. Enough of both of those characteristics to upset my parents anyway. I soon realised that there were rich pickings, I knew Stuart from way back in primary school and watched him in a packed bar in The Swan. The way he strutted around looking for trouble, a tearaway drinking with his mates, shouting at the girls as they pushed by in the scrum. The music blared and I stared at Stuart, his glares, the overt sexual threat that came out from this intense gaze.

He was out looking, which suited me. Suddenly he was alongside, my heart lurched and my crystal clear world suddenly turned opaque. My stomach gave a heave and I felt the urge to double up, he stood so close in his black jacket, t-shirt and flares, not smiling, just standing and looking down at me. Did he make me feel uncomfortable in any way? No is the answer and it was as if no one had ever looked at me like this before. Then the acute sensation of becoming intensely self-conscious swept through me. My heart pounded, the rise and fall of my chest, the surface of my body was prickling with a kind of panic and excitement.

He spoke, 'I was just thinking that the next woman I talked to, I would fall in love with – and guess what?'

Despite the clichéd line, I felt myself laughing. Stuart was handsome with his piercing, pale grey eyes and his tumbled, curly brown hair and his high, flat cheekbones. The same overwhelming emotion swept over me from two years earlier, when I was kissing Andrew Gates. I was concentrating on how focused Stuart was, I felt unable, or unwilling to move out of his gaze. My breath came in little, ragged gasps. But despite the tension within, I couldn't turn away. Could men detect this blinding weakness I felt? Was it a trick of social Darwinism? Was I that transparent? I might as well have had a stamp on my forehead saying "up for it".

I spoke falteringly, 'I haven't seen you for ages.' I nodded to his group of noisy friends. 'You're all having a good time. All those girls around you.'

'Them,' Stuart nodded at the trio of girls he'd been talking to, 'they're all trouble.'

'I thought men liked bad girls?' I glanced at the group and two of the girls glared back, before they turned their backs. 'They look lively.'

'Lively! Just one up from being on the game.'

'That's not a very nice thing to say.' We stared into each other's eyes, I couldn't work out who made the first step. Perhaps we just stumbled towards one another, or perhaps I was just waiting for this moment. We stood opposite each other, not touching, hands by our sides. I wanted him to run the back of his hand gently across my cheekbone

'Anyway I don't care about them,' Stuart said in a low voice, 'I've been waiting years for you.'

I nearly laughed out loud. This wasn't me, I thought, this couldn't be happening. Gone were my carefully crafted images of Don, his face on the cusp of an orgasm. Instead I gazed up into Stuart's wide-set eyes. He smiled and it showed the white, even teeth, except that there was a small gap between the front two. His chin was clean shaven and he had the beginnings of a moustache. There was a bite mark on his neck. His hair was quite long, and uncombed. Oh, yes, he was gorgeous and I wanted to reach up and touch his mouth, ever so gently, with one thumb. I wanted to feel the scratch of his moustache in the hollow of my neck. Or between my legs, which I squeezed together at the image this created.

I wanted to say something witty, but all that came out was a strangled, prim, 'have you now.'

'Please,' he said, still not taking his eyes off my face. 'Why don't we go somewhere less crowded?'

Did he recognise my impulsive streak? Probably I thought as I nodded dumbly at him and he stepped towards the door of the bar. He held open the door and we walked out into the warm, early June evening. He slipped his arm around my waist and we both leaned against one another as we walked across the market square. I slid my hand under his jacket and felt his ribs through the tight t-shirt. No spare flesh on this one I thought.

Stuart suddenly stopped and turned. I looked up at him, his eyes flashing away in the streetlight. 'You look stunning – I've always thought that.'

We kissed, no gentle coming together, teeth clashing together, mouths wide apart, tongues fighting. My legs gave away for a split second, Stuart held me and said. 'Do you want me?'

My composure was further disturbed like deck chairs being scattered in a gale on a rolling passenger liner. 'What?'

He was inches from my eyes as he spoke, 'I've watched you from afar. You hypnotise me.'

I suddenly had this thought racing around inside my head, what if my father could see me now? I spoke through a grin. 'My parents warned me about boys like you.'

'How is your dad?'

'My father is – well, my father. And you're just the sort of young man that he rages against, semi-delinquent that you are.'

'You're mixing me up with someone else I feel.' We stared at one another, then Stuart whispered it again, 'do you want me?'

Yes I thought, I want you so much. With a lot of difficulty I managed to say something, 'you're a bit forward – do you talk to every girl you meet this way?'

Stuart smiled, 'Do you fancy a coffee?'

'Got your own place then.'

He shook his head, 'Friday night, my parents are both working.'

'House to yourself?'

'Well the upstairs anyway.'

We went around the outside of a pub in Grove Street, stopped at a side door which Stuart opened.

'You live in a pub?'

He nodded and ushered me through. I stared up at a long flight of stairs directly in front of me, 'You're guiding me straight up to your bedroom?'

'Living quarters are upstairs.' He smiled, 'No need to panic.'

'Oh I'm not panicking.' I slinked my way upstairs. A short dress, a steep flight of stairs and I imagined Stuart half a dozen steps below me. His eyes at the same level as my buttocks. I felt his hands on my hips and a breath-taking sensation broke over me. By the time we reached the top, I turned and wrapped my arms around him and we kissed again.

Years later, I always looked back upon the night I spent with Stuart and marvelled at the storm we created. The series of images like a collage of photographs merged in my mind. The sounds as well, a piano playing in the bar below, muffled noises of drunk men shouting and singing, Stuart whispering in my ear, the melancholy light in the bedroom, generated by a solitary streetlight outside. The sombre atmosphere this created contrasted starkly with the intensity of our lovemaking. The sensation of a hot body running the length of mine, the sharp pain as he slowly entered me, quickly followed by waves of pleasure, I pulsed and twitched as if an irregular electric shock kept charging through my body.

An hour or so later he said, 'do you want a drink?'

I nodded, 'What about your parents?'

Stuart looked down at his watch, 'They'll be busy for a couple of hours yet. Their bedrooms at the other end of the house as well. As long as you don't make as much noise again, we'll be ok. What time do you have to be home by?'

I lied easily enough, 'there's no rush.'

'Can you stay all night?'

'I want to.'

'You can ring your parents from here.'

I sighed, 'No, thanks anyway. My father is one impossible bastard. Overbearing, omnipresent, ubiquitous. Do you get on with your parents?'

'I suppose.'

'Do you argue?'

'Of course, with my dad anyway. But he blows out in seconds. It's over and forgotten.'

'My father doesn't speak to me, only to castigate me for some misdemeanour.'

'What – ignores you?'

'He walks straight past me sometimes. No eye contact, nothing.'

'He smacked me around the ear three or four years ago.'

'Why?'

'He called me a cunt during a minute's silence.'

'My father wouldn't use language like that.'

'No – my mate. Shouted it and your old man heard. It made the local paper.'

'What him hitting you?'

'No, the two of us creating a scene during a minutes silence for an assassinated American president. They couldn't name us because we were minors.'

'What did your father say?'

Stuart laughed, 'Called me some names, threatened to stop my pocket money, followed by a public flogging. I heard him laughing about it with his mates an hour later.'

'You're lucky. I don't know how people work for father. Evidently, the first thing he did when he got the job, was to move his desk. And he put it in the communal office area. His office was kept for interviewing and writing reports. Most of the time, he sat dead centre in the middle of the others. Just so he could keep his eye on everybody. Slap bang in the middle his desk and his telephone and the great man himself.'

'I bet they all love him.'

'No pleasing my father, eye-catching, responsible, hardworking policeman, efficient office, one that comes with a lot of tension though. He should be contented, instead he is plagued with shame and uncertainty and pain because of me and Christopher.'

'I know Christopher, we used to play football with him.'

'Is he any good?'

'Useless, but it was good fun.'

'Do you take the piss out of him?'

'Of course, but it was always a good natured affair. Why is he ashamed of Christopher?'

'Because he's not the perfect specimen, one who doesn't conform to the image of his perfect parents.'

'Your mum's attractive.'

'When have you seen her?'

'Coming out of church one day, holding Christopher's hand. You and your father striding out in front.'

'Where were you off to?'

'The Royal Oak for a pint.'

'Shameful. You go to the pub and I get church and the incessant questioning. A conscious adulthood was never something that obstructed my brother. He gets the meaning for his life some other way. I don't mean because he's simple. Some people thought he was simple because all of his life he was so kind. But Christopher's not as stupid as my father makes out. Simple is never that simple. Still, the self-questioning did take some time to reach him. And if there's anything worse than self-questioning coming too early in life, it's self-questioning coming too late.'

'You've lost me.' Stuart brushed the back of his hand across my cheekbone, just what I wanted him to do two hours earlier and I felt a gigantic pulse energise me. We kissed long and slow this time.

I pulled back and gazed into his eyes, 'has it been good?' Fishing for a compliment, I needed him to not only think that I was the sexiest woman on the planet, I needed him to tell me just that.

He didn't disappoint me, 'you're very sexy, can we do this again?'

'Yes please. When? I'm not busy next week.'

'No, not next week,' I frowned, Stuart took hold of my hand and guided it down onto his erection. 'I was thinking of right now.'

A few hours later we walked across town towards the red chevrons of cloud fingering their jagged way across the sky. A sure enough indicator of a sun about to rise and I clasped both hands around Stuart's arm and we walked this way towards the house.

We stood in front of the door, Stuart said, 'Will you be all right?'

I shrugged, 'I don't care, but I'll get the customary inquisition I expect.'

'I think you quite enjoy confrontation.'

'Don't know about that. What I do know is that I'm sore.'

'Sorry, I'm not a very sensitive lover.'

'You were perfect.' We began to kiss and after a few seconds the door opened.

A harsh, clipped voice, 'what time do you call this?'

Stuart reply was heavily laced with sarcasm, 'It's five thirty and I've walked Helen home from a party.'

'Who are you?'

'I'm the one escorting your daughter home.'

'I'm supposed to be grateful am I?'

Stuart shrugged, 'I would have thought that a degree of acknowledgement would be in order.'

How marvellous, I giggled as my father said, 'I know you from somewhere,' He sniffed the air, then pointed through the open door behind him. 'Get in now and have a shower while you're at it.'

I turned and pecked Stuart on the cheek. 'Thanks for a lovely time.' I faced my father and said, 'talking to me again then?'

Nothing was the same again. Sex was meant to be like this. There was no indifferent sex, embarrassing sex, nasty sex, good sex or great sex. It was better than that, we crashed together, trying to get past the barrier of skin and flesh. We held each other as if we were grappling wrestlers. We tasted each other as if we gluttonous dogs. And all the time he looked at me. He looked at me as if I were the loveliest thing he had ever seen. I felt beautiful and shameless, exhausted and enlivened. All at the same time, I felt like a work of art and a whore in equal measure.

We'd stare into each other's eyes and our bruised lips made contact again. Whenever I got home, I pictured him, remembered his touch, his taste, his smell. Despite his temper and reputation as a troublemaker, Stuart always treated me with consideration, told me he loved me. Losing your virginity at nearly eighteen couldn't be considered promiscuous, but the shackles came well and truly off. But even this wasn't enough for me, I twisted the knife into him, telling about others that wanted to go out with me, mostly imaginary lovers. I knew he was jealous anyway and his face gave him away, close to tears.

Then I flicked the switch and made him better again when I said, 'do you want to come in me this time?'

It was easy, I had the power – or thought I did. Complacency is a cruel state of mind to dwell in. Contented to a fault; self-satisfied and unconcerned. I was so smug until the weather broke suddenly, did it coincide with the darkest phase of my life? It didn't feel like it at the time. I was caught in a violent late August thunderstorm. My skimpy cotton dress was soaked, my hair plastered around my scalp.

A car pulled up and it was Don, he wound the car window down and said, 'does the poor little drowned rat want a lift home?'

I hadn't spoken to him for two years, our paths never crossing and here I was sat in his car. My dress sticking to me, highlighting my breasts. I felt my nipples engorge and it became unstoppable. Not that I was going to let him touch me, but I wanted to provoke, prod him, shake his little world up a bit. It soon turned out that I had bitten off more than I could chew. I was out of control and I loved it.

Don said, 'the last time I saw you, you were bent over a snooker table.'

I knew Don's eyes were all over me, I felt bold to the point of being reckless and I directed the conversation, it was only ever going one way. I wanted to shake him up. 'I haven't played since then. All this cooped up studying makes for a dull life. Anyway that wasn't the last time you saw me.' He frowned, Don frowned a lot, taking on the appearance of a confused mastiff it seemed. I enjoyed causing confusion, 'I was outside of the social club – remember?'

'You were playing with fire on that night.' His face relaxed a touch and Don nodded. 'I remember, anyway by all accounts you're catching up on life now.'

'What've you heard?'

'Out and about with a little tearaway.'

'Stuart's good fun.'

'Some might say that you need a man not a boy.'

'That would be you saying that would it?'

I'd just put a little daylight between my knees. My dress was nearer my waist than my knees by now anyway. I twisted a little and looked into his eyes. Sure enough he was looking at my legs. A small victory I know, but I felt a concentration of energy between my legs and if he had touched me at that moment it would have been irresistible. I wanted him at that moment. Fortunately Don stopped the car outside my house. But I wanted the tease to never end.

'I'd ask you in for a coffee, but I think mum's in.'

I'd learnt a while ago that adults talk in euphemisms when it comes to sex. Agreeing to meet for a coffee or lunch meant only one thing. Asking someone in for a coffee was just a short cut to the bedroom. I watched Don closely, his frown, running his hands through his hair. A deep sigh, was he debating a response with his inner-conscious? Unlikely, like most, I knew he didn't have one. This cheapened the challenge, he was a hound for women, but I was determined to have him – on my terms though. The implication that I was laying things on a plate for him was necessary in my grand scheme of things. But for my mum being in, he would've ended up in my bed.

'Did you just say that because you're on a bit of a tease Don Wilson kick?' I nodded and smiled. He frowned again, 'that's a dangerous game to play. You shouldn't tease.'

'I thought men liked to be teased?'

He stared through the windscreen and said nothing for a while. 'I'm ok with it.'

'What about a game of snooker sometime.'

He nodded, 'Tonight? Shall I pick you up?'

'If it's not raining,' I shook my head, 'I'll walk, what time?'

I was in turmoil all afternoon, I had a date with Stuart, I rang and cancelled. I knew Stuart would be distraught. I changed my clothes half a dozen times. Skirt or trousers? Halter neck top or loose jumper? Knickers or no knickers? Tease or consummation? What sort of a word is that? Consummation was a word my Methodist father would use. If he was talking to me that is. But since the events from the week before, I inhabited a silent world where even my mum walked around the house exhaling the deepest sighing sighs of exasperation at my behaviour.

'Where are you going?'

'Just out.'

'I suppose it's too much to ask where, or with who?'

'I'm playing snooker actually. Safely ensconced in a police social club, does that satisfy your puritanical sensibilities?'

'Helen!' He speaks, my father speaks. 'Don't talk to your mother like that. Show some respect.'

He speaks, if only in admonishment. I flounced out, 'don't wait up.'

This had become my parting shot of a mantra these days. Although I wasn't planning on being late. In fact I didn't know what my plans were, as I said, I was in a state of some confusion. I walked into the dimly lit club and noticed Don stood at the bar. Surrounded by his cronies, sniggers and nudges greeted my self-conscious walk towards them. Don was as indiscreet as I hoped he would be and I was sure there was a collective sense of disappointment amongst them. Trousers and a loose, denim shirt, buttoned to my chin wasn't what they were expecting.

I glanced at a man stood alongside Don, Andrew and with new sergeant's stripes on his arm. The unwritten rule was jackets off in the club. No rank on display, just colleagues having a social drink. He smiled at me and nodded a greeting.

'Just got promotion then? I thought it was no jackets in here?'

Andrew was about to answer, when Don beat him to the punch. 'He's so proud of his promotion. His wife tells me he wears it in bed.'

Andrew turned his back on Don and went back to his drink.

The snooker didn't have the attraction of a couple of years ago. After an hour, I was tired with things and asked Don to drive me home. Most of the others had gone by this time, except for Andrew and two of his cronies. One of them, the one who had crept up behind me while I was in a clinch with Andrew, said in a stage whisper. 'Go on Don, give her one for me.'

More sniggers as we walked out of the club. When I sat in the car I said, 'Life's full of disappointments isn't it?'

'What do you mean?'

I never answered and we drove off in silence. But I was the one disappointed, Don never even touched me. I was expecting the lunge across the short distance between us at least. He never tried anything, never needed the courtesy stop that drivers usually needed in this situation. He stopped outside the house, turned both the lights and engine off before saying, 'Thank you, it's been a pleasure. You're good company.'

What was going on here? Don had put me on the back foot, convinced he would make a move, I was confused and disillusioned.

'Does your wife know?'

'Know what? That I've played snooker with my inspector's daughter?'

'Do you want to play again sometime?'

What had I learned? That Stuart cared too much and whilst that was much more fun, it was too easy in a way. That Don knew the game better than me and I needed a good teacher.

I opened that car door and Don said, 'don't push it too much.' I turned and stared at him and waited. 'Be careful who you tease.'

### 8

### Stuart

I should have been making my way home, instead I walked up Church Street, passed the Woolpack and quickly through the door of the police station. The Shipman brothers were sat on chairs. Olive skinned, one had dyed his hair ginger and looked absurd, the other with his head shaved. Local hard men, any comment about the ginger hair would result in a punch in the mouth an here and here they were again, another statement, another misdemeanour, another caution. I nodded to them and they both smiled.

Nick the younger brother, said 'Watch out, say nothing.'

I smiled and pressed the bell.

'You'll be lucky, we've been waiting twenty minutes.

'Yeh? What have you done this time? Not more lead of the church roof.'

'There isn't any left to take.' The elder brother chimed in as the desk sergeant sidled up to the counter.

I said, 'These two reprobates were here first.'

'They're waiting for Don Wilson, what can I do for you?'

'Can I go and have a nose around the club – I need to talk to the steward.'

A button was pressed and I opened the door, 'end of the corridor,' accompanied me as I went through. I loved the security of these places, he knew who I was and what I did, but c'mon, I smiled to myself and walked along the corridor. The club was pretty much empty apart from two uniformed policeman playing snooker. Were they on duty? Probably the way they wouldn't look at me. I strolled up to the bar and waited. The two policemen put their snooker cues in a rack against the wall and left. I smiled, on duty and feeling guilty about things?

'Hello there, what can I get you?'

A small man, with metal round framed glasses and a hearing aid.

'You used to have a wooden board with the names and date of service of all of the stewards that worked here. Has it gone?'

'Hmmm. Ripped off the wall a couple of New Year Eve's ago. High spirits the Inspector said. Well he would wouldn't he?'

'Where is it?'

'In a skip somewhere, why do you ask?'

'I wanted to chat to a steward who worked here years ago.'

He tipped his head a touch, 'How long ago?'

'Nineteen sixty seven, late summer.'

I could see him making the mental calculation, ticking the years off in his head. 'Twenty three years ago.' He frowned, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Another computation was going on, finally. 'Are you that reporter?' He stared hard at me for a few seconds.

I said, 'Do you know if he's still living close by, or alive even.'

'He's alive all right. He's stood right in front of you. I've worked here for over twenty-five years.'

'Were you working when Mably's daughter...'

He cut me off, 'I told them it would come out eventually. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I kept my mouth shut, this job was mine for as long as I wanted it.'

'Does that mean you're not going to tell me about it? Off the record, I promise you that.'

'I'm saying nothing mate. Only a couple of years left until I retire, do I look stupid?'

'So a girl gets raped and you're going to keep your mouth shut.'

He shook his head, 'I don't know if she was raped and that's the honest truth.'

'What happened then?'

He stared around, this way, that way, up, down, gawked long and hard at me, finally gesturing with his head. 'Out the back, if anyone comes in here you've got to go out through the fire escape and fuck off.'

We sat on a couple of empty beer crates in the afternoon sun. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke he expelled drift towards the deep blue sky.

'She was always in here. The Inspector used to bring her along when she was hardly tall enough to see over the top of the snooker table. He used to think he could get matey with his police officers. Some chance, he'd buy them beer, but they found him hard work. Mably had no idea, couldn't ask the right question. Awkward silences, they all took the piss out of him behind his back. He was good at his job though, a real stickler, a decent Inspector. And all the time that little minx was flirting with anyone that was in here. Cutting her teeth, she always made all the running.'

'Did she sleep with many of them?'

'Sleep, I don't know, they used to mess around out the back here.'

'Just horseplay or...?'

'I told you I don't know, just that she liked the boys. Well she liked to tease, I don't know if anything actually went on.'

'What happened?'

'Late one night, mid-week, three young P.C's, well one was a sergeant and her. Horsing about, she was all over all of them, they were all over her. I should have said something. Any fool could see things were getting out of hand.' He dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his cheap tennis shoes. 'They were talking about tying her up and she seemed ok with it all. They were all mauling her, she seemed happy enough. They saw me and told me to fuck off home, I went out the back way, slammed the back door and left them to it.'

'Was that it?'

He shrugged, 'Don't know anymore, but they shipped the three of them out pretty quick. I was terrified she was going to bring charges against them. I would have had to tell it as I saw it. Giving evidence against a policeman, no thanks.'

'What happened?'

'The Inspector come and had a quiet word with me a few days later. Said it was all a misunderstanding and we must all move on.'

'Is that it? I stared at the steward and eventually he nodded. 'Thank you, it won't go any farther I promise you.'

'Don't go back through the building. Creep around the outside.' As I turned to go, he grabbed my shoulder. 'I feel better, it's a long time. I've never even told my Mrs'

'It all makes some sense now.' I said.

'Well it might to you. Where is she these days?'

I walked back down Church Street thinking about a young woman who may have been violated and humiliated and did I tell Kathy about her ex-husband?

*

Kathy had recently showered and changed after work, sat in the garden, taking the late afternoon sun. She raised a glass at me, 'first of the day, are you joining me?'

I shook my head, 'Later – I have to pop into Oxford, don't look like that, its work.' I took a deep breath, 'Did you ever think that Kenny was ever unfaithful?'

'What sort of question is that? Where did you dig that one up from?'

'Did you?'

'No, I never had the slightest doubt, why?'

'Helen Mably kept a journal, she mentioned Kenny.'

'When?'

'It was dated nineteen seventy, August. You'd been married two...'

'I know how long I'd been married.' We sat in silence, I waited for the next obvious question. It didn't take long coming. 'What did it have to say?'

Kathy's black hair and fierce green eyes dazzled in the evening sun. Her intense Coleen, Irishness moved me and always would. The first glimpse of her turned me to stone. She blew like a hurricane, Kathy was bright, a left leaning C.N.D activist, who sang like a linnet and argued like a pneumatic drill. She had burned the mannerisms of her wild father into her soul. Although they appeared rarely, usually when the kids were criticised by someone other than myself, or I had one too many down the pub. She had high cheekbones, small breasted and prone to punch me on the bicep to get my attention. We stole hours here and there when she was married to Kenny. I held her hot body as if it was a life raft, then she drowned me in her sexuality. As we fell in love our appetites for each other grew as well. We met in hotel rooms, my car, her car, my bed when my parents were away. The speed and intensity of it never changed – a mad dash to the finish line, first one there wins.

'They met a few times. Just for a drink.'

'You're lying, I can read you like a book, anyway I can't imagine Helen meeting anyone just for a drink.' Then Kathy's stare that demanded an honest answer, 'what did it say?'

'Bear in mind we're not sure if she'd turned into some sort of deranged fantasist or not. She sent the letters to hurt her father, no one knows if they were true or not.' Kathy stared on until I could stand no more, 'She said they left the Swan together, got in his car and had it off behind the church.'

Kathy increased the grip on her glass, 'I don't know what to say, I don't really believe it. But its old news, we've all moved on. It would have made me feel less guilty if I'd known at the time. Why are you telling me this?'

'I agonised long and hard, I didn't know what to do for the best. I just thought you should know.' She went quiet, I waited a few seconds, 'I need to talk to Kenny. Would you mind?'

'Why should I care? I haven't seen him since god knows when.'

I knew when, we saw him in Oxford soon after he came out of prison. We'd had three children during his incarceration and we were all out together. He was going into The Grapes in George Street he never saw us. Kathy never noticed him and I never said anything at the time.

Kathy shook me out of my brief reverie, 'Why do you have to go into Oxford and why do you want to see that wreck of an ex-husband of mine?'

'Jack sniffs a story.'

'That doesn't answer my question. Why do you need to see Kenny?'

'To see if Helen's a fantasist.'

'I'm confused.' Kathy swilled the remnants of her drink around, drained the glass and threw the ice cubes onto the lawn for the dog. 'What difference does her being a fantasist make one way or the other?'

'Jack spies a conspiracy of silence in amongst it all – material for a book, or at least a couple of articles in the paper.'

Kathy unnerved me with her stare into my eyes. 'You know how much trouble this kind of thing got you into before. Promise me you're not going to do anything silly?'

'I'll behave, I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, I have a phone number for him.'

'When was the last time you spoke to him?'

'That memorable night, just before they arrested him.'

Kathy took a deep breath, 'All those years, I felt guilt that I was the one cheating in the relationship.' She came up close and we wrapped our arms around one another, 'Don't hit him, you know he'll stir the pot in his usual inimitable way.'

*

I expected a broken man, instead I found my wife's ex-husband looking good and sounding better. I never remembered him having skin that dark, I expected his hair to thin somewhat and it had. At least he kept it short and never went for the scrape over much favoured by his father. Kenny had bad skin which he blamed on prison food and little natural daylight. His sour disposition was not unexpected either, nor his grandiose affectations. Kenny wore tinted glasses and a straw boater. He'd affected a post-hippy, undergraduate look. Going to prison and then living in a university town had structured him into something resembling a pacifist, come clarinet player. I knew different.

We sat in outside The Perch, nursing our beer it seemed, until we knew where we stood after all of these years. Kenny spoke and just like always, he was saying just a small fraction of what he actually knew or meant. He had arrived alone, saw me sitting in the evening sunshine, bought himself a pint and joined me.

No handshake, just a nod, 'You haven't changed much.'

I stared at Kenny and replied, 'I can't say the same for you.'

He smiled, 'how's Kathy?'

'Very well.'

'Is she behaving herself?'

Well he didn't take long to revert to type I thought. Desperately trying to affect nonchalance, I shrugged and smiled at the same time. 'Dunno, as long as she's discrete and washes my socks I'm happy.' I stared at him, Kenny wouldn't have talked this way years ago. He'd have got a cuffing and still might. 'Anyway, that's eighteen years more than you managed.'

He'd changed, some might say that a spell in prison works. The smile never left his face. The last time I provoked him, Kenny tried to put a piece of heavy brass tubing across my head. He leaned forwards, 'Touché. What's this all about then? Not some casual visit I'm sure.'

I stared at him, disregard the hippy clarinet player I thought. On reflection Kenny had the look of a Parisian impressionist artiste of the 1890s. All he needed was a little goatee and some paint splattered down his front. A strange, but not unappealing look, 'what are you doing these days, work wise?'

'Usual – machine shop down by the canal. Pays well enough, prison makes you lazy though.'

We sat and stared across the river towards Port Meadow. We watched a university eight stroking effortlessly past, the small bow wave moving the ducks and coots and swans. Strident voices from a table twenty yards from us, cursing, laughing, joking. I brought Kathy here sometimes. Indiscrete I know, but a reflective place when the sun was out. The scent of pine resin filled the air and swallows swooped and a blackbird sang in a tree close by.

'Did you bring Kathy here?' I frowned and waited for more. 'When we were still married to one another?' I shook my head. A sneer compounded the look of disgust on his face, prison hadn't managed to dislodge the shroud of misery that mostly enveloped him. 'I hate Oxford, but can't summon up the courage to do anything about it.'

'Move then, if you loathe it so much.'

'I have a woman in my life, but that doesn't help the bloody academic tension that envelopes everything. Crazy relationships, I want to live today, for tomorrow we might die. You could be married in five minutes, and divorced as quickly, though many declined to bother with official sanctions in any way at all.'

I frowned, his talking in riddles made me wonder if he was on something other than beer. I wanted to jolt him out of this composed frame of mind. 'Were you faithful to Kathy?'

Again, Kenny never missed a beat, 'Are you conducting a survey for that old rag you write for or something? Infidelity in marriage, do you know we only got three newspapers inside and one of them was yours. Load of parochial rubbish, I've not looked at a newspaper since I got out.'

'You haven't heard the news then?' His head twisted a touch and his eyebrows raised, he gestured with his hands for me to carry on. 'Did you know Helen Mably?'

'Everyone knew Helen.'

'She's disappeared.'

'I hadn't...' Kenny's mouth hung open for a while, 'Why? What's happened?'

'Who knows,' I shrugged, 'she's vanished.'

'Jesus Christ, I thought you were joking. Disappeared, she's a lovely woman.'

We sat in silence, I drank up and gestured to his empty glass, he nodded and I went the short distance for refills. A sweet delicious madness blew right through me like a gale. I'd managed to disturb his equanimity and I was smiling when I brought the beer back to the table. Kenny nodded and picked the beer up, he stared at the froth and said, 'I can't believe it. I saw her in prison you know. She gave a lecture to the inmates, later we made eye contact. We met often after that. Helen helped me piece my life back together.'

'Did you meet after you got out?'

'Yes, you don't think that I had anything to do with her disappearance?'

Kenny left it hanging. I didn't think that he might have killed Helen. He appeared genuinely shocked, although with his record perhaps I should have put him in the frame. 'When was the last time you met?'

'Couple of weeks ago, we went out with her. I have a girlfriend – she's picking me up in...' Kenny glanced down at his watch, 'Five minutes.'

'I think you should tell the police. If they find out, you'll...Well you know the score.'

Kenny snorted into his beer, 'marked man, pull in the usual suspects. Which is me in this case.'

'Helen kept a journal, we're trying to work out if it was the ramblings of a fantasist or an accurate account. It went way back to before she went to university. You get a mention.'

'A recent mention?'

'Twenty years ago.' I shook my head, 'you'd only been married a couple of years.'

He coloured up a treat, but said something that threw me, 'don't tell Kathy.'

'It's true then.'

'Depends what she said.'

'You met in The Swan, ended up in the back of your car behind the church.'

Kenny's chin dropped onto his chest. 'We met a few times after that as well. Jesus it made me feel so good. After one coupling, I even went back home and fucked Kathy. That sounds awful doesn't it?'

'It makes you sound a hypocrite.'

'Why? How?'

'All of the guilt and angst you loaded onto Kathy.'

'You see, you've both got it wrong. I could have coped with her messing around. It was the fact it was you she was fucking. Someone I hated.'

'Feeling was mutual.'

We watched in an awkward silence as the same eight rowed back towards their boathouse with the same effortless power that they went out in. A shadow came across the table and a woman's voice spoke with a richness and suggestions of both money and a good education.

'Is this your old chum?'

Kenny stood and I glanced at something of a middle-aged beauty stood alongside him, delicate and finely made. Although the first impression was that of a woman whose veneer had been constructed by the demands of a life lived in difficult times and places. She was late fortyish, with salt and pepper hair, expensively styled short, a delicate nose and severe, gold-rim spectacles that were continually removed so that she could rub the impression they made in the bridge of her nose. Rural Oxfordshire that's for sure and she carried with her the aura of sophistication of academic Oxford. I'd lay money on her being sharp-witted with a sharper tongue.

'This is Stuart, let's just say we're old adversaries. Stuart, Sophia.'

We shook hands and Sophia said, 'Kenny's told me so much about you.' Was the woman being sarcastic? She calmly held my gaze and sat down alongside Kenny. Sophia opened a packet of cigarettes and lit up. Punching the smoke out as she spoke, 'What have you been talking about, the good old days?'

'Helen mainly,' the woman nodded, 'She's been murdered, Stuart thinks I did it.'

'I...'

'Don't rise to the bait Stuart, he's spent twelve of his last years sharpening his technique up.'

'She's disappeared. Kenny says that you met Helen.'

'Yes, she was charming – straightened Kenny out anyway, so she got my vote.' Sophia then made me choke on my beer, 'As well as being married to the same woman, did you both sleep with Helen as well?'

I smiled, trying to contain my shock at this woman's directness. I looked back at Kenny, 'Helen never mentioned being assaulted by three men?'

Kenny shook his head, 'No, but a guy I met in prison claimed to have been one of three that gang-banged her. I thought he was just making it up.'

'Can you remember his name?'

He smiled, 'how could I ever forget, Philip Mole – in an institution full crackpots he was the top of the pile.'

### 9

### Helen

I walked away from my chance meeting with a drunk, desperately trying to clear my head. The earlier feeling confirmed, the encroaching sensation that something was about to shatter the uneasy balancing act that I was forever trying to maintain. I was right, my already unstable life was turning into some sort of gothic nightmare, or perhaps it was just another of my grotesque hallucinations? Everything critical, every crisis in my life happened in the summer months, usually during hot spells and this was the middle of a long dry spell.

My mind wandered around all over the place for most of the day, what was this man's name? I was still more agitated than a border collie unable to get at a field full of sheep. I went to what was billed as a special event, I found this description a touch grandiose. Anything liaised between the prison service, the police and the university might well be described as worthy, but special? We assembled in the lecture theatre in Oxford Prison and the star turns were half a dozen murderers soon to be released. It wasn't a structured agenda, just an informal gathering. Something of a talking shop in rehabilitation. Of course some were never going assimilate back into society. But my eye was struck by one these wretches, maybe a year or two older than me. He stared back and eventually smiled.

Of course!

I walked over, 'hello Kenny. How are you?'

We shook hands, he looked well. The brown eyes as hypnotic as ever, still matchstick thin with a neatly trimmed goatee. Round, metal framed glasses he smiled, 'Helen, you look splendid.'

'Thank you, as do you. When are you due...?'

'Two days, eight hours, seventeen minutes... get the message. I'm stir crazy and can't wait to get out.'

'Have you plans?'

He sighed, 'I'm frightened – you heard what I'm in here for.'

I shook my head, 'I don't want to know.' I never mentioned that my mother had told me all about his crime, or the fact that I used Kenny in one of my colourful epistles back to my father. 'It's nothing to do with me. I'm here to help in whatever way I can.'

Kenny nodded, 'I've read one of your books.'

'Which one?'

'About the Ripper.' He shrugged, 'it was insightful, good. The last time I saw you, you were face down across my car bonnet.'

I raised my eyebrows, 'Well I'm sure that you'll be a soul of discretion.'

We both smiled, Kenny glanced around the room, 'I killed my father.'

I put palms of both hands out towards Kenny, 'I'm not here to talk about what you've done. What support will you get before your release?'

'Nothing.'

I handed him one of my business cards, 'when you get out, ring me. Perhaps I can help.'

Did he think I was offering some sort of sexual rendezvous? I watched his face closely, the frown, then the eyebrows going in the opposite direction. Finally a smile as he spoke, 'I've heard something in here. Three years ago, an ex-policeman was in here. Doing time for God knows what. I was reading your book. He picked it up one night and said that he knew you. That he was one of three policemen that...'

'That what?'

'These were his words, gang-banged you.'

'What was his name?'

'I can't remember.'

'Kenny – this is so important.'

He shook his head. 'I can't remember, honestly.' Kenny looked away for the first time since our conversation began. He took a deep breath and said, 'Philip Mole.'

I stared at him, I felt my mouth open but I was unable to close it. Philip Mole, a vague remembrance, but not the epiphany that I wanted. Not the revelatory moment I needed, just a name that gave me a vague recollection. 'You sounded reluctant to give that one up.'

'Been in here too long, you don't grass anyone up. Sorry I didn't mean to make you work for that.'

'What did he say, do you remember?'

'I never really believed him, he said that they all fucked you on a snooker table.' Kenny stared, the look giving me the impression that this wasn't such a far-fetched a concept.

I tried to surprise him, 'why aren't you looking shocked? Did you think I wouldn't fancy three young virile policemen in one go?'

'Sorry, it wasn't that.' Kenny shrugged, 'he was lying, it just sounded like a bloke bragging the way we all do. We exaggerate, lie even. Still you're well aware of how we behave I'm sure. He was lying wasn't he?'

'I'm not one hundred percent sure, they assaulted me. It was broken up by another policeman. I've never been able to recall the precise details.' I stepped half a pace forwards, I needed to inspect his face more closely, I'd never volunteered that information before and it brought me a degree of release. The effect on him was obvious, mouth half open, eyes wide behind his glasses, Kenny tipped his head to one side and waited for more. I disappointed him, 'anyway, I'm here to talk about your prospects, not something that happened two decades ago.'

'Can I ask one question please?' He waited until I nodded a reluctant acquiescence, 'did this happen before or after our brief couple of meetings?'

'After, why do you ask?'

'I just wondered if it influenced the way you behaved?'

'A question no one knows the answer too I'm afraid.'

We talked for another ten minutes or so, even arranged to meet for lunch once he was released. Towards the end of our dialogue I felt the eyes of someone else bearing down on me. Kenny did the gentlemanly thing and left me to my fate. I was well used to eyes fixating on my body, but I was wearing a well-cut Wallis trouser suit. The jacket was cut just above my tight buttocks and my blouse, although expensive didn't disguise my lacy, wired up bra. So I was discrete and yet not so. I got the looks I desired, oh my, how hot it made me feel. The downside of this equation was that going with the lust I lusted after, were the seedy and the old and the perverted. I got their lecherous looks as well. Now I was getting the trail-blazer of the collective of dirty old men gathered tonight and he was more fixated than the others.

I turned and faced him, he had bigot stamped across his forehead. Typically Tory backwoodsman, full faced, broken veined, I knew he would smell of either cigarettes or worse, cigars. He stood yards from me, his paunch nicely highlighted by his gold coloured waistcoat. He stared and I never ceased to be bewildered by their arrogance. That's the wrong word, vanity. Check shirt, blue tie, blue blazer, grey slacks and cheap shoes. How did this obscenity feel he could be vain about anything? I know within my own little world that power is a corrupting force. But politicians, they think they're irresistible. Their collective vanity knows no limits. My mind scrambled around for a collective noun for these people. A vanity of MP's. A corruption. A scum. A spittoon of politicians.

Then he came closer, he held a cigar in one hand, a trophy of what exactly. Something to impress me, a half-smoked cigar, brilliant. I laughed; my frivolity had become a recent affectation. I think stress did this to me.

'Something funny?' He speaks, smells of stale cigar and yet thinks he's desirable.

'I was thinking of collective nouns for politicians like yourself.'

He laughed, what fun, but the jokes on you fat man. Vanity drives him on, I mean who could possibly think of him as a figure of fun. He tried to join in, 'You mean a spin of politicians?'

I looked him up and down, 'I was thinking more along the lines of a clusterfuck of politicians.'

He roared, head back heaving away. A phlegm rattling laugh, I imagined his lungs collapsing under the strain. I stared at his name tag, Mark Dawes – Home Office. Under-secretary to an under-secretary I guessed. The greasy pole had defeated him thus far, in his sixties and probably going nowhere. He tried to catch his breath, red-faced and felt the alarm spread across my face. I didn't want him dying in front of me.

Finally, 'who do I have the pleasure of talking to?'

First of all he disgusts me and now he disappoints. He didn't recognise me, a man fighting for law and order and tough on crime, didn't recognise a distinguished author on that very subject. Did I punish him for that? Or play him, a cat with a three legged mouse, I didn't pin my name tag to my expensive jacket, it was on my blouse. This had the added advantage of not only protecting the said expensive material, but I could lift the jacket lapel and flash my name tag. And with it, my lacy, wired bra barely covering my breasts.

I did just that, pushing my chest out at the same time. 'Helen Mably, university lecturer and part time police profiler.'

And full time cock teaser, I smiled at him.

I thought his eyes were about to burst, he pulled himself together, eventually. 'Can I get you a drink?'

As he turned and walked away, I had a sudden realisation of who he was. I remembered him as my father's lecherous boss. He returned smartly, handed me a fruit juice and he took a large snifter of gin. I had him on an invisible fishing line, this was fun.

'I knew your father I believe.'

I never pretended to have a relationship with my father. In this situation I told the truth. 'I don't talk about him. He betrayed me years ago. Can we talk about something else please?'

He stared, something had unbalanced the equation within Mark Dawes small brain. Some sort of calculation was going on, I didn't care what. As far as I was concerned, mentioning my father had ended this brief conversation.

'I'm sorry to hear that. Can we change the subject?'

I nodded, this man wanted to fuck me. I'll talk to him for a few minutes. Perhaps I could provoke a reaction, 'do you have a female researcher?'

Dawes smiled, 'I do.'

'Do you fuck her?'

He coughed, 'are you always this direct?'

I nodded, 'I hate small talk, it's much more fun to be rude don't you think?'

Dawes nodded, 'I'm not far enough up the food chain to get a good looking researcher.'

'Shame,' I said. 'Would your Tory wife stand by you if you did?

'Probably,' Dawes sank half a glass in one, licked his lips and whispered, 'I bet the undergraduates love you?'

'They do and it's always reciprocated. I like them younger.'

'Don't we all.' Dawes looked at his cigar, he wanted a smoke that's for sure. But he felt that lighting the dam thing it might be the end of this flirtation. He leant closer, 'do you have any hobbies, pastimes, apart from young men?'

I always try and lay it on thick for dirty old men, 'it's not just the men.'

We stared at one another, he raised his eyebrows and sighed like a frustrated, but philosophical commuter who misses another bus home. He said, 'your book impressed me. About the ripper, it was very perceptive.'

I nodded, I'd underestimated him, a failing of mine. 'Thank you.'

'Are you writing anything at the moment?'

'A memoir.'

He puffed his cheeks out, 'as a genre, they can be very dull.'

'Hopefully this won't be.'

'What sets it apart?'

I had the remotest feeling that something was wrong here, but my own vanity was in overdrive by now. 'I was raped at eighteen by three policemen. That should grab a few readers by the throats.'

Dawes never reacted, apart from saying. 'That must be difficult to recount.'

'I bumped into one of the rapists just a few hours ago. Philip Mole, I hadn't been able to recall his name until I stumbled into him. How bizarre is that?'

'Philip Mole, sounds like...'

'I know, straight out of "wind in the willows" Mr Mole looked like a rat as well.'

We laughed, me more than him. Dawes sighed, 'are you writing this as a piece of fiction?'

I shook my head, 'I'm naming names, publish and be dammed I say.'

'How far down the road is this project?'

I lied, 'It's with my copy editor now.'

'Does your father know?'

'I never usually mention his name in conversation, but my dear father is going to get slaughtered. He was the one that stopped me bringing charges. Can you believe that?'

He nodded, 'court cases can be more traumatic than the assault itself. Perhaps he was just thinking of you?'

I felt myself frowning at this. I guessed at the time that he was just giving me the establishment line. But the closeness to my father's line unnerved me. We ended our dialogue soon after.

*

'Was it meeting Philip Mole or Kenny Catmore? More likely bumping into Mark Dawes caused my unease. Bizarrely, he looked no different, I've had the same effect on the few occasions I've bumped into an old school teacher of mine. They looked old back then, yet they appeared no older now. A trick of perspective?'

Malkovitch held his hand up, 'slow down a minute.' He shuffled the pack of notes, looking for something he considered important. He sighed and lifted his head slowly rather like an old walrus sniffing the cold morning air, Malkovitch spoke slowly, 'this man was one of your attackers?'

I stood and said, 'Philip Mole.'

Harvey Malkovitch held the palm of his hand up again, like a rather serene dog handler does when calming an over-excited collie. 'Slow down, you know there's no rush.'

'I've remembered his name, well I was told his name.' I stood and began pacing around the small consulting room, talking quickly and pacing like an agitated, confined polar bear. 'The last time I saw Philip Mole he was tying one of my ankles to the centre pocket of a snooker table. Then his face went down between my legs.'

'You've remembered?'

'Not just his name, but what he did. His mad eyes, staring up the lengthy of my body as tried to find my clitoris with his tongue.'

'Helen.' Malkovitch's pen scratched away and he managed to lean forwards at the same time. 'Helen, sit down. Try and slow your breathing, shut your eyes for a few minutes. There, that's better, now, slowly.'

'Three policemen tying me down, suddenly I remembered. All these years later and I remembered his name. Philip Mole was about to rape me. I've remembered.'

'You couldn't recall their names before?'

'Only his,' I vigorously shook my head. 'I still can't remember what happened though. Mostly flashes, I can certainly remember that he had an erection, I remembered his leering face down between my legs. He kept looking up the length of my body.'

'You slapped him you say?'

'In the park, yes and hard.' I nodded, 'Then I walked through the gates back down Parks Road. I screamed and screamed.'

'What can you recall about the assault?'

I spoke slowly, talking down to the floor at the same time. 'One was kissing me and it hurt. As he kissed, his hand went between my legs, this hurt as well. I was frightened by now, really frightened – terrified. I tried to scream, but someone put their hand over my mouth so no sound came out.'

I sighed and brought my eyes into Malkovitch's steady gaze. He said, 'are you ok?'

'Yes, he tried to make me want him with his finger. He really worked hard at that. I couldn't help feeling some pleasure and that made it worst of all, do you see?'

'A hint of pleasure,' Malkovitch nodded. 'To want to be raped: that makes it not a rape, doesn't it? It's a common enough emotion. You question yourself, its guilt. You keep telling me you brought this on yourself.'

'I don't know anymore.'

'Do you want to go on?'

'There's nothing left to say really. I think I blacked out. I remember raised voices. Then Don cutting me loose. It sounded like he punched a couple of them.'

'You can't remember if there was any penetrative sex?'

I shook my head, 'I don't know.' I thought hard, sighed and whispered, 'I don't know if this bit is true or just my wild imagination, I felt Mark Dawes presence close by.'

'Would that be likely?'

'Who knows, I'm sure as I can be that he was somewhere in the club.'

'Are you just saying that because you suddenly came into contact with him the other night?'

'I've wondered that as well, but it's just something else that I'll never find an answer to.' I began to rub my hands in a similar manner to a surgeon scrubbing up before an operation. 'I went to see him.'

'Who?'

'Philip Mole.'

'Where?'

'I found him easily enough, hung around the grim gathering place that was Bonn Square. A refuse for the dissolute, the inadequate and the crack heads, but was I going to confront him?'

Malkovitch raised his eyebrows, 'Did you?'

'Not to begin with, I watched him then began to follow, in a spectacularly less than covert fashion. I needed him to confront me. All Philip Mole did was to keep walking. Just the occasional glance over his shoulder as he scurried away. He lived just off the Banbury Road, ironically not too far from my house. I waited in the street for him. Once his front door opened, he took a look at me and disappeared. This made me smile, although the simple calculation should have been this. This man had spiralled down to a shambling, wreck of a man. I guess he was only five or six years older than me, a drunken husk.' I lifted my head, 'Does this fate await me?'

'Why should it? You're not a drinker.'

'Can you see my dilemma, if I walked away, I might survive. But I had to talk to him, despite the risk. Oh not the risk from Mr Mole. The risk to my fragile sanity, I stared at the front door. I lifted the heavy, discoloured brass lion's head of a door knocker and hammered it into the door as hard as I could.

### 10

### Stuart

I loved the walk north along St Giles and then up the Banbury Road towards Summertown. The houses were solidly constructed, commanding, nineteenth century buildings. The streets that connect the Banbury Road to the Woodstock Road have similarly built houses. Virtually all of these three story, red brick buildings have been turned into flats. The splendour of the wealthy and ennobled long gone, replaced mostly by students and professional, single people who wanted to be close to work. Gone are the servants too, the university owns most of Oxford. I glanced down at the address, twenty six Beechcroft Road.

The road itself was quiet, the houses are protected on both sides by rows of tall horse-chestnut trees. The drive was gravelled and short, enough for four or five carefully parked cars. I turned into the short drive and walked up to the bulky front door. A brass plate with a dozen names against a different room number. I ran my finger down the list until I saw the name of Philip Mole, pressed the buzzer and waited.

Kenny had given me the name and Jack had made the initial contact. It took all of his powers of persuasion to get me an interview. The door opened and a fifty-one year old bachelor, with a lean, unshaven face peered out into the daylight. My first impression would be a drug user, or alcoholic, or both. Deep set eyes and a mournful, weary look upon his features. Lank grey hair and no ambition left in him, a man with no happiness in his life, a man in a rut and seemingly happy to remain in it.

'Mr Mole.' I tried my hardest not to snigger. It was as if I'd joined the cast of Wind in the Willows.

'Can we sit outside, do you want a beer?'

I shook my head, early start for some I thought. He gestured towards the wooden garden furniture, as he came out I noticed the can of strong lager in his hand. Mr Mole had started already. He sat opposite and I wondered how long before he got his tobacco out and rolled a cigarette. He took a long drink and placed the can in between us like it was a chess piece and it was check-mate.

'You're a researcher?'

I am today I thought, 'Yes, you know what I'm looking for?'

'Writing a book about ex-policemen and why they left the force. It sounds a dull subject.'

'Not a book so much as a long piece for the newspaper.' We stared at one another; my immediate feeling was that he didn't believe me.

'How did you get my name?'

'Just went into St Aldates and they gave me a great long list. I picked three or four out at random and here I am.'

The mole frowned, 'ask away then.'

'You did your training with the Thames Valley force?'

The mole shook his head, 'The Met at Hendon.'

'Policing in London?'

'No – got the chance of a move out here, thought it would be less demanding than London.'

'Just Oxford?' I wondered if he would lie, he did.

'Just Oxford, two years, one at Cowley nick, the other in St Aldates.'

On the drive over, I'd wondered what to ask if he lied like this. I threw a lie back at him, 'The records show you did a couple of years at Alfredstone.'

He nodded, 'Yeh, forgot about that.'

'Did you finish there?'

'No, I was moved back to Oxford.'

'You asked for a transfer?'

'I was moved back.'

'Was that one of the reasons you packed it in?'

'No, I went round the bend. Cracked up, lost the plot.'

'I'm sorry...'

He shrugged, 'It happens, spent the next few years in and out of hospitals.'

'Was it pressures of the job?'

'Not really, doctor's said it could have happened at any time. Circumstances never come into it.'

I shut my notebook, 'Look I'm sorry, we're looking at men that have left because of pressures of the job. You know what I mean, sexual harassment in the case of the women, racial abuse, bullying, anything within the culture of the force that put the policemen or women under stress and that's not so in your case.'

'I had no issues like that.'

'Are you working these days?'

'No, who'd employ me?'

I didn't bother to answer that, instead I tried another tack. 'I know a lot of policemen, most like to put it about. Drink hard, play hard, was that how you found it?'

'You ain't kidding.' Mole nodded vigorously, 'it was part of the job I always felt.'

'What women?'

'Yep, married, single, young old – it came at us from all sides.'

I'd done enough of this – as a young man. It was what we did, exaggerate, tell the world we were sex machines. This seemed a touch bizarre, an ugly dead beat of an alcoholic recounting his womanising days. Despite being repulsed, curiosity generated one more questions, 'was it a question of boys trying to outdo each other.'

He blinked at me, 'maybe. We had our own knocking shop. Young girls, we got it for practically nothing. We all went there.'

Enough I thought, time to get to the nub of things. I stood and offered him my hand. His grip limp, as if this gesture was a totally alien concept. 'Thanks for your time.' I turned to go, then as an afterthought, I spun back towards the mole, who blinked a couple of times. 'Was David Mably ever your Inspector?'

He blinked some more, emptied his can of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'He was a stuck up knob.'

I smiled and nodded in agreement, 'He certainly was, not like his daughter though.' The mole's head went back as though he had been slapped hard. He just stared at me as I said, 'She was a cracker. You must remember her?'

'She's disappeared.'

I tried hard not to react to this. How did he know that Helen had vanished? I ignored him. 'Do you remember her from back then?'

'What is this?' Mole stood and backhanded the empty beer can off the table and into the adjacent privet hedge. He came up close and I straightened expecting an attack. His breathing laboured and short, 'Who are you?'

'I'm who I say I am and here on the business you were contacted about. I knew Helen Mably along with most men under the age of thirty. That's all, it was a bit of banter.' Mole sat again, fumbled around in his shirt pocket and dragged a crumpled tobacco pouch and a packet of cigarette papers out. His concentration total, I didn't exist. I waited until he'd lit up before saying, 'Everyone in town heard the rumours.'

Mole stared at his smouldering cigarette, he spoke to the glowing tip. 'What rumours?'

'I knew Helen, she told me what happened.'

'She was a cock-teasing bitch. We all wanted to get inside her knickers. Don Wilson had told us all about her. She was easy, insatiable, liked it kinky.'

'I know Don, did he tell you that?'

'And lots more, what a laugh, married man and a girl fifteen years younger.'

'Much more than that, Don was nearer twenty years older.'

'Yeh, that figures. Don said that if we tried it on, we'd all get lucky, he was right. She started coming on to the three of us, you know the way cock-teasers come up real close whenever there's plenty of people about, when it's safe. The three of us were all early twenties, horny and thought we were irresistible.'

Irresistible, look at him now, drunk and dead in a few years, 'who instigated it?'

'Not us – Helen started it and we didn't get the chance to finish it.'

'Did you feel cheated?'

'I didn't, the other two did. Don brought me to my senses.'

'But not the others?'

He shrugged, 'They were disappointed.'

I said 'Do you think she deserved it?'

'We were playing snooker, she had her usual very short skirt on, we were all turned on. We'd heard that Don had given her one on the snooker table. I genuinely thought she was up for all of us.'

'Did Don tell you this?'

'Yes.'

'You said she was up for it, when did you realise she wasn't?'

'She didn't seem to mind being tied. I think she thought we were just playing.' His head dropped forwards and he mumbled down into the table top. 'I thought we were messing about. Until the other two manacled her ankles to the centre pockets. The knickers were stuffed into her mouth, one of the others told her to smell herself.'

'I went out with her for a while and Helen was a tease, I always thought she needed a lesson drummed into her.'

It seemed that I'd joined the ranks of the violent, irrational, intolerant, racist, sexist, and someone happy to take the side of a bunch of rapists to boot. I sighed, anything for a story. A journalist with no principles who'd say anything to get a good quote, I justified it to myself that I was merely looking for justice. But saying something so contemptuous made me shiver inside, if only Kathy could hear me.

The mole flicked his roll-up into the hedge and nodded, 'She deserved it. If nothing else, we knocked some sense into her.'

'You were lucky.'

He stood and came around the table and shouted in my face. 'Lucky! Fuck off out of my sight. Lucky! I had a breakdown because of her.'

'Lucky you never got three years inside, you stupid prick.' I jabbed my finger into his pigeon chest three or four times, 'You're only a ten minute walk from her department, I hope you've had nothing to do with her vanishing?'

'What are you saying you...?'

'Thanks for the chat, I'm sure someone will be in touch with you shortly.'

Did I just threaten him? Yes was the simple answer, a frail, middle-aged drunk got the treatment? I walked back onto the Banbury Road and looking for my car and my fast disappearing sanity. It turned into a long walk, if nothing else I owed myself a chance to do some serious thinking. I felt detached, an abstract sensation shrouded me like a cloak. All this talk about Helen made me this way. I walked on in a daze. Should I just let fate do the decision making? Lady luck would put things in their proper order. I sighed and it appeared that Oxford had become a series of scenes from a travelogue. A drug addled man was playing a violin outside The Eagle and Child. A handful of foreign students danced, I smiled at their uninhibited display. The English were tighter than one of the fiddle player's strings, unless we were drunk of course.

I wanted to dance now and an attractive, young Italian student asked me to do just that. I ignored the beautiful girl's invitation and carried on walking south. At the junction with Beaumont Street, I passed some young men trying to act tough. Giving me the eye, I smiled and wished them a good evening. One of them nodded, the others just did a collective of hunched shoulders and went back to staring somewhere off into the distance. Perhaps they were staring at a young woman with long blond hair flowing like the wind. She floated by just the way Helen used to, saying something indecipherable as we passed one another. It made me want her, to live such a night where you never asked each other's names.

It was the time of year where it seemed to stay light forever, a flight of little birds took off from the ramparts of Balliol College and fled northwards dappling the red-stained clouds in a fading sky. Something so lovely, contrasted sharply with everything that was going on at the moment. I walked into a sandwich bar in Broad Street and ordered a salami baguette and watched the woman as she wrapped and passed it to me. She was in her forties, dyed blond, and plump. Some men would say fleshy, others sumptuous. She seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I imagined her Rubenesque body pushed against me. Her perfume was cheap, crude and sweet. I dreamt of some extravagant excesses as her mouth twisted in a smile.

I paid and she gave me a look that said anything else? I said, 'Do you think I'm capable of doing the right thing?'

You could tell that this woman knew life, she had that well used look that a lot of men like, me included. She had me figured out within a few seconds. 'What's up love, woman trouble?'

'Something like that?'

*

'I can't do that again.'

Jack hissed into his steaming mug of coffee. The impression given that he was actually steaming like a high pressured steam engine. 'You've done the first one, it can only get easier from here.'

'I even forgot to get him to confirm the names of the other two.'

Jack's face grimaced into a nasty tempered gargoyle – he groaned softly. 'That doesn't matter too much, what were your impressions of Philip Mole?'

'A drunk, mentally fragile, incapable of doing much at all anymore, he does live close to both Helen's department and her house, but not capable of hurting anyone though.' I stood, 'I'm missing something, I said, 'Poor old Helen.'

He stared unblinking out of the window for some little while before he replied. 'Can you be surprised something's happened to her?'

'Why did you say that?'

He shrugged, 'She was provocative, invited trouble some might say.'

I sat back and considered that humid night twenty three years ago. I met Helen in the summer of 1967. We knew one another from primary school, but she went off to an all girl's grammar school in Faringdon and I stayed in town. Kathy always said that I never got very far. But that was something both of us were always comfortable enough with. I was boozing with my mates, we had won a six-a-side tournament and were out celebrating. It was a humid evening, perhaps it was always hot whenever Helen was close by? She pushed into the middle of our boisterous caucus and came up close to me. Long blonde hair and Helen was close enough that I was sure I could still smell the shampoo. She had a cotton summer dress on, short, with a halter neck and by implication, no bra. Helen was waiting for her A-level results and I tried to look into her eyes, rather than her prominent nipples.

Helen held my gaze and we started to flirt, outrageously so. I asked her if her boyfriend was an attentive and sensitive lover.

Helen raised her eyebrows, then said, 'what about you, are you a sensitive lover.'

I was a little drunk and I just said it. 'I don't know, I like to fuck though.'

Helen tried not to laugh, but seconds later it burst from the pair of us. We spent every spare moment together, a joyous summer with a soundtrack made for love. Plus the fact that I was god's gift to women and I walked everywhere feeling self-satisfied the way any of us do when the gods of love look benignly down. Weeks later, I saw her with Don in an unmarked police car. Both were laughing, both had the appearance of this not being the first time they had been together in the car. It was niggling image that I carried on my shoulders the next time I walked towards Helen's house. Troubled by what could have just been an innocent lift home.

A couple of nights later, we were lying in bed and I wanted to talk about Don, but Helen kept going on and on about her father. Finally, I gave up the good fight and joined in the conversation, 'he pushes you too hard.'

Helen snorted her hot breath onto my bare shoulder, 'Do you always state the bloody obvious?'

'I was trying...'

'Well don't, it's all right for you. Spoilt brat, rich parents...'

'You're the middle-class bitch.' My turn to jump in, 'and my parents aren't rich.'

Her eyes blazed bile as Helen railed against the world. 'My father's idea of me getting on is to do exactly as he tells me.'

'Dumb fucker.'

'I've suffered really suffered in this family. It's such a dark place, father a pillar of society, mother's a beautiful ice-maiden and my brother's retarded.'

This was the first time Helen had ever mentioned Christopher. He was two years older than us and he still walked around the house in his cowboy outfit, complete with six-gun and Stetson. A lovely boy who went to a special school and always the one that no one ever dare mention. This really unenlightened family was no place for a girl of Helen's spirit.

'How is Christopher?'

'Why?'

'I knew Christopher, but didn't realise he was your brother. You never told me, the first time I knocked on your door, it was opened by a cowboy with a snotty nose, a dribble and a pair if six guns strapped to his waist.'

'Fuck you.'

'I like him.'

'That's it, patronise the whole family why don't you?' Helen pulled the sheet up over her breasts and folded her arms. 'He's been shunted aside by my parents, they've channelled all of the hopes and what little affection they have in their barren souls into me.'

A dark place? I thought about this for years. A dark place is a morbid description of the family home. I imagined Christopher getting shunted aside by his parents, but does that make it a dark place?

'I wasn't allowed to mention his name. Dad wanted to put him in a home, he could've afforded it, mum was tempted, but I like to think that I helped persuade her not to. That was a big mistake, I coped with Christopher's rages and the way he bit his nails till they bled. At school they asked if I had brothers or sisters I always said no. Now he's close to death's door and they won't talk about it.'

'He's ill?'

'No, but his life expectancy...' Helen trailed off and stared out of the window, 'Whenever my friends came, Dad always asked them questions about school and what subjects were they taking for A – levels. And all the time Christopher was crying, all alone in his bedroom.'

We lapsed into an uneasy silence, I didn't think eighteen year olds talked like this and it made me feel anxious. I tried to change the subject, 'I like your mum.'

'Yeh, well you don't have to live with her. Your parents don't care what you do, you're a spoilt brat. Mine give me shit all the time and I think Christopher can't wait to die.'

'I'm not a spoilt brat, my dad just doesn't care because failure went to his head in a big way.'

We stared at one another for a few seconds and then both laughed.

'That was funny, you do make me laugh.'

I said. 'I saw you in Don Wilson's police car yesterday.'

'I saw you as well.'

'Know Don well do you?'

She stared and stared, but said nothing and neither did I. But the same feelings muscled their unwelcome way into my consciousness. Only this time Helen said nothing, left me to swim against the strong tide on my own when I needed her to say something. Helen unfolded her arms and let the sheet slide down her long stomach. I tried to drag my eyes away and tried to remember if I'd put the bite on her breast. My head dropped and I looked out of the window. I felt a tear forming and I couldn't work out why. I blinked a couple of times, dragged the sheet up to my nose and blew it hard. My throat constricted and all the time I felt her eyes on me. The world's best provocateur was waiting to for me to react somehow.

I did consider jumping up and getting dressed until she said, 'I want you to come inside me this time. Do you want that?'

I stared into her eyes, I still have no idea about that afternoon, I mean I remember everything but it was still as if I recalled nothing. And still I had no idea how I should have felt or what reaction Helen was trying to provoke. I was remembering that day and all of what happened, and yet it was just like it never happened, regardless of how many times Helen made me climax. I'd successfully blocked her admission, pushed it to the deepest depth of my sub-conscience.

'Shall we go and have a pint?'

Jack's voice brought me back, I glanced up at him and nodded. 'Maybe later, I feel like something has been ripped out of my sub-conscience, not because it was inconsequential.'

'That doesn't make any sense.'

'I've never told anybody this, but Helen had a quick fling with Don Wilson. It still makes me feel uncomfortable. I still can't recall the whole incident without feeling hurt and embarrassed and I couldn't work out why.

'Did you love her?'

'Oh yes, after that I went through life with a sweeping feeling that everybody is wrong except me. And since we don't just forget things because they don't matter, but often forget things that might never have happened at all.'

'Did you think that Helen was trouble?'

'You do.' Jack raised his eyebrows in agreement, 'but I just saw her as experimenting, trying out the moves on us unsuspecting men. She was just a sexy girl and I suppose I didn't cope with the situation.'

'Well that's very liberal of you, would you cope with it now then?'

'I'll never find that out will I? But yes, I was in my romantic phase then, loved the idea of being in love. Probably why I didn't like her with anyone else.'

*

Kathy had good taste in most things. Dressed well, well-manicured, hair always immaculate, enjoyed cinema that challenged. I would have preferred to go and see Die Hard or even Emmanuelle 6. We went to watch Cinema Paradiso, an Italian film that was not really for me. But we both relished a night out, cinema, something to eat, a drink – then home and finish the night off with whatever comes most naturally. In Kathy's case she wanted me to pound away against her body – loosen the ties of a stressful day at work. Whenever we went out like this, it became a ritual, both of us highly charged with anticipation.

We ate in the Vintage Car, I had three courses and two pints. Kathy's customary instruction on this night of well-rehearsed ritual, 'don't drink too much.'

She slipped her arm through mine and we strolled back towards Gloucester Green car park. It wasn't as flashy and frantic as the usual Friday night in George Street. This was mid-week calm, hardly the last days of Pompeii. With roaming herds of young people rolling from bar to bar. The volcanic glow of streetlights bathed the sparkling asphalt in a vibrant orange wash. I could smell burgers and beer and dense tobacco smoke as we passed the open door of The Grapes.

As I unlocked the car, Kathy said, 'Are you ok to drive?'

I nodded, made my customary calculation, five units in ninety minutes. Lose a unit an hour plus a full stomach equals a legal driver. Gone were the days of drinking when loaded. I pulled out onto Park End Street and drove west. I was barely under the railway bridge in the Botley Road when I saw the flashing blue light behind and pulled over in front of the Westgate Hotel. I guessed that it was an ambulance on an emergency run, but a police car swung in front and one burly, plainclothes policeman got out and covered my front door.

Kathy sighed, 'what's up now?'

I shook my head, wound my window down and smiled. 'Good evening officer.'

'Get out of the car.'

'What have I done?'

'Just get out.'

'Not until you tell me what I'm supposed to have done.'

'He's had a bad day.' Kathy placed her hand on my arm, 'Just do as he says.'

I slammed the door behind me and stood eye to eye with a man with granite features. Hard looking, mid-thirties, clean shaven, wide shouldered and smelling of peppermints. He pushed his pock-marked face into mine, 'we have reason to believe that you've been drinking.'

I knew the law on this one, nothing defective with my car and I'd driven steadily and error free. They had no reason to pull me over. 'What am I supposed to have done?'

He said nothing and pushed a breathalyser under my nose, 'I expect you've done this many times and no doubt failed a few. So if you just stick this end in your big mouth and breathe out in one smooth motion.'

I whispered it, 'you spotty faced cunt.'

'What did you say?' He straight armed me in the chest, knocking me back against the car.

'You spotty...'

'Stuart.' Kathy was suddenly alongside and pointed at the plain clothed officer, 'I'll always remember what you look like. Breathalyse him and let us get off home.'

He stepped back a touch and glanced from Kathy and then back to me. Kathy glared at him and went back around the car. She climbed in, but left the door open. The pock-faced policeman came up close again, his whole demeanour had changed from pushy plod to respectful public servant in a split second. 'If you just blow into this bag sir, one long, slow exhalation making sure you make a good seal at the same time.

Despite my certainty that I was well below the limit, my chest tightened as is someone heavy had just sat on it. I took a couple of deep breaths, took the breathalyser in my left hand, brought it up to my mouth.

'That's it sir, just imagine you're sucking your boyfriends cock.'

I filled my lungs, clamped my lips around the mouthpiece and blew. Long, slow and hard. He took it from me and we waited for the colour to change. Of course it barely changed and satisfied that I was legal said, 'Right, trolley off and find some criminals.'

The policeman said, 'I'm surprised a perverted bastard like you has a wife. Do you know where Helen Mably is?'

I felt my heart stop, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

He just stared and I glared back. Something was wrong here, where did that last question come from. He came up right into my face and said, 'I'd stay out of Oxford if I was you. We've got your card marked. Perverts like you aren't welcome here.'

I glanced at the police car and the man sat in the front passenger seat. All the time he was looking at a document of some sort. I got back in the car and drove west and out of Oxford in silence, constantly checking my mirror. Paranoia was creeping back into my system. I said to Kathy. 'I've had my card marked well and truly.'

'What do you mean?'

'Asked me where Helen Mably is.'

'You don't know – do you?'

'No, he must have me mixed up with someone else, kept calling me a fucking pervert.'

'Did you say anything to provoke?'

I shook my head, 'Not really.'

'What actually did you say?'

'I called him a spotty faced cunt.'

'Stuart.' Kathy folded her arms and stared out of the passenger window. I could see a short lived period of penance coming my way. We both knew it would be a short lived thing, Kathy had plans for later. Having her in a bad mood often intensified her lovemaking. I smiled and drove slowly away. During our brief stop, the light had all but gone. The white headlights of traffic appeared like were like an irregular lava flow. As I crossed the bridge, the leafy trees blocked the artificial light and the smell of an allotment bonfire drifted in through my open window. Ahead of us, the traffic was light, commuters already home. Oxford stretched out west, the small terraced houses gave way to the large semi-detached dwellings at the western end of the Botley Road.

Did I attempt some conversation? I glanced across, Kathy's gaze still fixed out her window. Good I thought, a furious fuck and then the sleep I needed so much. We walked through the front door to be greeted by old man's customary growl, 'I'm turning into your bloody answering service.' I smiled, waiting for more. 'Jack brought this around for you to read. He said you don't get much of a mention.'

I took the manuscript from him, blank, hard bound an inch thick.

'Have you read any?' He tipped his head a touch as if to say now why would I want to read this rubbish? 'You said answering service.'

He nodded his big square head, 'Yeh, you had a phone call, I took the number – some bloke called Vole or Pole.'

'Mole?'

'That's the man, sounded drunk. He said it was important.'

I glanced at my watch, sighed and took the number from my old man. He wandered through to the kitchen. Seconds later, the sound of Kathy laughing drifted through the door. Good I thought, Kathy's happy with the world and angry with me. I couldn't wait to get to bed.

### 11

### Helen

'What do you want?'

I stared at the scratches I'd racked down his sunken cheek, like a three pronged plough making its first pass across a meadow. The door began to shut, 'please, I just want to talk.'

'No funny business you vicious bitch.' I considered this, I'd never been called vicious before, a bitch certainly. Never vicious although my father would probably see this trait in me. The man's voice gravelled a brief instruction, 'hang on, just get my coat.'

I smiled at the closing door, a blisteringly hot sunny morning and the man needs a coat. Something Stuart said years ago made me smile again, his mate got arrested for having too much blood in his beer stream. That would apply to this man. The door shut and I waited over five minutes, just as I was about to leave, he appeared from the side of the house. Large coat in place and a small bottle of spirits peeping out of the right hand pocket. His right hand kept hovering over the bottle top, like he was a cowboy gunslinger and the bottle was his six gun.

I smiled at him, I felt no fear indeed I pitied him. A degree of sympathy for a perverted rapist caused this dichotomy within. I didn't hate him either, just this thrill that I was about to get a degree of control over my life again. He gestured me to a garden table, the type with two bench seats running along the longer of the sides. I knew he was watching me as I began the inelegant manoeuvre at the best of times. My skirt, tight as always and cut just above the knee. What the hell I thought, I lifted my foot higher than I needed to, skirt riding up nicely and I watched him. Philip Mole made no attempt to be discrete with his leering, I sat and kept six inches or so of daylight between my knees, I rested my elbows on the table and stared at him.

'What do you want anyway?'

'Just to talk, I'm sorry about the other morning. Suddenly recognising you like that spooked me.'

He rubbed the damaged cheek, his nicotine coloured fingers rasping over the stubble like fine sandpaper on soft wood. 'My benefits been cut, I'm broke.'

'No police pension?'

'A small one, I get sickness benefit as well, but it's not enough.'

I believed easily enough that his benefit wouldn't keep any man in four ounces of tobacco and six or seven dozen cans of strong beer a week. I waited for him to ask, I've never been one to be prompted by insinuations and hints.

'You going to give an ex-policeman a tenner?'

'One that's fallen on hard times?'

'Exactly, honourable discharge as well.'

'You've never been to prison then?'

'Fuck you.' He stood and pointed to the gate, 'fuck off.'

I opened my handbag and pulled my purse out, 'calm down. Would twenty help get you through the day?'

Mole sat and pulled his tobacco pouch out and over the next minute, proceeded to roll the smallest cigarette imaginable. He lit and threw the flaring match into the hedge and dragged on his needle thin cigarette. Then he held his hand out, smoke punching from his mouth as he spoke, 'Gimmee.' I passed a ten pound note across and waited for the whine to start. 'You said twenty.'

Poor little boy, displaying the petulance a six year old displays when he's asked for an ice cream and gets a dry biscuit. I tried to calm his mood, 'the rest after we've talked.'

He considered this for a few seconds, took a final drag and flicked the butt end in the same direction as the match. 'What do you want to talk about?'

Good question, because I was totally unprepared for this. Despite the hours of anticipation, I hadn't considered this with any degree of thought. I waited, employing the customary analysts' technique. Which is always reactionary in execution, let the patient blundering direct things. It usually works well enough, in this instance Mole's hand was apparently fighting with his will-power over whether to open the bottle or not. Will-power lost out and he fished the bottle of Tesco's brand of vodka out and he slugged it back, I guessed he probably necked the best part of six measures. Philip Mole wasn't long for this world, his liver couldn't take that sort of volume in that short period of time for much longer.

He brought the back of his hand slowly across lips and stared at me, 'I need a lift this early in the morning.'

I stared and said nothing.

'I've been under a lot of strain, you following me doesn't help.'

I watched closely, the constant battle going on inside him, did he take another drink?

'Why did you do it? Follow me like that?'

Why? Because I need you to talk to me. I clasped my hands together and rested my chin on them and stared some more.

'I told the police, I've still got some friends with influence. It wouldn't surprise me if you don't get a visit.' He tried to hold my steady gaze, finally looking away and snapping, 'say something for fuck's sake.'

'Why did you rape me?'

He seemed relieved that we were finally here though his answer surprised me, 'worse things happened you know. Worse than what you got, if you think what you got was bad...'

I lifted my head and laid my hands flat on the table, 'how could anything be worse than tying me down and raping me?'

'You weren't raped.'

'You had your face between my legs.'

'Did I now,' Philip Mole considered this for a good few seconds. 'Did I now.' Then he smiled, the sort of self-satisfied smile that develops whenever someone suddenly recalls an especially fond memory. 'I've just remembered that.'

So have I buster, 'does that memory offer you a degree of pleasure?'

'Yeh, what about you?'

'You think women like to be treated that way.'

'Just what you deserved.'

He was close to getting the other cheek racked, I sighed and sat back. What did he say? Oh yes, worse things went on. 'What things went on?'

'Oh no, this is X-rated and another tenner ain't going to get close to getting anything else out of me.'

I nodded, the police have this problem whenever they pay a witness for information. How can you rely on the veracity when the lure of money can mean that you're being told what you want to hear, not what actually happened? I shook my head, 'I need you to give a little before I consider any more money going your way. What are you talking about?'

'Under age sex with girls. Policemen involved.'

'Who, which policemen?'

'My father?'

'Maybe.'

'Give me names then.'

'Top to bottom, that's all I'm saying.' He sat back and folded his arms across his pigeon chest, 'I've got lots of names, but it'll cost you big time.'

*

'I speak authoritatively in the lecture theatre. Speak fluent Spanish and French. But not now, at this moment I'm struggling to string two words together. My deficiencies are at the root of my pain. The festering wound had burst. I'm haemorrhaging my sanity.'

'Did you talk to Philip Mole?' Malkovitch patted his jacket pockets for cigarettes.

'I've been warned enough times.' I sighed, 'years ago I was warned that something will trigger this situation. I needed work where I was active, healthy, solid, not inadequate in any way. Every thought paralyses me. I've been undermined by a rapist and it's made me more than ineffectual.

I'm spinning down. My powers have been overwhelmed.'

'Why?'

'Perhaps because I wasn't present at all.'

'Where?'

'Perhaps it was a dream.'

'No snooker table?'

'Maybe. No Philip Mole, just a nightmare.'

'Can I record this?'

I nodded, 'I dreamt of being buried. I felt the six feet of earth packing down on my coffin. Was I dead?

'You did and now you feel guilty. Can we change the subject a minute please?' Malkovitch shrugged. 'I'm more concerned about your meeting with Philip Mole.'

'I felt that he wanted to talk. Isn't that so ironic? An almost middle-aged, neurotic woman getting a confession from an alcoholic rapist, you couldn't make it up.'

Helen smiled at Malkovitch who nodded and said. 'How did it go?'

'I've got the best part of three months left before the start of term. My boss believed that it would be good for me to pursue Philip Mole. Not to perform a citizen's arrest or anything stupid like that. He had a different view to yourself about how it might or might not help me. Maybe talk, find out what happened. Mole is only some harmless drunk now. No danger, he probably wanted to talk as much as I did.'

'Did he?'

I shook my head, 'I got all the usual macho denial to begin with. Then all of the clichés, I deserved it, needed to be taught a lesson. It was only a bit of fun. He pretty much confirmed what happened though, but not in any detail.' I stopped talking and waited until Malkovitch lifted his head and made eye contact. I leaned forwards, 'I never racked my nails down the side of his face this time. I wanted to, but bizarrely, I felt sorry for him. Can you believe that?'

Malkovitch shut his eyes as he spoke. I thought that a poker player would have seen it as an opponent sending a signal her way, why ever did you play a hand so badly?

'Is shutting your eyes your admonishment?' I sighed, 'he said nothing really, not about the assault on me. He said that worse things happened to underage girls involving policemen of all ranks.'

'Is this likely?'

'Anything's possible.'

'You think your father's involved?'

I snorted, 'don't be silly.'

'But you want to find out more.'

'Witnesses getting paid for information are notoriously unreliable.'

'You gave him money?'

'Fifty pounds for a name.'

'That's a lot, week and a half's money for someone on an average wage.' Malkovitch frowned before saying, 'are you going to make contact?'

I nodded, 'have done. Told this man I was from social services, seeing him tomorrow.'

'How have you felt since?'

'Good – a bit manic, but good. I met a friend for lunch yesterday. I left the college refectory and walked up the Banbury Road and into the Old Parsonage. I had grilled sea bass which was particularly sweet and succulent. I could taste again after three days where everything tasted of chamois leather. I can taste again.'

'What did your friend say about your recently acquired job as a private detective?'

'Gave me the usual warning about fast approaching a tipping point in my life, he said that I could walk away. Sometimes supressing things has more value.'

'It's sound advice in a way.'

'What do you mean in a way? You disagree with his advice?'

'Not necessarily. Your friend has a point, if only for the fact that you've been talking to an unstable man.'

'What an unstable woman talks to a mad man?'

'You never felt threatened?'

'That he might rape me? I never felt threatened, just struck by how low he had sunk. I can remember him as a mid-twenties virile young man.'

Malkovitch shrugged, 'You remember that he was virile?'

'He did have an erection.' I laughed, a bitter-sweet affair. 'When I was in the restaurant, the music had a Balkan feel to meld with the undercurrent of the customary lunch crowd. Loud bouzouki songs, accompanied the waiter as he walked towards us to collect out empty plates. I remember saying "he had an erection as he tied me up". It seemed at the exact same moment as I spoke, the music was between tracks and whole room was library quiet. People stared at us, the restaurant was now dead silent and the barman reached over and turned up the volume on the CD player as if to hide my embarrassment.'

Malkovitch laughed. 'Were you embarrassed?'

'No, we laughed and everyone relaxed. It was as if me being tied up was just some sort of college charity fund raising event.'

'Do you want to talk about Don again?' Malkovitch had heard enough of my recent lunching experiences, he wanted more meat on the bone.

'I need to talk about what Don did to me, but first Philip Mole gave me a name and address of a man he says organised sex parties for the local police force.'

'You're still looking for some nasty little secret involving your father?'

'Maybe, I need your permission in a way. Should I dig around more?'

He began to frown, then raise his eyebrows, 'be careful then, meet in a public place.'

'Evidently, he lives in sheltered accommodation, I can't believe he's in any state to do me any damage.' We stared at one another for a few seconds, finally Malkovitch nodded. I took a deep breath, 'Don, where did we get to?'

'The social club, Don rescuing you.' Malkovitch held his pen up and pointed it at Helen, 'was it an uneventful trip home?'

'Are you hinting that something happened?'

'After something so traumatic, sometimes...'

I burst in, 'very perceptive of you, he tried it on.'

I heard Malkovitch give the merest of sighs, 'a true predator. What happened?'

*

I was so confused, I'd learnt another lesson the hard way, the nastiest experience that life can teach us... that nothing makes any sense. Could I ever be spontaneous again? Happiness was artificial, something that can be bought, but only at the cost of a stubborn separation with your soul. The sexy detective sergeant, my hero had just tried to get his hand up my skirt minutes after I'd been sexually assaulted. Admittedly he'd rescued me from that assault, did he merely think that fucking me was a fair price for executing this liberation?

Perception can change within the blink of an eye. I allowed my mind to focus on my hero, a Knight riding on horseback to rescue a damsel in distress. Well he went from hero to opportunistic predator within that blink. Don did that when stopped his car in the Limborough Road car park.

'What...' I turned in the car seat and stared at Don.

He circled and slowed to the farthest point from the solitary street light. His warm hand came and rested on my thigh, then the comforting words. 'Do you want to talk?'

'Not really.'

His big hand gently squeezed my thigh as he switched the ignition off, 'you're not wearing any knickers.'

I pushed his hand away. 'That's because someone you work with, used a pair of scissors to cut them off me.'

I thought that I always recognised his disposition as lying midway between mildly repellent shallowness and the overconfidence of the mildly perverted. Capable, like any self-respecting jackal of effortlessly switching between a chicken house with the door open or a clutch of dead rabbits. I found him alluring and offensive in equal measure. Now he'd just tipped me over the edge of hysteria... he'd become dangerously hideous.

'You don't get it so you?' I snapped this through tears.

His face took on the appearance of a slightly bemused hound. Don frowned and tipped his head, 'you need...'

'I need to get home and have a bath.'

'You need to talk about this.' His hand came back and rested on her thigh.

'You fuck me then ignore me.' I felt exhausted, too tired to push his hand away. 'Then you tell all your mates that you fucked me and that I liked being roughed up. If you think giving me a lift home means I'm going to let you near me you're so mistaken. Did three men trying to rape me turn you on or something? Take me home please.'

He sat back and sighed, 'you know best.' But the implication was that he knew best and was just indulging me a little. As he drove off, just the merest hint of understanding. 'Did they hurt you?'

'They'll be sacked by morning. You witnessed what happened.'

Don said nothing. Nineteen sixty seven when the wild behaviour was still interpreted as just that. He saw no boundary being crossed. Don made sense of the madness on the snooker table as just a display. A public ceremony where inhibitions had been cast off, young people going a little mad and things getting out of hand a touch, everything was permissible, if you were a man in that situation, I was just a stupid girl who asked for everything that came her way. I felt dejected and self-righteous anger spread slowly up my body. Rightly so I thought and I fell into a black hole of self-absorption.

'It's fine for men to assault women is it?'

He said nothing.

'Is it?'

Don said nothing.

He was so self-assured, my response threw him, he must have apologised four or five times on the short drive home. When I got out of the car, he said, 'are you going to tell your father?'

I knew why he asked that, it would mean him having to give evidence against three of his friends. I slammed the car door and shouted, fuck you.'

My father was out when I walked through the front door, ironically he was in the police station stuck in glorious isolation in his office, busy saving the town from shoplifters, drunk drivers, burglars, pederasts and old men that fiddle with little girls. While all the time, three of his officers were ten yards away, fiddling with his daughter. Uncontrollable emotion began its insidious drift. Instead of glorious, self-righteous, self-indulgence I began to wonder how he would react to this. His outlaw of a daughter bringing more shame into his perfect little world, forget the Vietnam War, forget abortion rights for women, forget repealing capital punishment. My father was about to awaken to the horror of his daughter's making the news... again.

Why did I doubt him? Had this recent trauma constructed this revolting image of him blaming her? All of his beautifully ordered existence shattered by his beautiful, unbalanced daughter. For that's how he saw me these days. The bringer of indignity, all of the issues I had already brought into this family were about to explode in a thermic reaction of recrimination. My thoughts rambled wildly, he saw me breaking away from his parochialism as a perversion. His perfect little ten year old girl had become a perverted, sex obsessed wretch. Never one that was simply trying to free herself from old uncertainties and the old, constraining obsessions so as to live unapologetically as an equal among equals, just his own flesh and blood perverting the established order of things.

His daughter, created in his perfect image, the perfect little girl, created by the perfect father. I had already exploded his utopian world and now the daughter who transported him out of the longed-for middle-class ideal where everyone knew their place, a man unprepared for what was about to punch him between the eyes. His meticulously prepared, idealised image of an obedient family with him at the head, a beautiful house, gorgeous looking wife, a retarded son and a wilful tormented daughter who was about to twist a couple of extra turns into the coil and screw his gut tighter than a wound length of spring steel.

With my spirits dragging the depths of the ocean, I knew all of this was coming. Instead of an arm around my shoulder, it was going to be a hectoring lecture. I slammed the front door and walked through to the living room where my mother was reading, curled up on the sofa with a pot-boiling book that had become her stock, only when he was out working mind.

'You're early.' She lifted her reading glasses and stopped smiling. 'Have you been crying?'

I felt myself nod, 'I've been raped.'

My mother was still my mother at this time. Despite my recently developed sexuality and our constant arguing, she was as close to me as my father would let her get. She stood and wrapped her arms around me and I collapsed into a shoulder heaving, sobbing little girl. Wave after wave washed over the breached harbour wall of my emotions. She never asked me questions to begin with, we sat on the sofa and I wept. My mother told Christopher to go to bed, I watched his tortured face. He couldn't cope with unhappy people, close to tears himself, he wrapped his belt tight around his middle. Making sure his six-guns were in place he took himself off to bed without a question.

'Three of them.'

I heard a mighty exhalation of air close by, 'three?'

'They tied me down onto a snooker table.' She stared down at my wrists, evidence all right regarding the tightness of the bonds.

She held my hand and gently turned it over and inspected the ragged, red line that tracked across my wrist. 'Do you want me to get the doctor out here?'

'And the police.' She nodded and picked up the phone. 'Not the three that raped me though.'

'Police?'

'In the social club. Ring dad, get him home.'

The next few hours passed in a fog of confused images what with my father and Don arriving at the same time. Then a doctor examining me, my mother questioning him all the time. Swallowing some strong sedatives made the fog turn into a dense blanket of smog. But I couldn't sleep, listening to voices. It became a disorganized radio play.

'Something got out of hand.' Don's voice, 'I stopped it.'

I heard my father's sharp intake. It was easy to imagine him, shaking his head, his lips turning down. Wringing his hands in the despair he felt whenever a situation developed beyond his control. He never said much, he did at least ask me how I was. That cheered me, I expected recrimination and when it never arrived, I saw him as a member of the human race once more.

The real questioning began the next day.

Don, notepad in hand with a long list of questions at the ready.

'What are you doing here?'

'I came to see you.' The complexity of the situation had begun to filter through when my mother woke me earlier. Don's beetle-browed frown confirmed the absurdity of it all.

'You shouldn't be the one conducting this interview.'

'I'm the detective sergeant.' I glanced across at the token policewoman, standing nervously close by, I spoke to make both of them feel edgy. 'You're compromised, you slept with me – remember?'

'Yeh but...'

I turned to the woman, 'should he be the one doing this?' The woman glanced at Don, but said nothing. 'His big mouth and bigger ego meant that he had to tell the whole police station about fucking me.'

'Helen...'

I cut him off once more and turned to the woman, 'has he slept with you as well?' I turned back to Don, 'when we get to court, you think it won't come out then? You think their defence lawyers won't throw that into the mix?' I was well aware how rape victims were treated in court.

So was Don as he whispered, 'you'll get crucified.'

'How?'

'You were cock teasing them for years.'

I stared at the ceiling, the longer the questions came my way, I realised that it would get personal with all sorts of accusations being thrown my way. The usual line in any defence lawyer's strategy would offer up a description of me that my father would agree with; I'd be labelled as just one up from the whore of Babylon.

My father came home at lunchtime and he tried hard. I even thought that he was going to touch me at one stage and then threw a question at me that confused and made me question myself, 'what do you want to happen? You want them sacked? Or you want them in court for what happened?'

'Both.'

He nodded, 'They'll be sacked quickly enough.'

'Prosecuted?'

He sighed, 'They'll hang you out to dry.'

'I know that.'

I lay on the sofa and felt exultant in a way. Was I supposed to feel that emotion? Where was the fear? This was a taboo that you didn't even think of as a something unmentionable. I knew the path to justice was going to be an effortless stroll.

That evening something had changed, I heard them arguing. I mean heated and they never argued that way. Usually a one sided tirade from my father and the acquiescent silence from my mother. For once, she stood her ground. Usually she just became his emissary. Ferrying messages from on high down to Christopher or me. Usually me, tell her this, tell her that. The enjoyment of power motivated most of his actions. He was just another politician, albeit in a very small town way.

Her words buoyed me, 'She was raped.'

'We don't know that.'

'Don't you believe her?'

I sat on the bottom step of the stairs, with my knees drawn up under my chin. I began to shiver, why is he being like this? Words swept over me. My father's words released like poisoned darts arrowing their short irrational, deceitful journey towards my heart. I studiously noted everything. I became his studious little girl again, hanging on my dear daddy's every poisonous word. When I was a tiny girl, I used to laboriously note his every gesture, or opinion, or written word as if I was a medieval scribe. I even brought my friends around to show him off, so handsome in his starched collar with its immaculate tie. My class even had a morning in the police station, invited by my father just after he had first made Inspector. He stared down and around my class, once he even smiled my way.

'She's making it up.'

'Why would she do that?'

Silence, I listened now, waiting for one of them to say something – anything. My mind incapable of any couldn't focus, swinging back to my infant days and then back the other way. To Stuart murmuring, 'You smell good.' I watch him close his eyes. The whisper of a smirk across his lips, 'taste good as well.'

I raise myself and watch.

He speaks with his eyes closed, 'I saw you.'

'Saw me what?'

'When you sucked me.'

I said nothing, Stuart opened one eye. His face twisted into a grin now.

I repeated my question, 'saw me?'

'You fingered yourself as you sucked me.'

I frowned, 'Shouldn't I?'

'It turned me on more.'

My father's voice broke into my fantasy.

'Even if she hasn't made this up, just think of her in court. Everything will come out.'

'Everything? Like what?'

'That thing she calls a skirt for a start, the business in the restaurant. Everything, they'll destroy her in court.'

'I'm sure she never did anything wrong.'

'Rumours going around that she's slept with some of my men.'

'What if she did?'

The door opened, my father was looking back into the living room. 'I'm going to talk to her. Make her see what she's letting herself in for.'

'I've heard everything you said.'

He jumped, turned and stared at me, 'We just want what's best for you.'

'Don't you want justice? I want them put away.'

He shut the door and closed the gap between us. All the time calculating how best to nip this in the bud. He sighed, 'they say nothing happened, just horse play that you're blowing out of all proportion.'

'Horse play!' My vision blurred as the tears took over. 'One of them cut my knickers off with a pair of scissors. Look at my wrists.'

My father shut his eyes.

'The one that looks like a rat had his face between my legs.'

If he could have shut his eyes any tighter he would have.

'Don saw what happened, he broke it up.'

'He said there was nothing going on.'

'He would say that.'

'You don't believe me?'

'No.'

'You must see that this is what's going to happen if it ever gets to court.'

'What about the steward?'

'He'd gone home.'

'No he...' I stood, my tears still flowing. I needed him to put his arms around me. We stared at one another, he never moved. I closed the gap to inches, please.

He never moved.

I turned and ran upstairs. Undressed and lay down on the bed. The sense of unbearable frustration burned through me. I made a mental list. What did I need, a medical examination, but what would that prove. Solicitors, definitely. Stuart, would I tell him? Probably not, but I had no one to talk to when I needed to unburden this weight from around my shoulders.

I shower, dress and go out. I walk, the sense of betrayal couldn't be measured. Even Don had towed the party line, everyone had closed ranks and I was alone. The thought of ringing Don's wife crossed my mind. But what was the point? She'd done nothing wrong, unlike her husband. But I couldn't stop thinking about him, the way he closed his eyes when he thrust his way inside me. I convulsed in orgasmic delight, it seemed that my spine would shatter.

'Keep still,' Don hissed this as he kissed my inner thigh.

'I can't,' convulsions aren't something I could control. I keep wriggling. My skin is on fire, I'm grabbing the sheets, clawing at his back.

He swears at me, 'Careful you fucking little whore, no scratching.'

I clasp his cheeks between the palms of my hands, 'what's up, frightened little wifey might find out?'

His finger and thumb slowly roll the end of my nipple, elongating it. I groan, feeling the sweet sensation all the way down between my legs, I am soaking. His lips close around my other nipple, 'can you come like this?' I think he's trying to twist my nipples off as my body screams in pleasurable agony under the vigorous assault.

He just doesn't stop, I gasp. 'Please.'

Don – you predatory bastard, you lying, back-stabbing animal. Was he as bad as the three that tied me? Worse in a way, the cooler air jolted me back to the here and now. I'd been walking for a long time, trying to concoct a plan. But my mind wouldn't function. I'd managed to make an appointment with a local solicitor, that was it. I stared blankly at the red phone box standing in my way. I frowned. I shuffled through my pocked and dragged some change out. Heaved the door open and lifted the receiver.

'Stuart?'

'Helen – I was going to ring you. Can we meet?'

'Listen, are you busy?'

'I'm working behind the bar.'

'I need a lift.'

I sensed disappointment drifting out from the phone. I said nothing for a few seconds, hoping I didn't need to ask again.

Finally, 'where to?'

'I need a lift to Cambridge.'

'Bloody hell – that's best part of a day.'

'I'm desperate; do you want me to beg?' I never meant to sound so desperate. More like a down and out scrounging a few pennies than a young woman about to begin university.

'Has something happened?' Stuart was more sensitive than the public persona he liked to mostly display. 'Something's wrong.'

'Listen, I've got no one to take me. My father's something more important to do. You know what he's like.'

'Of course I'll take you. Give me a time and place.'

I trudged back home and slammed the door hard.

No sign of my father

I sighed and began the climb upstairs.

'Helen.'

I turned and faced my mother.

'I believe you.'

Here was the chance to hold someone and just cry. I never moved. 'I've got a lift.'

'Lift?'

'He won't have to tear himself away from his precious work.'

She kept frowning, 'I don't understand.'

'That freak you married, he won't have to take me to university. I've got a lift.'

I could feel the moistness around my eyes. She was on the cusp of breaking down herself. 'We wanted to take you. Both of us, you make both of us so proud.'

'Well he's got a funny way of showing it. Where is he?'

'The superintendent is with him and some home office type. They're talking about how to resolve this.'

'How to supress it you mean.'

'I don't think that's...'

'Shouldn't I be involved? Don't I get a chance to speak and explain? No one believes me.'

'I do. I believe every word.'

'But he doesn't.'

'It's difficult – he doesn't know who to listen to. You must understand that four policemen have a different story to tell.'

'I'm going to bed.'

'Please Helen, let us take you to Cambridge.'

I climbed the stairs, turning halfway. 'I never want to see him again.'

### 12

### Stuart

I felt beaten up, a policeman giving me a going over for no good reason, apart from me calling him a spotty faced cunt that is. Kathy gave me a good going over for a very good reason. I rubbed the bite on my shoulder and smiled. Despite her passionate attentions, I felt numb as I walked towards the office. It was as if I had chosen to feel this way. Somehow a door had closed inside me and something dark was gathering and I couldn't put my finger on it. The previous crisis in my life had barged their way into consciousness with all the subtlety of a prop forward crash tackling an eleven stone winger. This sensation of something intangible approaching left me numb and I didn't like it.

Once the kids had left for school, I read twenty pages or so of Helen's journal and just as Jack had told me, it was explicit enough. Although I found the style more readable than he did. Being named like this and having my sexual performance compared to others – maybe this was the cause of my blues.

Kathy let me read in peace, until she opened the door to leave, 'What do you make of it all?'

I shrugged, 'I didn't get much of a mention.'

'What's up? Didn't she rate you in bed?' I knew where this was leading, a teasing admonishment coming my way. Shrugging didn't help and Kathy said, 'Don't be so stupid.'

For some reason Don Wilson kept bumping away inside my head. 'Did Don ever try it on with you?'

'God you're in a funny mood,' Kathy smiled. 'Course he did.'

'When?'

Kathy sighed, 'When I was married to Kenny – don't look at me like that.'

'I tried it on with you when you were married to Kenny.'

'Why are you so bloody insecure this morning, the difference was I loved you. Don's never figured in my life.' Kathy walked across the kitchen, she rested the back of her hand on my cheekbone, 'Don't read anymore of the rubbish.' With that Kathy spun away wishing me a joyful goodbye and leaving me sat in a magnificent and miserable isolation.

I picked up the manuscript and read a couple more pages, turning over a sheet I came to a blank page. Turning one more and another empty sheet of nothing and another and another. I flicked the rest of the pile like a sharp card player would a pack of cards and not the merest full stop of ink appeared on any. I frowned and leaned across and picked up the phone and dialled.'

'Jack?'

'You're late.'

'I've been reading the manuscript.'

'And?'

'Nothing after twenty odd pages in, why didn't you tell me?'

'I need you to tell me why?'

'Why what?'

I heard Jack sigh and fumble around for his cigarettes, 'why they're blank, why would she pile seventy per cent of a supposed manuscript with blank pages?'

I thought for a few seconds, 'well it can't be because she's some deranged fantasist, which I guess would suit a lot of people. We have at least three people to confirm that an assault took place. Apart from that I'm lost, you'll be able to provide and answer I'm sure.'

'Well I can't, apart from making her feel safer.'

'From who?'

'Haven't a clue.'

We said nothing, I decided to change the subject, 'Philip Mole rang me last night.'

I imagined Jack sitting forward in his seat, I heard his lighter spring into action and smoke being dragged down into his barely functioning lungs, a whistling exhalation, then a breathless, 'what did he want?'

'My old man took the call, I'm ringing him now, he wants to see me.'

My maudlin morning took a degree for the worse as I dialled the number of a man I'd rather not talk to again. As I listened to the dialling tone, I thought back. An unfinished manuscript, a gentle scolding from my wife, an unsatisfactory conversation with Jack... the ringing stopped and a voice. Heavy with sleep and blurred by alcohol, 'yeh.'

I went for bright and breezy, 'good morning Philip. It's Stuart, you left a message for me to ring...'

'Why didn't you ring me last night?'

'It was too late when I received...'

'It's important, I told the stupid old fucker just that.'

I thought of someone calling my old man a stupid old fucker to his face. Ten seconds later, he'd be picking you up put of the gutter. Dusting you off and sending you on the way. I smiled for the first time that morning, 'what do you want?'

'It was important.' I sighed, it was as if I was talking to a thirteen year old girl castigating an errant boyfriend. I waited, it was his call, tell me what he wanted or put the phone down, finally. 'I have something to tell you. You'll be interested, not on the phone though.'

'I can be at your place in half-an hour.'

'Not here, I walk around Port Meadow most mornings. Meet me by the car park in Walton Well. Do you know it?'

Twenty minutes later and I was driving down Walton Well Road and the Mole was stood on the bridge that went over both canal and railway line. I gave him a brief toot on the horn and cruised on down to the car park fifty yards down the hill. The Mole's mood hadn't tempered any, as I locked the car door I felt his presence behind me.

'You could have picked me up.'

I turned and faced him, the smell of beer drifted into my face. The broken veins in his eyes suggested either little sleep, lots of beer or most probably, both. The same dirty jeans, same trainers, not shaved since our last meeting. A tick throbbed away at his cheek, this man was on the cusp of a breakdown. This cheered me up, my own gloom disappearing, shoved aside by a man at breaking point.

'I gave you a blast on the car horn, didn't stop. Didn't want to break your concentration, I thought you were going to jump.'

'You don't know, you just don't get it do you?'

'I was hoping you were going to tell me.' Mole said nothing, I gestured with my arm towards Port Meadow. 'Lead on.'

Instead of walking through Port Meadow, Mole turned and walked back towards the railway bridge. Turning left and walking down the steep bank and onto the footpath that ran adjacent to the railway line.

I shrugged and followed, 'Do you not prefer the riverbank to the railway line?'

Tales Of The River Bank sprang to mind, I must stop thinking of Philip Mole in this way. He reinforced my thinking by saying, 'I don't like a natural environment, always prefer the safety of the railway line. It's the bloody dog owners with their out of control dogs that upset me. It's like I'm a magnet for them, bounding my way, barking and growling.'

Perhaps they saw him the same way I did, a little vermin like creature, happier in the shadows. I sighed and was about to speak when a gentle vibration from behind caused me to stop. I had an aversion to railway lines ever since my best friend lost an eye in an accident nearly thirty years earlier. We put pieces of granite ballast onto the track and waited for a speeding express. The granite exploded sending pieces of shrapnel horizontally out from the track. Harmless enough if you were safely down the embankment. My friend was braver than me and wanted a good look, a piece of granite smashed through one lens of his glasses and took his eye out. It's true to say that walking along like this made me feel uncomfortable.

I stopped and looked back as an accelerating diesel went past. The Mole must have seen my startled expression. Even at the sedate pace, the slipstream whipped his straggly hair into a startled look.

Mole said, 'You can't hear them.'

Just what I need in my febrile state, someone stating the bloody obvious, this was going to be a long morning. 'I'm uncomfortable walking this way, I'd prefer to face the traffic.'

Mole frowned, 'let's walk to Wolvercote and you can buy me a pint in the Swan.' His eyes were everywhere, his breathing short and laboured. Perhaps he was asthmatic?

'I'm not drinking today.' What I meant was, I didn't want to be seen drinking with this wreck of a man. He took his hollow cheeked stare down to the ground, could he read my mind? He fumbled around in his the filthy parka, which. Mole wore like he was about to walk into a blizzard. The swallows already feeding high the obvious indication that we were in the midst of a warm summer's morning. Mole pulled a can of Special Brew out of a spacious pocket. Tugged the ring pull and took a swig.

'I didn't always drink like this.'

They all say that.

I said nothing and plodded on. Perhaps it was his first of the day, either way it was emptied within a few minutes. Mole hurled the empty can towards the canal.

'It was the stress of it all.'

'When, what?'

'You know fucking when and what.'

Oh this man was even more on edge than me. His bloodshot eyes blazed like two setting suns. He needed an arm around his rounded shoulders. Something beyond me, instead I provoked. 'Who's to say it wouldn't have happened anyway.'

'You cunt, you just don't know what's gone on here. Why did you say that?'

'Some people have a pre-disposition to drinking too much. Addictive personalities...'

'Shut your mouth, just shut the fuck up.' There's always an excuse for drinking too much with some and the Mole was about to send more my way. 'You don't know what happened.'

'You told me – remember?'

Mole kicked some granite towards me, 'Since it happened, every day I've had people telling me to keep my mouth shut. Say nothing, keep mum.'

'Who?'

'People you don't mess with. Some of them so far up the food chain...'

He turned and walked back towards Oxford. At least I could see an approaching train this way. I took a deep breath and followed.

Instead of walking through Port Meadow, Mole turned and walked back towards the railway bridge. I shrugged and followed, listening to his morbid monologue at the same time. 'I was born in the countryside, somewhere in the Forest of Dean. I arrived in Oxford at sixteen, alone, without money, and yet I survived. My father had been some sort of small time crook. My mother a cook at some big house, I don't remember either of them, car accident – he was pissed and run the car across the carriageway and into a fucking big tree. I'd been raised by my aunt. She told more lies than a campaigning politician. None of her stories was ever told the same way twice and I just gave up. Ran away and lived rough. Somehow ended up as a policeman and that made me feel so good, then the bastards shit on me.'

'What's this got to do with me or Helen come to that?'

'She's dead.'

'Is she? That might mean a few of your ex-colleagues sleeping a bit easier.'

Mole gripped my arm, 'Christ you're the thickest man on the planet. They killed her.'

I brushed his arm away, 'Who killed her?'

'Andrew.'

'Who?'

Like a good stage magician, he pulled another beer can from nowhere, fumbled around for the ring tag. Finally he pulled it off and drank long. A long, wheezing exhalation and Mole wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'You'd better clear off and quick.'

Threatened by this wreck of a man just drove my curiosity on like high powered impellor. 'What are you saying, who's Andrew?'

'I was asked, no ordered to get you down here. It's a trap.'

Oh dear, I sighed, wandering around wasting my time talking to not only a drunk, but a lunatic as well. 'What's going on?'

'I turned around, they were going to wait for you – just before we got to Wolvercote. I saved you.'

'Listen you fucking half-wit, just tell me what's going on?'

'We're both in danger, if I don't get you to the appointment on time, I'm finished. If I get you there, we're both finished.'

I turned and stared back up the track, nothing. My mind wouldn't function, discretion would be the better part of valour in this situation. But I wanted more, confirmation that the man was either telling me the truth or more likely, off his head.

'C'mon, I'll take you home. Let's get away from here.' There, I'd said something half sensible for a change.

Mole shook his head, 'I'm staying put.'

'At least get away from this bloody railway line.'

'You know where she is don't you?'

'You just said she was dead.'

'It's not Helen that they're all running scared about.'

'What is it then, you lot all raping her.'

'That never happened.'

'Only because someone stopped you.'

'Listen will you, I'm a dead man if this gets out.' Mole stopped and stared into the sun like some Old Testament prophet. He squinted into the sun and talked at the same time, 'I went a few times, but the others – even that prick Mably used to go.'

'Where? The cinema, the dog track to the pu...'

'She wasn't all there, we all took turns at her. All of us watching and laughing as we took turns fucking her.'

'Who wasn't all there?'

Mole stopped walking, 'fuck you.'

He threw a punch out of nowhere – I saw it out the corner of my eye at the last second, just turning my head and avoiding get one smack on the cheekbone. I saw stars in the middle of a sunny, cloudless day.

I faced him and said, 'You've just done something so stupid.' I took a step towards him and startled by his unshaven appearance I stopped. 'Careful you don't spill any beer.'

He held a can of beer in one hand, was that what he hit me with? He couldn't spill anything, he'd just hit me with an unopened can. No wonder it hurt, I was certainly not going to give him the pleasure of rubbing it either. We faced one another in an ugly Mexican stand-off. Mole held the can and he was blowing hard. His skin had a yellowish, jaundiced appearance. The skin hanging on the bone like a zombie's.

'I suppose you're going to give me a kicking now?'

I wanted to, but what the hell. What was the point, I decided to turn away. He came close, the can back behind his head about to swing my way once more. I stuck a straight left straight onto his nose. I felt it break, so did the Mole. He dropped the can and reeled back. I moved in and grabbed him. It was like trying to hold a scarecrow. There was no real substance to the man and he stank of tobacco, beer and rancid sweat.

I shook him and blood and snot sprayed out the way a decorator shakes his paint brush and red paint went up my arm and onto my sleeveless shirt.

'You piece of filth.'

I peeled away and the mole sat, trying to hold his nose with one hand and undo his can of beer with the other. Sometimes life turns on a sixpence and as I rushed away, the feeling that I should have dragged Philip Mole away and taken him somewhere safe. My own jumpiness dictated that I get away, find the sanctuary of my car. Even that didn't give me any sense of security. The car park at Walton Well was small and enclosed by trees. Just one other car parked there and it suddenly took on the claustrophobic feel of a prison cell.

Or just the place for an ambush.

*

We sat in the office the next afternoon, I'd briefly ran through my encounter with the mole. Jack leaned back in his chair, stared at his half-smoked cigarette for a few seconds before saying. 'We've stirred something up, I'm unsure what exactly – but I'm still going to run a piece in next week's paper though. Are you alright with that?'

'You're the editor.' Not only the editor, but the owner, chief reporter, copy editor, proof editor, nearly seventy now and now sign of slowing down. Which I was eternally grateful for, whenever he did eventually retire, my job went with him. My appointment an act of rampant nepotism on Jack's part, gratitude for my father saving Jack's life and anyway I didn't want a real job.

'You should tell Don what's going on. You've been threatened the other night and now this. I'll ring him now.'

I listened to Jack's one-sided conversation, 'Yes it is becoming a problem. No, no need just yet. Could you pop down? Or just send a plod. We want to lodge, not a complaint exactly. I want it logged though. Yes, it's all to do with Mably's daughter. She has a manuscript.' Jack laughed, 'Yes you do get a mention.'

Jack placed the receiver down and clasped his fingers together. 'He's coming, ten minutes.'

The door opened and the paperboy came in, the early edition of the Oxford Mail clasped in his hand. I was the nearest to the door, but he went up to Jack and handed the paper to him. Even the lowly paperboy knew the pecking order. Jack never read the paper in any detail, scanned the headlines, looking for stories they had filched from our newspaper. Something grabbed his attention, I watched him frown, then fumble for his cigarettes with his spare hand. Like a blind man fumbling for his cheque book.

He placed a cigarette in his mouth and stared at me, 'Tell me exactly what happened?'

'I've told you, it all ended up when he hit me with a beer can, out of the blue.'

'Why did he hit you? What did you say to provoke that reaction?'

'He was rambling about Helen and how she wasn't why everyone was running scared. Something else was going on.'

'Didn't you ask him what?'

'I did and that's when he him me.'

'So you assaulted him.'

'No, I hit him once.'

'A man's been run over by a train. The report says that he was seen arguing with another man. A good description of you actually, fighting just before the incident. You've been set up boy.'

'Has it named the man?'

'No – you think it's someone else.'

'Hope it is.'

'What are you going to do?'

I shook my head, 'Kathy will kill me.'

'Let's hope Don gets here quickly, you have to get your side of all this out in the open.'

The door burst open and I was about to ask Don the question, what took you so long, when two men burst through. One shaven headed with coarse features coarsened by pock marks, the other wavy haired, slightly thinning with a baby face, I knew one was the same as the other night, couldn't be sure of the other. Always get on the front foot, advice from my professional boxer of a father, I turned to Jack, 'That's the one that assaulted me the other night.'

The brute blinked a couple of times, 'Mr Stuart Wicks, we need you to come with us to answer some questions.'

Jack said, 'can I see your warrant card please.'

As they were reluctantly flashed, Jack proceeded to take the detail down in a pantomime, laboured act of concentration. Staring at the two warrant cards as the laboured writing went on for what seemed like minutes.

I joined in and leaned across and read Jack's notes, reading the two names I said, 'Andrew Gates. Philip Mole mentioned you Andrew.' Andrew Gates said nothing, so I prompted him, 'are you arresting me?'

'If you'll just come with us sir.'

'Before you go Stuart,' Jack stood and directed his question at the two policemen. 'Where are you taking him?'

'That's no concern of yours sir.'

'He asked the correct question,' Jack had his legal hat on, 'if you're not arresting my colleague, he doesn't have to go with you.'

'Aware of the law are we sir?'

'More than you evidently.' I quipped.

'We can arrest you, it's up to you.'

'Stuart, you should not go without first talking with a lawyer. If you decide to go there voluntarily, you are free to leave any time you want unless the police indicate that you are really under arrest.'

'I'm going.'

'I'll ask you once again, which station are you taking him to?'

Finally the flabby one said, 'St Aldates.'

'Can you contact Abigail Goldsmith?' She was an extremely able lawyer who had helped us a good few years ago. I wasn't even sure if she was still working in Oxford, but my superstitious nature dictated that I go for someone that worked the oracle before.

'Mr Wicks,' and then the gesture towards the door.

Jack held his hand up, 'Just wait five minutes.' He picked the phone up and at the same time went through his phone book. Another one sided conversation, 'Is Abigail Goldsmith available? It's important.'

'Let's go.'

A movement towards me arrested by Jack's insistent voice, 'He has every intention of cooperating. Just wait five minutes.' Deep sighs from two impatient men. 'Abigail, its Jack Carter. Ten years ago, where does the time go to? I know, how are you keeping? A colleague of mine is about to be questioned at St Aldates police station. I believe the modern parlance is "Fitted up". I wondered if... That's so good of you, they'll be thirty minutes or so.'

Jack got the glares. I stood, 'Tell Don everything.'

I turned and went through the door and walked to the police double parked.

### 13

### Helen

I stared at the blank computer screen, then down to the waste paper bin and took a deep breath. My head began to spin, the door suddenly and vigorously being knocked jarred me to my feet. I peered out of the bay window to see two policemen. One in uniform and the other in plainclothes, but he looked so stereotypically police that under normal circumstances I would have been amused. But this wasn't normal and I felt my chest tighten and my legs felt on the point of collapse. As a child of the sixties, they conformed to the typecast, fat-faced, heavy lipped, piggy eyed policemen. Like a lot of my generation, I called the police whores, just like the protestors did in the Chicago Convention in nineteen sixty-eight. My hatred of the uniform structured by my assault, I tried to control my breathing. Four deep breaths later, I opened the door.

'We've had a complaint madam.' The plain clothed of the two stared down at me. His complexion was like that of a grainy photo of the moon's surface. His voice sounded like gravel.

I stared back, the uniformed one had no number on his epaulet, 'can I see some identification?'

My mind drifted away, erratically so, buffeted like a feather in a breeze. Policemen, my father for instance. He truly believed that he protected me from the debauchery all around. I laughed, we lived on a pretty estate in a market town, wickedness? He thought me being in a group called the British National Committee to End the War in Vietnam something heinous. I was fifteen and had political views, monstrous. I laughed again.

'Madam, this is no laughing matter.'

I couldn't cope with the unexpected, but maybe this was something that I should have anticipated. But it was so easy for me to shove things to the deepest root of my sub-conscious. Something and I couldn't put my finger on it. This had been growing not so much like a slow growing corruption, but not like a sudden punch between the shoulder blades either. This was more like a carcinoma develops. This was growing, maturing nicely, close to explosion now. I had remade my life when I was eighteen. I held on to the door and knew I wasn't resilient enough to do it again.

I blinked into the early morning sun, their eyes were all over me.

'Do you mind not staring at me please?'

The unexpected had arrived

The unpredictable was here.

More bondage.

They carried on staring, 'What do you want?'

'Mr Philip Mole has lodged a complaint.'

'What?'

'Do you know a Philip Mole?'

'Yes, he raped me.'

I scrutinised them expecting some reaction, but their fat faces gave me nothing. Not even a raised eyebrow.

'You've been following him.'

The other one spoke. 'You knocked on his door and scratched his face.'

'Just a minute.'

I turned and tied the heavy dressing-gown around, tying the belt tight.

I pointed at them. 'Get out of my house, you pair of lecherous fat-faced pigs. Get out now.'

They never moved.

The one with a black moustache over his fat top lip said, 'If you go near him again, he'll have an injunction served on you and if you're within five hundred yards you'll be in breach.'

'That's difficult when I only live four hundred yards for him.'

The moustache stood and came up close, 'just stay away from him.'

I'd lost everything because of Philip Mole. Lost my mind, found myself again and now I was being threatened.

'Get out, how dare you threaten me.'

They went this time. I watched them leave and thought I was on the point of a physical collapse. I staggered across to the CD player, turned the volume up, put the track on repeat and sat on the sofa. Lifted my feet and rested my face against my knees.

"Over Bridge of Sighs

To rest my eyes in shades of green

Under Dreaming Spires

How long had I been in bondage to this?

This fucking thing.

Twenty two years I'd been waiting for something and now when it appears, I couldn't think straight, just how could two policemen somehow connect to an ex-policeman. A drunk ex-policeman. How did I allow this to develop? Philip Mole never answered the door. I tried to remember, how many times? Probably twelve or thirteen consecutive days, he never answered, and I had seen him peering around the filthy curtains on most of those occasions.

I sucked my breath in through pursed lips. In a moment of lucidity, I wondered if knocking on someone's door that many times on the trot might be considered – what exactly?

Obsessive, that's what.

Life had returned to something like its recognizable proportions. For twenty years and now, what did I do?

Pretend I never bumped into him?

The music blared out.

"I feel inclined to blow my mind

Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun

They all come out to groove about

You can miss out school - What that be?

Why go to learn the words of fools?"

I imagined the worst case, being hospitalized in a clinic for suicidal depression, the damage irreversible. I could never lecture again, a life of medication and forever in the care of psychiatrists. The merest consideration regarding sedatives and anti-depressants filled me with a terrifying dread. Worse, what if my parents came to visit? Being dependent on them again as if I was six again, they would both love that, my mother would. My father would just shrug and say that it was a judgement upon my wicked ways.

I screamed.

The image of both them sat alongside her psychiatric bed. A room with her mother arranging the flowers she'd brought. The family photographs lined up, my mother clasping my hand, while I was trapped in a bed.

Captive.

"What did you do there? - I got high

What did you feel there? - Well I cried

But why the tears there? - I'll tell you why

It's all too beautiful, it's all too beautiful

I would be weeping, my mother would be weeping. My father's top lip would be stiff.

I screamed again.

Then I imagined the most spectacular place on earth, I dreamt of the most wonderfully comforting place in the entire world. A beach, a mountain, a holiday from her childhood, my mother looking self-consciously beautiful in her swim-suit, her father just looking self-conscious. I felt myself trembling, my arms crossed tightly around my knees.

I remembered my gravity-defying body. No fat, lean, not an ounce anywhere, just my tight, springy pubic hair above the outward petal of my cunt. The improbable construction of my belly button, my brilliantly symmetrical torso, the absolute precise exactness of my ribs, the flexibility of my spine. The bony ridges of my back like keys on a small piano accordion, my breasts as they began to develop

I turned into a woman and my father hadn't even noticed. The glory of my beauty wasn't recognised by him. How little of my future could ever be realised in my child's face. He never even saw me as a child. I wondered if and would wager that he didn't know what colour my eyes were.

All this and he couldn't even protect me.

Did he wish I'd never even been born? He wished my poor, retarded older brother dead. I accused him of that once, even I would admit later that was a cut too far. But after three of his finest raped me, if that's what they did. Whatever they did, he looked the other way. He was the weak one.

Now I'd collapsed and didn't know what to do. I rocked backwards and forwards on the sofa. The noise covered his approach. I stared wide-eyed at the young man with a spectacular chest and one of my towels wrapped around his tight waist. He frowned, walked towards the CD player and turned the sound down.

'You woke me.'

Who was he?

'You usually wake me with a wandering hand and kissing my neck. Not the early morning disco.'

Who...?

'Helen, are you all right?'

'I need some resolution from this rape.'

His mouth hung open, 'I've not raped you.'

'My heart needs surgically removing.'

'You're not making sense.

'I'm strong, just a moment to console me and I'm strong again.'

'I don't know who to ring, to contact. I... you're scaring me.'

He was a wide-shouldered young man, who?

He picked up the phone book, flicked through it. Grabbed the phone and dialled.

'Hello, sorry to bother you but its Helen, she's not well.'

The young man had dressed by the time Harvey arrived. They exchanged words at the front door and the young man left. Malkovitch came over and sat alongside me.

He held both hands. 'Helen, look at me – Helen.'

I felt my head turn towards him.

'You're up and about early.'

'What's happened?'

I felt my mouth hang open. I pulled my dressing-gown apart and pointed to my left breast. 'He bit me.'

'Has he hurt you?'

'No – I asked him to bite me. I like it.'

Malkovitch closed the gaping dressing gown, 'I'm going to get some help.'

He stood and went to the phone. I couldn't recall the conversation. He led me up to the bed. Straightened the duvet and told me to get into bed. Bed should be everyone's safe harbour. He pulled the duvet up under my chin and I slept.

*

'You're too hard on yourself, it's not an unexpected reaction. You've just had a series of stressful meetings with one of your attackers and suddenly two policemen turn up and strong-arm you into...'

'Wait a minute,' I held my hand up at Malkovitch, he just smiled. 'I'd been feeling so well and this visit triggers a breakdown as bad as any I've had before. I keep asking myself why?'

'Anything could've prompted this, you've been putting yourself under a lot of stress don't forget.' Harvey Malkovitch leaned to his left and put his right hand deep into his jacket pocket, cigarette time. He flipped the lid of the packet open, slid one out and stuck it between his lips, 'do you mind if I?'

'You've never asked for my permission before.'

He lit up and inhaled deeply, 'what medication are you on?'

'The usual.'

'How are you coping?'

'I'm surprisingly well.' I took a deep breath, 'did I tell you about the name Philip Mole gave me?'

He shuffled his notes and shook his head, 'remind me.'

'Bearing in mind this drunk could just have been spinning me a yarn, fishing for some beer money, but he said that this man knew stuff about the police far worse than that inflicted upon me.'

'When are you seeing him?'

'Tonight.'

'Somewhere public I hope.'

'He lives in sheltered accommodation now.'

Malkovitch smiled, 'and you think this man can help you in your quest?'

'I don't know, can we move this on please?'

'Do you want to talk about the policemen and their visit?'

'No,' I shook my head, 'my first day at university, I want an opinion on my behaviour.'

*

Stuart was as high as a lark and I was the opposite. For the first few miles, he sent a battery of questions at me, my answers were either monosyllabic or a mumbled meaningless nothing.

'Are you excited?'

'What about?'

'Starting university – getting away from your parents.'

'I'm sorry, I don't feel that great, do you mind if I try and sleep?'

I did manage to sleep, Stuart drove and I dreamt of my father tearing my heart out. In the dream I kept asking my mother could live with such a grotesque man for so long? But she never replied, she had lost whatever fight was in the core of her heart. He'd ripped hers out as well. If I wasn't asleep, I pretended to be. On the odd occasion when I opened my eyes, Stuart would say something and I'd murmur something back and then another awkward silence would fill the car like a heavy November fog. He wanted to talk and I wanted to sob, which I did as soon as he left me. I sat in my room and thought about Stuart's confused expression as I left him standing at his car. Another reason to sob the afternoon away, I cried about Don, a man who wouldn't bend to my will. I cried about three policemen tying me down to a snooker table. I cried about my father, what he did was worse than the men who worked for him. Plotting a revenge on everyone became my salvation. I sat at my little desk and began to write. Five sides of A4 – all about Don. What he did to me and how I loved every second. By the time my composition was finished, my exercise in revenge had stirred me out of my slough of despond. It never crossed my mind to send it home, that would come much later.

But I would get laid tonight, this entered my mind as I wrote and every gory detail was going to be noted in my most salacious prose. I was going to compose a memoir recording my sexual progress as I screwed my way through the ranks of the spotty faced fresher's. I knew in that instant what I could bring to this utopian undergraduate world, free-market sex was the currency which I would offer to begin with. My sexuality would become my revenge on my father and my intellect would be another lever to climb the academic world.

I placed my pen down on the small desk and smiled for the first time in a week. This is where my pornographic descent, or ascent depending on your outlook, began. Don made me feel physically sick, I had become so obsessed that the thought fucking someone other than Don drove me on. That's how my mania took me, the obscenity of revenge began. This vulgarity became one reason for my own destruction. I was rapt, fixated on him and how everyone had betrayed me. The assault merely jolted me out of a fixation and turned me into a phobia driven recluse. My father's actions sent me into a furious revenge fuelled rage.

It's fair to say that I was confused, I showered, dressed in a shapely short cotton dress, no bra and for a few minutes I considered wearing no knickers. I slid a pair of light blue, cotton knickers on and then my high leather boots, I looked devastating. A young woman out on the prowl, unashamedly throwing her sexuality out in front of her like a highly coloured sports car with its exhaust pipe blowing. I walked towards the student bar on a warm autumn, late September night. Unashamedly, like a confident street walker out for all to covet and admire – and lust after. My appearance saying it all, this young woman is happy, looking for male company and coming to meet a man somewhere near you.

It had become impossible in my mind to think anything other than every young man in the bar was staring at me. My obsessions vanished as I saw all of these young men fixating about me. My spirits soared, I knew that this effect would be the same wherever I was. Wherever I went, in a shop, at a party, on the beach, anywhere, I had emerged from the shadows of my mind feeling the most omnipotent woman in the world. This subliminal image kept flashing across in front of me. I would be making love to one of these young men stood around drinking. All of the others would know and their torment would begin. Once they had all experienced me, the image of me with another would torture and twist and their minds would emerge from the shadows and their torment would begin. The pornographic torment, watching somebody else do it to me where a few brief days ago it was them. These licentious images would be so painful, a representation of what exactly?

The torment of jealousy, that's what. I would turn it into an art form. Every different aspect of my seduction would be an art form. My decided course of action didn't stop my stomach churning as I walked in the middle of a group of students. Good looking, athletic and I did have a weakness for this type. I stared in turn at the five of them. Their laughing reduced to a smile. Their pint glasses held out in front of them, a crude defence against my beauty.

I fumbled for my purse, 'I'm Helen, who wants a drink?'

I've thought about this confrontation over the years, at that first delicious moment, me holding my purse. I wondered what they were thinking. Would the others be jealous of the lucky one who would be the first to fuck me? I hoped so and my actions thus far showed me to be the complete modern woman. A woman paying for her round, happy in the company of men, I could have been a woman in a pornographic film. Oh I'm just a poor defenceless woman and my showers broke. Could, would one of you come back to my room and fix it for me? I smiled at them, waved a pound note at them and waited. It didn't take many seconds. It was the one who wouldn't make eye contact that stepped forwards.

'What do you want Helen?'

'Orange juice would be lovely.'

He collected the other empty glasses and it was like a dam being breached. The question came at me fast and furious.

'Don't you drink?'

'Never.'

'You're a good girl?'

'Always.'

'Have you never drunk?'

I lied, 'no, it dulls the senses. I don't want my sensations anything other than razor sharp.'

Silence.

A collective frown as they took this in.

Finally, one of them said, 'it helps loosen inhibitions, helps you relax.'

'Perhaps I don't have any inhibitions to lose.'

This felt good, unlike the last time I was surrounded by a group of leering men. This felt nothing other than exciting – and safe. I didn't think there would be much jealousy at this stage. Whoever I eventually paired off with, the others would go back to their beds thinking of the one who was fucking me. But it would be just like the lucky one had become a surrogate for those missing out. They would lie in their beds thinking of me. Boy this was a powerful feeling. Incredible the power I felt, the chosen one would become a substitute for the others. A locum and it makes it more of an enjoyable night for those missing out.

The collective possessiveness would generate after they had all experienced how good the experience was. They would no longer be accomplices, they will have morphed into rivals and the torment begins. When I'd disappeared from their lives, they'll remember me. My breasts, my passion, my scent, like something supernatural, they'll remember me forever, whereas I'll just see an empty space. They'll remember me walking towards them, shapely and sexy. Aphrodite, their very own Aphrodite walking slowly until she's within touching distance. Then walking straight past – gone forever and any control they ever had in their lives disappears, if not forever then for a few long hours as they wonder why.

If I didn't know why, then what chance did they have? And the constraining influence of my stiff upper lip parents will have been cast off forever. The price to pay for this – a large one it turned out. I was incapable of loving anyone, apart from myself. Did this bother me? It did to begin with, I knew the downside of my behaviour. Some in college, girls mainly, thought my sexual adventures degrading to women and just downright senseless. The young men thought me a slut, but that didn't stop them wanting me. My tutor had a quiet word, perhaps this was the trigger for when I reached the same rank in the university pecking order. He was early forties, sociable, fit enough, a raconteur. He spoke eloquently enough about my behaviour. Never judgemental, just a gentle warning, but I countered and told him that this was the summer of love. Millions going to Woodstock and making love, getting stoned listening to Hendrix, turning hippy and dancing to the Grateful Dead, making love in the mud as Janis Joplin sang.

I remembered shrugging, he was typical of many tutor's. He had the pick in a way and he took advantage of his position. He suddenly leaned across and looked into my eyes.

'I could make an exception in your case.'

This was the moment. The trigger. The idea came to me and my chosen career as a seducing tutor had its root.

I played dumb, 'What do you mean?'

'I never make love to my students until after their finals.'

'You don't want to put any confusion into their academic studies. That's very principled of you.'

I felt his hand on my thigh.

I stood, 'I'm not stupid or a slut.' I stood close, my legs slightly apart. I half expected his hand to go further up my short dress and was slightly disappointed when he pulled his hand away. 'I'm neither of those things, I am what I am. Some don't like it, who cares?'

*

Malkovitch placed his pen alongside his notebook and gazed at me. Here we go I thought, another pregnant silence but he disappointed me. 'What do you want me to say? I'm shocked at an older man, one in a position of some responsibility groping you and not surprised at the way you started university. Many, many go down the route of promiscuity for any number of different reasons.' He fingered his well-padded chin for a few seconds, 'did you enjoy the sex, or was it just a pointless revenge trip?'

'I enjoyed the encounters,' I leaned forwards, 'why was my revenge trip pointless?'

'Because none of the protagonists could have been aware that you were having such a good time.'

'But I knew.'

'And that's enough for you?'

'It was to begin with, then I needed more.'

'Letters home?'

'To my father.'

'Did your mother know about them?'

'He showed her, I never thought he would share my sluttish ways with anyone.'

'How did you know that your mother knew about their existence?'

'She mentioned one,' I frowned and drummed the table a few times with my fingers. 'It was the first one I sent. Bizarrely the man was married to Stuart's wife, her first husband.'

'What an incestuous little world we all live in.' Malkovitch glanced at his watch, 'are you back at work?'

'Yes thank god.'

'Try not to overdo things.'

*

A short, emphysemic, myopic old man. I stared at him, five foot five on a good day. A voice screamed in my head, what am I doing here? Oh this wasn't some residential care home for the senile, or the crippled or those with days to live. Sheltered accommodation for those with enough money to pay for decent care and physically independent, kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom. All small, but kept clean and tidy enough by the scruffy little man staring at me through lenses thick enough to line the bottom of the heaviest of beer bottles. Clean enough, but the all-pervading smell of stale tobacco almost caused me to hyper-ventilate. I wondered if he'd ask my permission to light up. No was the answer, Hesford pulled a packed of cigarettes out from his shirt pocket and lit up. It seemed that my life had become permeated by heavy smokers.

'Sorry,' he shoved the cigarettes towards me, 'do you?'

I shook my head, 'no vices.'

'Everyone has a vice.' This vile little man looked me up and down, 'I wonder what yours is?

Spare me the innuendo I thought, 'I live the life of a convent dweller and very satisfying it is as well.'

He considered this for a moment, thought about saying something to contradict my clumsy fabrication. Finally coming up with, 'you are joking I take it?'

I shook my head, 'sorry to disappoint you, a life free of temptation, I renounce all material comforts and lead a life of austere self-discipline.' Again I got the myopia induced gaze, finally morphing into a question mark, confusion breathed its way through Eddie Hesford's body. I helped him out, 'what about yourself, do you have any pleasure in your life?'

'Still take some a few photographs.' Hesford, still frowning leaned forwards, 'I haven't seen your identification.'

'That's because I lied to you, I don't work for Social Services.'

He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, 'what's going on?'

I leaned forwards, 'Philip Mole sent me.'

Hesford battered his half-smoked cigarette out into a cheap pre-formed aluminium ash tray. The ash turned into a small, angry, pernicious plume that spiralled up his arm. He stood and paced around the small room. He sighed frequently, half a dozen times at least, finally ending up with him standing over me. I thought he was going to kick me out, but all he said was, 'what does that depraved fuckpig want?'

'He told me everything.'

'Did he now?' Hesford moved away from me and sat down again. He stared at his cigarettes for an age before whispering, 'I haven't got any money.'

'Do you think that he wants to blackmail you?'

'Probably. What did he tell you?'

'Everything.'

'The big-mouthed bastard. It was my wife's idea you know.'

'I know, Philip told me remember. I'd like to hear your side of it.'

'The girls were all trouble, it's not as if we had to force them. Why do you think they ended up in our care? They were all trouble.'

Here we go I thought and a shiver went up my back, a distant memory of the night I met Stuart, but recalling something so vague was beyond me. Just that he said something similar to Hesford, what was it? Gone forever, lost in the ether of my fragile mind. 'Trouble, that's putting it mildly.'

'You're not kidding.'

'Why would he blackmail you?'

Hesford slowly shook his head, 'he can't really, it's me that's got the black on all of them.'

'I knew you'd be too clever to let yourself be compromised over this.'

'Too right, especially if they knew about the photos'

'Photos, Philip never mentioned them.'

'Why would he, how could even. No one knew except me and my Mrs' He lit another cigarette, I watched him through what might well have been a small allotment bonfire. 'Of course it was her idea and we blackmailed a couple of town councillors. Never the police, we weren't stupid.'

'And they don't know about the photos?'

'I told you, no one knows.'

'But you've just told me.'

'I'll deny it if anyone ever asked.'

'Police you mean.'

'I'd be a dead man.'

'Can I see them?'

'No way – why would you want to anyway?'

'Because of what they did to me.'

Hesford began to stare and stare, he took as big a breath as his damaged lungs would safely allow, 'you were never in our care were you?' His head twisted to one side and he gave the impression of one with sever learning difficulties.

'I've never been in care, do you mean that big old house in Ormond Road?'

'That's the one. What did you mean, because of what they did to you?'

I nodded, 'the police have a lot to answer for. Did you know them well?'

'I never really had anything to do with them, that was my wife's liking.'

'She slept with them?'

'Most of the time.'

'You didn't mind?'

'I got my pleasures in a different way.'

'The photographs?'

'Yes, that was my little perk.'

I suddenly had this powerful image of a seedy little man in a dirty raincoat. Sat in a booth in a Soho strip club masturbating as a bored stripper goes through her clichéd routine. Hesford looked away and I guessed he knew exactly what I was thinking and that I was right. I asked another question, 'have you got a lot of photographs?'

'Hundreds and hundreds. And a dozen thirty five millimetre home movies that I took myself. The camera cost me a fortune.'

'But well worth it?' He never answered, just shrugged. 'Can you sell me some?'

He leaned forwards, suddenly more interested, 'fifty quid a photo?'

'I haven't got that sort of money on me.' My mental arithmetic was fragile at the best of times, I needed two of each policeman. The three that assaulted me plus Dawes. I was sure my father and Don wouldn't' be involved, that eight photos... four hundred pounds. This was beginning to turn into an expensive project. 'I can get the money here this afternoon, but just to be sure, I'll need to see a sample of what you're selling.'

'Fair enough. Give me a name.'

'Mark Dawes.'

He came back quickly enough and handed me an envelope. For the few seconds it took me to slide the picture out, my heart clattered away as I wondered what my reaction would be if my father's face was in the frame as it were. I took a deep breath and it was worse than seeing my father involved. Mark Dawes was behind a girl who was on all fours, tears streaming down her face, Dawes contorted countenance was covered in sweat.

'That girl is Down's Syndrome.'

Hesford canted his head a touch, 'that's Mongol Mary, it's my favourite.'

You bastard I thought, but moral outrage was shunted aside, this was dynamite. Tory minister not only screwing a possibly underage girl, but one with severe learning difficulties as well. Dawes, you blustering, broken veined lecher. I took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds, it burst from my lips in what can only be described as akin to broken down gold prospector suddenly coming across a nugget of gold bigger than his own fist.

I couldn't drag my eyes away from this obscenity, even Hesford's voice had no effect, 'that one will cost you a hundred.'

I squinted at the pervert sat opposite, 'Tell me, did any of them ever come to you wearing their uniforms?'

'I think that they thought that it made their visits more legitimate.'

I stared back at my photo, to the left of the large bed a policeman's hat. Not that of a bobby on the beat, the flat variety worn by officers of rank. In Dawes case, that of Chief Superintendent. Someone with the appropriate photography skills would be able to enlarge that one.

'I want a couple of photos of Andrew Gates and Philip Mole.' I couldn't recall the name of the third rapist and I was too scared to ask if my father appeared in his photo album. 'Have you any of Don Wilson?'

Hesford shook his head, 'he put in a couple of appearances, but I got no pictures of him. Seven hundred, in cash.'

*

My bank account had taken a pounding but I had thirteen envelopes on the table. Envelopes that I was frightened to open. I wanted my father to be guilty of something, but not an involvement with rapists and pedarists. So I stared at the only photo not in an envelope, the same one that fixated me when I was with Eddie Hesford. As the image blurred, my mind cleared. One man's motives might be easier to assess, a group of them was more complex. In Dawes's case he was on both a power trip and a need to humiliate and debase. From looking at this one image, I made an assumption that Dawes wasn't on some anger trip, physical brutality wasn'this motive, he needed to feed his undoubted issues of mastery, control, dominance, strength, intimidation, authority and capability. I was sure he would think that his victim will eventually enjoy the rape. He has a sexual association with power so that aggression and the infliction of pain itself is eroticized. For this rapist, sexual excitement is associated with the inflicting of pain upon their victim. The offender finds the intentional maltreatment of their victim intensely gratifying and takes pleasure in the victim's torment, pain, anguish, distress, helplessness, and suffering.

But how did this tie in with what happened to me? I knew well enough that gang rape is predominantly committed by young men. True in my case, sexual aggression is often a defining characteristic of manhood within this group and is significantly related to the wish to be held in high esteem. I can fuck her better or harder than you is not the subconscious motive, these men were punishing me for my behaviour, sleeping with one of their colleagues, wearing a short skirt and drinking in a bar alone.

I showered and dressed and took a leisurely breakfast. I sat in the window eating some heavily buttered toast when I saw him. A bulky man walking across my short gravelled drive. Despite his casual appearance, sports jacket, chinos and deck shoes, I jumped up and waited at the door for the knock.

I stared at this man, who said nothing, just stared back. Then I remembered who it was, I said 'Andrew.'

'Helen, can I come in.'

'Are you going to arrest me?'

He shook his head, 'A social visit.'

'The last time I saw you, you were cutting my knickers off with a pair of scissors.'

His expression never changed. 'I think you've got things mixed up somehow.'

'I don't think so – then you fingered my cunt, remember?'

'Can I come in?'

'So you can rape me again? I don't think so.'

His expression changed, mouth turned down and he frowned. Dipped his shoulder and barged by. He knocked me through ninety degrees in the process.

'I'm going to report this.'

'I just need ten minutes of your time.'

'Did you send those policemen around to threaten me?'

'No.'

'Philip Mole's contacted you.'

'Philip hasn't got long for this world.'

I slid down onto the floor. On my knees with my head bowed, an ideal position for a ritual be-heading. Do your worst I thought, I've had enough. I don't want to hear anymore. I remembered being tied, his face when his scissors sliced through my knickers. Triumph and the perverse curiosity as he stared down at my sex. He slid his finger inside me, and I cry out as he does it again and again. He palms my clitoris, and I cry out once more. Was this a cry of pleasure, no, I was terrified now. Andrew pushed inside me harder and harder still. But I feel nothing, is this how a prostitute copes with the whole event. He throws my knickers to the mole who to all intents and purposes, uses them as if they were a tissue and he had a heavy cold.

'Don't.' I groan. It's the humiliation, the impotent feeling that humiliates.

A voice, 'I'm going.' Not Andrew or Mole. The other one, he tied my legs with no real enthusiasm. Just the demeanour of the pressed ganged man.

'You're not going anywhere.' Andrew wild eyed triumphalism brooked no display of mutiny from the enlisted man. Unlike his volunteer who knelt between my legs now.

Andrew leans down himself, his hands either side of my head, so he's hovering over me, staring down into my eyes, his jaw clenched, eyes burning. His erection waving about close to my face now. He said six words that still resonate now, 'I'm going to fuck your mouth. I've heard you like that.'

I held my breath, if I held it long enough I might die, or at least faint and this whole pageant of crudeness would disappear.

The door slammed, I opened my eyes. Why was I on my knees? Facing a door that had just been forcibly slammed? I looked up and Andrew was staring down at me. Just like he did when I was strapped to a snooker table. I bowed my head again and spoke to the floor, 'are you going to fuck my mouth again?'

'I've never done that. Nothing happened, you know that.'

He hadn't, that bit was true. But only because Mole went down on me and that upset Andrew. I looked down the length of my body and I could see the whites of Mole's eyes. It was like he was peering over a wall. Then his slobbering lapping and Andrew said, 'you cunt, we agreed, I'm first.'

Thieves fall out, rapist as well it seemed, I tried to lift my head and focus on Andrew. 'Poor boy, never got to fuck my mouth because the Mole started lapping me.'

'Helen, you obviously dwell in some fantasy land.'

'You're uncircumcised.'

His expression changed somewhat, he sighed, 'we have to try and come to some agreement.'

'That will come out in court, it's already in my manuscript. Andrew's uncircumcised. In black and white.'

'I'm not here to talk about your manuscript.'

Wheels clicked in my mind, I follow Philip Mole and get two heavies threatening me. I visit Eddie Hesford and I get Andrew. 'Mark Dawes contacted you has he?'

He struck me across the face with the back of his hand, 'what did Mole tell you?'

I ignored him, 'my manuscripts at work,' my face stinging, I taste blood in the corner of my mouth. He seems happy with my answer. 'On my computer here.' Andrew frowns, 'on a floppy disc with my solicitor.' He lifts his hand and I wait for the blow. It never comes. 'A copy's with a local newspaper owner.'

Slap!

I collapse on the floor, lying at his feet. I refuse to cry.

He started to pace around the room, I suddenly remembered the photograph of Dawes on the table, had I left it face down or... Gates stared at the table, started to walk towards it, but suddenly turned and spat more words at me. 'Leave Philip Mole alone.' He knelt and bent further down to be close to my face, 'you have a choice. Stop nosing around and life can get back to normal.'

'You're finished.'

'What? Who's going to believe you? I've had a look at you, a history of mental issues...'

'It's no fucking wonder I have issues.'

'Two breakdowns, one recent, a spell in a local asylum.'

'It wasn't an asylum'

'You're a fucking lunatic, you don't cope with stress, why tear yourself apart?'

'I want justice.'

'You'll get shredded in court, you fuck half the policemen in the county and... well you get the message.' He placed his hands under my shoulders and lifted me into the sitting position. 'I'm thinking of you Helen, if you try and go through with this, you'll get slaughtered. Your father was right.'

'Leave that bastard out of this.'

He laughed, a hollow humourless effort, 'he flayed us. Stupid old school prick, called us all liars, he was all for shopping us.'

I felt my eyebrows lift, 'but you all had your stories straight by then.'

He nodded, 'nothing happened. We all said that, even good old Don.'

'Who wasn't even in the room.'

'You were on a different planet – he was in the bar all the time.

I thought rubbish, but said nothing, too confused by his earlier statement. Did he mean my father believed me? Or rather he didn't believe them, was that the same thing?

'Where were we? If you take the dangerous road, well...'

'I'll get what exactly? You're threatening me, how dare you.'

He came closer, his hand came around my throat, 'still a young woman.' He released the grip, turned away and opened the door. 'Avoid the stress, its bad for you. Avoid shortening your life.'

The door slammed and made me jump. I watched him from the window, two thoughts banging around in my head. The first was that despite what Gates was telling me, it wasn't my manuscript that was the problem. It was what I did or didn't know about Eddie Hesford. If Gates had seen the photo on the table then the game would have been well and truly up for me. I lay down and curled up in a ball on the sofa. I felt threatened, but something he said about my father. It had gone, slipped away like a pickpocket in amongst the masses of shoppers in Regent Street.

What was it?

*

I quickly glanced at Malkovitch, 'am I rambling?'

'You have to tell the police,' Malkovitch shook his head, 'I've taped all of this by the way, does that bother you?'

'Of course not.'

Malkovitch switched the tape recorder off, 'I did this for a couple of reasons, mainly to keep for when you report this man to the police.'

'He is the police.'

'Helen, it wasn't just a threat, he struck you.'

'Twice.'

'You have to report it.'

'I have to get away, I'm on the point of collapse. If I'm not careful. This is going to finish me off.'

'You can stay with me.'

'Your wife would love that. Thanks for the offer, but I have to get away, for a few weeks.'

'Six weeks until the start of term.'

'I hope to be back before that.'

'What shall I tell...?'

'Nothing, I've disappeared. Vanished, had a break down and walked off into the sunset.'

'You want me to say nothing?'

'Please.'

'What about work?'

'Say nothing.'

'Where will you go?'

'I know somewhere my parents took me, a few fishermen's cottages, a couple of pubs and lots of seagulls.'

'Do you have an address?'

'Best you don't know.'

'C'mon, what if something happens this end?' I wrote the address down and passed the sheet of paper across. 'If you just vanish from the face of the earth, there'll be a manhunt.' He stared at the address, 'even if you are in deepest Wales, someone will see you.'

'I need to clear my head.'

'What about the manuscript?'

'I'm updating all the time. I've left enough with different people to stir things up.' I lied about this, I hadn't written a thing of note for weeks. But I had a different stick to beat them with and I had to find the best way to break a few skulls. Well reputations and careers at least.

A few hours later and I felt better, I'd packed a few things, my computer and screen took up most of the car's boot space. I drove west and felt better. Better than I had for weeks, even better when I crossed the Severn Bridge. Better despite being less than halfway to my safe haven. My thoughts jumping around like corn in a hot pan.

### 14

### Stuart

'So who am I talking to?'

'My name's Chief Superintendent Gates. We've a few questions for you.'

'Are you one of the three policemen that raped Helen Mably?' I sat, arms folded and a wronged man's simmering sense of injustice plastered across my face. An expression that transferred across the table to the man sat opposite. I stared at Gates, familiar from somewhere but I couldn't put my finger on it. He had a baby face, one that had suddenly creased with annoyance.

'I'd be careful what you say, my sergeant eats little men like you.'

I stared at the man glaring at me, the opposite of his boss. Bull-necked and bald, his physique that of an ageing heavyweight that had seen better days. Thin eyes and thick lips; a street fighter. Jutting brick of a forehead. He scowled hard at me, a look that said me, you, me and a dark alley.

'Who's you ugly friend?'

'This is DS Pettiford – if you think I'm a nasty bastard, then this one.' Gates nodded towards his detective, 'is the real thing.'

'We've met, he's harassed me on two separate occasions already. What am I doing here?'

'How did you get that wound just above your eye?'

'I will use my right to remain silent – so fire away, I won't answer a question.'

'You were down by the rail line yesterday afternoon?'

Nothing.

'You assaulted Philip Mole.'

Nothing.

The bruiser stood, he didn't have far to move, we were in a biscuit tin of an interview room. Pettiford stood behind me, I waited stoically for a punch in the kidneys.

Nothing.

But it had unnerved me, my vow of silence lasted less than a minute. 'This is all to do with Helen Mably isn't it?'

'You pushed Philip Mole under a moving train.'

'Do you know about her journal? She's going to finger the boys that raped her. Philip Mole admitted to me that you were one of those involved. Now he's dead.'

'Is that what he told you?'

'That's not all he said either.' Trying to direct the direction the interview summed me up in a nutshell. Too clever by half Jack was forever calling me. Instead of saying nothing and waiting for the cavalry in the guise of my legal aid to arrive, I shot my mouth off. Easily convincing myself that something Mole said could get me right on the front foot. I pressed my foot hard down on the accelerator, 'he told me that you all used to fuck this retarded woman.'

It came out of nowhere, a punch in the kidneys that turned my daylight into a star filled midnight. I found the floor the only place to feel comfortable. I stretched out and gasped for breath. I waited for a kick that never arrived. A couple of gasping minutes later I sat up. 'You know my solicitors minutes away?' I watched them both frown, 'didn't your goon tell you? They let my boss ring for legal advice, which should be here very soon.' I clambered back up onto my chair and said to the thug, 'no bruises now, she'll get you sacked.'

Perfectly timed, a knock on the door and the desk sergeant peered around the door. The bearer of bad news looked suitably chastened. 'Sorry sir.' He nodded at me, 'his solicitors here.'

'Two minutes and shut the door.' Gates leaned in close, 'you believe a broken down fantasist like Philip Mole?'

'I'm selective, I think you bunch of perverts would enjoy doing just that.'

Once again I waited for the punch, instead Gates asked me another question. I sensed that he was trying to keep the tension out of his voice, 'did he mention a man called Eddie Hesford?'

I frowned and was about to say no when the door knocked again and opened. A tall, slender woman's elegance blazed a trail with just the few serene steps it took to walk alongside me, Abigail was starkly Jewish in appearance. Long, lustres hair tied back, olive skinned, dark eyed and wearing an expensive black, beautifully tailored trouser suit. She lifted her brief case onto the small table and introduced herself with a succinct instruction. 'Now if you leave me and my client alone for fifteen minutes we can proceed.' Abigail glanced around and pointed at an idle tape-recorder. 'When you come back, we'll have that switched on as well.'

The door slammed and I began to rub my kidney, 'they mean business.'

'How are you?' Abigail never gave me chance to answer, 'tell me everything.'

She took a few notes as I recounted my two meetings with Philip Mole, throwing the growing conspiracy into the mix as well.

'He hit you?'

'Which time? Yesterday or...'

'Yesterday's encounter.'

'With a beer can, an unopened one. He wouldn't want to waste any.' I fingered the semi-circular wound across my eyebrow, 'it hurt.'

'Then you hit him.'

'Once.'

'And that was it?'

'I left him holding his nose.'

The door opened and the two came back in. 'Was that long enough to get your story straight.'

I was about to answer, Abigail held the palm of her hand in my face. Nails beautifully manicured as you'd expect. 'You won't be charging him.'

'Was that a question?'

She shook her head, 'It was a simple statement of fact. You have a witness?'

'That is a question by the way,' I said helpfully. I got stares from both, buoyed up by Abigail's presence, I said. 'You both look so sad. Does a lawyer's presence stop you from hitting me again? That's another question by the way.'

Abigail mouth suggested the merest flicker of a smile and she repeated herself. 'You have a witness I hear?' Gates nodded, he had the appearance of a poker player holding a full house and yet somehow knowing that his opponent had four of a kind. He waited for Abigail to show her hand which she did soon enough, 'your desk sergeant tells me the only witness you have, saw Mr Mole walk in front of the train. There was nobody close by either.' Abigail had pulled an unexpected rabbit from the magician's top hat. She did it with the closed expression of any good poker player. Gates' worst fears confirmed as Abigail began to collect her papers and began to place them back into her expensive looking briefcase. She stood, brushed her hands down the length of her thighs in an exaggerated attempt to smooth her trousers out. She had good legs, the two opposite stared at them, no attempt to disguise their lusting. The mouth breather even licked his lips.

I stood, 'It's been a pleasure. Next time you're trying to fit someone up, make sure you've got a witness.'

'We have a witness.'

Abigail snapped back, 'I've seen the signed statement from a witness. If you have another, then get them to sign a statement – don't waste my time and don't hit someone who is helping you with your enquiries. My client is going to think this over, I saw the state he was in when I arrived. He's already got bruising on his ribs and a nasty abrasion across his cheekbone.' Abigail never gave them chance to counter that charge by quickly saying, 'what's a Superintendent doing questioning a witness anyway?'

'Chief Superintendent,' I said helpfully.

I walked Abigail to her car, 'can I give you a lift home?'

I shook my head, 'I'm going to see one of Helen Mably's colleagues, thanks anyway. You were right, why would someone of his rank sit in on an interview?'

'I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but something's not right.'

'I told Gates that I knew he was one of the three policemen that raped Helen.'

'What was the answer?'

'I never got one, that's when I got the punch in the kidneys.'

'Did Mr Mole tell you that?'

'No, good guess though.'

*

Jack waved the mock-up of next week's front page at me.

'What are you going to do with it?'

'I'm going to run it.' Jack shifted in his chair a touch.

'No discussion, just like that. What about your best friend's sensitivities?'

'David's done nothing wrong. He was presented with four statements from police officers and just did what was the best for everyone.'

'But they lied.'

'Look at my report of the event. I've said that from different witnesses, the balance of probability suggests that an assault took place. David Mably never covered anything up, he was just presented...'

'Well I don't agree with anything you've said, what about Mrs Mably's feelings?'

Jack sighed, 'Since when have you become the compassionate one?'

I looked at the clock, 'fairly recently. I'm worried that this is going to get me into trouble again. Kathy's put the block on my escapades and I quite like the quiet life anyway. And after the mess you got me into a couple of years ago, I'd like it to stay nice and quiet thanks.'

More specifically, I'd like to keep it nice and safe, the way my job dictated. Not looking for anything in particular, simply performing a mechanical task of reporting on local events. This often left me in a listless, neutral state. But I always got everything done and always lived to see the end of the next day. My superstition began to take over, we'd found a conspiracy that would electrify and send shock waves all the way up to the top of the establishment. I began to wish that this hadn't fallen into our laps. This was nothing other than toxic, Jack was forever telling me that knowledge is power. Superstitious delusion ran through the male line in my family and it kept telling me that this was knowledge that kills. Perhaps it already had, one man throws himself under a train and I had this dark feeling that Helen was dead as well.

I glanced across at Jack, evolution had bred superstition out of his blood line and here he was, finishing off his expose on a twenty three year old rape. His concentration that of a medieval scribe, sometimes he'd raise an eyebrow, once he laughed, mostly he smoked and ploughed his relentless way forward. There it was and here we were and I felt my chest tighten. He'd named the policemen involved, one of them was pursuing me aggressively enough as it was. When he saw this, I flinched at the image this created.

I couldn't sleep that night, wishing that I could be more like Jack and massage the stress out of my life by smoking the night away. I listened to Kathy as she murmured restlessly through her dreams. I thought of Kenny with his wild eyes hidden behind steel rimmed glasses twinkling a subliminal message my way. I imagined him shuffling down the concreted corridor of his prison block. Did he know more than he let on? What about Mably? What would Kenny's first words be to the police who came knocking on his door in the middle of the night, 'Why, why me?'

'What's up?'

'I've been going through things, bobbing and drifting around the harbour, wondering if we've uncorked a malicious genie.'

'You're both good at that. And Helen's still directing men this way and that.'

I nodded, 'well capable of just that, still managing to get us men racing around like headless chickens.'

All the time I imagined Helen's face, livid and bloated and blistered. The eye sockets with dozens of milk-white maggots squirming in them. Her lips might be drawn back in a grotesque parody of a smile. There were bound to be dried vomit and blood flecked across her face. Her lustrous blonde hair would have been stuck across her cheek the way it sometimes did when we made love.

Kathy leaned close and kissed the back of my neck, 'I hope this is not turning into another obsession?'

'If it does, at least I won't be in any physical danger this time.'

'Have you seen the manuscript?'

'There isn't a manuscript, not a nearly completed one anyway.'

'You'll have to revue if it ends up in print.'

I reviewed books by local authors, now there's a prospect I thought. I shook my head, 'Jack thinks that the lawyers will block it, libel laws.'

'But it won't stop Jack?'

'You know what he's like.'

'What's the time?'

'Just after four.'

'You haven't slept have you?' Kathy's hand snaked around and over my hip. Fingers stopped and began dancing on the spot in amongst my pubic hair. 'Shall I send you on your way?'

The blessed relief, empty the mind moving inside Kathy. Drive into her and forget Helen. But I drove into Kathy thinking of Helen. That didn't stop the deep sleep overtaking me for an hour or so.

*

I knew someone at the solicitors Helen had used. Someone I played cricket with, someone who would defend the devil himself and convince a jury that his client was the innocent party. But that's their job and they did it always with a clear conscience. He wasn't a rogue as such, just a touch unctuous. Self-basting Jack labelled him and that was pretty much how he was.

'Helen Mably.'

'When was this?'

'Nineteen sixty seven.'

'Jees – you're not asking much. I wasn't here then.'

'Can you look for me?'

'Cheeky bugger.'

'Off the record, it's important. You know I'll be discrete.'

'Yeh, and I'm the Pope.'

I sat at his mahogany table and waited. Not long as it turned out, he came back with a thin looking file, sat down and spread it open.

He scanned quickly through, a raised eyebrow here and a grunt there. 'Well, well. Who'd have thought it? Do you know her?'

I nodded, 'Used to, she's vanished. What's it say?'

'Not too much actually. She initially claimed she'd been sexually assaulted. Pressed charges to begin with, but then pulled back. We sent two letters, the first detailing the assault, the second...'

'I've seen that one, withdrawing the complaint against your best advice.'

He frowned, stared up at me and shrugged, 'How did you get hold of that?'

I changed tack, 'Do you have any idea why she changed her mind?'

'Four policemen lined up against her, all saying she made it up. I think it would never have even got to court.'

'That's it? Nothing else?'

He shook his head, 'Just a few notes the old man took at the time. Impressions of the woman. He believed her.'

'But you lot believe all of your clients.'

We smiled at one another, 'In this case, he believed her. So much so that he counselled strongly to proceed.'

'But four policemen lined up against her, stories off pat.'

'The old man felt that an articulate, beautiful, graduate could swing a jury. Given a good barrister, the police have been known to stitch this sort of thing up before you know.'

'How did a couple of meetings with your boss go, what does he say?'

'Just that she was credible, so much so that he wanted to be her knight in shining armour.'

'Can I talk to him about it?'

'Joking, he'll never breach a confidence. Old school and all that.'

'He may have been right, Helen was going to name these guys before she vanished.'

'You think there's a link?'

I shrugged, 'maybe. You know she's written a couple of books.' He looked blank, 'Well she's in the process of writing a book about her life. Most of it concerns this whole rape thing. No one will touch it, well it's libellous. She insists on naming names and won't compromise over it.'

'So it will never come to light?'

'My boss has his teeth into it and thinks there are ways around it.'

'Good old Jack, nothing stands in the way of a story.'

I smiled, 'Listen, ask your boss. Tell him about Helen. Ask him if he'd talk to Jack, off the record of course.'

*

I walked into the office and Jack had this expression imprinted across his features. Not smug exactly, but he had news for me. As was his habit on warm afternoons, a neat short sleeved shirt, yet always with a neat tie firmly in place. His hair immaculate, cigarette in one hand, a scramble of written words on a sheet of A4 in the other.

'You never told me about your visit to the solicitors.'

'I was just doing a little digging.'

He waved the sheet of paper at me in some sort of valedictory salute. 'How long ago did you see that solicitor friend of yours?'

My first impression was that Jack was in a bad mood, I glanced down at my watch, 'four hours ago. Why?'

'I got the top man on the phone. You've touched another raw nerve.'

'Touching plenty of those at the moment.'

'I'm going to read some names out. See how many you recognise. Andrew Gates.'

'Arrested me yesterday.'

'Philip Mole.'

'Walked in front of a train – also yesterday.'

'After you punched him on the nose.'

I stared at Jack for a few seconds before saying, 'Next please.'

'Don Wilson.'

'Had a pint with him a couple of days ago.'

'Oliver Young.'

I shrugged, 'No idea.'

'Ex-policeman, died two years ago. Nothing sinister, heart attack.' Jack stubbed his cigarette out. 'Your friends boss has given me these names, what do you think connects them?'

'Helen I suppose. Were they the three involved, plus Don?'

'They all swore and signed witness statements under oath to the effect that Helen made all of this up. Just horse play, no assault – just good natured fun.'

'Just a minute, Don told me that he broke the whole thing up. He even admitted they should have got jail.'

'Well he might have broken something up, but he never said that at the time.' I stood up, Jack snapped, 'where do you think you're going?'

'To see Don – he has some questions to answer.'

Jack motioned me to sit down, 'listen, he just closed ranks as you've done when one of your hooligan mates has been in trouble. I'm not defending it, but leave Don for now.' He waved his sheet of names at me, 'What about one ex-Chief Superintendent Dawes?'

I stared blankly, opened the palms of my hands and said, 'tell me.'

'He leant on David Mably.'

'I've heard that name.' I frowned, heard it recently as well. 'I give up, tell me.'

'Dawes is an M.P in the Home Office, one below the Home Secretary, he connects to all of the other names, any ideas?'

'Not a clue, you only ask questions I don't know the answer to so that you can fill in the gaps.'

Jack smiled, thought about reaching for another cigarette. Changed his mind and said, 'At the time of the assault, Superintendent Dawes leant on Mably, who persuaded Helen to back off.'

I had an overwhelming urge to punch someone. Anyone would do, Jack well aware, said, 'don't take it so personal, it's awful what happened. How do we bring it all out into the open and not get the pants sued off us?'

'We have to get one of the rapists or Don to change their story and the likelihood of that is what?'

'No chance, David Mably never actually saw anything. Just bowed to pressure, as we probably all would. Don't forget your still in the frame for pushing poor Philip Mole into an oncoming express train.'

'There's no mileage in that.'

Jack shook his head, 'the interesting thing is, where do you think Chief Superintendent Andrew Gates is based?'

'I suppose Oxford is out of the question?'

'Yep – he's based in Bedford, fifty miles away. He's muscled his way into an Oxford police station, commandeered an interview room and tried to stick the knife into you.'

'How do you know all of this?'

'I have a contact, asked him about Gates. No one knows where he came from, when you get a supers badge flashed under your nose. Well it opens a few doors.'

'Is he a desk sergeant?' Jack nodded, 'he did me a favour. I owe him one. He told Abigail Goldsmith that they had a witness that saw the mole man throw himself under the train.'

'You're a lucky boy, although I can't see how anyone could've made it stick without a witness.'

'Gates said they had such a witness.'

'Who would perjure themselves like that? Do you think Gates was close by?'

I nodded, 'Mole said something to that effect that someone was going to do me.'

Jack shook his head, 'this is just inconceivable. Gates has too much to lose, perjuring himself, getting some of his rednecks to rough you up. None of this makes sense.'

'But if he was found to be a rapist all those years ago – he would be ruined.'

'His reputation would be that's for sure.'

'What do we do now?'

'Try to remember, doesn't the name Mark Dawes ring a bell?' Jack sighed, 'Jees, don't you ever read a newspaper? He was the Superintendent in question at the time. He resigned from the force, groomed by the Tories, under fifty when he was first elected to parliament, very ambitious. You know the type, hard on crime. Lock them up and throw the key away. A big hitter, but he never quite made it. At the moment, he's Under Secretary in the Home Office, still got ambition.'

'Where's this going Jack?'

'Mark Dawes has a constituency surgery tonight. No appointment needed.'

'And where is his constituency, hundreds of mile away I suppose?'

'You're lucky, New Forest North, barely an hour away.

### 15

### Helen Mably

A funnel shaped bay, cliffs both sides. Those facing west sparkled in the dying evening, sunlight, a strip of enamelled blue along the horizon of the sea, similar to a line of blue enamel tiles. I felt rain, just the first few spots from an anaemic looking cloud. It was half-hearted rain, no wind, evening sunshine as I sit in garden of a pub. There are three in the village and from the Castle garden I sip a sour fruit juice and I'm at the apex of the small bay looking down and out to sea. It's the best view of the three pubs, the orange juice doesn't match the vista.

I breathe the life in, life from the sea. Noise of twisting gulls above, two gnarled fishermen drag their boats out to meet the tide. Hydrangea line the white wall of a cottage. More sun by the sea, more life, ozone and sea breeze. These summer evenings I loved the drive back from Haverfordwest. Up high, driving past marshy fields often flooded in winter. Then the steep decline to the village, the car twisted and corkscrewed its erratic path downwards, finally into the car park fifty yards from the small harbour. The music drifted out from one of the pub windows, Bach or Schumann, sending clear vines of sound from the root that was the radio.

A crowd of very middle class holiday makers awaited another of their number as he brought a vast tray of beer and spirits and martinis, the chilled glasses with drops of condensation. At times like this, I wished I took a drink. It's such a sociable thing to do, perhaps I'll start again. I took my gaze away from the group and looked towards the cliff in shade, with its green upon green, ivy and alder and hemlock and holly.

The sun slowly lowered and dipped behind an oil tanker in the bay. A couple still in their swimsuits playing Frisbee, she caught my eye and smiled. A dog romped through the surf, spray coming from his coat. He knew when to shake himself dry, dogs have this innate sense of time and place. They sidle alongside their owners and shake. The owners join in this fun as though it's the first time it's ever happened.

I'd found peace, a seaside tranquillity.

Safe, I was safe.

Or I should have felt secure. But still things seemed to close in. what could I do? No one would publish, litigation a powerful deterrent. I couldn't bring charges, not on my own anyway. Harvey Malkovitch had told me that Stuart's boss wanted to run with it in his newspaper. Not what I really wanted, but it might have to do.

I bought the Daily Telegraph every other day, not because I liked its politics. It carried more news than the others. Although I rang Harvey every couple of days, I needed some contact with the outside world. I needed it to be available for everyone to see what my father did to me, to expose the police conspiracy. I unfolded my newspaper, every day thus far, the weather was such that I could read it outside at this time of day. At least there was no wind today and I wasn't wrestling the dammed thing, just to turn a page. I turned pages as two small children ran barefoot in the sand.

The news was slow – still the obsession with the Iraqis invading Kuwait. I turned to the local news. Finally a brief few inches about a man in Oxford, run over by a train.

Philip Mole!

I folded the newspaper down and placed my empty glass on it. Seeing it in print just confirmed how much danger I was in, my head reeled. Someone was speaking to me, 'are you all right?'

I stared at one of the holiday makers. She asked me again, 'are you all right?'

'Mmmm – I think so, just had a dizzy turn, thanks.'

I sat back, sometimes on these warm nights, as the air cooled and the cars on the road crawled and twisted along the narrow lane out of the village. Sometimes a radio blaring out of an open window and the Doppler-affected music trailed after the car as if in some vain pursuit. I needed to yield to this extreme tiredness. I remember an undergraduate, one that was an extremely powerful lover. He often made no movement towards me. Despite the strength of his lovemaking, it was this passive side to him that excited. I had no control on this occasion, we said nothing in these moments. Then I moved my body against his. I moved my fingers over his ribs and backbone. My legs and pelvis moulded to his shape. It was as if any word between us and the spell would break. Eventually he'd stir, he liked me in a slip and he always peeled it from like it was a skin.

The keenness of our physicality often made him whimper like a spoilt child. We always manipulated each other perfectly. I pushed my face into his matted chest, often touching myself as he thrust away. My fingers fluttered and I felt the pressure build within him. I was coming in a dribble, like a heavy cold.

'I'm dying for you.' I wanted him to come, 'kill me you fucking bastard.'

I probed the crack of his buttocks and felt his semen pumping.

Pumping.

I gasped and the tension vanished.

Philip Mole is dead.

But I knew that.

Andrew Gates said he would be.

*

I thought of that night, or the next morning, waking slowly with the sense that something was so wrong. But my mind was blank. I'd dreamt of someone, maybe Don, but I knew I should concentrate on his betrayal, not his great big cock. Had I played with myself as I dreamed? The stickiness between my legs suggested I had. I wanted to smile, but something was wrong.

There was a brief knock on my bedroom door.

'Helen?'

My father, I remembered.

'What do you want?'

'Can I come in?'

I said nothing.

The door opened a touch, 'please Helen.'

Silence is a powerful weapon, I used it to the limit.

The door opened a touch more, the fingers of his right hand gripped the door. 'Are you decent? Tell me if you're not dressed.'

Silence says more than a thousand words.

He waited a few seconds, then he stuck his head around the door. The thick head of hair had been recently brushed and looked immaculate. Shaved, after-shaved and tie inside the stiffened collar of his whiter than white shirt. He stayed in that position waiting for my permission. Which he wasn't going to get, I considered sitting up and exposing my nakedness. Keep your powder dry, that might come later.

'Helen, I have to let you know what's going on.'

I sat up in bed, carefully pulling the sheet up under my chin at the same time. Once in position, I let the sheet come down a notch or two, just enough to expose my bare arms and chest. His daughter sleeps in the nude, shock horror. He sleeps with his pyjamas firmly in place and my mother with her heavy, full length nightdress.

'Helen, please let me speak to you.' He walked around the door and carefully closed it. He came up to the foot of the bed and stared at me.

'Please don't stare at me like I'm not in some sort of freak show you know.' I stared at the corner of the room when I spoke.

'I'm sorry.' I felt his gaze drift slightly away. 'I have to tell you what's happening.'

'Don't bother.'

'All four of them tell the same story.'

'You don't believe me.'

'They all say nothing happened.' He sighed, 'all four say that.'

'Four?'

He frowned, 'yes.'

'Don said that as well? But he stopped it all.'

'He said he was there all the time and nothing happened. It was all some sort of terrible misunderstanding. Everyone was a bit drunk and...'

'I hadn't had a drink, sober as a judge. Don wasn't in there, he came in as I was stretched across a snooker table. He stopped it.'

My father blinked a couple of times, looked down at the floor and said nothing. I sensed something dreadfully wrong. But I couldn't grasp what.

Think!

But it was impossible.

'I'm trying to tell you what will happen.'

'What if I press charges? Your honour dragged through the mud. Your good name ruined. The sniggers, the pointing fingers, the nudges, his daughter's a tramp. Mably's policemen are rapists.'

He shook his head, 'my legal advice is that it will never get to court.'

'Your advice, what about what happened to me?' I pointed at him, 'you don't believe me.'

'It's not a matter of who I believe, there are four policemen saying that you're a...'

'A fantasist, a liar.'

'Helen...'

'Why don't you believe me?'

'To prosecute anyone, the legal guys always say to me that if there's anything less than a seventy per-cent chance of a conviction, it will never come to court.'

'And that's what they're saying here?'

Here is the nub of it all. He could have just lied to me. Said that he believed my every word and he would back me all the way. If he had just said that, I would have somehow come to terms with it all. OK, so it would have never come to court, but at least my darling father was on my side. Why didn't he lie to me? Just say that the odds were all stacked against me and let's try and move forwards together.

But the strait-laced man in front of me was unable to do this. 'If it ever does get to court, you'll be hung out to dry. Everything will come out. Everything.'

'What, like a fight in a curry house?'

He nodded.

'Me wearing short skirts and playing snooker?'

He nodded.

'My affair with Don?'

He blinked.

'Shaken you up have I?'

'You've not had an affair with him.'

This wasn't a question, just a simple denial of the obvious. 'You think I'm making that up as well? Fuck you.'

'Please don't talk to me like that. It doesn't help the situation.'

Don's brief fling with me would come out in court. That was another reason for his lies. 'Why don't you ask him? He took me to a hotel and we spent two days in bed. Ask him?'

His confusion deepened, but he resolutely refused to accept this. 'I don't think that happened and if it did, it's just something else that will be thrown in your face.'

'It's true what they say, he has got a big cock.''

Please, please, please. Helen, no more.' He was right, no more. My father, in this mood was an easy target. I pulled the sheet under my chin, the tears rolled down my cheeks, but I refused to sob.

'Your mother says that you don't want us to take you up to Cambridge.'

'What do you think?'

'I beg you, please.'

'Get lost, I've made my arrangements.'

Did I see the ghost of a tear in his left eye? Or was I just hoping for that a show of emotion other than anger from him. Maybe, but I'd tired of the whole thing. I was on the point of collapse and he wasn't going to show me anything. 'Get out please. I want to shower and get dressed.'

'We have things to talk about.'

I lowered the sheet and was about to swing my legs out of the bed. He turned away and beat a hasty retreat. I lay back down and the tears started in earnest. Impotence, rage, disbelief, being cold-shouldered, betrayed by him and Don. Don's was easier to understand, self-interest a powerful motive. My father didn't believe me.

That broke me.

I rang Don at work a couple of hours later, the defensive shield was in place from the off.

'I shouldn't be talking to you with all of this going on.'

'Being your lover doesn't make a difference.'

A sigh, the sort reserved by a patient father for a badly behaved teenage daughter. 'What do you want?'

'Why did you lie?'

'Lie?'

'In your statement.'

'You know I can't talk about that.'

'You said you were in the club throughout the assault.' Silence was the answer, 'cat got your tongue?'

'I had little choice in the matter.'

'Because of the fact that you were fucking me would come out in court?'

'Something like that.'

'You coward, you abhorrent weak little weakling.'

'Don't talk like that to me.'

'You're all well aware that if I pursue this, I can be prosecuted for wasting police time and perjury. I could go to prison for telling the truth.'

'Helen... can we meet up and talk about this?'

'You are joking. You tried to fuck me after the assault, remember? You sick freak.'

'That's enough. This conversation has ended.'

'Just one thing before you put the phone down. You'd better prepare your wife.'

'Are you threatening me?'

'Yes.'

I put the phone down as the words faded, 'Helen, Helen.'

### 16

### Stuart

We gave Mark Dawes's secretary notice of our reason to see the Hon member for New Forest North. A miscarriage of justice, which was true. Concerning one of his Constituents, which was a lie. A more atypical Tory backwoodsman it would be hard to imagine. Full faced, broken veined. Check shirt, blue tie, blue blazer. Sat at his desk on a raised chair. It wouldn't do for him to look up to anyone visiting his surgery. His secretary ushered us in, Dawes gestured for us to sit. He picked up a half-smoked cigar from a Conservative emblazoned ash tray, stared at it, fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. Lit up, the flame from his lighter jumping every time he sucked. All the time the allotment style smoke filled the small office.

'Don't mind do you?'

'Would it matter if I did?'

He stared at me, Jack stared at me. I didn't care. Dawes placed the cigar on the ash tray and said, 'probably not. What can I do for you?'

Jack said, 'not so much a miscarriage of justice, more a cover up. An establishment cover up no less, concerning your department as well.'

'Is this a constituency matter?' Dawes frowned at Jack, 'nothing to do with me I hope?'

'Possibly, do you remember Helen Mably?'

A cloud drifted across his moon face, if it was a shadow of doubt, it never showed in his voice. 'I've no recollection of the name.'

'Perhaps her father's name might jog your memory. David Mably was one of your police inspectors back in nineteen sixty...'

'What's going on here?'

'Do you still ever make contact with Andrew Gates?'

'Get out.' Dawes stood and pointed at the door behind us.

'Are you aware that Helen Mably has a manuscript detailing a serious sexual assault by three of your half-witted policemen? Andrew Gates was one of them and you covered the whole affair up.'

Jack placed the recently published front page of the newspaper on Dawes's desk and said, 'have a read of that.'

'How dare you come in here and ambush me like this.' He stood and moved towards Jack. I jumped up and put myself between the two. Dawes stared, 'I've had little runts like you for breakfast.'

'Not recently you fatso.'

'Get out!'

'Just for your information,' Jack stood and got alongside me as he spoke. 'I've got her manuscript and I'm going to publish it.'

'And I'll sue you for every penny.'

I put my pennyworth in, 'you covered up a rape... hypocrite.'

I opened the door for Jack, turned and glanced back at Dawes, who was sliding down in his seat. He didn't look at me, just picked the newspaper up and began to read. I turned and followed Jack. As we hit fresh air, I said, 'Is that how you wanted it to go?'

'They needed shaking up. I wonder if Andrew Gates and Dawes are still in touch? You be careful now. If there's any conspiracy here, you'll be the first to be fingered.'

'Perhaps Helen's beat me to it.'

Jack stopped, rested his hand on my wrist, 'oh my God. Surely not, that's beyond belief... isn't it?'

*

I kept my eyes peeled for one Donald Alexander Wilson. I knew his haunts and it didn't take long to track him down. Don was sat in a cubicle, in the public bar of Bear Hotel. A woman with blonde hair and her back to me was sat opposite him. I ordered a pint and strolled across, sat alongside the woman and stared at Don.

Eventually I said, 'Not interrupting anything am I?'

'You are doing just that,' came back quick as a flash.

Good I thought, I glanced at the woman, late twenties, a bit severe looking, but smart enough. She looked familiar, I took a flier at it. 'Still taking the policewomen out then?' the woman looked confused, I tried to clear things up. 'He's given every policewoman that's worked here a piece of his great big thing.'

Don leaned across the table, 'Clear off before I do you some damage.'

'You're too fat and old to do anyone any damage these days now old boy.'

He stood, leaned across the table and pointed, 'Just fuck off now.'

I turned to his companion, 'Don used to tell us that all the policewomen were easy. Is this true?' The woman had a shortish skirt and had some cleavage on show. She declined to confirm or deny my statement. I turned back to Don, 'you used to say just that.'

The woman stood, 'You obviously have a lot to say to one another, I'll leave you alone to get on with it.'

'Don't go.'

But she did, and she moved her arse in a very satisfying way.

'I thought you were going to beg for a minute. You're a bit old for the policewomen surely. What are you, over fifty?'

'You cunt, I was onto...' He sighed, 'just go, before I throw my beer over you.'

'Philip Mole.'

'You killed him I heard.' The colour had come back into his face. Don sat back and took a long drink of beer.

'Oliver Young.'

Don frowned.

'Andrew Gates.'

'What is this?'

'And finally Don Wilson... and the connection is?'

'Helen's got to you boy. You're losing your mind.'

'The connection?'

'You tell me, you're the know all fucker.'

I waited, stared into my beer for a second, lifted to my lips and took a sip. 'You all signed a statement under oath that was a pack of lies.'

'I've got nothing to say to you.'

'Even you lied, saying that you were in the club all the time and nothing happened. How could you?'

'I've not a clue what you're on about.'

'You sleazy, lying piece of shit.' Don drank up and hammered the empty glass into the table. 'Running away? If you do you'll get nailed, Mably's going to spill the beans. You'd better cooperate.'

Don began to lick his lips. Deep in thought he finally said, 'She can never prove anything happened.'

'We can prove there was a cover though. Don't forget you've already told me that you came into the club and the assault was well in progress.'

He took a deep breath, 'she wasn't hurt. I did what I did, I thought it was the best option.'

'Not for Helen.'

'She wasn't hurt...'

'Physically maybe.'

'It's done, raking over the coals like this is just stirring up trouble.'

'I've met Superintendent Gates.'

'He was a nasty piece of work.'

'Praise indeed coming from a man with your credentials.'

Don dropped his head and stared at the table, 'We were wrong, but to admit that now would leave us open to a charge of perjury. We'd likely get prison. It won't happen, you've met Gates, how did you get away with that?'

'A witness saw Mole walk into the train. Gates has had his men tracking me, can you believe that?'

Don nodded, 'He's not even local is he? Gates was trouble, not like me. I just had a weakness for women. He was that and more, plus ambitious and bent.'

'That's a powerful mix – did you have much to do with him?'

'No, I'm a sociable sort. He was too ambitious for me.'

'Have you ever heard of Mark Dawes?'

Once again Don surprised me, 'Politician isn't he?'

'Did you hear of him at the time when it all kicked off?'

Don raised his eyebrows, then shook his head, 'It rings – he was Chief, top banana, one of the untouchables. What's he got to do with it?'

'Put Mably under pressure to keep things canned. Did Mably ever ask you to all get your stories straight?'

'No, no way. He was so straight, you know how he was? Mably never asked us to go away and get our stories straight. He just wouldn't do it.'

'Did he believe you all?'

'Of course.'

'He must have realised that you were all word perfect. Plus the steward would have given a different story.'

'Gates threatened him – he was always going to be a weak link though.'

I shook my head, pretty much disgusted with what I'd heard. And yet I wondered if I'd have done things any differently? Worryingly I couldn't answer my own question. I needed to needle Don a bit more. 'Did you give her a lift home afterwards?'

Don nodded, slowly like he was expecting more bad news. 'I may have done.'

'I bet you tried it on, a woman just been assaulted and I bet you tried it on. You gormless, opportunist fuckpig.'

'You wouldn't have then? Skirt up around her arse, no knickers.'

'How do you know?'

'They were on the snooker table.'

We stared at one another, I nodded, 'fine, thanks for the chat. I'm going to see my boss. Work out our next move.'

'How did you know I gave her a lift home?'

I lied easily enough. 'It's detailed in her journal, you don't come out of it very well.'

Don puffed his cheeks out, 'does anybody?'

'Not really.'

'What a night I've not had. You got me blown out – I was well in there.'

I tried to remember something Philip Mole had told me, 'that perverted ex-policeman told me something interesting.'

'Mole, I don't believe he's ever had anything interesting to say.'

'He said you all took turns at some retarded girl.'

Don stopped in his tracks, 'what?'

'Those were his words.'

'He's leading you up the garden path.'

'Something happened, you can't even look at me.'

Don kept staring at the wall, I said nothing and waited until his eyes reluctantly came towards me. He stared for a brief couple of seconds, before turning and walking away.

*

I got home and watched Kathy dozing on the sofa. I walked over to the drinks cabinet, conditioning meant that however quietly I opened it, Kathy would wake.

'Yes?'

She nodded, stretched, yawned and sat up, 'plenty of ice please.'

I sat alongside her, 'I need your perspective on things.'

I ran through events, ending with the assault and Don's attempted seduction of the recent assault victim.

Kathy sighed, 'Nothing surprises me, Don's an opportunist. All womanisers are I suppose. They spot a weakness and bang... just like you did with me.'

'You are joking I hope.'

'It's true, but so what in our case.' She stretched her arms out, 'Here we are, still together.'

I didn't like this topic, perhaps Kathy had a point, I did pursue her relentlessly. 'You know the two policemen that pulled me over in Oxford?' Kathy nodded, 'they were sent in my direction by Bedford police.'

'How come?'

'The Superintendent there was involved in Helen's assault. Big effort on his part to keep things canned. He showed his hand too early I feel. What can he do now?'

The phone rang, I looked at Kathy. I'd inherited my old man's phobia, it's always bad news. She sighed and picked it up, 'Jack – well thanks, hold on here he is.'

'Jack, what's happening?'

'You like conspiracy?'

'As in conspiracy theory?'

'Yes – we've got one. Mark Dawes rang me.'

'Don't tell me, he wants to see us?'

'Very good, but I'm not meeting them.'

'But...'

'I talked at length with Dawes. He was effusive, apologetic even, but the feeling I got was that something's missing. Any ideas?'

'Not a clue.'

'What was obvious, they worried about you. They think you know where Helen is for a start and...'

'And what?'

'I don't know, you know me I need hard facts, not feeling something or intuition.' I heard Jack stub his cigarette out into an aluminium ash tray. 'One thing, Philip Mole has a confession, that he and he alone raped Helen. No one else was involved.'

*

A shadow appeared across the office table, a big shadow. Don Wilson for once not sneering, his olive skin a pale imitation of its usual hue. He sat without waiting for an invitation. Don pulled a cigarette out and lit up. 'You're not going to believe this.' The smoke punched from his lips as he spoke. 'Johnny Hutchins is dead.'

I frowned and couldn't make sense... Jack was straight in, 'how?'

I said, 'Who?'

Don said, 'the steward. The police club steward.'

The air whistled from me, 'Jesus.'

Jack repeated his earlier question, 'how?'

Don raised his eyebrows, 'fell down the stairs, accident, it looks like an accident.'

Jack stared at his cigarette packet and Don glowered at me, 'conspiracy theorist, what about that them? Accident or...'

Jack took his gaze towards Don, 'maybe you should be the one to worry, three witnesses gone out of the original five. That only leaves Gates and you. I'd be worried.'

We watched Don stand wearily and walk away, I could easily imagine his furrowed brow. I said, 'should we have told him about Mole's recent confession from the grave?'

'No, let him stew. How do you think things are developing?'

I took a long, slow drink of flat beer, 'Gates was the arresting officer, at the Indian restaurant.'

'It's taken you over twenty years to remember that?'

I nodded, 'I was a bit drunk at the time.'

'What about it anyway?'

'I laughed about it with Helen the next day, I spent a few hours in a cell and Helen was mysteriously spirited out of the place. Never even took a statement from her.'

'She didn't actually do any fighting though.'

'Gates was strange,' I stared at the ceiling trying to recall things. 'He kept saying that assaulting active service men was a despicable crime.'

'They were just back from a tour of Belfast if I remember.'

'I didn't know that, but I kept saying to Gates that they were racists, calling the waiters fucking wogs. He just shrugged, then he wouldn't stop going on about Helen. Kept asking me if I was giving her one and was she hot in bed.'

'Isn't that what young men talk about?'

'Probably, but he was just supposed to be taking a statement from me.'

Jack picked the phone up and I quickly gathered that he was talking to the pathologist. A man that I'd listened to often enough in coroner's court. He had a voice so deadly dull, they should tape it and use it on insomniacs. But Jack knew him well and sure enough they were talking about everything from the crib league to allotments. I gave up on a one sided telephone conversation, made the coffee and waited. Waiting for Jack needed patience, a quality not in my genes.

Jack placed the telephone down and stared at me. He sighed, looked at his watch, sighed again, 'well it looks like a fall.'

A fall would blow my conspiracy theory out of the water. 'This a definitive?'

'Not necessarily, the fall definitely killed him.' Jack shrugged, 'He's getting a second opinion.'

'That's unusual.'

'Indeed, but as is pointed out, no sign of a break in, no sign of any other injury, no bruising apart from those caused by the fall. It's a dead end.'

'It is for poor old Johnny Hutchins.'

This gave us nothing, except another coincidence. Another suspect biting the dust, or a thick shag pile stair carpet in this case.

The phone rang, I jumped and picked it up to hear a familiar voice. 'A body in the science department at the university, a woman, blonde hair. Interest you?'

'Blonde, always of interest.'

'See you soon.'

Jack tipped his head to one side, 'And?'

'A body, women, blonde in the Science Department at the University.' I sighed and stared at the floor. Someone had wrapped a clamp around my chest and was pulling it tight. I struggled for breath.

'Are you all right?'

I nodded, 'I'll get over there.'

'Is it...?

'I don't know, blonde woman jumped off a roof in the science department. I fear the worst.'

*

Was it Helen? My head said yes, my heart was in denial. The Science Department lay in the quadrant between Parks Road, South Parks Road and the Parks itself. A mass of buildings and departments and professors and the usual university flunkies. People that have worked for their departments for decades. Institutionalised and happy to be so. Average wages and excellent employers make for a constant workforce who moaned and groaned, but deep down they knew the grass wasn't greener on the other side.

I wasn't entirely sure where The Department for Criminal Psychology was. A crowd of fifty or so milling around behind plastic hazard tape gave me a good enough indication. I had fond memories of Oxford. Getting the bus in and rampaging around, pretending we were James Bond being chased by K.G.B operatives. Following each other down the High and, eluding the pursuers, checking our backs in shop windows. Denunciations came our way from angry shoppers. A baker in the covered in market even rang the police reported that a group of hooligans had stolen a cottage loaf from his shop. We dodged through crowds, crouched in amongst a phalanx of undergraduate cyclists and ran off with a cottage loaf we didn't know what to do with. Eventually I hurled it off Folly Bridge and watch it bobbing its ungainly way down the Thames towards London.

I glanced around at the small crowd made up of the morbid, the perverted, the curious and judging by the man stood next to me, unwashed as well. A familiar feeling overwhelmed me as though a dizzying descent was beginning, down into some desert valley at the depths of my soul. A sad and desperate place, arid, cruel, strewn with the bones of old friends and dreams, lost love, the times of childhood. I sank and sank, my chin sought my chest again and again, and I had to haul it upright with greater effort. Everything swayed as an old forgotten face drifted by like a ghost ship on a sea of fog. Her lips drawn back over her teeth, strands of her blonde hair spread randomly over her sculptured cheekbone. Helen's eyes shut and her head back into the pillow.

'Stuart, this is a bad one.' I glanced up and saw George Rawlinson alongside me, we shook hands and I stared at his transparent moustache. For a man with a voice like gravel, I wondered why he insisted on wearing something that resembled a couple of strands of straw just above his top lip. His permanently angry face always deterred any comment though. George was a decent reporter who knew Oxford better than Presbyterian knows his bible.

'Bad one? Do you know who?'

George shook his head, 'You know what dim plods are like. I finally found one I knew.'

'And?'

'Nothing confirmed yet, she'd jumped. Nine floors, unrecognisable, a women, slim build, blonde haired. That's all we know, age unknown.'

'Try forty one, that's my guess and a good one if you fancy a fiver on it? I'll even put a name to her.' I plumbed the depths as I spoke.

Rawlinson frowned, 'Give me a name and I'll but you a pint.'

'It's likely to be a woman I knew years ago, her father was about to report her missing. Worked in the psychology department, Helen Mably.'

'The missing academic. I remember her, met a couple of times. Very attractive, if somewhat strange in a manic sort of way.'

I stared at Rawlinson, I never saw Helen as manic. I supposed it never conformed to my idealised vision of her. A burly policeman walked across to Rawlinson and began to whisper in his ear. I smiled to myself, he even did this in such a stereotypical way the way he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. They nodded to one another and the policeman walked away with a rolling farmer's gait.

'It's not Helen.'

I nodded, the knot between my shoulder blades loosened a notch. 'I need a drink. I also need to know that there was no foul play.' I smiled at George, 'Let me know, as soon as you hear, ok?'

He had some good contacts at the coroner's office. A secretary that was less than discreet and happy to fax details over to George, in return for a hefty lunch of course. Rawlinson gave me his obligatory response: a slow raising of the hands and eyes to heaven. What I have to do for these provincial newspaper types. We walked away, unspeaking, but heading towards The White Horse and a more relaxed atmosphere to exchange pleasantries.

He hadn't taken a small sip of beer before the first question came my way. 'What do you think happened to Helen?'

'We were friends, before she went off to university.' How much do I tell him? I felt an urge to talk about her. That she was the embodiment of a sexy young woman. Even now the mention her name and my head spins away as I think of the first girl I'd asked the question.

Do you want me?

Helen nodded and began to peel her clothes off directly in front of me until all I could see her unruly fair bush between her marble legs. The first woman I truly excited and she drove me insane and I couldn't stop talking about her now.

'You knew her well?'

This is a euphemism all men understand and the response is entirely up to the respondent. Shake your head and the subject's changed, look undecided and invite more questions, or choose the route I did. Nod my head and say, 'she was such good fun.'

Another euphemism, George nodded and sent me a cliché back, 'Bang like a barn door in gale?'

'Something like that, beautiful, bright, argumentative and sexy.'

'And now maybe dead.'

'Well I hope not. As a young man I found her behaviour so exciting, she was practising on us. Sharpening her technique, learning how to be properly devious.' I blinked a couple of times, 'No, devious is too strong, I lost my thread somewhere.'

'Give me an example.'

'She would wear the shortest skirts, then sit in a pub and then be so careless with her legs. Usually when some middle-aged married bloke was close by. Once I realised the game, I encouraged her and she became even more reckless. It was just a game, one she played well. I sighed, 'It got her into trouble in the end though.'

'What happened?'

I ignored the question and drank some beer, hoping its sharpness would shake this lethargy out of my system. It did give me a brief lift, but then I said the wrong thing. 'It's upset me, but it was someone I knew two decades ago, so it's not like it was a close relative or anything. If it hadn't been for what her father did to her, I would probably not be feeling so...'

'What did he do to her?' Came back at me quickly.

'I don't know yet.'

'Interestingly there was a nasty little rumour been floating around for years about some of your policemen and some sort of residential care home. Young girls, older men.'

I played this one with a dead bat, 'policemen?'

'Yes.'

'Where did this come from?'

'A man rang the crime desk, wanted to remain anonymous, he was the warden in said home. Wanted paying for this information, something we don't do.'

'That was it?'

'Put the phone down on us.'

How long ago?'

'A few weeks.'

'After Helen disappeared?'

'Straight after.'

*

Jack's moods were easy enough to predict, easier to spot. I walked through the office the next day and he never, looked up. He spoke though, 'you have a big mouth.'

Just to confirm this, my mouth hung open, I glared at him. 'What's up with you?'

He threw the Oxford Mail at me, a profile of Helen virtually word for word what I'd said to Rawlinson yesterday. I could sense Jack silently cursing me right now. Why are you giving this information away? It's our story, it was a scoop, now...'

"A close friend said that she was a wild child who loved..." I threw the newspaper onto the table, 'I said that to someone I thought was a friend.'

Jack shook his head, 'he's a journalist for God's sake. We're all cut from the same cloth – apart from you.'

'There's no damage done, even the tabloids were dragging quotes straight from your article last week.' I glanced over at him, Jack stared down at his empty sheet of A4 and said nothing. I sat and stared at the wall, if he doesn't loosen up soon, it's going to be a long day.

'Possibly, did you know the girl that jumped yesterday, she bore a close resemblance to Helen?'

'No, no.' Jack showed me the palm of his right hand. 'That's a conspiracy too far. You're suggesting that someone mistook her for Helen?'

'It's crossed my mind, it's possible. Listen to this, my Oxford Mail contact told me about an anonymous phone call to the crime desk, a man rambling on about abuse at a residential care home for troubled teenagers.'

'Where?'

'Here, in town.'

Jack considered this for a few minutes, 'there was or has only ever been one that I can recall.'

'In Ormond Road?'

'That's the one, gone a few years ago from what I can remember.'

'All this stuff going on, I can't think clearly.'

'A state you're well used to.'

I ignored that, 'I've seen Dawes before and I can't remember where.'

'Would it affect anything if you could remember?'

A light bulb came on in dark, cloudy recess of my mind, 'Christopher's funeral, he was there.'

'That would be unusual maybe, small family gathering.'

'I was there.'

'You knew him.'

'From my childhood.' I didn't mention that another reason for my attendance was to maybe see Helen.

'Did he go back for the wake?'

'Can't remember, what difference does it make?'

'None at all probably, it does suggest that he was a close friend of the family.'

### 17

### Helen Mably

The sun warmed my soul as I watched half a dozen fishermen preparing for the day. I always brought Christopher down here when we were on holiday, I gradually began to understand the process of fishing and the demands of the job. Christopher got closer to the action and began firing questions their way, they always answered him. Polite with their soft Welsh accents and the physical work ethic of the brave men going to sea in a small fishing boat, hauling pots and setting nets is an uncompromising physical effort and it seemed to me that much of the success of any small-boat fisherman was based on pure, simple graft. The relationship of cash to effort is direct and brutal the stark reality of spending a day on a working surface that rolls and heaves beneath your feet, forever correcting and compensating. You can be out there all day and do nothing, and yet they always looked exhausted when they returned.

Christopher waved them off every morning and he always got a cheery wave back. He'd stare until the boats were around the point. Then we'd go up onto the coast path and watch them some more while I took the sun. Christopher, I felt his presence alongside me, bulky, soft warming me as much as the early morning sun.

I unfolded my newspaper and there I was. I'd made the front page of the Telegraph, university lecturer, writer of books, part time police profiler. Missing for two weeks, my father released a statement. Much loved daughter, worried sick. I screwed the paper up, stood and walked to the waste paper bin, rammed it in and turned to look at the holidaymakers sat in the pub garden. Nobody looked my way, had they seen me attacking a waste paper bin and thought me deranged?

I went to bed, just after midday and I wrapped the duvet around me and tried to sleep. I did and dreamt of my brother and I wondered if my feelings towards Christopher had been tainted a touch. Was it the re-thinking of history typical of the sympathetic bereaved? The mourner's over sentimentalism. That can happen when people die—the argument with them drops away and people so flawed while they were drawing breath that at times they were all but unbearable now assert themselves in the most appealing way. What was least to your liking the day before yesterday becomes in the limousine behind the hearse a cause not only for sympathetic amusement but for admiration. In which estimate lies the greater reality—the uncharitable one permitted us before the funeral, forged, without any claptrap, in the skirmish of daily life, or the one that suffuses us with sadness at the family gathering afterward—even an outsider can't judge. The sight of a coffin going into the ground can effect a great change of heart—all at once you find you are not so disappointed in this person who is dead—but what the sight of a coffin does for the mind in its search for the truth, this I don't profess to know.

Remorse, guilt for a brother I never visited, not once. I loved him, but hated my father more. I always loved Christopher, so my feelings towards him were definitely those of guilt. He would run around the house, a six gun holstered at each hip. Leather waistcoat, jeans with riding boots halfway up his heavy calves. Ten gallon hat perched on his head. Sometimes he stalked his prey with a Winchester rifle. This was Christopher's daytime routine. The arguments when he had to go to school in their uniforms and not his own. His mouth turned down and he'd weep. Better he cried than lost his temper, because he was a powerful boy. The neck of a professional boxer by the time he was fourteen.

My father hated him. I must qualify that, he hated what he was. My father wanted to show up at the Methodist chapel in Newbury Street on a Sunday morning with the perfect family. He had my mother and me, we were both the essence of beautiful female form, and perfectly respectful, as any woman should be. My mother knew her place, I was searching for mine. Even as a twelve year old girl, I knew it was nowhere near my mother's position in the marital pecking order.

Christopher was told in no uncertain terms that he holds his mother's hand, never his. I never saw my father touch Christopher who always held my mother's hand as we walked to church every Sunday morning. Sometimes I held his hand. The other instruction forced into his confused little mind, was to say nothing. Especially if the reverend Martin Tompkinson spoke. My mother always kept Christopher on her left hand as we left church. The reverend stood on her right, she had her instructions as well.

I heard him once, 'Keep the boy away from...'

He saw me and lapsed into a silence that brooked no comment from anyone.

'Why?' I said, 'How can you be ashamed of your own son?'

Once and only once, he let me hold Christopher's hand. We left the church with me holding my brother's left hand in my right. The reverend Tompkinson duly went to shake his hand. Poor Christopher frowned at the outstretched hand.

'Go on.' I said, staring at my father as I spoke. 'Shake the reverend's hand then.'

Christopher did this as he did anything, with the enthusiasm of an enthusiast. A powerful one as well. I didn't know whether to smile at the reverend's discomfort or my father's. One a physical pain the other a mental torture of the first degree. I smiled all the way home and couldn't wait for the scolding when we eventually got across the threshold.

'You never do anything I say.'

'I forgot.' Easily done given the number of instructions that came forever in my direction. Do this, do that, don't do that. Stuart told me once that my father had an expression permanently on his face, which suggested he had just realised that he trodden in something left on a footpath by an inconsiderate dog. Trodden in it a while ago and only noticed when he got into a confined space. Christopher loved me, of course he became confused and frightened whenever I stuck up for him, or if I was arguing with my parents about any subject. He turned into a jumbled mass of bewilderment and tears.

Then my father would deliver his stock line. 'See what you're doing to the boy. Look at him.'

Which made Christopher even more tearful.

I loved Christopher. He was gentle, followed me everywhere within the house. Role reversal, when I was tiny, it was me that did the following. As I grew, Christopher took on the role of the loyal Labrador. When my body began to change, along with my attitude, I knew that he watched me ever more closely. Gazed as I went into the bathroom, his eyes on me as I came out after a shower with a towel carelessly wrapped around. I guess that I practised on my poor little, brain damaged brother. Was that grossly importune?

Maybe, but I just saw it as me growing up. A young woman had to perfect her technique somehow. He often followed me into my bedroom, I changed right in front of him. His excitement became mine in a way. That period in our lives was short lived. My mother told me not to let him into my bedroom. An instruction that I was fully intent on ignoring, but Christopher had my father's edict reinforced and he was fully programmed to obey. If only I was of the same disposition, things would have turned out so differently.

My brother died.

My darling innocent.

He'd been so ill before I went to university, but recovered. He seemed well enough, but when I was under another demon summer's magic spell, my mother contacted me. I suppose my father had the wherewithal to find me. I'd seen my parents once and that at my graduation. I'd told my father to stay away, but he turned up anyway.

I said one thing to him. 'Where's Christopher?'

My mother said, 'He's not well.'

I turned on my heel and walked away from them.

My hypocrisy embarrassed me at times. If I was determined not to see them ever again, I happily spent his allowance. You see, another point of conflict. Years later I suddenly realised that he used his position to keep track of me. Where I worked, my bank account details, I was supposed to feel gratitude for that. Instead I experienced a violation, another betrayal. I spent his money though.

It was a pathetic enough ceremony. Made worse – why did he have to speak? A eulogy the reverend called it, just another act of narcissism in my mind. He delivered it like he was on the witness stand. Star turn for the prosecution, with his beautifully enunciated vowels.

The words.

A much loved son.

My wonderful boy.

Jesus fucking Christ.

On and bloody on.

'Christopher lit up our lives. A genial giant, he made us complete as a family.'

Oh yes, like the time he heaved a brick through next door's greenhouse. Or the cleaner caught him masturbating (of which he did a lot) into his scrambled eggs on toast. He lit up our lives then, or mine anyway. Likewise when he refused to be a twinkling star in his school's pantomime. His one act of rebellion only ended when they changed his role to that of a blacksmith in the stable. Albeit one with a pair of six guns strapped to his waist.

My father squirmed through the performance. Like his reverend friend would view a public showing of something deeply pornographic, my father twitched and stared at his watch. Did he think of the effort of the teachers in producing a deeply moving performance from children with severe learning difficulties?

He had no soul, yet he said words that should have moved the most emotionally stunted amongst the small gathering. But not me, he had no soul and what cheered me, was the fact that he knew I knew. His public persona demonstrated to those unaware, a man who loved his disabled son. I wept, I hoped against hope that the few mourners wouldn't think that my father's words had induced tears in me. I cried for a brother I loved. What dawned during the service, was the fact that he was the only person in the world that I had actually loved. And because of the horror that drove me away, I couldn't see Christopher during that time.

My parents were even horrified that I even wanted to see Christopher's body, which I achieved the day before at the undertakers. His face had become even more rounded and he looked huge. But I touched his cheekbone with the backs of my fingers. Kissed him over and over, my tears running across Christopher's face like he was crying himself.

As we filed out of the chapel, I saw Stuart stood at the back. He smiled at me and I waited outside for him. Ignoring the Reverend Tompkinson's outstretched hand. Stuart stopped and we kissed each other's cheeks in a display of middle class unity.

'I didn't know you were here and I didn't expect to expect to see you either.'

Stuart looked good, conservatively dressed. Heavy black moustache and curly hair a decent suit and I was in the mood to see how he had developed physically underneath his expensive attire.

I held his hand as he spoke, I'd remembered him talking about Christopher before, using virtually the same words. But they moved me nonetheless. 'I played with him, he tried to play football with us. He was next to useless. But he could wrestle, we all pitched into him, but couldn't get him off his feet. He could've broken us in two if he had chosen.'

'What are you doing now? Do you want to come back, we're having a depressing little wake back at home.'

'I have to get back to work.'

'You've got a job?'

We both laughed. I felt disapproving eyes blazing at our inappropriate display.

'Are you married?'

I shook my head, 'Was for a short time, what about you?'

He nodded, 'Two kids and another on the way.'

I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, 'I have to go. I'm in Oxford now, maybe we could meet for a drink sometime.'

I watched him walk away and I ached for those summer months when pleasure was everywhere. Jealous that he had love in his life, I walked straight by the reverend, I felt my father's disapproving gaze. So what's different you might well ask. Nothing, except that the thought came into my mind that unlike my father, Stuart actually played games with Christopher.

'Are you coming back to the house?'

I shook my head, avoiding my father's gaze, 'what's that creep doing here?'

'Who?'

I pointed towards Mark Dawes, 'him, that lecherous pervert. Whatever his name is.'

*

I got up, went downstairs and went to the sofa and lay down. I wanted my parents, wanted to be a child again. The last time he held me... remember?

I recalled Kennedy's assassination well enough, it wasn't the images of Kennedy's head getting blown away that shocked me. Or the column after column of bombs raking down on tiny Vietnamese villages that horrified. He took no interest, my father had no political insight. Plenty at his level of operation, but he didn't concern himself with anything outside of his own parish. I tried to talk about the morality of it all. I was fifteen worried and interested, Kennedy, the bombs, the napalm – none of it jolted her more than the little men, with shaved heads, wearing flowing robes. The monk turned a fascination with death into a teenage obsession. The monk upturned a large plastic canister of petrol over his head. So much of it, that the pavement around him was also soaked, then he lit the match and a corona of raggedy flame appeared to come spouting out from inside him. It was like a stage performer, a fire eater who shoots flames from his mouth. On an avenue in Vietnam a bald headed monk set fire to himself. Assaulted by this furnace, he somehow remained vertical. Was he impervious to flame?

I had a morbid fascination with death. Kennedy and then Lee Harvey Oswald happened within days of one another. A decade of assassination and I watched the news.

I imagined that the air itself that was ablaze, a magician's trick a stunt, she waited for the screams, but the deportment never changed. A man whose life's contemplation, meant that he remained serene. But even more shocking was the crowds' lack of reaction. I was the one that screamed, I felt the pain, imagined my skin blistering and her eyes bursting. I sat terrified on the sofa waiting for their return. I remember running up to my father and wrapped my arms around him, 'it was terrible, horrible.'

My father showed some initial concern, had we been burgled? Have you been sick?

No to both, 'it was this little monk – he set fire to himself. It was on the news.'

'Where was this?'

I knew what he was thinking, St Katherine's, the old Priory, he soon ran out of religious establishments in town. None had monks anyway, women only. He frowned, 'Have you been watching the news?'

'There's a war going on.'

He untangled her arms and walked me to the sofa. They sat and his arm came around her shoulders. He said, 'I'm proud you've got a social conscience. It really does make me proud. But it'll do you no good, you'll just worry yourself into an early grave.'

I had just sat through an act of martyrdom. A monk finally ceded to a furnace, melted and keeled over. Slowly capsizing like one of those old newsreels showing a torpedoed battleship. The crowd holding their hands pressed tightly together in unity.

'Don't you care?'

'Of course, but what can we do?'

'Don't you have a conscience?'

He said nothing and they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

It was the last time he touched me.

But if that was bad enough, three years later in the depths of an English winter a newsreel from a tropical indo-china. I was alone watching television when I saw the newsreel, seconds later I went to bed weeping. There was no replay of it, just a few seconds of hell. A Vietnamese General put a gun to the head of a Viet Cong prisoner. The prisoner screwed his face up as he felt the gun against his temple, the trigger was pulled and the blood came out as easily as a geyser exits a granite outcrop. I gasped and covered my eyes for a few seconds. Then they showed a still photograph of the same incident.

I slept with the image burning into my soul. Not the blood, but his expression seconds before the trigger was pulled. Was he thinking that the lunatic with the gun wasn't going to shoot him? Hoping that it was just some sort of an obscene threat?

My parents were in bed when this happened, next morning I was up and out before they woke and scanned the newspapers and it was in a couple, I bought both and rushed home. I was weeping when my parents came into the kitchen.

'Look at this, fucking Americans.'

'He's not an American.' My father, the full time pedant said in his deadly dull monotone.

'No he's worse, someone fighting for them, a quisling, a traitor.'

I still staring at the newspapers when he left for work.

My mother said, 'you've got mock exams this morning?'

'Don't you see, this image is so powerful, the general killed the Viet Cong man; the photograph will kill the general. A violent man killed with a camera. Imagery is the most powerful weapon in the world. People believe them, but you wait and see. The Americans will turn him into some sort of a hero. They'll ask the question, what would you do in that same situation, on a hot day and the man you were holding has just blown two or three American soldiers into oblivion? You just wait mum, he'll be a hero in America.'

'Helen, you've got exams.'

'Don't you care?'

Her mother shrugged, 'it's not a matter of that, what can we do?'

*

I rang Harvey Malkovitch, quickly skipping the usual pleasantries, 'I've had some horrible nightmares.'

'What about?'

'I think I've been transported back to nineteen sixty four. It's images of burning monks and columns of bombs and assassination.'

'Have you seen the newspaper today?'

'I've made the front page.'

'It's likely that someone will recognise you.'

'I've been speaking in Spanish and broken English.'

'You couldn't design someone looking less Spanish than you.'

I thought he was about to laugh at me, 'jódale usted bastardo.'

'I take it that's not a term of endearment,' I heard a cigarette lighter snap into action, a wheezing inhalation and then the inevitable cough. After a few seconds, 'have you read the paper?'

'Only the front page and only the paragraph about my disappearance.'

'Philip Mole is dead.' I leaned against the call box wall and my head spun like an out of balance top. 'Helen, are you alright?'

I'd read this a couple of days ago, but it was as if my mind failed to digest the news. It was like being suddenly presented with the sudden unexpected and very bad news. I knew what had happened to Mole, but I asked the question anyway, 'what happened?'

'Walked in front of an express train.'

'Suicide?'

'Looks like it, are you thinking...'

'Yes I am.'

'Did he strike you as suicidal?'

'He was a mess, but not suicidal.'

'Will you...'

'I'm fine, no one knows where I am.'

### 18

### Stuart

I sat in the public bar of the Bear Hotel. A Friday night and single men gathered in quiet appreciation, some might say sullen appraisal. The women squawking and shrieking already, were enjoying themselves with their low-cut-tops and short skirts. After two pints and in the subdued lighting, they all looked gorgeous. The half-a-dozen booths were the reserve of couples. I watched in silent assessment as things became more raucous. As a young man I only seemed to see young women in two's or occasionally three's. Now they marauded around in groups the size of a football team and didn't they let their hair down?

I was drinking too quickly, I stood and Jack said, 'I'll have another.'

Not just me drinking too quickly.

'I'm having a whazz first.'

I skirted around the outside of the masses and moved towards the toilets. Someone was in a cubicle snorting, or perhaps he just had a heavy cold. I leant into the urinal and sighed in blessed relief. I washed my hands as the toilet door opened and a bulky man came through flashing a warrant card at me. A hard featured bulky man that I'd encountered a few times recently.

I often stated the obvious, this was no exception, 'detective Pettyfuck, you following me?'

'Detective Sergeant Pettiford.'

'Detective Sergeant pettyfuck, are you following me?'

'We need to have a little chat.'

'Another one, I'm beginning to think you fancy me.'

The man was still at lower end of the detective network, struggled to get to sergeant – never likely to get any higher. His jacket was cheap, new but cheap. We stood nose to nose. 'I've got a message for you.'

'You're some sort of stupid fucker.'

'Tell me where Helen Mably is and you could be a rich man.'

'Perjury and now bribery.'

'Look I'm just the messenger.'

'You just don't get it do you?' The man turned his face away, he would rather be somewhere else. 'What's up, can't take it? All the lies, you being a bent copper – you cunt, c'mon why don't you try it on in here?'

I loved this, hours of sparring with my old man. From when I was five or six, he'd strap boxing gloves on me and we'd tear lumps off each other. I could box and I needed to show this man just how well I could box. He frowned for a second, before saying, 'just tell us where she is?'

'Fuck you. And don't try and hit me in the kidneys when I walk away from you.'

I left him and walked back into the bar where I ordered two more pints and carried them back to the table, quickly recounting things to Jack.

'Trouble follows you around closer than a shadow.' Jack didn't seemed surprised, 'they see you as the weak link.'

'I'm not a weak...'

'I'm not talking about your ability to brawl, they think you know where Helen is and your temper doesn't help either. It's the downright ineptitude that confuses me. How many different policemen have you seen?'

'Four including Gates.'

'They've picked on the wrong people, by reacting this way it's just made us more curious. Listen up, I'm going to ask you a few questions.'

'Quiz night, my specialist subject...'

Jack cut sharply in, 'Is Helen telling the truth?'

I'd wrestled with this one for three weeks now, 'the truth. It's a long running fantasy if she isn't. No, on balance it's the truth.'

'Made all the more plausible by what?'

'Don's and Johnny Hutchins account.'

'And?'

'Philip Mole's very different explanation, he never denied it, just saw it as horseplay. She deserved it.'

'I'm worried that there's been no reaction to the article.'

'We haven't been sued then?'

Jack sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table like an overactive bongo player. He stopped and looked at me, 'I'm too old to worry about money. They take everything I've got, so what?'

'They might close this operation down. I'd be out of a job.'

'You'd have to do a proper day's work for a change.'

'Well that's not a pretty thought. What now?'

The door squeaked open and a familiar bulk filled the door frame, stared around the throng before seeing us and making the short way across. 'Jesus Don, what do you want now?'

Jack stood, 'ignore him Don, come in and sit down.'

Don did what he always did, sneered at me with his fat lips, 'so nice to see you as well.' He sat close to Jack and made sure he had his broad back firmly towards me, 'I'm talking to the organ grinder anyway – not the monkey.' Jack glanced across and we both smiled, Don would usually wind me up easier than an over-excited border collie. But not today, I needed the distraction and anyway, the chance to provoke Don seeped into the edges of my consciousness. Although he was trying hard to get me going, 'tell your monkey to get me a drink.'

I jumped up, eager to please and not rise to his crude bait, 'beer for Don, we don't usually buy beer for those who've not managed to get above the rank of sergeant. How long is it Don? Two decades a sergeant?'

He turned and smiled, 'the same length of time you've been taking bad photos for Jack I suppose.'

It seemed that we were both in an even state of equilibrium, neither able to unbalance the other. I dragged my chair across and we formed a right angle triangle with Don and me forming the hypotenuse.

Jack said, 'what did you think of my article on the assault?'

Don smiled before saying, 'I don't usually read the local rag. However, on this occasion I made an exception.'

'We've been through all the legalities.' Jack lit a cigarette, exhaled noisily, 'we're bound to get hit with solicitors letters. We've already been threatened with a D notice.'

'You never told me that.'

'Who from?'

'Andrew Gates and Mark Dawes.'

'Doors and Gates sounds like a firm of carpenters.'

'That's not bad for you Don, almost amusing.'

'I named you as working there at the time, I hope you were comfortable with that?

Don shrugged his broad shoulders, 'I never did anything improper.'

I snapped, 'apart from helping to cover things up.'

'Listen,' Don twisted in his chair and pointed at me, 'I did what I thought was right and I'm sorry for what that did to Helen. I thank you both for not mentioning my part in the cover up.'

'It wasn't my idea, you better thank Jack. If it was up to me, I'd have put you right in the frame. Jack wanted to nail the top bananas – not an insignificant...'

'Stuart, let's just stick to what is in the report.'

I rubbed my temples between thumb and index finger, trying to massage some calm into the choppy waters of my mind. 'Something's missing and it's beyond my simple reasoning to locate whatever it is.'

'You touched on it a few days ago.' Don said, 'there is a big secret.'

'What?' Came from both Jack and myself at the same time.

'Gates and Dawes.' Don left this hanging, like a magician reluctant to pull the rabbit from the hat too early, make them wait. He watched us for seconds until Jack gave him the hurry up with his fingers aping a film director's gesture to roll the cameras. Don sighed, 'Gates stumbled across the whole thing to begin with, Dawes and the rest were drawn in later. Me as well, briefly.'

'Don, it would be fair to say that you've got our interest on this. Is it gossip, or can we verify any of this – whatever it is?'

Don slowly shook his head, 'I'm not sure, it was a care home, I suppose there are records of who was in care.'

'Philip Mole told me something.' I took a deep breath, this was territory that I was uncomfortable with. I said one word, 'abuse?'

'I don't think so, they were all of a legal age.'

Jack stood, turned a full circle, sighed and sat down again, 'if you're telling us that Mably was involved then I can't believe you. Start from the beginning please.'

'Mably wasn't involved, Gates became involved with the woman that ran a residential care home, behind her husband's back of course. We always had loads of complaints from neighbours about the noise and girls coming back drunk at all hours. Usual stuff from that sort of place, some of these girls were pretty troubled, I just think they were letting off steam. Gates told me this, he'd been sleeping with this woman for a few months.'

'When was this?'

'Years ago.'

'Think hard when, before Helen's assault?'

Don puffed his fat cheeks out, 'just before me and Hel...'

He looked down at his shoes and said no more. Jack turned to me, 'what do you think?'

'I remember talking to a few of them back then, usual stuff they were out having a good time. We talked sometimes, they were excitable, normal I suppose. I never got close to any of them.'

'What was going on there?'

Don glanced at me and smiled, he turned back to Jack and said, 'it was no knocking shop as such. But...'

Jack shook his head, 'Don you know this is just hearsay.'

'I saw Dawes there.'

'You were involved?'

'I went a few times, Gates invited me the first time. I went with him, the girls were sat around in a communal living room. I made sure they were of a legal age.'

'That's very noble of you. Vulnerable girls, what a...'

'Let him finish.'

'We just sat in amongst seven or eight girls, the warden, she was sat wearing practically nothing and Gates was all over her in a matter of seconds. They left and I never saw them again. I talked to the girls, I'd seen a few of them around town and it was easy sitting in amongst them. One became very forward,' Don leaned towards me, as if we were members of the same club, 'she told me that a fuse had blown in her record player and could I fix it. It was like I was in the middle of a fantasy. We went up to her room and... well you get the picture. She asked me if I could leave some money for the girls to get some booze.'

'And you did?'

'Everything has a price and I was away with the fairies. In heaven, I went back a few more times.'

'Same girl?'

He nodded, 'what turned my stomach over, one of the girls was Mongol.'

'What?'

'Mongol, retard, mong.'

'What do you mean, Downs Syndrome?'

Don said nothing, just nodded.

I watched Jack slowly shake his head, 'Don, I don't know what to say.'

'Dawes used to use her a lot. Takes all sorts, it was a wakeup call I suppose. That last time I saw Mark Dawes stood in the hallway talking to the warden. Dawes was like a salivating dog, he saw me and waved like we were old friends on our way into a football ground.'

'Did you ever mention seeing him there?'

'Dawes? No, but he told me they were pursuing a line of enquiry. That's a fucking laugh, Chief Superintendents leave that sort of thing to the likes of me. It was never mentioned again.'

'This will be difficult to verify this.'

I snapped, 'it will be because the noble Don won't testify against his old mates for a start.'

'You haven't heard any of this from me. Helen saw them coming out once and I remember her saying...'

'Just a minute, how do you know this?'

'She was in the police car with me. We drove by as Mably was coming out. She said something like "there's always trouble there, I've seen him coming out of there when I was with Stuart." I just confirmed the fact that it was a local trouble spot.'

'Me! How did you remember that?'

'Because she was stirring the pot, bringing you into the equation, trying to make me jealous.'

Jack said, 'and did it?'

Don laughed, 'what make me jealous of him? Don't make me laugh.'

'Do you remember that?' Jack stared at me, eyes blazing right through me, willing me to offer something important.

I disappointed him once more, 'No, nothing.' I shook my head, 'are you sure Helen said this?'

'Helen said she saw her father.' Don nodded, 'that's what she said. Definitely.'

'Mably was frequenting the place?' Jack leaned towards Don, again desperate for something concrete.

'Definitely not.'

'Some might say that all of your behaviour was some sort of systematic abuse of vulnerable young girls.'

'They were all of a legal age. I went three times. I couldn't do it anymore.'

'Conscience?'

'Don't be silly, it was all too easy and they were just one up from being on the game. I like a challenge and I don't need to pay for it. It was nothing illegal. No one forced themselves on them. I got the impression Dawes was the one that liked them young.'

'Tory M.P – no surprise there.' I slapped my hand down on table. 'Do we talk to Mably about this, or his wife?'

'Of course not,' Jack shook his head, 'I think Joan's got enough problems at the moment worrying where her daughter is. What it does give us, is something that binds them all together.'

'Nothing we can prove though.'

'Maybe not, it wouldn't hurt to let the two of them know that we know though. I still can't believe Mably would leave himself open like that.'

Don nodded, 'I think that it was another lever used against him by Dawes not to proceed with Helen's complaint.'

'Well if that's true, I should feel sorry for him in a way, but...' Jack trailed off, another of his rocks of the establishment crumbling before his eyes. 'We can see Mably and put this to him.'

'Leave me out of this.'

Jack ignored Don's plaintiff request and asked him a question, 'do you know, or do you remember any names. The warden for instance.'

'She's dead, her husband is alive though. He would have known, Gates used to say that he pimped the girls out. I dunno about that, he's in sheltered accommodation himself now.'

'Which one?'

*

I walked towards the recreation ground wondering if Mably was a regular attender at the care home. Scene of what exactly? Sex parties were an unknown concept for me, apart from the more extreme fantasy's that sometimes lurked deep in sub conscience of my libido. I found a park bench and sat under the horse chestnut trees, staring eastwards at a ragged group of teenagers playing football. A scruffy kid, his ears sticking out and level with his eyebrows, give his head a half-witted look. He could play though, unlike the others, the he didn't move he glided, moving sideways without apparently taking any steps. The way he waits, committing the others before he moves. I remembered how it all worked, he'll climb up through the different years, all the parents cheering his every move. He'll play for the town, or better – then it'll be the knee problems and then the dangerous problem of adjusting to unfulfilled.

I sighed and watched the attractive woman approach, a black Labrador ambling alongside her. No lead required, this boy knew how to behave, just as you would expect from a dog owned by David Mably. His wife had a bright white coloured cotton summer dress on, it contrasted starkly with the dog, who moved towards me and gave my legs an obligatory sniff. I shook hands with Joan Mably and we sat on the park bench and watched the football.

'I've spent the morning working out in my aerobics class, working out for over two hours with the master.'

'The master?' I imagined her one and only master would be the obvious one, ex-inspector and I smiled to myself, wondering if he knew his wife had another master in her life.

'Master works us hard, I'm making a conscious effort not only to sharpen my physical edge against my loss of focus, strength that all of this has brought about. I need some discipline, a measure of control in my life.'

'I'm amazed.'

'What, that I've turned into an aerobic fanatic?'

I nodded, 'mind you, physical activity is supposed to help.'

'What when your daughters been missing for weeks?' She sighed and held my gaze, the likeness with Helen was obvious.

So startling that I had to say just that, 'you're so alike. It's uncanny.'

'I never realised you were an item. We never knew you existed apart from whe...' Joan Mably coloured up and stared off into the distance.

'I took her to university.'

'We never knew that until a few days ago either.'

'She was so preoccupied on the journey up.'

'Well we know why don't we?'

We stared across at the boys who had finished, sat around drinking from cans of coke. A couple of them stared back in sullen indifference. I turned back to Joan Mably, for someone who enjoyed provoking a reaction in people, I tried to imagine hers if I told her about her husband's regular attendance in the local bordello. Instead I slowly shook my head and was about to speak when she beat me to it.

'I was surprised when you rang me.'

'I wanted you to see Jack's handiwork before we went to press.'

'Well thank you for that, did Jack think...'

'He's got his conspiracy hat on, didn't want anyone to see what he'd written.'

'Does he mean David?'

Meaning just the opposite, I said, 'I don't think so.'

'What's your opinion?'

'Jack writes well, that might seem an obvious statement about a man who's written all of his working life. I think it's a well-researched, well written piece. Obvious constraints of being unable to name those involved.'

'I find it hard to believe we didn't support Helen more at the time.' Mrs Mably's head dropped a touch and she sighed. 'It fills in gaps for me, how did you, or who did you talk to?'

'Johnny Hutchins and Philip Mole.'

'They're both dead now.'

'One suspicious, the other not so.'

'Poor Johnny, he was a sweet man.'

'I talked to Don, he pretty much confirmed what the other two said. But he won't be changing his original statement.'

'He did lie then?'

'At the time, he backed the others up.'

'Did Helen and Don...'

Once again a lie tumbled from my lips, 'I don't think so.'

'Thank god for that.'

That was my good deed done for the day and I'd joined the long list of liars in all of the sorry saga, albeit for a decent enough reason.

'She mentions you, always asks after you?'

'I didn't realise you've seen her recently.' A neutral response from me, but the fact that Helen asked after me, moved me. I guessed that she would always have that power.

'We meet every four or five weeks. Lunch and a chat, it's a bit stiff and if not formal, then uneasy. It's getting easier, we're both getting to know one another again I suppose.'

'I'm pleased – for both of you. When was the last time?'

'A month ago, it's funny that as we became closer, Helen started to tell me some stranger and stranger things. I think she was becoming really mixed up.'

'Can I ask what or how exactly?'

'Told me that she was being followed, that she'd bumped into one of her rapists and another knocked on her door.'

'Which one, this is so important Joan.'

'Well there's only one of them left now.'

'Helen met Andrew Gates?'

'That's what she said, have you had the pleasure?'

I nodded, 'a couple of times. Once he tried to arrest me, the other time he was with Mark Dawes.'

She frowned, 'Mark Dawes, I never took to him. I've met both of them over the years at different functions, Mark Dawes put undue pressure on David. You know how it works.'

'I'm beginning to.'

'David still sees Andrew now and again.'

'Has he seen him recently?' My mouth hung open as an attack of fatigue filtered through my body, this counterbalanced the bouts of mental exaltation that had lifted me since Jack had gone to press. I glanced at the indomitable Joan Mably, who for once wouldn't meet my gaze. She played with her necklace, I got the feeling that the beaded strands could splinter and burst under her agitated handling. I imagined dozens of different coloured of brown and tan beads bouncing down onto the concrete under our feet. Darting and pinging and scattering in whorls, mapping, like particles in a bubble chamber. Despite my detachment, I felt her eyes swinging back around to me, but I couldn't think of anything to say.

'Does it strike you as odd that David would have some sort of relationship with a man that might have raped his daughter and yet he couldn't have one with Helen? Is that why you've gone quiet?'

'Probably.'

'Andrew Gates came to our house, knocked on the door out of the blue.'

'When was this?'

'I'm trying to remember.'

'Please, this is important.'

'A week or so after Helen went missing.'

'I talked to Philip Mole around then.' I made a mental note to remember something for a change. We sat in silence as I struggled to find an appropriate question, finally I said, 'was she aware of this situation?'

'Which one?'

'The fact that her father and the man that raped her stayed in touch?'

'I don't think so.'

Joan Mably dragged a tissue out from her handbag and wiped her nose. 'Helen refused to let her father join us whenever we met. Well she did offer one proviso – if David accepted her story as true and agreed to say just that in court. If he did that then Helen would consider some kind of rapprochement.'

'But even if he did believe her, it wouldn't have changed anything.' I shook my head, I could understand Helen expecting her father's unconditional support, but to offer that stipulation as a condition for her forgiveness seemed unlikely at best. 'Have they met recently?'

'I don't know about that, I do know that David isn't aware that I see Helen as often as do.'

'Wouldn't he approve?'

'It's not a matter of approval, just that he would find it upsetting.'

'Another secret, what about you sat on a park bench chatting?'

'He wouldn't like that either. I didn't tell him about Helen because she would provoke him and they'd both end up in a furious frenzy. Even without her father present, she provoked me.'

'What, an argument?'

'Sometimes, but she tried to get me to do more things with my life. Become more independent.'

'Well you've become an aerobic exponent.'

Joan Mably stared down at the dog lying at her feet, 'that's not the kind of activity she meant. She encouraged me to get out socially, I sometimes think she meant have an affair.'

We looked at one another and both smiled, 'did she actually say that?'

'Not in so many words, the implication was plain enough though.' She held my gaze and said, 'do you not approve?'

'Of Helen's suggestion or you seriously considering it?' I felt that she was practicing her flirting technique on me. 'Like anyone married for a long time, I have these thoughts. But nothing will ever happen.' She stared at her dog again, who regarded his owner with mournful eyes, waiting for the signal to get moving again. That came soon enough, Joan Mably stood and the dog matched her movement, bristling with intent. She held her hand out towards me and said, 'I have to get on.'

'Thank you Joan, I hope we find her soon.'

*

'Why didn't you tell me you were meeting Joan?'

'It was an impulse thing, she did impart some useful background to it all.'

'You get all the good jobs, I get to interview a woman wanting to show me knitting patterns from the Women's Institute.' I smiled, Jack considered them a bunch of latter day witches. 'I hope you didn't mention Mably and the others in their bordello?'

'I'm not that indiscrete.'

Jack frowned, 'mmm.'

'What she did say was that her oh so perfect husband still sees Andrew Gates of a regular basis.'

'Do you think that's important?'

'What, father socialising with the man that raped his daughter. Gates visited their house a week or so before Helen vanished.'

'That's more than just coincidence?' Jack began to drum his fingers on the table, 'he'll never be able to believe his daughter, he's been structured that way. He believes his men. They're all honourable in his eyes, plus the fact is that Gates was his protégé.'

'Where did you get that one from?'

'I didn't really, bits of information dribbling out here and there. But there's no doubt he pushed him up the ladder.' Jack picked up his coffee cup, sighed when he realise it was empty, placed it with a bang back on the table. 'I don't see him as part of the conspiracy; he saw Gates and Dawes as well. It was part of his job, their paths crossed all the time.'

Jack ignored my lame analogy, 'What else did she have to say?'

'Not much,' I tried to recall the recent conversation.'

Jack snapped, 'you have no eye for detail and a poor memory, why don't you take a few notes.'

Because I was always too self-conscious, I took a deep breath. 'She said that Dawes was at their home that same night trying to can the whole business. That's it really, apart from Helen and her mother meeting regularly.'

'Did David...'

'No, they met without his blessing. Helen encouraged Joan Mably to have a fling.'

'What, an affair?'

Jack knew about everything, but understood little about affairs of the heart. 'It was a tease on Helen's part, encouraging her mother to widen her horizons.'

'You think that's normal?'

'She wasn't asking Joan to partake in group sex with her, nothing like that. It was just a tease, anyway she took her daughter's advice.'

'Had an affair?'

I laughed, 'no, she's taken up aerobics.'

Jack raised his eyebrows at me, 'what's the world coming to, what's up with flower arranging.' He fumbled for his cigarettes, lit one and left it in his mouth as he scanned his notes. The smoke rising up into his eyes caused him to remove the offending item from his mouth. He coughed a couple of times and rubbed his left eye. 'Something's wrong here, we're missing something somewhere.'

'Helen probably.'

'Being flippant isn't going to help,' Jack stared out of the window. 'It's the chronology of it all. Did she meet Philip Mole?'

'He never mentioned that.'

'Well he wouldn't would he? Did something spook her or has someone...

'What, did someone have something to do with her disappearing?'

'What do you think?'

'Mole was shot to pieces, he wasn't capable of anything. He had these scratch marks down one side of his face, I kept staring at them, like a big cat had raked him.'

'See, there you go. Stay focused will you, I've got the name of her shrink. He said he'll talk about things with you. Not any detail about their meetings or his diagnosis. She may have mentioned things that might give us some insight into it all.'

'Haven't the police...'

'Don't be silly,' Jack lit a cigarette. 'There's been no resources thrown at Helen's vanishing. The man's name is Harvey Malkovitch, got a surgery in Beaumont Street.'

I didn't like the way I was being directed, 'Why can't you go?'

'Don't you like the idea of talking to an analyst?'

No I bloody well didn't, I said nothing. The thought of someone else delving deep into my psyche made me shiver.

*

Harvey Malkovitch reminded me of the ghost of Christmas present, or Jove the bringer of jollity. A bulky man who smiled a lot and wore a black bow tie with large red spots. And most importantly he didn't give me the long silences that always made me twist around in my chair like a tormented, recalcitrant catholic being dressed down by his irate priest.

'I can't tell you any detail, confidentiality I'm sure you understand.'

'I'm only interested in the chronology of things, who she met and where.'

'That's a lot of people over a long period'

'Mainly the last six months.'

'You have a vested interest in all of this?'

'Only in as much as we were close and I want to find her fit and well.'

He tipped his head a touch and then slowly nodded, 'Helen mentioned you enough times, she had fond memories.'

How did this make me feel? Good is the answer, egos are fragile entities and mine needed massaging as much as the next. 'It was an exciting time for me.'

'For both of you I'm sure, now where shall we begin?'

'I have some names and if Helen ever mentioned them can you put dates and location against them for me please?' Malkovitch gestured with his hand for me to proceed, 'do you have a date for the actual assault?'

He flicked through a hefty box file, shuffling papers and sighing a lot, here we are. 'Twenty eighth of August.'

'Has she seen a one Philip Mole recently?' Malkovitch smiled, but said nothing, I prompted again, 'are you able to give me anymore?'

'What do you know about him?'

I thought I would be the one asking the questions, I sat back and stared at Malkovitch. I briefly considered giving him an analyst's silence before saying, 'I have vague memories of him, he never arrested me back then so I wouldn't remember him. He's a drunk now...'

'A dead drunk.'

'He's a dead drunk, harmless I felt. I can still see the scratches down one side of his face, something or someone really raked him.'

'That would be Helen.'

Malkovitch's line about confidentiality had hit the buffers quickly enough, I smiled at him and said, 'Helen did that. Good girl.' The implication of what he had just said went way over my head and up into the stratosphere.

'She has spirit, but a dangerous thing to provoke don't you think?'

'Just a minute,' I pointed at Malkovitch. 'Did they meet?'

'Helen met him, he was unconscious on a park bench. She woke him, realised who it was and scratched his face.'

I whistled, 'they did meet.'

'Helen followed him for a couple of weeks. I think she knew he was a soft target, she tracked him, knocked on his door and they talked.'

'Is that the act of...?' I hoped Malkovitch might prompt me here, but he remained silent, 'Helen was stalking him. What was the actual date that Helen first came across him?'

Malkovitch told me and I dutifully wrote it down. The significance of their meeting was impossible to narrow down except for just another coincidence. These were mounting up like the tally on an expert pin ball player's score.

'A week after, Helen was at a conference and met a minor Home Office official.'

'Mark Dawes!'

'Indeed, they had a convivial chat. Helen had a vague recollection of him and her father knowing one another. Helen told him of her intention to write a book about the assault and its cover up.'

My head was reeling, another bloody coincidence?

'The very next day two policemen knocked on her door and threatened legal action if she carried on harassing Philip Mole.'

'I bet I can describe them.'

'Helen broke down after they left. It was a week before she was able to talk about it. Then her father kept trying to ring her, even pitched up at work. Of course she wasn't there. Then she had a visit from Andrew Gates and was threatened again. He demanded the manuscript.'

'Of which there's no such thing.'

'You know there's a conspiracy going on here?'

'Yes, do you think Helen's telling the truth? Do you believe her?'

Malkovitch fingered his chin between first finger and thumb before his considered, but brief response came at me, 'I believe every word she's told me.'

'You see at the beginning, we always had the feeling at the back of our minds that Helen may be a fantasist. But things have been piling up, all confirming everything she's said.'

'Have you been threatened?'

'Constantly for the last three weeks or so.'

'Helen said you enjoy confrontation'

'As a young man, now I'm not so sure. I still can't believe that her father was trying to contact her.'

'That spooked her as much as the intimidation. He'd made no attempt since Helen started university. Everything went through his wife.'

'Thank you.' I stood and shook his hand, 'one more, is she suicidal?'

Malkovitch sighed, 'I don't think so, but she's a very impulsive woman and not in the most stable frame of mind at the moment.'

I opened the door and turned back, 'do you know where she is?'

'Somewhere safe, she mentioned Wales but that's all I know.'

### 19

### Helen

I smiled and walked back to my cottage. I picked an A4 envelope up and stared at the handwriting, Harvey Malkovitch's laboured writing – he never used my name. Just addressed it to the house, Seabird Cottage, we had agreed earlier not to put my name on the envelope. A neat enough demonstration as to the state of my mind, made worse since Philip Mole's demise. I ripped it open and it was the front page of Stuart's newspaper

### Local Man Killed In Fall

Their weekly rag would usually hold no interest for me, Harvey had underlined the headline as well. She quickly read the article. "Sixty five year old Johnny Hutchins was killed after falling down the stairs at his home"

This made no sense. I read on, only when it came to the line at the end, "Mr Hutchins had been bar steward at the police social club for the last twenty five years"

My god!

An accident.

Yeh, right.

I stared at the newspaper headline, Johnny Hutchins, he was a sweet man. She always saw him as an old man whenever she played snooker in the club. But at the time he would have been around Helen's age now.

A sweet man, 'watch out – they're all like old dogs on heat.'

And now he was dead as well.

An accident, just the same as Philip Mole, all these accidents.

I dressed and walked down to the beach, the tide was well up leaving just a small, unequal triangle of sand for the clutch of small children to play in. I went to the same waste paper bin in the pub garden and shoved more paper in there.

A local woman, she ran the café opposite the pub stopped me as I walked back home. Typically curious Welsh, 'lovely weather, are you down here on your own?'

I spoke in Spanish, the woman frowned, I repeated in faltering English. 'All these accidents. Who's going to be next?'

The woman frowned again.

*

I dreamt again, within a few short weeks I would lose three times. The first to a married brute of a detective sergeant who turned me on quicker than electricity pulses through a light switch. The second spread-eagled n a snooker table to three policemen and the third to my father. At the moment, I can only account for the first in this nasty little trilogy.

Don liked me on top, my breasts acted like a hypnotist's charm. I wasn't sure to begin with, moved like an over-active dervish. My eyes shut in a world of my own. He slowed me down, I suppose I was just trying to give myself. Perhaps I was too young for that? Trying to impress, too much vigour and too little thought. He controlled me with his ruthless lovemaking. Yet even this had more subtlety than I could manage. His crude spontaneity had many things going for it. The restrictions I had placed in the equation became unbalanced. His vicious tutorial took me into an adventure that was beyond my control. He was the one in control as the brief and turbulent affair fizzled. I was the one passively supine. I soon realised that I was out of my depth.

There was no way around his act of dominance. It's just what I thought sex to be. Brutish—Don was a brute but his brutishness turned me on time after time. I couldn't drag up the forthright, razor-sharp, rudimentary response from my sluggish brain. Blinded by orgasms, controlled by my own narcissism, by exhibitionism and then let down by my inert brain. The full amorous truth, the instinctual girl bursting not just the container of her vanity but the captivity of her middle class, restrained parents. I'd been mastered by a thug. But am I the designer of his control over me?

I thought I was in control, getting caught in bed with Stuart had the effect I wanted. I enjoyed the constant angry silence that came from my father. I spoke to my mother, always in a voice to jar his sensibilities, 'I have my own sexuality, do you want me to grow into a suppressed, frigid cow just like you?'

I thought she was going to hit me at first. But then I got the long sigh and a whispered response, 'you'll be gone in a few weeks. Get this out of your system when you're well away from your father.'

An almost human response and it made me feel guilty. But then I wondered what either of them would say if they knew I'd fucked his sergeant? I turned away from my mother and went up to my room. I thought I knew everything, it turned out I knew nothing. What little I knew, was about to be turned on its head by Don. All my plotting and scheming proved one thing. I wasn't in control, my risky little game was about to blow up in my face. I imagined that I was superior, looking back it would be true to say all of my problems emanated from my desire to get laid. Instead of some guilt free sex, my life was in turmoil, my ordered existence of a few months earlier was gone. I know this, it was as if every last shred of narcissism was coming back to ridicule me.

Don caused this emotion within, I wanted him entrapped, mine. I wanted him to say I can't live without you. I have to have your cunt. Don played the game like the seasoned veteran he was. I gave myself to an older man. I thought this would give me a sexual power that I never felt before. I got the extreme pleasure of mastery with Stuart, with Don the boot was on the other foot, I submitted to Don's sexual mastery, I thought the sheer force of my youth and beauty would hook him for as long as I wanted to play him. I was wrong.

I woke suddenly, my mind made up. I needed to ring Stuart.

### 20

### Stuart

Here we go again, Groundhog Day, once more into the breach of human filth, or more accurately, sheltered accommodation. Not that I disliked the elderly, my fear of dying meant that I avoided the more aged. I had a small Dictaphone in my jacket pocket, as Jack said this was inadmissible in a court of law, but could be leverage if nothing else.

'Eddie Hesford?'

'Who are you?'

'I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

'How did you find me?'

'An old friend of yours told me.'

'Who's that then?'

'I thought that I was the one supposed to be asking questions.'

'Who sent you? If you're the police, you can fuck...'

'I'm not the police, but Don Wilson said that you might be able to help me.'

'Did he now, what's this all about?' Heavy eyed and morose, his top lip a yellowy, nicotine colour.

I raised my eyebrows and sighed, 'you'll not welcome this, but I'm asking the questions anyway.'

'Lots of people asking me questions lately.'

'Policemen by any chance?'

'No,' Eddie Hesford shook his head, 'it was all her fault. I'd do anything for her that was the trouble.'

'Who are we talking about?'

'My wife.'

I wasn't interested in his recently departed wife, 'which police, Andrew Gates maybe?'

He stared at me for a long time, I held his gaze, easy enough when you know what his answer will be. 'Yeh, how did you guess?'

'He's in trouble.'

'I knew it would come to this.'

'What you running a knocking shop?'

'There are plenty of people out there who want to have sex with young girls. Some are persuasive, others offer money and there are a few who just take it. Gates sodomizing one of the girls was just too much.'

I shook my head, sodomizing a young girl was more than just a shameful act. 'Gates...'

'He was a real bugger.'

I pointed and spat the words his way, 'was that meant as a joke?'

'Keep your hair on, there were some big men circling around us. Important I mean, it got out of hand, but my wife wouldn't listen. One of them is a government minister for fuck's sake.'

'Mark Dawes?'

'You know a lot.'

'Inspector Mably?'

Hesford shook his head, 'not the good inspector. Half the police in town though. Not just them either, councillors, masons, you name it we had them.'

'When did it all end?'

'The policemen stopped coming after some big ruck at the police station. Something spooked them. Gates carried on seeing my wife though.'

'And you're telling me that Mably didn't attend?'

'No, never saw him.'

'Can you be sure he never attended?'

'Well we never took a fucking register if that's what you're wondering?'

We stared at one another, finally I nodded and said, 'can we start from the beginning please. How and when it all began?'

'It was my wife's idea, we were supervisors, we had a big house usually with six or seven girls to look after. They didn't need much persuading, those that were reluctant, my wife quickly brought them in line. Told you she was very persuasive.'

'You never had any children yourself?'

'No, she never wanted them.' Hesford stared down at the floor, 'how come girls do this? How did it ever get this far?'

'What do you mean? Bit late for guilt tripping.'

'My God,' he said, finally. 'I had a mirror, two way affair.'

'Everyone watched?'

'No one watched except me.'

I let my mind drift away, a man watching other men. Could he see everything? Did he hear the thick, blood-clotted lechery in the other men's voices? A man on the cusp of orgasm blissfully unaware. I wondered if this had been a long slow slide down into the gutter. Or did this little vice develop in the comparative blink of an eye?

'I've done with all of that, it's surprising how boring it got and how quickly. Pornography was no more than biology. Whoring no more than practical dissection. I didn't like it. It hadn't been the point. The pressure of names had finally got to me. All the Sharon's, Donnas, Sally's. All staring into space as someone fucked them. I didn't need it. No more whores. I thought I might be cured, except that like all of the others, I kept coming back and taking more pictures.'

Photos, I thought all the time trying to keep my expression neutral. The sudden anticipation photos would brought into the equation sent my heart racing.

'She never minded me taking pictures.'

'Did she object to you sleeping with girls supposed to be in your care?'

'I never slept with them,' Hesford shrugged, 'thinking back, she did encouraged me though. That was only fair I suppose, I gave her license to play around.'

'And she was the one that pushed this little scheme?'

'All the way.'

What was the man sat in front of me? I know what he should have been, the traditional devoted husband, a man dedicated to looking after troubled girls. Pledging allegiance a thousand times over for the safe upkeep that should have been at the heart of the establishment him and his wife ran. They had a talent for it, had what it took to avoid anything that might have caught them out. Anything special, anything improper, anything difficult to assess or understand. They needed little of those skills, they had the police establishment looking after them. Immunity gave them the time to develop a business that became a nice little earner on one hand and a safe haven for men who should have known better. Nothing made sense anymore, I tried to clear my head.

'Do you have any contact with the girls?'

'Why?'

'Because I need to talk to them.'

'I knew nothing but trouble would come of it all.' He began to wring his hands together, 'I was told to say nothing, threatened by Gates. Do you think I can get into trouble all these years later?'

'Only if one of the girls brought charges of abuse against you.'

'But they weren't abused.'

I stared at him, he wouldn't meet my eye. Where was the desperate possessiveness, the paternal decisiveness, the obsessive love for children? Instead he'd turned them loose, or more likely, tethered them to a stake and let the marauding tigers loose on them. The lost girls, set upon by evil ineradicable men. I kept going over things in my mind, lost like an artist who's painted the same scene over and over again, trying to find what it was I was looking to portray. Suddenly it hit me, 'do you still have any pictures?'

'Maybe.'

I asked the same question again, 'do you still have them?'

Hesford shook his head, then lit a cigarette, the coughing and wheezing began immediately. 'I'm not long for this world, emphysema.' He nodded towards a nebuliser and close by an oxygen cylinder and plastic mask. 'Bloody fags.'

'How did you get away with taking photographs?'

'I've already told you, two way mirror.'

I felt a familiar constriction come into my throat and I pinched the skin around it between thumb and finger. I repeated an earlier question, 'Do you still have the photographs?'

Hesford ignored me and ploughed on with his narrative, 'I watched a leading light of the council through the mirror, he's dead now but you'd know him well enough. With a young girl, her legs splayed, heels braced against the sink. I used to get this sudden jagged fear that this wasn't a mirror but a window. Sometimes I'd even jump out of the way when I realised the heavily made-up eyes of the girl were focused elsewhere. Of course they were. There'd have been uproar if they'd seen me staring away. Just to test things, I often waved my arms at them. They toiled on, oblivious to me or anything else. He was concentrating on coming, she was mentally counting her money. I watched, fascinated, as they fell back on to the bed and the man tipped the girl off his lap into the pillows. I jumped when the man came to the mirror and inspected his face for telling defects and then set about some frantic washing of his peeled-prawn penis, jaw clenched, teeth bared. He found himself enclosed by the drama of this private screening.'

I imagined the man dressing, tearing at his shirt, desperate to be clothed again and get back to work. Perhaps he threw more money at the girl, guilt moves us in different ways.

'Often the girls never moved. Occasionally, they lay still for so long I thought they might be dead. My heart thumping in my chest as I waited for them to move. One girl remained face-down in the pillows. I was about to go in, when she stretched a small hand behind her. I used to be amazed at the cheap rings they all wore. This one reached in between her legs with thumb and forefinger and, as if she was pulling a splinter, yanked out the used condom.'

Hesford groaned and stood, I thought he was on the point of collapse as he groaned some more. Something had disturbed him and this satisfied something in me.

'The girl was naked, they weren't always. Some were fucked almost fully clothed. She stared at the mirror, I liked to see their faces after, front on like that. Big eyes staring vacantly.'

'Or innocently.'

'Whatever, I'm sure they went over things afterwards. Turning things over and over. Reworking things over and over. Never quite getting to the source, not knowing what the source was.'

'And what was the answer?'

Hesford sat on the edge of his chair, his stomach spilling over the trouser belt, grey hairs bursting where a button had come undone. He tried to suck some air into his lungs, 'Don't hurt me, they often said that at the beginning. Please don't hurt me.'

He grunted, I said, 'you did this all the time?'

'Watched? Pretty much, took photos as my wife entertained, usually that arrogant Gates. Threesomes, my wife with two policemen. Gates with my wife and one of the girls. I watched the other girls.'

'What about the photos?'

'A woman came here a few weeks ago, bought some.'

'What woman?'

'I forget her name, she paid me good money. Enough to help pay for a decent care home in Torquay, keep me in bit of comfort till I go.'

'What did she look like?'

'Blonde, good looker. They have full time nursing and care staff...'

'I have to go, you've been very helpful.'

'I kid myself the girls enjoyed it, but there was no real passion most of the time. Never saw bare legs wrapped around a man's rib cage, never saw ankles crossed and resting on the man's buttocks. Just lying back taking it, eyes shut maybe, some of them had tears in their eyes.'

I stood, 'listen, thanks for all of this you've...'

'Wait,' Hesford pointed towards a large cardboard box on the table. 'There's a film in there and a few photos, take them all if you like. I haven't got anything to play it on anymore. It's a good one.'

I brought out an A5 envelope in one hand and a reel of thirty five millimetre film in the other and showed them to Hesford. He nodded and I said, 'one more thing. How come the police haven't been able to find you?'

'Hesford's my real name, I'm registered in the home in a different name. Bank accounts, driving licence in false names as well. Don managed to track me down, Philip used to pop around now and again. They were the only two who knew.'

*

Jack listened and let me tell my tale uninterrupted, an unusual event in itself. I showed the palms of my hands, 'that's it and I have the Dictaphone as back up and maybe this film as well.'

'This is difficult for me, I'm worried we're going to see Mably on it.'

'Not as difficult as it will be for Joan Mably if he is In flagrante.'

'In flagrante delicto, if he is I'm not telling her.'

'What if this comes into the public domain?'

'We can't make this public, we have the evidence of a dying man and a policeman who won't repeat them.'

'Maybe a film and we assume that Helen's got some pictures.'

'What's Helen going to do?'

'If it was Helen that bought the photos from Hesford that is.'

'Who else could it be?'

'Do you think Hesford was telling the truth?'

'What he told me was, but he was holding a lot back.'

'You think he's off to a better place?'

'What, Torquay or the undertakers? I saw the brochures for his last resting place.'

The phone stated its insistent calling,

I leant across and picked it up.

A voice, whispered and hesitant, 'Is that the Herald?'

I recognised the voice instantly, 'Helen, is that you?'

'Stuart?'

### 21

### Helen Mably

His voice, 'Helen?'

'That is that the Herald?'

'Helen, is that you?'

'Stuart... Stuart. Stuart my parents sleep in the double bed in our holiday cottage. Its walls are much, much thinner than those at home and I listen while I lie awake under a blanket. The window is wide open and warm air whispers in bringing its ozone soaked breath with it. My mother is brushing her hair and I imagine my father lying on the bed in his spotless, unsullied paisley pyjamas.'

'How are you Helen?'

'I can hear everything. My father, "Do you think the kids... the walls are very thin."

"We're on holiday." My mother says this as if it's an indisputable excuse to do whatever they were considering doing.'

"Why do you brush your hair before you come to bed?"

"It helps remove dirt and stimulates circulation which in turn increases natural oils. This makes my hair less dry and brittle, helps it to look silky and lustrous."

'Stuart, my mother was a beautician briefly until she met him. Of course her career ended as soon as they married. She always brushed my hair last thing before I went to bed, a practice I stopped as soon as I got to university. I always had better things to do in the bedroom. Then I heard the bed, the mattress compress as she slid in next to my father. Then nothing for a few seconds, "I've only got one left."

"Packet?"

"Mm."

"Packet?"

"Yes."

"A packet of three?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to put it on for you?"

"Yes."

'Silence. Then my mother made a soft noise, like she'd been wounded. The mattress, springs pinging. "We should do this more often."

"Ssh, I'm trying to concentrate."

"Do you love me?"

'A groan, him this time. A disappointed little noise.'

'Why Stuart? A noise that someone would make if they opened a letter expecting a cheque and instead finding the envelope empty.'

'Where are you Helen?'

'Why were they disappointed? Then someone got out of the bed. A toilet flushed. "Have you flushed it down the toilet?" My mother sounded agitated. Then silence, I tried to assimilate this information. What had I just heard?'

'Where are you? Helen please.'

'I'm in my very own safe haven in Wales, Stuart listen. It's a wonder I never had either of their fastidious outlooks. This was the only memory. This is what it comes down to. My only memory of their inadequate, rootless existence of a sex life, I wanted my mother to have an awakening. Preferably a sexual one, why not? I imagined her with one of my undergraduates. The image conjured makes me smile even now Oh the disgust on my father's face and the frozen expression of lust as my mother had a spine-jangling orgasm. Yes I wanted my father to watch her getting what she'd missed for forty five years. Although, if you've never had, you'll never miss. I sleep in the same bed they had slept in thirty years previously. I cry every night, softly. I wasn't sobbing. Stuart, I'm out of control. Even I realise that.'

'Can I see you?'

'I shut the door of Seabird Cottage, always stare at the faded green of the door. Being this close to the beach made for a harsh environment. Concentrate! I recall the series of mistakes. No it was the one habitual and recurring mistake. Now I need my father to hold me. I need to see my mother. I need you Stuart – I need anyone. Someone to put their arms around me, instead of being antagonists, of providing one another with the ideal enemy, why couldn't we have put the same effort into satisfying each other, into steady, dedicated living? Would that have been so hard for two such strong-willed people?'

'I would have liked that.'

'Poor Stuart, I remember it so vividly, lying in the bed next to my parent's bedroom, listening to my mother breathing. Still awake as my father drifted away as certainly as the tide swept in and out barely a few yards away. I keep looking back at the cottage as I walk away. I try to infuse myself with a new steadfastness: I must, end this purposeless, pointless... What exactly? Did I tell you that Christopher broke his arm? Lucky it wasn't his neck. Lucky it wasn't every bone in his body. Cliff walks and Christopher, a sling around his neck. He used it to wipe his nose. My father climbed down the cliff and held Christopher. My mother raced back and rang the emergency services. I watched my father, clasping Christopher, who was probably the heavier of the two by now.

'I just walked slowly into the garden of the Castle. There wasn't waiter service, but I sat outside and waited. Stared out to the cliffs on my left. Dad and Christopher wedged into some heavy gorse. Overhanging a sixty foot drop onto rocks below. I thought of my mother, a widow, me without a father. My mind was all over the place by now. I began speculating on how things might have turned out if my father had died. Would I have been raped? No is the answer, you see if my father had just done the decent thing and dropped off the edge of that very cliff opposite. My life would be so different.

'Even I could see that blaming him for not dying was irrational even beyond my ridiculous standards. I sitting in the evening sun and I'm going to wait for you to come and rescue me. Please Stuart.'

I replaced the phone and struggled to open the door, I stood and fingered my locket with one hand and wrote times down in my diary. At least five hours travelling, I tried to remember my physics lessons. Time travelling equals distance times miles per hour. My head scrambled again, figures, columns – estimated arrival times. I looked from watch to diary and back to watch again.

Then the weeping started.

### 22

### Stuart

Helen stopped the night many times, my parents would be working late Friday and Saturday nights. We'd creep up to my room and not go the opposite way until early morning when I walked her home. She slept so deeply, sometimes a squeaky snore excited from her half open mouth. It focused the street light somehow and kept me awake. I used to prop myself up on an elbow and study her face. Small and vague in the spectral streetlight that I imagined it could be anybody. It never bothered me that her sleep came so easily, I pressed against her like an interlocking spoon and sometimes I would stay inside her sticky well, half erect.

One morning, after she'd made another successful escape, my mother said, 'who spent the night with you?'

She gave me her deadpan, steady gaze. I shifted on my feet looking for an escape but there was nowhere to go, 'just a friend.'

'Would this be the same friend that stopped last weekend and the weekend before that?'

I nodded and waited for the accusations to start.

'Who is she?'

'Just a friend.'

She sighed, 'does your friends parents mind her staying here? Do they even know where or who's she with?' She came up close, 'I hope you're being careful.'

I put the phone down and stared at it. Instead of making me feel energised, Helen's phone call had drugged me into a day dream. During this stolen slumber I had a vivid dream, I was alone in a football pitch, apart from Helen stood on the touchline watching me. I had witnessed a description, not of death, but the polar opposite. Helen was born again and I was intensely relieved and excited, my dream has made the knot in my chest tighten a notch. I didn't want to tell Mably that his daughter was alive.

Coldness spreads through my body. I felt a pair of eyes on me, I stared at the street outside, I felt disconnected as if I had stepped outside of my body, as I was stood outside the window looking in. The wild woman I thought dead in a ditch somewhere was alive, if not well.

I felt weak and fell into the chair, 'she wants to see me.'

'You're not making sense.' Jack said this like a worn out teacher fed up with repeatedly saying the same thing to a wayward student.

I turned my gaze towards him, 'Helen's alive. Alive but as mad as the maddest March hare.'

'Are you sure?' I nodded, 'I'll ring David and let them know.'

'No, Helen expressly forbid that to happen.'

'Don't you think that they deserve to know?'

I was unsure if that was a question or a statement, either way I suddenly felt a degree of sympathy for a failed father and his lovely wife. 'Helen's worried that someone's following her. Convinced phones are tapped.'

'Give me that phone number.'

'I haven't got a number, didn't you hear me, she's worried my phone's been tapped.'

Jack lit a cigarette and told me to sit down, 'ok, let's calm down and see where we are. Helen's alive...'

'But crazy.' I burst in, 'Jack you wouldn't believe what she was saying. She was all over the place.'

'They should be told.'

'Mably lied to us. Malkovitch told me that he was ringing her many times a day before she disappeared. He knew she was planning to write about the assault before she disappeared.'

'Malkovitch told you this?'

'Not only told me, he believes every word Helen told him. Listen to this, she met Philip Mole, after that she was threatened by two policemen with a restraining order if she tried to make contact with him again. She met Mark Dawes at a function and told him about her big project. Then Andrew Gates pays her a visit and he struck her across the face, then Mably himself starts trying to contact her.'

'And she might have photographs that will nail all of them. We've got photos that incriminate Gates and Dawes and you've got your conspiracy confirmed.' Jack hammered his half-finished cigarette out.

'But not Mably or Don, funnily enough.'

Jack disregarded this, ploughing his own single minded furrow, 'what did she have to say. Think hard, we need a clue – is she in danger.'

I puffed my cheeks out, 'she was rambling, kept on about her parents having sex in their holiday cottage. Deep down I think she wants some sort of reconciliation with him.'

'She said that?'

'Difficult to be sure, but I think so. It was Malkovitch that gave me the real detail. I don't think she's in danger, if they knew that there was no manuscript, well that might change things.'

'How so?'

'If the manuscript is finished and copies hidden everywhere, the games over. But what if they find out she's hardly written a worthwhile word?'

'Which is exactly what I've told David,' we stared at each other, until Jack finally broke the spell. 'I can't believe that she's in any danger. Do you think...?'

'I don't know what to think.'

'Did she give you an address?'

'Little Haven, a cottage in Little Haven, she said she was sat in the garden of a castle.'

'Little Haven.'

'Where the...'

He whispered, 'Pembrokeshire I think.'

'Helen said that she was sat the castle gar...'

'I heard you the first time.' Jack walked over to his Encyclopaedia Britannica, gently pulled the appropriate volume and flicked through, he shook his head. 'No castle there, a pub maybe?'

'Last I heard she doesn't drink.'

'You can sit in a pub and not drink alcohol.'

'What are we going to do?'

'Malkovitch doesn't think she's suicidal.'

'It's an imprecise science, they're not clairvoyants.'

'That's what Malkovitch said. I want to see her.'

'It's nearly two hundred miles and what will Kathy think of you riding to an ex-girlfriend's rescue.'

'She doesn't know we were an item, Kathy's not working this afternoon, I'm going to pop home and get the all clear.'

'You do push your luck.'

*

Kathy was sitting in the sun lounger an empty glass with a slice of lemon and half a dozen ice cubes on their last legs.

'You've started early.'

'And your home early, what's up?'

This is the wild woman that has steered me along a lifelong path, stared up at me. I flicked my eyes over the whole of her length, loose brightly coloured summer skirt, tight white t-shirt. Her small breasts pushing against the cotton material gave me the usual thrill.

'Are they all...?'

'Bad luck, you're eldest daughter is indoors somewhere.'

'Bloody sixth form, free periods, study periods. Don't they do any lessons anymore?'

'Aren't you going to kiss me?' I felt the boyish reflex of embarrassment the way Kathy stared right through me in these situations. I moved closer and bent forwards, Kathy rested her hand on the back of my neck and we kissed, her mouth opening just enough to make me respond. She gently pushed me away and said, 'I've been talking to Patrick.'

'That must have been a laugh a minute.'

'He wants to know why you haven't rung him lately.'

'He's busy with his young family.' I dragged myself up to my full height. As if unaware of what she has said, I lifted her glass and tipped my head in the obvious gesture of a refill.

Kathy shook her head, 'I've got to go out later. He told me something.'

'You're lucky, he never tells me anything.'

'About you and Helen.'

'What about her?'

'You never told me about her. That you became very close.'

'It doesn't matter does it?'

'It doesn't bother me who you slept with before me, just why you didn't see fit to mention it.'

'I never ask you about your lovers.' Why did I sound so defensive?

'I was married at eighteen, you know Kenny was my only boyfriend before you came along. Why are you so spikey?' I had breathed life into my irritation and I felt my face crease in pain; Kathy said, 'so you should look remorseful.'

I felt propelled by the instinct that makes us embrace those we wound, 'I'm sorry, but I wanted to raise the subject of Helen.'

'Of course you did.'

'But not like this, she's alive and in serious trouble.'

'Oh and you're the white knight riding to her...'

'Please Kathy.'

'Don't please Kathy me, you're so fucking transparent, you expect me to let you swan off to the rescue of an old girlfriend. It was more than just a casual fling and you couldn't even tell me.'

'You're the only one, I love you, you know that.'

'I now you only say that if you want something or when you're fucking me.'

Kathy wouldn't meet my gaze, she'd turned into a block of ice. I sighed, 'I'm going down with Jack.'

'You expect me to be happy with him as a chaperon? Is that what goes on in that muddled little mind, oh I'm with Jack so anything goes.' Kathy slowly turned towards me, 'anyway, it's not just you turning into some snivelling rescuer of damsels in distress that pisses me off. You've told me everything about what you've been up to?' I felt myself nod, all the time thinking that she was laying another trap. The noose was being placed around my neck, 'why didn't you tell me that you were arrested the other Friday night?'

The trapdoor on the gallows sprung open and I was left dangling in the wind. 'I didn't want to worry you.'

'No, you didn't want me to stop you little game. Do what you want, you always do.'

Kathy stood, brushed her skirt down, gave me one last scornful glare and walked in through the back door.

### 23

### Helen

'Can I get you a drink?'

I looked up and saw a man. The sun directly behind, not so much merged his features, as made him featureless.

'Can I sit?'

I ignored him and stared across to the cliff, how did they survive? Christopher with his broken arm, my father with his tie now out of place, a whole two hours before the rescue team arrived. Then they were both packed off in an ambulance. It was one of the few occasions where I remember being alone with my mother.

'You don't remember me do you? Helen!'

As the minutes pass, or rather, do not seem to pass at all. Everything freeze frames and all the thoughts that can possibly distress me seem to coalesce into an unidentifiable nonsense word that will not let me be. To free myself from this insipid coma, I began to rock angrily from one side to the other.

I have become a metronome.

I stared at the man and fell half in, half out of deep anaesthesia. I needed somewhere claustrophobic, maybe the agonies of the recovery room, which I last saw at the age of twelve, following a tonsils operation. I stared down at my diary until the resolution dissolves and I was left looking at nothing other than a line of numbers that blur the more I stared.

Noiseless.

I tried to write something, but it's not a word. It's worse than before. As though it is a word after all and the one that holds within its unutterable syllables all the pain of my confused energies and my frenzied life. A pain all of my own and I suddenly see myself struggling with my father. The two of us are staring at one another, him holding Christopher with one hand and trying to straighten his tie with the other.

'I can't sleep at the moment.'

I say this to the blurred figure sat opposite.

'I cannot sleep. I wonder if it is possible that I will never be able to sleep again. All my thoughts are either simple or downright crazy and I cannot distinguish which is which. I went into the bedroom and wanted to get into their bed. I rehearse in my mind how I will do it. To ease them out of their initial nervousness, I will just sit first at the edge of the bed and quietly talk to them about Christopher. Looking down at their faces side by side on the fresh pillowcases, at their two faces peering out at me from above the sheet drawn up to their chins.'

'Helen, do you remember me. I'm sorry about the other day, I never meant to lose my temper.'

I pointed at the faceless man, 'not now. I need to concentrate. I slid in alongside my mother. Seabird Cottage is a Swiss chalet style cottage and we all snuggled up together under a single blanket. Was it nineteen sixty or sixty one? I'm staying there now, can you believe that?'

'Helen.'

'Do you see just to my left?' I pointed in that direction. The man turned and looked. 'My father saved Christopher's life, just there.'

'I knew your father.'

He leaned forward, he had wavy hair and a baby face. I knew him. I didn't know him.

'Christopher broke his arm, dad said it was lucky it wasn't his neck.'

'He told me, years later. Don't you remember me?'

'I remembered asking my mother. The next morning after I'd heard them in bed. I asked what dad flushed down the toilet. She went so red, scarlet.'

'Who did?'

'My mother. I didn't know at the time, but it must have been a used condom.'

The man frowned.

'I heard them having sex. You couldn't call it making love, or even fucking. Over and gone in seconds. Then he flushed the condom down the toilet. My mum...'

'Helen, look at me.'

'Imperialism is a weapon.' Dutifully the man listens, 'imperialism is a weapon used by the wealthy to pay workers less for their work.'

'Do you believe that left wing rubbish?'

Helen frowned, 'who are you?'

'I'm a friend of your father's.'

'Well your no friend of mine then.'

'Do you want a drink, or shall we go for a walk?'

I stood, 'walk would be good. I could never root out the unexpected thing. The unexpected thing would be waiting there unseen, maybe for the rest of my life.'

'Where shall we go?'

I pointed, towards the Swan Inn and the coast path beyond. 'It's ripening right now. Almost ready to blow up, the next shock could trigger it.'

He stopped outside the Swan, 'you want a drink in here?'

I kept walking, he kept a few millimetres behind me, so close and yet not touching. 'The unexpected thing was the other side of everything else. I've lost everything and when everything gets put back in its proper place. I'm back in control and it's like I'm incited, taunted to let go again.'

'I'm not understanding.'

We climbed up to the crest and I stared back towards the village. 'The unexpected thing becomes the only thing.'

Thing.

Thing.

Thing.

The only thing that matters is the fucking thing that was about to explode. 'The trouble is I never know what is about to burst.'

'Is this where your brother went over the edge?'

I felt on the brink. The cusp of something, But what exactly?

The cusp of what exactly? 'I can't be forever in bondage to this fucking thing.'

'Shall we sit?'

The grass was springy, just like the Lambourne gallops. That was springy too. I looked across the bay, a solitary oil-tanker sat waiting for the price of oil to go up a notch before sliding into Milford Haven. 'I've told my therapist everything. He's perverted, only mildly so. He likes it when I get smutty.'

The man sat very close. It felt good.

'I've not seen you for so long – how long? Do you remember?'

'I've been waiting all my life.'

'Waiting?'

'I wished he'd gone over the edge – for a time. Then I wouldn't have been waiting.'

I felt him kneeling behind me. He began to massage my shoulders. I moved my head around as she felt the likelihood of an explosion recede. Tension drifted away with the ozone.

'That's nice.'

'Do you remember when we kissed?'

'Yes.' But I didn't. 'I dreaded the postman in the morning. Dreaded the phone ringing, or a knock on the door. I couldn't allow the unexpected thing back into my life. I'd lived the last few years flying into the face of a storm. Just to disentwine myself from the horror life had returned to something like its recognisable, familiar, safe.'

'You feel safe now?'

I nodded as two couples hiked their way towards the succour of a pint and a pub meal.

'Good evening – grand isn't it?'

Hikers, ramblers whatever they call themselves are so perennially happy. I watched them slip down towards the harbour. 'When did we kiss?'

I turned and looked at the man sat behind me.

'Fancy you not remembering.'

'Remind me.'

'A long time ago now.'

I knew who he was now.

I felt serene, nothing could upset my equilibrium now.

'Shall we walk on?'

We stood and he followed. I took the few steps needed to be close to the edge. Gulls swooped around the rocks below. Effortless in their search for what exactly...

His hands came around my shoulders again.

I rested my head on his shoulder, 'I feel so calm.'

### 24

### Stuart

'What's up?'

'Kathy opted for the nuclear option.'

'We can turn back.'

I said nothing, chose to stare ahead.

'We're an hour from home, we can turn at the next junction and you can...'

'It's all right, we'll get over it.' Said the man who didn't actually believe what he'd just said.

We crossed the Severn Bridge in silence, the estuary was bathed in sunshine and deserved some of Jack's purple prose. But my sense of deserting Kathy numbed my senses. My heart completes its turn and turns again, a wider turn in a thinning medium to which the outer world bears a decreasing relevance. A suffocating sense of injustice blinded me. I couldn't work out who was the more unreasonable, which just about summed Kathy's parting words up followed me as I walked towards the car.

'As I walked away from her, Kathy called me a fucking narcissist... amongst many other things.'

'She a very perceptive woman.'

'Don't you start.'

As I drove, I imagined tide times, weather forecasts and Helen's likely frame of mind, but all I could think of was Kathy. Two hours later, I drove down a road which the nervous tourists would describe as impossibly tight, the way it snaked and twisted and dropped in a series of switchbacks and hairpins. I imagined the odd occasion when there was a frost, the road would take on the nature of a Winter Olympic bob-sleigh run.

'This bit of road would be exciting on an icy night.'

'They don't experience frosts this close to the coast.'

Despite Jack's icicle of logic, I plunged towards the jagged edge of Pembrokeshire and my spirits soared upwards. The adrenalin pumped as I approached the village. The very tip of Wales, an extremity of granite rock distorted by wind and wave, pointing into the heart of the Irish Sea and the Americas beyond.

'My mind's all over the place, I know what frame of mind Kathy's in, but what's Helen's mood going to be?'

'You said that Helen was all over the place when you talked on the phone.'

'She was, abstract wouldn't describe it.'

'You doubt her sanity?'

'Mably always has.' I shook my head in a resigned gesture of I hoped not, yet feared that very thing. The landscape around me was a riot of colour, with every passing meadow still in full bloom following the warmest summer for years. The wing mirrors brushed against the hedgerows as the road narrowed into a green valley, hemmed in by steep banks of bramble flowers and willow-herb. The vertical walls now trapped the heady scent of wild basil, garlic and thyme that crowded in on either side.

One more turn and suddenly the outer edge Little Haven appeared out of the blue. I drove down to the harbour edge and parked in the few places reserved for fishermen. I switched off the engine, got out and leaned against the front wing, listening to the squawking gulls and the irregular metallic clicks from the engine as it cooled. The air was rich with the myriad scents of a glorious summer's afternoon, humming with insects moving in lazy, twisting spirals along the edge of the road, while the gentle surf on the beach below, rustled and whispered and moved the shingle of the cove. Even the most unaware tourist would see how the village had been moulded by the landscape on which it was built. It sits on the peninsula, set in this unbearably melodramatic series of cliffs, crags and fissures.

Jack confirmed the view by saying, 'It's lovely.'

'Where is she?' Defined my own agitated state. I scanned the buildings, the once-packed streets, exposed façades never seen from a distance and generating new perspectives of rear entryways and half-alleys and intensifying the cruel breadth of the light. The sky is cloudless yet colourless, hovering blanched humidity, in the way of these Pembrokeshire summers, good for nothing but to burn fishermen's skin and make green things grow. I looked at Jack, a thin man with no excess left to him, his face washed empty by grievances. People would never take us for father and son, I'm five inches taller and bulkier; his build is softer, his expression pale and sour. The neatly pressed short sleeved shirt his only concession to the heat, the ubiquitous tie steadfastly in place. His tenuous stoop bred into him by decades hunched over a desk not clues to weakness.

We stood motionless outside the Castle Inn, 'a quick one?' This could have been said by either of us, in fact Jack said it but I was thinking it. We've worked together for over ten years and known each other for most of my life, he knows all of my weaknesses. I know a few of his.

We sat in amongst the holiday makers, dressed in shorts and sandals and t-shirts. I felt over dressed, Jack looked it.

I took a pint back over to him and said, 'the barman asked me what my dad was drinking.'

Jack's mouth turned down, 'you are joking? Is he some sort on half-wit?'

I smiled and shook my head. 'He told me where Seabird Cottage was though.'

'Don't tell me, miles along the coast path.'

I nodded towards the narrow road, 'fifty yards. Swiss type chalet evidently. That's' not all, told me a beautiful woman was living there, blonde haired, but a bit strange and aloof.'

'I bet he never used the word aloof.' Jack glanced across at the barman, still not forgiven him for calling him my dad. 'He wouldn't know aloof if it hit him between the eyes.'

'Stuck up Spanish cow were his exact words.'

'Spanish, told you he was a half-wit.'

We sat outside and stared across the small funnel shaped bay, warm evening sun wrapping its warmth around like a cape. A small crowd gathered in the shade at the foot of the cliff and just on the water's edge. I nodded towards the gathering and said, 'what's going on down there?'

Jack had just takes a deep draught on his pint, placed his glass back on the table and fumbled around for his cigarettes. All the time staring at his beer as if his concentration was broken, the beer would be spirited away. He sighed and said, 'I've left my fags in the car.'

I knew the answer to the question I was about to ask, but asked it anyway. 'You want me to go and fetch?'

He shook his head, 'Get some at the bar if you wouldn't mind.'

I would mind actually I thought, but I stood to take the short journey to the bar when a policeman walked down the slipway and onto the beach. He ambled towards the gathering. 'I'm going to have a look down there.'

Jack spat the words at me, 'Don't be so mawkish, you know what tourists are like, some of them are prone to point at aircraft flying overhead. They're probably only watching a small fishing boat unloading.'

'Drink your beer and cheer up.' I walked away with his plaintive words ringing in my ears.'

'What about my cigarettes?'

I'd hadn't got but a few yards when two ambulance men overtook me carrying a stretcher between them. Some old boy's had a heart attack I thought and considered turning around. Mawkish entered my head, but I had this overriding sense of catastrophe rushing through my arteries as if driven by a forceful impellor. I stood in amongst the murmuring throng and watched two medics go through their well-rehearsed routine. I couldn't see the injured person to begin with, but I knew it was Helen. I twisted and shoved my way closer until I could see long, blonde hair covering her face. One of the medics brushed it away from her face and Helen's eyes were open. I breathed deeply and turned away, jogged back up to Jack who was halfway through his cigarette and all of the way through his beer.

Before I could anything blurt out, Jack said, 'guess what I've seen?'

I ignored him and said, 'it's Helen.'

'I'm sure it is and I hope she's still alive and well. But I've just seen...'

'What the fuck Jack? Sometimes you just...'

'Listen will you' He hissed this at me like an exasperated teacher trying to grab the attention of a recalcitrant pupil. 'I've just seen a red Mercedes sports car.'

'Helen's lying down there half dead, or even dying for all we know and you've seen a...'

Once again he held up the palm of his hand, 'who drives a car like that?'

'Jack?'

'It's a very distinctive and rare model and you can't remember where and who owns one?' I frowned, the significance was lost on me and I felt that it shouldn't be. Jack's tone softened a touch, 'I know you're worried about Helen, but the car is important in all of this. When did we see a car that model and colour?' I shook my head, let Jack answer his own question, which he did soon enough. 'A very senior policeman, c'mon we walked past the car.'

'When?'

'Andrew Gates drives one like that.'

'You're joking? Did you see the driver?'

He shook his head, 'no, but the coincidence is just too much. It has to be him.'

'And he's just pushed Helen off a cliff.'

'Calm down, we don't know it was him and even if it was, we certainly don't know if that happened.'

We settled into an uncomfortable silence, watching two stretcher bearers walking steadfastly up the steep slipway towards their ambulance. Helen's unfocused gaze went off somewhere towards the stratosphere.

### 25

### Helen

I looked up at the ambulance man and said, 'I feel I should make it clear that I am perfectly sane but I do have the occasional moment of insanity. So how do I reconcile all of this to myself, the insane thoughts of the sane, or the sane thoughts of the insane?'

The fair headed man frowned, well used to caring for drunks late at night, I knew what he was thinking, this one's started early, 'lie still love.'

'Which is it to be? I embrace my insanity and write my thoughts down for all to read. It's not meant to be humorous, I don't pretend that it's the work of Proust or some other pretentious hack. Comparing me to a writer is like putting a darts players in the same category as an Olympic athlete. What you are watching is my mental disintegration. A breakdown, so enjoy it for what it is, I know I am.'

'Did you fall?'

'Or jump?'

The ambulance man glanced across to his colleague and shook his head. The other man said, 'did you jump?'

'I don't know.'

They picked the stretcher in a practised enough manner and began the walk up the wet sand and onto the concrete slipway. I watched faces drift by, a motherly moustached woman smiled down at me. An oval-faced yellow woman cradling a baby stared until I made eye contact and the woman looked quickly away. The tables on a café table close to the harbour wall were covered in red checked cloth, I noticed that they hadn't been wiped down and bread crumbs were scattered randomly across and a half formed burger bun sat forlornly in splendid isolation.

'Look at that mess.' I tried to point at the table, slowly realising that I had been tightly bound into the stretcher. 'Why have you tied me up?' My chest tightened and I struggled against the constraints. 'You mustn't tie me up.'

'Relax miss, nearly there.'

My gaze went back to the café's tables, I whispered, 'they're real flowers.' Brightly coloured Antirrhinums sat in a dark blue vase, 'more common as a garden flower.' I liked the café, with its music crackling away from the kitchen out the back. The customers were staring at her, their earnest conversations interrupted by her stately passage. One couple nudged each other and nodded as if they couldn't trust their eyes. The man red-faced, the woman pale, typically dressed walkers in their uniforms of anoraks, woollen jumpers, jeans and walking boots. I thought this uniform more suited to October than this muggy middle of august afternoon. Their faces have an edgy moneyed look: their brows have that frontal clarity the shambling blurred poorer members of this society can never duplicate.

Their eyes followed the stretcher and I had the sensation of people speaking but nobody listening. My spirit had become muffled in spongy insulation of silence, so I talked all the louder and more insistently. I liked the sensation, of frightening the faceless crowd who watched my less than majestic journey towards an ambulance in sullen curiosity. Yes I thought, you all think I've just tried to kill myself. But how could any of them know what happened when I didn't know myself. I felt no pain after one of the medics shot something into my arm, just an induced numbness that produced another unknown within me.

I felt like an outsider, the baby that died? It died here, the same holiday that Christopher fell down the same cliff I'd just fallen down. The grief was worse at first, though it bent me like a reed about to break, in the long years since, I had become sole heir to the family's grief. My father refused to entertain another pregnancy, get her mother pregnant and go through the murder of guilt again. What if the baby turned out like Christopher? I understood, my parents couldn't grasp that the sex between them had become too dark, too serious, too kindred to death, to trust anything that might come out of it. Both of them seemed to forget, like a cat who sniffs around in corners mewing for her drowned kittens for a day or two and then soon comes back to lapping milk and cat napping in the washing up basket.

Unlike nature, my parents forgot, just forgot about the dead baby, forgot Christopher, whereas I couldn't. Always remembering how I had been told of its death by my father. He might as well have been reading from a phone directory the way he intoned the news. The lack of emotion in his voice put a twist into my chest, whereas he associates it dimly in his psyche with his God.

My father was the cover. The burning subject was not the dead sister, but me. He never told me that it was a sister that died, not another daughter. Just a five month old foetus that decided to cut and run away from this family with the collective heart of an emotional desert. Was he aware of any of this? How much of that was he aware of? All of it, he was aware of everything. I got that wrong too. The unconscious one was me, my father's emotional inner died that afternoon. It disappeared along with her mother as she made her sorry way to an ambulance. The ambulance doors shut and my eyes closed, sleep had overtaken memories.

I dreamt, visualised a world of silence. Not like a basilica, or the Oxford University examination rooms, but quiet nonetheless. I loved the dark emptiness, the peace that this millpond calm brought me. For some reason, I needed the silence like a Catholic needs a catechism. A mute universe – until the coughing started, old women I guessed, clattering into my insular little world of tranquillity, coughing and moaning the night away. I thought it was night; I assumed that was the case, midnight; midnight on a cloudy, moonless December. Darker than dark and this blackness complemented the gloom within, giving a pleasant, if slightly anomalous effect. I slept on to the subdued orchestra of coughs, a double bass to my left and a wheezing, asthmatic wind section on the right, a melancholic ensemble that coughed unremittingly on.

'Helen.'

'I'm dying, this terrible thing that's just happened to me just brings the whole crisis point that bit nearer.'

'Helen.'

'I've always buried things, mostly overcome until that which I've buried comes back ever stronger until I'm smothered in repressed, melodramatic despondency. I'll never recover...'

'Helen, I'm so sorry.'

'It just comes back ever stronger while I become weaker.'

'Helen, can you open your eyes?' I stared into another woman's eyes and saw nothing; I listened to a voice I couldn't recognise carry on in the same distressed tone. 'I'm sorry, I tried to persuade him, we argued about it for a long time. But you know what he's like.'

I felt my eyes slowly close and thought about how I wanted a second chance, a life controlled by good sense and the classic restraints, once again convention shaping everything, large and small, and serving as barrier against the improbabilities. A second chance, maybe being the traditional devoted wife, pledging allegiance all over again to the standard rules and regulations that are the heart of family order. How much would my life have been different I wondered? My parents had that talent, had what it took to avoid anything disjointed, anything special, anything improper, anything difficult to assess or understand.

'Don't you recognise me? Helen, Helen please. Try and understand that all of this was nothing to do with me and I'm so, so sorry.'

I wondered if my parents were blessed with all the characteristics of monumental ordinariness. Or was it a blessing, maybe a curse. My father's frantic possessiveness, the paternal assertiveness, the obsessive love for a lost daughter. He had managed to shed every trace of that girl and that past and shake off forever the hysteria of the miscarried daughter. If only I could have just let her fade away. But not even I had that ability. I'd learned the worst lesson that life can teach... that nothing makes sense.

I opened my eyes and stared at the woman looking down at her. 'Whenever that happens, happiness is never spontaneous again. It is false and, something bought at the price of an obstinate estrangement from oneself and one's history.'

The woman sat on her bed and sighed, 'You were always too deep for me, I don't know what you want me to say?'

'A nice, gentle woman like you deals with conflict and contradiction, the confident, beautiful woman, sensible and resourceful in any struggle with an adversary. Even when you come up against an adversary who is not fair.'

'Who do you mean?'

'My father is the evil.' The woman blinked and looked away, along the wall of the small, disinfected room and off into the ether of her thoughts. I tried to bring her back, 'You know he's evil, stubborn, separated from normal human interactions. That man has been dead from the neck up for decades.'

'He doesn't like emotional situations.'

'You should know.' I gripped her wrist in a sudden realisation of who was sat close by. 'You had a miscarriage didn't you?'

'Helen, you're back with us, oh it's so good.' My mother clasped my hand in both of hers. 'We've been so worried.'

I pulled my hand out of my mother's desperate grip, 'let go please. He never told me what happened. Some people said that my father had a natural nobility. He suffered with a quiet dignity. Did that give him a right not to tell me? Why didn't you tell me?'

'I don't know, we thought it was best for you I suppose.'

'I heard you having sex as well.' I watched as her cheeks coloured up. 'What was it exactly, he carries blindly on come what may, whereas I take in far too much suffering to be naively whole again.'

'You're losing me.'

'Nothing shakes him out of his guileless wholeness, he ruthlessly goes on pretending to be normal, stoically he suppresses his horror. He learns to live behind a mask. A lifetime experiment in endurance. A performance over a ruin. Where is he?'

'I'm sorry, he shouldn't have done this to you.'

'Leave me alone, go. I need to sleep.'

I dreamt of living a double life and what sustained me in this double life is now dying, what sustained me in my double life can sustain me no longer. This horror of death becomes mercifully half submerged, two-thirds submerged, even at times nine-tenths submerged, comes back distilled despite the heroic creation of the second life. It's come back and worse than ever, the lost sister, the child who was the cancellation of everything. I woke and nothing could control my runaway thoughts.

So depleted by anguish I talk softly to myself, 'I need someone to collaborate with. Someone to write, but what would happen if I told this writer everything? She didn't know, 'I'll write him a letter. Someone who writes about this sort of thing. Fathers and daughters and mothers. I'll write him about my father, could anyone turn that down? The hook to which I am to be the eye, no other hook is necessary. I am the hook. Yes, the story was back worse than ever.'

'I've become a woman whose discontents were barely known to myself, awakening in middle age to the horror of self-reflection. All the years of normalcy interrupted by the horrors of the past. All the small problems any family expects to encounter exaggerated by something so impossible ever to reconcile. The disruption of the anticipated future that was simply to have unrolled out of the solid past.'

I sighed and sat up in the bed, I noticed someone in a one piece tunic carrying a clipboard staring at me, fuck you I thought and carried on talking, 'generations get smarter, each generation cleverer than the previous. We know about the limitations of those who went before us. Their inadequacies and we slowly break away from our parochial past. What are you looking at?'

The woman brushed her hair away from her face and said, 'how are you today?'

I ignored her and carried on, 'we push ourselves to the limit, the desire to form ourselves into an ideal person who gets rid of the traditional binding attitudes, we free ourselves from old insecurities and the old, constraining obsessions so as to live unapologetically as an equal among equals.'

'You've lost me love.'

I nodded at the nurse, although the woman wore a uniform I didn't recognise. 'I became his worst nightmare. I was supposed to have been the perfected image of himself as he had been the perfected image of his father, and his father the perfected image of his father's father. Instead I turned out to be the angry, rebarbative spitting-out daughter with no interest whatever in being the next successful Mably. Now he pursues me, trying to flush me out as if I'm some sort of fugitive. Making the stupid fucker initiate the displacement of another of his perfect images, the whole of my adult life blasting his utopian ideal to smithereens I became a plague infiltrating its insidious way into his once impregnable castle infecting everyone. I'm the daughter who drags him kicking and screaming out of his oh so British idyll. I am his antithesis, the enemy, into the fury, the violence, and the desperation of his counter idyll.'

'Helen, I have to give you an injection.'

I offered my left arm out and carried on with my monologue. 'I believe in an intergenerational give-and-take, he expects us all to live in the in middle age. To him self-reflection horrifies, all of his normal life interrupted by me. All the small problems any family expects to encounter exaggerated by something so impossible ever to reconcile...me. His life had been mapped out, an anticipated future that was simply to have unrolled out of the solid working past. A life of respect and plaudits jolted by me. He couldn't cope with the next generation being smarter, especially when that involved being aware of the inadequacies and limitations of his generation. I broke away from his paternalistic parochialism, a little further each year of my life. I had the desire to go the limit, no your rights, forming yourself as an ideal person who gets rid of the traditional inhibitions and prejudices, who frees themselves from the family insecurities and the old, constraining obsessions so as to live unapologetically as an equal among equals.'

'He wrote me out of his history with a Stalinist zeal, the loss of the daughter meant nothing to him. Just as my miscarried little sister never burst through his hermetically sealed consciousness. I was to be the perfected image of himself as he had been the perfected image of his father and his father the perfected image of his father's father. Instead I was the angry, rebarbative spitting-out daughter with no interest whatever in being the next successful Mably. I am the next successful Mably, despite being flushed out of my cloistered world.'

The nurse said, 'Helen, Helen, look at me, this will help you sleep, you need to rest.'

### 26

### Stuart

I walked back home and into a kitchen where Kathy was sat at the table pen in one hand, vodka in the other. Jack sat opposite her drinking my whiskey. Kathy glanced from me and then across to Jack. A cheap trick of mine, making sure Jack was close by to deflect her anger, lend a degree of legitimacy to my many excursions. Apart from the ice in Kathy's glass offering up a sporadic, musical tinkle, we sat in awkward silence. Well I felt uncomfortable, Jack sipped my best scotch and appeared at ease with the world. He enjoyed tension in a room as long as it didn't involve himself.

'Can I get you a refill?' I stood and held my hand towards Kathy's glass, empty now apart from the melodic ice cubes.

She shook her head and gestured me to sit, 'It's too late for me, I need sleep.' Kathy glanced at Jack, asking the question of my boss and reinforcing the pecking order. 'What happened Jack?'

'We don't know. Was she pushed or did she jump, or was it an accident?'

'But who would push her?'

'We saw one of her rapists in the village.'

Jack held his hand up, 'hold on. I saw the same make of car, but not who was driving it.'

'So you both wasted nearly three days on a wild goose chase.'

I sat and silently fumed, Jack smiled at Kathy. Whenever the three of us got together it seemed that they took more than a little pleasure in ganging up on me. 'He's always been one for a wild goose chase.'

I pointed at Jack, 'and you're not then?'

Kathy smiled, although not in my direction, 'he's missed his youngest sports day. His ego dictates that he runs in the dad's race every year. All of the mother's marvelling at his turn of speed.'

Jack joined in, 'pulled up lame last year I heard, well clear of the field when his hamstring pinged.'

'Well he missed it and his daughter's upset.' Kathy finally looked at me, the brief interlude over. Her face taking on the all too familiar glower, her eyes narrowed, 'he'd better make it up to her in the morning. And me come to that.' She took a deep breath, 'what happened after the fall?'

'She was taken off to casualty in an ambulance.'

'With you both in hot pursuit?'

'You never thought I'd turn out to be an ambulance chaser did you?'

'She was taken to a psychiatric hospital this morning. All well enough physically, but for her own safety evidently.'

'Is that a usual way of going on?'

Kathy's question one that I'd asked Jack several times on the journey home and he gave Kathy the same answer, 'I'm not sure, but I thought that she would have to be either sectioned or go voluntarily. She had an accident, unless someone saw her jump, then it would be treated as an accident. That being so, she would be cared for in hospital.'

We sat in another silence, until the phone clattered into the muteness. I jumped, but Kathy was sat next to the phone and it was to her in in a flash.'

'Hello, no it's not too late, that's all right. Hang on.'

She passed the phone across, I mouthed who is it? But Kathy just handed it across and looked away from me.

'Hello.'

'Stuart, sorry it's Joan Mably, I've tried to ring Jack at home and in the office.'

'Do you want to talk to him?'

'No, I just want you to put you in the picture and hope you can make sense of what's going on between the two of you.'

I listened to her laboured breathing for a few uncomfortable seconds, finally I prompted her, 'fire away Joan.'

'I know you've both been down to Wales and know about the accident. Something's happened that I can't make sense of. I've had a blazing row with David over this. He wants to have her sectioned, for her own good of course.'

'What? But...'

'All he needs to do is persuade the people down there and she can be detained. Given her history it seems likely that will happen.'

'But it was probably an accident.'

'I know, listen, please listen. You know her psychiatrist or therapist whatever they call themselves.'

'I've talked to him once.'

'Can you tell him what's going on? It's my belief that once she's been confined, it could take months before she's released. Something's going on, something's wrong and I need help, so does Helen.'

I put the phone down and turned to Jack, 'Mably tried to get Helen sectioned.'

'For her own good of course.'

'Exactly his words to his wife evidently.'

Kathy perked up, 'can he do that?'

I said, 'Mrs Mably thinks he can.'

Jack nodded, 'given her history and his exalted position in society, it's quite likely.' He fumbled for his cigarettes, knowing well enough that he'd have to adjourn to the garden if he wanted to light up. Jack sighed and removed his hand from his jacket pocket, 'of course if he does have her best interests at heart, then maybe he genuinely feels that is the best way forwards.'

'When has that ever been the case?'

Jack finished his whiskey and stared at the empty glass for a few seconds. 'I'm surprised a conspiracy theorist like your good self hasn't considered the obvious.'

'Which is?'

'If Helen has been sectioned, it makes her tale of sexual assault more of a flight of fancy. She's discredited in the eyes of society.'

'Now that is, even by my standards, a conspiracy too far. Isn't it?'

Jack shrugged, 'who knows?'

'I wonder where the illustrious Andrew Gates figures in all of this?'

Kathy raised her eyes and said, 'who on earth is Andrew Gates.'

'The policeman that's been giving me a hard time.' I turned to Jack, 'we still need to talk about Eddie Hesford's information.'

'I don't want to.'

'Because of what it does to the image of your old friend?'

Jack stared off into the distance. 'Probably.'

### 27

### Helen

I stand in the sunshine and watch the car pull up, I felt abstract nothing unusual in that I thought, just a ghost that people close by talk about, as if she wasn't standing there. I bent a touch and looked in the passenger window, my mother smiled looking fifteen years younger and getting younger. This in itself was amazing, living day after day, husband and wife sharing that same house, sharing every minute together was just not natural. Like rich jus must keep moving or develop a skin and slowly stagnate. I tried to imagine my mother taking on the appearance of her own mother. She was always plump with that sausage look to her wrists and ankles. Her face puffy as well, like those movie stars whose cheeks get stuffed with cotton wool to show them aging. Her grandmother's face not just plumper but wider as if a screw turning inside is spreading the sides of her skull apart, making her eyes smaller and smaller.

I opened the door slid in and sat, took a deep breath and looked at my mother. 'Well there's no chance of that happening.'

Her smile froze and she said, 'are you feeling...'

'Don't worry mum, I haven't had a relapse. I was just thinking that you don't look, or certainly never will look like your mother. Fortunately I take after you and there's no stopping hereditary. Sometimes I hear my grandfather father talking inside my head when I get tired.'

'Put your seatbelt on and let's get going. It's a long way.'

I unwrapped a boiled sweet and sat back, bitter lemon invading my mouth and by the time we had left the houses behind, I had drifted into a comfortable reverie. Sitting on the back steps at home again watching Christopher trying to kick a football, concentrating hard on not putting it through the greenhouse window again. The old neighbourhood filters through to and the voices in my head are silenced. Dark green Welsh fields surround us and show damp with the coming of evening. The days lingering brightness surprises my eye above the shadowy masses of the trees. Rooftops and dormers notch the blue as it begins to blush brown; here also electric wires and television aerials mar with their scratches the soft beyond, a few swallows dipping as they do at day's end in the middle range of air above the merged fields, where little more than a wire fence or a line of hollyhocks marks their division.

I imagined the sounds of cooking, or children playing in the evening, alive in this common dominion with a dog's bark, a bird's weep weep, the rhythmic far tapping of a hammer. 'Do you remember when the two women moved into the house a few doors away?'

She smiled, 'that caused a stir.'

I laughed, 'two butch women always out in steel toe-capped boots and overalls with ladders and hammers fixing things, they can do it all, from gutters to shed doors.'

'That doesn't sound very liberal.'

'That's not my description, it's what my father was always saying, especially whenever you talked to them. He probably thought that lesbianism was contagious. I remember once when we drove passed in the car and you waved at them, he went ballistic.'

'I did it to annoy him. They never had much to say anyway, your father just saw them as another species.'

I frowned, 'you did things to annoy him?'

'Not very often, just my little rebellion.'

'I never noticed any of that in you. Is that because you were too dutiful to show that trait in front of Christopher and me?'

'It wasn't that so much, I never like to make anyone feel uncomfortable.'

'Did you love him?'

'Helen... I still do.'

I shut my eyes and tried to recall the small vegetable plot that my parents tended between them. Fenced off to keep Christopher and his football at bay, a brightly painted yellow gate with two springs. A fenced rectangle of silent vegetables where the lettuce flourishes between a row of runner bean plants, and onions and cabbages whose leaves are badly chewed by cabbage whites and slugs. I used to help my father pull carrots on Sunday mornings, so easy with their roots conceding their existence to an eight year old gentle pressure. I never tired of pulling and shaking the moist earth free from the roots and laying bundles of the tops as mulch. My father whispered moans whenever he saw a weed, his constant battle to keep the cooch grass and weeds at bay.

'Nature can smother us. I've been thinking more and more of the dead I've known. An ever growing list, how long since Christopher died? Were you ashamed of him?'

'No! Whatever makes you think that?'

'My father was.'

We drove on in silence, the sun setting behind us, I thought again of the dead, seeking reassurance, instead a puckered apprehensiveness in form and texture like a dried, dehydrated flannel. Hundreds of memories, some photograph clear, but still meaningless when sat in a car driven by my mother. Hundreds of memories, snapped by, like an over-excited cameraman, clicking away for no good reason, the important issues beyond my recall.

'Our lives fade quickly and then we die. Just like grandpa after his first stroke. I remember going upstairs to see if Christopher was getting too excited or too noisy for him.'

'Where was I?'

I shrugged, 'in the garden I suppose.' I felt a tear tumble down one cheek, 'I asked him if we were too noisy.'

'What did he say?'

'"I love the sound of children playing."'

I watched my mother closely, she blinked a couple of times and tried to smile, but tears had infested her voice as well. 'He loved both of you so much.'

'The sound of children running wild does me good. He was always saying that.'

I sniffed as the tears tainted her voice as well. 'He said, I love the sound of children playing. Then he smiled, I can still see that smile. It was sly and despite the pain, his eyes twinkled away at me. It was a perfect way for him to die, family close by, children's voices. You cooking,' I rested my hand on her wrist, 'can we stop for a few minutes?'

A couple of miles later and we coasted into a lay-by, she switched off the engine and turned to face me. 'It meant such a lot to me.'

'What?'

'Letting me bring you home, I've wanted to do that, or something like that for years. Something for you, to help you.'

I nodded, 'will you do something else for me?'

'Anything.'

'Will you stay with me for a few weeks, until I'm feeling stronger?'

'Oh Helen, I'd love to. You could always come and stay with us.'

'No,' I shook my head, 'not in the same house with a man who thinks I'm a whore.'

My mother sighed, 'he was disappointed you wouldn't let him drive you home.'

'Something happened, he's done something recently and I can't work it out.'

'What?'

'Oh I don't know, I can't put my finger on it. I think he betrayed me again somehow.' I clasped her hand in both of mine, 'I'm convinced he's done something awful. Don't worry, I'm not going to talk about him again. Shake me if I do, I wonder if he'll let you stay with me. He thinks I live in some sort of house of ill repute. Will he let you?'

'It's nothing to do with him, I want to help and I've never seen the inside of your house.'

'You've never seen the outside.'

'Yes, I've – we've driven past a few times over the years.'

I let go of her mother's hand and sat back. 'I suppose he was able to get my address, usual sources open to a man in his position.'

'It was me, I asked him if he could find an address for you. Don't blame him for that and stop talking about him. Are you ready? Shall we get home?'

I slept fitfully for the rest of the journey, spectral images bursting into my consciousness and the exploding and disappearing just as quickly. "just a little slut with a succession of spotty faced boys in her bed", my father's assessment of his then eighteen year old daughter. "She's young and just being normal", my mother's more liberal judgement came back.

My grandmother, holding onto the post of the bannister rail to steady herself, whenever she gets too excited and fearful of not making herself understood her face puffs up and goes mottled. She pointed up to the bedroom, 'where's your mother, Helen where's your mother? George – he's dead.' I never even knew my grandfather's Christian name.

I tried to think of happier times, I just wanted to lower the emotion before it boiled over into grief. But the images kept coming, I must break this up somehow. I forced herself to think of the house, solid red-brick, exposed beams inside and a sunken living room: that was my dream and I was glad to escape to that house, escape the pinch of my parent's supressed heat. Lunacy the way they flog at each other with these supressed ghosts of men, her grandfather dead, Christopher gone as well, and even my parents had been through enough years together for the gatepost to a turn into rotting hulk. I smiled to myself, was that a metaphor for their rotting marriage?

The eyes of the men I had slept with roll past like the reels on a slot machine. Eyes of men of the edge of orgasm, dying slowly, the orgasmic death. Did the earth move for you Helen? The men who showed in my mind haunt the growing shadows, a mystery arrived at this time of my own dazed life, death taking my measure with the invisible tapping of a neighbours hammer. Each day I am a little less afraid to die.

Die.

The journey passes in a stale crackle of radio and bottled-up anger. Waiting for Stuart to call, my father condescending to sit with them at the table and eat some pasta. I stalked upstairs to my own room and shut the door with a firmness that must carry out into the neighbourhood. A few cars, looking for hot stuff, prowl down St Giles, with that tyre sound that makes me feel alone as if I was marooned on a deserted island. My father opened a bottle of Chablis and poured half a glass for both of them. Whenever my grandmother joined them, she kept drifting into the kitchen to top herself up, so that by eight o'clock she is lurching in that way my father hates. He blames people for many sins and seeing someone lurching around in his own house causes the tension to crackle. The stares at the two women. One for being drunk, the other for letting her own mother drink in this way.

'The root of all evil.'

'What is?'

'Drinking like that.'

'I thought it was money that was the root of all...'

'You can be quiet as well.'

My grandmother against the kitchen doorframe and sets her glass on the worktop and a big translucent lip of contents slops up and over into the grey marble. Together they sit through the rest of the meal until she gets up to get herself another drink.

'Oh for God's sake.'

'Leave her alone, if she wants to get pissed that's up to her.'

My father pointed at me, a gesture that was becoming so familiar that I thought of it rather like you would a sign directing someone to a public convenience. Wait for it I thought and ten seconds later, 'when you get your own house then you can make the rules, until then keep your mouth shut.'

Someone was shaking me gently. 'Helen, Helen wake up. We're home.'

### 28

### Stuart

The room was empty to begin with, what was striking was the size of the bed. It looked like an aircraft carrier in a dry dock. It was difficult to watch a porn film, first thing in the morning, stone-cold sober and in broad daylight. But watch we did and it felt as if we were sliding even further down into the cess-pit that had already engulfed us. Drowning in the excrement of abuse. Dawes came in, not dressed in his uniform. But unmistakably Dawes, full of face but not so wide across the girth. The girl I remembered seeing her around town. Attractive, tall with long dark hair, good cheekbones and most striking of all, she looked bored. She slipped her dressing gown off and stood facing Dawes, green knickers and nothing else.

Dawes nodded slowly, like a glutton viewing a menu in a good restaurant. He undressed quickly, she went straight down on him. A perfunctory blow and then she got on all fours and Dawes climbed onto the bed and scuttled up behind her. I thought to myself that the only saving grace was that it wasn't the Down's Syndrome girl. Dawes face soon appeared on the point of exploding.

Jack confirmed this when he said, 'he's going to have a stroke.'

I smiled as I watched Dawes stomach, resting on the girl's buttocks. Her face showing a calm stoicism bordering on indifference, as if to confirm this she chewed gum through the five minute performance. He brayed like a donkey with a broken leg for a few seconds before rolling off and lying on his back. Throughout the whole performance, Jack sighed as if taking on the girl's humiliation for her.

The film abruptly went blank for a few seconds, then without any warning flickered back into life again and the size of the bed was put to good use. Gates was with an older woman, busty Ruebenesque even, wearing a pair of laddered stockings. Gates was with her, soon joined by Mole his younger persona startling, his erection even more so.

'Spit roast.'

'What?'

'It's called spit roasting, one man in from behind while she sucks the others...'

'You watch this kind of thing often.'

'Never, I'm guessing that's Mrs Hesford getting serviced by the boys.'

The bed was home to five bodies, all with their mouths latched onto other bodies. It sounded like a room full of cattle lowing as they chewed the cud. I scanned the faces, Gates, Mole and Dawes on the bed with Mrs Hesford and a heavy-set girl with straight black hair. Definitely no sign of Don Wilson or Mably.

'Mably's stood at the back of the room.'

Jack as ever more observant than me, I was looking for participants, not spectators. He looked ill at ease, fingering the polished silver buttons on his jacket. 'He's wearing his police inspector's jacket.'

'Does that make him stupid or arrogant?' The filth came to an end and Jack whispered, 'thank god for that.'

'I felt like the creepy bloke stood watching at an orgy, but too scared to join in.'

'We've seen nothing illegal.'

'Dawes's uniform was conveniently not in shot.'

As the film ran out, I turned the projector off and we sat in silence.

Finally I said, 'what have we got?'

Jack sighed, 'Dawes screwing a girl, possibly underage.'

'Mably watching and looking awkward, Gates, Mole and a couple of policemen I've never seen before and no Don Wilson. Despite Mably's denials, he knew what was going on. 'When's he coming?'

Jack glanced up at the office clock, 'five minutes.'

I inched the film back frame by frame until I had the image I wanted frozen on the screen.

'What do you think?'

'That's the one, turn it off now, wait until the very end of this before switching it back on.' Jack began to massage his temples, confronting his old friend like this was giving him an attack of conscience. I didn't have the same concerns, in fact the wait to begin this confrontation was akin to a boxer in his dressing room before a big fight. Jack spoke slowly, 'what do we have? Where are we?'

I stared down at my desk and considered Jack's question. 'Well Helen's out of hospital and being looked after by Joan Mably.' I took a deep breath and said, 'well that's a turn up for a start.'

'Reconciliation is good for the soul, fair play to both of them.'

'I'm not sure.'

'What you think Helen's getting close to Joan to get at her father?'

'That's very perceptive of you, she's well capable of that.'

'What if she is?'

I nodded, 'he deserves everything that's about to come his way. Why did he tell Andrew Gates where Helen was hiding?'

'If he did.'

'He must have.' My voice sounded plaintiff in tone, 'how else would he know where Helen was?'

Jack shrugged, 'Gates may have had her followed, he certainly had the resources at his disposal.'

I couldn't see Jack's line of reasoning for the simple reason I wanted David Mably involved in Gates suddenly finding Helen. This was in direct opposition to Jack who was desperate for his old friend to have no involvement in the affair. We had reached the buffers in this particular disagreement, neither of us prepared to alter our opinions, neither of us wanting to compromise. We sat in uneasy silence, me staring at the clock, Jack absentmindedly trying to get some work done. Both of us thinking hard to place our own particular line of argument at the top of the list.

The front door opened and a familiar, if unwelcome visitor's profile became framed between the door posts. The sun directly behind, turning his features into a negative, unrecognisable until he spoke.

'What's this all about Jack?'

I stared at the silhouette, all the time Jack's single instruction bounced around inside my head, say nothing. Let him do the talking. A cathartic event induces the most taciturn amongst us to talk, let Mably talk. Another of Jack's orders hammering away, take our time, lead him up the garden path and then...

I remembered Mably in his pomp well enough. I'd photographed him a hundred times on public occasions, like the town's small armistice ceremony. He stood proud in his dark blue uniform at the phalanx of his small force. Immaculate, a man to be respected, a man whose appearance was very much an overt tribute to his power. Jack always said that only a very powerful man never raised his voice or his fist. Only a very powerful man could be such a contradiction. So fussy that I imagined him dining like a fastidious bird. Jack told me that as a young man he wore a moustache, a sharp, neatly trimmed affair that shone jet black against his whiter than white skin.

He was tall, beautifully slim, a man of some narcissism and like most vain men, sensitive to insults. A note of sarcasm in the voice, often with a glance of ill-concealed anger, I knew to my own cost that he remembered all insults. It was as if he logged all of these perceived invectives and dragged from his razor-sharp memory bank whenever the chance for revenge arose. For a refined man, with a polished and suave exterior, it never concealed the waves of terrible anger that broke over the backs of mostly colleagues. Mably lived on fear. It set him above his colleagues, fellow workers happy to live out their working days without his ambition.

We were fifteen and watching football, the town's reserves were playing Abingdon. It was the Saturday after President Kennedy was assassinated the night before. We were all wrapped up in our own kick about game and genuinely hadn't realised that everyone in the ground was having a minutes silence as a mark of respect for a dead President.

I kicked my mate, he kicked me back. I called him a wanker, he called me a cunt. Loud enough for the small crowd to either snigger or frown depending on whether their point of view approved of profane youths or not. Mably was there and didn't favour this lack of respect and almost goose-stepped across to us and began to dress us down. He ended by saying that we had to apologise to the club secretary after the game.

As he turned to go, I said. 'Inspector Dog Shit.' Not too loud, but loud enough. An audible mumble of the kind fifteen year olds are especially competent at. The insult can be either ignored or in the Inspector's case heard. He smacked me around the ear and this drew a polite round of applause from the crowd. It didn't hurt. It wasn't meant to hurt. It was the blow akin to an effeminate hairdresser slapping a burly bus conductor. Mably was just reinforcing the concept that he was a powerful man who can smack anyone around the ear should he choose to do so. We were all stood in a ragged arc around Mably, who then pointed at me and then swept his finger around our group like a compass inscribing an arc. The implication that this is what happens when you abuse your betters.

But he never even let that go, he walked over to Jack, who was reporting on the game and wagged his finger. It was in the paper next week, a report about hooligans ruining a mark of respect for a fallen President. As minors, we couldn't be named for legal reasons, but everyone in town knew who the reprobates were. Including my old man, he didn't know whether to laugh or smack me around the ear.

That proud, upright police inspector was sat to all intents and purposes a broken man. A man ripe for a confessional though, I wondered if he had told his wife that he was about to tell all? Probably not and evenings like this, a melancholy dusk in late summer made for confessing. Jack would have usually had a cigarette on the go by now, the blue clouds of smoke lacerating the pure air Mably's was used to breathing. I'd discovered this years ago, Jack had turned listening into an art form. Patient as he heard you talk, even after you finished he appeared to continue to listen. A technique of any good psychologist, you thought you were finished, but there was more forthcoming and Jack knew it. His understanding seemed endless, inexhaustible, something in his demeanour absorbed the pain and the anger and gave made you talk.

Jack also knew how to prompt, 'You have every reason to be proud of your service, forty five years is something to be rightly proud of in itself.' I waited for the next sentence, Jack always qualified a compliment. 'We all need pride, but David, pride is a lean meal.'

Mably leaned forward, 'the problem was not if the assault actually took place or not. It became one of containment; public relations took over, the practice of managing the flow of information between an organization and the public. I told my Chief Superintendent, who told the Commissioner, who I'm sure told the Home Secretary. It went that high. These were the times that we lived in. The police were held in low esteem, beatings in cells, fitting I.R.A suspects up. You know what went on and the powers that be kept saying that there was no actual rape.'

'But...' Jack held his hand up in front of my face.

Mably briefly glanced my way, sighed and carried on. 'Consensual sex is easily available evidently. I know that this might have been an act of violence, at a time when we were trying to change the culture within the police force, we wanted a regime whereby women could coexist with men within the workplace. Unfortunately, no one told these idiots. I'm sure Helen led them on...'

I said, 'no, she was abused and assaulted.' Once again Jack held his hand up and he gave me his usual withering look that suggested that I keep my big mouth shut.

Mably raised his eyebrows a touch, 'My daughter filed a charge of a violent sexual assault against these three men and my immediate chief, the Commissioner and then the bloody Home Office reasoned with me. Well they didn't reason so much as put me under extreme pressure. Even to the point of describing what would happen to Helen if the case ever got to court. Better to have one unreported sexual assault than to undermine the very foundations of the British Police Force. It was all ammunition for the liberal newspapers to hammer yet another nail. Confirming old attitudes and all I to do was convince Helen that the good of the country would be best served if she dropped her charge.'

'The good of the country, don't make me laugh, so much for the cause of sexual equality.'

'Jack, just tell your underling to show some respect. Although that's unlikely, just tell him to keep his mouth shut.' Mably took a couple of deep breaths before saying, 'She didn't like me much at that time, but I think she still trusted me.'

I smiled and though, just you wait buster, I'm going to shake you right down to your highly polished boots. I thought about how Helen trusted dear old Daddy and despite her promiscuity, deep down, Helen was still Daddy's girl and she wanted to please him, so she dropped the case. I couldn't see who came out of this with any credit. I easily understood the pressure Mably was put under by our shameful establishment. How would any of us behave any differently and take the honourable path and sought out justice?

So that was the sad story, and Mably's voice had cracked now and then, got husky, got quiet. He stood but motioned us to remain seated.

'I just about understand why you did what you did, but I bet woman everywhere will be outraged.'

Mably didn't reprimand me this time, he just suitably looked chastened, hung his head and said nothing at my grandiose comment.

Of course, Jack said the sensible thing. 'You have a chance for a degree of redemption David. Do the right thing, shame not only the three men, but the establishment pariahs as well.'

'If they're not all dead, you can bet that everything will be denied. It was always off the record. Two are dead and the others...'

'The others been harassing me for a couple of weeks. Andrew Gates and Mark Dawes are running scared over this.'

'Stuart, ease up a minute.' Jack rubbed his temples between thumb and first finger.

But I couldn't, 'If a man of my limited abilities can dig around and quickly come up with the bare bones of it all. What's going to happen when the big newspapers start throwing the cash around?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Stuart's right for once, think hard. Tell your story first, come clean.' I thought that Jack meant come clean and give us this tasty scoop. He kept going, logic on his side. 'It's all going to come out, you know that, I'll keep this canned – unless the other newspapers get involved that is.'

Mably considered this at length, but he hadn't got Jack's drift, after a while he said, 'So you see, I got what I deserved, but Helen was the one who paid for my betrayal. Within months of the incident, she sent us half a dozen postcards. I hold on to the hope that she made the content up just to hurt me. She stopped coming to see us. That hurt Joan more than anything. Of course she did well academically. When she started work in Oxford we hoped we might see her more. But things were never good at the best of times, I should have thought of the consequences of my behaviour. I've lost my daughter twice, once years ago and now this. I've talked to people about her promiscuity and it wasn't just that she was trying to embarrass me, which she did often enough. She was just saying fuck you. I thought I was doing what I did for good and valid reasons—for Helen by not exposing her to a battery of questions in court about her promiscuity. By keeping the police out of the news, they were not good enough. Maybe Helen's version is true. Either way I sold her down the river. I can never forgive myself for that.'

'Helen's version is true.'

Mably's thin nose flared, 'Four policemen and one civilian tell a different story.'

No one spoke, Jack wouldn't look at me. Mably stared at the fruit bowl and I kept thinking of Helen spread-eagled on a snooker table. Had she stoked them up so much that they took it as a personal affront to their collective manhood's? Helen was good at that, leaning in close, offering her mouth. Lips slightly parted, until you leaned in yourself. Or sitting opposite men in a pub and being careless with a short skirt and her graceful legs, giving them all the stare at the same time. Was she capable of stirring three men up into a sexual rage... yes was the simple answer.

Mably suddenly said, 'I never even got a superintendent's job out of it.'

I blinked and glanced across at Jack, he raised his eyebrows a touch. I was guessing, but it appeared that the juicy carrot of a promotion dangled in front of Mably, helped him come to the wrong decision? Or was it the blackmail?

I leaned towards Mably, 'was it the old carrot and stick?'

He sniffed the air, 'what do you mean?'

'They offered you a promotion on one hand and blackmailed you with the other.'

Mably frowned at me, finally gazing across to Jack, he said, 'your underling talks in riddles.'

Jack took a deep breath, then dived in, 'we know... about the young girls.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Jack pushed the Dictaphone across the table. 'Stuart had a long conversation with Eddie Hesford, we know about the big house in Ormond Road. The one you used to make frequent visits to.'

'I...'

'You're a hypocritical fuckpig.' I pointed at him, 'criticise your daughter's behaviour and at the same time abuse troubled young girls.'

'I never went there. You've got an old man talking on a Dictaphone, don't you realise that its not admissible in court.'

Jack sat back in his chair, steepled the fingers of both hands together and shut his eyes like some meditating monk. He spoke without opening his eyes, 'did you know that Gates struck Helen?'

'When?'

'He went around to her house and tried to get her to reconsider, slapped across the face when she...'

'This can't be true.'

'We have someone to corroborate that. And while we're at it, you tried to get her sectioned.'

'It wasn't my idea.'

'Blackmail again?'

'Something like that. Where do we go from here?'

'You're finished buster.'

'I was asking Jack.'

Jack finally opened his eyes and glanced quickly over at me. Turning back to Mably he said, 'we have more than that evidence on the Dictaphone.'

'Like what?'

I stood and switched the projector on, the image of Mably leaning against a wall watching a three policemen and two women on a large bed. I stared at him staring at the screen. Abruptly, Mably stood, tuned and walked out.

'Come back here you...'

'Stuart, let's leave it at that.'

We sat in silence, both of us staring, probably imagining the thick head of froth on our pints. I thought back a couple of weeks, all the people I'd interviewed. First Mably, Johnny Hutchins, Philip Mole, Kenny Catmore, Mark Dawes, Harvey Malkovitch, Thomas Morley, Eddie Hesford and back to the beginning with Mably again. Two of them now dead, one wallowing in a voyeuristic whirlpool of cess, one a respected junior cabinet minister and Mably. He was dwelling in a mass of denial.

'What are you thinking?'

'Should I feel sorry for Mably?'

'Do you?'

'A little, but then at the same time I want to punch him between the eyes. He was romping with girls no older than Helen.'

'I can't believe he's ever romped with anyone.'

'You know what I mean, he's guilty by association if nothing else. Mind you we led him up the garden path a treat, did you see his face...'

'I'm not gloating, he probably deserved it, but I didn't enjoy one second. You know how long I've known him. God knows how things will develop from here?' Jack stared at me, looking for all the world like an anxious clairvoyant unable to see further than his nose and searching desperately for his crystal ball. He sighed, shook his head and said, 'let's go and have a pint.'

### 29

### Helen

I dreamt for a long time, the rhythms of my chemistry totally discordant with the season. I dreamt, feeling full of affection for my father as he lay on his own bed's motionless voyage through both of their night of defective sleep. I hug him and he protests that he is still sleeping, I declare in a soft but relentless voice how much I love him and say how glad I am that he is her father. All of this despite my twenty odd years of hating him.

'I love you dad.'

He is old and frail by now, late seventies and my announcement causes him to blink and this insults me somehow. I pull my head back, why did he look so shocked? Despite all their self-inflicted tribulations and the pain they gave each other, here they were. He tugs at my sleeve and I twist my head in order to kiss his forehead. I stare at his lips, which are puffy and numb with sleep, his eyes have black circles under them and he looks anesthetised, everything is misaligned.

'You're going to smother me.' He whispered.

'What!'

'Pick the pillow up and smother me.'

I open my eyes, I feel his presence, so close it feels like an attempt to suffocate me, not the other way around. After a few minutes fidgeting, I can't return to my precious dream. I stretch and fall asleep again, another stolen hour. I dream again, but not that dream. In a house or a small hotel or a hospital. Faceless people guide me into a room where, on a bed like mine, a young man's smooth body accentuated by his blond hair and hard buttocks. It lies with my mother underneath. Her legs come around the young man's back and her mouth is frozen open in the throes of orgasmic delight.

I order the man to leave, my mother's nakedness surprises me, her breasts flattened by gravity, her sex in its gauzy beard of fur. Is she dead? I shake her, then embraces, well that's one way out of this mess. She has taken my chosen way out of the pain that compressed and finally breaks her spirit. If I had been just that bit nicer towards her, she would still be alive. I want to breathe the life back into her. Suck the poison that had filled my mother with pernicious resentment. Then, slowly, reluctantly, as one lifts one's attention from a still-unsolved puzzle, I wake up.

My mother is downstairs producing the smell of coffee and toast and melting butter. The rumble of commuter traffic coming into Oxford down the Banbury road gives me a location. I concentrate hard, listening to her again. Years after she made the same smells and noises, they come back, reassuring like an old well-loved cape wrapping itself around me.

'Good morning, you slept a long time. How are you?'

'Pleased to see you and I'm very hungry.'

*

I stopped and took a deep breath, tensed my shoulders a couple of times and opened the consulting room door. Malkovitch was sat in his upholstered leather chair with a packet of unopened cigarettes in his right hand. He stood and gestured me to take a seat, smiling at the same time. I stared at him, back in his uniform of dark coloured suit, bright yellow waistcoat and the ubiquitous bow tie firmly in place. In stark contrast to what he wore when he came down to Wales, he looked like a hack golfer attired like a professional and appearing suitably uncomfortable because of this.

'Helen, you look very well.'

I sat and never crossed my legs, pressed my knees firmly together and sat demurely enough and watched Malkovitch trying to maintain eye contact. Something he unwaveringly achieved and I smiled, unsure if I was disappointed that he hadn't ever taken the briefest of glances over the last six months.

'Are you not lighting up?'

He shook his head, 'had this packet for three days and not opened the cellophane yet.'

'Is it a struggle?'

'Not the stopping so much as the weight I'll put on, can't stop eating.'

'I know a hypnotist that can help you with that.' We both smiled, despite everything I hadn't felt so relaxed in months. Seeing Malkovitch on edge cheered me even more. I pressed him again, 'is your libido coming back?'

Malkovitch's head went back and he gave one of his phlegm rattling laughs which ended as they always ended, he began to cough. Finally, red-faced he stopped although the smile stayed firmly in place. 'I'm the one asking the questions. How's your libido these days?'

I held his gaze, 'I don't know but I'm feeling really good. I had a couple of really bizarre dreams just a couple of hours ago.'

'Do you want to talk about them?'

'No,' I shook my head, 'I was going to smother my father in one and revive my mother in the other.'

Malkovitch smiled, turned towards his desk, unscrewed his pen top and began to scratch away in his notebook. 'How are you finding living on your own?'

'I'm not on my own?'

Harvey Malkovitch frowned into his notebook and whispered, 'I assume you have a lover to sustain you?'

Helen laughed, 'you assume wrongly.'

'But you said that...'

'My mother is staying with me.'

'Is that going well?'

'Very, we're becoming as close as we've ever been. More so, I'm even enjoying her company.'

'Have you met your father?'

'No!' I shook my head vigorously, 'I thought it would be better this way, staying well away from him, but I'm not so sure. My mother wants the three of us to all meet up.'

Malkovitch patted his jacket pocket, felt the present of an opened cigarette packet, raised his eyebrows at me before sighing, 'the fact that he tried to get you sectioned doesn't bother you?'

I shrugged, 'no, simply because there's no way we'll ever know if it a simple act on his part to do what was best for me.'

Malkovitch raised his eyebrows and tipped his head a touch. 'The fact that he might have done this to discredit doesn't bother you?'

'You've been talking to Stuart and his boss. Even my mother began to think that was the case. As I said, we'll never know. Why are you looking at me like that? It doesn't bother me for the simple reason that I've taken my mother way from him.'

'She's left...'

'Don't be silly, that will never happen. But you see I've taken his place in my mother's affections, at least that's what he thinks has happened. It hasn't, but he's uncomfortable with my mother taking decisions in her life for once. My mother's never been happier and that makes me happy.'

'Because it makes your father unhappy?'

'Probably.' I smiled at Malkovitch; he just leant back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. 'But it's not that simple. My mother's very persuasive, I'm warming to the idea.'

'Idea?'

'Of meeting him over lunch. I want him to see how close I've become to my mother for a start. But I would like to talk to him again.' Malkovitch was staring at me, unspeaking. Was he wondering how I'd behave towards my father? I said, 'I'll be civil. Changing the subject, I've met her aerobics instructor, we all had lunch together.'

'Is your mother having an...'

'It's never too late for a sexual awakening, but absolutely not.' We sat in silence, Malkovitch stared at his unopened packet of cigarettes and I stared out of the window, speaking at the same time. 'I picked her up from one of her aerobic lessons a week ago. They were talking in the doorway to the gym, my mother looked like a fit woman in her forties. Black leotard over heavy, dark blue tights, the instructor a man in his early thirties. Stereotyping this sort of activity you would say that most male instructors were gay.'

'And this one?'

'Positively gay.' We both laughed, 'It's safe, she flirts with him and its safe.'

'How do you feel about your mother widening her boundaries?'

'Nothing other than happy for her.' I inspected my nails, first one hand and then the other. I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. Exhaling noisily, rather in the same way Malkovitch did when he was smoking. 'I'm going back to work next week.'

Malkovitch nodded, 'are you looking forwards to it?'

'Very much, you asked me earlier and I have an inactive libido at the moment.'

'Does that bother you?'

'Strangely, no.' I sighed, 'perhaps I was obsessed about it all, sex I mean.'

'Probably not, but only you can answer that.'

I thought about a composite young man, dense-bodied with a deep tan. Heavy stubble on his chin as well. I liked the feeling of coarse sandpaper grating up between my inner thighs. A rough overture before I felt his mouth on my ex. Now when I'm drowsy and struggling to sleep, I needed these images to guide me into a deep sleep. The route to deep sleep achieved by remembering past lovers. My hand gripping their drowsy pricks as the rising sun sent columns of light through the window. We wake, I loved it when they brushed my hair away from my face and looked into my eyes. Well most of them liked eye contact, the guilty ones kissed my neck as they went for a more meaningful, moist contact. I wondered if that world ever return, not the way I feel at the moment I thought. Instead the academic universe lay in wait, an athletic tiger untainted by my weaknesses. And the revenge I was about to inflict, that was what gave me this period of serenity.

'Revenge is in the air.'

'What's changed?'

'Before I went away, I obtained photographs of two of the men who have been pursuing me. Compromising ones that I'm going to show a very powerful man. Someone that will help me do the most damage.'

'Damage to your father?'

I shook my head, 'He wasn't involved in this.'

'Does him not being involved irritate you?'

'No, it pleases me if only because my mother won't get hurt anymore.'

'You think that there won't be repercussions?'

'What directed at me?'

'Yes.'

'I'd left the photos in Oxford, if anyone realised that I had them, then my life would have been in serious danger.' I gave him a brief précis of the sex scandal about to break, 'so you see it there has been no interest in my scandalous memoir all along. Those bunch of perverts had their own agenda, keeping the lid on a sordid scene of sexual abuse on a scale that dwarfed mine.'

'And you have photographs?'

'Plenty.'

'Have you shown them to the police?'

'The police! Now why would I do that? I'm taking them to the political editor of the Observer. I was at college with him. It'll have more effect this way.'

'Are these people aware that you have these images?'

'No.'

'Do you think that you're still in danger?'

'I don't think anyone would dare try anything now. After I present my photographic evidence then the whole world will soon know something quite shocking and that makes me feel so good. Can we move on please, sorry I haven't even thanked you for getting me released?'

'It was a pleasure – good to get away from the confines of the office for a couple of days as well.'

'It's time I face up to the world again, the time when I met the day with hungry animal optimism have long gone. I see my life stretching endlessly away into some vague, unknown future.'

'Change brings uncertainty, it also brings us opportunity.'

I stood, saying at the same time, 'I want to tell you everything about the attack, I've written it all down, I've remembered everything.'

'For the next time we meet, I'll look forwards to that.'

### 30

### Stuart

Our concentration was broken by the newspaper dropping through the letter box. Jack said, 'if he gets any later, I'll...'

I picked it up and felt my eyebrows tighten, I sighed, 'You ready for this?'

### Mark Dawes Issues Writ

I read on, "In a spectacular move to rescue a cabinet career dogged by repeated allegations of impropriety, Mr Dawes announced that he had issued libel writs against the Alfredstone Herald and its editor-in-chief, Jack Carter who wrote the page one report. Mr Dawes, the Under Secretary to the Home Office read a prepared statement at a tense, 10-minute press conference at Tory headquarters but took no questions.

Mr Dawes rejected allegations that he knew about an alleged rape at a police station within his jurisdiction."

'Carry on.'

I sighed, 'Denying the charge as either inaccurate, wrong or false and offering detailed rebuttals with a warning to Britain's press, "'the best media in the world and the worst".

"If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the cancer of bent and twisted journalism in our country with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of fair play, so be it. I am ready for the fight," he said.

Mr Dawes's decision to appeal directly to voters via television news came after Granada claimed he had ducked three requests for interview, instead asking for a seven-minute live interview at the end the programme. After his statement, he walked in silence the 200 yards to his Westminster home, flanked by his wife, Francesca and his daughter, Joanna.

His decision to issue writs was made with the support of Downing Street and the Government's law officers.

Mr Dawes, a great-nephew of the press baron, Lord Manstein, is clearly determined to stand his ground with a high-risk strategy. He will pay his own legal costs.

The editor Jack Carter said, 'This cannot be blithely dismissed as "a cancer" or "as bent journalism". I stand by this article and will be happy to let the courts decide the veracity of my report.'

I passed the newspaper across, 'When did they contact you?'

'Last night.'

'You never thought I should know?'

'I didn't want to worry you.'

'Why now?' Jack just shrugged and I asked another question, 'what if he does sue?'

'Then I'll be bankrupted and you'll be out of a job.'

'We'll both be out of a job. Do you think he will?'

'I've got no money to fight it if he does.'

'Legal aid.'

'Won't qualify.'

The door opened and in came the postman, with his customary handful of mail and his cheery, 'one for you to sign for.'

Jack glanced across at me and raise his eyebrows. He quickly signed for the letter and waited for the postman to leave. Out came his paper knife and he slid it under the envelope flap. Out came a sheet of neatly folded, high quality paper. Jack quickly speed read it and then stared at me over the top, 'it's a writ.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Ignore it.'

'We've got the film.'

'What are you suggesting... blackmail?'

'Yes. Any better ideas?'

Jack shook his head and smiled.

### 31

### Helen

'How did your meeting go?'

'With John Lock? Very well, he was interested enough in my own assault and the ensuing cover up. John Lock had the face of a bird of prey, all sharp angles and edgy, birdlike movements. The deputy political editor of the Observer was rightly sceptical about my accusation. Libel laws and powerful people make for intimidating opponents. His pinched face screwed up so that his small, round glasses momentarily lifted from the bridge of his sharp nose. We were at Cambridge together, different colleges but we were in the same stop the Vietnam organisation. Like a lot of undergraduates, he had left wing opinions, unlike many of that ilk, he still has them.'

'Is he going to run with it?'

I shook my head, 'I told him about Dawes and Andrew Gates putting me under extreme pressure for weeks over this. He was interested, but the photographs of Mark Dawes heaving and grunting away on top of an underage girl did the trick. Tory minister caught with his pants down is always good copy.'

'When will the story break?'

'This coming Sunday. Prepare for the proverbial to hit the fan.' I took a deep breath, 'I've written everything down about my assault. Can I tell all now?'

'Pleas, take your time, there's no rush.' Malkovitch gestured with his hand for me to carry on.

'Amazingly, it's just the last few days where I suddenly recalled everything.' I sighed, one more bridge to cross. 'I was still a child in many ways back then, I wasn't wearing a bra, I had a short skirt on and was oh so eager to please. I hadn't been drinking, I just enjoyed being in amongst the three men, it was never some drunken acquiescence. I had no idea when their collective thoughts became a united course of action. Did my actions or anything I said, just fall into a waste bin to be ignored? I sensed that my words, rather than drifting into the three men's awareness and then being discarded, became a trigger somehow. Did I send out a sub-conscious signal for what happened? At that time I had the normal teenagers' excess of prejudice, bias, hope and arrogance. I took these men head on and with an open mind, I was their equal. Woman to man, I confronted them.

'But I got it so wrong that night, from the first minute they set eyes upon me. I got it so wrong when they were provoking me. Just as they got it wrong, it became a dazzling delusion empty of any intuition. A high farce of confusion, I go over it time and again and never find the same answer. And yet, deep down I know that I could have just walked away instead of staying put. The significance of that single act took on an implication so dangerously ludicrous that what actually happened has been blanked out for years. So ill-equipped was I to read their intentions, despite their not especially covert thoughts.'

'Can you tell me what they said?'

I shook my head, 'let me finish, the fact remains that guessing people's intended course of action correctly was not the issue here. It was guessing wrong and so very wrong. For the previous few months, I'd become seduced by the circulation of sexual clichés throbbing away inside my body, the instant ignition of sex, the noise of sex, the misery of missing out on sex. Suddenly I could only see death.

'I'd become sedated by it all, the grand illusion that I was in control had evaporated like the phantom of early morning mist of a hot day. I went into the social club and the three men that seemed to be perpetually playing snooker leered away at me. Unperturbed, I pulled a stool up by the bar and sat. A high stool and a short skirt made for a less than graceful manoeuvre. Their eyes never left my thighs, which I was comfortable enough with. What did make me squirm was what they said. Mock stage whispers as if I wasn't in the room. "We've heard the stories, she's mad for it, a wriggling little whore".'

'It's true that I might not have been the wriggling little whore in question. But the stares coming my way told me otherwise. The filth kept coming as well, "she took it up the arse. What all the way?" They laughed, oh how they had turned into sixteen year old boys talking about a rudimentary fumble up against a wall. I could've walked away then, that would have been the prudent thing to do. Walk away, but then that would have made them even more euphoric. For that's what they were, higher than three soaring vultures, circling around me, not descending yet, just watching at the moment... watching, watching me.'

I lapsed into an agitated hiatus, blew my nose into a tissue and stared at him. Malkovitch looked up and said, 'do you want to stop for a while?'

'No, I'm all right, to begin with I found their little boy act amusing, talking amongst themselves just like little boys do, exchanging information on who does and who doesn't. Who's a smelly bitch, who's fucked who, or not in my case. And on reflection this had become an issue in their pathetic, over-competitive little minds. I'd had a brief fling with their boss, on reflection that became another trigger somehow. They moved closer, I never moved, holding their stares, my head held high. Defiant and in control, perhaps I shouldn't have uncrossed my legs, perhaps I should have just kept my knees tight together. Perhaps my blouse had too many buttons undone. I was well aware of my effect on men and the question niggled away within, which had the greater effect, cleavage or a short skirt? The confusion of the three men gave me no answers either. Their eyes flicked from the top half of my body down to my legs. Tanned, shapely and exposed, my skirt nearer my hips than my knees.

'I slid down from the stool and they gave a collective nod, three pairs of eyes followed my movements like three hungry hawks viewing a rabbit with a broken leg. I slinked towards the rack of snooker cues, picked one up, chalked the end and blew the surplus chalk off. All this exaggeratedly mimed like a silent porn actress. I stood legs apart, cue at my side and then said something really stupid. "'C'mon then, chop, chop. Who's playing with me, or am I taking you all on.'"

'What a stupid thing to say, I placed the cue ball on the table and lined it up. Before I could do anything, I felt them close behind me. I knew it would be the ginger one. He pushed into me from behind. Not only had I just said something stupid, I trumped that by pushing back against him. I imagined his cock, nestling in amongst his ginger pubic hairs. This did produce the required tingle between my legs. One of the others, I'm unsure which one, pulled my hair back behind my ear. As if he wanted to give my profile a closer inspection.

'I got a tap on the shoulder and I turned to face them. It was so sudden, they just picked me up and then lowered me onto the table. One of them dragged me back up the table by my arms. This is where this issue of premeditation comes into the equation. A snooker table is six feet wide, even with fully spanned arms, my reach was well short of this dimension. But they had cut lengths of rope and they held my arms and I felt them being tied to the metal bracket on each corner pocket. I hadn't struggled, I felt a degree of confused excitement to begin with, surely just a silly game. So I never kicked and screamed, my main concern was the trying to keep my thighs tight together, I was suddenly unsure that my knickers were anything but the purest of pure white.

'One of them had a pair of scissors and cut my knickers off. He threw them across to the third man, who did the obvious, like they were a handkerchief and he had a heavy cold. Gates was kissing me and it hurt. My head on the snooker table, slate doesn't give and he was kissing me. I kept my lips pressed tight together. I felt the tears tumbling down my cheeks. As he kissed, his hand went between my legs, this hurt as well. I was frightened by now, really frightened – terrified.'

'Do you think there was a degree of premeditation?'

'Definitely,' I nodded in confirmation. 'Scissors and rope suggest just that. I thought that if they could only hear me begging they would stop. I remembered crying. Part of me still didn't believe this was happening. I still thought they would just stop. Gates put his other hand between my legs and tried to make me want him. He really worked hard at that. I couldn't help feeling some pleasure and that made it worst of all, do you see?'

Malkovitch appeared shocked as I detailed the specific sexual detail. 'Do you want to stop for a while?'

I shook my head, 'I suddenly felt one of them with his face between my legs, then his erection opening me up.'

'Helen, shall we take a break?'

'It was Philip mole that was inside me. Then Gates lost his temper with Mole and before it came to blows, Don came in broke it up. It was all over,' I snapped my finger and thumb together. 'Just like that, gone, finished. I remember Mole trying to pull his trousers up and over his erection. It made me giggle.' I shook my head, 'What have I learnt? I'd learnt that the nastiest experience that life can teach us... that nothing makes any sense. Could I ever be spontaneous again? Happiness was artificial, something that can be bought, but only at the cost of a stubborn separation with your soul. I suppressed the horror like a stoic's passive endurance. It was at this moment that I learned to live behind a mask. I was upset and knew I was culpable somehow. None of that will stop me feeling that I brought it all on myself. I had done some things I shouldn't have done and I knew that what happened was wrong. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to know, I felt so foolish, why didn't I stop this?'

'I need a cigarette,' Malkovitch sighed a couple of times. 'So there was penetration?'

'Briefly, I don't think it would have lasted long. He seemed to be on the edge from the very beginning.'

'And now you're getting some recompense.'

I nodded, 'Now I have this sense of deep anti-climax, my need for revenge and justice is about to be sated. Two are dead, Gates you know about, him and Dawes are the fall guys as it were. I used to blame my father completely. Blinded by his lack of any genuine paternal love I couldn't see the whole picture.'

'Mark Dawes is a big beast, he'll fight this.'

'He'll go for the usual gagging orders, threats, posturing – but he's finished, or he will be come Sunday morning.'

'It begins to become clearer.' Malkovitch closed his notebook and smiled.

'I thought their behaviour was all motivated by the rape. It all makes sense, they all had their stories off pat, statements typed up by the next day. I could never have hurt them on that one. On reflection, they were all terrified that their bordello in a care home would come to light. Which it has.' I stood and brushed my skirt down, 'my mother wants me to meet my father again.'

'You mentioned it the other day. Reconciliation?'

'I don't know.' I offered my hand which Malkovitch shook in a gesture that somehow conveyed real empathy. 'Thanks for everything.'

'You're very welcome.'

'Can we stay in touch?'

He smiled and nodded.

### 32

### Stuart

I was sitting watching the news, waiting for a couple of early season football scores when Mark Dawes face suddenly appeared with the caption underneath.

### Tory Minister Resigns

The blustering face of a man caught with his finger in the pie, 'Outrageous falsehoods and photographs of me in compromising situations at a residential care home for young girls. It's outrageous, a photo that has been obviously tampered with.'

'Mr Dawes, are you saying it's some sort of conspiracy?'

'Of course I am, not if you'll just let me through.'

And he bustled off, followed by a braying pack of paparazzi and flash bulbs.

I stood up, 'do you want a drink?'

'Yes please – you look happy what's happened?'

'That perverted wretch Mark Dawes has been forced to resign. Photos of him with underage girls, of course it's a giant conspiracy.'

Kathy yawned, 'where does it leave Jack and his pending law suit?'

'Hopefully it takes the pressure off somewhat, I told you me and Jack are meeting Helen tomorrow?'

'No you didn't as it happens.'

'Well we are.' I'd turned into an accomplished liar, Jack had other things to do, I was meeting Helen on my own.

*

The next morning I walked towards Port Meadow hardly four weeks after the last time I saw Philip Mole, the last time anyone saw Philip Mole. I thought of Helen and glanced down at my watch, five minutes before we meet for the first time since Christopher's funeral. My mind racing around like a stock car with a wheel missing and its accelerator pedal stuck to the floorboards. I lifted my head as a rowing eight slipped effortlessly by, the same eight as when I met Kenny? I looked across the river to the Perch. Half a dozen people sat in the garden drinking and eating reminding me of how good Kenny looked.

I dragged my thoughts back to Helen, trying to recount her appearance when we were at primary school together. The playgrounds were segregated and peering around the corner of the boys to gaze at these strange, shrieking creatures. The school has been flattened now, bulldozed into oblivion. Time hung heavy on my thoughts, yet the weight became a delight. Helen with her coterie of half a dozen satellites revolving around the centre of their small universe. I missed the playground, surrounded by solid Victorian redbrick on three sides with a playing field on the fourth. A grass pleasure when we were allowed out there in the summer. Especially after it had been gang mowered into something no longer resembling a pasture. All of that cut grass to throw at one another.

I found an empty bench, gazed across the river, my mind going back to the playground, watching the girls brave enough to clamber across the climbing frames. Not because it was too high or too complicated a climb. It left their tight little buttocks, cocooned in white cotton on display for us to leer away at. Not that I remember Helen scaling the heights, just one or two of the braver or more reckless. Watching then dangle from the monkey puzzle or kick their legs higher on the creaking swings. Someone, a boy probably had a talent for drawing and there were cartoons everywhere. These drawings of the female sexual organs became my rudimentary introduction to sex education. It all looked medically impossible, but I had this instinctive urge to find out for myself. Something that would turn out to be years in the distance.

'Hello Stuart, still in that same dream world?'

I jumped up and turned to see Helen with all of that willowy, beautiful blondeness fully intact. 'Helen, the last time I saw you, you were being stretchered into an ambulance.'

We crashed together, cheek to cheek. She held me like a mad woman holds her sick infant. 'Oh Stuart, I'm so pleased to see you.'

'You've had a bad time.'

'Still a master of stating the bloody obvious I see.' Her eyes were laughing at me, I wanted her at that precise moment and she knew it. 'Shall we walk on, I suppose you need a pub garden to conduct this meeting?'

No, I need a big bed, or the back seat of a car, or a secluded spot by the river bank. I nodded at her, 'I need a drink, don't you?'

Helen smiled, 'I've not touched anything alcoholic since I was assaulted, how long ago is that?'

'Nineteen sixty seven, "San Francisco, wear some flowers in your hair". Scot McKenzie number one in July.'

'You're a real nerd, is that your party piece. You used to sing it to me. Do you still play the piano?'

'Not since my mum died.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't know, I really liked her.' We walked slowly into the garden of the Trout Inn at Wolvercote. Helen took the seat closest to the river while I got the drinks. I sat opposite and Helen watched me. 'What?'

'I observe the drinking man. Does he gulp, does he sip like a nervous gazelle at a water hole, does he... well you get the message.'

'Well I booze, I need it in my system quickly. Need to feel it course around and through me. Satisfied?'

'Yes thanks, what have you got for me?'

'Abigail Goldsmith is a...'

'Jewish lawyer with a name like that.'

I nodded, 'she'll take you through it all. Although she specialises in criminal law, bringing a private prosecution is right up their alley, they have an expert close by. Abigail's lovely, she knows all about you – evidently she met you a year or two ago.'

'Doesn't ring a bell.'

'Well you're aware that there is a lower burden of proof in this sort of prosecution.'

'I don't care about the outcome in a way, I want people to know what happened.'

'Was it Gates?'

'When?'

'Did he push you?' Helen frowned, 'Did Gates push you over that cliff in Wales?'

'Gates? It's difficult to say, I was away with the fairies at the time, but I think he was going to just that. I thought I'd stroll over the edge rather than have him hurl me over. It was where Christopher went over the edge, I knew the layout well enough. Good or bad move?'

I puffed my cheeks out, 'pretty extreme course of action, but I'd convinced myself that he tried to kill you.'

'You're more of a conspiracy theorist than me.'

'Just as your father tried to get you committed to discredit anything you may get published in the near future.'

'I'm trying to be balanced about this.' Helen noticed me frowning, 'difficult for me I know, but there were sound medical grounds for doing just that.'

We sat in an easy silence, a musical interlude above our head as a blackbird chirped its melodic overture, a perfect accompaniment to the midday sun. A gentle interlude before I battered Helen over the head with my grizzly news. I'd debated long and hard with Jack about how much I should tell her about her father's involvement. Jack firmly stating that Helen shouldn't be told, me equally resolute in my belief that Helen deserved to know.

I drained my glass and nodded her way, 'do you want to eat?'

'No I'm fine sat here.' Helen smiled up at me, 'could I have a coffee this time?'

I returned still in a state of confusion, instead of getting to the crux of the matter, I decided to wander around the houses first. 'I had to tell Kathy.'

'What that you were meeting me?'

I nodded, 'no, about you and Kenny.'

Helens eyes widened and I felt the intense heat of irritation blazing my way. 'Well that paints me in a bad light, why did you feel the need to tell her about some gossip from two decades ago?'

'It isn't gossip, Kathy was distraught when she left Kenny. Guilt and all that, the fact that he cheated on her before I entered the scene. I wanted to absolve some of that guilt – even if it was years later.'

'And did she thank you, did it help her in anyway?'

I sighed, 'she wondered why I bothered. So do I now.'

'So do you enjoy imparting that sort of news? Some people take a perverse pleasure in raking up the coals of history. Something's are best left in the lockers of your mind.'

I never asked the question about why Helen had this epic quest for justice, turning herself inside out. Breakdown, heartache, turmoil all for what? I took a drink, stared at her and her eyes were still lit like beacons, lips pursed, nostrils flared as well. I tried to sound conciliatory, 'I thought she deserved to know that's all.'

Helen dropped some sugar into her cup, stirred it vigorously and then pointed the spoon at me. 'I suppose I don't like being typecast as some uncaring bitch out on the prowl. I've learnt to temper my activity, no married men, all are single and much younger these days.'

I wanted to ask how many, how often and how young. Instead I said, 'I'm sorry, can we get back to the present issue?' I loosened the grip on my pint glass, trying to find a gentle way forwards. 'You've torpedoed Dawes and Gates, they won't be a problem anymore.'

Helen sat back on the chair, holding the coffee cup like her hands were in need of warming up. Given the temperature radiating from her eyes, this was unlikely. She took a sip of coffee, a line of froth on her top lip which she proceeded to lick off with her pink tongue. Did she make that small gesture to look as provocatively sexual intentionally? Or just the action of an ingénue? She began to smile, deliberate I thought.

I said, 'do you remember that first night?'

'Like it was yesterday, but what's that got to do with anything?'

'You made the point about a group of girls I was talking to, remember?' Helen tipped her head a touch and shrugged, 'you suggested they were on the game.'

'Did I, bit judgmental, but carry on.'

'A couple of them were ones in care, in the big house in Ormond road.'

'I don't remember the girls, fancy it being some sort of bordello, how did you find out.'

'Don told us. Dawes, Gates and even your mate Philip Mole frequented it. I've got a taped confession from the warden.'

'So were the girls complicit in all of this?'

'I don't know, persuaded was the term he used.'

'Girls in that situation often don't need much persuading. Or they see it as persuasion, very often its coercion plain and simple.'

'Point is, the girls were barely old enough, a couple were only fifteen. Troubled and exploited by half a dozen policemen.'

'Don Wilson?'

'He claims he went a couple of times, wasn't his sort of thing.'

'That figures, Don liked the chase.'

'He caught you.'

Helen's head suddenly slumped forwards, 'I saw my father coming out of there once. He was always moaning about all of the complaints about noise. I always thought that why would a man of his rank be sorting out stuff his underlings...' Helen suddenly froze as if her life had just had the pause button paused. 'He wasn't in any of the photographs. I don't believe...'

The coffee cup clattered into the saucer, spilling its half full contents over the wooden table. Neither of us moved, I'd doubled the ranks of those who lives had suddenly frozen in time. The blackbird stopped singing, people stopped talking, if I could have looked down at my watch I'd lay money on the second hand not moving. We stayed in this freeze frame for a good few seconds.

Eventually Helen spoke, 'I worried that he was frequenting this place as well. What do you think?'

At that moment, I wished I were a better poker player. I tried to keep my expression as closed as possible. 'Helen, I don't know if he used to go there.'

'You're lying, tell me.'

'The warden said he never frequented it.'

'Stuart!' Heads turned our way, 'you're a bad liar.' She shouted this and people started to look away, or down at the table, or up towards the horizon. Anywhere but at this angry woman.

'I don't know,' I took a deep breath and thought of Mably lurking at the back of the bedroom. 'Don said that your dad never went there.'

'I hope you're right.'

'I always thought you wanted to nail him.'

'Not anymore. It always amazes me how they all stick together.' Helen shook her head, 'if it ever gets to Crown court, you'll be getting a call. You'll have to swear on oath that my father wasn't involved.'

'Well I can only confirm what Hesford and Don have said on that one.'

'And that nasty little man has hundreds of photos and more movie film.'

'Hesford told me he hasn't got long for this world, emphysema.'

'How will that effect anything?'

'If his evidence isn't available, then a trial is unlikely.'

'The police will find the girls involved, surely?'

'The police, investigating their own. Can you imagine that being a full and thorough investigation?'

'Bizarrely this is enough for me. It balances things out in my mind. I'm glad he wasn't involved, my mum's never been happier.'

I nodded, 'do you want another drink?'

'No thanks, you can walk me back across the meadow please.'

We crossed the bridge and Helen slipped her arm around mine and we walked back this way. Neither of us talking to begin with, me because I feared it might break the grip she had on me.

'Remember?' Helen leaned in even closer to whisper this in my ear.

'We were open air specialists.'

'Anywhere, that's a prerogative of the young. We all get stuck in our ways, the safety of the indoors.'

'Nothing wrong with that.'

'Where was our spot – it's so long ago I can't remember.'

'Do you want to look for it?'

'No thanks.'

I couldn't remember the location, but the event itself was so fresh. I undid her blouse and, Helen lifted up on one arm to let me get at the hooks and eyes of her bra. Helen's back was slender and her shoulder blades dipped inward, as if in sitting-up exercises. Her shoulders were brown with summer's merged freckles; her flat midriff also showed a tan. I always felt like crying as her breasts tumbled free, to be touched by trembling hands and my oh so careful lips. The trees around us formed green walls, trembling and moving in the breeze, showing their leaves' silver undersides, dry from the months of summer.

I felt it was all inevitable at that moment; the future stretched only as far as the wall of trees, there would never be another such time as this. Helen's face looked sleepy, complacent, her eyes halfway lidded, as if she were drinking in with him the sight of her, the top of her cleft visible through the scant blondeness; she was drinking in the sight of me drinking her in, her expression proud and sceptical both. I loved her for her innocent lewdness. Helen enjoyed being naked, even here in this precarious open, while his ears strained for a broken twig or a suppressed conversation around them. Her skin was a blinding pelt, not quite hairless and pricked by stray pink dots and threadlike capillaries. Bare but for her a ring or two, she knelt to unzip me, already thump-ingly erect. She gazed down at it as if into a baby's face, touching it with the same fingertips that had gently rested on his wrist at the other end of summer.

'Oh gorgeous,' she said.

Half a dozen rooks raucously rasped away at another, thrashed their wings into the top of an ancient beech tree. This heavenly intrusion distracted me momentarily, Helen leaned back on the blanket, arranging her legs into a position of openness and I knelt between them like the most abject and craven supplicant who ever exposed his bare arse to the eagle eyes of a bunch of rooks.

We walked close to the few beech trees that formed the backdrop to our open air lovemaking. But I felt Helen gently steering me away and on towards the car park at Walton Well.

'Can I give you a lift home?'

Helen shook her head, 'that wouldn't be a good idea.' She must have seen my eyebrows forming question marks, 'I've already slept with one of Kathy's husbands.'

I nearly said she won't mind, or she won't know. Instead I said, 'can I see you again?'

'Of course, I'd love that. Bring Kathy, I'd like to say sorry.'

'She never knew anything...'

'Not about us, about her first husband. I need to say it, it'll be good for my soul.' Helen stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek. The perfume, her lips, I became briefly overwhelmed. She stepped back, 'Stay in touch.'

I watched her feline sway up towards the railway bridge, over and out of sight. I sat in the car dazed by the weight of disappointment. I succeeded in dredging up images of Kathy's face and my mood lightened.

### 33

### Helen

Four short weeks and so much had happened, Andrew Gates took an early retirement, evidently this protects his generous police pension and Mark Dawes resigned his Home Office post. He even trotted out the clichéd excuse or politicians about to be engulfed in an old fashioned sex scandal... he needed to spend more time with his family. I stood in front of the large mirror in the lecture theatre toilet and stared hard, I smiled at myself and I thought about Stuart and that day last week in Port Meadow. Poor old Stuart, I felt him gently guiding me and I was not one to be guided. All of my actions stem from a non-physical experience inside of me. Therefore, I must have free will and I must have a self. I chose where and who with, Stuart probably thought that I had an objection with a married man and on reflection, they weren't worth the trouble, all those precarious secrets to keep, all those whispered phone calls, the panicky trysts where the edges of this town merge with the edges of another. The weeks without any contact at all and while absence strengthened a married man's ardour, to me they just sink deeper and deeper beneath the waterline of passion's bubbling surface. Into the calm depths of nothing. They have the heavy weave of respectability to consider, parenthood, marriage even. How can something forged in the furnace of sudden intensity and mutual discovery hope to survive. On a purely practical level, they just weren't worth the trouble. Poor old Stuart had no chance, I sighed, but deep down I knew that he would be happier that way.

I looked at myself in the mirror again, took a deep breath, looked at my watch and said, 'let's go.'

I took the short walk across the stage and stared at the full lecture theatre. Nothing beat this I thought, sex, a good meal – nothing compares. In my natural environment, safe and surrounded by bright undergraduates eager to learn. I scanned the auditorium for the especially beautiful men and women. I counted slowly down from thirty, then with not a flicker in my voice I began.

'Welcome everybody, I have a hotline for those in need, .if you're struggling with your finals, just ring me anytime. If you're obsessive-compulsive, please press number one repeatedly.' They laugh, not because it was especially funny, just a release of tension. I try another, 'If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press number two.' The laughter increases a touch, one more I thought. 'If you are depressed, it doesn't matter which number you press. I'm not answering it.'

Genuine laughter now, how the politically correct brigade would be cursing me right now, I slowly looked at everyone sat along the front row. Most held my steady gaze, two wanted no eye contact, both men. I took my gaze to the back of the auditorium, three men stared confidently back at me, I smiled at one of them. I used humour as much as possible, it increases recall because it is distinctive in nature and attracts attention. Greater attention leads to a deeper processing of the concepts. And it also showed me to be a warm, empathetic woman. Not the hard-nosed, shrivelled up bitch I was often conceived to be.

I made them wait a few more seconds, 'please excuse my attempt to lighten the mood, we take ourselves too seriously at times. Welcome once again to the first of eight lectures, where we'll be looking at the criminalization of cultural practices in contemporary Britain. When does just the notion of a senseless' act turn into the performance of actual crime and violence, which then become a cultural commodity to be consumed as entertainment by a society anxious for new and more exciting experiences.'

'We'll make sense of this carnival of crime, try to make sense of the current increase in violence, cruelty, hate and humiliation, which has come to permeate daily life. Could we argue that an overly organised economic world has provoked a widespread desire for extreme, oppositional forms of popular and personal pleasure. This desire has resulted in a cathartic second life of illicit pleasures often deemed criminal by those in power. We'll look at joyriding, street crime, antisocial behaviour in private, hate, hurt and humiliation in popular culture the popularisation and criminalisation of sadomasochism and even dance music culture.'

Two hours later I watched the throng milling slowly out, I picked my unused notes up from the lectern as the queue formed and waited to take the praise and caught the movement of a wide shouldered young man hovering alongside. 'Mrs Mably, I wondered...'

I like confident men, they usually deport themselves like they get lots of sex, or if they don't then they'll be very good at it given the chance. I stared at him and thought that this man could fuck me properly and I needed that right now. I imagined us walking up my stairs at home and one of us will whisper, 'I want you so much.

'Miss or Ms preferably.' Ice maiden to the fore, I stared, right through him but still taking in the cheekbones his six foot plus height and those fabulous wide shoulders.

'Sorry, Ms Mably,' he bowed his head a touch. Excellent I thought, respectful as well as beautiful. The book came towards me, along with the polite request, 'would you mind signing this for me?'

'What did you think of the lecture?'

'Enthralling.'

'And the book?'

'Oh masterful.'

I scrawled a few words inside the front cover, staring at him all the time. 'Two more terms before your finals, are you looking forwards to that?'

He nodded, 'I hope I can book a tutorial or two before then.'

'I'm free the day after tomorrow. Just after midday suit?'

'Of course, can't wait.'

Me too I thought, me too. 'Do you have plans this evening? I have a little soirée at my house, you'll be most welcome.'

I watched his reaction, he frowned. Followed by the ghost of a smile, yes my gorgeous young man, it could be your lucky night.

*

I always throw parties for my students, just an informal gathering and after a few drinks they all become braver and more animated. We talk about things that were never on the agenda during the day time, they tell me what they're interested in. By nine o'clock, half have gone home and its always the most refined, the most brainy, the feistiest, the most sexually driven – for they are always all of the above. And then the glorious feeling inside of me as I watch the young man I talked to after this afternoon's lecture. I'd started another ritual and if things go to plan, this man will be the last to leave.

I nodded to myself, in this relaxed atmosphere, they discover that I'm human, not just their tutor, I'm not my public face either and I'm no longer their parent. I have an expensive house in North Oxford, they note my CD collection, see my row upon row, shelf upon shelf of books. I'm not just an attractive ice-queen. They relax, the boy I crave is staring at me. He's broad shouldered, dark haired and swarthy. A rugby blue, strong like a young colt. He holds back when everyone else is leaving. We've not come to any pre-arranged plan, but this is how it always works.

I lost myself in a gorgeous reverie as the latest of my phalanx of young men came up close. He spoke, 'do you mind if I call you Helen?'

'Of course.'

'Why has everyone gone so early?'

I ignored this and said, 'Do you like to whisper your lover's name when you make love?'

His head pulled back and he frowned, 'well yes of course,' finally tumbled from his confusion.

I got close to him, close enough to smell the red wine on him, close enough to inspect the designer stubble on his chin. I smiled, 'do you want coffee?'

'No – thanks,' he made the move just like I knew he would, mouth slightly apart, head tipped to one side and I pulled sharply back. This was my move to make, that's how it worked. Disappointment spread across his sculptured face. I smiled at him, all the time wondering what was inside his tight jeans. Anticipation governed perception and I became unsteady on my feet, despite wanting him so much, I walked unsteadily away from him to the sofa, where I turned and stood with my calves resting against it.

He was watching my every move, I needed him to speak and he did. 'I'm sorry, that was clumsy, I'd better get off.'

What a nice boy, I smiled and began to undo my blouse. I had a good cleavage, I knew that my nipples were pushing through the lacy bra as well. 'You're such a sweet boy, stay where you are and pull your t-shirt off. Then come to Helen.'

As he pulled off his white top off, I knew his post-adolescent chest would look staggeringly beautiful, but it still made me gasp.

He was a tender young man, they often want to appear to be an educated and sophisticated lover. The brighter ones quickly realise that I just wanted it hard, wanted all of his weight on me. This one understood and shifted his weight away from his elbows. He gripped my hands and pulled them above her head.

'Yes!'

I felt all of his mass bearing down. He moved slowly, I lifted my legs and wrapped them around his back, resting my heels on his buttocks.

'C'mon.' I urged him on, 'c'mon.'

My hips begin to move spontaneously into his thrusts. He picks his speed up and groaned two words, 'not yet.'

A plaintiff two words, sweet lover, concerned about coming too quickly, I reassured him, 'it's all right, let it go my lover.'

'Helen, I'm losing control.' He loosened his grip on my hands and places his hands either side of my face, kissing me hard at the same time. I bite his bottom lip and began to feel the tension building within. I stiffened as he thrusted on and on.

My whole body convulsed.

'Oh my god.'

'I knew it would be good with you.' He said it, but it could just as easily been me saying the same words. 'I'm coming.'

He didn't need to say that as I could feel the build-up of pressure within him.

I stiffened.

'Helen.' He comes and thrashes away at the same time, losing his sense of rhythm. 'Helen.' A whimper, 'I'm sorry.'

The viscous puddle he'd left inside me made me convulse again, 'don't move.' I whisper in his ear as I burst into a powerful orgasm.

'Helen.' He kissed my neck.

I was still breathless, trying to gain some control over my breathing, my heart still thumping. I opened my eyes, clasped his cheeks and pushed his head back and waited till he opened his eyes. I whispered, 'good boy.'

He said just one word, 'fuck.'

Of course, men of his age and fitness levels have staggering stamina and like any colt, usually move inside me all night long. Talking keeps their libido nicely topped up. I like to encourage, urge them on until they climax so big. Urge them so they dump a great wad of semen inside me. The feeling is so powerful.

'Helen.'

'Yes lover,' I grasped his sticky penis.

'You called me Stuart.'

### 34

### Stuart

Sun and moon, morning and evening, rise and fall: the well-worn wheels of the seasons that merge at the base of the downs. Go up three hundred feet and the temperature drops and if there's any wind, that increases as you climb. We walked, the dog 50 yards in front, I stare at a weeping cherry tree as we begin to descend into Letcombe.

'I love cherry blossom.'

'Well you're four months too late for that, anyway it makes you sneeze.' Kathy's stone cold voice of reason reminding me how it irritated my chest in the springtime.

'How's your back anyway?'

'Stiff, you know it always aches whenever I get into that position.'

'You didn't have to.'

'I like it like that.'

The sweet smell of grass, magnolias and quince still in bloom, forsythia is out, its glad cool yellow calling from every yard like a sudden declaration of the secret sap that runs through everybody's lives. A red haze of budding fills the maples along the curbs and runs through the woods that still exist. I used to drive around here years ago, freshening my memory of my early, illicit days with Kathy. Sometimes the memories hurt, pieces of my old self that cling to almost every field that we walked. Both of us thinking our affair was doomed.

As we walk back into town, passed the recreation centre, then the streets where I ran as a child. We put the dog on the lead as we walked down Newbury Street, past the Methodist church where Helen's parents congregated every Sunday. I stopped by the black notice board and stared at the gold lettering.

'Ten thirty.'

'What?'

I glanced at my watch, 'service is at ten thirty.'

'Well we're too early and a bit late for you to get religion.'

'That was always your bag.'

'Not here though, good old catholic church for me, not this bunch of stolid, stolid citizens.'

'When was the last time?'

'Before we got together.'

'You've got a lot of confessing to do.'

'Me! You're the sinner.'

I felt alive, despite almost every house we passed holding the ghost of someone I once knew who now is gone, empty now like the seashells the children always brought home from a holiday. The mostly red-brick and their small front doors, I ticked them off. As we strolled down Grove Street the houses twisted with the road like a staircase. My childhood town, the only one I've known and it still excites me to be among its plain flower-pot-coloured houses, everything that I wasn't, solid and built to last.

I noticed the office door was open and stopped outside, 'Jack's doing some overtime, coming in?'

The office had been ransacked, reams of paper scattered across the floor, books opened and thrown everywhere. Pens, pencils, Jack's ashtray upturned and two dozen cigarette ends with the accompanying ash spewed across his desk. I looked across at Kathy who had the phone in her hand, 'are you ringing Jack?'

'Police first.'

Ten minutes later, Don Wilson's smirk had taken on Olympic proportions as he scanned the wreckage, 'poor old Jack isn't going to like this.'

'He'll be here in a minute to see for himself.'

'Did you forget to lock up?'

'Jack was last to leave Saturday morning and he forgets nothing.' I stared at him, if it were physically possible, he had one eye on me and the other on Kathy. Who coolly looked back at the policeman, dressed as he was in a less than fashionable golf sweater that highlighted his paunch. 'Why are you working on a Sunday anyway?'

'You know me, can't do enough for a good boss.' I thought he winked at Kathy.

'No sign of a break in, someone must know where the spare key is.' This came from Kathy, 'I'm comfortable doing your job for you by the way. Where are the forensic guys?'

'There won't be anything for them.'

'How can you say that? Just because the place has been ransacked, doesn't mean it's some random break in. It's obviously meant to look like that.' Kathy turned to look at me, 'what's missing?'

Don answered for me, 'the manuscript probably.'

'What? A manuscript that's never existed?'

Kathy said, 'what about the film?'

'Fuck!'

'What film?' Don said this in a manner that put me on edge.

I stared at the wall safe and the door was hanging open, the contents, such as they were untouched except for the reel of film. 'Fuck.'

'Stop swearing, it's the Lord's Day after all.'

I went up close to Don and stared into his eyes, 'you're loving this aren't you?'

'That's because he knows what's happened here. He wasn't surprised when he walked through the door. Don had something to do with this. A film goes missing, one that would incriminate his erstwhile boss as well. It stinks.'

I always tell everyone that Kathy is much brighter than me, I confirmed this long held belief to Don, still, inches from his fat face, 'unfortunately for you and as always, Kathy's right. You may have the film, but there are photos everywhere.'

Don never moved for a couple of seconds, finally a slight tic under his left eye began to make it faint and irregular movements. He took a deep breath, 'you're a couple of dreamers. There are no photos of me or my ex-boss.'

'You stick together, tell the world you hate one another, but come the crunch you stick together. Bad apples, the lot of you.' I turned to see Jack stood in the doorway, he kept his composure well. I'd seen the look of disgust whenever the pencils on my desk never lined up like a row of soldiers. 'If you'd care to leave us now Don, we'd like to talk with our legal team.'

'I've not taken any statements or...'

'There'll be need for statements, you can tell your ex-boss that all of our talking will be done in court.'

Don frowned as he tried to sidle by, I hissed, 'just fuck off .'

He wouldn't even look at me and for once Jack never told me to watch my language either. We waited for a few minutes before I said to Jack, 'you think that he had something to do with this?'

Kathy said, 'yes.'

Jack smiled and nodded his head, 'Kathy's probably right.'

'Well she's had a good morning so far, why aren't you upset?'

He shrugged, 'because nothing surprises me. The film was the only thing that would have helped nail Mably, but the others are dead in the water.'

'How did they get in?'

'The same way you do if I'm not around.'

'Yes but no one else knows that.'

Jack sighed, 'I've probably told Mably that over the years, he has the memory of an elephant. He's even likely to have warned me about being so lax.'

'But what about the safe key?'

'Under the mat under my desk.'

'I can't believe this, doesn't it bother you that your best mate has been ransacking your office?'

'Well he probably got Don to do it and for your information, he's not my best mate.'

My mind swirled away at was he was saying. For someone bordering on paranoia for most of my adult life, I was beginning to think Jack was in on all of this. 'What are you saying, you don't care about what's happened?'

'I'm saying I'm not surprised.'

'But...'

'Listen, Gates and Dawes are nailed on this one. The only one that knew about the film was David Mably. He's watched it and knows it's the only piece of evidence that fingers him. There's no sign of him or Don in any of the photos, all of which are still in the safe.'

I shook my head, 'what do we do now?'

Kathy said, 'go home and feed the dog.'

'What do you think?' I looked down at him, 'dinner?'

He jumped up.

### 35

### Helen

The phone, Harvey Malkovitch, 'Helen, how are you?'

'Very good thanks, things have panned out pretty well.'

'The prospect of maybe testifying in court doesn't fill you with dread?'

'Not at the moment.' That's because my body was still throbbing from a punishing night with the same athletic boy. 'What can I do for you?'

'I have an interesting woman, probably your age that would feel more comfortable talking to a woman. Sexually abused, I have no one else to help me for a good few weeks – I just need a woman like your good self who can listen to her story, can you help?'

'Of course, I'm not busy for a couple of days.' In the throes of post coital euphoria I would try to do anyone a good turn.

Two days later a woman walked into my office that I'd never seen before and yet I'd seen this type of woman in hundreds of different manifestations over the years. Not just her appearance necessarily, but her mannerisms, her history, her future, or lack of it. When Harvey Malkovitch rang me out of the blue saying that he had a patient that would only talk to a woman. That didn't grab me as such, it stirred me when he said that she was an interesting woman who had been sexually abused as a teenager and that she could help me.

Help me?

I stared at her, my age probably, but she looked mid-fifties, thin as pencil, long dark hair scraped back and in need of a good conditioner. A parting getting wider by the month. I looked Harvey's notes, it was a struggle to make any sense out of them, maybe someone versed in the Cyrillic language would cope.

'Alice,' I sighed and began, 'I'm Helen and unable to read these notes about you, do you mind if we begin at the beginning?'

'What again.' I waited, stared at the woman who was looking off into the distance, finally she said, 'I was fourteen when I tasted semen for the first time. I had some fat man's smelly cock in my mouth. The strange thing was that the thing that I remembered most was his huge stomach. It was as if I was taking the weight of it on my head.'

Not the weight of his stomach I thought, but the full weight of the world. I listened to this woman's account, occasionally taking notes. I'd been raped, awful as this was, it didn't compare to what this woman was put through. Systematic, brutalised, sometimes drugged, beaten and now a forty year old woman with a history of convictions for soliciting and various drug offences. Living in a fug of alcohol tended to make discussion a waste of effort.

Not unattractive I thought to myself. I didn't mean now, the present. At one time she would have been a good looking woman. Wispy, grey hair scrapped back and worn long in a ponytail. My eyes kept being drawn to the centre parting, over twenty millimetres wide and getting wider by the day. Worn it that way for most of her life and nothing was going to change now. The cheekbones were good, an indication of former glories. But the skin was covered in broken veins and half of her teeth were missing as well.

'Eddie Hesford got into bed with me every night. Never the others, always me.'

'Eddie Hesford?' He told me he never got involved with any of the girls, apart from taking thousands of photos. 'Were you in a care home in Ormond Road?'

Alice nodded, but said nothing. No wonder Harvey said that I would find this woman interesting. But something jarred somehow and it niggled away especially when I couldn't think why it should niggle. 'How long did it go on for Alice?'

'It was always over in seconds.'

'I don't mean that, over what period, days, months?'

'A couple of years. I didn't mind him so much, it was always over quickly and he never hurt me, it was the policemen that were the worst'

I couldn't have been concentrating, the words washed over me as I said, 'victims of sexual abuse, especially that involve penetration are more likely to divorce, or end up in abusive short term relationships.'

'That's me,' the woman said.

Me too I thought, I wrote as I spoke, 'dissatisfaction in your sexual relationships.'

'Yes.'

Sometime I thought, but not at this particular moment in time, my body's memory of the last coming together still had me up in the clouds. 'Do you have a religion?'

'No,' answered as if my question was an impertinence. 'Didn't you hear what I said?'

My mind was searching for the right question to ask her. I don't know why I introduced religion into the equation. It would have been commonplace years ago when we all had religion in our lives. In these enlightened times it was an irrelevance. I thought about Alice, victims of abuse always see the problem as commonplace, see abuse everywhere, non-victims see it nowhere. The extent to which her cognitive-affective sexual appraisals mediated her relationships was obvious. Anyone whose abuse involved penetration were more likely to be sexually assaulted again in later life, more likely to engage in casual unprotected sex and have a lower sexual self-esteem. For both anxiety and depression, substantial evidence supports the efficacy of problem-specific cognitive-behavioural interventions.

'Are you not listening,' Alice said, 'what do you want me to say?'

I blinked and looked at her, 'sorry what did you say?'

'I said the policeman were the worst.'

'You were abused by a policeman?' I tried to remember what Alice had been saying, 'did you know Eddie Hesford?' I leaned forwards, 'Alice, I'm sorry, start again please.'

'I said the policemen, plural, policemen were the worst. I used to bring Eddie off in seconds.'

'He told me he never touched the girls.'

'You've talked to Eddie, I thought he'd be dead by now.'

'You were in his care?'

'If you can call it that.'

'Do you remember names?' Alice shook her head, 'would you remember faces?'

'Probably'

'Can I show you a few photographs?'

'Why?'

'I've been on the receiving end of their tender attentions as well.' Alice showed no interest in me getting the same treatment, she just shrugged a resigned acceptance.

I got the pile of photos out and placed one each of Gates, Dawes and Mole. Alice nodded as she scanned, a solitary tear bridging her cheekbone at the same time. 'Yep, I recognise all of them.'

This was the moment, I unfolded the newspaper and pointed at the photograph of my father, 'what about this one?'

'Never seen him before in my life.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yep.'

'Alice, this is so important, you're sure?'

'I said so didn't I? Never seen him before.'

I don't know why, but I wanted to burst into tears. I took a couple of deep breaths, 'did you ever see Don Wilson there, big man with...'

'I knew Don, not from the home though. I used to see him around town, he'd always buy me a drink or two.'

'He was never at the care home?'

'I never saw him there.'

'The police might be contacting you.'

'They already have, I've given a statement.'

I watched Alice walk off and out onto South Parks Road, as I walked slowly back towards my office, I heard the phone ringing. I hurried towards it, picking it up just in time to hear my mother say, 'I was just about to put the phone down.'

The temptation to tell my mother about the care home began to overwhelm me, several deep breaths later and I managed to say, 'sorry, I was down the corridor. It's in our contract of employment not to run anywhere.'

'It's not is it?'

'I'm joking mum.'

'Very droll, I believed you because no one seems to rush where you work.'

'It's a civilised way of going on don't you think?'

'Your father's cheered up no end.'

I could soon change that mood I thought, 'I must be an awful burden for him.'

'Don't sound so cynical, he wants to see you' I said nothing, waiting for more. It came soon enough, 'why don't you come over for lunch?'

'Not to your house.'

I left an opening, my mother drove straight through the gap, 'let's meet somewhere for lunch then?'

'I'm not keen.'

'Please do it for me.'

'Not at the house though.'

'Where?'

'Not Oxford, near you somewhere.'

'Thank you Helen, this means so much to me.'

I sat the phone back down and my heart began to flutter like wounded finch with a damaged wing. How could I just agree to do something I'd sworn never to do? As so often, I easily slipped back to a thirteen year old girl, just before the divergence began. I remember asking him a question that only a teenager would have dreamed of asking. We had two lesbian neighbours that lived four doors away. Both were smart in appearance, not confirming to any of the customary archetypes, both slim and attractive. At the time, I had no clear idea what a homosexual was and certainly couldn't imagine that anybody I knew could ever be one. I thought my father knew everything, he was a genius, while I had a fanatical naiveté and colossal innocence about life itself. In those days, he was my guru that could explain everything to me. Maybe it would be easier if he still was.

I'd just seen the two women holding hands. My father found their presence unsettling, recognising his discomfort, I asked him later that summer's evening, "Are they gay?" Of course I didn't use the word gay, it wasn't a term in general use back then. I can't recall how I framed that question, probably queer or most likely lesbians. That would be it, "are they lesbians?"

He smiled the patient smile of a wise old owl, one of half amusement and the other half one of shock. I'm certain it was the last time he smiled at me. He nodded, looking at me as though he understood my every deeper thought as no human being ever had before, or since. Then I got his penetrating stare, which I believe now, saw nothing, all this giving that gave me nothing and certainly never gave anything away. I had no idea where his thoughts might be. When, I stopped speaking, I sensed that my words, rather than falling into the net of his awareness, got linked up with nothing in his brain, went in there and vanished, my father had developed armour plating six inches thick by this time. I was so ill-equipped to envisage his interior workings, but that wasn't a weakness on my part, how could it be when he had a sub-conscious that was locked away in a soundproofed dungeon.

I console myself with my own mantra these days, getting people right is not what life is all about. It's when we get them wrong that we know we're alive. I got him wrong and still get him wrong. When my father smiled, I felt that it was meant to reassure me that he was as normal as the next man. Was it here that I began to think that something might not be right? His smile became an indication of what exactly? What could be in no doubt, was that I just knew that he tried to steer me relentlessly in the direction of success: If I just followed his example, then a better life was sure to be mine. This edict came entangled often in his moralistic hysteria, the beleaguered frenzy of someone whose own experience had taught him how little resentment it takes to wreck a life beyond repair. The continuous pleading for me to be moderate and not mess up, to grasp opportunity, exploit the advantages he had put in place.

And now I was going to sit down for dinner with this stupid, pig-headed, intolerant bastard for the first time in twenty three years, determined to look him in the eye and ask if remembers when I asked that question, "are they lesbians?"

I wanted to make him smile again.

### 36

### Stuart

Bewilderingly dazzling, the kind of looks that make your eyes spin like the symbols on a fruit machine. Whoever this woman is, she gives herself to me as if it's her only chance to save her soul. When I'm in her mouth, she goes into a trance, when we kiss as I move inside her, the sharply lower-pitched whimper gives her zeal away. She pulls her head away as if I was about to strike her across the cheek. Her hand on my shoulder blade beats me ineffectually like a bird's startled wing. I try to freeze my own orgasmic curve with deliberately androgynous images of plain women, or a serene Caribbean sunset, or a perfectly executed backhand volley. Yet the intensity remains somehow, then I place my hands under her buttocks and give her what I'd been desperately trying to hold back without the subtlety of mercy. My whimper, coming from the territory beyond my own climax, renewed itself in the higher register; I wondered, amid my own sullen blood-thump of release, if I might faint. Then her hand, still on my shoulder, slowly ceases to flutter and we both die.

I shout, 'Kathy.'

'What's up?' I wake on the sofa, Kathy's stood by the window staring at the late afternoon sunshine, she talks to the window. 'That was some dream, who was she? That woman you were staring at in the supermarket this morning? That much younger woman selling bread on the market? Helen?'

I should have said it was you, but in my befuddled state I said, 'it was no one, a composite of no one.'

Kathy sighed, 'I'm going up to shower.'

'Jack specifically asked.'

'I know, I don't like going out with the pair of you.'

'He's my boss and very fond of you.'

'I like him too, but it's like being in an old boys club of two and I'm on the fringe all night. Anyway, all you're going to talk about is Helen.'

I got my way and an hour later we were sat in the public bar of Bear hotel, Kathy always looked so gorgeous when she was trying to contain a simmering resentment. Green eyes blazing my way, she nailed her first drink pretty quickly, pushed the empty glass my way and said, 'where's Jack then?'

I shrugged, stood and took her glass back up to the bar. I felt a bulky presence close by, remembering the last time I was in here, I expected the heavy breath of a stone-faced policeman on my neck. I looked up at the mirror behind the bar and saw Don Wilson sneering away. I sighed and through clenched teeth asked the sociable question, 'what would you like?'

'Pint of best please.' We stared at one another in the mirror, Don had that look. He was the bearer of good news, if he looked any smugger he'd make a cat with a saucer of double cream look positively miserable. 'Not like you to buy the beer.'

'You're joking you tight arsed fucker, when have you ever bought me one?' Too late as I watched his face twist from a leer to a wide grin, he'd got the desired reaction.

'You buy me beer, I give you information.'

'Hah!'

'Or ignore it when Jack chooses to drive home with one too many on board.' He raised his eyebrows and I looked away. Don raised the pint I'd just bought and said, 'cheers.'

I nodded and walked back to Kathy and slid her drink across the table. She never said anything, just lifted the glass to her lips and took a hefty swig as the bulk of Don loomed over the table.

'Hi Kathy, how are you?'

Kathy's countenance changed rather like a stroppy teenager goes from sulk to euphoria within the blink of an eye. She beamed at Don, 'I'm very well, are you joining us?'

'Not if I've got anything to do with it.'

'Well you haven't.'

Don smiled back at her and sat opposite on a small stool.

'Careful,' I hissed, 'those stools are only meant to take one at a time.'

Don never missed a beat, still looking at Kathy he said, 'he's a real misery tonight, you're in for a sparkling evening.'

'Tell me about it.'

'I'll ask you first Kathy, I have things to tell him.' Don nodded at me, 'can I have five minutes of his time, or shall I wait until I can get him on his own?'

'Lighten our miserable lives Don, you carry on.'

I sighed and took a long pull at my beer, 'what's happening Don?'

Don opened his cigarette packet, glanced up at Kathy and said, 'do you mind if I...'

'Carry on'

They both held their stares a touch longer than necessary I felt. Don finally broke away when he lit up. He blew the smoke my way and said, 'you'll never guess what's happened?'

'Get on with it Don.'

'No,' Kathy wagged a finger at me, 'I like guessing games.'

'OK, I'll give you five gue...'

'Just get the fuck on with it.'

Don glanced at Kathy and they both smiled, 'not only miserable, but touchy as well.' He finally gave me his full attention, 'the film's turned up.'

I leaned forwards, 'where, how?'

'Found in a bin, it's safe and sound in the police station safe.'

'It's ours, it was given to me by Eddie Hesford.'

'It was yours, its evidence now. Labelled, inventoried and locked safely away and waiting for this inquiry.'

'And the smart money would be on there never being an inquiry and it never seeing the light of day again.'

'What film?'

I said to Kathy, 'home made porno film showing the local constabularies finest fucking girls supposedly being looked after in a residential care home.' I watched Don closely, his expression never changed. I tried a bit harder, 'Don used to go there, he told me and Jack exactly that.'

Stone face began to crumble a touch, Don tried to smile, 'don't listen to him Kathy, you know well enough he can't be unbiased when it comes to me.'

'Underage girls as well.'

Don held the palm of one meaty hand towards me, 'slow down, lets start again. Things have been developing, you're not in the picture. I've interviewed Eddie Hesford, he's released all of the photos and a six more thirty five millimetre films. I've also interviewed one Alice May.'

I frowned, gestured for him to carry on saying at the same time, 'whose Alice May?'

'One of the girls involved.'

'And what did she have to say?'

'Quite a lot, she has a signed statement to the effect that Mably never visited the home for a start.'

I brought the flat of my hand down onto the table, 'Well the film you've stole from us clearly shows him lurking away in the background.'

'I think you two were dreaming, in all of the films in our possession, Mably wasn't in one of them.'

I tried to keep my breathing even, 'and you magically, weren't in any of them either?'

Don nodded, 'nor in any of the photos.'

'Who put you up to this... Mably?'

'You're seeing conspiracy where there isn't one.' He turned and faced Kathy, 'is he getting paranoid in his old age?' She smiled and once again held each other's gaze for longer than I felt comfortable with. Don stood, 'have a lovely evening.'

He winked at Kathy and wandered off, leaving her smiling and me still trying to loosen the clamp, weighing heavy across my chest.

'What's up with you?'

Kathy asked a question she well enough knew the answer to. I tried to drag a decent lungful of air in, but it was as if my rib cage had suddenly become too small for my lungs to function properly. This image of a sixteen stone man with my naked nine stone wife burst inside my head and it became frozen on my frontal lobe. 'Why do you have to flirt with him?'

She shrugged, 'I wasn't flirting with anyone.'

We had lapsed into a cold silence by the time Jack arrived. Kathy listened to me with a flinty indifference as I recounted Don's story. Mind you Jack didn't seem surprised and by the time we were sat down and ordering the food it seemed that I was the only one concerned. When I looked up and saw Helen walking at the point of a triangle, made up of her mother and father I became as confused as a frowning bulldog wondering why he wasn't quick enough to catch next door's cat.

Helen nodded at the three of us, Joan Mably did the same but David Mably stopped and said, 'good evening Mrs. Wicks.'

'Kathy please.' Said with a smile.

He nodded, turned to me and smiled. 'Thanks to both you and Jack for getting my daughter back.'

'Didn't stop you from getting her sectioned.'

His smile remained serenely in place, this in itself unnerved me, 'I haven't come for an argument. I thank you again for reacquainting me with my daughter. I hope we can make our peace and I'll die a happy man. I thank you once again.'

He held his hand out and my initial reaction was to turn my back on him. Kathy kicking my ankle persuaded me that being magnanimous was the politically smart move. I stood and held my hand out and got the fierce grip of a condemned man that had just cheated the hangman somehow.

'You're one lucky man.'

Jack knew what I meant and so did Mably, who nodded as he said, 'I'm getting to know my daughter again, of course I'm a lucky man.' He nodded at Jack, 'thanks again, see you soon Jack.'

I stared at the owner, publisher and editor of the local newspaper I'd worked for nearly twenty years. A highly respected man running the leading local paper in the county. A man that never shied away from exposing corruption locally. One who had grown up in war-torn London, then worked in military intelligence. A neat, compact opinionated man who walked with considerable swagger, played an aggressive game of cribbage and ran a discussion group once a week on current events. Even approaching retirement, he'd continued to have the air of an omnipotent being dedicated all his life to important assignments. He'd left me in a state of bewilderment, dazed by his treachery or loyalty depending on your viewpoint, dazed by his turning a blind eye to an abhorrent crime.

'See you soon,' I whimpered. 'What's going on Jack?'

'Relax, we've nailed a Home Office minister and a high flying policeman.'

'Yes,' said Kathy. 'Perhaps you'll get your feet back on the ground again.'

'Oh he likes to tilt at windmills.'

They both laughed, I was losing the debate doing what I always do in that situation. I stated the obvious, 'you knew didn't you? Probably left the office door open to make it all the easier.'

'Talk sense for once in your life.' Jack stared at me for a few seconds, 'you've underestimated Don for a start.'

'What's he done then, apart from break into the office?'

'We all have the impression that they all stick together like glue. But I think that might be so with Don and his ex-police inspector. They're closer than a welded joint and between them they've given Gates and Dawes a right royal shafting. Listen, a lot of this is just supposition on my part, you couldn't make it up what they've done. Why do you think Don tracked Eddie Hesford down?'

'To clear his own pitch, give himself an alibi. But why did he put himself in frame in the first place?'

'We'll come to that in a minute, go back to the beginning. Helen stumbled across Philip Mole, who tells Gates that they've met. This in itself is nothing for them to worry about, but the fact that Mole may have mentioned the care home caused them to run around like headless chickens. You see they've got their backs covered over Helen's rape, four statements all backing each other up. They were pretty much bombproof. The care home was a different ball game, suddenly all of them were vulnerable. Gates and Dawes wanted Helen silenced, as did Don and Mably, but the difference was that Gates possibly tried to kill her. Helen's manuscript was just a distraction, apart from Dawes none of the others were particularly bothered.'

'Why didn't they look for Hesford then?'

'Oh they did, but only Don and Philip Mole knew where he lived. Hesford's his real name but he lived in his sheltered accommodation under a different name. Bank accounts not in his name either. Fortunately for Hesford, I think that Mole walked under a train before he could tell Gates where he lived. Don knew exactly where Hesford could be found and Mably probably paid him a lot of money for all of the pictures and films. They also told him exactly what to say, to both you and Helen. They were never involved, now all confirmed in two neatly typed up police statements. You can put money on all the photos that showed Don or Mably have been shredded, or incinerated. The films as well, Hesford made a mistake. He was meant to give us a film that didn't involve David Mably or Don. Or maybe it was a small act of revenge on his part, perhaps he knew well enough Mably was in it.'

Jack rolled his shoulders a touch and showed me the palms of his hands as if to say, that's pretty much it.

'But why drop the other two in it?'

'They didn't do that, Helen had pictures of them, they were dead in the water. Again this is only me surmising, but we have an act of revenge coming into the calculation. Not from Don, although he did suspect that Gates had an affair with his wife. It was Mably that never forgave Dawes for the way he openly used to letch at Helen, this was a couple of years before the rape.'

'Then why didn't he do something about it then?'

'Because and here's the hypocrisy of it all, David Mably still had ambitions and wouldn't have dreamed about rocking the boat.'

'So he was happy to keep his daughter in the firing line.' I glanced across at Kathy who just raised her eyebrows a notch.

'There's just one more thing and it's quite a clever move. Don tracked one of the girls down, they got her story off pat and Mably wangled her an appointment with Harvey Malkovitch.'

'Knowing that he'd get Helen involved?'

'Exactly, not only does Helen find out from another source about what went on there, but it confirms that her father was never involved.'

'And you found this out over a friendly cup of tea with David Mably I suppose?'

'Just like Don giving us a vague confession to stir our interest. Another admission that could never be corroborated. Like the story I've just recounted, but I think that's probably just the way things unfolded.'

'I feel betrayed.'

'Not by me I hope?'

'Yes.'

This wasn't strictly true, it wasn't betrayal as much as being made a fool of. I stared across at the table where Helen had her back to me, opposite her was Mably, looking into her eyes and smiling at something she said.

### The End
