Helen was not herself. How else could she explain the things she’d thought of late, the way she had acted? All this guilt, this doubt, it was corrosive. It was changing her, twisting her. She was not the woman she used to be. She could feel herself slipping, slithering as though she were shedding a skin, and she didn’t like the rawness underneath, she didn’t like the smell of it. It made her feel vulnerable, it made her feel afraid.
SEAN
For several days after my mother died, I didn’t speak. Not a single word. So my father tells me, in any case. I don’t remember much about that time, although I do remember the way Dad shocked me out of my silence, which was by holding my left hand over a flame until I cried out. It was cruel, but it was effective. And afterwards he let me keep the cigarette lighter. (I kept it for many years, I used to carry it around with me. I recently lost it, I don’t recall where.)
Grief, shock, it affects people in strange ways. I’ve seen people react to bad news with laughter, with seeming indifference, with anger, with fear. Jules’s kiss in the car after the funeral—that wasn’t about lust, it was about grief, about wanting to feel something, anything, other than sadness. My mutism when I was a child was probably the result of the shock, the trauma. Losing a sister may not be the same as losing a parent, but I know that Josh Whittaker was close to his sister, so I am loath to judge him, to read too much into what he says and does and the way he behaves.
Erin called me to say there had been a disturbance at a house on the southeastern fringes of town—a neighbour had called, saying she’d arrived home to see the windows of the house in question broken and a young boy on a bike leaving the scene. The house belonged to one of the teachers at the local school, while the boy—dark-haired, wearing a yellow T-shirt and riding a red bike—I was fairly certain was Josh.
He was easy to find. He was sitting on the bridge wall, the bike leaned up against it, his clothes soaked through and his legs streaked with mud. He didn’t run when he saw me. If anything, he seemed relieved when he greeted me, polite as ever. “Good afternoon, Mr. Townsend.”
I asked him if he was OK. “You’ll catch cold,” I said, indicating his wet clothes, and he half smiled.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“Josh,” I said, “were you riding your bike over on Seward Road this afternoon?” He nodded. “You didn’t happen to go past Mr. Henderson’s house, did you?”
He chewed on his bottom lip, soft brown eyes widening to saucers. “Don’t tell my mum, Mr. Townsend. Please don’t tell my mum. She’s got enough on her plate.” A lump formed in my throat, and I had to fight back tears. He’s such a small boy, and so vulnerable-looking. I kneeled down at his side.
“Josh! What on earth were you doing? Was there anyone else there with you? Some older boys, maybe?” I asked hopefully.
He shook his head, but didn’t look at me. “It was just me.”
“Really? Are you sure?” He looked away. “Because I saw you talking to Lena outside the station earlier. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her, would it?”
“No!” he cried, his voice a painful, humiliating squeak. “No. It was me. Just me. I threw rocks at his windows. At that . . . bastard’s windows.” “Bastard” was enunciated carefully, as though he were trying out the word for the first time.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
He met my eye then, his lower lip trembling. “Because he deserved it,” he said. “Because I hate him.”
He started to cry.
“Come on,” I said, picking up his bike, “I’ll drive you home.” But he grabbed hold of the handlebars.
“No!” he sobbed. “You can’t. I don’t want Mum to hear about this. Or Dad. They can’t hear this, they can’t . . .”
“Josh”—I crouched down again, resting my hand on the saddle of his bike—“it’s all right. It’s not that bad. We’ll sort it out. Honestly. It’s not the end of the world.”
At that, he began to howl. “You don’t understand. Mum will never forgive me . . .”
“Of course she will!” I suppressed an urge to laugh. “She’ll be a bit cross, I’m sure, but you haven’t done anything terrible, you didn’t hurt anyone . . .”
His shoulders shook. “Mr. Townsend, you don’t understand. You don’t understand what I’ve done.”
• • •
IN THE END, I took him back to the station. I wasn’t sure what else to do, he wouldn’t let me drive him home and I couldn’t leave him by the side of the road in that state. I installed him in the back office and made him a cup of tea, then got Callie to run out and buy some biscuits.
“You can’t interview him, sir,” Callie said, alarmed. “Not without an appropriate adult.”
“I’m not interviewing him,” I replied tetchily. “He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home yet.”
The words triggered a memory: He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home. I was younger than Josh, just six years old, and a policewoman was holding my hand. I never know which of my memories are real—I’ve heard so many stories about that time, from so many different sources, that it’s difficult to distinguish memory from myth. But in this one I was shivering and afraid, and there was a policewoman at my side, stout and comforting, holding me against her hip protectively while men talked above my head. “He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home,” she said.
“Could you take him to your place, Jeannie?” my father said. “Could you take him with you?” That was it. Jeannie. WPC Sage.
• • •