6. Symphony in Sunlight
………….The statues are dancing out in the square,
No one can see but they don’t care.
The snow lay sleepily across the gardens and pathways of the city. Bob looked out of his leaded light windows; he could see the city centre from his small terraced house. The Christmas lights were just visible through the gloom of early morning. It was 4am. Bob had been awake most of the night. Last week, he had just about come to terms with the fact that Lucy was not coming back. He had blown it – happen, she did not like being used as a punch-bag. He had promised himself to start afresh, file for divorce and find a new sparring partner.
‘Stop sitting around and wasting your life Robert Simpson’ He instructed himself ‘thirty is not old, you can start again – you must, life goes on’
Bob often had meaningful debates with himself, he felt it was the only time he had any worthwhile discussion with anyone remotely intelligent.
However since a few days ago; since that letter, the letter that Bob received from the Nat West Bank, or rather that Lucy received and Bob had opened, the whole business was back in the melting pot.
‘Bloody Chesford, it’s miles away – how will I find her anyway?’ He argued with himself ‘You must try – Why should I? – I should forget her and start again, that is what we agreed – I should never have took the letter back out of the waste-bin, Shouldn’t have even opened it - Now look what you‘ve done - right bloody can of worms!
And that was the reason that Bob was standing at his window at 4am on a cold December morning, he had been deep in conversation with himself all night! So wrapped up in his discourse in fact that he had not even noticed what time it had started snowing. Not that the Northeast of England was any stranger to harsh weather, some would say the inhabitants are bred tough up there to cope with the harsh climate. Others would say the opposite was true. That it is the harsh conditions that produce the breeding: ‘Nature versus Nurture’ a philosophical argument with which the experts can bore us all silly.
Lucy had not been Bobs’ first girlfriend, far from it, but she had been the first one he had asked to marry him, why he didn’t know, not now anyway. He knew five years ago or he supposed he did otherwise, he castigated himself ‘Why did I marry her?’
‘But it had been good – she had been a wonderful wife.’
‘What do mean had been’ said Bob to his inner psyche we are still married you fool stop talking in the past. Well what happened to this wonderful marriage then Bob?’
‘It was the children thing, we both so much wanted a family’ ‘
‘Bah! Excuses Bob, you just making excuses for your pathetic inadequacies’
‘God I must snap out of this, I’m going mental’ Bob finally spoke an element of truth He was trying desperately to establish whether he was winning the argument or not, funnily enough, he usually did.
‘I will go today, I’ve decided – no time like the present, I’ll drive down this morning.’
Bobs’ mind was made up (it should perhaps have been locked up, but no matter) he had reached a decision, quite a substantial achievement for a woolly-minded liberal like Bob, who spent so long on the fence he required surgery to have the splinters removed from his backside. He spent the next hour or so rushing around getting everything together that he might conceivably need. He did not like long journeys, but when he did make them he always tried to be well prepared, well organised. He checked and double-checked everything then, when he was satisfied, went down the garden and into the garage to prepare the car. He looked at the old Rover and smiled “Faithful old girl” he said. “Never let me down have you? – Well almost never” he corrected himself “Do you remember the time we were stuck in quicksand in Scotland” he smiled in the reflective bonnet of the car “and the time in the Lakes when I thought I’d lost both you and Lucy” he laughed as he chatted over all times with the Rover.
It didn’t answer!
Silence like a dragon sleeps, justice like a serpent creeps.
Never ending dreams, descending into the depths of borrowed time.
Sarah woke up sweating profusely. Mark was jogging along the promenade at Hastings. The priest, resplendent in his gold and purple robes, was being crucified on the lonely telescope. He looked remarkably like Enoch. The man with the nicotine teeth was chasing Sarah through the dark shadows of Pevensey Castle as the charger on his white steed came riding out of the sunset like some old cowboy movie……… Sarah screamed out.
“Sarah, are you going to school today?”
“Mark?”
It was her mother who finally plucked the dreamer from her ramblings. Mrs Sullivan was an intensely religious woman. She had brought up two children almost single-handed, her husband spent so much time in the pub they should have got married there those 25 years ago instead of next door! (Just why is it that there is always a public house near to a Catholic Church)?
Edna Sullivan had been very worried about Sarah lately. She did not seem to be eating as much as usual, and having seen so many TV programs, and magazine articles about young teenage girls and anorlexia, (or whatever it was called) she began to wonder if that was the cause of Sarah’s problem. With the exams coming up I suppose she could be off her food, Edna had thought, but she should be working more. She should knuckle down and get some good results. As Edna had said to Sarah-Jane many times, “I don’t want you ending up like me.” Mrs Sullivan knew her daughter was a bright girl, she, unlike her husband had been to all the school open days and avidly read the reports: -
“Sarah is academically excellent. She is a bright girl and has a no problem interpreting the work. It is her application that needs attention.” Edna knew what that meant; it was school master jargon for ‘Boys’, an unnecessary distraction for teenage girls. She liked Mark Hero however; at 19 she thought him about the right age, but in view of Sarah’s’ academic career, she viewed them both too young and wanted them to cool any relationship until after Sarah’s eighteenth birthday. Edna Sullivan had already made plans for her daughter’s future career path.; she was very optimistic for Sarah’s future, University, then teaching or even the church, were both possibilities (unfortunately, she was yet to discuss any of this with Sarah-Jane). She knew better than to interfere in the relationship though. She had expressed her opinion two years ago and they were still together. ‘As long as Sarah is happy she said out loud and then realising, that she was not alone in the house she whispered to herself“ and doesn’t end up with a lump like Frank Sullivan”
“Sarah, its eight o’clock – Are you getting up now please.”
The sky was continuing to rain its illusions down on the unsuspecting victim. Sarah locked wide-eyed in the scenes before her, was again wrenched from the Brighton sea front by the familiar voice. This time it was real. It was her mother! Still in a state of half-sleep, she cast aside the duvet and answered the call.
“Okay I’m up I heard you the first time!” she lied unconvincingly.
Sarah-Jane’s lifeless corpse came down the stairs into the kitchen and gave her mum a peck on the cheek before slumping down onto the hard wooden chair “Morning Mum”; she managed through a stifled yawn.
“You look wonderful this morning,” Edna said “What time did you come in?”
“Not late really” Sarah groaned, angry at being the brunt of her mothers inquisition at such an early hour of the morning.
“Hmm – here get this tea down you while I get your sisters ready, I want you to take Mary with you today and drop her off at St Winifred’s. She’ll be dressed soon.”
“Oh mum, do I have to, I’m tired – I don’t have to be in ‘till after nine.”
“I know but it won’t hurt you - what about doing some revision in the library? Your exams aren’t far off. Anyway I need to see Dr Patrick this morning I won’t have time.”
“What you seeing him for?”
“Never mind I’ve got an appointment at 9-15am, it’s the only one could get, now will you take her or not?” Edna sounded agitated, unusually so for her, she was normally so calm about most things.
“Okay, don’t go on about it, I’m getting a headache now.” Sarah held her head “I’ll take her if you like.” Sarah grumbled.
“Serves you right, gallivanting about until all hours, dancing, and drinking no doubt, and you a good catholic girl. If it wasn’t for Mark keeping an eye on you, I don’t where you’d be. I’ve a good mind to tell your father what time you came in”
“Yeah, yeah when he’s awake or not in the pub tell him, see if I care. I’m going to get washed” said Sarah disinterestedly, and she got up from the chair to stretch her body in an attempt to dislodge the marching band that had become encamped in her skull. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had been able to keep time properly, but the drums were wildly off beat, and the trumpets sounded horrendous
“What about your breakfast?” her mother’s voice showed genuine concern.
“I’m not hungry” and a sullen Sarah sauntered back upstairs to the bathroom.
“Just have some toast then” Her mother called after her.
“No thanks mum, I’m all right, honestly, I just feel a bit queasy.”
The mornings always came too early for Sarah Jane. An armoured division of foot soldiers, goose-stepping around her head had now joined the marching band, Sarah leant over the porcelain sink trying to flush them out with splashes of cold water. Fortunately they could all swim, but two Paracetamol and a pot of coffee eventually did the trick.
Rest you eyes and go to sleep in the yellow contented corn
Of that sun-filled field.
Close you heavy lids and stare up at the vast blue curtain of sky
Which towers above you…….
Mark was busy or at least pretending to be busying, sifting aimlessly through the piles of unimportant memos, invoices and delivery notes that had accumulated on his desk at the Velvet Sun Factory. Now there is an interesting story as to how the Pointers Inks came to be known as ’The Velvet Sun Factory’ but now is not the time to tell it, suffice to say that work out on the shop floor was dirty, hot and dangerous. Even in the office, Mark was forever wiping the dust from his chair and desktop. The air was always full of powdery particles clearly visible in the streams of sunlight infiltrating through the carefully arranged skylights on the roof of the factory.
It had taken about a week to get the place straight after the fire. The H.S.E had been in to investigate, just as Larry had said, but they came to no firm conclusion, just a raft of recommendations. They were testing samples of stuff they had taken away and no doubt would be back soon to carry out further tests and to make sure their safety directives had been followed. Jack and the Fat Man had already decided, despite lack of evidence that sabotage was at work.
“Things just don’t burst into flames” Jack had said, “There will be a total ban on smoking within the factory boundary in future. The H.S.E. have told us to provide a cabin outside in the yard, it will be here tomorrow and from then on, it will be the only place where you will be allowed to smoke.”
“Good idea” Larry chimed in endeavouring as usual to endear himself to management.
“It’s all right for you; you smoke like a chimney all day long in your cab” Captain Womach remarked pointedly.
“Smoking is bad for your health anyway – you should give up!” (A reformed smoker really is a big pain in the butt – cigarette or otherwise)
“Thank you Mr Porter-Brown for you lesson in personal health habits, now can we get back to what we are supposed to be doing” Jack spoke in his condescending tone. He dismissed any further protests with a wave of his hand and concluded the discussion. “These rules will be brought in with immediate effect so just get on with it.” And that was why Mark was sitting in the wooden shack sucking on a Duty Free he’d been lucky enough to cadge of Janice, when Jack came over to tell him that his presence was required upstairs. The Fat Man wanted to see him.
Mark knocked on the hardboard-covered door. “Come in” the booming voice of the Fat Man bellowed out. Mark entered and saw two gentlemen standing by the desk. One was a policeman or at least he was dressed like a policeman, the other just looked like a policeman.
“These gentlemen would like a quick word with you Mark please, you can use my office”
The Fat Man left the room, he had work to do in the lab he said, but everyone knew you could hear every word that spoken in the MD’s office if you stood in a certain position on the balcony. Mark had visions of Jack and the Fat Man standing behind the office listening.
“Nothing wrong is there,” Mark said as soon as the coast was clear.
“No, no Sir, nothing to worry about, just routine really, we will not keep you very long”
That’s a shame thought Mark, anything to get away from those rotten invoices. You have two days off and come back to a weeks work.
“Its really just about John Simmons, do you know him?”
“Vaguely, I’ve seen him around, why?
“We will ask the questions Sir, if you don’t mind” The uniformed man has got the power of speech after all, Mark pondered - things must be improving in the police force, articulate policeman whatever next!
“We are just making enquiries around his colleagues and friends,” continued the plain-clothes policeman who had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Jenkins.
“I wouldn’t call myself a friend of his,” said Mark.
“You didn’t like him then?” - I fell in to that one thought Mark.
“No, I hardly knew him that’s all; spoke to him a couple times. I didn’t know
him well enough to either like or dislike him really” Mark was flustered and he tried to repair the damage“Why all the questions, what’s happened?”
“Mr Simmons died in the early hours of yesterday morning in hospital. He had received stab wound earlier in the week at the – er - Roostertail is that the name of it Jones?”
“Yes Sir” the uniform replied.
“Do you go to the club often Mr Hero?” the detective continued.
“Sometimes yes, most weekends I suppose Mark said defensively.
“Where you at the club on the fourteenth, a week last Sunday, Sir?”
“Yes, we left before the end about 1 o’clock I think – work you know how it is.”
“We, Sir you were not there alone then?
Mark felt cornered; he had not done anything wrong, but these two made him feel guilty.
“No couple of mates you know how it is” Mark realised he was repeating himself,
“No Sir, we do not know how it is that is what we are trying to establish – Did you see a fight break out say about 12-45am?”
“There was a bit of a squabble on the other side of the floor, I didn’t see much though, thought nothing of it usual stuff, you know how.” he corrected himself “you know how easy these arguments start?”
“Quite, well thank you for your time Mr Hero, you understand we are just making preliminary enquiries into the events of that night. We are talking to everyone who was at the club or may have known Mr Simmons. The membership list seemed a good place to start”. The detective’s sidekick held up a piece of paper. “We won’t keep you from your work any more, if you could perhaps pop into the station some time and give us a statement, we would be most grateful” Mark nodded “Thank you for your time then Sir” The two men moved towards the door.
“Stabbed to death you said,” Mark was stunned. He knew there was a knife Paul had told him but no one died he was positive Well almost positive.
“No Mr. Hero I did not say that.”
“But you said he was stabbed at the club” Mark protested.
“And so he was, but we have yet to establish the cause of death, we do not have any more information as yet.” Now Mark was even more puzzled, intrigued even “I’ll come to the station on Thursday if that’s ok, I’m only working half day, and I have a dental appointment so I won’t be able to speak much” Mark smiled.
“You will be able to write though Sir” The uniformed constable was certainly adept at stating the blindingly obvious. ‘Must be destined for promotion’ Mark thought. ‘He’ll be Chief Constable within a year’
“Goodbye then Sir” DS Jenkins held out his hand. Mark shook it and watched as they strode through the office door and down the steps to the waiting vehicle.
Mark stared at the open door as they left. He was convinced the stabbing was just superficial someone was always causing hassle somewhere in town at weekend it was par for the course. What was that song his dad used to play, oh yes ‘Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting’ Elton John must have been to Chesford! I’ll have to see Sarah-Jane before they do, he thought, although as she wasn’t a member she wouldn’t be on the detectives list so that prospect was remote.
Stop awhile to look at the mysteries that surround the universe
And blow away on the wind
Rest you eyes and go to sleep in the yellow contented corn
Of that sun-filled field…….
Whilst Lucy was upstairs readying herself for the shopping trip, Michael was confirming his booking for a personal shopper that he had arranged with the Trust. He would get Lucy to drop him at the entrance to the Mall. There the shopper, he had arranged through the Trust would meet him. Lucy could go off and do her own little jobs whilst he could get her birthday present in secret. Lucy thought he did not know that it was her birthday, but he had details of all his carers on the computer. Michael was extremely organised and very competent when he wanted to be. As a young business executive, he was very adept and was in line for a promotion before his accident. He had decided last week, when he had dismissed Aysha that he would treat Lucy a lot better, she was good for him. They had slept together, they had even made love together in a primitive sort of way, and she showed real understanding. It was her 30th birthday coming up and Michael could be very generous when he was so inclined. He would buy her a ring; hence all the secrecy. He might even make it an engagement ring; he had not quite determined that bit.
Lucy was upstairs changing because she had now moved all of her belongings from the flat into the spare bedroom, which had previously been used only as a storeroom. Michael had already placed a notice in the Tribune advertising the vacant flat to rent. He was adamant that he would not sell it. She heard the radio burst into life: -
‘If I gave you the chance to live your life again
To put all the wrong things right
Would you jump at the chance or not change a thing
Would you start right away tonight?’
Michael liked rock music but not that song; the lyrics were too close to home, too painful. He switched to cassette and pressed record.