Chapter Twenty Five

 

Thursday 5th June – 11.00pm

 

The light meal we had at home was an altogether more relaxed affair than lunchtime and the bottle of red wine that I had consumed cast an umbrella of mellow reflection over me.

We snuggled up together on the sofa with the TV on but the sound turned down with John Martyn’s lazy jazz drawl the perfect accompaniment and Lydia’s soft hair resting on my shoulder, only moving to sip at her Chardonnay.

We sat mostly in silence. The contents of Rhiannon’s letter had left me strangely unmoved and anyway, it was now just thin unrecognisable strips, shredded beyond recall, so I felt at ease with the world, or at least more at ease than I had for a while.

When I consider how it had all panned out, Grinder had almost certainly got what he deserved if what Rhiannon had told me was true, Chloe was probably in the best place now he was gone, but Rhiannon……….?

As the evening drew on I became increasingly aware that my tranquillity was starting to ebb away until I finally had to admit to Lydia that I needed some fresh air. Not a big drinker, she had been gently dozing for some time anyway, and with a lazy happy smile she told me not to be too long and had gone up to bed.

As I pulled on a light jacket and left the house the smell of vanilla seemed to follow me as my thoughts accelerated and I walked into the warm June night under a clear moon.

I wonder how many ‘gentle’ men like me had fallen victim to her and whether she would ever find happiness? No roots, farmed out to strangers all of her childhood and then raped at fourteen, not a recipe for successful relationship building no matter how optimistic you are. And I wonder how much more abuse she had endured in the ubiquitous ‘system’ before Grinder’s ultimate humiliation and how many more people might be due for some retribution? Who knows, she might have a taste for it now? And would she now be regretting her confession to me? Am I now a ‘loose end’ that might need tidying up at a later date?

I keep to the well-lit main streets, usually familiar and comforting but now somehow more threatening as my thoughts grow increasingly darker.

No way you can dress it up, she is a murderer and as far as I know I am the only person apart from Chloe who knows it. And she’s hardly a reliable witness, sounded catatonic by the awful wailing she was making, probably thinks she did kill him; so, probably just me who knows the real truth then. This conclusion does not make me feel easy. It would just be my word against hers I know, but I can’t believe that she would relish further investigation into the events of that terrible night. Is it a risk that she would be willing to take?

She has of course got the ultimate sanction of ruining my marriage if it all came out, but is that enough reason for me to shield a murderer?

If I knew how to contact her I could always play her at her own game and say that I’d written it all down ‘just in case’? But I don’t, so what if she just appears out of the night bent on tidying up the ‘loose end’? I shudder at the thought and glance around me.

I am next to the railings of a local park and sit down at the bench next to the gates, brightly lit by the lamp post directly in front of it. I know I should turn for home but my legs feel weak.

A now familiar indignant rage hits me: am I going to let this woman continue to affect me, that’s the real question; Christ knows she’s already turned my world upside down and then back again.

I think of what I’ve got to lose now and that just makes the decision I have to make all the harder.

I think of Lydia. We now seem closer than ever, recent events seem to have acted as a catalyst, shaking us out of our well worn groove, re-appraising, re-assessing our relationship, anew, or perhaps just rediscovered warmth emerging from all the wreckage.

I think of Mae, as far as I know unaffected by it all apart from some enquires at school to ‘get all the gory details from your dad’ which Lydia deflected reasoning, quite correctly that it was the last thing I needed. She’s growing up fast but she’s my baby and I know she loves me; that special unconditional love that a daughter bestows on her often hapless father.

I think of Phoebe. Not quite as tolerant of my lifestyle as she once was but still a shining beacon of free spirit in her own right. She has stepped back a bit though, perhaps concluding that Lydia and I need some space to grow closer together, each giving a little to accommodate our differing life styles.

And Julius. He just announced his engagement to Pippa but has assured me that it will not affect our music together. He’s even had a couple of enquires from new venues, no doubt alerted to us by all the publicity, but who cares, a new start is what we need, get away from the Cat & Whistle completely.

And the music. The glue that holds it all together for me, the magic that turns existence into real meaning, giving focus where there might otherwise be just the drabness of everyday living. But if the music is usually my saviour then at this moment it is also the nettle pricking my conscience. I may be deluded but I have always thought of my songs and poems as honest, regardless of their quality or what other people think; an honesty that comes from deep within me. If I don’t believe it then I don’t write it, as simple as that. So where does that leave me as far as Rhiannon is concerned?

The music and the poems brought us together and she must have recognised the honesty in them, ‘a flair for cutting through to the motional schisms that affect us all at some time’? If that is not dependent on honesty then I don’t know what is?

So, if I do nothing about her will I just be living a lie for the rest of my life? Can I put pen to paper expecting to churn out truisms with that on my conscience? Or am I a fool to even consider stirring it all up now she is gone?

A cloud obscures the moon temporarily darkening the street causing me to shiver in the cooling night air. I stand and cross to the other side of the empty road and stand at the bottom of the steps to the large police station, its brightly lit interior a stark contrast to the black shrouded empty industrial units that surround it.

I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and take two steps up so I can see into the blue panelled reception area with its no doubt reinforced glass fronted desk. I see a blonde head bent down, scribbling on a large pad, she looks up, stretches her neck and then bends down again to continue. She looks friendly enough, probably no more than thirty, quite pretty in a hard sort of way.

I look at my watch, just past eleven thirty, Lydia will be waiting for me, I shiver as the sky darkens again and a spot of rain touches my face.

I resist looking upwards though, as it’s a stupid thing to do, as it’s definitely black and obviously cloudy and what the hell does that tell me……?