A breeze stirred, the delicate branches of the cherry-blossom rippled, the leaves whispered. The two men faced each other.
Hutchison spoke, his voice a growl, his face a contortion of anger. More beast than man, thought Stark.
“What the hell is this about? Explain yourself, Stark.”
“You came.”
“I got an email. From you, I assume. Pack your stuff, Stark. As of now, you no longer work for…”
Stark cut him off. He was tired of the bluster and bullshit and all the fucking stupid threats.
“How did you know to come here?”
Hutchison frowned. “What?”
“The message I sent.” Stark knew the words by heart. 6.30 this evening at the cherry-blossom tree. I know what you did. I have proof. And she wants payback.
“I don’t need to take this shit,” said Hutchison. He raised a hand, pointed at Stark. His hand trembled. Anger or fear? “Your days of being a lawyer are over. Mark my words. I don’t know what this charade is about, but this is it. You’re finished. You hear me. You’re finished!”
“She was your sister,” Stark said. Tears filled his eyes when he spoke. His heart ached for the little girl in his dreams. “She was eight years old when it started. You were nineteen. For six years. Secret, furtive rape. And she never told a soul, not even her parents – your parents – because she was terrified and guilt-ridden and consumed with self-hatred.” Stark gazed at the tree, his voice gentle. “And even when it was over, she relived it, every day, every hour of her life, until one day she came here, to this place, and chose a way out, because she had no choice.”
“You’re mad,” said Hutchison.
“She told me many things.” He dredged the images up into his mind’s eye. “Her room, when the abuse began. A pink mermaid lampshade. Butterfly handles. Maybe you don’t remember. I think you do.”
Hutchison’s voice rose. “My sister suffered from depression. How could she tell you anything? She died over ten years ago. You didn’t know her. How dare you…”
Stark was weary to the core. “You got her pregnant.”
Hutchison stood, his face slack, anger gone. He said nothing.
“She was fourteen. She was here, at this beautiful place, alone and scared and helpless and in great pain, where she suffered a miscarriage.”
Hutchison stared, glassy-eyed.
“And she kept a diary.”
Hutchison blinked. Still nothing.
“Her writing improves as she gets older,” said Stark. “She doesn’t hold back. She buried it under the tree the day she lost your child.” Stark took a pink spiral-bound book wrapped in polythene from his plastic bag – the item he had gone to find early that morning, where he knew it would be.
He tossed it at Hutchison’s feet. Hutchison stared at it.
“Aren’t you going to look at it?” said Stark.
Hutchison licked his lips, glanced at Stark. He bent down, picked it up, held it in his hands as if it were something precious. He carefully peeled off the thick polythene, opened it.
“It’s quite explicit, in its childish way,” said Stark. “Which makes it all the more harrowing. By the way, it’s a copy.”
Hutchison leafed through the pages, looked up, appraised Stark with a glittering gaze. “This proves nothing. A kid’s scribbles. You’re sick in the head, Stark. Your brain got scrambled when you got shot. Pity Alfie Willow didn’t finish the job. If you even try…”
“And she left this as well.” Stark reached into his bag, pulled out an old VHS video tape, also wrapped in heavy polythene.
“Your parents bought her a video camera when she was eleven. Do you remember? No? I’m sure you do if you think hard enough. She put it to good use. She hid it on her dressing table. Cosied up with some fluffy toys. You’re the star of the piece. It’s a three-hour tape. The quality is very good. You’ll have no trouble recognising yourself. And it has all the sounds. You grunting like an animal. She quietly sobbing and pleading. A little girl begging for you to stop raping her.”
He stepped forward, approached Hutchison. He held the package out. “Take it.”
Close-up, Stark saw the sweat glisten on Hutchison’s face, saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Hutchison took the video tape.
Stark stood close. He could smell the man’s aftershave. Mingled with the sweat, a faintly rancid odour. Hutchison was maybe five ten, a clear four inches smaller than Stark. Stark leaned down, whispered in his ear.
“And that’s a copy, too.”
Hutchison gasped, lurched back, lost his footing, fell on his side. He scrambled to his feet, his office suit smeared with dirt. He backed away.
“What do you want? Money? Is it about money? I can do that. I can get you money.”
“It’s about justice,” said Stark softly.
“Justice!” hissed Hutchison. “She’s dead. Why rake up old stories? It happened. It’s past.” His face contorted into a twisted leer. “She had it coming. Little slut. She wanted it. She just didn’t know she wanted it. No one cares about her sad, pathetic little life.”
Stark regarded the man before him. Any doubts he had disappeared. The truth was clear. The dead had spoken, and the dead didn’t lie. Strangely, knowing this gave him new purpose.
“I care,” said Stark. “And I’m pretty sure the police will care as well. And if they don’t, it won’t matter. I’ll make sure the world knows what you did.”
“Really?” Hutchison gave him a sly look. Possibly a look he had practised many times in the litigation courts. “What have you got? A kid’s notebook, full of fantasy. An old VHS tape showing something over thirty years ago. And you! You couldn’t have spoken to my sister. You never knew her.” He flung the diary and tape to the side. “You’ll get laughed at. I’ll make sure of it. The way it looks, the whole thing’s a concoction of lies. Everybody knows I dislike you. I’ll spin it so well, you’ll end up looking like a sad, twisted, vindictive loser, unhinged and dangerous, out to get his boss. You’ll lose everything. You’ll never work again.”
Stark reacted with a cold smile. “You’ve misjudged this situation, Paul. I have nothing to lose. It seems to me, you’re the one who has everything to lose. Big-time lawyer. Prestige. Wealth. Family? So why don’t we toss the dice, and let Lady Luck decide how they fall. I’ll go to the police, tell them you’re a paedophile who raped his sister, and show them what I have. Let’s see how that plays out.”
Hutchison’s demeanour changed. His round face crumpled, his chin wobbled, his shoulders sagged. His breath came in a rattling wheeze. He bowed his head, stared at the ground. “Please,” he said. “We can work this out. Tell me what you want? Tell me what you need me to do!”
“Go to the police. Admit your crime.”
Hutchison looked up. His eyes glistened.
“I can’t do that.”
Stark had sudden insight. The repercussions crushed him. He took a breath. “There are others,” he whispered. “Your sister was the first.” He hesitated. Dread yawned up. “You have a family?”
Hutchison opened his mouth, as if to speak, uttered only a despairing wail. He turned, and ran.
Stark shouted after him. Hutchison glanced round, his expression wild and stricken. He tripped on an exposed root, fell forward, slammed his head on the trunk of the cherry-blossom tree, rolled awkwardly, momentum forcing his torso one way, his head the other. He lay still.
Stark, startled by the turn of events, waited. Hutchison didn’t stir. Stark made his way over, tentatively. Hutchison was on his side, neck twisted at an ugly angle, blood flowing from a great gash in his skull. The eyes were open, but the spark was gone. Life had fled. Stark crouched, touched the side of Hutchison’s throat, seeking a pulse. Nothing. The neck was broken. His life blood was draining into the soil, into the roots.
Stark took a deep breath, looked up at the sky. Darkness was falling. Clouds loomed heavy. From above, a flicker of movement. A raven flew down, to land on a branch close to where Stark stood. It manoeuvred its body in small jerky movements, to watch sidelong, scrutinising with its button-black eye.
Redress had been achieved. He felt empty. The bizarre events of his life had squeezed him dry, and now here he stood, at the foot of the tree – her tree – a husk, energy sapped, weary to the bone.
There was nothing further to do, other than make an anonymous call to the police. He retrieved the diary, and the video tape, and put them in his plastic bag. The video tape had been a gamble. It was blank – purchased that afternoon. He had to be certain. He needed a tipping point, to get Hutchison to panic and admit his crime. It seemed the gamble had paid off. The video camera also had been a bluff. He hoped the mere act of presenting the tape would trigger a false memory, and Hutchison would believe. It seemed that gamble had paid off as well.
He left the clearing, and the cherry-blossom tree, back along the path he had come, to his car. Whatever this is, it’s over, he thought.
But the journey was far from over. For Jonathan Stark, the journey was just beginning.