Barnett’s eyes bolted open, and he sat up in bed.
The sound of the front door had woken him. It meant his father was back from the Crown Inn.
He looked at his watch and cursed. He’d been asleep for hours! No way was he going to rest properly tonight. He sat upright and swung his legs from the bed, yawning.
He listened to a voicemail from Gardner asking how he was feeling. She also provided further details regarding the shelter, probably to reassure him that he wasn’t being cast aside. The details made for very interesting listening.
He stepped out of bed, deciding it was now time to confront his father. At this moment, half asleep, he felt in no state to do it. But then, would he ever feel in a state to do it?
He recalled the first time he’d attempted this conversation three years back.
Following Amina’s death, Barnett hadn’t just recovered poems, he’d recovered a mysterious photograph too.
A picture of his mother dated 1990. She was about sixteen and standing beside two other young girls outside Helping Hands. The shelter’s cheap, decrepit sign clearly visible above her. This had been Barnett’s first brush with the truth. After googling Helping Hands, he’d confronted his grieving father.
‘So, she was homeless, so what?’ Richard had shouted. ‘She wasn’t when we married, and she certainly wasn’t when she had you, and she most definitely wasn’t when we gave you the best possible life.’
That was all his father had considered him entitled to.
He’d tried several times over the years, and grabbed a few snippets of information, usually when Richard was drunk. The sexual abuse by a foster parent which led to her homelessness had been the most harrowing moment, and Barnett had spent days reading around the investigation. The disgraced bastard had died in jail. But her actual time in Helping Hands was shrouded in mystery, and Richard never seemed to have any inclination to shine any serious light on it.
Barnett sighed. Right now, his father would have a lot of alcohol in his bloodstream. In his experience, this usually helped. It’d loosen his tongue, at least for a short time, until the blue devils came out to play.
Barnett knew Richard’s routine well. He allowed him fifteen minutes to settle into the lounge to enjoy his chaser. A glass of fine malt. Then, he joined him in the lounge.
Barnett entered a room that had changed little since the early nineties when he’d been growing up here. Undoubtedly, the happiest period of his parents’ lives, hence the sentimental attachment and reluctance to update.
His father sat in jeans and a T-shirt in a single sofa chair alongside the fire. The fire was still in its infancy and was only still licking at the bigger logs. Richard’s eyes were closed, and his hand held the empty glass upright on the sofa’s arm.
‘Dad,’ Barnett said.
Richard opened his eyes and looked at his son. A smile broke on his face. ‘Son. It’s cold out…’ He leaned forward. ‘I saw your car outside and knew you were sleeping. Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine,’ Barnett lied. ‘We just worried about worsening weather and opted to finish up some work at home.’
‘Ha,’ his father said, looking down into his empty glass with a look of disappointment. ‘You know where you get that acting ability from? That ability to spin a yarn?’ He put the glass down at his feet. ‘Your mother.’ He laughed. ‘There never was a problem. Everything is fine. That’s all she ever gave me. No matter what. One time, she got gout. Could barely walk. Took her God knows how long to get down the bloody stairs. Didn’t mention it and told me she was bloody fine. Ha! I mean, where’s her breaking point?’ He stared down at the fire. The bigger logs crackled and spat. ‘She kept saying she was fine even when she wasn’t.’ His face fell. ‘I wonder now if she’d ever have gone to the hospital, if I hadn’t had carried her, moaning in pain, to the car that morning…’
Blue devils were out already then.
‘No yarn. I’m fine. Honest. Just responding to weather warnings.’ Barnett realised he was playing a pointless game. When he got to the point of the conversation, his father would know full well that he wasn’t fine. Then his accusation that he hadn’t told the truth would carry weight.
‘How was Eric, anyway?’ Barnett asked, sitting on the long sofa.
‘Reserved for a pint or two; loud-mouthed, obnoxious and full of opinions on pint three and four. After that, it’s kind of blurred. Ranting and swearing. You know how well he does that.’
‘He’s well, then?’ Barnett asked, laughing.
‘Never better! He always makes me feel I’m doing a grand job of keeping my own emotions in check.’
‘What’re best friends for?’
‘Exactly. That’s why we pick them.’
They both stared at the fire as it grew in intensity. The top logs weren’t being completely consumed, and they spat and crackled aggressively. ‘Go on, son, get to the point. Home early… not working… sitting with me in the lounge… three things vastly out of the ordinary there.’
God, you can be a miserable old bugger! ‘Dad. I need to know more about Mum.’
Barnett looked at him, but his dad kept his eyes on the fire.
Barnett held back a follow-up. Just give him time to process the request…
It was, after all, Richard’s favourite topic of conversation. But it was always on his terms. And always based on his state of mind, which flickered as erratically as the flames currently did.
It’d been long enough. ‘Dad, I—’
‘Need? Why?’
‘Well, want.’ But it was needed, really. It’d crept into the shadows of an investigation.
‘Still… why?’
What a ridiculous question! Why couldn’t he ask about his own mother? Why was his old man such a pain in the arse? ‘Just been thinking a lot. Been reading her poetry—’
He guffawed.
Barnett ignored this and continued, ‘And I just feel there are too many gaps in… sod this! Why can’t I ask? Haven’t I any right to know my mum better?’
His father raised an eyebrow. ‘Ridiculous, son. Tell me what you already know about your mum.’
Opposite to you! ‘Kind… loving… always there for me.’
He smirked over the emphasis – probably detecting it was a jab.
‘She was funny,’ Barnett continued. ‘And she’d have put a bloody Christmas tree up by now, too!’
‘It’s your house!’
‘I’m always working.’
‘Yes, about that—’
‘I’ll also tell you what Mum was good at. Keeping you off the six pints and a whisky afternoon binge…’
Richard’s smirk broadened. ‘Aye. She was.’ He looked away, contemplating something, happily, before turning back.
‘Point proven… to myself at least. You knew your mother as well as anyone could do. She was perfection. You just said so before. What gaps could we possibly fill in here?’
‘Not about before she met you, though. Hardly anything about before.’
His father waved his hand. ‘Before! Before ain’t worth a great deal.’ He pointed at Barnett. ‘Time with you, son. Time with me. Now, that’s what means a great deal.’
Barnett inwardly sighed. He suddenly felt warmer. He wondered if the fire had suddenly intensified, or whether another panic attack was on the cards.
He lowered his eyes for a moment. He’d have to go in strong. Not the best option. Since his mother’s death, Richard had issues with anger and frustration. Although he’d never lashed out, he’d smashed a glass or two, shouted obscenities and sent Barnett to Coventry frequently.
Still, if Barnett didn’t ask these questions, then his colleagues most certainly would tomorrow, and he wouldn’t like that one bit.
Barnett looked up. As he was still wearing his suit, he could reach into his inside pocket and extract the photograph from 1990. He leaned forward and put it on the coffee table.
Richard didn’t dignify it with a look, preferring, instead, to watch the fire. ‘What’s that?’
‘Helping Hands, Dad.’ As soon as he finished the words, Barnett flinched, half-expecting a glass in the face.
Fortunately, that didn’t happen and, fortunately, Richard’s expression didn’t worsen. He just sighed. ‘I thought we did this already?’
Or didn’t do? Matter of perspective.
‘Helping Hands is being investigated.’
Richard looked around at Barnett. ‘Long time coming.’
‘Wouldn’t know. I know nothing about the place.’
‘Ha,’ Richard said. ‘What I know isn’t bloody good. Helping Hands… Helping sodding Hands.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Is this really a gap you need filling?’
Barnett shrugged. ‘I guess we’ve gone beyond the point of it being a choice.’
‘Suit yourself. Ask away – what do you want to know about her life before us? Before Helping pissing Hands.’
‘Well, I know about her life before in Liberia. Even the horrible war stuff near the end. It’s just her two years homeless. Her eight months here, in this place.’
‘For good reason. She didn’t want you to know.’
‘Why not?’
‘Painful. Very painful.’ His father stared into the flames, which were now raging.
‘She’s gone. It won’t hurt her now for me to know the truth.’
His father snorted and looked at him. ‘You misunderstand, son. She wasn’t worried about you knowing for herself. She was worried about the pain you’d feel.’ His father raised an eyebrow and an icy chill went down Barnett’s spine. ‘Some things are best never given the light of day again. Her time in Helping Hands is one such time.’
‘We’re beyond that. I need to hear it.’
Richard rose to his feet. ‘Bloody detectives. Relentless, aren’t they?’ He walked over to the mantelpiece for his bottle of whisky. ‘I’ve met Eric once a week for three years at the Crown. Never ever have I drank over six pints, and one chaser.’ He unscrewed the lid and topped up his glass. ‘Your choice of conversation is hardly something for a sober mind.’ He drank the glass of whisky in one and slammed the bottle down. Then he refilled it and walked back to the single sofa chair. He deposited the glass on the floor beside his feet. ‘Seems I hold the cards here so you can lead. Why now? What’s happened?’
‘It’s best I don’t tell you—’
‘What’s happened?’
Barnett sighed and looked down. How much was he allowed to say? Very little, probably. But better he got something now than his colleagues taking a run at him. ‘Do you recall a James Sykes?’
Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I recall him.’
Barnett felt a surge of adrenaline. Bloody hell.
‘Is he dead?’ Richard asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good, he was a prick,’ his father said, reaching down for his glass. ‘How?’
‘Please, Dad,’ Barnett said. ‘I really can’t tell you.’
‘Never mind,’ Richard said, taking a sip of whisky and placing the glass back at his feet. ‘Least he’s dead. Guess it doesn’t matter how.’
‘We need to work out if his death has any connection to his time running Helping Hands.’
‘I can tell you with no doubt whatsoever that it is. The man was a cockroach. And you know what happens to cockroaches… eventually—’
‘Dad, pipe down! You’re going to make yourself a bloody suspect!’
‘Think I’d probably enjoy that where this man is concerned. Happily take the credit. That man hurt many people. I’m afraid your mother’s story isn’t a unique one. All those accusations that were made against the place! Surely, you’re aware of them all?’
‘Nobody ever proved anything.’
‘Pah! Money talks. And it was a different time, I can tell you. Much easier to brush things under the carpet back then. Especially regarding the homeless. I mean, do you take the word of a homeless person these days, son? I bet you don’t.’
‘I listen to everyone.’
‘Your colleagues?’
Barnett shrugged. ‘Most of them.’
He raised an eyebrow and sighed. ‘Better than hardly any of them, I guess. Because they certainly didn’t listen back then!’
‘There was an investigation that found nothing, with the support of the police, and—’
‘You serious?’ Richard said. ‘Did it even take place? And if it did, how do you know someone didn’t butcher it with bribery?’ Richard said, his face reddening.
‘I’ll be looking into it.’
‘Look into what? It’s all gone. Wiped clean. KYLO changed the place, radically, from head to toe; it was almost as if it’d never existed. The public purse has no appetite for things that never existed. Waste of money.’
‘Maybe. But we now have a murder. So, silence isn’t an option.’
‘Go on then, tell me what you already know.’
‘Accusations of sexual abuse and drug abuse,’ Barnett said. ‘The problem is – it’s all so common with institutions such as this. Comes with the territory. Especially online. They must bat a lot away, and the accusations become less and less powerful, I guess. It was the stuff that wasn’t so prevalent in the public domain which caught our eye,’ Barnett said. ‘It took more digging. A cluster of events between 1989 and 1991. But as I said before, an independent investigation found it not guilty of systemic failure.’
‘Paid off!’
‘Maybe. And like I said, there wasn’t an appetite online to keep things going like there is now. Just kind of died. These events involved two suicides, four drug overdoses and several miscarriages. Excessive numbers considering the short period…’ He broke off, noticing that his father was now sadly regarding the picture of Amina on the wall.
‘And she was there… your mother… for some of it, at least. Two of those deaths were good friends of hers. Those three went through thick and thin together.’
‘Christ,’ Barnett said, lowering his eyes. He felt a sudden, rather overwhelming hollowness inside. His gaze fell to the picture on the table.
His father must have noticed the direction of his attention. ‘Yes… those two… with your mother in that picture. Isla and Britney. That was the day they arrived at Helping Hands. I thank the lord, every single day, that at least your mother made it out. I never met Britney and Isla, but she never stopped talking about those girls.’ He sighed. ‘In a way, I feel like I know them.’
Barnett reached out and touched his mother on the image. I’m sorry, Mum… sorry for what you went through. He looked at the two smiling girls alongside her. They looked so young, so innocent. The smiles were a lie. Young adults putting on a brave face. Desperate for help.
‘Out on the streets,’ Richard continued, ‘Isla and Britney helped her. Remember that your mother was an immigrant. She may have dodged bullets, but sleeping on cold streets in our world requires an altogether unique skill set. They were close, son. Close as could be. Turned out that Isla was pregnant when they all went into Helping Hands. When her child was stillborn, a result of the incompetence of the medical support in the shelter, she spiralled into depression. One night, she invited Amina and Britney up to the roof of the shelter. They tried to stop her, but in the end, she just jumped.’
Barnett looked up at his father, who was now leaning forward, staring sadly into the fire. ‘Then Britney ended up dying of a drug overdose a few weeks later.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Amina was adamant that losing Isla destroyed Britney, so that’s on them bastards too.’
Barnett, who couldn’t believe what he was hearing, was shaking his head as he looked down at his mother. How did you hide so much pain from me? You didn’t need to protect me from all that. I could have listened. I wish you would’ve told me.
He touched her picture again and then brushed a tear away.
‘But your mother was strong,’ Richard said. ‘Remember? Never anything wrong with her. She was like that to the end. Even when she could barely move.’ He broke off, lowered his head, pinched his eyes and cried.
Barnett had only ever seen his father cry once before, and that had been on the day his mother had died. He went over, lowered himself down into a squat, and put his arm around his father’s shoulders. He pulled him close and let him cry. He couldn’t hold back his own tears, but he tried his best to do it in silence.
Eventually, Richard settled. Barnett released him from his tight embrace and rubbed his back instead. ‘I understand, now,’ Barnett said. ‘I understand why you kept the truth from me. The pain she must have gone through, I—’
A stare from the damp, red eyes of his father interrupted him. ‘Oh no, son… sorry… it gets worse. That’s not everything.’
Barnett felt his stomach turning. ‘I just assumed she got out of there—’
His father shook his head, completely pale. ‘No. She was a kid, son. She was homeless with nowhere to go. No, she stayed. After all, she’d someone else to think about and—’ He broke off, reached down for his whisky.
‘Someone else. Who?’
Richard drank the whisky back. ‘The life inside her, son.’
Barnett stood. ‘What? What do you mean?’
‘She was pregnant. Your mother was pregnant.’