sixteen

It’s taken me a long time to write that. I’ve crossed out all sorts of stuff, like the rope of saliva hanging from Buckley’s mouth and – well, I’ve crossed it out. Things about Lionel. And Dickie fighting like James Bond. No need for it.

I had my stitches out yesterday. I’ll have a scar running along my cheekbone. My bouts of nausea are over, but I must be careful not to get any more bangs on the head. A yellow face for me, faded from purple; and a yellow throat for Dickie, and a croaky voice. He has bruises on his arms and chest and back. It’s a good thing we’ve both been on calcium supplements for the last few years, and eating the acidophilus Dickie loathes, or our bones would have snapped like kindling wood.

Clyde Buckley is on life support. Roly’s blow broke his skull and pushed edges of bone into his parietal and occipital lobes. He kept a thread of consciousness that drew him out of the house and across the lawn towards the back of the section, where a right of way passes the Catholic school. Buckley had his beetle car parked beyond the gates.

So far no one has claimed him. Perhaps there are no Buckleys left. There’s no one to say that his life support should be switched off. The doctors will decide. I hope it’s soon, for everyone’s sake.

We had Roly with us until the police let him move back into Access Road. I’m not sure Lionel left a will, but one way or the other Dickie and I will make sure Roly gets the house. When I mentioned it, he said, ‘But half of it’s yours.’

‘We don’t need it,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it up for you. New paint and a new roof, all that stuff.’

‘No, no –’

‘Yes, Roly. Dickie and I are millionaires.’

‘Are you? Good God.’ He retains a 1930s view of the world and doesn’t understand that little millionaires like us are a penny each.

He’s back in his garden and clearing out truckloads of junk from the house. Dickie and I will drive over when we’re ready and tell him how we think things should be done. Just about everything new, I suppose: wallboard and ceilings, wiring and plumbing and piles. No blue paint on the outside walls, I’ll insist on that. And the rose window must stay, even though it threw its light on Clyde Buckley.

Cheryl wants to see the house and do a valuation.

No, I say, and she doesn’t argue. She’s moving in with Tom Quinney this weekend. Oh dear and three cheers.

The police have questioned us many times. For a while it seemed they would charge Roly with something! How absurd. I think they’ve let it go now. They’re pleased to have the book closed on Clyde Buckley, as one of them put it, but they can’t understand why he killed Lionel.

I say, It goes right back with those two. And with our family as well. My father used to chase him away, and I suppose he brooded on it and decided to get even and kill us all.

It’s the best I can do.

Dickie, do you think I’m right not to tell them about Elizabeth Gillies? I don’t want concrete cutters screaming over her head. I want her to lie undisturbed, with her mild pod eyelids.

We held Lionel’s funeral yesterday. It was family only. Roly wants to tip the ashes in his garden. It sounds gruesome to me, but Roly says simply, I think he’d like to be there.

Dickie and I walk on the beach, hand in hand and rather slowly. Dickie is chastened. He had no idea life could be like that. (Tell me if I’m wrong, Dickie.) It’s too cold for bare feet. Thin waves edge up the sand and melt away. I hunt for rhymes. Wave, cave. Sky, belie.

Find, end. That’s a half-rhyme. At my age I think I’m allowed.