Gavin is behind me again, shouting in my ear, his voice battling against the rain as it lashes against the shed roof, pounds the patio, bashes against the fence. The wind whips up, gaining in speed, pushing at our backs. Gavin pulls at my arm. I shake him free, kicking out at him, throwing him off balance again. He is being gentle with me. I know that. If he really wanted, he could pick me up, carry me off without breaking a sweat and yet he hasn’t. That’s because he is treading carefully, thinking I’m unhinged, that I have lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe I am on the brink of madness doing this, on the verge of a breakdown thinking such thoughts. I don’t care. Nothing will stop me. Nothing and nobody. I’ll keep going until I find him.
I need tools, a shovel, something that can get me deeper into the earth. The soil is shifting easily. It’s wet, malleable, but I need more. I need to get lower, as far down as I can go. I’ll go to the centre of the earth if I have to. I am thinking all of this as I work furiously at the mud, knowing that I have to break my pace at some point to go into the shed, retrieve the necessary utensils and finish this job. And then I stop, my hand resting on something. I push farther and farther in, grasp at it, my fingers furled around it, this item I have found. I tug, pull at it, feel it give, a slow loosening as it rises to the surface through the gloop and the mud and the water.
And then it is free. I am holding it close to me, pressing it to my chest, pushing it against the sodden fabric of my nightclothes, this object that I have sucked out of the wet loam.
My son is standing behind me in the pounding rain. A clap of thunder suddenly cracks overhead, the clouds ripping apart, unleashing more rain. Despite all of this, I can hear his voice – gentle, coaxing. Pleading. I can feel the heft of his hand on my shoulder, a tender touch that tries to move me out of this small space, out of the trench I have dug with my bare hands. But I don’t respond. I can’t. I am frozen to the spot, stuck in a moment. Trapped in a time-warp. Because I know now, what this thing is that is pressed against my shivering body. I can feel its shape, the moulding of the rotten, woollen lining. If I try hard enough, close my eyes and concentrate, I can feel the soft skin that once fitted inside it.
I hold it up in front my face, a scream escaping from my lips, his name repeated over and over and over.
Simon. Simon. Simon.
Simon’s slipper. It’s here. If his slipper is here, then so is he. So is he…
31
We fall back together on the grass, the muddied, rotten slipper still clutched between my fingers, Gavin’s arms locked around my waist. I am nuzzled into his shoulder, tears streaming, my sobs wild, visceral. I don’t think I will ever be able to stop now I have started. I will drown in them – over forty years of unshed tears. He holds me close, trying to placate me, to soothe and reassure me. He asks me what is going on. I can’t speak, choking on every word whenever I try to explain.
‘Mum, please. You’re scaring me! What the hell is going on here?’
My body heaves. My head buzzes. I want to explain, to tell him what I have found, but every word feels gruelling. I swallow, try to catch my breath, releasing it from my clutches, waving it in the air between us, spluttering, sobbing. ‘It’s his slipper, Gavin. It’s Simon’s slipper. I finally remembered. I remembered what happened that night. I know where he is.’
My face is wet, streaming with rain and tears and snot but I can still see Gavin’s reaction, the stiffening of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes. This is the time, the only time I have, to persuade him, to get him to help me, not write me off as deranged. A woman undergoing a massive breakdown. I won’t be shuffled back inside, told to calm down, that I’m not thinking clearly. I have to get him on my side. I have to get him to help me find Simon. It’s now or never.
‘Please, Gavin. Please hear me out. He’s here. I know he is. You can either help me or not but I’m going to do it anyway.’
‘Do what, Mum? What’re you going to do?’ His face is close to mine now, a wall of rain slicing between us, drenching us. Keeping us together. Keeping us apart.
‘I’m going to get a spade and find him, Gavin. That’s what I’m going to do.’
I am up on my feet and heading into the shed before he can stop me. Which he will. I can tell by the look on his face, he thinks I’m having a mental episode. He will be raking over it in his mind, assuming Warren’s death has pushed me over a precipice. He will rush inside, head upstairs, wake Gemma, ring a doctor, ask for help, tell them his mum needs help, needs restraining. And if he does that, it will be over before it’s even begun.
Time is of the essence. I can’t let any of that happen. I have to move quickly, get that shovel, start digging.
It’s dark inside the shed, my feet slipping on the dusty floor. A rack of old tools is stacked high on a metal hook at the back. I take one, turn and see Gavin standing behind me. I flinch, have visions of him grabbing it from me, throwing it to one side, refusing to allow me access to the narrow strip of land between the shed and the fence. A person-sized strip of land. Simon-sized.
He doesn’t. He steps forward, hugs me, speaks clearly, softly. ‘I’ll do it, Mum. Tell me where you want me to dig and I’ll do it.’
My son is humouring me. I don’t care. He’s helping and that’s all that counts. It’s all I’ve ever wanted – to be listened to, helped, not turned away, eschewed, told I am overreacting, that my worries are ridiculous. Irrational and unfounded. Finally, somebody is taking my side and I am elated.
He doesn’t expect to find anything. I can tell by the look on his face, the faraway expression, his slow, deliberate movements as he takes the spade and begins to carve away at the ground, pulling weeds aside, slicing at the soil, unearthing great clumps of it and throwing it over his shoulder. It lands, a rising mound of mud, weeds and rubble. Over forty years’ worth of debris. We have a lot of work to do. These are the thoughts that are rumbling around my head as Gavin shifts the wet soil, digging, digging, digging. So much effort. So much work to do. Except there isn’t and we don’t. After only a matter of minutes he stops, drops to his knees, starts pulling at the ground with his hands, tearing at it, panting and gasping.
And then it happens. He turns to me, his face crumpled, his eyes wide, brimming with tears. ‘Mum,’ he says, an element of panic creeping into his voice. ‘We need to call somebody. Go inside and get the phone. Please. Do it now!’
And then the world begins to spin, the heavy night sky lowering, crushing me; the clouds, the stars, the weight of each raindrop pinning me to the ground, pushing my face onto the wet grass, pressing me hard into the loam.
I don’t reply. I can’t. Gavin waits, watches, then steps over me, heads back inside, leaving me out here alone. I scramble up, crawl on my hands and knees to where he was digging. The place he dug to try and mollify me. The place where he has found something that scared him, made him bolt for help.
Water has begun to fill the hollow, that wretched dark space next to the fence. I scoop it out with my hands, so much of it. Freezing, dirty water. And then I stop, my fingers landing on a solid object. A cold, hard length of something. I don’t need to lift it out, to inspect it. I trace the shape of it with my fingertips, knowing what it is. I shriek. Fall backwards. Let out a muffled howl, relief and misery, years and years and years of it escaping in a long, deep moan.
The length of bone is grimy, covered with compacted dirt, but nothing can disguise what it is. I hold it in front of me. My hands are trembling, my body shaking.
He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.
All this time and he was so close by, calling out to me. Waiting to be found. Our connection was never truly severed. I knew it. I just knew.
I sense Gavin’s presence behind me, can feel his fear, his growing disquiet. I turn, look into his eyes, water half blinding me, hold the bone up into the air, clutching at it as if my life depends on it. ‘It’s Simon, Gavin. Simon is here. He was here all the time.’
The hot tea fails to warm me. Every inch of me is like ice, my body aching as I shiver, my teeth chattering, my legs knocking together like ninepins. Gemma’s arm is around my shoulders. She is pulling me towards her, trying to comfort me. She thinks I’m upset. I’m not. What I am is relieved. Relieved that it is finally all over. Except it isn’t. We’re not quite there just yet, at that elusive finishing line. There are lots of unanswered questions – questions that may never get a proper, satisfactory response. How can my mother possibly recall the events of that night? She is the only one left who would know the truth, the events locked in a cell deep in the recesses of her brain. A brain that no longer functions as it should. And if she can’t tell us, then how will we ever know what happened?
Outside, a team of police officers battle against the elements as they head towards the grave. Simon’s grave. His final resting place. I don’t need to wait for the results of any DNA test or forensic investigations to confirm my suspicions. It’s him. My lovely brother. My Simon.
Before me sits Sergeant Duffield, a look I can’t quite fathom evident in her face, the way she is watching me, assessing me. Everything I do and say is being noted and held under a microscope for closer scrutiny. For now, all I want to do is wait here until they find the rest of him. I’m not leaving this cottage until their search is complete.
‘We need to contact your sister. Can you give us her number so we can call her?’ Sergeant Duffield’s voice is soft, gentle but I know for certain that this is an act. She is on duty, watching for chinks in our armour, waiting for us to collapse under the strain, to fall apart and for all our secrets to come spilling out. We’re all suspects and guilty until proven otherwise.
Gavin is on his feet, handing over his phone for her to see. She scrolls through it, notes down Kim’s number and excuses herself, disappearing into the relative privacy of the hallway. We hear her voice, a whisper in the silence of the living room, as she speaks. I can hear snatches of the conversation, stray words filtering through to where we are sitting.
Discovery.
Forensic investigation.
Questions.
I wonder if it’s Kim or Greg she is speaking to. I wonder what they are thinking, what their expressions are as they listen to Sergeant Duffield, whether they are wide-eyed and incredulous or are thinking this is a sick prank. A false alarm perhaps. Somebody pulling a horrible stunt. Maybe Kim has waited for this moment and is steeling herself, waiting for the inevitable body blows that this investigation will bring.
Greg’s car pulling up almost an hour later breaks into the uncomfortable silence that has settled on us. It’s an interlude in our anxiety, a welcome break from our collective uneasiness. They head into the living room, the pair of them, hair tousled from sleep, eyes dark and baggy. I smile as Kim seats herself opposite Sergeant Duffield, Greg squashing himself next to his wife, their bodies pressed together for protection. Kim is nervous. I can tell by her lack of eye contact, the way she locks and unlocks her fingers, pushing them down into her lap to stem the fidgeting. I wonder what she is hiding. Exactly how much does she know about that night?
