Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘I needed some money, to get the bus. There were some places up the hill; I thought I’d check them out.’

‘Why up the hill? That’s away from the main road, isn’t it?’

He raised his head. ‘Yeah, but there’s a pub along the bottom road, and a garage. There’s going to be cameras. Don’t wanna end up on You’ve Been Framed ,’ he said. ‘But I have – been framed,’ he added morosely.

You confessed, I wanted to point out, hardly a stitch up, but I stuck to my script – no diversions. ‘You set off up the hill, what can you see?’

‘Not much. Lights in the windows at one place up the hill.’

‘You still cold?’

‘Worse. Sometimes the weed’ll do that,’ he said, as if passing on a tip.

‘Any noises?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘The drugs: how do they make you feel?’ I said.

‘Bit of a buzz, a lift.’

‘Do they distort anything?’ He’d been stoned; I wanted to know how that skewed his perception.

‘It’s only coke and weed,’ he said derisively. ‘Not like I’m on acid or shrooms.’

I nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘I passed the place with the lights on. Too risky. Checked the cars on the road, though; people leave change for parking, even if there’s no valuables but they were locked. Immobilizers on.’ The way he elaborated made me think he was actually remembering rather than making this up. That’s what Sinclair had said: liars keep it simple, shorn of detail.

‘What sort of cars?’

‘A Mondeo and an old Volvo.’ No hesitation – there for the asking. He laughed, his eyes flared with surprise. ‘Sound, man.’

‘Looks like it works,’ I remarked. ‘So, you pass the cars.’

‘Go up and round the bend. There’s a bloke coming down.’

‘What’s he wearing?’

He closed his eyes. ‘A dark coat.’

‘What else?’ I said.

‘Dunno.’

‘Is he carrying anything?’

‘No-’ Damien broke off, corrected himself. ‘A backpack.’

‘Does he say anything?’

‘No. He’s in a hurry.’

‘Walking fast?’

‘Yeah. And… breathing hard.’

I wondered what the hesitation meant. Was he recovering the memory or fleshing out his phantom suspect for me? I needed to push and find out as much as I could about the man he claimed to have seen. ‘Describe him?’

‘Can’t remember. Never really got a look at him, and I wasn’t drawing attention to myself.’

‘Was he taller than you?’

‘No.’

‘Smaller?’

‘The same.’ Again it sounded like a stab in the dark.

‘You sure it was a man?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno. The way he walked.’ Damien shrugged, rolled back his head, eyes open.

‘Black or white?’

‘White.’ He sounded definite.

What else could I ask? Sight, sound, touch… ‘Did he smell?’

‘Bit personal, innit?’ he quipped, then the merriment in his face dissolved into something else. Sadness, fatigue. I wasn’t sure where that had come from.

‘Close your eyes,’ I said. He did. ‘Try to relax. You’re going up the hill; you pass two cars, a Mondeo and a Volvo. You round the bend, he’s coming down. You pass each other…’ I waited.

‘What’s the point,’ he complained, ‘I can’t remember.’ His face was pinched, mouth trembling. ‘You think I made him up. You’re trying to trick me.’ His voice rose. ‘You don’t believe me! Why d’you even bother coming back?’ The outburst came out of the blue; a flash of temper but I didn’t feel threatened.

‘Shall I go?’ I asked quietly.

In the silence I heard his breath stuttering. ‘It’s just hard. It’s all fucking hard. I don’t remember any more about him, only what I said already.’ His voice was tight with frustration.

‘OK. Carry on.’

He sighed.

‘Damien,’ I encouraged him, ‘you’re doing very well – you’ve told me a lot more than last time and it all helps. So, you pass this man, he’s your sort of height, a white guy, dark coat, backpack and he’s out of breath.’ That last detail snagged in my mind but I didn’t have time to consider it any further then. ‘What next?’

‘I go up a bit more and the cottage is there, set off up the road a bit. There’s a car.’

‘What sort?’

‘Audi, on the drive. It’s locked up. No lights at the house. I go up to the door, listen. Nothing from inside. Then an engine starts up somewhere and I wait to see if they’re coming this way, but they don’t. The windows are shut. I’m gonna check round the back but first I try the door and it just opens.’ Damien swallowed.

‘What can you see?’

‘Nothing, it’s too dark. I use my lighter.’ He stopped. Breathed out noisily and put his head in his hands.

‘Stay there,’ I warned him, ‘what can you see?’

‘He’s on the floor, a big guy, half on his side, one leg under him.’

‘Show me.’

Damien looked askance but I tilted my head by way of invitation and he got up. He grinned self-consciously then positioned himself on the floor, left shoulder down, head twisted to the left so he was in profile. Left knee bent up underneath him, right arm across his stomach. Half foetal, half prone.

‘OK,’ I told him.

He got up, sat back in the chair, rubbed at his face. Closed his eyes without any prompting. ‘I could see the blood, smell it. And the smell of shit.’

This was what Libby had found a couple of hours later, coming to meet her lover, running late, eager to tell him her good news: that they were having a child. The future full of promise. Opening the cottage door, snapping on the light. The shock, like a brick wall. Her world collapsing.

‘What else do you remember?’

‘I felt sick, nearly was sick there. I know the bloke’s dead. I wanna get out of there.’ Damien lowered his voice. ‘I check his pockets.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Just his jeans, the one that’s easy to reach, at the right, and his back pocket. Empty.’

‘What does he feel like?’

He was outraged. ‘What sort of question’s that?’

‘Was he cold, stiff?’

‘I dunno,’ he said hotly. ‘I didn’t touch him, innit?’ Was his agitation because this was all make-believe and in truth Damien had stabbed Charlie then rooted through his clothes while the man lay dying? Or shame at scavenging from a corpse? Or some insecurity about his sexuality? That he’d been touching a man, and a dead man at that.

‘Why are you so bothered by that?’ I asked him.

His face closed down. ‘I’m not,’ he said flatly.

‘What happened then?’

‘I used the lighter to have a look round.’ He sounded calmer.

‘The cottage?’

‘Just the kitchen. Seen the wallet on the worktop. Flick it open and there’s tenners in there, some change. I’m out of there.’

‘Wait,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Anything else in the room?’

‘Car keys, next to the wallet.’

‘You could have taken the car?’ I was surprised he hadn’t.

‘Oh, yeah, and get stopped for dangerous driving,’ he sneered.

‘You a bad driver?’

‘Never learnt. Couldn’t afford to. It shows.’

‘But you like cars; you remember the makes and models.’

‘And?’ he scowled.

Now I was the one veering off course. ‘OK, in the kitchen – can you see a knife?’

‘No.’

‘But you knew he’d been stabbed?’

‘All that blood. There was blood on his hands, on his shirt where he’s holding his stomach, you know? His shirt is blue and yellow check but there’s this massive patch on his front, on his sleeve. And the floor. Obvious. And they said on the news later-’

‘Stick with what you actually saw. No knife?’