Cath Staincliffe - Towers of Silence

“… had a very shiny nose, like a lamp post…”

She exhaled then became businesslike. “Well, we obviously need to get to the bottom of it. If you’re making some terrible mistake I would want to quash any rumours before they take hold. Who else knows about all this? You say you’ve spoken to the police already?”

“Yes. I hope to talk to social services after the holiday. And the police have said they will be considering whether they intend to take any further action. I’ll give them your details so they can liaise with you as his employer. Social services will know the proper procedures and everything.”

“False allegations are not unheard of,” she said. “As his employers, the committee will have to make sure that he gets treated fairly at the same time as we ensure that there’s no risk to any of the people who use the centre. But if there is gross misconduct going on I can tell you now we will act swiftly and decisively. If this is just hearsay, though…”

“… called him names, like tomato face…”

“Yes,” I interrupted her. “As yet, no one has been prepared to speak openly about what he’s done, either here or in his previous place of work. If social services or the police can’t get anyone to testify, I don’t know what will happen. And, like I said, the police will have to decide whether he has further questions to answer about Miriam Johnstone.”

“Good grief,” she said again, the realisation of crisis rocking her formal efficiency. “I hope you’re wrong.”

I said nothing.

“…in any reindeer games, like Monopoly…”

“If I could have your number?”

She gave me her work and home phone numbers. Exchanged terse goodbyes.

I put my phone down and went into the playroom. “I was on the phone,” I said. “I couldn’t hear.”

They looked at me as though I was speaking Mandarin then went on with their game.

As I went through to the kitchen I heard strange sounds coming from the cellar; rustling noises. The door was ajar and I switched the light on at the top of the stairs and went down. The sounds were coming from the little room underneath the front of the house. We use it for storing stuff. I felt a stir of unease. Something was in there. Rats attack if they’re cornered. Oh, God. I went into Ray’s workshop and selected a long piece of doweling. I went slowly back and used it to pull aside the curtain we had tacked up there in place of a door.

Digger was crouched over gnawing away at part of a body. I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat and shock charge through me. “No, Digger!” I yelled.

He peered up at me and stole out of the room and past me. I heard the kids coming, alerted by my shout.

It was the turkey, just the sodding turkey. Relief made my legs shake. I let the curtain fall back.

“What is it,” Maddie said. Tom behind her eyes alight with interest.

“Nothing, it’s all right. Digger was after the turkey.”

“Where is it?”

“In there,” I pointed.

“Let’s see,” said Tom.

I obliged.

Digger had chewed away most of one thigh but the rest looked intact.

“Gross!” Maddie said.

“It’s all spotty,” said Tom.

“Like goose bumps,” I agreed, “but those are turkey bumps.”

“I’m not eating any of that,” Maggie announced.

Neither was I.

“It’ll be fine; we’ll give it a wipe and once it’s cooked you can decide.”

“But Digger’s licked it and everything.”

Tom chortled. “And he licks his bum.”

“Well, you can always have a veggie Christmas dinner with me.”

“That’s worse,” she said.

Reluctantly I picked the thing up and took it to wash off the grime from the kitchen floor. I put it back on a shelf in the same room but way out of Digger’s reach.

Ray arrived back not long after with several boxes of provisions and a big, bushy spruce. The children related with glee the story of Digger and the turkey. I reassured Ray that not much damage had been done. The four of us dressed the tree together, sharing out the baubles and tinsel equally between the children who kept squabbling.

I thought of the Reeves family. What sort of Christmas awaited them? And the family in York – when would the bombshell hit them? Would Ken be spending Christmas in either household? Or in a B&B somewhere getting drunk in his room and missing his children? How long would it take the police to move and begin proceedings against him? What a hopeless mess. It had been a peculiar case. From a professional point of view I’d done a good job. I’d been successful in getting to the root of what was behind Adam’s troubled behaviour but the outcome had been devastating rather than satisfying. The best that could come of it was that Adam would settle again, rediscover his direction in life and that Susan would be able to hold the family together, help them adjust to a new life.

And the Johnstones. The first Christmas without their mother. Still grieving and tomorrow I had to tell them that I thought Miriam had been killed. That she had not chosen to leave them, that she’d not been so distressed that death seemed the safest place but that she had been taken from them, forcibly, that it was murder. And almost worse than this I had no real, solid proof. So the chance of being able to pursue justice was by no means guaranteed. The police may or may not review the case. It would be in their hands and they had hardly given their all the first time round. I had to tell them the truth as I saw it. But it wasn’t some gleaming, bright clear thing but a weight; sordid and slippery and hard to bear.

I climbed on the chair to put the star on top and the tree was done. We turned off the light and plugged in the fairy lights. It was lovely, the tiny lights glowing and twinkling, the scent of pine filling the room.

“I can’t wait till Christmas,” Maddie said, “I just can’t wait. Are you excited, Mummy?”

“Mmm,” I said.

But all I felt, burdened by the dirty truth, was apprehension, drumming its fingers on my heart, clutching at my belly; a tense tattoo of dread to accompany me onward to what lurked ahead.

Stuart took one look at my face and his expression shifted. The warmth replaced by uncertainty. Oh, Stuart. Did I really have to go through with this? But I couldn’t switch back to how I felt before, my emotions wouldn’t rewind. I didn’t feel excitement now just embarrassment and I realised I felt sorry for him. Not a healthy basis for anything.

“Come in,” he said. “I’ve opened some wine.”

“Thanks.” I took my coat off and sat on the sofa, took the glass he offered me. There was the evocative aroma of wood smoke from the stove. I wondered if he was burning something special – apple or cherry – in my honour. Fluttering in my stomach.

“About Natalie,” he said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d do something like that.”

“Stuart, I’ve been thinking. This – us – it isn’t what I want at the moment.”

“But you can’t hold me responsible for how she behaves. I’ll talk to her.”

“No. It’s not that, well not just that.” I sighed. I could feel my cheeks burning and it wasn’t the fire. “Maybe it’s the timing, I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready for a relationship, too long on my own. I don’t know.” I cupped the glass in my hands studied the ruby surface, the reflections from the stove and the candles.

A pause.

“You never said anything. I thought we were getting on really well.”

I thought back. We had been and then we hadn’t. Or I hadn’t. When had it changed? When did I start to notice those little flaws, like how he was better at talking than listening, how he took his time to return my calls? And, once noticed, they seemed to grow until they were all I could see. If there had been more of a pull, more than a general sexual attraction, it might have been worth talking to him about all that, investing in trying to make it work but there wasn’t.