Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘It was Leach you had in mind, Ben?’ said Diane Fry as they drove back to Edendale.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said your friend Fox was being made a scapegoat. If so, he has to be a scapegoat for somebody else. Who did you have in mind? It must have been Leach. But if it was, you seemed a bit soft on him earlier on.’

‘He won’t take pushing any further,’ said Cooper.

Fry slapped the steering wheel in irritation. Then her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said.

‘Shall I call in?’ he said.

‘Go ahead.’

Cooper reported in to the incident room. His head lifted as he listened to the latest news. Fry turned impatiently.

‘What is it?’

‘Information from the RSPCA special investigations officer dealing with the Ringham Edge Farm enquiry.’

‘Yes? Have they got any firm evidence? Enough to act on?’

‘They’ve passed on the name of one of their informants. They don’t usually do that, because they have to protect their identities. But this one happens to be dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes. One of their informants was Jenny Weston.’

Will Leach had already seen the shotgun standing against the wall, where it had been taken out of its steel cabinet. He knew this was wrong, that a shotgun should never be left out. His father had always said so. The police might call at the farmhouse at any time and see it, and then his father would lose his shotgun licence. But he didn’t seem to care about that at all now.

Will hated it when his father shouted and swore. But he hated it more when he fell into a long silence. At those times, his eyes seemed to be looking far away and his body quivered, like the strands of wire in the electric fence in the top field. Will had known what his father was thinking when he had looked at Doll and had been so silent. And now Doll had gone. Will had tried to guess what his father was thinking when he had looked at their mother and was silent, too. And now their mother was gone as well.

It was the first day of half-term, and this morning Will had listened very carefully. His sense of hearing was trained to pick up the sound of his father’s footsteps in the yard or the clink of a glass against a bottle in the front room. His father had been more silent this morning than he could ever remember. And this time, Will thought he knew what his father was thinking.

Warren Leach had never really known the meaning of shame. He had heard people talk about it, but had never understood, and had just thought them weak. Now it was an emotion that came upon him suddenly, devastatingly, roaring over the hill and scything him down like ripe corn under the blade of the combine.

His cheeks had burned under the policewoman’s stare. This woman looked at him differently from the others. It was more than antagonism, it was contempt. She had seen what had become of his life, and she thought it was his own fault. She saw the squalor and had no hesitation in blaming him for it. And, of course, she was right.

His world took a sudden shift and became vivid and clear, as if somebody had shaken it to bring the picture into proper focus. Now he saw the colours of his life distinctly, and they were all dark. The revelation coalesced in one great lump all the burdens that had been piling up on him in the last few weeks. He knew now that they had drained his strength and his will, and had been the cause of all those strange, crippling aches in his belly that he hadn’t been able to explain.

For the first time, Leach faced the impossible magnitude of his problems; the disastrous hole that he had fallen into loomed way over his head like the walls of a deep well. And he had no energy left to climb any more.

‘But I never hurt the boys,’ he said to himself. Then louder: ‘Dougie, I never hurt you, did I?’ He reached out to take his youngest son by the shoulders. Dougie wriggled to get away, but his father gripped him harder, making him cry out.

Leach knew he had to make his decision. He was sure the police would come for him anyway because of what had happened with the young Ranger. The boys would be taken away from him. They would end up in one of those homes. But he had already thought about this moment, and he knew what he had to do. He let Dougie go, and the boy ran towards his brother, pale and shaking with the fear of the unknown. The boys clung to each other, watching their father as they would have watched a wild animal prowling through the house, afraid to move a muscle in case they attracted its attention.

Leach fingered the barrels of the shotgun, feeling the certainty and solidity of the heavy steel. His hand itched to grip the stock. He reached out to it like a man greeting an old friend. Then he drew back, and looked at the boys as if he had just remembered they were there. He had made careful plans, but he had nearly forgotten them. That was what his brain was like now. Soft as sponge. As rotten and stinking as the stuff he scraped out of the hoof of a cow with foot-rot.

‘Will. .’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘You know where your Auntie Maureen lives, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘You catch the bus into Edendale and walk to the bus station. Get a Hulley’s number 26. It stops at the corner of Bank Street, near the old library. You know your way from there. There’s enough money for the fare for you and Dougie in an envelope on the table.’ Will said nothing. ‘Can you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a letter for your auntie in there, too. Don’t open it, Will. It’s for Auntie Maureen to read. And there’s two chocolate bars I saved for you. One each. They’re the ones you said you liked. Crisp and crunchy.’ Leach tried a smile, but swallowed it as his throat constricted in a spasm. ‘And Will. . make sure young Dougie is all right, won’t you? Promise?’ said Leach.

‘Promise,’ said Will.

‘That’s a good boy.’

Leach found his eyes drifting towards the shotgun again. Not much time now. Not much left to say.

‘All the things I did, I did because I was trying to save the farm for you. For your future? Do you understand?’ he said.

The boys nodded, because it was what he expected of them. But Leach could see from their faces that they understood nothing. Probably they never would. By the time they were old enough, their mother would have talked a different story into their heads, one where their father was a weak fool, a drunkard, a bully, a criminal. But that wasn’t right. All he was, really, was a man who had failed. But probably the boys would never understand that, either. If they were lucky.

‘Dad?’ said Will.

‘Yes?’

‘When have we got to go?’

‘Best go now, son,’ said Leach. ‘Before it goes dark.’

He stared at the boys, wondering what else he should do. There were things which Yvonne had always done, which he had no idea of. He was vaguely aware that Will had taken charge of some of these things himself — somehow young Dougie always seemed to be washed and his hair was clean. But there ought to be something that a father did to look after his sons, some little thing that showed he cared. Especially when he was saying goodbye.

He saw that Dougie’s jacket collar had been turned over by the strap of his rucksack, exposing the lining underneath. It looked untidy. He reached out a dirt-stained hand to straighten the collar, his fingers passing close to Dougie’s cheek, so that he felt the warmth from the boy’s skin. Dougie was trembling, and his eyes looked puzzled and afraid.

Leach turned to Will, but the older boy flinched away, and Leach let his hand fall back to his side. He felt a small flicker of anger and hurt, but it died as quickly as it had come, leaving him cold. Cold, and ready.