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John Harvey: A Darker Shade of Blue

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John Harvey A Darker Shade of Blue

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Of necessity, Tom worked longer hours; when he did get home, tired, head buzzing, it was to find her turned away from him in the bed and flinching at his touch. At breakfast, when he put his arms around her at the sink, she shrugged him angrily away.

‘Marianne, for God’s sake…’

‘What?’

‘We can’t go on like this.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Then do something about it.’

‘Jesus!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve already told you. A hundred times. Not now.’

She pushed past him and out into the hall, slamming the door at her back. ‘Fuck!’ Tom shouted and slammed his fist against the wall. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ One of the twins screamed as if he’d been struck; the other knocked his cereal to the floor and started to cry.


The team meeting was almost over when Bridget Arthur, one of the probation officers, mid-fifties, experienced, raised her hand. ‘Darren Pitcher, I think we might have a problem.’

Tom Whitemore sighed. ‘What now?’

‘One of my clients, Emma Laurie, suspended sentence for dealing crack cocaine, lives up in Forest Fields. Not the brightest cherry in the bunch. She’s taken up with Pitcher. Seems he’s thinking of moving in.’

‘That’s a problem?’

‘She’s got three kids, all under six. Two of them boys.’

Whitemore shook his head. He knew Darren Pitcher’s history well enough. An only child, brought up by his mother, who had given birth to him when she was just sixteen, Pitcher had only met his father twice: on the first occasion, magnanimous from drink, the older man had squeezed his buttocks and slipped two five-pound notes into his trouser pocket; on the second, sober, he had blacked the boy’s eye and told him to fuck off out of his sight.

A loner at school, marked out by learning difficulties, readily bullied, from the age of sixteen Pitcher had drifted through a succession of low-paid jobs — cleaning, stacking supermarket shelves, hospital portering, washing cars — and several short-term relationships with women who enjoyed even less self-esteem than himself.

When he was twenty-five he was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for molesting half a dozen boys between the ages of four and seven. While in prison, in addition to numerous incidents of self-harming, he had made one attempt at suicide.

Released, he had spent the first six months in a hostel and had reported to both his probation officer and a community psychiatric nurse each week. Since which time, supervision had necessarily slackened off.

‘Ben?’ Whitemore said, turning towards the psychiatric nurse at the end of the table. ‘He was one of yours.’

Ben Leonard pushed a hand up through his cropped blonde hair. ‘A family, ready-made, might be what he needs.’

‘The girl,’ Bridget Arthur said, ‘she’s not strong. It’s a wonder she’s hung on to those kids as long as she has.’

‘There’s a father somewhere?’

‘Several.’

‘Contact?’

‘Not really.’

For a moment, Tom Whitemore closed his eyes. ‘The boys, they’re how old?’

‘Five and three. There’s a little girl, eighteen months.’

‘And do we think, should Pitcher move in, they could be at risk?’

I think we have to,’ Bridget Arthur said.

‘Ben?’

Leonard took his time. ‘We’ve made real progress with Darren, I think. He’s aware that his previous behaviour was wrong. Regrets what he’s done. The last thing he wants to do is offend again. But, yes, for the sake of the kids, I’d have to say there was a risk. A small one, but a risk.’

‘Okay,’ Whitemore said. ‘I’ll go and see him. Report back. Bridget, you’ll stay in touch with the girl?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Let’s not lose sight of this in the midst of everything else.’

They sat on the Portland Leisure Centre steps, a wan sun showing weakly through the wreaths of cloud. Whitemore had bought two cups of pale tea from the machines inside and they sat there on the cold, worn stone, scarcely talking as yet. Darren Pitcher was smoking a cigarette, a roll-up he had made with less than steady hands. What was it, Whitemore thought, his gran had always said? Don’t sit on owt cold or you’ll get piles, sure as eggs is eggs.

‘Got yourself a new girlfriend, I hear,’ Whitemore said.

Pitcher flinched then glanced at him from under lowered lids. He had a lean face, a sickly pallor, a few reddish spots around the mouth and chin; strangely long eyelashes that curled luxuriantly over his weak grey eyes.

‘Emma? That her name?’

‘She’s all right.’

‘Of course.’

Two young black men in shiny sportswear bounced past them, all muscle, on their way to the gym.

‘It serious?’ Whitemore asked.

‘Dunno.’

‘What I heard, it’s pretty serious. The pair of you. Heard you were thinking of moving in.’

Pitcher mumbled something and drew on his cigarette.

‘Sorry?’ Whitemore said. ‘I didn’t quite hear…’

‘I said it’s none of your business…’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘My life, yeah? Not yours.’

Whitemore swallowed a mouthful more of the lukewarm tea and turned the plastic cup upside down, shaking the last drops onto the stone. ‘This Emma,’ he said, ‘she’s got kids. Young kids.’

‘So?’

‘Young boys.’

‘That don’t… You can’t… That was a long time ago.’

‘I know, Darren. I know. But it happened, nonetheless. And it makes this our concern.’ For a moment, his hand rested on Pitcher’s arm. ‘You understand?’

Pitcher’s hand went to his mouth and he bit down on his knuckle hard.


Gregory Boulevard ran along one side of the Forest Recreation Ground, the nearest houses, once substantial family homes, now mostly subdivided into flats and falling, many of them, into disrepair. Beyond these, the streets grew narrower and coiled back upon themselves, the houses smaller with front doors that opened directly out on to the street. Corner shops with bars across the windows, shutters on the doors.

Emma Laurie sat on a lopsided settee in the front room; small-featured, a straggle of hair falling down across her face, her voice rarely rose above a whisper as she spoke. A wraith of a thing, Whitemore thought. Outside, a good wind would blow her away.

The three children huddled in the corner, watching cartoons, the sound turned low. Jason, Rory and Jade. The youngest had a runny nose, the older of the boys coughed intermittently, open-mouthed, but they were all, as yet, bright-eyed.

‘He’s good with them,’ Emma was saying, ‘Darren. Plays with them all the time. Takes them, you know, down to t’Forest. They love him, they really do. Can’t wait for him to move in wi’ us. Go on about it all the time. Jason especially.’

‘And you?’ Bridget Arthur said. ‘How do you feel? About Darren moving in?’

‘Be easier, won’t it? Rent and that. What I get, family credit an’ the rest, s’a struggle, right? But if Darren’s here, I can get a job, afternoons, Asda. Get out a bit, ’stead of bein’ all cooped up. Darren’ll look after the kids. He don’t mind.’

They walked down through the maze of streets to where Arthur had parked her car, the Park and Ride on the edge of the Forest.

‘What do you think?’ Whitemore said.

‘Ben could be right. Darren, could be the making of him.’

‘But if it puts those lads at risk?’

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