Matt Hilton: Blood and Ashes

I leaned my hips against the well, dug a couple of coins from my jeans pocket and dropped them through a slot in the centre of the grille. I heard them hit bottom. They hadn’t fallen very far, making me wonder if this was just a folly designed to please the tourists. Regardless, I made a wish.

Waste of money, because my wish was already redundant.

I was already here and now there was no going back.

Testament to this was the presence of the black SUV that nosed out between two stores further along the street. Two shadows filled the front of the vehicle, topped by pale ovals that were turned my way. Under the peak of my cap, I returned their casual observation until the driver hit the gas and peeled out, heading back along the street. The brake lights flared, then the SUV took a turning to the right. The grumble of the engine carried on the air until the wind shifted and snatched it away.

What was that all about? I mentally shrugged: nothing good, I bet.

I headed across the green towards an imposing house that held sway over the smaller dwellings to either side. The house looked Victorian but for the satellite dishes in the garden and the cars on the drive, a Lexus and a Mercedes SUV. For all his claims to the contrary it looked like Don Griffiths was doing OK even in this cul-de-sac of a town.

I leaned on the doorbell.

The house remained very still. As if it held its breath.

I pressed the bell again.

Beyond the door there was a shift in the darkness and a light came on above my head. I fought the urge to glance up at the light, an old habit to protect my night vision. Waited while the person inside hooked a security chain in place, then opened the door a sliver.

Don is a heavy-built man in his early sixties. He has short steel-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. The person looking out at me didn’t match any of those points. She was slim and dark and no more than thirty years old.

It was more than fifteen years since I’d laid eyes on her but I’d have recognised Millie anywhere. She had the vivid green eyes and raven tresses of her mother, but the strong nose and high cheekbones were every inch the image of her father.

Millie Griffiths studied me for a while. I raised my head so the peak of the cap was no longer casting such a long shadow on my face. Finally Millie closed the door and I heard the unhooking of the chain. She opened the door fully this time.

‘Come in, Joe.’ Her head dipped as I stepped by her into the darkness of the entrance hall. It looked like all the rooms on the lowest floor were unlit.

‘Where’s your father?’

Millie locked the door before turning to look at me.

It was weird standing there in the dark, staring at her silhouetted against the front-door glass, all that was evident being the soft sparkle of her eyes. When she moved past me her shoulder brushed my upper arm and it was brusque. I settled my heels as Millie walked away without comment. Then, sighing, I followed.

Without flicking on a light, Millie led the way along the hall to the back of the house. There she opened a door and a flight of stairs led down into the basement. Another door at the bottom was etched around its frame with a dim glow.

I paused before descending.

Didn’t need to hear her sob to know.

‘I’m too late,’ I said. ‘I heard what happened and I’m sorry.’

Millie nodded: a single hard slash of her jaw. ‘My sister died because you wouldn’t believe him.’

She turned away before I could reply, her tread heavy, then quickening as she fled up the stairs to a bedroom. Overhead a door slammed and I listened to the young woman sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Shit…’

I pulled the cap off and jammed it into a coat pocket. Scrubbing a hand through my hair I took the stairs down to the basement, counting the steps. With each one it felt like I was descending into the abyss.

‘I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant, these days.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not the way I’d describe myself.’

Don Griffiths was sitting in an old chair with sunken upholstery and faded patches on the arms. How many hours had he spent sitting in this selfsame place over the years? How many memories could that old chair recount if it was given a voice? Over Don’s shoulder an archaic cine-camera projected some of those memories on to a makeshift screen. The flickering images were the only source of light in the otherwise dark room, two small girls playing in a paddling pool while first a younger Don and then his late wife, Sally, mugged and danced for the camera.

Don didn’t look at me. His gaze was lost among the images on the screen. ‘How would you describe yourself? I thought you were someone I could rely on. Where were you when I needed you?’

I exhaled, and turned to view the girls happily playing. Even back then, Millie was distinctive. Her slightly older sister, Brook, was pretty as well, but with the elfin qualities inherited from her mother. It was difficult coming to terms with the thought that the little girl — who was so full of life and wonder on the screen — was now dead and buried.

‘I was injured.’ Though no excuse, it was the only thing I had to offer.

‘I noticed you were a bit lame when you came down the stairs.’ Don wasn’t interested in any one else’s pain, only his own. ‘But you’ve been injured worse than that before. Wounds never stopped you then, Hunter.’

‘I was younger.’

‘Yeah,’ Don agreed. ‘We both were. But my daughter won’t grow any older, will she? Her children will never know their mother’s love again.’

There was no answer to that. I could only watch as Don shuddered, his chin dipping on his chest. The man wept silently. Laying a consoling hand on his heavy shoulder wouldn’t help. Don wouldn’t welcome my pity. Always pitiless to others, he saw emotion as weakness. Maybe it would do him good to experience some of the grief.

It was as if Don could hear what I was thinking. His head came up and he fixed his gaze on me. ‘I know you don’t owe me a damn thing. In fact, if you told me to go to hell, I guess I’d understand. But I didn’t think Joe Hunter was the type to turn his back on a woman or her children.’

‘I’m not.’ Even as I said it I realised how ineffectual my words sounded. I turned back to the screen. Millie and Brook had moved on to chasing each other around the garden with buckets of water. There was no sound accompanying the home movie, but by the rapture of their faces both girls were squealing in glee. Closing my eyes didn’t help.

The chair creaked, and there was a grunt as Don stood up. He turned off the projector and the room was plunged into darkness that was evident even behind my closed eyelids. Only at the click of a light did I turn and look at the older man. Don had both hands folded across his bulging stomach, his head dipped: he looked like a monk in prayer. But I recognised the stance for something else — it showed an old man shattered by the loss of his child.

‘Tell me again what happened, Don.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘Because I’ve travelled days to get here.’ I stopped. I didn’t care for Don one bit. Not after what had occurred between us all those years ago, but it was like the man had already said: I wasn’t one to turn my back on women or children in need. ‘Look, Don. Let’s put our differences behind us for now. Tell me what happened… maybe there’s still something I can do. If what you originally told me is true, then this may not be finished with.’

Don probably wasn’t even conscious of chewing the end of his moustache. He was too busy studying my face for a sign of insincerity. He must have come to a favourable conclusion because he slow-blinked like an old bull frog. ‘It is true. As crazy as it sounds.’