Matt Brolly - Dead Eyed

He hailed an approaching taxi and ordered the driver to take him to a small suburb of Bristol called Whitchurch where Terrence Haydon’s mother, Sandra Vernon, lived.

Twenty minutes later, he reached his destination. Whitchurch was a grey area, populated by uninspired near-identical houses with ashen facades and dull brown-red tiled roofs. Sandra Vernon lived opposite a crumbling supermarket in a small terraced house. The front of the house was well maintained with UPVC windows. A stone pathway led through a neatly mowed front garden to the front door. Lambert waited for a beat and rang the doorbell.

A small plump woman with large circular rimmed spectacles answered. The smell of cinnamon and burnt toast drifted from behind her. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she inquired, in a high-pitched Welsh accent.

Lambert told the woman that he was a friend of Terrence who had recently heard the terrible news and had come to pay his condolences. The rotund woman looked him up and down for an uncomfortable amount of time before inviting him in.

Lambert surveyed the living room whilst Sandra Vernon made tea in the kitchen. The room was sparsely decorated with white walls and a couple of mass market reproduction paintings in cheap frames on the wall. A small flat screen television sat beneath one of the rectangular PVC windows. A simple wooden crucifix hung above the fireplace. Beneath it, taking pride of place on the mantelpiece, was a picture of Sandra Vernon and her son on his graduation day.

‘He was a good boy,’ said Sandra Vernon, returning with a tray.

Lambert couldn’t detect any emotion in the woman, her face blank. ‘He was, here let me take that for you.’ Lambert took the tray from the woman’s unsteady hands.

‘What did you say your name was again?’ she said, the lilt of her accent deeper now.

‘Michael Lambert. I lived on the floor below Terrence in his final year at University. We were not the best of friends but I knew him.’

Sandra Vernon poured him a cup of tea.

‘How are you coping, Mrs Vernon?’ asked Lambert, sipping the weak tea.

‘Day by day, Mr Lambert, but it is Miss Vernon. The church is a great help to me as you can imagine.’

‘Of course. Terrence was always very religious at University,’ said Lambert, unsure if he was saying the right thing.

‘He had a strong relationship with God. For that he will be rewarded.’

‘I didn’t realise his home was in Bristol whilst he was at University. My parents lived in London. To be fair, I couldn’t wait to get away from them,’ said Lambert. He ignored the comment about God. Tension was always high when religion was involved. Experience told him it was best to steer clear unless the conversation was necessary. Like Klatzky, he was a lapsed Catholic. Apart from the odd occasion, wedding, baptism, or funeral, he hadn’t attended church since he was a teenager.

Vernon drank her tea, studying him, her eyes lifeless behind the covering of her spectacles. ‘I always was close to Terrence. I decided to stay near to him when he moved to University. We lived in Wales before then.’

Lambert had never heard of a parent moving with their child to University. Though not inconceivable, it suggested an over-familiar relationship between parent and child. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen Terrence. Did he ever marry?’

Vernon laughed. ‘No, no.’

‘Was he seeing anyone?’

‘As I said, Mr Lambert, he had a strong relationship with God. He had no time for such nonsense. God was all he needed.’ Sandra Vernon looked away as she said the last words, as if threatened by Lambert’s suggestion.

‘What was that church he was with? It was one of those really evangelical ones wasn’t it?’

‘It’s called Gracelife. It is a proper church, with true believers and proper morals. It’s one of the reasons I moved here in the first place.’

‘Of course, sorry I don’t know much about these things.’ With the conversation failing, Lambert knew he had a decision to make. Either leave things as they were, or push the woman further. She had recently suffered a great loss, and for that he was sympathetic, but he wasn’t blind to the tone she was using. She had taken a clear disliking to him, speaking down to him as if he was a child.

‘One thing that did confuse me, Miss Vernon. I see that Terrence had changed his name to Vernon. We’d known him as Terrence Haydon at University.’

‘That was his father’s name.’ Sandra Vernon sat on the edge of her seat. Her face had reddened and she glared at Lambert, her small eyes magnified by her oversized spectacles.

Lambert didn’t mind the woman’s discomfort. He pushed further. ‘Ah yes, I remember Terrence mentioning him. Is his father not around any more?’

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was no father,’ she said, lowering her voice.

‘Did Terrence ever see him?’

‘He ceased being his father many years ago,’ said Vernon. Her voice came out as a screech as the colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes narrowing once more.

Lambert poured himself some more tea. He tipped the clear brown liquid into Sandra Vernon’s cup. ‘Oh. I hadn’t realised. I’m sure I remember Terrence mentioning him. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to understand.’ Lambert kept his voice low and steady, focusing all his attention onto the flustered woman.

Vernon leant back in her chair. ‘His daddy was an evil man, Godless. Left us when Terrence was a child. Terrence never forgave him. It was his decision. He waited until he left University, but he didn’t want that man’s name sullying him any more.’

Vernon was over-protesting. ‘Despicable. Is he aware that Terrence has gone to a better place? I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I could inform him if you had an address.’

The woman let out a small sound which sounded like a wounded animal. Her facial muscles tensed and Lambert watched, bemused, as her upper lip rose revealing the redness of her gums. ‘I don’t have his address. Who cares if he knows? He was nothing to Terrence, to us.’ she snarled.

Lambert stood. ‘No, you’re completely right. I’m really sorry to bother you. I should go. I was hoping to visit his church before I left for London. Thank you for the tea.’ He had what he’d wanted. Any sympathy he’d had for the woman had faded. He sensed the hatred in the woman, knew it wasn’t simply a reaction to her son’s death. It resonated within her, and he sighed with relief when he was out of the claustrophobic confines of her house. He had to speak to Terrence’s father, but first he had to see his church.

A white painted building, the result of two terraced houses knocked together, the church had a small sign nailed to the side wall announcing the occupants as Gracelife, Bristol. Minister, Neil Landsdale .

An elderly woman wrapped in a pink-check clothed apron opened the front door. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m here to see the minister,’ said Lambert.

The woman glared at him as if he’d said something incomprehensible. ‘Minister?’

‘Neil Landsdale.’

‘I’m just the cleaner,’ said the woman. ‘You can come in and check the offices if you want. There are some people moving about up there.’ She walked back inside, leaving the door open.

Apart from a giant wooden crucifix hanging from the far wall, little else suggested the interior was that of a church. It was more like a small dance studio. Stacks of plastic chairs and folded tables surrounded a polished wooden floor. Dull brown walls propped up the low ceiling.

‘Up there,’ said the cleaner, pointing to a panelled door which led to a flight of stairs.

Lambert heard talking as he moved up the dark staircase. One male, one female voice. He reached the office door and knocked. The voices stopped and the door was opened by a smiling woman, wearing a long-sleeved dress, patterned with large garish flowers, ‘Mr Lambert by any chance?’ she said, her face twitching.