Life In Parks

Chapter 15

  Matthew awoke at nine o’clock in the morning and, feeling no inclination to rise, pulled the quilt over his head. He slept for a further two hours until, unable to sleep more, he lay staring at the poster of a launching rocket that he had pinned to his bedroom wall a few months before.

  When he eventually climbed out of bed, he took his first shower in a week.

  Drying himself, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked at his eyes with their bags underneath, and the growth of stubble on his chin. Refusing to shave, he put on some clean clothes and threw the dirty ones, those he had been wearing for three consecutive days, into the laundry basket. He went downstairs and passed his mother, who was dusting the bookcase in the hallway.

  ‘Good morning. Or is it afternoon?’ She looked at her wrist-watch. ‘No, no, it’s morning ... just.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he mumbled and continued to the kitchen.

  His mother entered the room shortly afterwards, by which time he was standing by the worktop, spooning cereal into his mouth. She eyed him for a while with hands on hips and a stony expression on her face.

  ‘So, you’re not going to school today?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘I thought you were going to attend classes until you retook your exams.’

  ‘I am. But the exams are months away. That’s when I’ll concentrate.’

  ‘What are you going to do in the mean time?’

  ‘Study from home, I guess.’

  ‘I see.’ She nodded. ‘May I ask when you are going to start? I haven’t seen much evidence till now.’

  ‘Mum, I’ll study when I have to.’ He carried his half-empty bowl to the sink.

  ‘All I’m saying is that you need to make sure you pass your exams this time. You can’t afford to waste another year.’

  ‘I know. Just don’t go on about it ... I’ve got things under control.’

  Fleeing the confrontation, Matthew went to the lounge and lay on the sofa in front of the television. He found little relief, however, as his mind began wandering to counter the late-morning children’s programmes that predominated. After a time, his mother came in wearing her overcoat and collected her handbag from beside the fireplace.

  ‘I’m popping into town for a couple of hours. I don’t suppose you want to come.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to get out of the house. I can’t remember the last time you went outside.’

  ‘I enrolled at school two weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, but you haven’t done much since.’

  ‘I’m just not in the mood for going out. Plus, it’s beginning to get cold.’

  ‘You can’t stay cooped up here forever, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Life would be easier if I did.’

  As she rested the handbag on the coffee-table, there was sudden compassion in her eyes. She reached for his hand and stroked his wrist with her thumb. ‘Listen, son, I know you’ve been through the mill recently. The fact is you have to put things behind you. You have to move on; there’s no alternative.’

  Matthew continued to stare at the television. ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘You’ve got to try, son. You’re not doing yourself any favours hiding away.’

  ‘I’m not hiding away.’ At last, he met her gaze. ‘Look, mum. I know you think there’s a problem, but really there isn’t. Soon I’ll start going to school and life will carry on as before. End of story.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, son. I do hope you’re right.’ A forced smile augmented the lines across her brow. ‘I still think it would do you good to get out. You should go for a walk ... get some air in your lungs.’

  He reciprocated the forced smile. ‘Maybe later.’

  Releasing his hand, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and do something with your day, sweetheart. Life’s too short to spend in front of that damned television.’

  ‘Life’s too short, whatever you do,’ he mumbled as she left him alone.

  Hearing the front door close behind her, Matthew sunk deeper into the sofa and began channel hopping. The continually changing images strained his eyes, however, and he turned his back to the screen.

  He stayed like that for close to an hour, his eyelids drooping and his mind wandering, until he was disturbed by the digitised ring of the doorbell.

  It was not until the bell sounded a second time that he got to his feet and moved to the window. Peeking from behind the curtain, he noticed an old, red sports car parked on the street. He craned his neck towards the doorstep and found, standing with his back to him, a man dressed in a beige woollen jumper and with long straggly hair tied in a pony-tail.

  Matthew went and answered the door.

  ‘Ah, Matthew,’ the man greeted him, ‘I was beginning to think I had the wrong address.’

  ‘Mr Cox? It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘You look different without your beard.’

  ‘Good different, or bad different?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Younger different.’

  ‘You know what they say: a change is as good as a rest.’ The man reached and shook Matthew’s hand heartily. ‘So, how are you, my boy?’

  ‘I’m all right. What are you doing here? I mean, how did you know where I live?’

  ‘It is really quite easy to find things if you look for them in the right places.’

  As Matthew’s eyes drifted downwards, he noticed the yellow flower that was pinned to the man’s breast. ‘Is that an orchid?’

  ‘It is, indeed. I felt that I could not visit your town without paying some kind of homage. May I come in?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘There are things I feel we need to discuss and I would rather not do it in front of your neighbours.’

  Briefly hesitant, Matthew nodded and showed the man through to the lounge, where he was immediately drawn to the picture above the fireplace.

  ‘Now, that is pretty. It’s a W S Hunter print, if I am not mistaken. Shame it’s not an original; it would be worth a fortune.’ He looked closer at the depicted train. ‘What an interesting subject matter: The Flying Dragon, the train that careened from the bridge a hundred years ago. A sad subject, but interesting all the same.’ He span towards Matthew, who remained in the doorway. ‘So, tell me, young man, how has life been treating you?’

  ‘It could be better. But I’m all right.’

  ‘Life could always be better, as I am sure the countless pessimists among us never get bored saying. I see you are growing a beard, at the same time as I have razored mine off.’ He ran his fingers across his naked chin.

  ‘I’m not growing a beard; I just haven’t got round to shaving. Tell me again why you’re here.’

  ‘Oh, I was just passing. I thought I would look in and see how you are doing. By all accounts, you went through a bit of an ordeal back in the capital.’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘It’s ancient history now.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Just another statistic in the grand scheme of things.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The problem is, Matthew, history can leave its scars. Believe me, I know very well that untreated wounds may fester and develop into something more sinister. Injuries caused by history need to be dressed just like any other.’

  ‘I don’t need any help, thanks. I told you I’m all right.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Who says I was referring to you? You were not the only one affected by events this summer. Maybe it is my own wounds that need tending. You see, my friend, we all need help from time to time – I don’t mind admitting it – and perhaps the time has come when I need help from you.’

  Matthew’s lips curled with cynicism. ‘How can I possibly help The Sage of Ash Tree?’

  ‘By showing a twisted man a glimmer of hope.’

  Matthew looked him up and down and his eyes were drawn again to the flower on his breast. ‘What do you
want from me?’

  ‘Nothing too taxing. Just comb your hair, put on your shoes and come for a ride in my car. There is something I want you to see. It is not far from here, about an hour’s drive. Who knows, maybe it will be the first stop on the road to salvation for us both.’

  Uncertain of anything other than the bitterness in his heart, Matthew accepted the visitor’s request and put on his shoes. He collected his wallet and followed him to the sports car on the road.

  Even though the car was flecked with dirt and showed patches of rust on the wheel arches, Matthew encountered a buzz of excitement as he opened the door and settled into the worn leather seats.

  Soon he was being driven at a sedate speed through the streets of Orchid Hill, revelling in the ornateness of the car’s interior, with its old leather, dusty wood and metallic dials. Once clear of the town, they passed among farmlands of immature, growing crops, with the throaty engine roaring the faster they went.

  ‘What do you think of the car? She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’

  ‘It’s pretty cool, yes,’ Matthew answered, catching the scent of petrol mingling with leather.

  ‘She has seen better days, although more often than not she gets me from A to B.’

  ‘Pippa told me you had a car like this. I assumed she was joking.’

  ‘Not at all. Occasionally I took her for a ride, just as we are doing today.’

  It had been several weeks since he had uttered that girl’s name, and as Matthew eased against the seat, he found it suddenly hardening against his back.

  ‘I take it you have resolved all outstanding issues with the Police,’ Mr Cox said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  ‘More or less. You heard what happened, I presume.’

  ‘Not every detail, but I have a pretty good idea. Are they still investigating?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think they have all the information they need for the time being.’ Matthew paused and rubbed his hand across his thigh. ‘Actually, Mr Cox, I’m not sure I want to talk about this right now.’

  ‘I quite understand. There is a time and place for everything. Let’s change the subject. Tell me, how is school?’

  ‘School? I haven’t been back yet, apart from to enrol. I’ve got to retake my exams. I kind of messed up last time.’

  ‘Happily we are often given second chances in life.’

  As he stared out of the window, an unexpected flash of anger riled Matthew’s emotions. He stayed silent for a couple of minutes while the pressure of resentment welled.

  ‘You realise that they tried to make out it was my fault,’ he blurted at last.

  ‘For failing your exams?’

  ‘No, for what happened to Pippa.’

  The man sighed. ‘Unfortunately, in cases like hers a scapegoat is often sought.’

  ‘That night when she left my hotel, I had no idea what she was planning.’

  ‘I am sure you didn’t.’

  ‘I mean, we spent the night together, but that was all. I fell asleep. I’d been ill the day before and I was completely knackered. And when I woke she was gone. I had no idea where she went and I certainly had no idea what she was going to do afterwards.’

  ‘We both know you were not to blame, my friend.’

  ‘What about you? Did you know what she was planning?’

  ‘Honestly, it is not something I ever contemplated.’

  ‘Well, me neither. When it comes to it, I hardly even knew her. I literally met her that same day. And you know the worst thing? The Police tried to make out that I had driven her to it, that I must have raped her or something. Then they claimed that I had paid her to spend the night with me. But it wasn’t like that, at all.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Matthew, you do not have to convince me.’

  ‘Twenty-two hours they kept me in the Police station. Twenty-two hours. I spent the night in a stinking cell ... didn’t sleep for a second. My parents came down, but there wasn’t much they could do; only sit around and wait. Shit, I was even mentioned in the newspapers.’

  ‘So I read. Things certainly got a bit crazy for a while. If it is any consolation, I was brought in for questioning, too.’

  ‘Yes, well, that may have been down to me.’ His tone softened as he gazed out of the side window. ‘They wanted a list of all her friends in the city, and I told them about you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. It was a minor inconvenience, and regrettably I was not much help. Aside from the tragic circumstances, for my part I rather enjoyed the visit to the Police station. A lot can be said about our Police, but one thing is for sure: they make a pretty decent cup of tea. I take it you are no longer under suspicion.’

  ‘Not really, mainly because of the letter.’

  ‘Which letter would that be?’

  ‘Before I was freed, the Police finally got round to telling me that Philippa’s brother had received a letter. A suicide note, saying her goodbyes. They think she posted it the afternoon I met her and so it kind of proved that she had already decided what she was going to do.’

  ‘And you had no real case to answer.’

  ‘Not really ... apart from the fact I admitted sleeping with a minor. Again, I swear I had no idea she was under-age. Did you know she was only fifteen? She seemed so worldly.’

  ‘It is not something I ever considered, but it could easily have been true. There was a great deal of innocence behind that tough facade.’

  ‘My lawyer thinks I’ll be OK – that once the dust settles they’ll let the matter drop. He reckons that I’m as much a victim as anyone.’

  ‘And I, for one, cannot disagree. A lot of people suffered this summer. Whether she intended to or not, Philippa certainly left some trouble in her wake.’

  The unburdening of his woes, coupled with Mr Cox’s words of encouragement, improved Matthew’s mood. He rested his hand on the leather seat, feeling the cool, cracked surface. And for the first time since his return from the capital, some of his frustration began to ebb. So much so, that by the time they hit the main motorway south, he sat with certain calmness, staring unfocusedly out of the window as the countryside whizzed by.

  ‘We’re not going all the way to the capital, are we?’ he asked, some thirty minutes into their journey. ‘I don’t think I want to go back as long as I live. I reckon just the smell of the river would make me want to puke.’

  Mr Cox shook his head. ‘We will be turning off shortly. I have said it many times before: the capital is no place for the weak-hearted.’

  As promised, the man steered the car off the motorway several exits along, and soon they were driving down a minor road and into a small town with wide, tree-lined streets. Impressive houses were set back from the road, houses far removed from anything Orchid Hill could offer.

  ‘In case you had not guessed,’ Mr Cox said, ‘this is the town of Bittern, the place where Philippa grew up.’

  ‘Bitter?’ Matthew asked, eying the expensive houses with sudden distrust. ‘What kind of name is that?’

  ‘Bitter-n. It is a type of bird that lives in the marshland that borders the town. Many towns have fancy-pants mottos in Latin, but the motto of this place is simple: ‘Once Bittern, Twice Shy.’

  They passed the clean, antiquated buildings of the town centre, drawing few stares from passers-by who appeared accustomed to ostentatious vehicles on their roads. Beyond the town centre, they turned through a set of gates and into a driveway marked Bittern Central Cemetery.

  On either side of the driveway, gravestones stretched in neat rows. Mr Cox pulled the car into a car-park in front of a building covered with white render and switched off the engine.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘We have come to pay our respects.’

  ‘To what, exactly?’

  ‘To an absent friend, of course.’

  Climbing out of the car, Matthew’s legs felt heavy and stiff and his heart weighed down with renewed melancholy.

  Mr Cox emerged
from the driver’s side and proceeded to the boot of the car, from which he retrieved a floral wreath made from white chrysanthemums and lilies.

  ‘I took the liberty of getting some flowers,’ he said. ‘It felt the right thing to do.’

  ‘Where are you going to leave them?’

  ‘I am sure we will find somewhere suitable. Here, take them while I make some enquiries inside.’ Handing the wreath to Matthew, the man closed the car boot and walked towards the building.

  As Matthew waited, a hearse slowly approached followed by a steady line of cars. Through the glass panel on the side of the hearse he saw the dark-stained coffin and the word ‘GRANDMA’ spelled in mauve and yellow flowers.

  By the time the vehicles in the cortege had passed, Mr Cox was emerging from the building and beckoning Matthew towards him.

  ‘This way, my friend. Over here.’

  Matthew followed him down a winding path that took them beyond the building and among a row of gravestones that was less squarely lined than others. Some of the headstones appeared older and more weather-worn and Matthew resisted the temptation to read the names etched on their front.

  He felt a tinge of shame when he regarded the casual clothes he was currently wearing, as well as the fraying trousers and dirty off-white jumper worn by his companion. Thankfully, on this side of the cemetery there was scarcely anybody around, and his self-conscious thoughts were forgotten once they halted by a gravel plot lacking a gravestone.

  ‘This is the place, Matthew. Plot number 265. The plot reserved for Philippa.’

  ‘How do you know it’s reserved for her?’

  ‘Members of her family are laid to rest all around us, and this is where she will come, eventually. I believe her mother is buried in the next plot along.’

  ‘Just to get one thing straight: they haven’t actually found her body yet, have they?’

  ‘Not as far as I am aware.’

  ‘And they may never find it, right, if it got washed downriver and out to sea. So, what use is a burial plot? What are they going to bury?’

  ‘For the time being, nothing at all. The point is, this will unquestionably become her grave. In law, a person has to be missing for seven years before they can be declared dead. Once those seven years are up, however, this will be her final resting place, even if there is nothing physical to place in the ground.’ The man motioned downwards. ‘We’ll leave our flowers here, shall we? The first to do so, it seems.’

  With certain scepticism, Matthew crouched and placed the floral tribute upon the gravel plot, expecting some kind of feeling to stir his heart. ‘Is there something we’re supposed to say?’

  ‘Not really. Words are pretty useless in the grand scheme of things. Let’s just hope she has found the peace she so clearly lacked while alive.’

  Still crouching, Matthew bowed his head and gazed at the flowers he had just placed. He peered briefly skyward and watched as grey clouds passed before the sun. He then looked back at the gravel plot, trying to find some emotion from within. As he looked closely at the stone pebbles and shards, he spotted a beetle attempting to burrow and an image began forming in his head.

  With his eyes losing focus, in his imagination he looked down upon Philippa’s body, unmoving as if asleep. He watched as the beetle inched across her neck towards the mouth, as if seeking a crevice in which to enter the body. He could almost feel the tickle of its legs on his own skin. Coldness engulfed him, far stronger than any sentiment he had wanted to evoke, and he was forced to look away to clear the image from his mind. He turned towards Mr Cox, who remained pensive and with head bowed. Through clearer eyes he re-focused on the flowers, over which a couple of thunder-flies were hovering in a coordinated dance.

  ‘Is it all right if we go, now, Mr Cox? This place is making me feel queasy.’

  ‘Yes, we have done what we came to do.’

  They returned to the car without speaking and, with the engine firing, they drove towards the cemetery exit, following the empty hearse that had made its sombre delivery.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Matthew said as they emerged onto the road.

  ‘By all means, ask away.’

  ‘Is it wrong of me to feel cheated?’

  ‘Cheated, in what way?’

  ‘As if I’ve been robbed. You know, as if I had something good in my hand and then it got taken away.’

  ‘I assume you are referring to Philippa. It is a natural reaction for someone in your position.’

  ‘But I only knew her a day; less than that, in fact. Does that still give me the right to miss her?’

  ‘I don’t think there are hard and fast rules about loss. When a President is assassinated, an entire country tends to mourn, people who have clearly never met the deceased in person.’

  Heading back through the well-to-do town, they passed a church in front of which a limousine was decked with the celebratory streamers of a wedding.

  A sober smile came to Matthew’s lips. ‘You know, Pippa’s the second person who’s died on my birthday. Two consecutive years and two consecutive deaths. I’m wondering who it’ll be next year.’

  ‘I think you have had your share of death for the time being, don’t you?’

  ‘Is that how it works? Bad things happen together, in patterns?’

  ‘Although superstition has is that death occurs in threes, thankfully it is a pile of tosh. I am afraid that bad things happen to everyone all the time. Anomalies and coincidences are an integral part of statistics. That they can form patterns just makes tracking them a whole lot easier. Who was the other person you lost on your birthday?’

  ‘My grandmother, last year.’ Matthew looked on, his mind ablaze. ‘She was a crazy old crone. I think you two would have hit it off.’ The edges of his lips curled – part grin, part sneer. ‘In fact, she’s probably the reason I went to the capital in the first place. She’s the one who told me I had to get out of Orchid Hill. So, if it hadn’t been for her, I guess none of this bad stuff would have happened.’

  ‘If you had not visited the capital, you would never have had the privilege of knowing me. Life, my friend, is full of swings and roundabouts.’

  Straightening his posture, lucidity returned to Matthew’s thoughts. ‘Tell me, Mr Cox: if you know where Pippa’s going to be buried, does that mean you know where she used to live? You said this was her home town.’

  ‘I think I could find it if I had to, although it is probably best that we steer clear of that place.’

  ‘Why? I’d like to see it.’

  ‘I am not sure her family would appreciate us turning up, unannounced.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with them?’

  Mr Cox raised an eyebrow. ‘In case you had forgotten, they have lost someone, too.’

  ‘Well, they obviously didn’t care much. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been living on the streets.’

  ‘You should not be so quick to judge.’

  ‘Why did she run away if it wasn’t to escape her family?’

  ‘It could have been for any number of reasons. All I am saying is that you don’t have all the facts.’

  ‘I suppose you do.’

  ‘I am not the one who is jumping to conclusions.’

  Matthew sat in silence as they drove clear of the town and through wooded countryside beyond.

  ‘If you are really so interested,’ Mr Cox said, as they rounded a wide, sweeping bend, ‘I believe her family home is a little way along here to the left.’

  ‘Well, slow down and let’s have a look.’

  Doing as instructed, Mr Cox decelerated and manoeuvred into another driveway, this one blocked by imposing iron gates. The tarmac driveway stretched a fair distance past the gates and looped behind trees.

  As Mr Cox brought the car to a stop, Matthew felt a shudder of apprehension.

  ‘I don’t see a house.’

  ‘I assure you there is one here.’

  ‘I’m getting out.’

  ‘I d
oubt there is anything to see.’

  ‘Still, I want to have a look.’

  Both emerged from the car and walked towards the gates, under the gaze of two security cameras that looked down from stone pillars.

  ‘What sort of house is this?’ Matthew asked, resting hands tentatively on the iron bars, half-expecting them to be electrified.

  ‘A very large house indeed. At the end of the driveway, about half a mile along, you will arrive at the family home. I read somewhere that it has fifteen bedrooms. You see, Philippa’s father happens to be a rather successful industrialist. Not that he needs to be; his family has always had money. He lives up there with his young wife – not Philippa’s mother, who died when she was a young girl.’ He, too, placed his hands on the bars of the iron gate.

  ‘I was aware that Pippa came from a wealthy background, but I didn’t realise they were this rich.’

  ‘Wealthy in terms of finance, unquestionably.’

  ‘So, why did she run away, if she lived in a place like this?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Sometimes it is best not to look for answers; just accept things as they are.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that sounds like a cop-out.’ His concentrated eyes sought the other man’s. ‘Something bad must have happened to drive her away.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Like I said before, it can be dangerous to speculate. Perhaps the girl felt unloved, perhaps abandoned. Heaven forbid, maybe she was abused in some way. All those are possibilities. Then again, maybe nothing happened at all. Maybe she had a happy childhood and never wanted for anything, including love. The point is, neither of us know.’

  Matthew felt the cynicism rising. ‘How can you be so distant about this? I thought she was your friend.’

  ‘Indeed, she was my friend, someone I cared about deeply. That does not mean I was prepared to intrude on her private life, delve into her secrets. One thing I do know, however, is that despite all the means at her father’s disposal, Philippa was able to spend almost a year living on the streets undetected. Quite some feat, all things considered.’

  Matthew scoffed. ‘Perhaps if you had chosen to learn more about her, you would have been able to stop her doing what she did.’

  The man smiled wanly. ‘That is not the way things work. Don’t misunderstand me and think that I am not torn up inside. You are right, she was my friend, one of the sweetest people I have met. That does not alter the facts. She is no longer with us, and there is nothing anybody could have done to save her.’ The man looked towards the car, suddenly agitated. ‘And in my opinion, it is probably best that we move along as I fear our presence will draw attention.’

  ‘Wait a minute. What do you mean, there’s nothing you could have done? If I had known that she intended to throw herself off a bridge, I would have tried to stop her.’

  The man shook his head. ‘My friend, you are failing to see the bigger picture. Philippa was walking a lonely path; the same path all of us must take in the end. No matter how much you want to blame someone, nobody prevented what happened because nobody could.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Because, quite simply, you cannot save the damned.’