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CHAPTERSIXTEEN
From his position standing on the chair, Owen watched the blue light flashing, flooding the glass in the front door with pulses of eerie colour, on off, on off; clicking sounds, no siren. The ambulance had arrived. The paramedics shoved open the door he had failed to close fully and looked at him, still holding his mother. Owen heard their intake of breath. He imagined it took a lot to shock a paramedic. They were very gentle. Explained he was doing no good.
‘You can let her go, son. It’s too late to make any difference.’
He released his hold and slumped onto the chair. One cold foot kicked his back of his neck. The police arrived shortly after. They were less gentle. Escorted him firmly into the sitting room. Questioning: What had he done on arrival? Had he been alone? What had he been doing that morning? Had his mother expected him home? When had he last seen her alive? Was she taking anything for depression? What had he touched? The questions went on and on.
Owen answered as if on automatic pilot. He wasn’t lost for words, but it didn’t feel like him answering. Then the house filled with people in white hooded over suits, masks and matching plastic boots. They moved around like giant maggots. Poking here, poking there. The body was carefully cut down. A short examination from someone who appeared to be the senior maggot. Owen waited with a strange sense of isolation. As if the scene in his home wasn’t real. As if he didn’t exist. The maggots continued their work. Slowly, methodically, time passed. He felt like he was the ghost.
As the body was taken from the house, George and his dad arrived. The rubbernecking neighbours dispersed. The house was sealed, lots of police tape everywhere, and Owen discovered he was on the backseat of a luxury car sitting next to his rucksack. He didn’t remember picking it up. When did he get in this car? Why was he staring at the boil on the back of Charles Halcyon’s neck, glowing neon red through the faded greasy strands of ginger hair?
Afterwards, Owen only vaguely remembered the journey from Aldershot to London in the back of Chas Halcyon’s powerful big blue BMW with its cream leather interior. George and his dad talked to him. He answered sometimes. Questions were shoving and stumbling into his brain. He didn’t have many answers left. He closed his eyes to shut off everything and leant his head against the car window.
Sometime later, he didn’t know how long, he focused again on his surroundings. He was standing inside the hallway of a neat, little Victorian terraced house. Somewhere in London, somewhere east of the City. There was a redheaded woman worriedly examining him. She had a kind voice, melodious, with a lilt and a way of stringing words together that wasn’t from London. He heard her say, ‘You poor, poor, love.’ She had beautiful, dark green eyes.
‘This is my mum,’ George said.
‘Hello.’ Owen blinked at her. She was far more glamorous than he had expected George’s mum would be.
‘Oh, my lovie,’ she said, head tilting to one side, taking hold of his arms and squeezing. ‘Georgie telephoned and told me what’s happened. What a shock for you, you poor thing.’
Owen stared at her. What was he supposed to say–should he agree? He stared at her and kept silent.
George’s mum turned to her husband. ‘Get the fold-up bed from the shed and bring it through, will you? It’ll need a good vacuum. Who knows when it was last used. And you…’ she turned back to Owen, ‘You come with me.’
She led him into a kitchen where it was warm, everything sparkling clean and there was a mouth-watering smell of fresh baking. Mince pies and sausage rolls were stacked on plates along the counter.
Owen’s stomach twisted to remind his brain he had not eaten today. Futile. His brain wasn’t listening. He glanced around the room, which seemed to glow with homeliness. Mistletoe and holly, adorned with sparkling fairy lights, decorated the top of each built-in unit. Randomly, Owen bet that there was a big Norwegian spruce or similar somewhere in this house. This was a place where Christmas really happened.
He slumped down on a chair at the kitchen table, and stared blankly at its shiny formica surface, watching the flickering reflection of fairy lights–red, yellow, green. No blue.
‘Do you want something to eat, my lovely?’ George’s mum asked.
Startled by her voice, he looked at her again, confused by her glamour.
‘No thanks, Mrs Halcyon.’
‘Sally, call me Sally, lovie.’
‘Right, yes.’
‘A drink then.’ She went to a cupboard and pulled out a half-full bottle of something brown. ‘You’ll be needing something strong after what’s happened. It’s only cooking brandy,’ she said, ‘but it should hit the spot.’
Owen watched as Sally filled a tumbler.
‘Here, get this inside you.’ She took his hands and placed the glass in his grasp. ‘You’ll feel better if you do.’
Owen obediently drank. His first taste of brandy. It burned the back of his throat and set fire to his chest but didn’t seem to do much else.
There was a clatter in the hallway. ‘Careful of the bleeding paintwork,’ Chas Halcyon grumbled.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
Sally gave Owen an apologetic smile and went to the kitchen door. ‘Oh my God, would you look at the state of it?’ she said. ‘Get me the vacuum, will you, Georgie?’
Owen stared again at the kitchen table, sipped the brandy and listened to the activities in the hallway, while he tried to kick start his brain. Nothing seemed to work as it should. He could answer questions. Some of them. But it was an automatic process. No thought before or behind the words. Sally had said he must be shocked. The assumption seemed to be that he was upset–in a state. Truth was he didn’t know if he was shocked. He was surprised they’d brought him here. That was something he’d not expected. He didn’t know what he’d thought would happen when he phoned George. All he’d known was he needed help–he hadn’t even known what sort of help.
The vacuum silenced, Sally instructed her husband and George to take the put-you-up to George’s bedroom.
