The Last Thing I Remember Page 5

  Anna from down the road is already here. My mum’s invited her for coffee and she’s not even in. Billy’s probably got her to stay and watch. He’s so fucking pathetic. ‘Watch me score a goal, Mum. Watch me, watch me’, and then he won’t even tackle anyone. One game last year he never even touched the fucking ball the entire game. I’m not even lying. He just stands there with his hands on his hips, pointing occasionally. His coach calls him pretty boy. Says he won’t tackle cos he don’t wanna get any mud on his pretty little face.

  Anna says the police are going to her house at three. She used to do cleaning and ironing and stuff at Sarah’s. She only liked doing it when Sarah was home. Said it was creepy when it was just Adam in the house. See – I told you no one liked Adam.

  Adam hated Anna too. Obvs things went like gross bad when Adam said that Anna’s son had nicked his car. Did I tell you about the car getting nicked? OK, so the car got nicked just after they moved in, so like no one knew them that well yet. All they knew was that they were yuppies. My mum had told everyone, right. So obvs everyone wanted to know what yuppies looked like. So every time anyone went by their house, they’d be like looking through the window to see what they could see. On this one particular day, Adam had left his set of keys in the front door, when he’d come back from the offy and someone took the keys out of the front door and drove off in his car. Their car. Just like that. I mean it sort of serves him right, don’t you think? You can’t just leave your fucking keys in your front door and expect people not to take them, right? Not in South Tottenham you can’t. Twat. Anyway, Adam ran after the car all the way down our road to the junction with White Hart Lane. Bet Nathan wasn’t expecting that. Turns out that Adam can run really fast. Like seriously fast. And he was shouting and swearing at Nathan but Nathan just managed to stay ahead of him and not get seen or nothing. Nathan must’ve nearly shat himself. LOL. It was Nathan by the way. Anna never admitted it. Mum said Anna just told Nathan to bring it back like right now. Which he did. No harm done, right? He just parked it up the end of the road that night and chucked the keys by the doorstep. Getting back your stolen car, around here, is like total respect, right? So I don’t know what Adam was so pissed for. The thing was that even though Adam got the car back, Adam had a feeling it was Nathan that did it and he knew that Anna knew that Adam knew that Nathan did it. OMG, this is confusing. So every time Adam saw Anna he’d be like, ‘How’s Nathan then, Anna?’ And Anna had a go at Nathan again. And then Nathan got really pissed with Adam and tells all his mates that Adam is a tosser. So that’s why no one likes Adam. Well, one of the reasons.

  Anyway, Anna is here and she’s making the coffee herself cos she knows where everything is cos she’s here half her life cos her daughter-in-law hates her. ‘The police think Adam got murdered,’ I say to Anna. And she goes, ‘Well, he got what he deserved, right?’ but with like a thick Greek accent. So I say, ‘You wanna watch it, Anna, cos they might think it’s Nathan, you know?’ And she starts swearing in Greek. And I say, ‘But, you know, there are loads of people who would wanna do some serious damage to Adam.’ And she stops swearing and looks at me. ‘Like who?’ she goes. So I say what about that Iranian guy from Finchley who kept coming around asking for money and didn’t she see him sometimes standing over the road like waiting for Adam cos like Adam owed him a thousand or something and he told Adam he was gonna do his kneecaps. Sarah told me about it. Anna says she thinks she remembers him. And did I say Iranian? Says she thinks she had seen someone standing in the bushes opposite their house. And there is that Cypriot bloke in the TV place on Green Lanes who said Adam had like borrowed a TV off him and never paid. He said that unless Adam got the money he would, like, have an accident. That’s how Sarah put it. An accident! She was so worried they were gonna like pour petrol through the letterbox or something like they did with them people in Hackney. She probably paid that one back too. She was always paying people back. We were at the newsagent one day, me and her, and the Indian lady behind the counter was like, ‘You should be ashamed of your husband.’ To Sarah. And she was like, ‘What?’ And the Indian lady said that Adam came in every day and got cigarettes and stuff and would never pay. He would always say he would pay tomorrow. She said he was a bully to her husband and that she wanted to hit him with a stick. (Actually that bit was quite funny.) Anyhow the bill was like £200. She paid that too. Anna is shaking her head. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘There are loads of people who would wanna do some serious damage to Adam,’ except she says it in her weird Greek accent.

  My mum gets back just as she’s saying that. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Anna. What are you saying? They were mugged!’ she says. ‘For their credit cards, I’ll bet you. They’ll have taken all their jewellery and wallets and all. You see.’

  So while Anna goes off to be interviewed at her house, my mum makes herself a cup of tea and waits for her turn. And I’m still standing in the hall with my head against the wallpaper.

  13

  Sarah

  Day Two – 12 noon

  The sound comes back on, the room seems full of people. Someone turns a tap on and water runs. I imagine a glass of water. Cold water with ice cubes. Or a tall glass of Coke with a slice of lemon in it, with condensation running down the sides. I wonder if I’ll ever have a drink again. The tap squeaks off. The door handle snaps open and I hear feet shuffling and chairs scraping.

  ‘Mr and Mrs, um, Beresford. You know why we are all here. We don’t usually conduct this type of meeting here but the Detective Inspector wants Mr Malin to update him on your daughter’s progress. Perhaps we could retire to the family room as soon as possible so that we don’t disturb Sarah any more than we have to. Do you understand, Detective Inspector Langlands?’

  That was a lady’s voice. She sounds like a caring woman. Someone who genuinely wants to help. I can imagine my dad nodding and rubbing his chin. There is a small cough and clearing of a throat.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Beresford.’

  Oh lord, this man has the most annoying voice.

  ‘Once again please accept our sincere sympathies on behalf of the force at this very difficult time. As you both know, we are now conducting a murder investigation. Although this is a very difficult time for you we do need to ask you a few questions concerning your daughter and her, um, husband.’

  He sounds like an officious twit.

  ‘This is nothing to worry about, June, Brian.’

  The softly spoken woman again.

  ‘As you know, as your victim support liaison I can talk you through anything you don’t fully understand when Detective Inspector Langlands has asked you more questions. We just need to make sure all our paperwork is in order before we can go any further with the investigation. If you have any concerns we can talk later.’

  Honestly. What the fuck. Go on, Dad. Tell them to get out. Tell them I’m in a coma and we should be concentrating on making me better. Why does it feel like no one is actually trying to help me? Where are the doctors?

  ‘No, no. You go ahead with your questions.’

  That’s my mother.

  ‘We did already speak to one of your colleagues yesterday . . .’

  Thanks, Dad.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Beresford. I’m afraid that we are now treating this as a murder investigation. We don’t believe it was simply a mugging. We think that the couple were targeted. That means we will need to ask you some further questions – this is just the start. So, do you know what your daughter and son-in-law were doing in White Hart Lane on the night in question? It was ten o’clock at night in a not very pleasant area.’

  ‘It’s an up-and-coming area, Tottenham. Sarah always said there are some very nice bits, didn’t she, Brian?’

  ‘She was worried at first.’

  ‘She said she thought that there were gangs of kids that were very rough. One-parent families, you know. Not much discipline. We were a bit worried when they first moved there but the neighbours are . . . well, they’
re not really our sort but Sarah said they were nice. Good people. There was a Brenda. I believe she was next door. She had a daughter. And the Greek lady down the road did a bit of ironing for Sarah. Have you spoken to them? They’ll tell you what a lovely girl Sarah was. How she wasn’t one to get into fights.’

  ‘We are due to take statements from the neighbours.’

  The policeman chap sounds like he has a short fuse.

  ‘What we’re unsure of, Mrs Beresford – sorry to interrupt – but what do you think they were doing there so late?’

  ‘Is ten o’clock late? I don’t think the youth of today would call that late. Brian and I often don’t go to bed until ten thirty, do we, Brian?’

  ‘I don’t think we know, do we, June?’

  That’s my dad.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to your daughter, Mrs Beresford?’

  I’m sorry but that sounds very accusatory to me. Like I wouldn’t be in a coma if I had phoned my parents more often.

  ‘She called me that day, didn’t she, Brian? She calls me every day but she didn’t mention they were going out.’

  ‘She calls you every day? Isn’t that quite unusual for a young woman to contact her parents every day?’

  Oh, make your mind up. One minute you complain it’s not enough contact, next minute it’s too much.

  ‘No, not really. Sarah always calls. She’s always on the phone. Always wants to know all about what we were doing. You know.’

  ‘OK. Right.’

  He’s losing patience.

  ‘So destination not known . . . Hmm. So, can I ask, and this may sound personal but it’s not meant to . . . to your knowledge, was your daughter happy in her marriage?’

  Was I?

  ‘Well, of course she was happy. They had a newly done-up house, not in a terribly good area admittedly, but it was very nicely done inside. And she had a new job – a good job. At a publishing house. Hall & Brown Books.’

  Hall & Brown?

  ‘They sent some beautiful flowers today, didn’t they, Brian? But you aren’t allowed flowers in hospital now. They have germs, the nurse said. So they put the flowers in the nurses’ station. Sarah won’t mind. She’ll be pleased that the nurses had something nice. She never complains, does our Sarah. I think they were, weren’t they, Brian?’

  ‘Yes, June. Sorry. What about? Are we still on the flowers?’

  ‘No, Brian. About them being happy.’

  ‘Oh yes. She probably was.’

  ‘Probably, Mr Beresford?’

  ‘Yes, very probably. She was quiet. A quiet girl.’

  He doesn’t sound sure.

  ‘Is there anything else, Inspector? I’m sure Mr and Mrs Beresford have answered enough questions.’

  ‘Nope, that’s it really. Thank you both. Dr Malin?’

  There’s a snap of a book closing.

  ‘Yes, so why don’t you, Mr and Mrs Beresford, go and get some tea, both of you, while I cover the medical side of things.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  The door opens and closes.

  ‘I have a few questions for you, though, Dr Malin, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Go ahead then, I have ward rounds in ten.’

  The voices become quieter.

  ‘What’s the prognosis then, Dr Malin?’

  ‘It’s Mr Malin. Not Doctor. Mister. We don’t yet know. We did an MRI this morning but it wasn’t conclusive. There’s too much swelling and it’s too early to tell, really. We don’t know if there is any brain activity at all. But we hope there is. If we’re lucky, we would expect to see some progress within three days of the trauma taking place. In my experience we will pretty much know for sure what is going on within ten days. If we aren’t making any progress by that time then we will have to look at other things. There are only so many tests we can do.’

  What does that mean? I’ve lost track of time. How long have I been here?

  ‘Also, doctor, FYI. I’m putting some extra security on the ward.’

  ‘It’s Mr. Not Dr. Can you get that written down in your goddam little book, man? Security? What on earth for? It’s hard enough to get in here as it is. There is absolutely no reason for you starting to pollute my wards with your . . .’

  They’ve gone.

  This is me thinking.

  That is all I can do.

  I have just remembered something about my mother. I think it’s a memory but it could be a dream. A bad dream. I was trying to tell her something and she wouldn’t listen. She was busy in the kitchen and I was hiding between the folds of her skirt. Flecks of washing-up bubbles kept splashing down my T-shirt. I was holding on tight to her warm leg through the cold crisp cotton skirt but she kept trying to move away. She said, ‘Sarah, will you stop it!’ but I didn’t let go. She picked me up with her hot, wet hands and put me on a stool by the draining board. She dried her hands on her apron and sighed and asked me what on earth was the matter and why couldn’t I just let her get on with the meal and that Dad was going to be home any minute now and he’d be cross if the meal wasn’t ready and he didn’t like casserole at the best of times. She wiped my face with the tea towel. It smelt of cake mix and old gravy. And I pointed to the garden. Pointed at the man in the garden. And she turned and looked at him and then suddenly threw down the tea towel and slapped me hard across the cheek. Slapped me so hard that I slipped sideways off the stool and landed heavily onto the floor, my legs tangled up. ‘Don’t start with your lies, Sarah,’ she shouted. ‘You’re nothing but a little liar’, and she went back to the sink. ‘Mr Eades is just a nice old man. Everyone round here thinks the world of him. We all do our bit for Care in the Community. And pottering around in our shed is doing you NO HARM, MISSY. Mrs Garland at the end of the road has him do her lawns. He does everyone’s windows. How would it look? HOW WOULD IT LOOK, SARAH, IF YOU START MAKING UP LIES ABOUT HIM? You will bring shame to this family. Shame and scandal. You don’t begin to understand, you selfish little fool. You think you can open up those big blue eyes of yours and get away with lying,’ she said, as I picked myself up from the floor. ‘Don’t you go talking to your father either,’ she said in a low, quiet voice. A threatening voice. And the man in the garden walked past the window. And he nodded at my mother and tipped his hat. And she smiled a thin-lipped smile and said, ‘Bye, Mr Eades, thanks again.’ Her cheeks were hot as she looked over at me on the floor. I stopped crying. I can’t remember any more.

  When I stopped dreaming I couldn’t hear anything.

  I have sunk deeper.

  14

  Kelly

  Day Two – 3.30 p.m.

  At half past three the police arrive. Early. There are two policemen, one in a uniform who doesn’t say anything much and needn’t have bothered coming if you ask me, and this detective bloke called Langlands. I’ve seen Langlands before. He was on TV yesterday and he once came and gave a twattish talk in assembly the day after the languages block got burnt down, about how not to play with matches or leave cigarette tabs burning. He interviewed a load of kids including Kathryn Cowell and Wino, but mostly Year 13, who all smoked. The firemen hadn’t found the petrol can by that point. The police still thought the fire was an accident. We all knew, though. And we all stood there taking this crap about smouldering tabs turning into configurations or something. I think that was the word. It don’t sound right now.

  Langlands talks down to people and he thinks that nobody notices. He thinks he comes across as being nice. But he’s just a twat. My mum is so onto him it’s hilarious – even if she is old. It’s his, like, default mode to be totally patronising. He also fancies himself as a bit of a like secret agent. Jason Bourne or 007. They brought along that victim support lady with them too, Gill Brannon, who my mum will definitely say is totally tea and tampons. That’s her favourite phrase. Like a school nurse or one of those politicians who wants you to sign something, you know. Busybodies, my mum calls them. Drippy. She shakes my mum’s hand and rubs her ar
m – my mum’s arm I mean – and says that while she is primarily looking after Sarah’s interests, there are often ‘many victims in a crime’ and that if she feels that she would like some ‘counselling or advice’ she should ‘get in contact’. During which Langlands yawns and sits himself down. Then she presses another one of her little fliers into my mum’s hand. She must get through a lot of photocopying. So, anyhow, they’re all here and sat in the front room that only gets used when there’s like royalty in the house. It smells of damp dog in there even though we don’t have one. I’d quite like a dog but not really if it ends up smelling like that.

  So, anyway, my mum talks in her posh voice and offers everyone tea. And I’m standing in the hall with my hands behind my back leaning against the radiator. Just so you can really picture the scene, I have my school uniform on. Question: why would I be wearing my uniform on a Saturday? My mum asked me the exact same thing when I just came down the stairs. And I answered, ‘My jeans are in the wash. I spilt soup on them.’ Which isn’t true. And besides I do have plenty of other stuff. I just thought to myself that for such an official occasion I should look like what I am – you know, like a schoolchild. Fuck my life, Sarah would be proud of me. My mum had been about to start an argument with me about it, when the pigs had rung the doorbell.

  ‘While I make some tea, would you like to talk to my daughter Kelly at all, Mr Langlands?’ says my mum, as she sweeps out of the room like the fucking Queen or something. ‘Detective Inspector,’ says the Detective Inspector. D’ya see? Told you he was a twat. He’s looking at me. And I am holding my breath. And my cheeks go pink. And I stare down at my feet in my Lisa Simpson slippers that I got from Father Christmas.

  And the tea-and-tampons lady goes ‘Detective Inspector’, and she touches him on his arm. I bet there is like a social worker handbook that they give you and on page 1 it says rub someone’s arm to make them feel liked or something. BTW Langlands obvs thinks she is totally fucking mental. He is looking at his sleeve like it’s got shit on it. And she goes, very quietly so I can only just hear her, ‘Kelly is fourteen, Detective Inspector. She’s a schoolgirl. She was not close to Sarah. Sarah was quite obviously friends with Mrs McCarthy.’