Day 22
3,665 words tonight / 34,374 words total. A productive night!
63. Sketching in the Dark
All the while, Camille sat in her room drawing. It would have been pitch black in there, were it not for the small candle that offered a little shaky light over Camille’s diary.
The diary was an old plain-page art book. It was the eighteenth one she had used, the seventeen others were piled in a locked box under her bed. The pages were A4 in size and Camille filled every inch with her pictures. More often than not, people were represented by stickmen, places by simple signs and actions by scruffy arrows intended to depict movement.
The page that Camille had open in front of her now was full of black squares. Each black square covered a picture Camille had drawn that evening, the first she had spent thinking about what had happened to her mother. She had tried in a number of different ways to show what had happened, or what she felt, but failed on each occasion. The page, with its black squares painstakingly coloured so as to fully obscure the inadequate images beneath them, looked like a warped chess board.
For the first time in many years, Camille began to cry. The tears came naturally; she did nothing to slow or discourage them. But it didn’t exactly feel like a release either. In fact, had she not been able to feel the moist warmth running down her cheeks, she probably wouldn’t have even noticed she was crying.
She thought about how her initial reaction to her mother’s murder was to think of the opportunities it opened up: the television people, the nationals, perhaps even documentary makers. Tonight, those thoughts seemed nonsensical, alien even. Earlier that day, the police had left a message asking whether a member of the family would be willing to go on television and appeal for witnesses. They thought it might help with the case. Camille felt sick at the thought. What would she say, “Someone killed my mother?” Her craving for fame was driven by a will to appear strong, not to admit to beg to the world for help. The pity, the sympathy: it was more than her ego could bear. Yes, she had got it all wrong in those first minutes.
But that wasn’t the reason she was crying. She felt no sense of guilt at instinctively trying to profit from her mother’s murder. After all, what sense would there be in feeling guilty for something she did not contrive to think? Any selfish thought she had existed unconsciously. Camille would never have expressed it explicitly in those terms, but she understood it all too well. On occasion, especially with men, she would act atrociously, without any remorse at all, and without any concept of why she should or would feel any remorse. Her actions almost always preceded her thought, synonymous with her very being; it seemed ridiculous to her that something that stemmed from her very existence should be untrue, whether or not others accepted it—whether or not nature accepted it. This understanding of hers is why she felt that she understood something about her brother Jim that other people didn’t. Although she didn’t understand the first principles of his theories on dice or lotteries or anything else, what she did understand was his resistance of others’ truths. If people say it’s a one in a million chance of winning the lottery and Jim says it’s something else, and that’s what he believes, and it’s what he knows and it stems from his heart, then it is true. The same applied to Rowan and Sara and everyone else—and this was the part she grasped most clearly—that when it comes to truth, it doesn’t matter what religion says, or science, or your parents, or anyone else: what matters is what you know in your heart. What you know before you think, what you know before you speak. And because of that, Camille had never known regret, guilt or remorse. But for that reason too, she could sit in her darkened room crying, sad to the core of her being, but hardly acknowledging it. Her truth was sadness. There was no need to reflect on it, it was enough to live it.
She stood and looked down through tear stained eyes at the page she had been working on for the past hours. The black boxes scattered on the page thoroughly hid the different attempts she had made to draw her feelings: the murder scene, the emergency services, Janice’s face… all failed images, all crossed out frantically, coloured in; erased, but not into nothing, into those black boxes… erased into something new… a visible, knowable void…
Camille touched the page lightly and smiled. As with everything else in her life, she had accomplished the will of her heart without knowing it: the black squares strewn on the white page said it all. She closed the book and locked it in the box under the bed.
For her, and for the all the Barrett siblings, it was the end of a chapter.
64. I Can See Your Nipples
Rowan no longer cared if his thoughts occasionally spilled out of his mouth. To the outside world he must have appeared quite mad. In the shop at the end of the street, where he stopped to spend some of the money he had earlier stolen from the jar in the kitchen, he told the shopkeeper William that he thought his wife looked the sort to have an affair and that the previous week he had stolen crisps and sweets. He did this wholly accidentally; the words slipping from his brain, down his sinuses perhaps, into his vocal chords and out to the world via a flapping tongue. Some of what he said came back into his brain via his ears—”I said that aloud?” he’d think indifferently. For the rest, he had no idea: as far as he was concerned the voice he heard was strictly the echo of his mind’s narrative bouncing around his head. Regardless of whether he was aware or not, he had passed the point where it mattered to him at all. So what if William’s wife was a slut? William had a right to know!
And so Rowan continued on the streets, speaking and thinking interchangeably. His perspective on the world wasn’t changed in any way. For instance, when he saw Jill Jenkins, the daughter of Dr Jenkins, he approached her just as he normally would.
“Hello, Jill,” he said.
“Oh, hello!” she said. It was the first time she had left the house since her father had died; bumping in to Rowan was actually a pleasant surprise.
“I probably would,” Rowan said. “But I wouldn’t, you know, make the effort.”
“What?”
Rowan’s face flushed momentarily, but he quickly got himself under control. “Thank your father for looking after Jim when he was attacked, will you?”
“Haven’t you heard, he—”
“I can see your nipples,” Rowan said, in a toneless voice.
Jill pulled her coat around her. “It’s cold,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” said Rowan cheerfully. “Well, good day!”
Jill stood, dumbfounded, as Rowan walked off. Just as he turned the corner at the end of the street, she was sure she heard him say, “She wanted it, that one…”
65. The Shopkeepers: One Version of Events
William the shopkeeper and his wife Debbie had been having a rocky time of it before Rowan stepped into the shop. William had always been jealous. Debbie was a beautiful woman; for every year that passed, she seemed only to age a matter of months. Meanwhile, William seemed to age a decade with every quarter of the financial year: if he wasn’t in the shop, he was buried in the accounts. Debbie wouldn’t have minded so much if they were hard up, but they had been turning over a good profit for years and besides, they had a fortune set aside ‘for a rainy day’ from the sale of a second home they’d inherited years before.
But Rowan pushed the tensions over the edge.
Jill Jenkins went in to buy cigarettes and was ignored completely. She eventually left empty handed. “What an odd day,” she thought. The husband and wife shopkeepers argued well into the night. “You work too hard!” Debbie screamed. “You fuck other men!” William countered. At the end of the argument, exhausted and weary, the two decided mutually that they would never be able to reconcile their differences. Perhaps it had been a mistake to get together from the start. Perhaps it was fortunate they had never decided to have children together. Perhaps this was all as it was meant to be.
The next morning, Debbie left. Within a week she had found herself a man who was as young as she looked. He was rich and exotic; together they moved to Spain, and in the end Mexico. When they were both very old, he developed a rare bone disorder and spent his last year wheelchair-bound. It didn’t detract from their altogether happy life, however—Debbie was happy to nurse him to a painless death. Once he was gone, she spent her days relaxing on a beach with friends drinking cocktails and participating in both Spanish and English reading groups. Her favourite book was Don Quixote. She died of old age, but before becoming too old to enjoy life anymore.
Good for Debbie!
William continued to work in his shop, becoming increasingly bitter as the years passed. To counteract his unhappiness, he chose to work longer and longer hours: he opened the store at six rather than seven, then at five rather than six. He closed up at eight rather than seven, then at nine. In the end, he moved into the shop completely. He slept in a sleeping bag in the back room. He had a sink and toilet plumbed in. The occasional scurrying of mice was the only suggestion of company through the long nights. The breeze that came in under the door and his wearying body contrived to cripple him; it wasn’t long before he needed two sticks to walk. He could no longer use the top lock, or stack the highest shelves. He preyed for it to be over, and his prayers were finally answered when he slipped on some spilled milk and cracked his head against the till. At the time he died, he hadn’t been out of the shop in two years.
Poor William!
66. The Shopkeepers: Another Version of Events
William the shopkeeper and his wife Debbie had been having a rocky time of it before Rowan stepped into the shop. William had never been the jealous sort, but it seemed possible that Debbie was indeed having an affair. Debbie wasn’t particularly attractive; for every year that passed, she seemed only to age three or four. William was much better looking, everyone commented on how young he looked, despite his work ethic. People wondered why he would stay with her; she was something of a leech, preying off this good man, trying to get her hands on the fortune he had set aside ‘for a rainy day’ from the sale of a second home he’d inherited years before.
But Rowan pushed the tensions over the edge.
Jill Jenkins went in to buy cigarettes and was ignored completely. She eventually left empty handed. “What an odd day,” she thought. The husband and wife shopkeepers argued well into the night. “You don’t take care of me!” Debbie screamed. “All you care about is yourself!” William countered. At the end of the argument, exhausted and weary, the two decided mutually that they would never be able to reconcile their differences. Perhaps it had been a mistake to get together from the start. Perhaps it was fortunate they had never decided to have children together. Perhaps this was all as it was meant to be.
The next morning, Debbie left. She met a succession of other men, but could never find a relationship that worked. Ultimately, she remarried an international porta-loo salesman, with whom she moved first to Spain, and then to Mexico. It was then that he developed a rare bone disorder. He spent the next thirty years in a wheelchair. Debbie, with no friends and no money of her own, looked after him day and night until he eventually died. Once he was gone, she fell apart mentally. Every day people would see her on the beach pretending to read Don Quixote—usually holding the book upside down—talking to herself and crying. She died of old age, a long time after he mind had passed away.
Poor Debbie!
William sold the shop and took early retirement. He became a man of leisure, waking when he felt like it, doing what he pleased. He joined a tribute band to the Rat Pack, and together they spent long nights performing all the old classics to appreciative crowds. He only lived to be sixty, but the days passed slowly and deliberately for him and he enjoyed each moment. He stayed strong and charismatic to the end, and when his time came it was during a rendition of ‘That’s Life’, his favourite song. He collapsed at the end of the last line, with a smile on his face. His friends and fans played the Frank Sinatra version at the funeral. The day was sad but permeated with a sense of joy, everyone agreed they would remember William as the man that could bring happiness to even the most bitter hearts.
Good for William!
67. A Note, A Message, A Knock on the Door
“All done,” Janice said, brushing off her hands and smiling triumphantly. The house certainly was immaculate. Not only had she and Rodger cleaned, they had also left a variety of meals in the fridge for the Barrett kids to heat up—all home cooked, of course—and some money on the side ‘to see them right.’
Janice dictated a note to Rodger:
Dearest Camille, Sara, Jim & Rowan,
I didn’t know where to start when I thought about talking to you, so I decided to help in action rather than words. I’ve tidied and arranged some meals for you… there’s some cash on the side, too.
Your mother was a wonderful woman.
See you at the funeral,
Janice
Sara and Jim went downstairs once they were sure Janice and Rodger ad left. They read the note together.
“Who’s organising the funeral?” Jim asked.
“We are, I suppose,” Sara said.
“How does it happen?”
“I don’t know. We phone the funeral directors?”
“When… When will we get the body?” asked Jim.
“I don’t know. The police said it should be any day now. They said it took a while because it’s so difficult to dust skin for fingerprints.”
“But what about this place? They barely spent any time here at all…”
“I don’t know, they say they got all they needed,” Sara said. She pressed play on the answering machine.
There was only one message: it was asking if they wanted to make a public appeal for information about the murder.
“What do you think?” asked Jim.
“It might look bad if we didn’t,” said Sara.
“But can you imagine it? We’d have to cry wouldn’t we? They’d tell us to cry, so as to make people more likely to call in.”
“Not necessarily…”
“I don’t want to do it, Sara. No way.”
“Well, let’s at least—” Just then, there was a knock at the door. Jim went to answer it but Sara shook her head. “Stay here,” she hissed. The knocks came again and again. Finally Jim threw his hands up in the air and went out into the hallway.
The woman knocking was simply beautiful. Jim had never seen anyone who looked like her in his life. She was his height, or a little shorter, with a slight figure and a face so delicate he feared it could be broken by even the gentlest of touches. “H-Hi,” he said. “Can I help?”
“My name is Jenny McElroy,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind me coming over unannounced. I’m taking over as your police liaison officer. I just wanted to meet you all, and to see if you’d thought anymore about the public appeal.”
“Come in, come in,” Jim said. Sara watched on disapprovingly. Jim wasn’t bothered what she thought, he continued anyway: “We were just talking about that. We decided, if you think it’s a good idea, and if it’ll help find the men who did this, we’ll do it!”
68. Rowan, Rowan, Rowan
Rowan could have sworn someone was calling his name. “Rowan,” the voice was saying. “Rowan, Rowan, Rowan…” He tried to ignore it, as he walked the streets of Camden, but it was difficult. The repetition was incessant; disturbing. As subtly as he could, he looked around, trying to see the man who was taunting him. As he walked, he turned this way and that, taking in the faces around him hoping to catch a glimpse of his tormentor, but to no avail.
Half an hour later the voice became familiar to him. He stood in front of Argos and looked at himself long and hard in the mirror. The voice continued, “Rowan, Rowan, Rowan,” and, of course, his lips moved along in perfect time.
He tried to stop, but he couldn’t. “Rowan,” he said. “Shit… shh!… stop…Row—Arghh!—Rowan!—Oh, for fuck’s sake… Rowan, Rowan, Rowan…” In the end, he decided the best bet was to try and pretend it wasn’t happening. That approach seemed to work, a few minutes later he found he had stopped anyway.
The market was in full flow and Rowan allowed himself to be swept along with the crowds, moving this way and that, at the mercy of the pierced faces and tattooed arms and lower backs that surrounded him. Then, quite by accident, he noticed something that captured his attention. Two men were arguing in an alleyway. One of the men, a large bald lug, was trying to pry a mobile phone from the hands of the other, a determined, but ultimately physically inferior Goth. Defying the push and pull of the crowd, Rowan headed over. Before getting there, however, the bigger guy managed to prise the phone out of the other’s hand. He didn’t even run off, he simply walked away, further into the alley.
Rowan’s mind began to spin back to the other evening, to what had happened to Jim. His sense of helplessness then—is that what had brought on his madness? He had smashed the window, had given the opening for the bastards who killed his mother, had lost control. If he could have done something about the guys that attacked Jim, perhaps his mother would still be alive. Perhaps he would be in more control of his brain, of his mouth.
“What happened?” he asked the Goth.
“Huh?”
“With that guy… what happened?”
“He mugged me. Took my phone.”
“Stay here,” Rowan said, pushing the young man back against the wall more forcefully that he intended. “Do you understand me? Do not even think about fucking moving or I will hunt you down and kill you.”
The Goth stared at him blankly.
“Do you understand?”
“Have you got a cigarette?”
Rowan took out his pack and handed it over. “Have as many as you want but stay the fuck here!” he said, turning and running off in the direction that the bigger man had gone.
For a short while, Rowan worried that he wouldn’t find the man. He wondered round aimlessly, once again followed by his own seemingly disembodied voice, “Rowan, Rowan, Rowan,” only now it had become even more of a taunt, sounding more like, “Rowwwwww-an, Rowwwwww-an, Rowwwwww-an,” probably brought about by his stress, but in turn increasing his sense of urgency and agitation.
Just when he was about to give up, he spotted the guy crossing Camden High Street. Hanging back at a discreet distance, Rowan followed until they reached Mornington Crescent station. The guy stepped into a tiny newsagent just outside; this was Rowan’s chance! He sprinted into the shop, grabbing the first thing his hand happened across as he did so. Then, leaping and raising the weapon, which, fortunately for him was a stapler and not a magazine or A4 pad, he brought it down onto the big guy’s head, sending him crashing down to the ground, unconscious.
The shop was deserted save for the elderly owner. As quickly as he could, Rowan took the man’s wallet, and the boy’s mobile phone. There was twenty pounds cash in the wallet, which he handed to the shopkeeper. “Justice,” Rowan said. The shopkeeper nodded anxiously. Rowan ran out and back to the alley as fast as he could.
The Goth was there, smoking a cigarette. “Here you go,” said Rowan, holding out the phone.
“Um.. cheers,” said the Goth.
Rowan looked at the Goth incredulously. “That’s it?” he said. “‘Cheers’?”
“Uh, yeah,” said the Goth. “I mean, I appreciate it, but… well, the thing is… this isn’t my phone…”
Rowan looked at the phone again. “Yeah it is,” he said. “I saw him take it…”
“He did,” said the Goth, “but this isn’t it. It must be his phone.”
“Oh,” said Rowan.
“I appreciate it though. I mean, I’ll use it. It’s blue… I’d prefer black, but that’s not a big deal. It’s probably better than my old one anyway. That piece of shit was on it’s last legs…”
“It was?”
“Yeah—No, I mean… It meant a lot to me… Well, not that much, I mean, this is just as good… Better. Better! I’m pleased with this. It’s great. Um… So thanks!”
Rowan smiled brightly as the two parted company. “Freak bastard,” he said unconsciously.
Yes, and despite the complications, all in all, Rowan’s first foray into vigilantism had gone quite well, he felt.
