‘No! That’s all he was. My source. I swear to you on my father’s grave, there was nothing else going on between us.’
Another lie. Cremated and dispersed to the four winds; that’s what they did with her father’s remains. At his funeral they shook hands with the mourners and agreed that he was, indeed, a devoted husband and father. She leans towards Sylvia, leans so close that she can see the indentation of pain on her skin, faint traces that will, in time, mar her perfect complexion.
‘You have to help me, Sylvia. Marcus has nothing to do with any of this. He’s a child, scared out of his wits – that’s if he’s not already… dead.’ She whispers the last word, afraid of its force if she speaks it aloud. ‘You have to tell the police you’ve been passing information from Karl Lawson to the media. They’ll be able to trace his calls to you.’
‘What can I tell them that they don’t already know?’ As if Amanda’s breath has tarnished her, Sylvia steps back and brushes her hand across her cheek. ‘They, too, have received an anonymous tip-off but are no nearer to finding your son.’
‘You know it’s him. Where is he, you merciless bitch? Tell me… tell me.’
Sylvia winces when Amanda grabs her shoulders, her head lolling forward in shock and then arching back as she breaks free. ‘Why should you expect me to reveal my source when you would go to jail rather than reveal yours? If the police want to ask questions, they know where to find me.’
She removes an envelope from her briefcase and places it on top of the newspapers. ‘My letter of resignation. Pass it on to your husband. You and I have nothing more to say to each other.’
She leaves as quietly as she entered the room. So many questions still unanswered; but Amanda no longer cares about Sylvia Thornton’s dysfunctional marriage, her twisted morals. She outstared Amanda before she left. In her eyes, Amanda saw a glimmer of what she believes was pity – and it adds to her terror.
Lar’s hair seems thinner and has turned from silver to an old man’s white. He replaces Sylvia’s letter of resignation in the envelope and picks up the Daily Orb. She waits for him to raise his hand and call her a liar. She would welcome the sting. Anything to relieve the strain on his face as he reads ‘Knight on the Tiles’.
‘Karl Lawson is feeding information to the police, to Sylvia, and to the press.’ She speaks flatly and with certainty. ‘Seven days, that’s how long it took them to recover Constance Lawson’s body. He’ll kill our son if the police don’t find him before then.’
He glares at her, his bloodshot eyes filled with contempt. ‘I’ve been reading back over your coverage from that time. You destroyed him. You and your source.’
‘Finding Marcus is all that matters, Lar. We must persuade the police to take this search seriously. It’s our only hope of finding him alive.’
Battle-weary, he is weakening by the hour, but he’s finally listening to her.
The guards arrive soon afterwards. Is she imagining a new purposefulness about them? Sergeant Moran warns Amanda that she could be charged with obstruction of justice for lying about her relationship with Detective Sergeant Jon Hunter. But, for now, Marcus’s whereabouts is their only consideration. They are still following other lines of enquiry, but a full-scale search for Karl Lawson is underway.
Once again, she drives away from Shearwater. Cameras are lifted, mouths move as reporters scatter before her.
Rebecca answers the door. ‘Come in.’ She draws Amanda by her hands into her kitchen. ‘Mam’s already here.’
She has changed the kitchen decor since the last time Amanda visited. A retro Fifties design: baby-pink presses, chequerboard flooring, tubular chairs and feel-good mottos on the wall. They advise Amanda to dance if she stumbles. To live the life she loves.
Imelda is scalding a teapot and the table is set with willow-pattern china. ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ she says. ‘Those terrible things they’re writing about you. How can they be so cruel when your poor heart is breaking.’ She speaks as if Marcus is dead.
Amanda sinks into a chair and waits while her mother pours tea. Imelda’s hands shake and Amanda is reminded of Elizabeth Kelly, her desperate efforts to be polite while she quivered with grief over her dead son.
‘Were you with Eric Walker that afternoon?’ Rebecca stands, arms folded. Ignoring Imelda’s tut-tut warning, she stares directly at her sister. ‘Did you ask me to collect your son from school so that you could lie in another man’s bed?’
Danny enters the kitchen and pauses, caught in the middle of an awkward silence. A civil defence volunteer, he has been active in the search for Marcus. So, too, has Rebecca, along with Imelda, who manages the tea and coffee urns at the town hall. Amanda wants to ask them how much hope the volunteers still carry within them, but is afraid of their reply. Danny mutters an excuse about a phone call he has to make and retreats from the tension.
‘Tell us the truth, Amanda.’ Imelda holds her hands. ‘That’s all we’re asking.’
They once lived in a house that breathed danger over the truth. Where it was hidden behind Venetian blinds and silenced behind closed doors. Constant fear exposed them to shame. Rebecca wet the bed until she was ten. Amanda banged her head off the bedroom wall to drown out their father’s rage. He died shortly after Imelda had branded him with an iron and closed the front door on his agony. A stroke followed. Suppressed fury can do that. His high blood pressure took care of the rest. Did she kill him, Amanda’s wilting mother, who had endured the unendurable until her children were strong enough to walk away?
The tea scalds Amanda’s lips and the cup clinks against the saucer when she sets it down. The tears come without warning. A sluice gate opening. She throws her head back and howls, blinds her eyes with salt. She never wants to stop. Imelda dabs at her face with tissues and tries to quieten her, suspecting, perhaps, that she wants to bang her head against the wall again. The truth flutters in her throat. Like wings trapped for so long that the bird has forgotten how to fly. She spits out the lies she has told and waits for redemption. Does redemption have a form, a lightness? Something she can hold on to when the grieving becomes too great? Tomorrow is All Souls’ Day and the end of everything has yet to come.
Plinkertown Hall is quiet. The phones don’t ring here but Marcus sees Super texting and then throwing his phone into the water barrel. He doesn’t know Marcus is watching. When Marcus pulls over a bucket to stand on so he can see into the barrel, Super’s phone has disappeared.