by Rin Simpson
A man died on my street yesterday. The police are calling it an accident, but Jane believes it’s suicide. I just shrug when she shares her theory, her eyes wide and watery as they peer over a cup of lukewarm PG Tips.
“He’s the type,” she says, nodding sagely. “Always kept himself to himself. You mark my words, he topped himself alright.”
She doesn’t want a reaction so I don’t give her one. It’s easier that way, and I’m a good listener.
“Did you read about that singer fella, what’s his name, the one who they say was murdered by his doctor?” she goes on, presumably because having given her verdict, there is no more to say about the less famous of the recent deaths.
My mind drifts as Jane shares a tidbit about the recently deceased star from her latest copy of whatever trashy magazine it is that her granddaughter Iris drops round every week after she’s finished looking at the pictures.
I’m still thinking about the man on my street. Daniel Fehler. A German name, although he hadn’t the trace of an accent. The police say he died of an overdose, got muddled and took too much of his heart medication. Digoxin. The same one my husband Errol used to take.
You don’t have to take much more than the recommended dose for it to be fatal. But Daniel Fehler’s death wasn’t an accident. Of that I can be sure. I saw something, you see, the day before yesterday – the day before he died.
*
I was taking Colin, my Irish setter, for a walk in the woods at Falston Hollow as I do every morning. It was still fairly early by most people’s standards – about 8.30 I should think, or there abouts – and it was going to be a beautiful day. The sky was a shade of blue you don’t usually see outside travel catalogues, the sun not yet hot but gently warming on the skin, like a balm.
Beneath the canopy of trees it was cooler but still pleasant enough and the light was, if anything, even more beautiful, filtered through the leaves and stained a hazy green. Colin bounded after a riot of scents, zigzagging back and forth across the rough path while I, less keen to exert myself, chose the straight route.
We’d gone less than half of our usual circuit when Colin caught a whiff of something especially intriguing, and snuffled off the path and into the trees. I waited a moment, busying myself by seeing how many plants I could remember the Latin names for. But when I could no longer hear his excited whining I started after him, knowing it could be half an hour or more before he decided to fetch me.
“Colin you confounded animal, where are you?” I grumbled, picking my way between the wild garlic and the wood anemones. I had only a vague idea as to which way he had headed and didn’t relish the idea of traipsing through the undergrowth for hours.
I was about to call out again when I heard a sound up ahead – and not the sound of an animal, wild or domesticated. It was laughter; a child’s laughter. And the low crooning of a man. Instinct slowed my feet and hunched my shoulders as I crept forward. A few meters in front of me a bank of rhododendron made a natural screen and I crouched low, wincing as my knee creaked beneath me.
For a moment I hesitated and then, slowly, eased a clump of foliage back so I could see through. Standing in a clearing were two figures. The man was tall but stooped, his hair graying, leathery skin giving him the look of a colonial ex-army man. Daniel Fehler.
I didn’t know him very well, but I’d often exchanged small talk with him when we passed on the street or bumped into each other at Lidl or the pharmacy. He’d even invited me in for a cup of tea once or twice, and I sometimes took round a bag of potatoes or a few heads of lettuce when I had a good crop. A pleasant enough man, I always thought.
Now he was smiling down at a young girl, one hand cupping her flushed cheek, the other brushing back a lock of curly hair. I recognised her bottle green dress and white shirt as the uniform of the local high school, St Jude’s, though she couldn’t have been more than 12 or 13 at the most. Her schoolbag was slumped against the gnarled root of an oak tree, where she’d also abandoned her blazer.
“Remember now, you’re not to tell your mummy, alright?” Daniel was saying.
The girl nodded, her lips pursed.
“Right, run along then.” He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped backwards, his eyes still locked on her face. “I’ll see you next week, ok?”
As the child grabbed her things and turned to head back to the road, Daniel fumbled in his jacket pocket and drew out a small package. “For the road,” he said, tossing it through the air. The girl smiled as she caught it with one hand, then disappeared into the trees at the far side of the clearing.
“Remember not to talk to anyone about this!” Daniel called out after her. Then he stood watching her disappear, while I remained frozen behind my hedge, willing my heart to quiet its frantic hammering. Eventually, he ran a hand over his face and sighed, then headed in the same direction as the girl.
I didn’t realise I was holding my breath until I heard a rustle of foliage behind me and let the air in my lungs out in a weak scream. “Colin!” I gasped, as the dog nuzzled my face in greeting, smelling of fresh earth and damp. I’d forgotten he was even with me.
His appearance steadied me and I stood, gently easing my legs into straight lines. “Come on boy,” I said, turning and walking in the direction we had come. “We’re not going any further today. I need a drink.”
*
Back home, and with a strong cup of tea inside me, I found my mind playing over what I’d seen – the secret meeting, the intimate touch, the urge for silence. My mind circled each nugget of information like Colin does a new dog in the park, worrying at it, trying to understand what it meant.
I’ve never been able to “sit and think”, as my schoolteachers often urged me to do. Instead, I find my mind is freer when my hands are busy, so I set to baking a batch of muffins. Blackberry and apple, as it happens.
As I measured out butter and sifted flour, my mind stilled and the swirling thoughts settled like silt in a pond. What had I seen? Clearly something no one was meant to be privy to. And why was that? Well, nobody hides anything they have any right to do. Which means they were doing something wrong. Or at least – he was. She was just a schoolgirl, a child, an innocent.
Looking down, I saw I’d given an egg too vigorous a crack, shattering the fragile shell so that shards landed in the bowl. “Damn,” I muttered, reaching into the phlegmy substance to retrieve them.
It was no use; thinking wasn’t doing me any good. I turned on the small portable TV my son Michael insisted on giving me when he bought that ridiculously large flat screen monstrosity. The BBC news was just starting, and I tried to train my thoughts on the soothing rhythm of the anchor’s voice.
“On tonight’s programme,” she started, “police are urging parents to be vigilant after a teenage girl was found dead in a wood in Falmouth.”
“Meanwhile at Number 10, the Prime Minister is preparing to meet community leaders from across London in an attempt to tackle the city’s rising gang crime,” her colleague added. But I wasn’t listening anymore.
I pressed my hand to my forehead, mindless of the smear of batter that transferred itself from my sticky fingers. My skin felt hot, and my hand trembled. Otherwise, I was still. But beneath the grim mask of my face, my mind was boiling.
Then Colin appeared at my feet, a ball in his mouth and a hopeful expression on his furry face, and the spell was broken. “In a minute,” I told him, and he trailed me out of the kitchen and up to the bathroom. I headed for the medicine cabinet. Yes, there was still a bottle of Errol’s Digoxin tablets stuffed behind a roll of ancient gauze bandaging and a dusty pot of Germolene.
I didn’t hesitate as I took them back downstairs with me to finish my baking, nor did I feel that tremor of fear beneath my breastbone again. My hand, too, had stopped shaking. As I spooned the mixture into the muffin tin, Colin barked for a preview taste.
“No boy,” I said, pushing him away gently with my foot. “Not this batch.”
*
“Talking about that Mr Fehler,” Jane says suddenly, tapping me on the knee and making me start. Were we still talking about him? I thought we’d moved on to what’s his name the celebrity.
Sensing that I’ve not been fully inhabiting the room she starts again. “Talking about Mr Fehler. I forgot to tell you what my Iris told me this morning.”
I don’t find that hard to believe, given Jane’s memory, not to mention the sheer volume of pointless information her granddaughter communicates to everyone with whom she converses. But I rearrange my face into a suitably receptive expression and nod for her to continue.
“Well, it turns out he wasn’t such a loner as we all thought.” She flashes a smug smile, as if she’s said so all along. “Turns out he had a daughter, lives round here. Only,” she pauses again, to make sure I’m listening. “Only they don’t speak. A falling out, so Iris says, he didn’t like her choice of men friends or some such. It’s a shame; poor man doesn’t get to see his granddaughter. Pretty little thing by all accounts, goes to St Jude’s high school… What? What’s wrong? Are you feeling alright?”
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