‘BEWARE – POISONS USED’.
‘Can I help?’ said the woman when they were up close, in the tone of voice which means the opposite.
Her face was extraordinary – or rather her skin was. Dryden guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties, but in many ways her calendar age was irrelevant: she just looked weatherbeaten. Her tan was that specific shade of ochre which is the result of exposure to wind and rain as well as sun, the face patterned by systems of small lines – especially around the eyes, which were wet and a vivid green. In many ways she was beautiful: the thick black hair sucking in the light, the skin, Dryden imagined, carrying the exhilarating scent of sea salt. It was a face that had spent a lifetime under an open sky.
But the eyes held him. There was something mesmeric about the eyes. Why was she looking over Dryden’s shoulder? He looked behind. High Park Flats stood like a gravestone on the near-horizon, a single Christmas tree lit in a dark window.
Suddenly he remembered she’d asked a question. ‘Yes. Sorry. My name’s Dryden – I work for
A man appeared at her shoulder, wrapped in a donkey jacket. He had a narrow jutting head like a vulture, held forward and low between his shoulders, and his hair was shorn to a grey stubble. He put his arm around the woman’s waist and rocked her so that she leant against him.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, touching his free hand, and turning back to Dryden. ‘You can come in. We know about Declan.’
She went first, reaching out with both hands to touch the sides of the door frame, the fingertips fumbling slightly to find the wooden edges. Which is when Dryden realized she was blind, that the green eyes which reflected everything saw nothing.
Inside it was hot. The stove pipe didn’t rise directly through the ceiling but crossed the shed in a diagonal to reach the external chimney. It radiated the heat, and around it on various chairs and wooden crates sat half a dozen men. In the corner stood a large plastic barrel and the heavy air was scented with a perfume Dryden knew well: home brew.
‘Welcome to the Gardeners’ Arms,’ said the woman, with a tired smile. ‘I’m Marcie, Marcie Sley.’
Dryden couldn’t stop himself glancing at the barrel. ‘Who’s the brewer?’
‘It’s a co-op,’ said the man in the donkey jacket who’d stood by Marcie. He held out a hand like the bucket on a mechanical digger. ‘John Sley.’ Dryden noted the grey stubble on his chin and guessed he was a decade older than his wife. Sley took a swig of beer, and Dryden glimpsed wrecked teeth. ‘There’s an association – of allotment holders. This is the clubhouse, if you like. We do tea as well…’
Garry beamed. ‘Beer’s fine.’
Two more glasses were found and filled. The beer came flat, but tasted malty and Dryden sensed the alcoholic kick. ‘Strong?’
‘Six point five per cent,’ said Sley, and Garry whistled happily.
Dryden nodded. ‘I’m sorry – you’re Declan’s sister?’ Marcie sat down suddenly, letting the silence say yes. ‘I just wanted to know a bit more about him. I know it’s very soon – too soon – but the health people are keen to flag up the dangers of the cold for the elderly… the vulnerable. It’s a terrible accident. What do you think happened?’
Marcie fingered something at her throat. A crucifix, Dryden noted.
‘Declan wasn’t well,’ she said, sipping the beer. ‘He’d been confused and he drank – drank too much. Sometimes he’d open the windows to ease the anxiety of being inside.’
Dryden let the silence lengthen, knowing that the less he pushed the more they’d talk.
‘What did the police say?’ said Marcie eventually. ‘I rang this morning, when we heard… I’ll have to clear the flat.’ Her voice caught, and her husband refilled glasses to give her time to recover. Then he sat next to her, one of his bony hands gently massaging her neck.
‘Not much. They think it’s an accident too. But Declan had a drink with someone last night,’ said Dryden. ‘Perhaps yesterday afternoon. Anyone visit?’ he asked, letting them think the police might have their suspicions too.
Marcie stood and flipped open the cast-iron door on the stove with a length of kindling. The sudden flare of red flame cast half her face into shadow: ‘I popped in with his lunch, but we didn’t have a drink. Why did they say that?’
Dryden could sense the atmosphere tipping towards antagonistic, so he ignored the question. ‘How was he?’ he said, sipping the beer and guessing that John Sley’s estimate of the alcoholic content was wrong by a factor of two.
It was Marcie who answered; all the other heads were down, examining the beer. ‘Declan’s been low, we all knew he had problems. The winters were always worse – nothing to do down here.’
Dryden nodded. ‘He liked it then – being outside? I saw the flat – there’s no doors…’
‘Claustrophobia,’ said Marcie. ‘He wanted to be outside all the time really. But the TB was bad… he’s had it since childhood. We had to make him stay in over the cold snap. I should have popped back…’
John Sley shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have done anything. If he’d decided –’ He stopped the thought there and the silence was profound, marked by the cooing of a wood pigeon.
‘He’d tried to kill himself before, hadn’t he?’ asked Dryden, happier now the subject had been broached. ‘The windows of the flat were thrown open when they found him. Did you, any of you, ever think he’d try to take his own life?’
Marcie Sley’s hand went to her throat. One man, thin, with a small, silent dog held by a rope lead, lit a roll-up cigarette.
‘Like you said, he’d tried before,’ said Marcie. ‘But when I saw him I thought he was well – almost happy. He hadn’t been drinking – I know that.’
