Stacey pulled herself together and did as she was told. Ithen held her close to me as we waited for the police to arrive. I had noregrets over what had happened.
Stacey was safe and there was one less arsehole in theworld. I just hoped she would still look at me in the same light in the futureand not see her dad as a killer. I didn’t think she would: I had been defendingher, after all. He’d been attacking her, I had pushed him off, and he hadfallen into the river.
The police came, along with forensics and did their stuff.They were sympathetic towards Stacey and eventually allowed us both to go home,saying that they would need to see us the next day for statements.
If there were to be any repercussions, I had no way offinding out, I just had to hope I had done enough to convince them. A coroner’sverdict of accident or misadventure was what I was hoping for, leaving us allin the clear.
With Stacey still upset and traumatised, I accepted theoffer of a lift home in a police car. When we got through the front door, shefell into her mother’s arms and wept, causing me to well up too, in relief, ifnothing else, that it was all over.
The three of us were safe, together and at home. We werealive and well, with the triple whammy of rape, death by dangerous driving andcancer hopefully vanquished from our lives forever.
All I wanted now was my family. Forwards or backwards, Sarahand Stacey were my life, and nothing else mattered.
London
December 2010
Almost five years had passed since the night I’d rescuedStacey from Liam’s clutches, sending him to a watery grave. Since then, I’dfinally been able to relax and get on with trying to lead as normal a life aspossible.
Landmark events did, of course, come along from time totime, and the next major change I needed to prepare myself for was the arrivalof my parents in my life.
It was a bitterly cold Friday afternoon about a week beforeChristmas as I stood with assorted mourners saying goodbye to my dead mother.
After the service, we walked up through the garden ofremembrance to look at the flowers. Stacey was crying, just eleven years oldnow, and she gripped my gloved hand tightly. There was snow in the air.
The following morning I had woken up to the deepest snowfallI had ever seen, for once giving the Christmas season a festive feel.
It seemed that death haunted my family around Christmastime. Both my mother and wife had died in the run-up to Christmas, not tomention my own death on New Year’s Day. Mum had been 70 years of age when she’ddied suddenly in her sleep the previous week.
After careful consideration, I had decided I was not goingto do anything about it. She had lived a good life and had a peaceful deathwhich is all any of us can hope for. I saw no point in trying to prevent theheart attack that had claimed her, only for her to likely succumb to it soonafter, anyway.
It would either be that or she would face a painful old age,dosed up with medication to try and stave off the inevitable. It just seemedthe best thing to do to let her go.
I was looking forward to getting to know her so I made surethat on the day before she died I went to visit. She didn’t seem unwell in anyway, and was pleasantly surprised to see the three of us roll up that Sundaymorning at her home in Botley and offer to take her out to lunch.
My mother was a rich source of information about the past,and had no reluctance at all about imparting it. She was at that age where shewas looking back at a life well-led, reminiscing about all the good times andvarious family members.
I learnt more about my family history that one lunchtimethan I’d accumulated in the whole of the previous fourteen years.
She was a wartime baby, just like my father, and they hadmet when she’d been working as a cashier in a betting shop in the 1960s. My dadused to punt there regularly, and when he got three winners up in a patent oneSaturday, he’d asked her if she fancied a night out on the winnings.
The rest was history, married in 1968, and then I came alongin 1970. So now, not only did I know how I’d come to be in the world, I alsoknew where my love of horse racing and gambling had come from.
My mother’s death in December 2010 coincided with mypromotion to Marketing Director at work.
My upgrade in status meant that I got a brand newtop-of-the-range BMW to replace my old car, but getting hold of the keys on theday it arrived proved problematical. Barry had been given the task of handingthem over to me, and when I went down to the security desk, he refused.
“I’ve heard my new car is here,” I said, trying to soundexcited, even though I’d been driving it for the past two years. “Can I havethe keys please?”
“No,” replied Barry, bluntly.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because when the fleet manager came in earlier to take awayyour old car he was disgusted with the state of it. He called me out to look atit and I was horrified. I don’t think you should be allowed to mess another oneup.”
“It wasn’t too bad, surely?” I said. “Just a few bits ofrubbish I didn’t have time to chuck out. I took all my CDs and other stuffout.”
“Not too bad!” thundered Barry. “The passenger seat wascovered in some sort of grease they couldn’t get off. There were burgerwrappers and other assorted shit everywhere. When I went to have a look, I wasable to write my name in the dust on the dashboard, and to top it all, theyfound a fast-food chicken box under the seat full of rotting leftovers.”
“So that’s what the smell was,” I said. “I did wonder. Stillit’s only a bit of mess, isn’t it? That’s what we have valeting for.”
“It’s a fucking disgrace, that’s what
