Local Poet Read online

  Instead I sat with my head in my hands and concentrated on calming down; not thinking about anything but the air moving in and out of my lungs. It began to work. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing steadied.

  My mobile rang. I snatched it up and stared at the screen. Unknown number. Not many people had my mobile number. Colin had it at work for emergencies. A few mates, a couple of girls I’d dated and who’d never used it.

  I accepted the call, while promising myself that if this was about PPI they were going to get an earful that would put them off cold-calling for evermore.

  “Hello? Mr Seaton? Ray Colshaw, from The Echo. I’d just like to ask you –”

  “How did you get this number?” I interrupted.

  There was a pause. “Mr Seaton, did you know Laney Grey at all?”

  I cut the connection and switched off the phone. Colshaw didn’t need to answer my question, because I’d remembered who else I’d given the number to.

  I’d given it to June Henshaw. The police had had my mobile number.

  DAY 5: COMPLICATIONS

  I didn’t sleep well that night. My flat was on the top floor at the rear of a converted three-storey town house, and I rarely heard any noise from the street. But with my nerves screwed tight, the smallest sound was enough to accelerate my heart and send me to my window – even though there was nothing to be seen except an overgrown patch of grass.

  Sometime in the small hours, I finally dozed off, only to be woken a few hours later by heavy knocking on the door, accompanied by an authoritative voice calling my name. Bleary-eyed, I pulled on a pair of joggers and stumbled over to open it.

  The two coppers there were bad enough, but they were accompanied by my landlord, which made it serious.

  “PC Barnes, PC Asadi. We just needed to check that you’re OK, Mr Seaton. Only there’s been an incident.”

  “An incident?”

  “Someone’s sprayed ‘MURDERER’ across Mrs Fletcher’s windows,” said the landlord, a rotund man with a permanent frown. “In green paint!”

  I wasn’t sure what the colour had to do with it, but Mrs Fletcher was an elderly widow who had the front ground floor flat.

  “She’s very upset,” he continued. “And it’s all down to you, you know.”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr Johnson?” PC Barnes intervened. “We’re not suggesting that you’re responsible, Mr Seaton. But it does seem likely to be connected to recent events.”

  I gave him a stony look. “Such as the police giving out my address and telephone number?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, sir. Our first concern is your safety. Did you see or hear anything overnight?”

  I shook my head. “No. Nothing since I disconnected my phone.” I told them about the calls I’d had.

  “We’ll be treating this as criminal damage at present,” Barnes said to me and the landlord. “We’ll get some photographs of the graffiti, and the paint spray can we found outside – green paint – that’ll go off to the forensics lab. Might be some prints on it. Obviously, if there are any further incidents, or any more threats, Mr Seaton, call us.”

  The other copper, PC Asadi, had stepped out of the room and was talking on his radio. “Mr Seaton?” he called through the door. “PC Henshaw just called me up. She’s at the station and she’s been trying to contact you.”

  I went over to the phone socket, plugged it back in, and checked for a tone. “Tell her to try again,” I told him.

  The phone rang almost at once. I answered it warily, but it was her voice.

  “Let me say straight off, the press release that went out is not the one I sent.”

  “So what went wrong, then?” I caught my landlord’s eye as I spoke, and nodded meaningfully at the door. He didn’t look happy about leaving, but Barnes politely escorted him out and shut the door behind them.

  “I’ve been trying to find out myself,” she said. “I didn’t see the news last night, so I didn’t know anything about it till this morning. I called the Press Office as soon as I got in, but they don’t start till nine.”

  I glanced at the clock and was mildly surprised to see that it was only just eight. “OK, but what are you going to do about it?

  Have you heard what happened here last night?”

  “Yes. I’m looking at the incident log now.”

  “There’s people running round out there thinking I’m a murderer! What’s going to happen next? A petrol bomb through the window?”

  “That’s not very likely. A drunk with a spray can is a long way from arson. And we are aware of the situation. If anything kicks off, dial three nines and we’ll be there on blues and twos. In the meantime, just sit tight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can find out something. Keep your phone on.”

  “No. Forget that. I don’t want any more hassle from reporters. Hold on a moment…” I put the phone down and had a quick rummage through some drawers, coming up with an old (presmartphone) mobile. “Use this number,” I told her. “But don’t give it to anyone else.”

  “Understood. I’ll speak to you later.”

  She hung up, and I went back to searching drawers, hoping to find a compatible charger. Something I really should have thought of before I made plans to use the phone.

  I’d just found one (and was trying to remember how to put the SIM card back without wrecking it) when there was another knock on the door and Johnson walked back in, without the coppers and without waiting for an invitation.

  “Mrs Fletcher is very upset,” he announced.

  “I expect she is,” I agreed. “I’m not ecstatic about things myself.”

  He glared at me, and I met his gaze, daring him to say what was there in his eyes. Daring him to come right out with it.

  Daring him to say it was my fault.

  Instead he looked away. “Never had anything like this at my property before. Police coming round, paint on the windows.” He glared again. “And it wasn’t even your window!”

  “Well, if you’d installed a separate intercom to each flat – as you promised to do six months ago – they would have used that to hassle me, instead of graffiti!”

  His frown became even more pronounced. “Don’t try and make this about me. All I’m saying is that I can’t have all the residents being upset over this. And it’s not like that paint’s easy to get rid of. Some of it went on the brickwork, and you can’t just sponge that off, you know. It’ll need specialist cleaning, and that doesn’t come cheap.”

  I nodded, recognizing that we had finally got to his real area of concern. “Would it help if I paid for the cleaning?”

  His frown eased a little. “I think that’s the least you can do.”

  I shook my head. “No, the least I could do would be to allow you to fulfil your obligations as landlord and sort it out yourself. This is going well beyond the least I can do, and I’m only doing it out of consideration for the other residents, who would otherwise be left waiting weeks until you got round to sorting it out – and probably doing a second-rate job of it then!”

  And besides that, I didn’t want my home marked out with the word “MURDERER” in large green letters.

  His frown came back full strength, but I continued before he could get another word out. “I’ll get on to it today. Right now, in fact – so if you wouldn’t mind?” I nodded towards the door, and he began a reluctant retreat in that direction.

  “I hope that’s the last of it,” he said on the way out. “If there are any more of these incidents, I may have to give you notice.”

  “That’s OK. I was thinking of leaving anyway.”

  Johnson gave an indignant snort, turned his back, and swept out in a landlordly fashion. The effect was somewhat diminished when he stumbled on a loose bit of lino on the landing.

  “That needs fixing as well,” I called after him. “I have told you about it.”

  He scurried off without reply.

  I shut the door firmly behind him and turned to survey the room, wondering
if I really would have to leave. I’d been here five years, or thereabouts. It was convenient for work, and there were two pubs, three takeaways, and a supermarket within walking distance. The ideal bachelor pad, in fact. Comfortable. Perhaps a bit untidy, but comfortable.

  The jacket tossed across the chair, that was comfortable. The grubby T-shirt crumpled up on the sofa – that was comfortable. Perhaps pushing the boundaries a bit. The sofa itself, like the rest of the furniture, had come with the flat. It had probably been quite smart in its day, but white leather doesn’t fare well in a bachelor environment. The cigarette burns on the arms had been left by a previous tenant – hadn’t I meant to get a throw or something to cover those up? – but the coffee stains were all mine.

  I wandered into the tiny kitchen area and contemplated the sink full of washing-up awaiting attention. Perhaps more than a bit untidy. I found myself wondering what Laney would have thought of it. Would it have inspired a poem? My imagination projected a holographic Laney into the middle of my poky little living room, smiling sadly as she looked around her. And in a sudden moment of painful clarity, I realized what sort of poem she would have written.

  Nothing about the place itself. Laney’s talent was to look past the superficial, below the surface. She’d have seen what the flat implied; what it said about the occupant. If she’d seen the flat, she’d have written about me. And I didn’t care to think about what she might have said.

  “Leave me alone!” I muttered. “You stepped out in front of me, and look at all the trouble that’s come my way since. I don’t need you getting all judgmental.” I shook my head, deleting the mental image of her. But the flat was still a tip. Well, I didn’t have a lot else to do. I finished setting up the phone, left it on charge, and started cleaning up.

  June Henshaw called back while I was still halfway through the washing-up.

  “So have you sorted out what happened with the press release?” I asked.

  “I am instructed to inform you that the matter is being looked into.” Her tone was strange, a sort of formal stoniness that did not allow for argument or appeal. It wasn’t what I’d become accustomed to hearing from her.

  “I am further instructed to inform you that the fatal RTC that you were involved with is now being dealt with by the Criminal Investigation Department. If you have any queries to make, or any further information to offer, you should contact Detective Constable Cadenti at this police station.”

  “Cadenti? Is that the same one who came to see me before?”

  “Yes, Mr Seaton. That is correct.”

  “Well… when will I hear any more about this?”

  “You will be contacted if there are any developments. Goodbye, Mr Seaton.” She hung up, leaving me bewildered and not at all happy. Something had happened to cause this change of attitude, but it didn’t seem likely that I was going to find out what.

  I was still thinking that through when the mobile rang again. A different number, not one I recognized. Another reporter? Had my new contact details been leaked already – in spite of Henshaw’s promise to keep them to herself? After the last conversation, I wasn’t sure how much I could trust her. Warily, I accepted the call, ready to hang up if I didn’t like what I heard.

  “Mr Seaton?” Her voice. But it sounded more natural this time. “I’m sorry about that last call. I know it must have sounded really bad. But I didn’t have much choice. I had DS Fayden and his tame DI standing over me to make sure I kept to the script. His script.”

  “I didn’t think it sounded right. I take it you’re free to talk now?”

  “I’m on my mobile, in the ladies’ loo. Should be OK for a while.”

  “So what the… heck’s going on?”

  There was a pause. “It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. Do you know The Stag, in Anniston?”

  Anniston was about fifteen miles away. It was on one of our delivery routes, and I vaguely recalled seeing a sprawling modern pub on the way in. “On the main road? Just off a big roundabout? I’ve never been in there.”

  “Neither have I. That’s the point. We’re not likely to be recognized. Can you be there at eight tonight?”

  “Yes, OK.”

  “I’ll see you in the bar, then.”

  “Right. I’ll get the drinks in, shall I?”

  “It’s not a date,” she said sharply, and hung up.

  That left me a day to get through without going out. I wasn’t keen on the possibility of meeting whoever had painted “MURDERER” on the house. Or any reporters, either.

  I finished cleaning and tidying up the flat, I found a company that would clean paint off brickwork, and I called Colin and told him that I wouldn’t be going in that day. He, it turned out, had been trying to get hold of me to tell me not to go in.

  “We’ve been infested with reporters all day,” he said. “On the phone and in person. They want to know all about you, of course, but they’re asking about the company as well. Wanting to know if our drivers are properly trained; if we have a policy on drugs and alcohol; if you’re facing any disciplinary action.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them that you are an exemplary driver, that our training and our policies on drugs and alcohol match or exceed all relevant guidelines, and that there is no question of any disciplinary action, since you were not at fault in any way.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “No more than the truth, Rob. But, having said that, it might be better if you stayed off for a few days. If they get word that you’re around, they might come back.”

  “OK. I need to get my car, though. It’s parked in the yard.”

  “Do you still keep the spare keys in your locker?”

  “Yes. Key ring with a Mickey Mouse fob.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll bring it round to you myself; save you coming over. If you’re happy with that?”

  I agreed, reflecting that I was learning about the power of the press. Without having done anything at all I was now barred from my work and threatened with eviction.

  Colin might almost have heard my thoughts. “Don’t worry. This will soon blow over. Reporters have a short attention span.”

  Which left me wondering just how much media attention was needed to wreck someone’s life.

  With the day starting to drag, I went back to Laney’s poems. I was still wondering about that “black gull”. Having drawn a blank in her first book, I decided to try the next one. Stepping out of Shadow, it was called. It had been published less than a year after Postcards to Myself. I wondered at that. Nothing at all for years, then a sudden burst of creativity. What had the trigger been?

  I scanned the contents page, didn’t see anything obviously seagull flavoured, skipped the intro, and scrolled through to the first poem. “Dancer”, it was called, and it was about a leaf. An autumn leaf, dead and brown on its branch until the wind stroked it and stirred it and wrenched it free to go spinning and swirling and dancing away. Up into the sky and off into the distance. Finally a little black speck, then gone from sight.

  Before I’d finished reading, I knew that something had changed.

  It was very much Laney in style, with the same intensity of description that I had first seen – and been puzzled by – in “The Wave”. And having learned how to look beyond the words for the meaning, I knew at once that this was about her. But it was a different Laney. The sadness, the loneliness that had pervaded her first book had vanished. The sense of isolation, of never being really part of life, was gone. Instead there was an overwhelming exuberance. An explosion of uninhibited joy. She was the leaf, broken free from her old life and dancing with the wind.

  Of course, the leaf wouldn’t dance forever. Sooner or later, the wind would abandon it, drop it, let it float to the ground to rot. But the leaf didn’t look ahead, and neither did she. When she wrote the poem, she was entirely given over to the dance, living totally in the moment.

  “What happened?” I asked her. “What changed for yo
u, Laney?”

  Something significant, and something pretty good. As I read on, the same theme was repeated. Laney saw her new joy, her freedom, reflected everywhere. At a football match, for example. Just a small local affair, but as she described it, the jubilation (her word!) when the home team scored was enough to fill Wembley.

  But there was something else there as well. Something else new.

  I didn’t see it at first. But then I noticed a word I couldn’t remember Laney using before.

  “We”.

  Talking about the tension, the almost painful hope the fans felt as the home side attacked, driving the ball forward towards the goal, she said “we”. She included herself in the crowd. She was no longer standing apart, watching. She was involved.

  The difference in her between the first book and the second was huge. I began to rush through the rest of the collection, looking for clues. Looking for what had caused the change.

  I found it in the last poem of the collection, “Walking the Street”. Unlike most of Laney’s work, this was unambiguously about her. Even “The Goal” hadn’t been so clear in this. But here she was reliving an experience she’d actually had. She had walked down that street, and almost every step had triggered memories. Starting with the battered street sign, where “Willdyne Street” (a tribute to some long-forgotten local prominence) had been altered to read “Willy Street”. Just as it had been when she played here with other children.

  Outside the corner shop – now closed – she recalled the crates of fruit and vegetables that had surrounded the door, the dim clutter of tins and boxes within, the jars of sweets, the heft and excitement of a quarter of wine gums.

  From that open window had come strains of violin music, incongruous and memorable when Radio One blared from other houses.

  This doorway still bore traces of the bright red paint she had watched being applied, though it had now faded to dull pink. Another house evoked the smell of baking bread, and in a bay window she looked, unsuccessfully, for the fat ginger cat that had stared suspiciously back at her.