many times, suspected him of crimes but he

  was always innocent. Weird thing is he

  always knew exactly who had committed

  them. He’s a busybody, he knows how people

  act around others, and he can judge people

  really well. He would love to be a detective

  but because of his age, he can’t be.”

  “So did he help you with investigations?”

  “He didn’t just help, we would bring him in

  and then he would tell us who committed the

  crime, he was right every time.”

  “So what about these recent murders, does

  he know who it is?”

  “He wouldn’t say and we can’t accuse him of

  it.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because the last time we called him in was

  for paedophilia. He was accused by an

  unnamed witness. He knew who the witness

  was, he told us; it was his ex-wife. She moved

  back into this area and saw his house. She

  decided to falsely report him, saying he was at

  the park and he touched a child.”

  “Jesus.” I say in disbelief.

  “Yeah, she wasn’t ‘all there’. But ever since,

  he decided not to speak to the police, he

  doesn’t want to be questioned about anything

  125

  else. So we can’t ask him. Shola however, is a

  clever man who had intelligent parents

  supposedly. A shocking story I heard, is that

  during World War 2, Shola and his family

  moved here and camped out in the only

  empty building in the area, the water closet.

  The houses that are here now were about two

  or three homes per house on this road. There

  were people sleeping out on the ground and

  dying out in the cold overnight. Conditions

  were poor, people were starving and

  homeless. It was Shola’s family’s only way to

  stay alive. He’s lived there ever since he was a

  little boy. Anyway, Shola went on to become a

  scientist. I’m not sure what field he specialised

  in, but I know that he’s a very well educated

  man. Once he did that for a while, he became

  a specialised vet. He had all sorts of careers.

  He remarried and started a mini family with

  his lovely wife. She had a child but she didn’t

  know who the father was, so paternity tests

  were done. Turned out Shola was the father.

  I’ve never seen him that happy before, he

  became so friendly, he’d say hello to

  neighbours, walk around the area and

  everything. She even moved into the shack

  with him, he was granted permission from the

  council to extend it.”

  “So what happened to his wife?” I ask.

  “She was murdered.” Sandra said.

  “Yeah she was killed. That was the one time

  that Shola didn’t know who did it. We asked

  him and he didn’t know. This of course raised

  suspicion but we all knew it wasn’t him. That

  126

  is what fucked him up. His wife and her child

  were killed in his home right under his nose.

  He was in the garden at the time,

  supposedly.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Well must be a good five to six years ago. It

  was tragic. I’ve never seen a man go from

  feeling like the luckiest man alive to being so

  depressed.”

  “I had no idea.” I say.

  “No one ever does. He is constantly

  watching on Mulberry Lane. Why? I don’t

  know, maybe he wants to stop violence,

  maybe he wants to find the man who killed

  his wife and child. But that day will never

  come.”

  All three of us sit in silence, we must surely

  all be feeling sorry for Shola, I had no idea. I

  can really sympathise with him.

  “So he probably isn’t following me then?

  He’s probably just looking out because he’s

  paranoid.”

  Sam drinks coffee and nods. He eventually

  says: “Exactly, don’t take it personally.”

  Sam’s phone rings.

  “Work?” Sandra asks.

  “Well who else would it be Mum?” Sam asks.

  He pauses as he looks at his phone.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “What’s up?” Sandra asks.

  “I’ve been called to the office to do some

  work; some of the officers have got suspects

  and witnesses for the recent murders. I’ll see

  you soon Mum.” Sam says as he gives her a

  127

  quick hug. “See you soon, Ryan.” Sam then

  looks to me and nods.

  I return the nod. “See you soon mate.”

  Sam walks out and slams the door behind

  him.

  Sandra looks at me and sighs.

  “That was a close one,” she says.

  “Was a bit wasn’t it?” I laugh and go over to

  her.

  “Ryan, I need to ask you a favour.”

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “All this talk about death...a couple of my

  friends were killed in their home a while ago.

  I haven’t had time to go over to the house

  and properly say my goodbyes.” Sandra wells

  up.

  “It was their wedding anniversary; someone

  broke in through the back door and they were

  murdered. I just want to go and see the house.

  I need to sit outside and say goodbye to two

  of my dearest friends. Would you please come

  with me?”

  “Of course I will darling.” I reply.

  “We can walk there; well obviously we have

  to because Simon has the car.”

  “Sure, we’ll go there now.”

  Sandra smiles and gives me a kiss on the

  cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispers then she goes to

  gather her things together.

  128

  Friends’ Death

  We leave Mulberry Lane and turn right at the

  end of the road.

  We walk for about fifteen minutes and turn

  down a dark alleyway.

  “You wouldn’t believe this would be here in

  the country would you?” I say.

  “No you wouldn’t, but every village has it’s

  dark, ‘rapey’ areas.” Sandra laughs.

  “Luckily you’re with me then if this is a

  ‘rapey’ area.”

  “Yes I feel safe with you.” she says as she

  strengthens her grip on my arm.

  The alley way leads to a road which is lined

  with big, American style houses. I spot a large

  white one in the distance.

  The houses on this road are huge and

  expensive, they really look as if they’re in the

  wrong part of the world, which I then say to

  Sandra, my statement makes her laugh.

  “I used to think that; every time I used to

  come here and see Ella.” Sandra says as she

  looks at the beautiful house in front of us.

  “Is this where Ella used to live?”

  Sandra paused and stayed silent.

  We stand outside a large, white house. It has

  a footpath leading up to steps that lead onto a

  porch, which covers the entire width of the

  front of the house.

  “Is this the house where Ella lived?” I ask

  Sandra again.

  129

  “Yes.” She says quietly as she begins to sob

  slightly.

  “I’m so sorry Sandra.” I say as I pull her into

  my chest.

  “You would have liked Ella and Nick, they

  were so lovely, such a nice couple. They were

  together for fifteen years before they decided

  to get married. They married and were

  married for only a year when some… Bastard

  came along and killed them whilst they

  celebrated their 1st wedding anniversary.”

  What do I say to that?

  “I know, this world is just unfair to a lot of

  people. There are people out there who take

  life for granted and for some reason, believe

  they have the right to decide people’s fate.”

  “You’re right.” Sandra says with a tight

  throat.

  She pulls her head from my chest and looks

  towards the house.

  “I wonder who lives there now?” Sandra

  asks.

  “I don’t know, hopefully someone happy to

  take away the negativity surrounding the

  history of the house.”

  “I hope so.” Sandra says solemnly.

  We stare at the house whilst hugging.

  Sandra stares at the house continuing to sob.

  “Can we go now?” Sandra asks.

  “Yes of course we can.” I say.

  We turn around and walk back home.

  130

  Depression

  We arrive back in Mulberry Lane. With our

  arms unlinked.

  “Thank you for doing that Ryan it means a

  lot to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m here for you Sandy,

  don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t darling.” She whispers as she leans

  in and kisses me on the cheek.

  “So what are your plans for the rest of

  today?”

  “Well actually I’m going out tonight. Going

  to the pub with some friends; I would invite

  you but it’s girls only.”

  “Well I could always dress up and get some

  melons from the supermarket?”

  Sandra laughs and shakes her head, “You do

  those embarrassing dad jokes Ryan. You’re a

  talented author, come up with some more

  creative jokes darling.”

  “Just because you don’t find them funny

  doesn’t make them dad jokes. Some dad jokes

  are the best jokes I know.”

  “Never mind, don’t worry Si does…” Sandra

  stops herself from speaking.

  “Si what?” I ask.

  “Oh nothing, you don’t want to hear about

  Si.”

  “He’s my friend and your husband; he’s

  bound to come up in conversation.” I say. I

  don’t want him to come up in conversation,

  131

  don’t really want him returning and ruining

  what Sandra and I have, to be honest.

  “Yes great friend you are, shagging his wife

  and what a great wife I am, shagging his

  friend.” Sandra whispers aggressively.

  “Well now you put it like that,” I say.

  “We should probably stop this, don’t you

  think?”

  “What? No we shouldn’t.”

  “We should, we’ll get caught, especially when

  Si gets back, he’ll find out. Don’t get me

  wrong it’s been fun but we can’t risk it

  anymore.”

  “What? Wait a second, you’re dumping me?”

  “We weren’t ever together really Ryan, were

  we?”

  “Well what would you call us fucking then?”

  Sandra looks at me. Her eyes begin to water.

  Her tears dribble down her cheeks.

  “We weren’t anything. We had some fun.”

  “Sandra that wasn’t just for fun. You have

  feelings for me and I have feelings for you.”

  “Yes but it can never happen. It won’t ever

  happen. We have different lives; I have

  commitments to Simon and Sam.”

  “Well good for you Sandra. I have nothing in

  my life. My wife could be dead for all I know,

  along with my kids; how do you think that

  makes me feel?” I begin to raise my voice at

  her.

  “Keep your voice down.” Sandra whispers.

  “Why? Are you embarrassed? Well guess

  what, don’t come running to me when you

  132

  have someone in your home trying to murder

  you.”

  Sandra slaps me in the face.

  “Fuck you Ryan.”

  “Go and get on with your commitments

  Sandra Cann. Have a good life.” I say as I turn

  away and walk towards my house.

  I can’t believe she ended it just like that. It

  was from nothing. There were no signs; I

  thought she would leave Simon for me. But

  that is not to be.

  “Ryan I’m sorry.” I hear Sandra shout.

  I do not look back.

  I walk into my kitchen and pull out the

  whiskey from the cupboard and open the

  bottle. I pour out a shot and down it. It burns

  down my throat and into my gut. I pour

  another shot and gulp it down. I slam the shot

  glass down on the table and begin to swig

  from the bottle.

  I walk into the sitting room and look around

  at the old-styled furniture. I leave the sitting

  room and pull out my keys and look to go

  into the garage for the first time.

  I walk over to the garage door. I test the keys

  in the door and eventually I unlock the door

  and open it.

  The garage is completely empty. There is

  nothing in here whatsoever except dust,

  spiders and spider webs.

  I sit down on the ground, continuing to drink

  from the whiskey bottle.

  133

  I wake up from a nap. I feel awful, my head

  spins and my senses have vanished. I smell a

  strong stench of whiskey.

  “What a waste.” I say out loud to myself.

  There’s a wet patch where the bottle has

  tipped over.

  I attempt to stand but cannot. I try again and

  fall back onto the ground.

  “Fuck.” I shout. “Fuck.” I shout again.

  I push myself up with my legs, my back

  against the wall. Although now standing

  upright and on my own two feet; the wall is

  supporting me.

  I stumble out of the garage and into the

  hallway, shutting the door behind me.

  I open the front door to get some fresh air.

  To my surprise it is dark. I look to the

  neighbours. The Cann’s place is dark, Sandra

  is definitely out. The Brekken’s home is also

  lightless with blue and white police ribbon still

  surrounding the house. There’s a car sitting

  outside, surely an undercover cop car.

  I look to Shola’s house, nothing. I look next

  door, nothing. My other next door

  neighbours, nothing also. Mulberry Lane is

  lifeless day and night, I’m bored.

  I’m going to the pub.

  I walk to the town closest to Mulberry Lane.

  Up the old cobbled street, small shops on

  either side of the road. All their lights are

  switched off; all their doors have ‘CLOSED’

  signs facing out into the dark of the cobbled

  street.

  134

  I stumble up the uneven surface and look to

  an alleyway. Wonder what’s down there?

  I walk down the alleyway; it smells of urine

  and beer. I get half way through and I hear a

  bottle chink against the cobbles behind me,

  the light sound of glass moving on uneven

  stones. I pause for a moment and look behind

  me. My vision doubled and distorted, I see

  nothing.

  Continuing to walk, I hear feet dragging

  along the ground behind me. I take bigger

  strides towards the opening. The sounds

  quicken and become louder and closer. I look

  behind whilst walking but there’s nothing

  there. I look ahead and a figure stands in my

  way.

  A man wearing an army trench jacket stands

  in front of me. His face is in darkness because

  of the hood over his head. I look down to the

  knife in his hand.

  “What you got?” This figure mumbles

  wearily.

  “Nothing for you.” I say full of confidence.

  “Move.”

  The figure’s stance changes; his pumped

  chest deflates, his shoulders slope and his

  height shrinks.

  “Move.” I say again. I would never be like

  this sober.

  The figure steps aside and I walk past him.

  As I look around at the street I’ve discovered,

  the figure hits me on the back of the head

  with something hard, knocking me onto the

  ground.

  135

  I clutch the back of my head; all I can see are

  the cobbles. The realisation that someone has

  attacked me sinks in, so I stand up and turn

  around to him.

  The orange street lamps reveal the face of the

  attacker. He’s an old man with a long grey

  beard, hay-like grey hair and beady brown

  eyes. The stench of urine and sweat fizzles

  into the night air and into my nostrils.

  I use my fingers to feel the back of my head,

  touching my head gently; I look at my fingers

  to see no blood.

  “Hit me. I dare you.” I say to the tramp.

  “Give me money,” he says.

  “If you hit me again, I will.” I say

  aggressively.

  The tramp pauses, his beady brown eyes look

  me up and down. His grip on the wood he

  holds tightens. He lifts the wood up to rest it