I exchanged a quick glance with Danny and saw only curiosity in his eyes. "I want to unsettle him a little," I said. "Make him wonder what three ex-residents of Graham Road are doing in his pub."
Sam shook his head, clearly unimpressed. "Yes, but why? What are you expecting to achieve? There's no reason to think you'll be any more successful than Sheila, and I'm not keen to end up in the middle of a screaming match in public."
Danny spoke before I could answer, after shoving his hands into his pockets to protect whatever was there. Cannabis? I wondered. "I've done my best to put distance between me and Mr. Drury these last ten years," he grumbled, "and I'd be well pleased if he thought I was dead."
I gave a noncommittal shrug. "Okay, we'll go somewhere else. I always planned to confront him on my own anyway. He doesn't scare me ... or not as much as he'd like to think."
I was lying of course.
Sam took up the gauntlet as I hoped he would, albeit reluctantly since he obviously thought I was planning a scene, while Danny muttered that the issue had nothing to do with being scared and everything to do with common sense. He asked me if we intended to drive him back to the sculpture park afterward, and when I said we would, he brightened visibly and tucked something down between the cushions of the backseat before we left the car.
When we reached the Sailor's Rest, Sam chose a table near the harbor wall and eyed the other customers warily to see if he recognized anyone. "Just try to keep your voice under control," he muttered irritably. "You get very strident when you talk about Annie."
"Not anymore," I said, switching my attention to Danny and asking him to come inside with me. "Sam can guard the table," I told him, "while you and I sort out the drinks."
"What you mean is, you want the ferret to see the rabbit," Danny muttered despondently as I led the way across the cobbles to the front door of the pub.
I smiled, liking him a great deal. "Rabbits plural," I said. "We're both in the same boat. But there's strength in numbers ... any rabbit will tell you that."
"So who's this Annie you get strident about?" he asked as we paused on the threshold to let our eyes adjust from brilliant sunshine to the Stygian gloom inside.
"Annie Butts," I told him. "She was living next door to you in Graham Road while Sam and I were there. Your mother would probably remember her. She was a black lady who was killed by a truck shortly before we left. Her death was one of the reasons Mr. Drury and I came to blows."
He shook his head. "Never heard of her."
I believed him. He seemed to have no memories of his early childhood-perhaps because it was too painful and he had chosen to blank it, just as I had done with some of my more disturbing memories-and I was grateful for his ignorance. If nothing else, it meant my conscience could ride a little lighter. "There's no reason why you should," I said. "People die every day, but they're usually only remembered by their families."
He looked toward the bar where Drury was standing. "So why did you and him come to blows over her?"
It was a good question. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "It's something I've never understood. But I'll get an explanation one day ... assuming there is one."
"Is that why we're here?" he asked in an unconscious echo of my mother three days before. In a way it was flattering. They both assumed I knew what I was doing.
Correspondence from Michael Percy, son of Sharon-
convicted of armed robbery and serving out his sentence
at the Verne Prison, Portland-formerly of 28 Graham
Road-dated 1999
In replying to this letter, please write on the envelope:
Number: V50934
Name: Michael Percy
Wing: B2
B2 WING
HMP THE VERNE
PORTLAND
DORSET
DT5 1EQ
To: Mrs. M. Ranelagh
Jacaranda
Hightor Road
Cape Town
South Africa
February 1, 1999
Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,
First, don't worry about getting your dad to send me stamps. There's a lot of foreign guys at the Verne-drug smugglers and suchlike who get picked up at the airports as they come in-so the prison lets us swap inland stamps for airmail letters. That's okay, as I've no one to write to except Bridget.
As you can imagine, life's pretty grim inside, but I've only myself to blame. Every prisoner's a volunteer, if you think about it. You say you read what I did in the newspapers and your dad used a mate of his in the prison service to locate me. Well, I'm glad about that. You were always my favorite teacher though you may not want to keep writing when I tell you everything they said about me was true. I'm ashamed of it now, but it's pretty two-faced to say sorry afterward, don't you reckon? The judge said I was dangerous because I had no conscience, but I'd say it's lack of wisdom that's the problem. I've never been able to recognize in advance the things I was going to regret-simple as that.
You ask me what I remember about the black lady who lived next door to us on Graham Road. Quite a lot, as it happens. She used to drive my mother nuts with her bad-mouthing about "whores" and "cunts" and "trash" and suchlike. One time Mum emptied a bucket of water over her head from our upstairs window when she spotted her peering over our fence, and old Annie howled like a banshee because she thought it was piss. It's probably cruel to say it now-seeing as how she's dead-but it was pretty funny at the time.
It'd be easier if you listed the things you want to know. I never liked her much, that's for sure. She damn near chopped Alan Slater's hand off when she caught him inside her house-went for him with a meat cleaver and only missed by inches. He was shaking like a leaf for days afterward. Okay, he shouldn't have been nicking off of her but it's a bit heavy to go for a kid with a hatchet when all he did was take a useless wooden statue from her sitting room.
Still, like I say, you need to tell me what you want. It wasn't just my mum and Alan's mum she drove mad. She got most of the street riled up. I remember this woman she used to follow home every time she went shopping and shout "dirty tart" after her, and it didn't half make her mad. I watched her take a swipe at Mad Annie once with her shopping bag, then end up ass over tit in the gutter. That was pretty funny, too. The silly cow fancied herself something rotten.
I guess what you really want to know is who killed old Annie, but that's not something I can tell you. I remember my mum being gobsmacked to hear she was dead so I guess the one thing I can say is that she and me didn't do it. In the end, I'd go with it being a truck, like the police said, and I'm sorry if that's disappointing.
Your friend,
Michael Percy
In replying to this letter, please write on the envelope:
Number: V50934
Name: Michael Percy
Wing: B2
B2 WING
HMP THE VERNE
PORTLAND
DORSET
DT5 1EQ
To: Mrs. M. Ranelagh
Jacaranda
Hightor Road