I was asked to tell my story of how I’d found him over and over again. I did the best I could. I told them he’d been alive when I got there, and that when I’d gone over to try to help him, he’d grabbed my arm. They asked me if he’d said anything, and I said he had, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was. They asked me if I thought he’d named his killer. I said I didn’t think so, that while I couldn’t recall what he’d said, I did remember that I’d thought it was gibberish at the time. They told me to take my time, that it might come back to me, and if and when it did, I was to call.
Various people came and went while I sat there, sipping tea. The couple who had answered their door came in to give and sign a statement. Other than this strange woman splattered with blood yelling and pounding on their door, they had seen and heard nothing. Nobody, when it came right down to it, had seen or heard anything.
They asked me if I knew the victim. I had told them I’d given him a lift a couple of days before when we’d both been visiting Historic Scotland sites, when he’d fallen off his bike and damaged it. I tried to be as honest as possible. I am, after all, virtually living with a policeman. I told them that while we’d spent some time together, I hadn’t known his name. The last part, clearly, was true. I somewhat reluctantly told them that he’d said his nickname was Percy, a little editorializing there on my part, as the word nickname had never come into it, and they solemnly wrote that down. When they asked me why I’d stopped to offer him a lift, I said he looked familiar to me, like someone I knew from home. He wasn’t from home, however. He lived with his mother in an old house in Kirkwall, I was to learn soon enough. They told me they would have to keep my rental car.
While I waited, a never-empty mug of tea in hand, a rather plain woman, sixtyish, in a drab and rather worn brown coat and matching hat, came in. She looked just like Percy, only about twenty-five years older. She had to be his mother. She had a handkerchief balled up in one hand and kept dabbing her eyes with it. She had a runny nose and didn’t seem to notice. For a while we sat in the same room, under the watchful eye of a rather stern policewoman.
“My boy has had an accident,” she said after a few minutes of rummaging about in her handbag for another handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry,” I replied.
“He must have fallen off his bicycle and hit his head. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better in the morning.” I believe I winced slightly because the policewoman coughed and then almost imperceptibly shook her head.
“The police have some other idea entirely about what happened to him, but they can’t be right. There has been some mistake. He was always off riding his bicycle. He quit his job, you know. I don’t know why. He was a dreamer, my boy was. Some woman found him.”
I said nothing for a moment. Was it a good idea to tell her I was the one who found him?
“I hope he didn’t suffer,” she said, sniffing. “I hate to think he was in pain.”
I took a deep breath. “I am the person who found him. He didn’t suffer at all.” She got out of her chair and rushed over to grab my arm. Her grip reminded me all too well of Percy’s dying grasp. “Promise me he wasn’t in pain,” she said. “Please.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Did he say anything?”
“I’m sorry I can’t remember.”
“He was a good boy. Odd, but good.”
“That’s exactly the way I think of him,” I said, as the policewoman gently pulled her away from me, and actually gave me a wan smile. She was much nicer looking when she smiled. I found myself thinking of Percy after this exchange with his mother, how he’d tripped over the merchandise in Trevor’s store, the way he always seemed to use bicycle clips whether he needed them or not, and his glasses askew. I thought about how enthused he was about the ancient sites we were visiting together, actually showing some personality as he pointed everything out, despite looking rather rumpled and dirty from his bike accident. Most of all I thought of his salute as he left me in Kirkwall, broken bicycle in his arms, his sleeve torn, his glasses, now held with one of my safety pins, even more crooked than before.
“Glasses,” I said aloud. “We have to find his glasses.” The policewoman now came over to sit with me, obviously thinking I was in as bad shape as Percy’s mother, which in retrospect maybe I was. Not as bad as a mother perhaps, but certainly right up there in the out-of-it category. “He’d lost his glasses.”
“Glasses?” she said.
“Spectacles,” I said. “Whatever you call them here. He wasn’t wearing his glasses when I found him. I lent him a safety pin to hold them together.”
“I’m sure he appreciated it,” she said, patting my hand.
I thought about that, slowly and carefully through the fog in my brain, and realized finally that she thought when I found him dying I’d fixed his glasses. “I mean when he fell off his bike the other day. He broke the arm of his glasses. He couldn’t see without them. I gave him a safety pin to hold them together until he got home.”
She looked at me for a minute, then went into the other room. I hoped it was to tell them about the glasses, because I had this idea that when I was feeling better, I would think this was significant, the fact they weren’t there, that is. A couple of minutes later, she came out, sat down with Percy’s mum and asked her if her son wore glasses.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I hope he hasn’t lost those. He’s always breaking them. I think we have a spare pair at home, though, that he can wear until his good ones turn up.” The policewoman patted her hand, gave me a significant look, a nod, really, as if to acknowledge she now understood what I was saying, and went back to standing at her post. At this point a clergyman arrived, and immediately went to sit with Percy’s mum. She seemed to alternate between knowing her son was dead, and thinking he’d be fine soon, but I think reality was starting to sink in. She cried and cried, and the clergyman patted her arm and murmured comforting thoughts, I’m sure, although I couldn’t hear them. A few minutes later he came over to talk to me. He took my hand in his. “Your hands are like ice,” he said.
“Yes, I don’t know why they don’t put the heat on here,” I said. “At the guest house I’m staying in, it’s always nice and warm.”
“You are very pale,” he added. Of course I’m pale. I’m always pale. That’s the way I was born. I know that when I’m not feeling well, which would be now, and when I don’t have any makeup on, which was also probably now, given the rather rudimentary dusting I’d given myself that morning, I scare people. I have always considered that to be their problem, not mine. However, I was sure if they turned on some heat, I’d look and feel better. Instead they called a doctor. He recommended more hot tea with lots of sugar. No alcohol. That was too bad, because I was looking forward to some of Mrs. Brown’s scotch.
The policewoman came over to ask me to go back to talk to the policeman in charge of the investigation. I believe she said his name was Cusiter, although she made it sound as if it had an extra r in it, after the u. I was having trouble concentrating. As I left I heard the clergyman ask Percy’s mum if there was someone who could come and stay with her that night. “I’ll be all right,” she replied. “My boy will be home soon.”