No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

They were both looking at me. The attention piercing from the one in charge. She was very collected and focussed. Her companion, although keeping his eye on me, was looking through the folder he had in front of him. 

'You wanted to see us, Mr...' She looked at her colleague, who referred hurriedly to his notes before reminding her of my name. 'Marks. Adrian Marks' I said, my voice wavering slightly. 

She turned back to me. 'Well, Mr Marks. What was it that you wanted to tell us ?' She waited again. Looking me straight in the eye. Enough that the discomfort it caused broke through my sudden inability to speak. 

'I work in a bar on Attlee Street.' My voice hoarse. My throat dry. 'I thought I should tell someone about what I saw.'

They exchanged a look. Not yet sure if I was really going to be any help or just some crazy time wasting lunatic that had just walked in off the street. I wished to all that I held dear that I hadn't seen what I had, that I had made this all up. I wish it hadn't happened. Out of breath, but there was more I had to say.  I needed to take my time again. They waited although I could sense their frustration rising. 

'I wanted to tell you what I saw, and what I did'. 

Now I had gained their attention. Now there was no turning back. The assistant sat with his pen poised over his notepad. 

'Okay Mr Marks. We're listening. Take it back to the start and tell us what you saw, and what it was that you did'. 

***

Last Night

I'm ten hours into my twelve hour shift at the Politicians' Arms. Thankfully it being the week after New Year, it isn't too busy. As much as I am trying to recover the excesses of the party season myself, so are the wallets of most of our customers. The place was less than half full.  There's only myself and Rachel on shift, but it's been quiet enough that we've both coped without incident. 

Considering the anxious shopping pre Christmas where our clientele raced to secure adequate gifts to demonstrate their love or fulfil their obligations, some of the same people were now desperately snatching time away from their nearest and dearest. Sharing a pint and time away from the loved and not so loved with friends.  

As well as the regulars, there's the odd few obviously out taking advantage of the sales. Weighed down with various bags stuffed with bargains. 

As I made my way round the pub, collecting glasses I noticed one couple that fit into neither category, sat in one of the cubicles down the back. Of a normal evening this area would be full of people ordering food, but it's been left empty by the other customers, with there not being any food on because our chef has gone home to Scotland for a couple of weeks and our boss too disorganised or too tight to arrange someone to fill in for him. 

I'm working my way towards them. I can't make out what they are saying. I don't need to. The body language says it all. He's leaning across the table, not in a threatening way, in a space invading way. He's all smiles and charm - or so he thinks he is. He's clearly not reading her reaction. She's backed into the chair so much that if she pressed any harder she'd actually break the laws of physics and pass through it. Her arms are rigidly fixed by her side with her hands on her lap. She's fidgeting with her nails, instead of looking up and engaging in whatever bullshit he's talking about. 

There's a few of empty glasses to clear from their table, some hi-balls and a couple of shot glasses. He doesn't stop when I start clearing them up. I'm surprised I didn't hear him sooner, he's really loud and obnoxious. You know the type ? The ones that like to hear the sound of their own voice and are utterly convinced they're the funniest thing to grace the earth with their presence. This poor girl is just sitting there, retreating into herself so much that she's really trying to actually disappear. 

Still who am I to judge eh ? He seems like a wanker, she seems like she's really not having a good time, but I'm not there to chaperone girls on their disastrous dates now am I ? Sad, I thought. But it takes all sorts. I try to make eye contact with her, but with her attention purely focussed on picking away at her own hands there's no way to gauge if she needs an escape clause or not. 

I've seen it before, many times. Guys and girls. Some will be upfront enough to ask me to help provide some plausible (or implausible) escape route should the need arise. Others will come to the bar with a running commentary of just how much of a washout things are. The ones that are going really well never need to tell me. It's always obvious they've hit it off, and it's nice to see when that happens. 

Rachel calls me back to the bar to help her with the queue that's built up. I stack the collected glasses so I can load them into the washer later and go help her.

Anyone that's worked with the public will tell you, that at times you just get your head down and get on with it. You don't really recognise or remember the steady stream of people that you're serving. I did however clock that the loud obnoxious guy was someone that I served as the brief rush died back down. 

He was talking to someone on the phone, as it became his turn to be served. It's always something that annoys me a little, but you have to come to expect it these days. There are people so absorbed by their lives and convinced of their own importance that they will think nothing of ignoring you, and the other people waiting while they finish their conversation. I'd been standing there waiting for his order for a couple of seconds, and starting to consider if I should move on to the next customer and come back to him. He announced to the person on the other end of the call that he needed to get some drinks in and gave me his order. 

He returned to his call as I got the drinks ready. Both having a vodka and coke. I placed the first drink in front of him and set about completing the second. I had just finished adding the vodka to the glass of ice cubes when I looked back in the direction of this guy and I saw him take something from his pocket, pour it into the glass in front of him and stir it with the straw. Without a care at all he went straight back to his call.

***

'So you saw him put something into the drink.' The woman asked.
'Yes'
'I see'. She looked over at her colleague to make sure he was getting these details. 'We'll need to see the CCTV from the bar, assuming you have some.'
I nodded and took a deep breath before plunging back in. 'But that's not all of it.'
'No ?' She looked at me again. 
'While he was on the phone. While he was turned round, I came over with the second drink.' I stopped again. Not for anything like dramatic effect, but because my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I was struggling to breathe. 'I swapped the drinks round.'
'Why did you do that Mr Marks ?' She knew the answer, but obviously needed me to say it myself. 

'He'd put something in the drink that he was going to give to his date. This arsehole was intent of doing god knows what to the poor unsuspecting girl'.
'So you believe it was some sort of date rape drug ?' The assistant was carefully writing down each word I said. 
'Yes'.
'I see.' Now it was her turn to pause as she gathered her thoughts before reaching for one of the folders. 'I'd like to show you something Mr Marks'. She opened the file and took out, five photographs placing them onto the desk. 

'What are these ?' I asked. The first photos before me showed a battered and squashed car against a large tree. I recoiled from the graphic nature of the images. Each shot moving closer in, showing the compacted interior of the car, the screen smashed, the roof buckled inward, the dashboard compressed. A bloodied airbag deployed on the steering wheel. 

'Joseph London worked at a local bank. He was twenty five years old'. She let the statement hang in the air. It sank in for me that she referred to him in the past tense. Oh My God ! He'd died. 

But I'd done the right thing, hadn't I ? I'd made sure that Joseph had not been able to drug his date. Whatever he planned for her that evening, it wouldn't have been good. I'd saved her from some unspeakable fate. Part of me thought that he had it coming, but I had never bargained on such severe consequences for him. I couldn't say I really felt that sorry though. It would be his family that suffered. Despite the horrific end, his date would never know what that night could have been. That was a good thing, wasn't it?

'What about her, the girl. Did she get home safely ?' My voice again soft and wavering. 

They both stared at me impassively. I looked from one to the other, desperate for an answer before she finally spoke. 

'No, Mr Marks. I'm sorry to say that Jessica was the passenger in the car when Mr London lost control and drove it into a tree at seventy-three miles an hour. They were both pronounced dead at the scene.'

The End

Misplaced Memory

Three years ten months and fourteen days. That's how long it's been. I can feel the fourth anniversary looming over me. In some ways I cannot believe that it's been so long. In other ways the time has felt like a sentence. The conviction as punishment. The guilt inside my head of course the most twisted ceaseless punishment possible.

I Bring Nanna cuppa tea. She's sitting in a chair, glasses on, reading the newspaper. Is she even taking any in ? I can’t be sure.

The sad thing being that the same paper will occupy have days on end. She won’t remember having read the story before. She will however get cross with me if I try to talk to her  while she's reading a paper. In some ways this is a blessing we don't have to go through the same questions over and over again. I sip my tea in silence.

“Don't let it get cold Nan”. I'll have to remind her again in a minute. I've become quite practised in making sure her tea is just right.

This took some getting used to. Flavoured milk Dad used to call it. I smile as I remember him emphasising the process of dunking the teabag in and out of the cup. “If the tea is anything more than off white in colour she’ll never accept it.” He would grumble. I have to get used to doing more than just making cups of tea, for her and for me. Everything changed. Three years, ten months and fourteen days ago.

***

I was in my room. Music on as loud as I dare, taking best advantage of being the only one in the house. Despite what Mum and Dad said about it being impossible to working in din, or ‘loud enough to wake the dead’ I was immersed in revising for my religious studies GCSE. Exams on Wednesday would be my last. Signifying the end of my secondary school education. The nervous wait that my friends would endure as they ticked off the days until results were posted was not to occupy my summer that year. My life, my hopes, dreams and everything I had taken for granted would be snatched away from me. To me that change, the split from my expected future to the life I have been living, changed the moment I heard banging downstairs.

I was singing along very badly to a track from the 1980s about some guy who’d been done over telling someone he loved them at Christmas. My friends and I used to mimic the song miming exaggerated reactions and playing out the words. After that day we wouldn't any longer.

I stopped the music. The split second of silence giving me enough time to think that I had imagined the sound. If only I had. I was reaching for the play button again when the banging repeated. Purposeful bangs in quick succession coming from the front door.

I raced down the stairs already conscious that whoever was there had been waiting for some time. They might give up and go away. Mum and Dad were forever ordering things online for home delivery. Although it was unusual for them to forget to tell me they were expecting something, it was not entirely unheard of. There would be many arguments where Mum had sworn she had told me and that I ’couldn’t have been listening’ or  forgotten. I’ve wished many times since that this would be just another book for Mum or computer gadget for Dad.

I was eager to prevent Mum or Dad having to go to the Post Office to pick up some random item, and all the grief that they would give me for not fulfilling my role as on hand delivery maid. I was in such a rush that I didn’t even look through the spy hole to see who was on the doorstep before opening the door. This alone would award me a half hour lecture about how I should not open the door without checking. ‘An impressionable young girl in the house on her own… anything could happen !’ they would say.

Something did happen. Something that made everything else pale into unimportance. In my mind, my expected future drained away as I opened that door. I’ve tortured myself that had I not done so things would be different. Funny how our own minds torture us like that.

So it was that I pulled the door open, without even registering who was standing there.

I remember saying that my parents weren’t home, that I was expecting them back in a couple of hours. I also remember the look the two police officers exchanged when I said it.

It’s funny isn’t it. Even when you know in your heart of hearts that you’ve done nothing wrong, whenever the police turn up you’re still expecting to be arrested and carried away. That day did nothing to lighten my feelings whenever I see the police. To this day I am overcome with heavy despair and dread when I see them. Still my brain raced through all the things I had gotten up to, or seen other people do. Oh for the carefree and reckless teenage life I had before.

I’ve played this moment back in my mind a thousand times or more. Over and over. We must have made our way to the front room, not that I can recall us getting there. Next thing I can remember we are sitting down. The officers have removed their hats. I’m on the sofa, with the lady police officer sat next to me. The man is sat facing me, in Dad’s chair. I’m starting to think that I should be offering them a cup of tea or something when he starts talking.

For some reason my memory of the words he spoke are locked in with my close focus of his mouth as his lips moved making the sounds come out. The sounds that would change my life. He looked like he needed a shave. Maybe he had been on shift all day.

He said my name. I didn’t even understand how he knew my name. ‘I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news for you…’ The heart that had been pumping furiously from my race down the stairs suddenly stopped. I didn’t breathe. I don’t think I even blinked. He explained to me what had happened.

My Mum, Dad and younger sister Becky had been killed in a car accident. There had been a pile-up on the motorway and a lorry had gone into the back of them. My mind flashing for a millisecond that they had come to rush me to the hospital to sit distraught by my parents’ and sister’s bedsides as a dutiful daughter and sister. Before I even scrabbled together two words asking how badly they were injured, he stopped me.

They had all been killed. I would later find out that my sister had died mercifully in an instant. My parents had been alive for a few moments longer, but I was assured that they would have been unconscious and not in pain. I have struggled so long to deal with my inability to believe that to be true. I so desperately wanted it to be the case, but there was a part of me that kept fighting, kept popping images of them screaming in agony into my head. Of them calling my name, calling out to Becky. So many times I had wished that I had been there with them.

It seems so pointless now, that I had stayed behind to revise for the exam I would not take. For the grades that did not matter. For the future that I would never see. If only I had gone with them.

Becky would be starting her exams now. Knowing her she would have been frantic with all the stress of it all. I would have been able to share my experience with her. To help her see past the fear. So petrified of getting it all wrong and messing up your life. She’d have had her laid back older sister to share tips on how to survive the impossible exams. How to deal with the transition to college and beyond. I’d have have been sharing stories with her of parties and nights out, of boys. Swapping secrets about how to get the clueless bastards to see that you liked them, but still get them to do all the running.

None of these things would happen for her. They wouldn’t even happen for me. The banging on our door that day killed the dreams and futures for both of us.

Here I was, nearly twenty, sipping tea and looking after my Nan. My Nan may be the only person I have left in my family, but she’s not really a whole person. My Nan, you see, suffers from dementia. There’s nothing I can really do for her other than to keep her comfortable and humour her when she asks me for the fifth time that day how school is going, or what time Mum will be home. I have to remind myself it’s not her fault. It’s the illness. It is hard though, to keep my emotions, my temper in check. The number of times I’ve shut myself in the bathroom, sat on the floor next to the bath, hugging my knees as I sob my heart out.

In some ways, as painful as it is for me, Nan’s condition is a blessing for her. She can’t remember the pain of the last few years. In her mind she’s reliving constantly some glorious part of her past. Sometimes it’s back when I was younger, sometimes it’s all the way back to Mum’s childhood. Sometimes I wish I could join her blissfully reliving the past.

I try to keep things as much of a routine for her as I can, but that is next to impossible with the varied shifts at the hotel and the late nights in the pub.

There are times when she doesn’t know who I am, and is talking to me about how proud she is of her granddaughter Evie. She tells me with a sparkle in her eye how clever Jessica is, and how she’ll be the first person in the family to go to university. “Just you see !” She’ll tell me.

***

If the weather’s nice enough, I like to take Nan out for a walk. She’s nowhere near strong enough to walk herself, so I manage to get her into a wheelchair.

It’s the end of the holiday season now, and although the wind’s getting up a bit the promenade is at least clear of the bustle of tourists. I sigh at the thought that this would also lead to the reduction of my hours at the hotel. I’ll have to start finding something else to help fill the gap.

‘Fancy an ice cream Nan ?’ We’ve come to one of the traders still bravely selling Ice Creams in early September. She doesn’t respond. It’s not really a two way conversation with Nan. I lock off the weeks on her chair and nip inside.

I am concentrating on catching any drips from the 99s I have in each hand when I come back out. I do not see until the last minute the two police officers. Their presence prevents me from seeing Nan. I try to dodge round them, but they follow my attention.

‘Jessica ? Jessica Thompson ?’ The first one asks me. My mind is struggling to comprehend what is happening. What more catastrophe is there awaiting me ?

‘Jessica, we’ve got someone here who’d very much like to speak to you.’ The police officers move out the way. Hidden behind them is a woman that is kneeling on the floor to be at eye level with Nan. She is holder her hand. Nan won’t understand this will confuse her, upset her. I start to get agitated.

The woman stands up as she turns round to face me. ‘Hello Jessica. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. Why did you leave like that ? Why ?’ She is getting upset, starting to cry.

‘Hello Mum’. Is all I can say as I lick the ice cream drips off my hand.

Sorry

They had left me, and I could not understand why. I couldn't begin to comprehend what would be behind such a betrayal. What had I done ? Had I said the wrong thing, reacted in a way to disappoint ? I could not know. 

There was only the note. If you can really call a piece of paper containing but one word a note. 

'Sorry'

Even the handwriting was a mystery, barely legible. Were they sorry that they had left me, or sorry for something else they had done which I was so far unaware ? Was I supposed to have apologised for some infraction ? I racked my brain for recent incidents where I was at fault, had said or done something, stepped out of line, spoken out of turn. I could think of nothing, and the handwriting was of no help. I could not even be certain whose writing it was. A single word on a sheet of A4 paper. Did the emptiness of the page signify a potential for further explanation ?

I did not know. I could not know. 

I tried holding the sheet of paper to the light, looked at it from various shallow angles. I even tried tracing out any words left indented upon it from the previous page. All this revealed was my predilection for nineteen twenties crime novels. No simple answers here. No Belgian detective to sweep in and solve the mystery with a mere twirl of a perfectly trimmed moustache. 

I searched the grounds next, only to confirm three things either from observation or from conversation with the young lady on reception. 

One. My friends had indeed checked out. Two. Their cars were all gone, so now I was also stranded without transport ! Three. They had settled not only their own bills, but mine before leaving. 

I had acquired some facts, but also discovered more uncertainties. More and more puzzling. What could be so urgent that had caused them to leave in such a manner, but to leave me behind ? None of it made sense. 

My mind became overwhelmed with the uncertainties. I was sorely tempted to go to the bar and either search for my answers with the assistance of whiskey or occlude my senses sufficiently that it no longer mattered. No ! I would be strong. 

I could leave. Check out. But go where ? Aside from the lack of transport, which I was certain could easily be arranged, where would I go ? Should I go home ? My friends had kindly paid for my room up to the end of the week. The length of time we had actually planned to stay. This meant they either intended me to stay on at the hotel, or to at least provide me with the option should I wish to take it. Did this mean they might return ? 

Sod it. I assured myself it was not a weakness to want to drink at a time such as this, and made my way to the bar. Mercifully it was not very busy at all, and I was served quickly. I sat in the corner absentmindedly rolling the ice around the tumbler as I stared through the inviting darkness of the spirit. 

My reverie was interrupted when I sensed someone standing over me. Their shadow moving across me, deepening the cosy haze around me another level towards darkness. 

'Hi. I'm Sonny' came the voice. At the same time he offered an outstretched hand. I looked up, instantly drawn to his eyes. Brown in colour, but kind, observant and deep. A flick of uncertainty on his face evaporated in an instant, replaced by a disarming smile. Without thought, I reached out my hand also. He took my hand with a firmness that was neither too soft nor too strong, but left me certain he possessed a hidden strength. I found myself leaning towards him. 

Taking this as a cue, he sat down. Still observing me deeply with those eyes. 

'My friends have all left without me, it's quite a mystery really..' I paused to drink some of my whiskey. My mouth suddenly dry. The corners of his lifted again. He had not taken his eyes off me. 

He leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice. There was a twinkle in his eyes. 'One man's mystery is another man's adventure, wouldn't you say ?' He asked rhetorically. 'What about you and I having an adventure together ?'