In My Mind Read online

  “She’d shout like a poisonous snake whilst he cried like a hyena in a quiet and dull kind of way. He had his pride to think about, his pride, yet it’s important for all of these things but he is so prevalent in my mind like Gabriella, that you are, this place and you, Gabriella, that’s my pride now, that’s it.”

  There is a rustling of many, like wet heavy footsteps trampling on a soggy night or as fresh as crisps in a walker’s packet being shuffled, ready to burst. The clock’s hour hand has not even turned yet but the minute hand has slowly pushed itself around quite a few times. The second hand, it is a bit stingy or just cold so is not going anywhere fast.

  There is a loud bang on the cellar door and in a flood an armful of men in police uniform. Their walkie-talkies are not silent as they whisper amongst themselves and into their mouth pieces, but then they are standing close to one another and speaking in their own professional, orderly manner. They stand for a few seconds, a few with their arms folded and some have their arms hinged in their pockets. There are no guns but policemen in uniform is frightening enough as if Steve has conducted a crime, for heaven’s sake. They look on so he presumes that they have nothing to be afraid of. A couple of them have batons belted on their uniforms.

  There is a quivered tone to Steve’s voice as it echoes out, “Come in why don’t you, come to my humble abode.” In return they ask him to confirm his name and his address and what he is doing here, but his reply to it all is silence. Silence can speak in big volumes. Sometimes that can be the perfect answer. Maybe today will be that day! Less is better than more, don’t they say? The uniformed men who whisper amongst themselves know that they are never in real danger, not with Steve anyhow. They continue in intervals to communicate with Steve but they remain still as he is silent. A couple of them now leave the cellar and after a few moments, they come back in with the ambulance men who come with their heavy bags weighing their body weight down. Today is just another day for them, no doubt another day, another place, another time maybe, but yet another job.

  Today could be that time in anyone’s ordinary short life and it is just that. Steve sits still with his head in his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him calmly watching nothing much. He has done a lot of that. The ambulance people quietly poke around Gabriella and then they pull out a few poles and with a small lift they manage to put the beautiful butterfly on to it. He cares not as he sits, still mesmerised in his own mind, his own world.

  “You’re ever so kind, thanks.” They help him up from the floor and aid him out of the cellar door. He is not fully aware, or perhaps he is, of what is happening, maybe Steve is too caught up with in his own mind. He is certainly not responsive towards anything that he is asked. He makes no attempt to say no or ask or reply to anything. They all go out of the cellar together. Now there is no one here but the cold lonely four walls once again. The king of his castle has left but the throne has yet to be seized.

  As he does so, he sees her in the background in the public house of this big place of Steve’s and his Father’s. He sees her not straight in front but from the corners of his eyes, he himself is looking out for her. He senses that she is definitely there. His vision does not stray from the cold and wooden floor in the pub. With his head still laying low he carries on, out of the public house.

  His eyes meet the police cars with the flashing lights, red, blues and whites going on like a merry-go-round. The big ambulances, not just one but two, busily try to head off into the bright sun. It is a warm sunny day today but he has not even seen it, not even noticed the warmth of the sun. The sun that has been out forever.

  “Well, this is a fine sight for sore eyes, the sunshiny happy motherland, first thing in the morning, how marvellous.” He continues, “Bless, this has not happened in many years before. Many, many years, in fact. I have not seen the sun shining so bright and clean first thing in the morning. Nothing spoiling it today.”

  The police head him straight for the police car which is in front of his public house, the policemen stand and watch him, a couple get into their own cars. They push his head into the cold car, busybodies, never mind their own businesses but always minding others. It isn’t their fault, not really, it is all her fault, she is the one.

  He feels the policeman’s light, small and gentle hands on his head as his head’s slowly pushed even further into the car with the big sirens blazing. He gets in and without even blinking an eyelid or spoiling a whisker, he nods his head and blinks his eyelids. So how can a small, soft hand belong to a big, chunky lawmaker? He knows they are not lawmakers, they just carry out what the law tells them, keepers of the law of the land, including Steve’s. It’s their duty not their choice, just doing their job, nothing less or more.

  Jobs, well, they are doing theirs and he has done his over the past years and now his vehicle is speeding away. Steve wonders who will relight this fire, who will ignite the life that his father once lit a long time ago. He had kept his father’s seat warm and exactly the way that Father had it and wanted it but now that “her” will probably get rid of all the old memories.

  She has got things the way she wanted finally, both of us out in the cold and out of the way and her, the Empress of this small kingdom, smiling behind the dark curtain. Father will never know how and where to find me and he would never come back to her, ever. He calmly bangs his head once or twice and asks himself why he is even thinking in that way, of course Father will come for him. Both he and Father had done no wrong. It has always just been her, that the culprit who has damaged lives as well as her own. Why couldn’t she let others be happy?

  “I just wanted to be happy, that’s all,” argues Steve with himself.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Steve finds himself repeating the same words, “I just wanted to be happy, that’s all.”

  “Of course, you did,” comes a voice from the car.

  “Is that too much to ask for?” says Steve. They ignore him and they think that he will probably quieten down himself and best left alone but Steve doesn’t, instead he continues to ask why couldn’t he have been left alone to be happy and is that just too much to ask for, after all he isn’t asking for very much. They choose to ignore him out of politeness to the sir. Steve likes politeness and simplicity and an everyday routine. Crisps and nuts have to be in the same place every day, the chairs have to be in the same position every day, glasses have to be face downwards not upwards, bar stools have to be in a diagonal position, forks always on the right side and not the left. Steve and his father are both left handed people, unlike most but that’s what life is about and how it was in his house.

  “Most, yes, most of the punters here are very much valued. They are valued customers and valued more so because they provide a lot of income that helps to balance life and the books and pay bills, including her bills. At the end of the evening, she just regularly helps herself to whatever amount of money she needs for whatever expenses and she does not like to be asked, but then so did Father and I.”

  The police car has reached its final destination. Steve supposes that destination will be to their home, which could be work or not, but it could be the station. They turn the roaring engine off.

  One police officer stays in the car whilst the other, the passenger, gets out and comes to open Steve’s door and then asks him to come out, please. Calmly he does as he is asked and they don’t handcuff him or use any force because he complied with them. He is good anyway, and he has not done anything wrong, why the hell is he here? This is not the kind of place for someone like him.

  Steve sits in a box style room where the walls are cold and not that far apart. Creepy. Cold cells! There is a table parallel to the door and as they both enter, they sit on the opposite side to each other. The table sits in between them. There is a note pad and pens on the cold steel table and just like the room, it’s all cold, a bit like the cellar but much smaller. The
policeman looks at Steve and Steve looks straight back into his eyes. There are no windows here either, no windows in the cellar either. Time ticks by but no one is noticing and conversations have not taken place.

  Half an hour later, the policeman looks at his watch and rubs his face all over, he is tired, so is Steve. He yawns away whilst apologising for yawning, Steve recognises nothing that’s been said. He sits and just looks at the tiny box with four grey coloured walls, the steel grey table and cold people placed on non-cushioned seats. It’s uncomfortable sitting on this hard grey steel chair but the policeman doesn’t seem to mind.

  Another policeman knocks and enters this small room and quickly he takes his place on the empty, hard chair. He starts by apologising about being late as he continues that it has been busy all day. In fact, non-stop were the chosen words, with one thing or another and that he will be writing down all the information that Steve will be giving. Steve has a vivid expression on his face, almost a blaze. He is wondering why he’s being asked if he understands. The policeman repeats himself a couple of times but there is no response back. He is asked to nod if he understands what has been said, there is still no response. Steve sits and stares, the policeman repeats a few more times, but still Steve ignores him. There is silence.

  “So, sir, what can you tell us about the body of Miss Gabriella Valente?” There is a long pause.

  “Can you tell us how this lady was in your cellar, sir? Has this young lady been in your cellar before? Is she a customer or do you know her? Okay, can we start with your name, please, if you don’t mind, sir? In your own good time.” Steve is hesitant to open his mouth but his eyes search the room from one corner to the next and notices that there is the clock ticking his life away slowly.

  Steve hears the policeman’s words, “Well, sir, could you tell me how Miss Gabriella died? Do you know how that came about? Do you know how she came into the cellar? Do you know how she was there and why? More to the point, why and what was the purpose of her being there?”

  “I am glad you pronounced my butterfly’s name correctly. Yes, Gabriella is the name. She was my beautiful and is, of course, still the most delicate butterfly and she ain’t dead. Don’t say that, don’t be mistaken, she is fast asleep, fast asleep, you see. She can’t die because she has to live for me as I have to live for my father, so she can’t die. I can’t die, not really. You see, she can’t live without me nor can she leave me, so I have to live for her and for my father. You understand that, right? What I’m saying?”

  “Right,” says the man in the uniform. He continues, “so can we start from the beginning, maybe? Let’s start with what happened at the start of the day and work our way through the day. Did you have any conversation with the young lady in question, or perhaps later on when you opened? Do you remember anything about the day? Anything, even a little minor detail to jog your memory. Or did she only come in the evening when she would normally have come? Or what day did she turn up? Did you ask her to come? Do you remember anything about the day whatsoever?”

  There is a long silent hum as the man in the uniform looks straight at Steve’s face, sitting so still and straight, not fumbling or fidgeting, uniform white, crispy clean. Steve looks down at his own blue and white-striped cotton shirt. It has seen better days but it isn’t nearly as good as the man in the uniform sitting across, very close, a bit too close to Steve’s liking but he knows he has no choice today.

  On an ordinary day, he made the choices but she would decide on the menu and how it would be cooked. She was, in fact, the master in the kitchen. He would decide what to buy from the market and how often he would go to the cash-and-carry or, of course, to the local shop to pick up the nibbles.

  He isn’t dealing with snacks today. No, today is a good day to say the least, but nothing to worry about; after all, he has not done anything morally wrong. He wants to get the day done but he knows that silence today is not going to solve anything or make anything go away but still, he insists because that is quite peaceful right now. Slowly, whilst taking his time, he strokes his shirt like a professional and looks at the lawmaker with the squeaky, glossy, polished, shiny black shoes. He asks politely if maybe he could start by telling his name. The staring in the silence are the only two things that continue very quietly.

  “Well, Stephen,” says the lawmaker, “may I call you by your first name? Or do you prefer to be called Mr Smith?” Slowly, the policeman clears his throat and then hits the nail on the head. “Maybe I should be talking to your mother instead.”

  All of a sudden, Steve replies in a prompt manner and the policeman is still looking straight at his face. Steve starts rubbing his thumbs nervously and alternatively rubbing away at his thoughts.

  “She is no one to me and she is terribly wrong, it’s not Stephen, Stevie or Mr Smith or even smithy, it’s actually Steve. It’s always been Steve for everyone, you see, everyone calls me nowt else in Lancashire here but Steve, that’s the name given to me by my father. You see, my father’s name was Stefan and everyone called him Stephen so I always called myself Steve, or rather my father always called me Steve especially when we were both at work together. There were a few of his close buddy friends who called him other names like matey, but to everyone he was Stephen. He always said he hated the name Stefan. In reality, it was really Stephen and son or Stephen senior and Steve Jr, however you want to think of it really.”

  Steve is rudely interrupted by the pressing down on the tape recorder player that pushes down to ‘on’ and the policeman’s words begin, “Well, Mr Smith, sorry, let’s start again, Steve. So, Steve, my name is Detective Inspector James Brown and sitting on my left is police Constable Sarah Sands. She will be taking notes whilst the recording is in progress, if that is okay with you, and I’ll be having a conversation with you so we can get to the bottom of this and quickly clear it all up. I have your name, could you please just confirm your full name and your address please, thank you.”

  “Well, thank you, it’s Steve, that’s not with a capital S either.”

  “Okay then, that’s fine, could I ask you to give me your full address and that includes your postcode, please?”

  “Well, why are you asking me things that you already know? You people were at my pad last night so you know exactly where I live, so why ask the question?”

  “Alright, okay, I have your address, that’s fine, I’ll put that down, no worries.” The policeman searches the papers in front of him and as he fumbles through the white pages, Steve looks at his hands.

  The policeman puts his index finger on the words, “Got it.” His nails are perfectly shaped, Steve continues rubbing his own nails, they are very white but not perfectly round. Steve knows his hands have been working extra hard. “So I was saying, I have 55 Beach Gardens.”

  “Well, you’ve got it right so why are you repeating it? You know the postcode, I know the postcode, so what’s all the fuss about?”

  “Ok, I have your postcode, that’s fine, no worries. Would you mind giving me your date of birth, please?”

  “Yes, okay, that’s just mine so I know that, 1980 the month of Christmas and it’s actually Christmas Day. I should’ve been called Jesus or Father Christmas or Santa Claus or even a saint, you know what I mean, being born on that particular day but then if I were, then I wouldn’t have met Gabriella and would not have met you on a day like this. Actually, as I was born on Christmas Day, perhaps I should have met up with a girl called Mary, you know what I mean? Gabriella may not be the right name but I am very glad that I did not meet Mary because Father and I may not have had a boozer or even a restaurant. He may have been a man of the church instead and perhaps a priest or a father. Well, he is a father in another sense, and, who knows, her upstairs would have been a plain Jane or something rather than Mildred.

  “Her name is Mildred but she hates to be called that. You know something, lawmaker, I was the chosen one for my
father and her upstairs just the way that Jesus was for his mother Mary and father Joseph. They were not gifted with any other child except me, so I grew up being his pride. He loved me, protected me and gave me all I needed but as for her, she gave us both all the rest, and row, misery and lies. She started it from my birth, I think. Well, I’m sure, but I was just a little one then but I remember quite clearly how she got into my mind and into my head much earlier on, in my childhood days. She used to say stop getting in my head but little did she know that in fact she was getting into my head, eating away at me from when I was about eight years of age. Now you will ask and I will tell.”

  Silence surrounds him within the four cold walls as he rubs his thumbs a little slower to warm them up.

  “Yeah, so as I was saying, it was my eighth birthday and of course, Christmas Day. So, you will want to know if I had roast turkey for every birthday and you would be right to ask because the answer has to be yes. Father had bought football boots for me and it was a cold damp day in the middle of winter and the punters had all eaten in our restaurant from 1 o’clock to 3 o’clock and then my father closed up and we three normally sat to eat, our time was from 3 to 5. After that, Father would go back downstairs to his treasured work with me around his legs trying to copy all that he did whilst she was just there wasting away. So, as I was saying, those were happy days and she just had to get rid of the peace and tranquillity that we had in our life. There was peace and quiet and some special time between Father and me.

  “That day, she and I sat at 3 o’clock on the dot at the four seater dining table which had a massive crockery dish full of sizzling little bite-size sausages, small roasted Yorkshire brown puddings slumped in the middle for the gravy, small but fat turkey yet it was big enough for us with green brussels sprouts with the ends still on and perfectly round, how gorgeous, and carrots, all same length, finger size. She always made the gravy from the juices and added a little flour and her own mix of special spices. It was a special feast to remember not just my birthday but Christmas, he said it was a very special time and she always told him that it was for the sake of Christmas and not birthday because Christmas was more special than any person’s birthday.” Steve stops to lick his lips as the saliva at the corner of his mouth dries up. He sips the clear liquid.