Secrets - The Conversation

I wonder whether coming here was such a good idea after all.  Maybe I should have written a letter instead. I ring the bell and wait. Movement inside, footsteps. An elderly woman answers the door and stares flatly at me.
           
'Mrs Winters?' I whisper.
           
No way.  I'm so sorry, Craig. What have I done?  Why did I make this visit today? And should I even be telling you this?  Your mum's long ash blonde hair has gone, along with the perpetual smile that you and your brother inherited. She used to blow kisses at us when we were children and buy us fruit from the greengrocer's. But not anymore. White curls hang lifelessly over her ears. I've destroyed her. 

'It's Alan,' I say. 

'Yes, I know who you are.'

I wonder whether to lean down and kiss her – at over six foot, I tower over her – but the steel expression in her eyes and tight lipped expression suggest I shouldn't.  'I'm staying at my sister's for a while. Well, we're renting in her block.'

Your mum shrugs and turns. Taking a deep breath, I follow her through the hallway, into a tiny kitchen where Radio Four is playing. Shutters block out the morning light.
           
'Who is it, ringing the bell and mithering us at this time of day?' your dad calls. 'Oh,' he says when he sees me. He's sitting by the back door with a mug of tea, staring at the shutters. 'What do you want?'

A tabby cat appears from nowhere, brushing against my leg before dashing away. I barely recognise your dad. He's wearing a duffel coat, his hair, once shiny black, now a mop of uncombed white. I spot a pair of pyjamas under the coat. 
 
'What is it you want?' he says. 'Why are you troubling us now?'
           
'I needed to see you.'

'Well, we don't want to see you, do we?' he says.
Your mum turns to the washing up stacked on the kitchen surface.

'How's Scott?' I say, referring to your little brother. But I realise my mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth. These days, he won't be so little anyway.
           
'Why the sudden interest?' your dad says. 'Go on?

'I…' I begin, but I just don’t know what to say, how to justify my actions when you and I were boys of ten.  

'Well?' your dad says.
 
'I’m so sorry.'  And I am sorry. Believe me. I'd do anything to bring you back, apart from give up Robert. Sorry, Craig.  

Your mum swings round to face me. She remains tight lipped, but I can see that she is struggling to control herself. 'What happened that day?'

'What do you mean?'

'The day you went to the lake with our Craig when your mum and dad had told you you mustn't. Summat happened, didn't it? There were more to it.'
           
'No.' Then: 'I don't think so.'
           
'Leave it,' I hear your dad mutter. 'He's made up his mind. He's not going to tell us, is he?'
           
'I don't understand.'
           
'I think you do,' your dad says.  'You see, the police came to see us two days after our Craig died.'
           
'I know.'
           
'Two days after our Craig died, they came to see us,' your mum says. 'The police.'
           
'Why was that?'
           
 'No,' your dad says. 'He should be telling us what happened, not the other way round.'
           
'They came to see us,' your mum repeats. 'You know perfectly well why the police came to see us, Alan.They had news for us.'

'What sort of news?'

'I think you already know that,' your dad says. 'Otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you?'

Your mum says, 'The evidence against Vince Macarthur wasn't strong enough. The police were looking at alternatives; that's what they told us. Vince Macarthur shouldn't have gone to prison. He'd done n'owt wrong in the first place. It were someone else, and the police knew it. But they still went ahead and charged him.' And at that, she begins to cry. Your dad half rises to his feet before slumping back in his chair, resignation stamped all over his weathered face.

 'You've got to tell me who killed our son, and why,' your mum sobs.  'He was just a little boy. A baby. Please, tell me. I'm begging you, Alan.'

'It was Vince Macarthur.  He  – 

'No, it wasn't,' your dad says. 'He weren't at scene.'
           
'What do you mean?'  Macarthur not at scene. How's that possible?  I remember Vince Macarthur striding towards you in a fit of rage. He killed you by the reservoir on Whaley Hill.

'He weren't there, lad,' your dad says, as if guessing my thoughts. 'Our Scott's looked into it. Vince Macarthur never went into the woods that afternoon. He only popped out to go to the corner shop and that took no longer than five minutes and then he fell fast asleep in front of tele. He were woken up later when the police came.'

'How does Scott know that?' I say, hoping my question doesn't come across as rude.

'Never mind how he knows. Are you going to tell us what really happened?'

 'I already have.'

Your dad stands up. 'Okay, lad, that's it. You've had your chance and you've chosen to mess about. Get out of our house. And you're not to come back or mither our Scott, or there'll be trouble.'