Secrets - Doubts

'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.'

I feel terrible for this, Craig. Your mum is leaning over the kitchen sink, crying still. After mumbling another apology, I drive away, down the hill in the direction of the valley, aware of the twitching curtains as I pass. Silent tears blur my vision, along with niggling doubts at the back of my mind.  

Doubts never go away, no matter how hard a person tries to forget them.  You see, ever since my teens, I've had these waking-dream episodes where I relive Whaley Hill. During the fleeting episodes, I find myself running down a steep path in the summer heat, away from the reservoir at the top of Whaley Hill. I leg it to the Clearing at the bottom of the hill, tearing diagonally towards the centre, where someone's waiting. A stranger. I don't see the stranger at first. He appears suddenly, like a monster rising up from the ground. I never catch his face. Perhaps I don't want to. And then, I jolt awake, panting for air, struggling to breathe.  

Once, after a few drinks, I blurted it out to Mel and she told me I was talking shit. She said the police had done a thorough job investigating the murder and that no one else was ever present at the scene.  

I return to The Factory, make a jug of filter coffee and get to work on the laptop. My web design business has grown slack and needs rebuilding – all the trouble with my wife didn't help – but I can't concentrate.

The view of the pylon grid gives me a headache. The conversation with your parents replays. The talk of police visits that no one else seems to know about. Your dad sitting by the shutters with his pyjamas underneath the duffel coat, his face merging with Vince Macarthur's.  

Innocent, innocent,  innocent!

And then a different man appears. A stranger in a long winter jacket and rimless specs. A stranger with a crowbar nine years ago.

No way.

I log off and do the very thing Mel has warned me against – go looking for our other friend Gordon Day.