Secrets - The Night He Fled

Late on Sunday night, I fix a mug of coffee and update the secret journal. I'm not a psychologist. I don't know why people block out memories or reinvent them or conveniently stash them away in the hope of forgetting, but I've been remembering more stuff this evening – stuff to do with Gordon as a boy and an incident on the estate that caused tension between his parents and mine. Meeting up with Gordon again has somehow touched on this other stuff.

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I'm not sure when the event in question occurred, perhaps a year before the murder, but definitely in the middle of a summer. Gordon turned up at the house on a hot sticky Friday night, face smudged with tears and dirt. He arrived trembling and sobbing, his t-shirt ripped down the middle, revealing rows of bruises across his chest and upper arms. Mum and Dad gaped when they saw the bruises. They pulled him in and sat him at the kitchen table with a glass of squash. Disturbed by the noise, Little Mel wandered down. 

'Go on, ' Mum said, picking up the whimpering girl.  'Let's get you back into bed. Alan, as well.'

'No.' I wanted to stay with Gordon and my parents. Something was wrong. And I was correct about that, for footsteps sounded in the alleyway outside and Gordon went white. 
           
Dad stood up.  'I'll deal with this.'
           
The noise got louder. Gordon’s mother hammered at our front door, screaming, ‘Call the
police.’

Gordon's father, if you remember, was a trucker, heavily overweight and powerfully built. He arrived with an older man, tall and thin with rimless glasses – Stan, as in Stan and Edna? Dad talked to the men out by the front while Gordon’s mother drank tea inside, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, face smeared with makeup. Each time she picked up her mug, her large earrings jangled and her hands shook.

Mum watched in disapproval. She didn’t like Gordon’s mother. Years ago, Mum and Mrs Day had been friends, but Mum finally had lost patience with her old friend because Mrs Day spent most of her time in the local pub, flirting and getting drunk, neglecting Gordon. Everyone on the estate knew about it.

She'd brought along Gordon's teddy bear, but he wouldn't look at it. Instead, he sat cowering in the chair, glancing anxiously at the kitchen window.

When Dad returned from talking to the men, Gordon left with his now placid mother, but not before giving Mum a pleading look. Afterwards, Mum and Dad sat up late whispering for a long time.

The late night whispers continued. Mum and Dad must have reported Gordon's parents to Social Services because Mr and Mrs Day turned up at our house in a rage one Saturday morning shortly after that.
           
'I'll get yous both for this,' Mrs Day yelled, puffing away at a cigarette. 'You watch. I'll have yous.'
           
'And you tell that lad of yours not to call round at ours anymore,' Mr Day shouted. 'Because he's not welcome in my home.'
           
I stir, click on Save. Outside, a car horn toots, piercing the stillness. It's midnight, The Factory quiet. I sneak into Robert's room, nudging open the bedroom door carefully so that the boy won't awaken. He's asleep, face pressed against the pillow, toy bear by his side.

Seeing the boy and bear together, I think of the crumpled brown bear that Gordon's mother brought to my parents' house – how Gordon rejected it in front of his mother – and I feel a lump form in my throat.  I wish you had lived long enough to meet Robert and to enjoy the reunion with Gordon. 
           
'Night, buddy,' I whisper, longing to hold Robert, to protect him, to be his friend as well as his dad. 'Night.'