Williams. Remember him how he was, eh?’
He looked at my hand where it rested on his arm, and stared levelly at me until I let go. Then he moved past me and stopped.
His cry seemed to die in his throat, as if the sight before him had taken the wind from him. Despite my best efforts, Caroline broke from me and rushed down to her son, stopping a few yards short of the body, her arms hanging at her sides. Simon stood above the corpse, his hands covering his mouth. Caroline inched forwards towards her son and dropped to her knees. She reached out and touched her son’s head, her hands barely making contact with his hair. I gradually became aware of a low keening noise building in strength over the rush of the noise of the waves beating against the beach. Finally Caroline opened her mouth and a single, savage shriek of pain seemed to tear itself from her and hang suspended in the air.
I approached them slowly. The Sligo doctor had muttered his sympathies and was making his way up the beach towards the hotel. I nodded to him as he passed, and said I would be up in a while. Simon now knelt on the sand beside Caroline, gulping for breath against the wind, his face smeared with his tears. I knelt to the other side of her and put my arm around her shoulders. Despite her husband’s proximity, she leaned against me and I waited with them, while the thick grey Atlantic rushed up the beach towards us under purpled twists of clouds.
Simon placed his two hands in front of his face, as if in prayer.
‘I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid to touch him,’ he said.
‘It’s OK,’ I said.
‘He’s my boy and I can’t touch him.’
I could think of nothing to say to the man. I knew that Simon had had little time for Peter as a child, indeed had not seen him in almost a decade. Despite my professional and human urge to console a bereaved parent, I found it difficult to look at Simon without the memory surfacing of the injuries he had inflicted on his wife and his emotional neglect of his son.
‘I saw him born,’ he said, turning towards me, his expression almost one of pleading. ‘I had to see him . . . you know.’
I nodded silently, placing my hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Caroline, shrugging away my hand as he did so.
‘This is your fault,’ he said.
Beyond us, a breaker rose briefly, then exploded against the shore, flecking the body of Peter Williams with its foam.
Soon after, Peter’s body was removed by the undertakers to be transferred to Sligo General Hospital for a post-mortem examination. I had asked for toxicology tests to be run; while the boys with whom Peter had been camping had admitted that some alcohol had been taken, I wanted a more accurate assessment of how much he’d taken before he died.
For our part, we moved up to the hotel, where the manager had provided us with a room and a supply of tea and sandwiches. Simon had spoken little on our way up from the beach.
When we got inside, the heat made the sweat break on my face, even while my skin remained numbed from the wind. Caroline had stopped crying and busied herself pouring tea. Simon stood to one side, speaking into his mobile phone, telling a partner or family member about the discovery. He had not changed much in the past decade. He was a small, squat figure – five eight maybe – carrying excess weight around his gut. He had thinning, sandy hair brushed over to one side to cover his increasing baldness. His arms were heavy, his fingers’ stubbiness accentuated by gold rings. He wore glasses with reactive lenses that even now, under the lights of the hotel conference room, were slightly darkened. He returned my gaze without discernible emotion as he continued his conversation on the phone.
‘That was unfair – what he said to you. It’s not true,’ I said, taking the cup of tea that Caroline offered me.
She looked at me, her eyelids dropping slightly. ‘He’s upset. He doesn’t mean half of what he says.’
I waited for her
He looked at my hand where it rested on his arm, and stared levelly at me until I let go. Then he moved past me and stopped.
His cry seemed to die in his throat, as if the sight before him had taken the wind from him. Despite my best efforts, Caroline broke from me and rushed down to her son, stopping a few yards short of the body, her arms hanging at her sides. Simon stood above the corpse, his hands covering his mouth. Caroline inched forwards towards her son and dropped to her knees. She reached out and touched her son’s head, her hands barely making contact with his hair. I gradually became aware of a low keening noise building in strength over the rush of the noise of the waves beating against the beach. Finally Caroline opened her mouth and a single, savage shriek of pain seemed to tear itself from her and hang suspended in the air.
I approached them slowly. The Sligo doctor had muttered his sympathies and was making his way up the beach towards the hotel. I nodded to him as he passed, and said I would be up in a while. Simon now knelt on the sand beside Caroline, gulping for breath against the wind, his face smeared with his tears. I knelt to the other side of her and put my arm around her shoulders. Despite her husband’s proximity, she leaned against me and I waited with them, while the thick grey Atlantic rushed up the beach towards us under purpled twists of clouds.
Simon placed his two hands in front of his face, as if in prayer.
‘I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid to touch him,’ he said.
‘It’s OK,’ I said.
‘He’s my boy and I can’t touch him.’
I could think of nothing to say to the man. I knew that Simon had had little time for Peter as a child, indeed had not seen him in almost a decade. Despite my professional and human urge to console a bereaved parent, I found it difficult to look at Simon without the memory surfacing of the injuries he had inflicted on his wife and his emotional neglect of his son.
‘I saw him born,’ he said, turning towards me, his expression almost one of pleading. ‘I had to see him . . . you know.’
I nodded silently, placing my hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Caroline, shrugging away my hand as he did so.
‘This is your fault,’ he said.
Beyond us, a breaker rose briefly, then exploded against the shore, flecking the body of Peter Williams with its foam.
Soon after, Peter’s body was removed by the undertakers to be transferred to Sligo General Hospital for a post-mortem examination. I had asked for toxicology tests to be run; while the boys with whom Peter had been camping had admitted that some alcohol had been taken, I wanted a more accurate assessment of how much he’d taken before he died.
For our part, we moved up to the hotel, where the manager had provided us with a room and a supply of tea and sandwiches. Simon had spoken little on our way up from the beach.
When we got inside, the heat made the sweat break on my face, even while my skin remained numbed from the wind. Caroline had stopped crying and busied herself pouring tea. Simon stood to one side, speaking into his mobile phone, telling a partner or family member about the discovery. He had not changed much in the past decade. He was a small, squat figure – five eight maybe – carrying excess weight around his gut. He had thinning, sandy hair brushed over to one side to cover his increasing baldness. His arms were heavy, his fingers’ stubbiness accentuated by gold rings. He wore glasses with reactive lenses that even now, under the lights of the hotel conference room, were slightly darkened. He returned my gaze without discernible emotion as he continued his conversation on the phone.
‘That was unfair – what he said to you. It’s not true,’ I said, taking the cup of tea that Caroline offered me.
She looked at me, her eyelids dropping slightly. ‘He’s upset. He doesn’t mean half of what he says.’
I waited for her
Similar Books
