Crying Out Loud by Cath Staincliffe

Mile. I distracted myself by gazing in the shop windows, picking out my favourite shalwar kameez, or comparing the fancy neon signs for the different restaurants and watching the pedestrians pass: students streaming in towards the universities, local people shopping for groceries, a group of women in richly patterned African dress, others in saris chatting to a shopkeeper in his flowing white galabiyya.
    We crawled past the park and the infirmary, where a taxi and a bus got into a hooting competition after a near miss in the bus lane, on past the universities and the BBC building. Today the weather was muted. A change to neutral, the sky a hazy grey, blanketed with thick cloud; the trees still, the pavements muffled by the mush of crushed leaves.
    I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Damien Beswick again. He was awkward company and for all Chloe’s efforts I wasn’t sure that he’d be any more forthcoming than last time.
    After passing through the gatehouse and the security checks, I was escorted to the same room. When Damien came in he looked tired: his eyes were pink, slightly bloodshot and he slumped into the chair. That nervy restlessness was still there, a foot tapping, his fingers moving to and fro, tracing the table’s edge.
    I got straight down to business. ‘Chloe said you’d remembered something else.’
    â€˜I’ve been trying,’ he said.
    â€˜And?’
    He shrugged. I felt a lick of impatience. He looked shifty, scratched at his sideburn. ‘I’ve tried,’ he repeated. So it was a con. There’s no stunning new evidence to support his claim to innocence, nothing new. He had wasted my time. I was on the brink of walking out but hated the thought of a wasted journey. Before calling it quits I would try out what I’d learned from Geoff Sinclair.
    â€˜Right,’ I said brusquely. ‘What I want to do is go over the events at the cottage in more detail. OK?’
    He sighed. ‘Yeah.’
    â€˜And what I want you to do,’ I explained, ‘is try and relax a bit; sometimes it is easier to remember if you don’t force it.’
    His eyes shone. ‘Guinness Book of Records; there’s this guy, he can remem—’
    â€˜Damien.’ I cut him off. ‘Do you want to do this?’
    He closed his mouth tight, hands fisted; he rubbed one set of knuckles on the other. ‘I don’t like to think about it,’ he said. His jaw was rigid, jutting forward, clenched emotion. ‘It’s in my head. I can’t get it out of my head.’ He wouldn’t look at me.
    â€˜Do you need to see a doctor or a counsellor?’
    â€˜I’ve put a slip in.’ I assumed that meant he’d requested an appointment. There was a long pause. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need. I didn’t kill him.’
    â€˜It might help if you close your eyes.’
    â€˜You gonna hypnotize us?’ A spark of humour.
    â€˜No.’
    He let his head drop, folded his arms. A defensive move? Or protective?
    â€˜You were on the bus – think about that. You’d come from Sheffield. Was the bus busy?’
    â€˜Nah. Couple of old grannies, a girl with a little kid.’
    â€˜And you got thrown off?’
    â€˜I hadn’t enough to get to Manchester. Thought the driver’d forgotten but he pulls in and turns the engine off. He’s giving it out, blah, blah, blah. Comes up, wants my name and address.’
    â€˜What did he look like?’
    Damien opened his eyes, looked at me.
    â€˜Think of it as practise, exercising your memory,’ I said.
    He rubbed his chin, let his head fall again. ‘Fat bloke, glasses.’
    â€˜Good. What was he wearing?’
    â€˜Uniform?’ It sounded like he was guessing.
    â€˜Only tell me what you can see, what you’re sure about. Don’t guess.’
    â€˜Can’t remember,’ he said.
    â€˜OK. You get off the bus.