“You don’t have to be so sarcastic, Owen. I’m just trying to explain what it was like on the outside, so you can understand people’s attitudes.”
“Like Siobhan’s?”
“Yes.”
“And yours?”
Ivor shrugged.
“What exactly is your attitude?” Owen asked.
“What’s it matter? You’re out now.”
“Not just out, Ivor, but not guilty. Remember?”
“Well,” he mumbled, “you know what people say.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me what people say.”
“You know, guilty people get off all the time because the system’s biased in their favor. We bend over backward to help criminals and don’t give a damn for their victims.”
“I’m the victim here, Ivor.” Owen thrust his thumb at his own chest. “Me. I even found a letter from the college waiting for me. That bastard Kemp has fired me, and he did it before the jury even went out.”
Ivor looked away. “Yeah, well. I’m just saying what people think, in general, that’s all.”
“And what do you think, Ivor?”
“Look, I really don’t want to get into this. All I’m saying, Owen, is that shit sticks.”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, come on! For Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be the English teacher. Meaning exactly what it says. All those rumors that went around during the trial, the stuff they couldn’t bring in as evidence? Do you think nobody knew about it? Hell, I found out from one of the students in the local library.”
Owen felt a shiver run up his spine. “Found out about what?”
“Everything. Your sex life, your photographic pursuits, your taste for dirty books and magazines, the porn video, how you screwed your students.”
Owen toyed with a damp beer-mat. “You already knew that Michelle had been one of my students, I don’t think even you would call Lady Chatterly’s Lover a dirty book these days, and, don’t forget, you watched part of one of those videos with me. I’m no worse than anyone else.”
“Oh, grow up. You may not be, but the whole country doesn’t know everything about anyone else, does it? You know how rumors get exaggerated. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the one who beats up women when they won’t let you fuck them. You’re the one who spends his days ogling innocent young schoolgirls and your nights dreaming about defiling and strangling virgins while you’re watching video nasties.”
Owen felt himself flush. “They’re all bloody hypocrites.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t help you, does it?”
“And what does help me?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking, maybe you should go away somewhere…?”
“Run away? That’s great advice. Thanks a lot, mate.”
Owen ordered a couple more pints. At least the barmaid didn’t seem to have recognized him. She actually smiled as she put down the drinks. A woman smiling, something he hadn’t seen in ages, apart from Shirley Castle in her moment of victory. Either she didn’t watch telly or read the papers, or prison had changed his appearance enough to fool some people. Not everyone, of course, but some people.
“Look,” he went on, “get this into your thick skull. I haven’t done anything. I never beat up anyone, and I certainly never raped and murdered anyone. I’ve been a victim of the system. They owe me something. It’s doubtful they’ll pay, but they owe me. In the meantime, I’ve lost a few months out of my life and my reputation’s taken a bit of a bashing. I’ve got to put things in order again, and I’m damned if I’m going to start by running away. How do you think that’ll look?”
Ivor paused and scratched his beard before answering. “It’s not a bad idea, you know. It’s not really like running away. New life somewhere else. Fresh start. You could even go live and teach English on the continent somewhere. France maybe. Your French is pretty good, as I remember. Or Japan.”
Owen sniffed. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You think that’s the solution to my problems? Go live in obscurity in a foreign country? A sort of self-imposed exile. I’m telling you for the last time, Ivor, I haven’t done anything.”
Ivor paused a little before saying, “You might find it more difficult than you think-putting things in order.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing specific. I’m just pointing out that Siobhan’s attitude isn’t unique. There’s probably a few others feel the same way. Locally, like. Feelings can get pretty strong.”
“Are you telling me I’m in danger? A lynch mob or something?”
“All I’m saying is that when people get frightened they lash out.”
“And what do you feel, Ivor? You never really answered my original question, you know. You’re my neighbor. You’re also supposed to be my friend. Do you think I’m a pervert?”
“What can I say? How do I know? I watched part of that video with you, like you said, didn’t I? I don’t think doing that turned me into a pervert. Mind you, I can’t say it did a lot for me, but I watched it. More of a laugh than anything, if-”
“Fuck off, Ivor.”
“What? Look-”
“Just fuck off and leave me alone.”
Ivor banged his pint down on the bar; the barmaid glanced over anxiously. “All right, if that’s the way you want it, mate. Just don’t expect any more help from me.”
Owen snorted. “Believe me, Ivor, you’ve earned my undying gratitude for what you’ve done for me already. Now just fuck off.”
Ivor stormed out, red-faced above his beard, and the barmaid gave Owen an odd look, perhaps of recognition, of disapproval. Then the landlord, Cyril, he of the Popeye forearms, appeared from the back.
“What’s all the noise about?” he said. He seemed to recognize Owen and started walking towards him.
“Well, you can fuck off, too!” Owen slammed his glass down on the bar so hard it broke and beer swilled over the counter.
“Here!” yelled Cyril, making for the hinged flap. But Owen shot out of the door and down the street, the base of his thumb stinging and bleeding from where a sliver of glass had pierced it.
He hurried along North Market Street, head down and hands thrust deep in his pockets, fists clenched. Ivor. That slimy, backpedaling little turd. And Michelle? Just what was she trying to do to him?
But Perhaps Ivor was right about moving. The thought wasn’t quite as upsetting as it might have been a year or so earlier; somehow, the mess he had found on his release from prison had soured the house for him anyway. There were also, he realized, still too many memories of Michelle there. And moving would be a project, something to do, start looking for a new place, perhaps somewhere a little cheaper in a different part of the country. Not abroad, but in Devon, maybe, or Cornwall. He had always liked the south-west.
As he walked down the street, head bowed, Owen felt like an outsider, as if the rest of the world were swimming happily together in a huge tank and he was knocking on the glass unable to find a way in. One or two people gave him strange looks as he passed, and he realized he must have been mumbling to himself. Or maybe they recognized him. Shit sticks, Ivor had said. People would see him the way the rumors had depicted him, and would perhaps move aside and whisper to one another, “Here comes the Eastvale Strangler. You know, the one that got off.”
When he finally looked up to see where he was, he saw he was in St. Mary’s. Despite all his resolutions, he had walked there, as if by instinct.
He stood at the church gate, uncertain what to do, then on an impulse he decided to go in. It was a beautiful day, and the few hawthorn trees scattered among the yews bore white, yellow or pink blossoms. Wildflowers pushed their way through the grass around some of the plots. Thriving on decomposing remains, Owen thought fancifully, before he noticed that most of the graves were from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There were some recent ones, but not many.
The graveyard was peaceful; the muffled sounds of traffic on North Market Street and Kendal Road formed only a distant backdrop to the birdsongs.