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	A Walk in the Park by Colin Clark

Stories Archive About Home	“Ok love, I’m away off with the dog, back in an hour or so, see you…” I had been upstairs, putting away some clean washing and thinking about what I might watch on television later on. The new Inspector Morse series was starting so that’d probably get a chance. When I’d heard the door slam behind you I’d called out “Right then George, bye…” but of course you hadn’t heard me. You’d gone, out into the balmy evening air. I’d noticed it was slightly early for you to be taking Decker for his walk, quarter to the hour it said on the bedside alarm clock; you usually went after 7pm. But I didn’t think twice about it. I just thought that maybe Decker wanted to do his “business” or you wanted one of your fly smokes that you thought I didn’t know about. When it had gone 10pm I was getting worried. An hour or two wasn’t unusual for you to be away with the dog but more than three… well, you’d never been out that long with him. I was pacing the floor; up and down, up and down… couldn’t sit still at all. Lord knows how many cups of tea and ginger snaps I’d gone through by the time the phone went. I froze when I heard that ring and didn’t look at it. I wasn’t used to hearing the phone that late, it disturbed me when it did. Instead, I moved down the hall and my gaze went to the digital clock on the video-recorder in the living room. The green haze of numbers said 23.55. I had to think about what that was in real time. Ah yes, 5 to 12…. 5 to 12…? It had rung about four times, maybe five, by the time I’d lifted the receiver. I listened, and asked them to repeat themselves. No, not just the last bit there, all of it. I tried to take it in but the news had put me into automatic pilot. I was in a trance, a bad waking dream; this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be right. But I did the things I had to do and went to the front door, the one you had slammed shut a few hours before. Keys, check. Hat, check. Coat, check. Bag, check. Brolly, check… Wait a minute, what on earth would I need a brolly for? It hadn’t rained for days. For November it was very mild. A kind of Indian summer almost… I unlocked the car and started it up. I’d never driven to this place before so I had no idea how long it would take me. I followed the instructions that I’d tried hard to write down in the hall when I’d been on the phone but my tears had run down my face and dripped all over the notepad. They were just a blur, a big mess; puddles where roads should be. I’d arrived just after one. The shifts had just changed and I saw them all coming out. They looked exhausted, glad to going home to their loved ones. I could see now why they complained so much about their hours and their pay. Imagine working till this time of the night, and having to put up with all that abuse and hostility that came with the job… it is a wonder. As I entered the main reception area I was struck by the sterile atmosphere. It was so cold, so barren and clinical. It was enough to make you ill. I pulled my coat into me and shuffled forwards, facing the eyes of the woman at the desk. “Can I help you Madam?” I tried to speak, but nothing happened. A noise did emerge from my mouth after a few seconds but it wasn’t human. It was the kind of noise that a cartoon mouse makes when a cartoon cat has him in his sights… I tried again and, through the pain, confusion and fear, I managed to say that my name was Mrs Gardener. “Oh……….” The woman on the desk knew. The initial welcoming smile had been replaced by something altogether different. Something that was quite frightening. “Would you like to take a seat Mrs Gardener and… well,… I’ll get someone to come and speak with you.” “But… everything’s Ok isn’t it?” I spluttered. This time sounding like an actor from an old black and white movie where you know that kind of question is always rhetorical. “I really don’t know Mrs Gardener, please take a seat and someone will be with as soon as possible.” I limped to the nearest orange plastic chair and threw myself down into it. It was a good job it was bolted down to the floor as my force made it shake and shiver so much that the young man sitting on the other side nearly fell off his own moulded perch. A while later, perhaps about 20 minutes, I was brought a cold cup of extremely sweet tea and informed that someone really would be with me soon. It was a busy night and all staff were tied up. I’d have to wait. My snoring had, apparently, caused a bit of a stir and some fellow occupiers of the waiting room had urged the reception lady to poke me until I woke up. They couldn’t stand another minute of listening to some old bat irritate them with her snoring. How an earth had I managed to doze off in the middle of all this? I was amazed at my own powers of denial. But, it was a good job. Just as I stirred from a horrible nightmare I was greeted not just by the embarrassed receptionist but by a man with glasses who looked younger than our Frank. And Frank, our one and only child, had just finished his postgraduate degree at the University. This chap couldn’t have been a day over 30. “Mrs Gardener?” I yawned a little, to make the point, and said that yes, I was Mrs Gardener. “I’m very sorry to have kept you, we’ve been incredibly busy this evening. Would you like to see your husband now?” For an instant I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t believed anything I’d been told on the phone. I mean, my George! Nonsense and poppycock!! But here, in this strange environment, amongst strange faces, anything seemed possible and I wasn’t sure what to believe: something I’d been told over the phone by someone I didn’t know from Adam, or the trust I have in a man I’ve been married to for over 34 years? Whose words should I trust? “Yes please” I said in as strong a voice as I could manage. “I want to see my husband”. That’s how I remember it. It had been true. It had all been true. The moment I walked in there and sat opposite you I knew the truth. Ha! What a word… ‘truth’. What is it anyway? What is it to you? Nothing: you have made me sick to my stomach. Your face and body smelt of guilt, it oozed guilt; it poured out of every orifice. The stench was unbearable, sickening. The life in your eyes that made them once turn green when the sun was out had evaporated, like mildew when facing an African sun. Your eyes were now the same white as the shiny plastic Police overalls they’d given you to wear. Those drained sorry eyes looked at me with a sense of desperation; wanting to prove me – and the Police, the world - all wrong. It was all lies, all lies. The child had made it up… Without a sound, I got up and left the room. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I didn’t want to be here. This was not my George, it was a monster, a hideous being. You had lept to your feet and cried my name in an attempt to win me back but I was off. I was led out by the same young man, a Detective Inspector Jamieson, who had led me down here from the upstairs waiting room. “Are you alright Mrs Gardener? Is there anyone we can call for you?” I suddenly felt stronger. More determined and empowered. “No, I’m alright. I just want to know the truth.” He then proceeded to inform me, in the company of a female colleague in an interview room off the main corridor, that you had been arrested for – it was alleged - abusing an eight year old boy in a public toliet. This had taken place at a public park some 15 minutes from the address at which we resided. Apparently, you had done things to this boy, things that… well…, ‘abuse’ is almost too kind a word for it if you can believe that. I cannot bear repeating any of the details in this letter, and there’s no need anyway. I’ll leave all that for the trial and the newspapers to cover. I was convinced of your guilt the moment I saw you, but other things I heard just drove the point home. For example, there was the man who had found the child. He was so traumatised, apparently, that he hasn’t slept since that day, for fear the images of the boy slumped unconscious in an open cubicle would haunt him in his sleep. It was these same images, and the sounds, haunting me… I’d seen it all in your cold grey eyes; all that guilt mixed with a self-pity and rage that are truly revolting. I am left wondering just how much I really knew you at all. I am left remembering all those other extended trips to the park with the dog that you’d taken over the years we’d been here in this house. I thought of the other houses we’d lived in, the other parks nearby… What of the other children? How many other children had suffered at your hands? How many? I should have known. I should have stopped you. I am also guilty. I’m afraid I’m feeling fainter as I write this… I can only conclude that the gin and the pills are now beginning to take some effect. I only hope this brief note helps account, in some small way, for my actions. I do so much hope it is not our Frank that finds it. All my papers and documents are in the Dining room dresser, third drawer down in a large green folder marked ‘LIFE’. It is this life I now no longer want. I should have known. Mrs. Joy F Gardener. ©2005 Colin Clark c.r.clark@strath.ac.uk ----------------------------------------------------------- Colin Clark is 34 years old and was born in North East Scotland. He currently stays in Glasgow, teaching sociology at Strathclyde University.

A Walk in the Park