A Song of Isolation Read online

  Their eyes met.

  And hearts collided.

  It helped that he had no idea who she was. Most of his time was spent at work, and what free time he did have he was countering the effects of sitting hunched over a computer by training down at the local rugby club, so the world of film and TV celebrity com­pletely passed him by.

  Must have been all that fresh air. Why else would he have taken one look at this amazing woman and asked her if she wanted to go and see – the first thing he thought of – the local reindeer herd? Amazingly, she said yes, and the rest was history.

  But the most recent part of that history was worrying. There were too many times when he entered a room and she’d hurriedly finish the conversation she was having on her phone. A phone that was more than ever stuck to the side of her head. The way she covered up whenever she came out of the shower, whereas nudity had never bothered her before. Then there were the long silences, when the air between them had always been filled with words and laughter.

  He’d asked her if she needed to get back into that world.

  ‘It’s not all glamour, you know,’ she’d said as she tucked a strand of flaxen hair behind a perfect ear. Dave could watch her all day, just doing simple things like that. He’d joke with her; it was because she was half French – full breeds just don’t have that ex­oticism he’d say. There was an effortless grace to her that ordinary humans lacked; there was a good reason the camera loved her.

  ‘It’s beyond boring. And stressful. Worrying whether people will like your hair, your dress or even the bloody shade of lipstick you’re wearing. It’s exhausting.’ No, she went on to say, her charity work and her yoga were where her life was at, for the foreseeable.

  Exhausting it may have been, but Dave knew Amelie well enough to see that whatever she had in her life at this point, no matter how much she protested, wasn’t enough for her.

  And worryingly, he was no longer sure that he was enough for her anymore.

  The letterbox creaked open and a voice boomed, ‘Mr Robbins. It’s the police. Will you please open up?’

  Chapter 3

  Amelie’s phone rang. She watched Dave’s back as he walked towards the front door. Read the tension in it as he moved away. He deserved more than this from her. He deserved a woman who would be every bit as kind, gentle and considerate as he was.

  She pushed a breath through her pursed lips and heard a note of frustration in that small expulsion of air.

  The screen on her phone displayed a name. Lisa. The one friend who remained from her time in the limelight. She’d played her best friend in Amelie’s first movie, and happily their on-screen chemistry had been real. The only thing about that movie that ac­tually worked, she remembered ruefully. From the moment they met they’d sensed the other was on the exact same wavelength. Now, though, they rarely got together, as Lisa’s career had rock­eted, meaning she had her own team of paparazzi who followed her about, but the two women spent hours on the phone. It seemed that Lisa’s function, other than to listen to her complaints, was to alert her to any news stories that were about to break about her.

  Even four years after walking away from it all, the press, and by extension the public, were still fascinated about why she had aban­doned the opportunity to live the life that most people wanted. Lisa had lots of media contacts so she was happy to alert Amelie that a fresh batch of paps might be beating their way to her door. ‘Get the wide-brimmed hat and the large sunglasses out, darling,’ she’d say. ‘The vultures are about to come calling.’

  Looking at the screen for a moment, Amelie cancelled the call. She couldn’t even be bothered speaking to her best friend.

  ‘Have you told him yet?’ Lisa had demanded, the last time they spoke.

  ‘Oh, Leece,’ she replied, and sank back into the sofa.

  ‘Don’t oh Leece me, Amelie. You need to put the poor schmuck out of his misery.’

  ‘But I don’t know if I want to dump him. I’m not even sure he’s the problem.’

  ‘What is the problem?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m calling bullshit on that, honey. You know.’ Lisa’s tone weighted the word know with a burden of importance. ‘You just don’t want to face up to it.’

  ‘But what if I’m wrong and I lose out on one of the best things that has happened to me?’

  ‘What’s meant to be, is meant to be.’ Lisa had a strange rela­tionship with the notion of fate. When it suited her, something was meant to be. When it was an inconvenient notion, she railed against it. She was as capricious as the weather on a mountain top, and Amelie loved her for it. Life was never dull with Lisa wittering in her ear. ‘He came along at the right time, honey. That’s how life works. Just when you needed something – someone – solid in your life, he appeared. Now you’re going through another transition and you need to face up to that. If he’s still there at the other side, great. If not, he’ll hopefully find someone as amazing as you.’

  Amelie snorted, mentally retreating from the compliment. ‘Me? Amazing? I’m a witch.’

  ‘You’re being too harsh on yourself, babes. Relationships change. People move on. We have to move on, or it just gets too…’

  ‘What about you and Pretty Boy?’ Amelie interrupted. She’d already had enough of talking about herself. Pretty Boy was what she called Lisa’s latest lover. He was a hot young actor, famous for taking his shirt off in TV period dramas, and for not having too much between the ears.

  ‘Oh, I dumped his scrawny ass,’ Lisa cackled. ‘Haven’t you been keeping up to date with the goss?’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I forgot you have no access to the wider world in that little haven of yours.’ Don’t you even have satellite TV? Lisa had asked her, incredulous, when she first moved in.

  Her haven was an estate in the Lanarkshire countryside. It offered them the best of both worlds. A manageable daily commute for Dave into Glasgow, and for Amelie, spirit-reviving time in the heart of nature. The family who had owned it for gen­erations had hit on hard times and sold the whole lot to a development company. The big house had been converted into luxury flats, and the stable block renovated into a row of quaint mews cottages. She owned the largest, end cottage and fell in love with it the moment she stepped inside.

  It even came with its own cat, a tortoiseshell named George. The previous owners had tried a number of times to take him to their new place, but each time they’d carted him off in the back of their car to their new home five miles away, he’d turned up a week or so later, licking a paw as if to say, Well, that was a bit of a walk.

  Never was a cat person, or so she thought, but George managed to worm his way into her heart – that purr of content as he lay on her lap became part of the music of the cottage, and the last time the previous owners turned up to collect him again, she suggested, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate, that he stay with her.

  Said cat padded into the room. Sat in the middle of the floor. Curled his tail around his feet and stared at her.

  ‘Needing fed, George? she asked him. He opened his mouth and let out a long, low noise. Amelie had counted a ‘vocabulary’ of about ten different sounds that George used to communicate. She hadn’t managed to work out which noise equated to which need, as he seemed to change them at his own whim.

  She heard a rumble from the front door. Two different male voices. A long silence and then a high-pitched, in-panic Dave as he shouted, ‘Amelie?’

  Chapter 4

  Dave made out two tall figures through the small marbled-glass insert on the front door. They looked as if they were in uniform and they were both wearing hats. The police?

  His first worry was for his father. He was in his early sixties, still spent long hours at the office, and had a large paunch and a ruddy complexion thanks to a career of liquid lunches. He was a heart attack in waiting as far as Dave was concerned, so with a charge of worry in his stomach, he reac
hed for the door and pulled it open.

  There were two policemen and one policewoman. Behind them like a squat reminder of officialdom was their police car. None of the officers was smiling.

  It takes three cops to tell me that Dad’s ill? Or dead? Dave became aware of a tremble in his thighs and steeled himself. He thought of his mother. She was the most fragile being he’d ever met. Shit, how must his mum be feeling? He had to go to her.

  ‘Mr Robbins? Mr David Robbins?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’ His voice was a squeak. He cleared his throat. ‘Is my dad okay?’ His mind was racing away from him. He should ask them all in. They were working on a public holiday, poor bastards, he should at least offer them a coffee. Then he dismissed the thought as silly, processed the correct movements to place a smile on his face, while bracing himself against the side edge of the door.

  ‘We’ve received a complaint from your neighbours, Mr Robbins, that you touched their daughter, Damaris, inappropri­ately.’

  ‘Wait. Damaris? Next door? Me?’

  The policeman on the right stepped forward. Metal glinting in his hands. Handcuffs. Dave felt his face flush. Watched as the cop continued his movement: hand on his shoulder, pulling him round and out of the doorway onto the path. He felt his arms being held behind his back and the pinch of steel on his wrists as his arms were secured in position.

  Later on as he reflected over events he’d hear himself shouting for Amelie. Think it was pathetic, but wondered what else he could have done.

  ‘We are placing you under arrest, Mr Robbins,’ the policeman continued, his tone polite. Might have been remarking that this was nice weather for an April Easter, for all the threat in his voice. But there was a threat, thought Dave as his stomach grew heavy. His vision narrowed. Pressure on his sphincter. And he was aware of all of this as if from a distance.

  The policeman was still talking. His voice coming to him through a fog of confusion. Under the something-something act he was being taken to the local police station for questioning.

  A neighbour from the stables opposite opened her door, stepped outside, took one look at the tableau in front of her and, face white, went back inside.

  ‘It’s all a mistake,’ he shouted at her. Mrs Wallace. She was a nice old dear. With a bad heart, she was fond of saying. She wouldn’t be able to handle all this excitement.

  He was guided over to the police car. The back door on the near side was pulled open. Pressure on his head. He ducked and sat inside. Almost before he had his feet positioned in the footwell, the door was slammed shut.

  Amelie was at the door of the cottage, her face pale and long. She shouted. Her voice reached his ears as if through a time delay.

  ‘Dave? Dave? What the hell’s going on?’

  She approached the car and knocked on the window. Her face loomed before him, her expression twisted with fear and worry. Lawyer, she was saying. I’ll get you a lawyer.

  ‘S’okay,’ he shouted, determined to display a stoic front. He could handle this. Everything would be okay. Except it wasn’t. They claimed he’d touched her inappropriately. What did that even mean? What did Damaris say to her mother that made her phone the police?

  Mentally, he ran through the encounter that afternoon. It was just like many other occasions in the garden. The girl was bored. There were no other kids on the estate to play with. He’d given her the time of day loads of times. She would circle him on her bike, judging if he would be up for some fun. Then he’d feel sorry for her, giving in and giving her half an hour of his time. Throwing a ball, or playing with a hula hoop, willing to look like an idiot for a few seconds to win the prize of her laughter.

  Today was a little different from the usual. He had work to do and he had his tools around him on the lawn. And he did warn her she might fall off.

  As if at some silent signal two of the police officers and Amelie disappeared inside the cottage, leaving Dave alone in the car. He looked around and saw his neighbours around the little square, one by one, look out of their window or front door, and take in the sight of him in the backseat of a police car.

  ‘It’s all been a mistake. A huge mistake,’ he shouted. But no one could hear him, and they all ducked their heads and retreated back into their houses. He imagined them all pinking a little at the shame he’d brought into their little enclave. It was just not the done thing to be seen in the back of a police car. Whatever would we have next? People shooting up heroin?

  ‘Shit,’ Dave whispered, feeling fear claw at his gut. He studied the door handles, but with his hands behind his back they were unreachable. In any case, the central locking was sure to be acti­vated and the doors could only be opened from the outside.

  The car was facing the exit, so he tried to twist round in order to look back at number six – the Browns’ door. He’d maybe catch their eye, get them over to the car and ask them to tell the police that it was all a big mistake. Sure, he maybe manhandled Damaris to keep her safe – he could remember picking her up, one hand under each oxter – but he’d never do anything dodgy.

  There was no one there.

  If he could just speak to Roger and Claire. Clear this misunder­standing up.

  As if by magic, Roger appeared and marched towards the police car. His red face and clenched fists were not a good sign. He pushed the cop who was by the car so hard he fell onto his back, then he wrenched the door open and dived in.

  ‘This is a terrible misunderstanding, Rodge,’ Dave shouted.

  ‘Don’t fucking, Rodge me, you evil prick. When I’m done with you…’ The rest of what he was saying was lost in a snarl as Roger began to punch at Dave. The confined space meant he couldn’t get much purchase on his swings, but he still managed to connect a couple of times, once on the bottom lip, before the cop got back to his feet and pulled Roger away.

  The door slammed shut and Dave was alone once again. Head bowed, ignoring the physical pain. But what did that matter, really? That would fade – but Roger’s fury…? The man truly and deeply believed that Dave had harmed his little girl.

  ‘But it’s not true,’ he shouted. ‘It’s all a mistake.’

  A horrible mistake. The police would come to see it. The Browns would come to see it, and he’d be allowed back inside and everyone could get on with their lives as if it never happened.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Name, please?’ one of the police officers asked her, as they stood in an awkward clump of human flesh in her narrow hallway.

  ‘Amelie Hart,’ she said, feeling that was all a bit unnecessary. Judging by the way he was staring at her he knew exactly who she was, and couldn’t wait to phone all his mates later to say whose house he’d been in.

  Then she felt a stab of resentment. Her hard-won sanctuary was lost, thanks to that stupid little girl – she’d heard that much from the exchange at her door. But with a cringe of guilt she forced that down. How could she be so selfish? This was about Dave and how his life was going to be affected, because not for a second did she believe the allegation.

  ‘May we come in?’ the policeman said.

  ‘You are in,’ she replied, crossing her arms.

  It’s like that is it? the man’s expression read.

  ‘We’ve had a complaint of sexual contact between a man named Dave Robbins and a child under the age of thirteen. We’ll expect you down the station…’

  At that Amelie almost detected a smile. This was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened to this guy in years. His eyes roamed over the cottage, and then over her.

  The policewoman took over, sending her colleague a look of admonishment. ‘We’d like you to come down and give a state­ment, please, Miss Hart. In the meantime what can you tell us about this afternoon’s events?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I’m mystified as to what’s supposed to have happened.’

  ‘Were you in the house this afternoon?’
the policewoman asked, undeterred by Amelie’s brevity.

  ‘I had yoga class this lunchtime, stopped off at Tesco for some shopping and was home from about two pm onwards.’

  ‘And what did you do from two till now?’

  ‘Sat on the sofa and read. One of Maggie O’Farrell’s … What’s going to happen here?’

  Bloody hell.

  How could a normal day turn into a nightmare so quickly?

  ‘What exactly is Dave supposed to have done?’ she demanded, looking at each of the officers. ‘And are three of you really required? By all means come through…’ she said, and moved into the open-plan living and dining space, thinking, Let them see how modestly we live.

  A large sofa sat in the space in front of the patio doors. It had red, plump, velvety cushions, was a little worn, but looked much loved. She sat in the middle of that, legs crossed, arms wide resting along the back of the settee, hoping she was presenting an image of a strong, capable woman. One who would never allow herself to be caught up in something as tawdry as a child-molestation claim.

  The novel she had been reading was on the long, low coffee table in front of her.

  ‘Can you tell us, as far as you know, what Mr Robbins was doing this afternoon?’ The older male officer was back in charge, the tilt of his chin telling her he wasn’t impressed by her theatrics. Oh, but you are, she thought, as she uncrossed and crossed her legs, from left over right to right over left. Since a very young age she’d been aware of the power her unusual beauty conferred on her, and however shallow it might be, she was prepared to use it to her ad­vantage if the need arose.

  ‘Dave loves his little patch of garden. He was out there most of the afternoon, taking advantage of the dry weather…’ She smiled at each of the officers in turn. This is how much I feel I have to worry about this nonsense charge, she was telling them. ‘I heard Damaris singing at one point as she went past the doors and further into the garden. She popped her head in first. Said hi, and then went off to annoy … sorry, find Dave.’