Before heading off into the multitude of ‘How are you bearing up?’ enquiries waiting for me downstairs I need to clear my head, feed my lungs fresh air. I open the window. I think I hear Sugar’s voice directly below at the front of the house. My ears prick up. Remorse takes its toll on me again; I hope that’s not Sugar dealing with his grief on his own. I begin to worry that my tough guy might have broken down and left the house to be on his own. Then I realise that he’s talking to someone. The other voice is unfamiliar. Their voices are quiet, intense, as if they’re discussing business rather than exchanging funeral small talk.
Tipping up on my toes I peer out. Sugar’s talking with a man. I think I recognise him. He’s an old acquaintance of my father’s, but I don’t know him well. He’s tall like Sugar, packing the same authority in his stature. If he wasn’t white, you’d suspect he was related to Sugar in some way. He was at the burial, standing on the fringes of the congregation, a curious bystander more than a friend of the family. Such a contrast to the image I see now; there’s a familiarity about the way their bodies lean into each other like that of very close friends. Their voices are hushed and rushed:
‘It’s been nearly thirty years,’ the man informs Sugar, an urgency in his voice.
‘Years mean nothing.’ Sugar’s response is low, gritted through his teeth. ‘You of all people should know that.’
Thirty years? That’s two years older than me. What can they be talking about?
‘You can’t keep spending your life doing this. Cherry wouldn’t want it.’
Sugar turns so I can’t see his face any more. I’m left with a view of the muscles in his back bunching with the pull of the harsh, erratic breath I hear coming out of his mouth. I don’t need to see his expression to know that he’s in distress.
The other man continues with a persuasive softness. ‘It’s time you put the past behind you. Enjoy your life.’
Sugar’s head rises slightly as he looks off into the distance. ‘But if I could prove it, John.’
John. John. My mind skips through the names of Sugar’s friends trying to locate a John. I find none. Who is this man?
‘How?’ John’s in there quick and breathless.
I’m breathless too waiting for Sugar’s response.
Sugar slowly turns. The shadows of swaying branches of the large trees that line the street stripe across his face. ‘If I had proof,’ he says, ‘you’d have no choice but to investigate? That’s right, isn’t it? You’ve got plenty of resources when it comes to the Poppy Munro case.’
John sighs with irritation. ‘Let’s not go down that road again.’
Investigation? Sugar was a policeman years and years back before the time I came to live with him and Mummy Cherry. He had resigned and I still don’t know why.
The ensuing silence is heavy and thick until John says in an undertone, ‘And can you prove it?’
‘I need a few weeks, maybe a couple of months.’ Steely determination rings loud in Sugar’s answer.
‘Do you mind if I ask how you can prove it? Now, after all these years?’
‘You’ll see.’
Sugar touches John’s arm, maybe he senses someone listening, and their voices lower to the soft, rushing quiet of stones skipping across water. I pull back into the bathroom. Something disturbs me about their exchange. Why are they talking business at Mummy Cherry’s wake? What is this issue from the past that Sugar must prove? I hurry downstairs, let myself out of the front door. The men stop talking when they see me. Sugar paints on a smile for me, the brush strokes of which can’t disguise the coiled tension from his encounter with John.
My hand stretches out to John. ‘Thank you for coming. I recognise you, but I don’t believe we’ve ever actually been introduced?’
His handshake is firm and confident, as though he performs this gesture many times in a day. ‘I’m John Dixon. I’m so sorry that we’re finally meeting at such a sad time. Condolences for your loss.’ He respectfully nods to Sugar. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.’
‘Thanks for coming.’
John Dixon turns but then hesitates. ‘People go missing all the time, Sugar. You know that.’
Sugar meets John Dixon’s eyes. ‘Not one after the other. Not like this.’
Without saying anything else, John Dixon departs Mummy Cherry’s wake.
Sugar watches and watches and watches John stride down the path, get into his car and drive away. Even when he’s gone Sugar is still watching.