Shooting in the Dark

road.
    ‘What you’d expect,’ Sam said.
    ‘So, there was no car accident?’
    Sam laughed hollowly. ‘Yeah, there was a little bump. They hit a bollard and smashed the windscreen. Driver cut his head, but that was the extent of it.’
    ‘Right,’ said Forester. ‘I want you to see a doctor first thing in the morning, and I’m going to bring in a photographer. They can’t expect to get away with this kind of behaviour.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Sam said, laying his head back on the leather upholstery, closing his eyes. ‘But make it last thing in the morning, not first. I might wanna lay behind the clock a few minutes.’
    Marie leaned over to touch his hand, but he drew in his breath sharply and pulled away.
    ‘Bit tender just there, darlin’,’ he said. ‘I must’ve stamped on it by mistake.’
    ‘Why, Sam?’ Marie said. ‘Why did they do it?’
    ‘Dunno,’ he said. She watched his shoulders rise in a shrug. ‘I only told a few bad jokes.’
    When they arrived at Sam’s house, Celia was waiting by the gate. George Forester said he’d leave them to it, but he’d be back the next morning. All three of them stood and watched him drive away.
    ‘He’s a good man, George,’ Sam said. ‘Good to have him on »our side.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Look at the state of you. They’ve made a right mess this time. I’m going to stay the night, make sure everything’s all right.’
    ‘There’s no need for that, Celia.’
    ‘And it doesn’t matter what you say or think,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I went home now, wondering if you were OK. I can curl up in the spare room.’
    Sam began to protest, but Marie cut in. ‘It’s better if someone’s here,’ she said. ‘If you send Celia home, you’ll still have to lose me.’
    Sam looked from Celia to Marie and then back to Celia. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘have it your own way, but I don’t want any fussing.’
    When they reached the front door, they turned again at the sound of footsteps running along the street. Geordie jogged up to the fence and stopped, winded, letting his upper body flop over the top of the gate.
    ‘Just came to see you were all right,’ he said. ‘Jesus, I ran all the way. I’m totally fit.’ He was breathless, fitting in gulps of air between each word. ‘That’s what happens when you have a baby. You feel really shagged, because you’re up half the night with changing nappies and feedings and all the things you have to think about, and your eyes are half-closed all the time. But really it keeps you fit.’
    ‘There must be easier ways,’ Marie said. ‘I think I’d rather go to the gym.’
    ‘That’s just a substitute,’ Geordie told her.
    Sam walked back along the path towards Geordie. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘You can’t stay the night, I’m afraid, we don’t have any beds left.’
    Geordie watched him struggling along the path. ‘Jesus, Sam,’ he said. ‘You’re walking with a pimp-limp. You can’t be a PI and walk like that. People won’t take you serious.’
    Sam made it down the path and stood in front of Geordie, one of them on either side of the gate. They looked into each other’s face. It was a relationship that was usually understated, kept at bay by a continuing banter of jokes and one-liners. But when the superficialities failed and the power of the thing stood forth, it felt as though sinews of blood and muscle tied them together.
    Marie glanced at Celia, and Celia gave her a tight smile. ‘Hell, Sam,’ Geordie said quietly, looking at the dark bruise of his face. ‘The bastards really did a job on you.’ Sam shrugged and drew in his breath with the effort. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘In for a penny, in for a pounding.’
     

26
     
    FMS. False Memory Syndrome. During the last ten years or so I have watched my illustrious colleagues discuss the pros and cons of this phenomenon. The earnest professionals on the one hand and the sensationalist press and media on the other. They’ve loved every minute of it. The righteous amongst them have been truly outraged, while the shallow and uncaring have wallowed in a hot scented bath of titillation.
    Those of us who have worked with vulnerable and often exploited young people have long known that the mind, and especially the memory, is fragile and easily influenced. Left to itself, if that were possible, memory is an affair of construction rather than one of mere reproduction. But when meddled with by a True