Regular readers may recall a short story entitled The Aqueduct, which appeared in The Dialectic in April.
At the time there was speculation that The Aqueduct might not be fiction; that your devoted scribe and editor might be harbouring a dark secret. With this in mind I thought it might be prudent to scotch these rumours and hopefully avoid some jail time by publishing a follow-up piece. Here it is: The Aqueduct, Part Two or, if you will, Pam, The Return.
DAWN WAS breaking over Belhampton, and one by one the birds commenced their chorus, which gradually rose to a spectacular, sleep-murdering crescendo. Pam lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep had been elusive since the incident on the aqueduct a week ago, and she was wrung out. Her OCD, hardly quiet at the best of times, had been off the scale since the fracas, and she had missed a couple of her daily walks, unable to face going outdoors. She was exhausted and lethargic, and had twice dozed off during the afternoon, but enough was enough: today she was determined to pull herself together and get out for a stroll.
Switching on the radio at her bedside, she decided to rest a little longer before rising. There wasn't much on before the news at six but it was better than silence, which encouraged rumination. She might have dozed off a couple of times, but when the sun rose at around eight she felt relieved, and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling for her slippers with her toes. The heating was just clicking on and the frigid night air quickly gave way to an enveloping warmth. Things weren't so bad: these feelings of isolation would pass. This time of year wasn’t easy for anyone, with its cold, short days and mostly gloomy weather.
After two cups of tea and some granary toast Pam felt less fragile. She left it until ten before venturing outside, just to give the weak autumn sunshine a little more time to soften any icy patches lurking on the pavements. No point taking risks just for a bit of exercise. Wrapped up in her puffer coat and woolly hat she pulled the door shut behind her and zipped her keys into her pocket. Inhaling the fresh morning air deep into her lungs she felt its delicious sharpness; the shot of oxygen making her blood fizz. As she undid the latch on the gate she immediately felt uplifted by the effect of the pale sunlight streaming through the leafless trees, dappling the surfaces. “Not a bad day,” she muttered as she set off.
She took the route to the aqueduct. She had been avoiding it ever since the incident, and it was time to face it and walk along the towpath. She would not be crossing over to the other side - she’d be unlikely to try that again - but if possible she would go as far as the entrance. The path would probably be muddy but she had her good boots on, and as long as she looked where she was stepping she thought she’d manage.
There weren't many people about, and it was blissful listening to the sounds of nature without having to be on high alert. As she approached the aqueduct she could see a sign propped up near the entrance. Some maintenance work being carried out maybe? As she drew closer the words on the sign came into focus:
South Wellingshire Police. A serious incident took place here on 5th December 2024. Did you witness anything? If so, please call...
Pam was surprised. It was unusual to see something like this around Belhampton. She mulled over the message, and realised that 5th December was the day of the incident. What a weird coincidence. As her mind scrolled through the possibilities her flesh started to tingle. It couldn't be anything to do with the man with the spaniel, could it? Perhaps he had reported her to the police and they were looking for her. Perhaps they were going to charge her with some kind of public order offence. Was swearing classed as a serious incident? It couldn’t be! She started to feel dizzy, and hastily she turned on her heel.
By the time she arrived home she had convinced herself that she was overreacting. She turned her key in the lock and stepped into the tiny hallway, closing the door behind her. Removing her outer clothes, she slid her feet into her slippers and went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Twenty minutes later she was taking the used tea things back to the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. Odd, she thought, I'm not expecting any deliveries.
Two police officers were standing on the doorstep: a man and a woman. Pam felt the blood drain from her face, and her heart started to thud. After confirming her name the male officer asked if they could come in, and she dumbly opened the door wider to admit them.
The officers stood in the middle of the living room, towering over Pam’s small frame. The man was thick-set, about six feet tall with dark hair and an impassive face. His name was Detective Sergeant Martin. He introduced his colleague, a wiry, neatly-dressed woman of about thirty with short auburn hair, as Detective Constable Hicks. Pam invited them to sit but they politely refused.
Thinking about it later, Pam had no idea how she got through the next half hour, or was it an hour? DS Martin explained that they had come to ask about an incident on 5th December. A man had been killed in a fall from the aqueduct. Forensics, and a witness statement from a passer-by who had discovered the body, had established that death had occurred soon after the deceased had been seen having an altercation with a woman. They had reason to believe that Pam might be that woman.
Pam’s neck stiffened. Her mind was a jumble. Killed? How on earth…? And how did they know about the altercation?
“I didn't see anyone else around,” she croaked. DS Martin looked up from his pocket book and stared at her.
“Well they saw you,” he said emphatically.
Pam flushed. She would not have lied to the police, but she felt foolish for having given the game away so easily, especially with no lawyer present to advise her. She had to remind herself that she was not being interviewed under caution; she was just a witness. For now.
The DS told her that someone walking over the canal bridge at the far end of the aqueduct had heard raised voices and looked down, just in time to see Pam shout at her abuser. They had contacted the police after seeing the appeal for witnesses. Armed with a description, the police had been going door-to-door asking questions around the village, and their enquiries had led them to Pam.
The inside of Pam’s mouth was suddenly as dry as sawdust. She felt like a criminal, and was mortified that her outburst had been overheard. The sergeant questioned her closely about the argument, asking her outright whether she had pushed the man to his death in the heat of the moment. “No!” she wailed, “Look at me! I couldn't possibly tackle someone of that size!” They looked at her appraisingly. It was true: it would have taken a preternatural surge of strength for her to have overwhelmed the bully. He was much taller than she was, and no lightweight. Were they seriously suggesting that she could have grappled with someone and hurled them over the guardrail? At her age? A prosecution barrister would have trouble convincing a jury of that, but it sounded as if she was their only current lead, and they didn’t seem inclined to let her off the hook just yet. DS Martin advised her not to go too far from home until they had completed their investigations, and said that she would be contacted about making a statement.
Pam followed the officers to the front door to see them out. At the last moment, DC Hicks turned to look at her. She could tell from Pam’s ashen face that this had hit her hard, and risking the displeasure of her superior, she asked in a slightly less officious tone: “Are you sure you didn't see anyone else on the aqueduct?”
Paralysed by panic, Pam had answered in the negative when asked this earlier, but with the woman’s less confrontational approach she relaxed fractionally, and had a sudden thought. There had been someone else! Her recollection was hazy, but she told them what she could remember. Another man had followed her onto the aqueduct. He had a little dog on a lead - a Yorkie? Some kind of terrier, anyway. She hadn’t had time to get a proper look at them because they’d disappeared when the argument started, but she thought the man might have been wearing a green fleece and dark-coloured trousers. The sergeant jotted down a few notes looking unconvinced, and the officers left.
Pam closed the door and leaned against it, pressing her forehead against the wood, her eyes closed. She stayed like that for a full minute before peeling herself away. “Right,” she said out loud. “Sod tea. I need a glass of wine.” She put on her coat and boots and stomped off to the Village Stores to buy a bottle for later.
She slept badly. The soporific effect of the wine was cancelled out by the stress of being suspected of a serious crime, and even when she had managed to lose consciousness she’d been beset by nightmares of a fairly predictable nature. By six-thirty the following morning she felt crushed again. She knew that this ordeal might stretch on for months - an unbearable prospect. It was the first time she had ever been in the same room as a police officer, unless you counted the one who came to school to give a talk on road safety when she was in Maybury Infants’. She didn’t know what one did when charged with a crime. All she could do was stick to her usual routine until the situation righted itself. She was going to have to be brave, and she wasn’t sure whether she had it in her.
Another week passed and she’d heard nothing more. She was surprised: surely the police would need her to make a statement while events were still fresh in her memory? The uncertainty was excruciating, and she felt so churned up that she had barely been able to eat since the police had visited her. No one in the village had asked her about the incident; either they were being discreet or they didn’t yet know that she was involved.
One afternoon she was standing in the queue for the post office at the Village Stores, waiting to buy stamps. Christmas songs were playing on a radio, but Pam wasn’t feeling very merry. Somewhere behind her two women were talking. The words “canal” and “accident” caught her attention, and she tuned into the conversation.
“They’ve arrested Tommy Wilson”, said one of the women.
Pam knew Tommy. She’d seen him out walking a few times, and they’d once chatted. He looked about fortyish, had a pronounced stammer and, she suspected, some kind of learning difficulty. He had a sunny nature, and he adored his little dog, a Border Terrier called Mick, who was so well-behaved and beautifully groomed that even Pam liked him - at a distance, of course.
“According to our Sophie, Tommy came bursting into the vet’s the other week, crying his eyes out,” continued the woman. “He was carrying his dog. It had a big gash down its side - blood everywhere. Apparently a spaniel running loose along the aqueduct did it. Tommy had his dog on a lead, but the other owner started shouting at him; said it was his fault for having a nasty dog. Looks like they had a bit of a scuffle. When the vet heard about the police signs going up he thought he’d better report it. They took Tommy in for questioning this morning.”
Pam froze, letting the words sink in. The second man on the aqueduct must have been Tommy. After the shouting stopped he must have decided to cross. It sounded as if the spaniel had attacked his dog, there had been an argument and the oaf had got Tommy so upset that things had got out of hand.
She felt desperately sorry for Tommy and his little dog. At the same time - and she felt selfish even thinking about this - she hoped this meant that she was no longer a suspect, and would soon be released from this nightmare. Stuffing her stamps into her purse she made for the exit, then stopped, hesitated, and turned around. She wandered over to the alcohol aisle. Sometimes a cup of tea and a chocolate Hobnob just aren’t enough.
Note: All events, places and characters in this story are fictional, and do not represent any actual events, places or persons, living or dead. I just thought I’d make that absolutely clear.
Poor Pam! I was holding my breath by the end.
Oh my goodness Jules, what a masterpiece !! Nail bitting and gripped to the end. Poor Pam what a unassuming heroine. You're a dab hand at fiction too 😍. Multifaceted skills 💯% Luv this!! 😀