Sorry for the sort chapter, it was mainly a tension thing. Here's chapter six part one, genuinely long this time!
Also, my friend revealed to the teachers, who I submitted this story to, that I wrote this story. I'm both excited and nervous to see how they react!
Anyway, back on to the main event! Hopefully it's more interesting than the last few chapters...
23/5/12
I recall that day with precise detail: it has been dancing and taunting my mind all day. And I guess I must inform you of it. For I dread my future self forgetting this.
It was our Sunday after-meal- the only time the whole family was together in relaxation time. It's normally very awkward anyway, what with nothing to talk of together, but this time, as I expected, an Inspector called.
But it was no Inspector Goole that came in. He was a short man, with a overall smooth face, but wrinkles between his eyebrows immediately presented an intimidating and sarcastic man. A small smirk played on his face, though his eyes were graven, a faded, sad shade of sapphire. Damn, I cannot capture it! There was something in his aura like that of a headmaster- an ability to silence a room with his mere presence, a lingering feeling of him knowing more than he says. Though Cecilia quickly hushed when the servant brought him in, mother and father instantly began babbling.
'Good evening. I am Inspector Ruevault, and I have come-'
'I am a well-respected lawyer, in touch with the police, and yet I have no knowledge of you.'
'Father, let him speak-'
'He came with no warning. That is unacceptable. I can make you loose your job like that.'
'And will a claim to adultery make you lose your job?'
Sharp, sarcastic, straight-facts. I winced, Cecilia gasped, but mother? Mother chuckled.
'You have proof?' she continued.
'No. But I am not here to make you loose your jobs. You know it's true, and you'll see the consequences. The not-legal ones.'
And then, then I was sure. His jewel-like eyes focused on me, something like pain and knowing brewing within them. Yes, then I knew, that the young boy was dead. But the other three didn't.
Father's booming voice filled the room, seconds after viewing a certian picture. On it, the blurry figure of a very pretty woman. She had dark hair, and proudly wore a 'Birling & co.' uniform. He proceeded to give a little anecdote, as if it was nothing more than a bedtime story. About two years ago, he held an affair with the woman. Neither of them felt particularly guilty, the main reason why she broke it off was as her young son (I remember my blood running cold at this point) didn't like it.
My mother's eyes reflected the pain in the Inspector's eyes. She had to bear with this. It was okay. But that was another fight, another issue, for another time, as the Inspector finished his story.
'Yes. Another reason was as she was pregenant.' He gave a pause, but my father's bland face remained static, 'and as soon as she gave birth, she was fired. For she lead a revolt alongside an Eva Smith.'
My mother gave a loud gasp. This couldn't get more painful, but I kept my countanace as steady as possible.
'So her son went to work somewhere- the Ashy Street- to pay for it all?' Cecilia asked.
'You can think for yourself?' I commented, without processing it. I winced, though the inspector ignored my comment, and nodded. Slow but firm.
'And he had his mother's dark eyes and hair, right?' She continued. It was now time for her story. Well not exactly-
There was another knock on the door, a familiar one, that of Gerald's firm hand. He was let in, and as he joined us in the communal room-spotting the grimly smiling Inspector, both his and Cecilia's face filled with the most terrible fear- white as bones, and pupils dialated. But the Inspector wasn't going to stop: Cecilia told her story.
She and Gerald had gone out, as friends, for a little drink, just a bit after a summer of work for Gerald. I looked at the man, whose flushed cheeks indicated otherwise. Daisy. Cecilia explained how they got a bit drunk, and decided to go home through the worker's lane. And at a corner, she collided with a young boy. Gerald instinctively pushed him to the floor, but Cecilia, stupid, naïve Cecilia, wanted to pick a fight. So when the boy got up, pushed him back down.
Mother, at this point, gave a cry of protest, while Cecilia burst into tears. Once mother was escorted away, Gerald continued quietly and calmly- every sign that he'd been through this process already.
Out of the boy's pockets flew all his work's earnings. It was a lot, enough to keep his family for at least a fortnight, Gerald said. And Cecilia snatched it up, and she and Gerald ran away, snorting, and left him on the floor, screaming in helpless pain.
And the twisted tale went to the final teller, Inspector Ruevault, resuming his merciless manner of speaking. 'He never returned home that night. Couldn't face the shame. Said so in his diary. (Here came a deep chill. He kept a diary, just like me.) So he slept rough, and then made his way to the Brumley's women mockery-of-a-Charity.'
And everyone turned to the room in which mother resided.
'Yes, let us go there. Mr. Croft- you may leave if you wish.'
'May I speak with Charlie-Charles quickly?' He was allowed so. He and I withdrew to my room, as I heard father bicker with the Inspector in why this was being done.
'Sheila wants to see you. Two days from now.'
'Gerald, that young boy...died.'
'I know, I know. I helped in his suicide. Again. Like with Daisy-Eva-damn!' I've never heard such vigour in his voice, such frustration, such upset. He gave me one last sorrowful look. 'Meet her at the Croft's factory at ten in the morning. Eric is watching you. Maybe speak with you later.' And, leaving me with those abrup words, he stalked away.
I slowly walked to the dining room, and I noticed my face get colder with every step. I was the last one left. Indeed, as I walked in, everyone's eyes were sharply focused on me, some through tears.
'Charlie Cook was a twelve year old boy who was raised by a single mother, with a young helpless sibling, who's father left them. Thankfully, he got lots of help from a woman known as Daisy Renton, or Eva Smith. Once, he was robbed, and ended up at begging for relief at a charity, relaying his life story to the woman, who rejected him purely because she recognised the thief as her daughter. He ended up living with Daisy Renton, in tough conditions, unable to face his mother. But then she committed suicide. He wound up on Ashen street.'
I continued the story, and I knew my voice was flat. I recited something like this: 'He came across a good job offer for cleaning. He took it, obviously. He worked hard. But then he found a letter from that Daisy Renton, who saved him from living on streets. But it was then that his employer came in, and raged at him reading the letter, burning it, and then dragging him to the Moor Master, famous for his cruel treatment of kids in his care. His will to live broke there.'
'He had lost everything, and as soon as he could, he ran to see his mother, who wasn't in. He left the diary, and walked to Brumley Mill Bridge, the powerful river flowing below. He jumped. His body was discovered with cuts and scratches a couple minutes ago.' The silence was deafening.
A couple minutes? I knew something about this man was different from before hand. And I knew that it didn't matter. He continued on-
'All of you killed him. A twelve year old boy.' Sheila said her parents protested. I was grateful that mine didn't. But I hated the eye roll my mother gave, and the lack of focus of my father. Cecilia listened. 'We are all members of one body, we are responsible for eachother. You've got to learn that we need all the organs to work. We need the rich and the poor to both work for society to function. Thus- you've got to care for eachother.
And if you don't, it will end in flames and tears and pain.'
He went on. And on. And on. And so I learnt. And listened. And realised how foolish I was.
Once he left, all my father said was 'we should've called the asylum when he first came' and I left for my room.
He was twelve, so young.
His hair was dark- just like mine.
His name was Charlie- just like mine.
He had his diary- just like I have mine.
He could've been me.
He could've been anyone.
What have I done?