WHERE CIVIL HANDS MAKE CIVIL BLOOD UNCLEAN — an extract

Several brisk knocks sounded from the door. I remember immediately thinking it was the police. It could only be them, making such confident and official sounds, as if you had only moments to let them in before they broke the door down. Seeing the flashing blue lights through my window confirmed it. A feeling of timelessness engulfed me. Each step was an exercise of freedom that I might not soon have. I’d had previous scrapes with the law, and I had learned not to trust them. 

I opened the door slowly and peered out at several blue and green cars. A female policeman stepped forward, putting her foot in my hallway, forcing me to open the door fully. ‘Are you Mr Carter Lowe?’  

‘Yes.’ 

‘I am arresting you for the murder of Daffodil Prince on the third of July 2018 . . .’  

She continued to talk; but I didn’t hear her. My skin had turned to stone, keeping the panic I felt inside from showing. The breathing of the various policeman became louder, their eyes universally narrow. I smiled at them, and then ran. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to escape. I hurtled through the back door and was tackled to the floor. 

As I was carried to one of the police cars, my hands in cuffs, I shouted:  

‘WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT? I DIDN’T KILL HER! I DIDN’T KILL DAFFODIL PRINCE!’ 

Later on, locked away in a grey cell, my mind turned to Daffodil; in particular to her smile. It spanned the width of her face, highlighting her full red lips, and hiding the yellow stains on her teeth. I couldn’t picture her for long; the image was too painful. Instead I thought of my two months with the North Hertfordshire Ramblers’ Society. Everything about it seemed so silly, almost as if it hadn’t happened. But, of course, it had, and to me it was certain that one of the almost thirty members had killed her. 

* 

The memories of my time in Stevenage before joining the society are somewhat blurred. I was there for around a year after leaving London in the spring of 2017. I can remember walking with headphones in and no music on; I would speak with clients until they hung up or left, and on Fridays I sat in my local pub sipping a Diet Coke until closing time.  

It was Daffodil who got me involved, her smile catching my eye as I went to leave the town hall. Talking to her in a fast whisper was a short man with slicked-back hair and glasses. She was smiling at a set of pictures drawn by pupils from a local primary school and seemed completely unaware that he was there.  

Her eyes locked with my own and she waved before walking quickly towards me. 

‘Pretend that you know me.’ 

‘What?’ 

She grabbed my arm and roared with laughter. ‘Come on, laugh,’ she said, and I did: a guttural chortle that made me think of a frog.  

Behind her the man took a step towards us, paused, pushed his glasses back to the top of his nose and walked out. 

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m Daffodil.’ 

‘Carter.’ 

‘Quick cigarette, Carter?’ 

‘I don’t smoke.’ 

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyone under the age of thirty should smoke. Such an obvious flaw puts people at ease; if you don’t it makes one think you’re hiding something.’ 

‘Oh. And what if you’re over thirty?’ 

‘That is your flaw. Come on – you can accompany me.’ 

Outside, cigarette in hand, she told me all about The North Hertfordshire Ramblers’ Society: ‘Mostly, it’s all just a bit of fun. I like the hikes, and the air, and it’s good exercise. My papa takes it far more seriously of course; but then I have never known him to take something not seriously.’ She took a final puff and flicked the cigarette away. ‘And what about you? Why are you here on a Thursday evening?’ 

‘I was here for a meeting on Stevenage property prices. I’m an estate agent, you see.’ I passed over my card. 

Her eyebrow arched and she stared at me, her blue eyes tickled with amusement and speckled with curiosity. She knew that wasn’t why I was there.  

She invited me to that evening’s meeting, and I agreed. I’m still not sure why. I like to think it was because I was fascinated by her; but it also could have been shame after my lie, or even an animal-like desire within me to follow her, after all it had been over a year since I had spoken to anyone in this way.  

The meeting was held in a small conference room with forty or so chairs facing a large screen. The first half-hour passed in a haze of shaking hands and small talk. Once everyone had been asked to take their seats, a man I had briefly met, walked onto the stage. Quite short, he had a good posture and a strong face, though he was clearly very old. He put a folder onto a podium, placed to one side, and dragged it into the middle of the space. 

‘Ok. Now we can begin,’ he wheezed. Holden Stedton had been President of The North Hertfordshire Ramblers’ Society for eleven years. No-one was actually sure what he had done for a living, in fact it was possible he had himself forgotten. All that people knew was that fifteen years ago he had joined the society. 

‘This coming weekend’ – he talked slowly, with deep breaths between every couple of words – ‘we shall congregate at the White Horse pub on the outskirts of Buntingford.  Now I don’t know if you remember this route, but some custodians of the footpaths’ – small chuckles from the crowd, including Daffodil, who was sat in the front row next to her father, a tall, bald banker with the same piercingly blue eyes as hers – ‘do not appreciate our annual presence. So be prepared for that.’ 

Over the next forty minutes he talked about each weekend’s ramble for the next month. The man to my right started snoring during a warning about rotting country gates and a woman to my left spent most of the talk playing a game on her phone, occasionally glancing up with a grin on her face. Those closer to the front, including Daffodil, were straight-backed, their ears pricked for any and every detail. I was not that attentive; but I was also not bored. I remember repeatedly glancing around, my eyes wide at this world of rambling. 

‘Now,’ Holden said, closing his eyes for a few seconds, ‘I must give you some sad news. Though many of you I am sure see me as a figure beyond time, alas, age has finally caught up with me.’ Everyone was looking up at Holden now; to my right, the snoring man was sitting on the end of his chair, huge bifocals placed over his eyes, and the woman to my left’s phone screen was dark. ‘As such, I can no longer be your President. At the next meeting we will have a vote: anyone wishing to be involved please pass your name to Mrs Gonçalves before that time. Thank you.’ 

Holden was no different to the man who had begun talking forty minutes ago. However, almost no-one looked at him as he walked over to the refreshments table and this lack of attention made him seem frailer, his skin greyer, and his hair thinner. 

‘This will kick things off,’ the woman to my left said. Over the next two months I got to know Sarah well. She was in her late twenties, around my age, and was almost always sarcastic about the society, consistently making reference to how silly she thought everyone in it was.  

‘You’re just as bad, Carter. Christ knows what you’re doing walking just south of Clothall.’ 

As a result of this attitude the other members often avoided her; but I found it refreshing, like a cold shower in the morning. 

However, it was Daffodil that I was most often with on the long Saturday rambles. When she wasn’t with me, she would flit in between various people, happily talking to each person as if she had known them for many years, pointing out the animals or the views or anything that took her fancy. With me she was a bit more open and a bit less cheery. On the final walk in May, we were standing outside a pub. Everyone else was inside refilling their water bottles or going to the bathroom. 

‘I don’t really want to be in finance, it’s just papa expects it of me. I’m his only child, you see.’ She raised her cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. ‘Hopefully if he wins this election he’ll be happy and I’ll be able to do my own thing, apply for a PhD in Classics somewhere.’ 

‘Classics?’  

She gave me one of her wide smiles. ‘Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘And what is it you want to do? We won’t be young forever, and surely you don’t want to be an estate agent all your life?’ 

I looked out over the countryside, the large bumpy hills and the various clumps of trees. Flashes of my time in London came to me: swaying down the street, barely able to see, people avoiding me as if one look would infect them.  

I sighed. ‘That would actually be just fine.’ 

‘A man without ambition,’ she said. ‘It really is very charming.’ 

Her father stepped out of the pub. Daffodil dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her boot. 

‘Daffodil, do you want your water bottle filling?’ His voice was deep and his blue eyes moved from Daffodil, to the still burning cigarette, to me. 

‘How are you finding the society, Carter? Enjoying the walks?’ 

‘Very much so.’ 

‘Carter said he’s going to vote for you in the election papa. He told me just now.’ 

One of Henry Prince’s eyebrows arched. ‘Is that so?’ 

I had not said this. Indeed, until Daffodil had mentioned the election, I had not given it any thought; but the look on her face made me reply, ‘Yes.’ 

‘Well, thank you.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘So Daffodil, do you want your water bottle filling?’ 

‘Yes papa.’  

Just before he went back into the pub, his eyes flickered onto me: a searching glance that I imagined cowed many at his work. Later, on that walk I asked Sarah about the election. 

‘Don’t you know? I can’t believe it! It’s in all the papers! God, you should have said something. Well, there are three candidates. Your friend Henry Prince is one, the treasurer Judy Gonçalves is another, and Russell Hartley is the other.’ 

‘Who’s likely to win?’ 

‘Do you want me to take a poll or give you my opinion? My opinion then. Could be any of them. Fifty per cent of the vote is needed to be elected and I’m not sure any of them have that level of support. Of course, if Rupert Murdoch decides to get off the fence that might change.’ 

I rolled my eyes and chuckled. It was clear to me why Henry Prince and Judy Gonçalves were not fully supported. Henry was too cold; no-one felt comfortable around him. On the other hand, Judy appeared to be juggling so many plates that any slight change to her life might cause them all to come crumbling down. A mother of three, a part-time primary school teacher, a charity worker, head of several other societies and a blogger, she also happened to be annoyingly critical. 

‘So, the President is like a spokesman for the society?’ I asked her on the first walk I ever went on. 

‘Yes; but they also organise the walks, are in charge of ordering equipment and choose the destination for that year’s overseas trip. And it’s spokesperson, not spokesman, ok?’ 

She spoke in brisk sentences. It reminded me of the small, quick steps with which she walked.  

I liked Russell Hartley. He owned a gym in town and had a square face and large arms. He and his girlfriend Prisha were always smiling, and they both appeared genuinely passionate about rambling. 

‘You’re not thinking of voting for him, are you?’ Daffodil said after I had mentioned Russell. ‘He’s pleasant enough for sure; but you’ve not seen his temper. It’s one of the reasons all his staff are leaving, and his gym is failing. That and the fact that he couldn’t run a bun fight in a bakery.’ 

Ten minutes later Daffodil was laughing with Russell and Prisha. Less than a year after this conversation Russell opened a second branch of his gym in the south of Stevenage. 

On the first Thursday of the next month another meeting happened.  

‘This is most concerning,’ Holden said from behind his podium. I had been at the town hall for a good hour before this, attending a group I went to every week since arriving in Stevenage. In my pocket I grasped a bronze coin that had been given to me during that hour. As there was a quarter of an hour gap between the two meetings for me to cross the town hall, I was early and was there when Holden arrived in a flowery shirt and announced he was on his way to Barbados that evening. Not long after that, there were large bags under his eyes and a grim look on his face. 

‘No-one has even got close to the required number of votes. This is most concerning indeed,’ he blew his nose into a handkerchief, ‘we must have another vote next month, and I tell you what, each of the candidates will get a chance to lead a ramble so you can see whether they’re up to the ticket. There will be no ramble this Saturday, and then each candidate will take a Saturday, Judy the first, then Russell, and then Henry. Each will email the starting place out the week before and next month, when I am back, we can vote again.’ He smiled and rubbed his hands together. ‘Everyone happy?’ 

Henry Prince was the first to stand, looking the group over with narrowed eyes causing many to stare at the floor, ‘I am satisfied.’ 

‘Looking forward to it,’ Russell said. 

Henry slowly sat down and Judy got up. Her face was red, looking everywhere apart from where the Princes sat. ‘I had thought as treasurer of the society for the past five years I was the obvious choice for the role. Apparently not,’ she took a deep breath, ‘out of respect for you, Holden, I will go along with your plan.’ 

‘Excellent. Meeting adjourned.’ Holden quickly strode off the platform, grabbed his suitcase and left. 

‘This is going to be even more fun,’ Sarah whispered. 

After that meeting, Daffodil and I went to a pub together.  

‘I just can’t believe it! People must have lied to my face,’ Daffodil took a large gulp of wine. ‘Russell can’t do the job; he’s not serious enough and he’s not old enough, he’s only just older than us, for God’s sake,’ she finished her glass of wine. ‘And Judy, well, I can’t believe she’s standing. She promised me she wasn’t. Who did you vote for by the way? It was papa, wasn’t it?’ 

I blinked several times. ‘Yes.’ 

She smiled, though not fully and her eyes remained narrowed. She wasn’t convinced. 

‘Can I say something, Daffodil?’ 

‘It’s a free country.’ 

‘You do realise this is just a walking group, right? It doesn’t really matter.’ 

I remember thinking in those seconds of silence, that she was going to explode at me; but instead she laughed. ‘Oh, it seems ridiculous doesn’t it? Just ridiculous.’ Her eyes glistening, she grabbed the back of my head and kissed me. Her breath was sharp from the wine and her nails seemed to pierce my skin.  

She sighed, falling back into her chair. ‘Right I’m going to have a cigarette, you can get this round. I’ll have another glass of wine please.’  

‘Sure.’  

I moved quickly to the bar. Once there, I immediately ordered and drank half my Diet Coke before paying, moving the liquid all around my mouth to wash the taste of wine away. As I started to move back to our seats, a man walked up to me, the same man I had seen talking at Daffodil the first time I had met her. 

‘I suppose you’re immensely pleased with yourself.’ 

His hair was still slicked back, and his glasses still dangled towards the end of his sloping nose; but his skin was brighter than when I had seen him a month before. 

‘Well you shouldn’t be,’ he continued, ‘she’ll only betray you like she did me. The only thing she wants is for you to support her stupid father. Once she’s got that she’ll dump you like a fleshless chicken bone,’ he let out a loud snort and walked away. 

I couldn’t really concentrate after that, and, half an hour later, once I’d had my drink, I left the pub claiming tiredness. Daffodil gave me another of her broad smiles. She knew I wasn’t telling the truth; but I think she thought it was she who had made me uncomfortable. In fact, it was him. 

I asked Sarah about the man a couple of weeks later. 

‘Oh God, his name’s Craig. He used to be in the society. They dated for a couple of months and then he left. I think he expected her to leave also; but she didn’t and he got nasty, well he was always a little nasty. He’s at the town hall every first Thursday of the month watching us all go in and leave.’ Sarah’s frown was deep, and her eyebrows were almost touching. It was the first time I had seen her annoyed, and it chilled me more than Henry Prince’s coldest stare. 

That was on the morning of Judy’s ramble. Judy had decided to take us on one of the most controversial paths, apparently usually reserved for the final month of the year. The route took us through a large garden. Ramblers called people that owned gardens with public rights of way in them, ‘custodians of the footpath.’ Some liked this title better than others.   

‘You lot already came through here six months ago, and now you’re doing it again,’ the custodian of the footpath shouted, pelting us with apples. ‘This is my land. I don’t care if there’s some stupid right of way. Martha, kids, get out here, they’re here again.’  

Our already pacey jog turned to a sprint as his family joined in the fruit throwing. Judy fell to the floor and Daffodil helped her up, and it took us several minutes to recover once we had escaped.  

‘I’ve lost the compass and the map,’ said Judy, patting her bag hurriedly. 

Looking back, we saw the custodian of the footpath, the homeowner, setting the map alight and stamping on the compass. It was hardly a disaster; but it reflected poorly on her.  

Russell’s ramble went just as badly. On it, we bumped into a rival society, the Cambridge Walking Troop. I’m still not quite sure what happened; but somehow an argument about rights of way led to Prisha being pushed to the floor and Russell hitting one of them. At the end of the ramble, he apologised to the group and removed himself from the next vote. 

On the last walk of the month, the one led by Henry, everyone was either frowning or scowling. No-one wanted Henry Prince as their leader; but the failure of the other two made him the obvious choice. He pushed the pace so hard that even his daughter Daffodil protested. 

‘Papa, people can’t keep up. Besides, I want to stop and look at the countryside, it’s so beautiful this time of year.’ 

He stopped and turned to his daughter. I was with Sarah, nearby, at the front of a straggly line stretching hundreds of metres down a gentle hill. 

‘Don’t undermine me Daffodil. I’ll go at whatever pace I want.’  

He continued walking, even faster than before. I could see tears snaking down Daffodil’s cheeks. Her eyes locked with my own and she ran from the path. I moved to go after her; but Sarah stopped me. 

‘She needs to be on her own. Trust me.’ 

We both looked up at the figure of Henry Prince powering away. 

‘Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean,’ Sarah said. 

‘Where is that from?’ I asked. I’d heard it before, years ago. I had been sitting by a fire below a nameless London bridge. A woman had been telling her story: she had left her home after smashing a bottle over her mother’s head. She said she still felt guilty about it, and a person replied with that phrase. I hadn’t asked where it was from then; but it had stuck with me. 

‘Romeo and Juliet,’ Sarah said. 

Daffodil was now out of sight. She did not appear again on the walk and three days later she was dead. Stabbed more times than the coroner could count. Apparently this indicated a crime of passion and that, combined with my police record for drunken violence, led them to me. 

I told the police this story. I don’t know whether they believed me; but the following afternoon they let me go. They arrested Craig, the spurned lover, next; but he had an alibi. They never did bring her father into the police station. I suppose they couldn’t think of a motive; besides it was he who had discovered the body in his kitchen and phoned the police. 

The more I think about it, the more I believe it was Judy Gonçalves. The way she avoided looking at Daffodil at the meeting and Daffodil’s comment in the pub:  

‘And Judy, well I can’t believe she’s standing. She promised me she wasn’t.’ 

To me it suggested something beyond that of people in the same club, or even friends. 

I remember Judy’s ramble. Running away in that garden, Judy had fallen and Daffodil pulled her up. Had Daffodil used that chance to throw the compass and the map to the floor? Certainly, it was unlike Judy to drop something, and Daffodil was desperate for her father to win the election. Was this the betrayal that made Judy snap? One of many that included kissing me? Two months after Daffodil’s death, Judy divorced her husband and moved abroad without her children. Not the actions of an innocent; but I will never know for sure. 

This theory, along with many less plausible, came to me hours after I had been released from the police station. I was in a pub, drinking a beer, the first I’d had in over a year. 

I didn’t expect to wake the next day; but I did, in a small room with a cactus plant and framed eighties film posters all around. It was Sarah’s spare bedroom. She had found me passed out on the street and had taken me home. Apparently, after hearing about my release she had been looking for me for several hours. She knew what I had been and that I was likely to relapse.  

A year since and I am sleeping in that house again, though no longer in the spare bed. The North Hertfordshire Ramblers’ Society no longer exists. In the meeting, two days after Daffodil’s death, Henry Prince had claimed the presidency, saying it was what Daffodil would have wanted. He got his wish; but afterwards every member resigned and Holden disbanded the group.  

I still visit Daffodil’s grave. When there I think of her wide smile; her desperation to escape. It reminds me of my former self. I owe all my happiness to her.