Simon was building his own chain of evidence, as he thought things must have happened. Some fucker (and he suspected that gum-chewing forklift driver, whose expression, as Simon had sped away from him in the Fields, had been outraged) talking about him to the Mollisons (somehow, illogically, Ruth's admission that she had mentioned the computer to Shirley made this seem more likely), and they (the Mollisons, the establishment, the smooth and the snide, guarding their access to power) had put up this message on their website (Shirley, the old cow, managed the site, which set the seal on the theory).
'It's your fucking friend,' Simon told his wet-faced, trembling-lipped wife. 'It's your fucking Shirley. She's done this. She's got some dirt on me to get me off her son's case. That's who it is.'
'But Si - '
Shut up, shut up, you silly cow, thought Andrew.
'Still on her side, are you?' roared Simon, making to stand again.
'No!' squealed Ruth, and he sank back into the chair, glad to keep the weight off his pounding foot.
The Harcourt-Walsh management would not be happy about those after-hours jobs, Simon thought. He wouldn't put it past the bloody police to come nosing around the computer. A desire for urgent action filled him.
'You,' he said, pointing at Andrew. 'Unplug that computer. All of it, the leads and everything. You're coming with me.'
Part Three Chapter VI
VI
Things denied, things untold, things hidden and disguised.
The muddy River Orr gushed over the wreckage of the stolen computer, thrown from the old stone bridge at midnight. Simon limped to work on his fractured toe and told everyone that he had slipped on the garden path. Ruth pressed ice to her bruises and concealed them inexpertly with an old tube of foundation; Andrew's lip scabbed over, like Dane Tully's, and Paul had another nosebleed on the bus and had to go straight to the nurse on arrival at school.
Shirley Mollison, who had been shopping in Yarvil, did not answer Ruth's repeated telephone calls until late afternoon, by which time Ruth's sons had arrived home from school. Andrew listened to the one-sided conversation from the stairs outside the sitting room. He knew that Ruth was trying to take care of the problem before Simon came home, because Simon was more than capable of seizing the receiver from her and shouting and swearing at her friend.
'... just silly lies,' she was saying brightly, 'but we'd be very grateful if you could remove it, Shirley.'
He scowled and the cut on his fat lip threatened to burst open again. He hated hearing his mother asking the woman for a favour. In that moment he was irrationally annoyed that the post had not been taken down already; then he remembered that he had written it, that he had caused everything: his mother's battered face, his own cut lip and the atmosphere of dread that pervaded the house at the prospect of Simon's return.
'I do understand you've got a lot of things on ...' Ruth was saying cravenly, 'but you can see how this might do Simon damage, if people believe ...'
'Yes.' Ruth sounded tired. 'She's going to take those things about Dad off the site so, hopefully, that'll be the end of it.'
Andrew knew his mother to be intelligent, and much handier around the house than his ham-fisted father. She was capable of earning her own living.
'Why didn't she take the post down straight away, if you're friends?' he asked, following her into the kitchen. For the first time in his life, his pity for Ruth was mingled with a feeling of frustration that amounted to anger.
'She's been busy,' snapped Ruth.
One of her eyes was bloodshot from Simon's punch.
'Did you tell her she could be in trouble for leaving defamatory stuff on there, if she moderates the boards? We did that stuff in comput - '
'I've told you, she's taking it down, Andrew,' said Ruth angrily.
She was not frightened of showing temper to her sons. Was it because they did not hit her, or for some other reason? Andrew knew that her face must ache as badly as his own.
'So who d'you reckon wrote that stuff about Dad?' he asked her recklessly.
She turned a face of fury upon him.
'I don't know,' she said, 'but whoever they are, it was a despicable, cowardly thing to do. Everyone's got something they'd like to hide. How would it be if Dad put some of the things he knows about other people on the internet? But he wouldn't do it.'