George chose the path through the small park, where there were enough people to make company feel ordinary and enough space not to be overheard.
He carried no bag. His hands moved in and out of his coat pockets as we walked.
“I’ve told this to the police,” he said. “I’m not trying it out on you.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“I think I want to say why I didn’t run down the street.”
Someone had repeated the story of the alarm as though George had left Martin alone and gone to Vivienne’s. He had corrected it, but the incorrect version travelled more easily because it contained one person doing everything.
“Alan went,” he said. “I stayed on the phone.”
“I remember Alan at the door.”
George nodded. That part, at least, was something I had seen myself.
He had entered the hall for the end-of-evening check and found Martin. He called for emergency help and answered the questions put to him. Alan came near enough to understand something was wrong and then went to alert the others. George remained at the hall.
He did not describe the injuries in detail, and I did not ask him to. He spoke instead about the difficulty of stating an address he had known for years.
“I could see the road in my head. I couldn’t get it out properly at first.”
We passed a bench covered in wet leaves.
“Then I thought if I said one wrong thing, help would go somewhere else.”
“But you got through it.”
“They helped me get through it.”
There was no shame in the correction. He seemed relieved to give the person on the telephone their part in the evening.
He had told investigators what he first saw and what he did before responders arrived. He could not account for the room earlier in the evening or for every object that had been in it. He had not witnessed an attack.
“People ask if I saw someone leaving,” he said. “I didn’t. They look disappointed.”
“You don’t owe them a better scene.”
He laughed unexpectedly.
“That’s exactly what it feels like.”
I did not tell him Celia’s description of a white pad. I wanted his memory left where it belonged, with his own experience and the account he had already given. When he mentioned repeated questions about the floor and nearby objects, I simply listened.
“Sometimes they ask whether I moved something. I answer as precisely as I can. Then I start wondering about a detail they haven’t asked.”
“Have you told them when that happens?”
“Yes. They’ve been clear about telling them if I remember something differently.”
We stopped at the duck pond. A bird with no appreciation of police procedure tried to eat the corner of a discarded sandwich wrapper. George retrieved it with a stick and carried it to the bin.
On the way back, we spoke about his birthday. The walking book had eventually reached him, carrying more significance than any gift should have been asked to bear.
“It’s a good book,” he said. “I wish people would let it be one.”
He had marked a route he hoped to try with his daughter in spring. The fact that Celia had lied about collecting it did not make the countryside inside its pages disappear.
I liked him for insisting on that.
At the park gate, he asked whether Beth was managing. I said she was working and choosing what contact she wanted. I did not turn her progress into a report of private details.
“Tell her I think of her,” he said. “Only if you think she’d want to hear it.”
I said I would ask.
After we parted, I recorded the fact that we had talked about his discovery and clarified who had gone for help. I did not convert his remarks into a statement about objects he hadn’t mentioned. The investigators had his direct account; my role was not to improve its usefulness by adding questions afterwards.
Beth later said she would be glad to receive his good wishes. She asked me to tell him she hoped he could enjoy the spring walk.
I passed that on exactly.
For one exchange, neither of us carried a warning, a theory or a claim about what another woman secretly thought.
George replied with the name of the route and a photograph of the page he’d marked.
The birthday book had finally become a plan for something beyond October.