Finders, Keepers: The mesmerising new thriller from the author of LIE WITH ME

by Sabine Durrant

  I sat down, feeling awkward, intensely vulnerable. I thought maybe we would talk as we had the day before, but she seemed to be pretending everything was normal. She started opening cupboards, finding cereal, a bowl, milk.

  Outside, Maudie was sniffing at the base of one of the bags of plants. Ailsa watched her and said: ‘I’ve brought back up a few cuttings from Somerset. I don’t know if they’ll live but I thought they’d be nice in the wild bit at the back. I’m not sure what Maudie can smell. Fox probably.’

  I clicked my fingers and Maudie raised her head and tapped back into the kitchen, leaving footprints on the floor. ‘You’re a good dog,’ I said into her neck. ‘A very good dog.’

  ‘So . . .’ Ailsa sat down next to me, her feet on the crossbars of the chair, hands resting between her thighs. ‘I need to talk to you about a couple of things.’ She sighed. ‘The timing isn’t great. I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but obviously, well, it wasn’t at all the right time. I could wait, but I don’t want to risk you finding out from anyone else.’

  I didn’t like this. I shook some Bran Flakes into the bowl and poured on milk.

  ‘Look at me,’ she said.

  There was a red speckle in the corner of her eye; a burst capillary. Her lips were dry, rough around the edges. She said, ‘So, first of all, I want you to know I’m going to give you as much help as you need. We’ll start with your GP, or social services. I can come, too. There are health issues – your chest, for starters. And you’ve carried this trauma, and probably grief for your mother; we’ll get you help, some counselling. And . . . the box.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘body’. ‘They’ll take it away, you can properly put the baby to rest.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I managed to say. ‘OK.’

  ‘And we’ll really sort the house this time. We’ll start again. Tom thinks you’ve got dry rot – so I think we should bring in professionals.’ She smiled, raising her hand to halt my objections. ‘The house, your hoard, your mental health – it’s all connected. We’ll confront both issues head-on.’

  If this was what she was frightened of talking to me about, I could cope, I could manage. I’d make an appointment with the GP that day. I’d start clearing the house again then, that day, that minute.

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘That thing you said yesterday about not being worth it. You are worth it.’

  A breeze ruffled the drying-up cloth on the back of the chair. The shadow on the wall flickered, brightened. Did she really think I was worth it? It seemed such a huge and wonderful thought.

  She looked at me, her eyes enquiring, waiting for me to answer, and I was about to speak, to bring into this world of revelation and forgiveness the thing, the final secret I had hoped never to have to put into words, when her phone emitted a little chirrup and she glanced at the screen. Wincing, she said, ‘Sorry, shit. I do have to take this.’

  She stood up and turned away from me, leaning into the island. Her left arm rested on the top of her head. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you rang. Could we rearrange this morning? Tomorrow – would that be OK? Great. Yup. So if you do the photos then, you can still get the brochure out by next week? And online?’ A pause. ‘No. We don’t want anyone before the weekend. Yes, exactly. Working on it. OK, bye.’

  She picked at something – a bit of dried milk, perhaps – on the marble top and then she slowly turned round, leaving the phone behind her.

  She stroked the back of her hand across her mouth, rested it there and then took it away. She sat down again next to me and gripped the sides of the chair, her shoulders hunched, like someone walking on crutches.

  ‘So what I have to say: I know you’re not going to like it. And I’m not thrilled myself. It’s just it’s the best option.’

  My mouth was dry.

  ‘I don’t know – maybe it isn’t bad timing, maybe it’s good. It’ll galvanise us both. And nothing will change. I promise.’ She picked up my empty bowl, clasped it in her hands, and then put it down in front of her, with a decisive clunk.

  ‘What?’

  She held her hands up in a comic demonstration of dismay. ‘We’ve decided to flip the house.’

  A shuffling in my head, a confusion. Flip the house? I was thinking mirror image. How would they do that? My house already was the mirror image.

  She had returned her hands to her lap and she studied her fingers. ‘It means moving sooner than we expected, but as you know Tom’s company isn’t bringing in quite the business we were expecting. We’ve got this horrendous bridging loan. It’s time to do it.’

  Inside me something broke, or was about to break; as when a bottle slips from your hand and hasn’t yet reached the floor. ‘Moving?’

  Her hand went to the side of her cheek. She said something about investment and profit on return. I had a narrative in my head and her words didn’t fit, but still when she paused, I said: ‘Are you being forced to? Is the bank foreclosing?’

  ‘It was always the plan. It’s always been temporary. We wouldn’t have moved here otherwise. Tom doesn’t want to live on a main road. It’s what we do, you know that: find fixer-uppers. I told you when we first met. It’s not an easy life – it takes effort keeping a house sellable.’

  I looked around me, seeing the room for the first time. ‘So that’s why . . . it’s like this?’

  She frowned.

  ‘So spartan?’

  A flicker of a frown. ‘I wouldn’t say spartan. Just not crammed like yours! There’s no point having loads of knick-knacks, sentimental items cluttering up the place. It puts buyers off.’

  ‘Where to?’ It came out like a small sob.

  She was smoothing the edge of the table, back and forth, with both hands, watching herself do it. ‘We thought – madly – about Somerset at first, but it’s too much disruption for the kids. Bea wouldn’t mind, but Max – he hates change. He’s angry enough as it is. He likes living here. He likes living next door to you.’ A quick grin. ‘And anyway – the country; I’ve already discovered that’s not for me. No – we’re thinking . . . Crystal Palace? Sydenham?’

  I felt my insides crumbling. ‘I don’t even know how you get to Sydenham.’

  ‘We’ll pop back and visit.’

  ‘But I’m used to seeing you every day.’

  She put her hand on top of mine. I stared down at it. I could see the rough, raw skin creeping round the edges of her fingers. ‘I don’t see you every day now. More like once a week – if that.’

  Was she right? Did I only see her once a week? I’d imagined we lived in each other’s pockets; how cosy that cliché, reducing us to little dormice. Was the truth bleaker and more mundane?

  She was watching me. Thoughts seemed to skid across her face. ‘In the short term I wondered if the two of us could have another go out the front? Tom got a guy to clear some of the bigger stuff when you were with us in Somerset – but you seem to have collected more since. It’s still unsightly out there.’

  So that’s where the rotary dryer went. The fridge.

  ‘As a favour to me, could you make it a bit better? I’ll help. Not this afternoon – I’m seeing Ricky to talk more about his garden – but tomorrow?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Unless of course, you want to sell us your house,’ she said. Her voice was light, deceptively casual.

  For one glorious moment it seemed like the answer. She was smiling expectantly, and I smiled back – trying to copy her exact expression. ‘Where would I go?’ I said.

  ‘We could find you something much more manageable, somewhere down in Tooting, closer to the Dog and Fox. Or Colliers Wood. I bet we’d find a bargain there.’

  ‘Or Sydenham,’ I said.

  She gave a soft laugh. ‘Exactly.’

  I felt myself redden, tiny pinpricks of mortification across my neck. It was grotesque that she should buy it off me. A fixer-upper. A project. The back ripped off, plaster hacked from the ceilings, peels of wallpaper, the foundations gashed, yawning open. My dear house, whe
re I’d lived with my mother and my sister; the years I had spent putting it together, filling it, shoring it up. The bricks, the mortar; all my precious possessions, how could I think about ‘clearing’ them? They were part of me. I could feel their presence from here, feel myself cleaving to them.

  ‘But of course, it’s a big step.’ She brought her hand to her forehead. ‘I just thought I’d mention it, put it out there.’

  She was gripping the skin on her forehead with her nails now. They were leaving red marks. The conversation had taken something out of her. There was a bruise on the inside of her wrist; how had that got there? Her nervous habit with the hair, her poor, raw hands, her disappearances, her diets: all evidence of suppression. And the huge unspoken thing between us loomed into my head; it had been lying dormant and now it raged to life. My heart began to pound. ‘Tom,’ I said. ‘It’s Tom who’s making you do this.’

  ‘It’s not him.’

  ‘I think it is. Instead of moving, why don’t you leave him?’

  ‘Oh, Verity.’ She shook her head.

  I had bitten my lip – I could taste blood. ‘He doesn’t deserve you.’

  ‘We’re stuck with each other.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand what I’m telling you.’ The knowledge of what I could tell her, of what I’d seen, grew and expanded and when it exploded inside me, I felt the shock of it as if for the first time myself. ‘I’ve watched him. I know what he’s like.’

  She was still shaking her head, little trembles of her neck. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me about Tom I haven’t seen for myself.’ She let out a hard, mirthless laugh.

  I put my hand on top of hers. Now the moment had come, I wasn’t sure where to begin – with the party, or the night in Somerset. She was staring at me. I would let her know first she was safe, that she had somewhere to go. ‘You and the children,’ I said. ‘You could always move in with me.’

  She took her hand away. ‘I don’t want to move in with you.’

  ‘I’ve left Max and you the house in my will.’

  ‘What? Why?’ She let out a shocked laugh. ‘What are you trying to do? Hoard me?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ I didn’t know what to do with my face. I’d lost all sense of what was happening. ‘Please, Ailsa. Believe me. You should leave Tom.’

  Her eyes seemed to disappear. She looked furious, desperate. ‘I don’t understand you, Verity. You’re clever and interesting and kind. And yet your view of the world can be so simplistic. Life is complicated. Maybe if it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be moving. But we’ve got kids together, and they love him and he loves them.’

  She started screwing her pyjama top together at the neck, as if trying to strangle herself. ‘I hated how he shouted at Max this morning. I wish he didn’t act like he hates them . . .’ Her eyes and cheeks suddenly changed to an expression of exaggerated delight. ‘Darling!’

  I turned my head.

  Max was standing in the doorway. He was wearing trackpants and his smart shirt from the party, the buttons done up wrong. Maudie had padded over to greet him and he bent down to stroke her head. I couldn’t see his face. ‘I’m sorry I got mud on the sofa,’ he muttered. ‘Dad said I had to stay and tidy my room, but I’ve finished and I’ve come downstairs to help you wash it.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie.’ Ailsa was already halfway towards him. ‘Don’t worry. Dad’s away until Thursday. We’ve got plenty of time to launder the cushions. They’ll be good as new when he gets back.’

  He was still crouched down and she stood next to him, opening and closing her hands. She murmured, Did he hear?

  I wanted to shake my head, but I didn’t know. I shook it anyway. I tried to settle my heart.

  ‘Right, I’ve got to get on.’ She looked around the room, her eyes desperate. ‘I’ve got that chicken and ginger to cook, all those plants to dig in. Plus I’m working at Ricky’s this afternoon.’ She didn’t look at me, and there was a grim set to her jaw. ‘And you’ve promised to have another go at clearing your front garden.’ She stood up, tucking her hair into the neck of her pyjamas. ‘So God, what’s the time? I’d better go and get dressed.’

  ‘OK then.’ I went to hug her but she kept her arms by her side; I remember that now.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Pizza Express Romana Margherita Speciale, 3 for 2

  Formication, noun. An abnormal sensation as of ants

  creeping over the skin.

  This morning, when I got back from taking Max to school, she wasn’t in the front room or the kitchen. I assumed she had gone back to bed and didn’t think too much about it. I was preoccupied. I’ve started a project of my own: the back sitting room study. It’s years since anyone has opened the door, but last week I managed to push it the foot or so necessary to squeeze in and I’ve been systematically sorting it out. Ruthless. That’s me. Sue helped me organise a skip and I’ve nearly filled it. It’s going to be a nice space when it’s finished. Light. Spacious. All it needs is a sofa and a TV. Anything will do. I’m keeping my eyes peeled.

  I was listening to Classic FM – Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4. It wasn’t until it had drawn to its end that I realised one of the horns – of the hunting variety – was coming from the front room.

  She’d left her phone in her nest on the sofa. I found it under the cushions. ‘John Standling’ read the screen. I answered. ‘She’s not here,’ I said. ‘She’s sleeping, I think. Would you like me to wake her?’

  ‘Well. If you think she wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  I took the phone upstairs and knocked on the door of her room. No answer. She wasn’t in Mother’s, now Max’s, either – though there were signs she’d been there recently. The cupboards were hanging open, and the shoeboxes were on the floor, with their lids off. I could smell her deodorant.

  An inch of soapy water sat in the basin, but the bathroom was empty.

  My bedroom door was shut and when I tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Ailsa?’

  ‘What?’ Her voice was close; she was just the other side, using the weight of her body to keep me out.

  ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  I took a sharp in-breath. Perhaps I should have forced the door. I’ve got into the habit of appeasing her.

  ‘It’s John Standling,’ I said, mouth into the wood. ‘On your phone.’

  ‘You speak to him.’

  I sat down on the top stair, watching the door, and brought the phone back to my ear.

  ‘I heard that,’ he said. ‘OK. Right. Fine. Perhaps you could just ask her to ring me back.’

  And then, because I wanted to hear what he had to say, I said: ‘She won’t. She’s being funny about speaking to people at the moment.’

  He sighed then. ‘OK. Well I’ll talk to you then. First of all – Max shouldn’t be with you. Not with Ailsa in the house. We need to take measures before we get into trouble. I was hoping Ailsa could maybe come and see me – perhaps even this afternoon. We’ve just received the bulk of primary disclosure from the CPS and there are several other things I’d like to go over with her before her consultation on Friday with Silk.’

  He always calls Grainger ‘Silk’. I’ve begun to find it irritating. It’s awful how familiarity breeds contempt.

  ‘I’m not sure she’s leaving the house at the moment,’ I said. ‘It might be better if you came to me.’

  ‘That could be arranged.’

  ‘Is there anything new?’ I said. ‘Anything we need to worry about.’

  There was a long silence. ‘Couple of things – some new witness statements, for example.’

  ‘About what? From whom?’

  A long pause. A woodlouse was inching along the base of the wainscot, legs hidden beneath the tiny armoured shell of its body. ‘State of the marriage stuff. Pippa Jones. Ricky Addison . . .’ He trailed off. ‘I’m not going to go into it all now.’

  I put my fin
ger to block the woodlouse’s path and it disappeared sideways into the crack between the wainscot and the floorboards. ‘Do they say Tom was a bully?’

  He sighed heavily again. ‘This battered wife stuff, it isn’t going to play. You do realise that? That scarf you gave me; I had it analysed. The red marks? They were nail varnish. No further evidence has come to light. Nothing ever reported to the GP, to the police, to social services. Mrs Tilson’s statements make no reference to it. My clerk spoke to Tom Tilson’s parents, friends, ex-girlfriends – Delilah Perch included. No one has ever experienced or witnessed any behaviour from Tom worthy of note, just normal husband–wife bickering. Mrs Perch was particularly vehement. She says he was under a lot of pressure at work, and that Mrs Tilson, Ailsa, was difficult to live with, never happy.’

  The noises from my bedroom – small knocks and slithers – had resumed. Battered wife? How language, under pressure, reveals people’s true colours. I said: ‘She was the victim in that marriage.’

  Standling, responding to my tone, sounded tart: ‘It’s looking at this stage as if she was anything but.’

  ‘Please elaborate.’

  ‘We can talk more later. If it’s OK with you, I’ll come this afternoon. Around 3 p.m.? I’d rather talk about all this with Mrs Tilson in person.’

  ‘Let me ask her.’ I stood up, gripping the bannister to keep my balance. I turned my head, as the door to my bedroom slowly opened. A crack of mottled wallpaper, the plaster behind it spotted like coal dust. Ailsa stepped onto the landing. She was wearing Faith’s pale-pink fleece dressing gown. The cuffs were grey; I should wash it. Something was dangling from her fingers. It looked like a piece of silk handkerchief; no, something more forlorn, like a used prophylactic. Her hands separated, and I saw there were two, each one gripped in the pincer of her index and thumb.

  She was shaking her head. ‘I knew it,’ she said.

  I still hadn’t fully understood. I bury things, literally and metaphorically. At the back of the wardrobe in this case, in my box of precious things.