Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  “She’s only recently moved out of her room here,” he added.

  “When?”

  “Thursday afternoon. I’m still waiting for a forwarding address.”

  “Does she drive?”

  “Yes. An old, beige Austin Allegro. Always giving her trouble with something or other. She’s saving up to buy new. Why I’d just upped her wages.”

  “Is there anything else I ought to know about her, however unimportant it might seem?” I pressed him. “Is she in trouble?”

  “Wouldn’t tell me, that’s for sure. Woman of few words she is.”

  “Are there any relatives on both sides in the area? Any friends?”

  The line’s buzz became cutlery being jostled about and other voices.

  “Not to my knowledge, but there is someone who sometimes calls and asks to speak to her. Some French woman. Always impatient. Look, sorry, sir, we’ve breakfasts to do. Best you call again, mid-morning…”

  “French woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she ever booked in?”

  A noticeable sigh.

  “I’ll take a look…”

  “Let’s go,” said Laure, checking the wood-burner’s scarred door was well closed and snatching a look at Mathieu’s things. “This is getting bizarre.”

  “Too right. Alison’s meeting us at Cardiff Central at eleven. It’s tight but we can do it. We’ll leave the stable staff here for the police to deal with.”

  I checked my watch, all too aware that any one of them, despite their obvious distress, might have dodgy alibis for Friday lunchtime and evening, or useful info. Kevin Lockley too. Someone else who could slip through the net.

  “I’ll call back later,” I told the proprietor. “Unless you let me know first.”

  *

  While Laure was busy in her bedroom banging drawers, I put the suddenly helpful DC Williams in the picture, then sneaked into Danny Lennox’s small room on the other side of the bathroom, where that west wind buffeted his one window with a low, continual moan.

  Mystery man, alright. No papers, no ID save for his name scribbled on to a Kempton Park race card for last Boxing Day, and inside, Vervain’s name and those of two other Deschamps-trained runners, circled in red. A keen punter, or merely sentimental? Impossible to say. His one narrow wardrobe still contained his clothes. All neatly pressed and in colour order. The bed tidy too.

  Be quick.

  “What are you looking for?” Laure’s voice made me spin round. She was flushed. Annoyed. “This is private.”

  “Just go and get Mathieu’s toothbrush and flannel or whatever he uses.”

  “Why?”

  “Please. And put them in a plastic bag. Something air-tight.”

  “What if he comes back and can’t get in?”

  “He won’t be.”

  “What?” she stared at me with those fearsome eyes as if I’d hit her, then left while I poked around in the one drawer that wasn’t empty. Four string vests, Y fronts and a selection of clean but worn socks. I knew from experience, that people often hid their most personal, intimate things in such places. I wasn’t disappointed.

  It was a small, pale blue, plastic wrist band with a yellowish stain where one end locked into the other. All the information was in capitals, in indelible ink.

  MATHIEU ALAIN DESCHAMPS. 10.9.78 HÔPITAL SAINT-HIPPOLYTE

  18. Elisabeth.

  Saturday 12th March. 8.13a.m.

  Jésu, aide moi…

  I’d slept too long, dreamt too long about the Gallas lot in Mignonville when I’d only meant to hide for a while until the ferry finally docked at Cherbourg. And was it there or still at sea? I couldn’t tell. I’d drifted off on a wooden stool in front of shelves full of cleaning cloths, dusters and new mop heads. Also, enough cheap lavatory paper for the whole French army.

  My neck - normally one of the strongest parts of my body - felt as weak as a piece of straw. My vision hazy when it needed to be laser sharp. My watch showed I should never have chosen this bolt hole because at any moment, some employee might barge in. Even the ugly bitch who’d recognised my perfume. But what choice had there been? A security guard had left Car Deck A just as I’d been on the lowest staircase. I’d not run. Just been a purposeful-looking nurse going about her business.

  And what was that speech coming over the tannoy?

  With the metal door fractionally open for just a few seconds, I’d heard enough.

  “… now under French jurisdiction. La Princesse Poole has been ordered to remain at Cherbourg with all on board while personnel from the Brigade General’s Special Units search every single passenger, beginning at 8.30 a.m. Central European Time. Will all our passengers therefore, assemble on Deck E where the cafeteria is now serving an early breakfast…”

  Did they really think someone like me could be softened by a warm croissant and whatever else was on offer?

  Non.

  In a chipped piece of mirror, I checked my hair, scraped out just enough cover for my blemish, then, having smoothed down my blue dress and white apron, ventured forth. But not to Deck E, even with my badge’s new name. I didn’t need breakfast but did have to make an important call from somewhere with a decent signal.

  *

  No sign of any gendarmes or other possible inquisitors as I climbed wet, exterior steps up to the top deck, passing windows helpfully steamed up, revealing a hint of my fellow travellers obediently huddled like sheep waiting for death.

  I’d seen that sight enough times and still deliberately re-live the shock of ending my university studies which involved quiet libraries and immaculate seminar rooms, for the drenching blood and uproar of the Gallas’s abattoir.

  But that life-changing job had been my choice. Mine alone. Something I’d had to do, to see other sentient beings suffering too. I didn’t have four legs and a fleece on my own back, but so what? Their fear, their pain during a slow loss of life was a shared experience that made me the empathic and diligent Headmistress I later became.

  Although only my mother knew of those five years spent there and unlike Christine, would have been too ashamed to have said anything, that hidden sliver of my CV must stay just that. Hidden.

  It had been Laure, on her sixth birthday, who’d seen me on the drive at Les Seules Pleureurs before I’d had a chance to change out of my overalls. She’d cried out in shock at the bloodstains and jumped from her tree swing, before disappearing through the archway into the rear garden. Having delivered her gift the previous evening and been met with a frosty reception, I’d come to see Alain, and it was tough if his delightful little family would rather I hadn’t.

  *

  Land, in all its misted glory. And more particularly, Cherbourg, set between the rocky coastline to the east and to the west, those dark, mysterious waters surrounding the Channel Islands.

  “Bonjour,” called out an oil-stained young worker from his perch above the orange lifeboats which blocked most of that deceptive view, promising journeys not prison. “We’ve had enough trouble so far. No-one else ill I hope?”

  Only me…

  I shook my head and he returned to his task of checking the chains’ winches, and once out of sight, I stopped. The topmost deck was empty save for a few wheeling seagulls above those tables and plastic chairs that had slid over to the far side. Here the light rain cast the purple sea and tantalisingly close land in a grey veil. Made the boards under my feet too treacherous to go any further.

  Don’t fall, I told myself, pulling out my phone, punching in an already familiar number and coughing the three obligatory times.

  “C’est-toi?” I asked, because we never used names in case calls were traced.

  “Oui.”

  “Problems.”

  He must have been in his office because I couldn’t hear the usual braying and neighing bedlam in the background.

  “Be quick.”

  “I’ll try.” Trying too, not to cause panic. My late employer’s son had lived on a knife-ed
ge for ten years, ever since Sophie Kassel, one of my less able pupils vanished from the school playground during one lunchtime. She’d never been found, but the elderly Jules Gallas had fielded rumour after rumour until eventually, the girl’s parents gave up fighting and the waters of defeat closed over.

  Since then, I’d occasionally called in on them both to try and keep their spirits up, but Eduard Gallas didn’t have the same resilience that I admire in a man. Loyal, oui, but solid? I wasn’t so sure. However, he could bring me to orgasm five times a night and I in turn, could delay his until the last, unbearable moment.

  “So. we’ll be very much later than planned,” I said, recalling those moments. “I’ll ring you when we finally berth.”

  “OK but I don’t like the sound of the ex- flic who was on the truck.”

  Merde.

  “Our contact has just called from the Harwich boat. They’ve had a re-spray. Brown, so you’ll know. As for this John Lyon pest, he’ll have to be monitored. Dealt with, if necessary.”

  Keep calm.

  “He’s a cripple and a coward. He won’t bother us.”

  “I think you’ve left something out,” Eduard added unexpectedly as I was about to push in my phone’s antenna. “The reason your ferry’s delayed. Our mutual contact said it’s big news.”

  Those two last words made my weeks of planning evaporate like the morning mist over my carp lake. Would I, at the end of it all, need to hide in fear for the rest of my life?

  “Some old man fell downstairs,” I said too quickly. “It was an accident …”

  “Non. A man’[s been shot. Once in the right eye, the next in the heart. Daniel Lennox who worked for your brother-in-law. I met him several times. He seemed alright.”

  That moderate wind seemed to have found my marrow and frozen it. Also, my lips when I next tried to speak. “So, what’s that to do with me?”

  “I don’t know, but Maman’s threatening to tell the press and TV2,” he went on as a fishing boat full of black, oil-skinned fishermen churned by. I was in no mood to return their misplaced greetings. “She’s saying how you loved him more than life itself. Even more than Alain Deschamps…” His tone changed the way dusk turns to night. “So how does that make me feel, Elisabeth, hein? Especially after I’d designed and executed your special tattoo? Ask yourself…”

  I shivered.

  “I’m Jeanne Tisseyre. A nurse.”

  Silence.

  “A serpent lives in your Maman’s heart. I had no feelings for him whatsoever,” I added, to break it. Yet I was also thinking of Caina. That ninth circle of Hell for family betrayers. “So just be ready for us as you promised, and afterwards you and me at your place, we take a shower like we always used to, remember? Then make love till we beg each other for mercy.”

  *

  Despite what the overweight, ugly Madeleine Gallas might or might not be about to say out loud, I decided breakfast would shore me up for the day ahead. A brioche, an espresso, perhaps a little fruit. Mingling comfortably this time, courtesy of my TRUCKLINE badge and new name lifted from an agency in Caen where turnover was swifter than Arcachon’s shifting sands.

  Only once when I turned to search for a table, did I catch that unnerving priest’s eye, whereupon, he moved away from the vending machine where he’d been waiting for his chocolat chaud to appear.

  More than ever, I had to be careful. Be visible, but not drop my guard. It was while choosing an empty, crumb-free table that a louder than usual announcement added to the hubbub. In English first – courtesy of the taller flic with a hint of triumph in his unattractive voice. I stopped to listen. Breakfast suddenly the last thing on my mind.

  “Thanks to a water-tight bag and a layer of grease, possibly from a hand cream, a distinctive thumb print has been preserved on the weapon in that wc. cistern. We’ve already a match between its remaining ammunition and those two bullets used on the late Mr Lennox, so it’s imperative that all ten previously designated motorists’ prints are taken. They will be immediately destroyed if of no interest. You are therefore urged to gather in the Cafeteria on Deck 2 and may I remind you,” his unpleasant voice hardened. “Whether male or female, you have a legal duty to attend.”

  *

  Time to throw a spanner in the works. To get out. By listening to my stomach, I’d put myself back in the lion’s den… But then, all at once, I was thrown a lifeline.

  “Captain Serra has agreed to dock, to enable those not being fingerprinted to continue their journeys. Once the signal - a continuous alarm - has sounded, please make your way via the inner stairs only, back to your vehicles. Here you will receive help to manoeuvre them on to the exit ramp. Once again, our sincere apologies for the delay.”

  There was nothing sincere about him at all, and soon the push and shove to wait by the stairwells began. I’d have to take my chance, just like when I’d previously been to check my ’pet.’

  *

  Once the promised din ended, I moved into pole position, smiling my gratitude at those who’d let me through, yet all the while churning inside, wondering how long it would take Serra and his cohorts to realise one of us was missing. I shouldn’t have boarded using my real name, but who could have foretold meeting the man who’d broken my life? As for his ex, I wondered how much he’d told her about me, and if faraway Northumberland might become too close to home.

  *

  The vessel bumped and clanked as it nudged into its tight berth. If I’d not been in this extreme situation, I’d have found the whole thing quite erotic. The drag and shriek of chains as the exit ahead slowly opened and daylight seeped in. Dizzy and hollow, I thought of the Dog Collar, those Audi tarts and the rest, hoping they were obediently heading for the Cafeteria four floors above my head.

  Holy Mary, mother of God…

  My key was in the car door lock. Those vehicles furthest ahead already beginning to climb the ramp to freedom. I had to hurry.

  “I’m going to report you.”

  Hélas…

  I could smell him, that vulpine, tight-trousered man of the cloth. I won’t go into details, except he was too close. Too oppressive. “I think, Mademoiselle Infirmière, you need to explain yourself.”

  I twisted round. My right hand deep inside my apron’s pocket. Instead of him, I saw Maman’s papery skin. Her searching eyes. Too many years of unnecessary heartbeats, yet still with the perseverance of a marathon runner. All at my expense.

  “Why?” I challenged him, feeling cool plastic under my fingers. “What’s your problem?”

  “You shot the man in that car,” he pointed at the cordoned-off Range Rover. “I saw you. Heard your lies about Lisieux. And now this nurse’s uniform you’re wearing It’s all a fake, isn’t it? All slotting into place.”

  So was my filled syringe, where it would cause those same heartbeats to gradually flutter long enough for me to fulfil my purpose. Then fail

  19. John.

  Saturday 12th March. 7.45 a.m.

  We were both shredded. Laure had just wanted to lie down in Vervain’s empty loose box until he was home again. I wanted to move.

  I won.

  *

  West Wales’s thick drizzle had thinned, melding sky, land and Tarmac in a damp, vaprous veil as we followed the M4 towards Cardiff. Laure tried map-reading and, although withdrawn and prickly, had let slip her curiosity about Alison with three questions. How good would she be at helping to find Vervain and Mathieu? Was she fearless? Above all, someone she could trust?

  “You’ll see,” I’d said, my heart on a roll despite what I knew lay ahead of us. Mining a deep seam of secrets and lies to reach the truth. “I’m sure she’ll like you.”

  At this, a smile changed her whole, tense face. So far so good.

  “My taxi driver from Carmarthen said you and she had quite a contretemps at the hotel yesterday. His words, not mine,” came out of the blue. I had to think quickly. Present a united front.

  “Rubbish. You know how taxi drivers like to
witter on to a captive audience.”

  “Witter?” She turned my way. “What an odd word.”

  “Plenty more where that comes from,” I said, steering round a big, busy roundabout. “The UK’ s full of dialects. Ways of saying things.” I glanced at her. “Keep looking for station signs, please.”

  I’d deliberately saved anymore questions about Danny Lennox until Alison was present. A woman’s approach had often proved more fruitful, especially with young women of Laure’s age. Confident, yet vulnerable.

  “Look! Cardiff Central!” she cried, pointing ahead. “Continuez tout-droit. According to the map, it’s not far.”

  There was a keenness in her voice that gave me the opportunity I needed.

  “When did you and Mathieu last see your aunt?”

  Her eyes closed.

  “I don’t know. I just want to think about other stuff.”

  “I can easily put you on a train to Poole and me and Alison can go back to Nottingham. Please yourself.”

  That came out rather too sharp but did the trick, as Cardiff’s outskirts grew busier; traffic lights every few yards…

  “OK. Last Christmas,” she said. “It was fun. Her lake was frozen. We skated on it, except Mathieu kept falling over and I had to see to him.” She glanced my way. “Why do you keep on about her?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  No reply.

  “Because I believe she could be behind all this. Settling old scores for whatever reason. And Laure,” I indicated left and pulled over just beyond a black railway bridge with a train grumbling by overhead. “Unless you tell me everything you can about her, how she interacted with your family in the years leading up to…”

  “Go on, say it!”

  “Your mother taking her own life…”

  “She didn’t.”