by Joanna Baker
Paul might be sharing the flat upstairs with him, but the workshop was all John’s. There was a large table in the centre and the benches around the walls held trays and boards and neat rows of tools, ranging from tiny silver tweezers to heavy hammers and something that looked like a blow torch. Above the benches was an array of wooden structures – stacks of tiny pigeonholes, wide shelves and shallow drawers, all meticulously neat. The benches on the left of the room held old clocks in wood and brass.
The only windows were two small arched ones, frosted and too high to see through. The room was lit by an array of small silver spotlights hanging on wires, throwing a sharp greenish-white light.
Veronica shook herself. She was sleep deprived and aching, and dull in the mind, but she had to keep functioning. Vicky had gone to stand very close to John, as she had done in the gallery, and they were staring at her, waiting for her speak. Veronica was struck again by how much John resembled Paul. Or rather, Paul had come to look like John, copied him, adopting the long hairstyle, the dark T-shirts and jeans.
John had turned, still with a small silver tool in one hand, the other wrist still bound by the blue splint. Beside him on the workbench were a small block of grey stone and a tray holding tools and pieces of silver, all lit by a very bright desk lamp. He had been working on pieces from the new range – necklaces fastened by nooses, fat round bracelets with chunky clasps. He had a magnifying glass on a headpiece, but it was tilted up out of his vision.
He seemed to realise she was incapable of beginning the conversation and said, ‘Paul isn’t here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He didn’t come home last night.’ John looked exhausted. His hair had caught up under the band of the headpiece. His skin was tight, with dips in the centre of his cheeks, and he was a bad colour. ‘I have no idea where he is.’ Another impasse. Veronica couldn’t think what to do. She should leave. But she didn’t know where else to look.
In front of John, leaning on a rack of metal trays, were two drawings in frames. They weren’t Roland’s – these were brightly coloured works in ink, thick black lines and vivid patches of colour: cobalt, green, vermillion, gold. A dragon and a lotus flower.
‘I’ve seen these,’ said Veronica. She didn’t know why she was talking about them, but it seemed important, and she couldn’t work out what it meant. ‘These pictures were on a silk shawl. Belle was wearing it yesterday. It fell.’ The small, heavy body; the sound. ‘She fell. She died.’
John frowned. He looked as if he didn’t understand. She said, ‘You were there. Vicky said you and Paul were both there somewhere.’
‘Ah.’
‘What happened?’ said Veronica. ‘Who else was there? What happened to Belle?’
‘I don’t know, Veronica,’ said John coolly. ‘Nobody knows. I mean, Paul and I don’t know. There was somebody else, moving around in the empty rooms. We don’t know who it was.’
Was he lying? Veronica had no capacity left for working out whether or not to believe him.
Vicky said, ‘The drawings were copied from a vintage Chinese shawl. Paul did them and framed them for John.’ She didn’t seem to know what this meant either, or why they were talking about it. She looked around the room. ‘He did it in the workshop here, over at the back bench. Roland was drawing the shawl too. Drawing a girl wearing it. The shawl came from Paul’s place but it was lying around here for ages.’
Behind Veronica, Paul said, ‘I took it away.’
Before she turned, she saw John’s face change, from uncertainty to anger.
Paul was standing in the doorway. He was drunk. Not happily so – he was horribly, tragically, destructively drunk. His jeans were creased across the hips and he had a leather jacket in one hand. His T-shirt was wrinkled and gaping at the neck as if he had slept in it, and a scarf of fine linen check had fallen from one side, so that it was slung across a shoulder and about to slip off altogether. There were spots of high colour on his cheeks, and his lips were wet and loose.
John stood up slowly but stopped beside Vicky. Paul pushed past them, staggered around Veronica with a smirk, and went to the workbench. He peered at John’s tiny silver pieces, under the bright light. ‘How’s it going, John? Not clocking today? Doing rings? Have we finished with the silver noose line? What are we turning our delicate little hands to now? The Chinese stuff I did for you? Or something simple?’ To steady himself, he put both hands on the table, then he tried to disguise the movement by studying the work more closely. ‘Something for old Vicksy to flog to tourists?’
Veronica, John and Vicky stood in a row watching him. He picked up the picture of the lotus flower. ‘Do you know what I like?’ He turned to face them. ‘Buds. I like buds. They’re so full of …’ He stood back too quickly, took a step to keep balance, ‘… promise.’ Wet giggles.
‘Where have you been?’ said John.
‘Ooh, you’re a sly one.’ Paul knocked a small tool to the floor, didn’t notice. Vicky picked it up and replaced it. ‘Don’t be fooled by this modest exterior, Veronica. This confused, nerdy, picky and, if I may say so, rather pasty exterior. Forget about the artist stuff, and the whole Swiss clockmaker thing. He only went there to meet other little Swiss clockmakers.’
‘You’re feeling guilty about something,’ said John coldly. ‘What have you done?’
‘Oh no. Deep down, John is an intensely shallow man. All this “Where have you been?” bullshit. When I met him he’d just spent six months shagging his way up and down the Sunshine Coast.’ This was adolescent behaviour, the desire to shock. But it was also malice. And, judging by the reactions of John and Vicky, it wasn’t entirely new.
‘It went on for months. He only left because he’d fucked everybody there.’
‘Be fair,’ said John. ‘Only the men.’
‘There. He admits it.’
Paul’s face wasn’t made for venom. It was a childish face and as it had matured, instead of becoming defined, it had softened. His was a face for gentleness, for irony, a quiet joke. Not for pain. And that, the sight of all that pain in the wrong kind of face, in Paul’s face, was dreadful to see.
‘Paul, stop this.’ Veronica went to a corner and dragged over a chair, then grabbed him from behind, turned him around and pushed him into it. ‘John, I’m so sorry.’
Paul was grinning with what he hoped was defiance but he looked bereft. John came over and put a hand on his shoulder. Paul shook him off.
‘And he’s a hopeless businessman. So much for being Hongkongkenese. And he doesn’t love me anyway. He’s only here because I own a gallery and a workshop.’
‘No,’ said John. ‘I could make jewellery anywhere. I’m here because I love you.’
Veronica could see it was something he’d had to say before, many times.
‘He won’t when he knows all my secrets.’
John took the picture out of his hands and put it carefully back in its place in front of the jewellery he’d been working on. ‘Where have you been all night?’
‘Over at Sandy’s,’ said Paul, suddenly morose. ‘So no need to be jealous. It was all totally innocent and sad and depressing. We were just boozing. You probably haven’t noticed but I really went for it. So many terrible things have happened. I just can’t think. I am completely stupid. Even poor old Sandoranda couldn’t stand me last night. She left me with a bottle of Delord Bas-Armagnac and went to bed.’
Veronica said, ‘Paul. What happened yesterday? What happened to Belle? I know you were there.’
But he was talking to John now. ‘She wants a child. Can you credit that? Poor arty-farty Fatty Arbuckle Sandy.’ His face was becoming red. He licked his lips. ‘Not a child. It’s not the child she wants. She wants to have one. She wants to give birth.’ He made a gesture with both hands, sweeping downwards over his thighs.
Veronica said, ‘Stop this.’ She took his chin in her fingers and tipped it to face her. ‘Just you listen to me. I don’t care what sort of petty problems you think you
’re dealing with. Something terrible has happened.’
‘Something? Many things.’ Paul’s grin faded. ‘Many terrible things. Six terrible things before breakfast.’ His gaze had fallen to the floor. He swayed. ‘You used to read that, Veronica. Six impossible things. That was a long time ago.’ By some association of ideas he looked at the shelf of clocks. ‘Nothing ever comes back, does it? It goes around but it never –’
‘Paul, stop it. A girl died.’ It didn’t seem real. Belle.
Paul looked confused, not just about what she had said, but more deeply than that. It looked as if he didn’t understand what words meant.
‘You were there, Paul.’
‘She was evil.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Haven’t you got it yet? They hurt that child. Belle did it. But Treen was there too. They blamed everyone else. Treen didn’t ever admit it, even to herself. But it was her fault. Belle hurt Mayson and Treen lied. She said to me … she said, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?” But she didn’t mean herself. It was all just self-pity. But she was the worst thing. She was. She deserved to die.’
‘Paul.’
‘And Belle was no better.’
‘You know about Belle falling. You know who did it.’
He was sitting with his wrists along the wooden arms of the chair, a foot on each of its legs, as if ready for an execution. ‘You did it. You were there. You didn’t save her.’
‘It’s not the same thing. That isn’t an act.’
The chair was a heavy square thing in dark wood, rattan backed, a corduroy seat. He stood up and grabbed it by the arms, as if he was going to move it somewhere.
Vicky began moving towards him. He turned to face her. ‘You didn’t save her, Vick. You were too busy saving the baby. Being a hero. A family hero. Which is hilarious. And horrible. Poor old Vicks. Maybe you’re the one who should be a mother. Maybe we should have a kid.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh no. We can’t do that, can we? You and me.’
Veronica said, ‘All right, Paul. Enough nonsense.’
Paul said, ‘Come on, Vicks. Tell her.’
‘No.’
‘No, you’re right, it’s gross.’ He put a hand on Vicky’s shoulder and pushed her.
Vicky said, ‘Sit down.’
‘No.’ He looked at Veronica. ‘She’s my sister.’ He pushed Vicky again. ‘No-one’s supposed to know. Half-sister. She’s Mum’s daughter.’
‘Vicky?’
‘No-one’s supposed to know,’ he said again. ‘Mum’s ashamed of her. So we’re looking after her.’
‘Come on,’ said John. ‘This isn’t the time.’ Veronica said, ‘Is it true?’
‘We’re just going to go.’ John picked up a laptop and a pair of sunglasses.
Paul said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not supposed to talk about it.’
‘Vicky, you’re Lesley’s child? The one she had taken away? Lesley found you?’
Paul said, ‘Vicky found us. Mum doesn’t want her.’
‘What?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Vicky.
‘Mum …’ Paul was running out of energy now. He sat in the chair. ‘She doesn’t like me, either. She likes John because he’s always so clean.’
‘We’re leaving.’ John took Vicky by the arm. They didn’t move. Paul said to Veronica, ‘And you want Roland. I don’t know where he is.’
John said, ‘Roland’s gone to Lesley’s. Something about a photo.’ A photo. She should have known. That was what she had tried to remember. The feet. She thought of the album at the Shanty Shack, the photo on Paul’s desk in the gallery, the boys on the beach – Gordon, Paul, Roland.
She took a step towards the door, still watching Paul.
He was suddenly serious. ‘So you’re going there?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Of course you are.’ For some reason the idea made him sadder than ever. And sour. ‘Roland’s your family isn’t he, Veronica? So now you go charging off to help him. Because he’s your family.’
He looked exhausted. He sat back in the chair, hands on the straight arms as if they were strapped there, and as she left he shouted after her, ‘Is that why? Is that what you’re telling me? That it’s all about blood?’
Chapter 27
______
Nine in the morning. Gordon answered the door. His role. Protecting his family from the world. Now he tried to play the gallant man of the house, courteous and cheerful.
‘Veronica. This is becoming a bit of a habit.’
She was about to apologise for the earliness of the visit but saw from his face that she needn’t bother. There was something seriously wrong.
‘Gordon?’
That was all she needed to say. He started telling her what had happened, shocked and unable to keep it in. ‘The police have been here again. A girl has died at the Davey Street buildings. She had broken in, but she used my keys. Or rather, someone got a key from my study and used it to let her in. And now she’s died there.’ He was red, sweating. ‘They were asking about Roland. I’m not going to lie for him anymore. That was the last time. I said we hadn’t seen him. I don’t know why I’m still doing that. I’ve got a name in the town. I’ve got a family of my own to think about.’
‘Is he here?’
He stood back with a frustrated grunt.
Lesley was coming up behind him. ‘Roland rang. He’s coming here.’
‘Coming?’
‘He’s on his way. Walking. Or running, I think. He’s trying to stay out of sight. He’ll be here any minute.’
Veronica looked behind her. There was no movement in the street.
‘Come inside,’ said Lesley.
In the kitchen, Veronica said, ‘There are things I have to ask you.
I’ve just come from Paul.’
‘Oh. Paul.’ Lesley shrugged off mention of her son. She went to the bench and picked up a tea towel, then put it down again.
There was a laptop open on the table, showing a page of writing. When she saw Veronica looking at it, Lesley came over. ‘The good news, Veronica, is that I have finally worked out how to write the monologue.’ But instead of showing her, she closed the computer. ‘It’ll be ready very soon. Everything’s suddenly become quite clear. The thing Roland wanted to show me – I see it now.’
‘Do you know who killed Treen and Belle?’
‘Roland keeps saying it’s acts that are evil, not people.’
‘Because we really need to end this.’
‘Roland will end it. That’s why he’s coming.’ Lesley moved away from the table. ‘I’ve started some frittata. He likes that.’
The kitchen was light and warm. There was a wisp of steam, strangely golden against the tiles, curling up from a plate of pump-kin strips, scented with butter. At the sight, the smell, Veronica felt sickened and unbearably heavy.
‘I know you’re such an excellent cook, Veronica, but I like to think I’m good at frittata, at least.’ Lesley wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. Her skin looked like soap.
Veronica said, ‘You’ve heard about the girl who died in Davey Street.’
‘Ohhhh.’
‘Paul and Roland were there, Lesley. They were in the building somewhere. When it happened.’ John had been there, too. And Judith. It was impossible to untangle. ‘They must know how it happened. Paul’s in a complete state.’
‘Maybe now you see what he’s really like.’
‘This has to be sorted out. I’m going to insist that Roland tells the truth.’
Lesley didn’t seem to have heard. She was standing at the bench, looking at a lump of parmesan on a board. ‘I suppose Paul is taking it out on John. He always turns on him. Which isn’t at all fair. I mean, John is what he wanted. A partner.’ It might have been a different word. Disease, tumour.
Lesley pressed a knife into the cheese, breaking off some crumbs. ‘The worst part is, it’s my fault. Everything our children do is o
ur fault, isn’t it? All the terrible behaviour.’
‘Paul told me about Vicky.’
A pained breath, a look of long suffering.
‘She’s the child they took away from you. She’s your daughter.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Lesley put the knife down and turned around. ‘I really don’t know what to do about Vicky. It would have been better if she’d never found me.’
‘Oh, that’s not –’
‘It’s too late, you see? I try. But she’s just appalling.’
Veronica thought of Vicky: a large woman, a person of primary colours, glowing with a kind of immediacy. She had effortlessly carried Mayson to safety. She had got him to Roland. Vicky, standing beside John, speaking quietly to Paul. A strong, dependable woman. Even the idea of her was solid.
Lesley said, ‘There are government departments for this now, you see. They help the children find you, whether you want them to or not. Vicky wrote letters. I didn’t answer them. I was throwing them away. But Paul found one in the bin. I should have burned it but – for heaven’s sake, I don’t know what he thought he was doing, grubbing through my wastepaper basket. The boy is so odd. But he found it and made me tell him the story. And then he made this great show of not judging me, and being understanding and kind, although how could he possibly understand?’ She folded her arms across her stomach. ‘He decided to go behind my back. He works against me all the time. He met Vicky and saw what she was like and then he insisted on being nice to her. They both do it. Him and John. It’s some kind of evil game.’
‘Maybe they genuinely like her.’
‘Oh, Veronica. You’re so easily taken in.’ Lesley seemed to be talking about something else. She moved to the window and looked out, down the driveway towards the street. She began rubbing her left hand on the side of her right, pressing hard, as if the hand was itchy. ‘Besides, I don’t necessarily believe she is who she says she is. She’s definitely here for what she can get. And the boys are just trying to upset me. There’s no love lost. They think it’s some kind of joke.’