‘She’s—’ she didn’t want to tell him.
So many years since she lost that baby, lying in the overheated hospital ward, lying very still, her head hurting under the bright lights, and Tim had been there, whenever she opened her eyes he’d been there. Tim had been all around her, telling her it would be all right, they could try again and she had thought, I don’t want to. I want that baby back.
‘She’s – she’s over at one of her friends’,’ she said, looking around herself, trying to formulate a plan. Where to go. ‘Playdate.’ A lie: she suspected he would hear it was a lie.
‘Right,’ he said, soft. ‘Well, I’ve got one or two things to wrap up here and—’ his voice trailed off. Lydia, was she one of the things he needed to wrap up?
Georgie had thought, the first, maybe second time in bed with Tim, that something wasn’t right. That it wouldn’t last. She remembered only now, as though it had been hidden from her. She remembered clear as day sitting up in bed the second time, the morning after and watching him brush his teeth and she hadn’t liked the way he did it: so weird to have forgotten that. She had suddenly wanted to leave and had made an excuse, she had to get in early to work. He had asked her to come back to bed, wheedling, and she’d given in.
And now here she was staring at herself in a mirror in the dark and suddenly Georgie knew what to do next. Upstairs, suitcase. Moving up the stairs sideways, with her back against the wall, careful steady steps. Tim still didn’t know where she was, did he? Not for sure.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ll go and get her in a bit.’
It occurred to her that there were couples, many of them, old married couples who went over and over the details of their meeting, their falling in love, the first time they did this or that. Two days after that morning when she’d faltered he’d asked her out again and she’d thought, How can it matter? The way someone brushes his teeth. She’d slept with him again. Then she had got pregnant, and he had been so loving, so happy. And Georgie hadn’t been able to face having an abortion and she thought, that was that.
‘You do that,’ said Tim, silky-voiced.
‘Yes, I’m—’ Georgie was in the bedroom now. Outside the lawn had turned grey and velvety in the twilight, the shadows of the big shrubs lengthening. It was getting harder to see if there was any movement there. ‘I’m just going now,’ trying to sound casual. ‘OK?’
‘How was London?’ said Tim, ‘I mean – nice day? Get anything else done while you were there? See anyone?’ Wrongfooted – hadn’t she told him, she’d been there to see the police. Did he think she’d have wanted to fit some shopping in after? – Georgie sat down abruptly on the bed. He was the one who knew people in London, not her.
That man she half recognised in Soho, on her way to the police station, the man in the camel coat who’d looked at her. She remembered him, from somewhere, sometime. He had a connection with Tim, she was fairly sure. A client, an associate, someone from when they were in the big tax office together? He had turned to look after Georgie as she hurried past.
Say nothing. Don’t let him know you guess, you wonder, you think at all.
‘I didn’t do anything else, after the police station, I—’ Flustered, she changed tack. ‘I – I came straight home.’
Hang up, then go upstairs and break into his filing cabinets and find out.
A soft sound, like a sigh, barely audible. ‘So you’re home. You’re there now.’
‘Yes,’ she said. He already knew, though. She could hear that in his voice.
‘I won’t be long,’ said Tim, and he was gone.
And there on the stairs in the half light falling from the landing above her and her heart pounding Georgie looked down at the phone. Slowly she went to the message, and opened it. She made herself wait for the photograph to download.
It was a picture taken from above, taken with a flash, and the first thing she saw was a hand, bleached white, spread like a starfish, against old railings. She could see her wedding ring, white gold, because that had been what Tim wanted. Her right hand was elsewhere, she couldn’t see her right—
Seen from above. The flaking black paint on railings, the hand grasping for them. The fair crown of her hair, the swirl of it, the dull gold sparkle at her shoulder where the dress had begun to slip from her shoulder and his hand on the back of her head, pushing her towards him. Dark hairs on his knuckles. Holding her against him and that was where her right hand was, on him.
The hand went to her mouth now, on the stairs in the failing light, saying something like, no I no I didn’t I
In the picture she was clearly recognisable, you could see her. She was trying to look up, one hand out to the side, flailing, her eyebrows, her eyes. Her eyes were glazed, she was a fish frozen under ice, she was terrified. She had his cock in her mouth.
And suddenly now she was scrambling, half falling to get upstairs. Georgie staggered. On her hands and knees she kept climbing on the hard wood because she had to get to the bathroom, before – before she
And feeling the stairs bark her shins she remembered that too, those other stairs. Remembered the bruise the morning after from falling upstairs drunk – more than drunk. The half bottle Holly got from her bag. Holly. Georgie had been insensible. He’d shoved her back up the stairs, his hand hard on her backside.
And then Georgie was in the toilet and vomiting. All around her Tim’s house, Tim’s stuff. She sat back up and there was someone outside. A car pulling up.
Frank had never been good at school. There were things that wouldn’t go in, and the more the teacher yelled at him, the tighter his brain closed. There were times when he just froze.
‘What are we doing here?’ he said. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Eddie was sitting in the passenger seat beside him, and the doors were locked. Outside the tall guy had retreated to lean against the tree, smoking: he had the car keys in his pocket.
Matteo must have been trying to warn him.
In the seat beside him, Eddie adjusted his bulk in the seat. ‘You just keep asking bloody questions, Frank. Keeping bits of paper.’ He looked down at his hands in his camel-hair lap. Fat fingers, gold signet ring on the left pinky. ‘How do I know I can trust you? And when I found out your mum was shacked up with that old copper—’ He shrugged, looking sideways at Frank. ‘You been saying things to your mum, have you?’
Frank felt his scalp prickle. He could only think longingly of that night, when he was in charge, behind his bar, everything in its right place. When the tall bloke now standing against the tree waiting had been just a punter, trying his luck with some women on the raz. ‘I wouldn’t—’ he began.
‘Shh, shh,’ said Eddie equably, like he was Frank’s dad. Eddie had no kids. Didn’t want them, according to Lucy, never had.
The address on the accountant’s headed paper was out here somewhere, too. Satnav had shown him that much, driving out. Five miles, maybe six, from where Eddie lived, separated only by the forest.
T. C. Baxter CCAB.
The accountant whose wife had been set up so Eddie would have something on him, just like he had something on everyone.
‘That girl,’ he said. ‘Georgie Baxter. She was nice. She’d never have gone with him.’ Nodding towards the bloke leaning against the tree. ‘You set her up.’
Eddie didn’t answer, he was just smiling, those hooded eyes, the grey lips. Had they always been grey? ‘Not me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Put people in touch, that’s all.’
‘Was it pictures, blackmail, what was it?’ Frank was incredulous.
Eddie just shrugged. ‘Like I said. Not me.’ But he looked off, somehow, a sheen of sweat.
The lanky man had pushed himself off from the tree and began to saunter slowly towards them. Frank rested his head back against the seat and the future unspooled, how far was this going? If he was lucky he’d just get the shit kicked out of him. He could take the tall skinny bloke, maybe but there was Eddie too. And he didn’t feel lucky. He sat forwar
d.
‘Was it not part of the deal, her getting strangled?’ Eddie closed his eyes. See no evil. ‘Was it him did that?’ Frank said, turning to look at the man beyond the window because it seemed too late to pretend. Holly hanging on to some bloke like he was Marlon Brando. ‘Her loverboy?’ He wasn’t going to mention Matteo. Keep Matteo out of it.
The man, Mark, took another step towards them, a hairy-knuckled hand going up on the roof of the car and he leaned down, grinning. Frank had been sure he was the guy with Holly, now he wasn’t so sure. Something was wrong about it. About the right build, he thought.
Mark, the man with wood – raped and strangled – went back to the hotel or wherever with the three of them, but he was after Georgie, not Holly. Would Holly have let him do that, if he’d been the one she loved, gazing up at him that way? A threesome, foursome in a hotel room. Maybe. People did all sorts in the name of love.
‘Did he do Holly? Rape and strangle her, did he do that for you?’
But Eddie’s face was grey now, not just the lips. ‘You want to know, now, do you?’ he said and there was a smell in the car that hadn’t been there a moment before, sharp and rank, of sweat. Eddie was leaning against the door with his shoulder, shoving to get it open, sweating.
‘No, I—’ But Frank couldn’t form the words. Once he knew, he was a dead man.
But then something else was happening. Eddie wasn’t waiting to hear. Eddie was climbing out, his broad back briefly blocking the door, then he was standing, heavy against the car. Frank wondered, in that moment as the outside air came in, about the big world. About the seasons, the sky, the trees, all of the world beyond Soho and beyond this soft green land, this ancient burial ground, all the world he was never going to see.
‘You stupid cunt,’ but Eddie wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to Mark. A wheeze as he drew breath. ‘You were supposed to show her the pictures, not him too. No bloke wants to see that, does he? His wife – like that?’
For a second Frank was bewildered, a prickle at the back of his neck, remembering Lucy’s hand on him in the kitchen. No man wants to see that, not even Eddie, who’d probably asked for it.
Eddie’s bulk was in the car doorway, Frank could see his gut, the camel coat swinging open. ‘You don’t know him,’ he was saying. ‘Accountants – mild mannered? I don’t think so. And now what? Now what? All this mess. Just so he gets the kid, not even his flesh and blood.’
The kid. Little girl on the pavement. Think about her later.
Now.
Frank got the door open and began to run.
They got him down in under five seconds, he hadn’t even got to the trees, but then Eddie was gone, somehow. Out of the corner of his eye Frank saw him stagger, off to the side and then he had the guy down, and underneath him.
And saw it. It wasn’t him. The bloke he’d seen Holly with from above didn’t have this much hair. And with the realisation he loosened his grip for an instant and between his knees Mark twisted and was out from under him, reaching for the tyre iron that Frank hadn’t thrown far enough.
Caught off balance, Frank fell. He didn’t even have the time to turn and see where it was coming from.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I just drove by to see if the car was back yet and – Georgie?’
Sue was standing on the doorstep, Tabs’ hand in hers. She was looking worried. ‘Georgie. Is everything okay?’ Peering at her from the porch Sue was wearing jeans, something she never did at school and for a stupid instant Georgie longed to just have a silly conversation, about clothes or the kids or awful bullying parents. Other people’s lives.
‘Yes, yes – I—’ Georgie plucked at her shirt, it was sticking to her where she was sweating.
Take her away, keep her, just a few hours more.
All this time and she hadn’t seen it. No wonder Sue always looked sideways at Tim, or frowned when she and Georgie had that conversation about pushy dads, the ones who would stand in the doorway not moving until you had to deal with them, the ones you bet pushed their wives around behind closed doors, and worse.
Tabs ran past her before Georgie could say it. Keep her safe.
‘Georgie?’
‘It’s – he’s—’ She wanted to come out with it, it’s Tim, but she didn’t know where to begin.
‘It’s all right,’ said Sue. ‘I – well, perhaps I can guess—’ Advancing on her, pity in her eyes and Georgie stepped back.
‘Can you?’ she said, faintly, because in that moment all she could think was that Sue had seen the picture she’d just seen. That she knew about him, Mark, that he’d sent the picture to all of them, got their numbers from somewhere, hijacked her phone.
Maybe that was it. The phone. It was in her hand: she should have thrown it from the train, after all. ‘You know about—’
Sue stopped, not quite across the threshold. She sighed, lowering her head. ‘It’s the girl, isn’t it? The secretary. Tara saw them in the pub one lunchtime, heads together, she was hinting she thought there was something—’ Her shoulders dropped. ‘I told her not to gossip.’ She couldn’t meet Georgie’s eye.
‘It’s all right,’ said Georgie mechanically. So it hadn’t been just a one-off. A fling. She should care but she didn’t, her mind was racing, round and round like a rat. What mattered was what she’d seen on the phone.
The nasty squalid mess of it: her and Tim, both the same. Is that what Tara would say, and Sue would have to agree with her daughter? Caught at it. Except she hadn’t, except she wouldn’t, she would never have.
He gave me one of those drugs. Him and Holly, Cat snoring on the bed. Had they given Cat something too, so she didn’t see anything?
Sue didn’t know the half of it, looking at her that way, with sheepish sympathy. I wouldn’t have done that, she whispered to herself, in her head but the words sounded stupid, lying. Behind her she heard Tabs coming back down then felt a soft bump against the back of her legs, the small arms around her thighs from behind.
But she still didn’t understand: there was a piece missing. Why would they do it? Mark and Holly? Was it just money? Or they’d tell Tim, was it blackmail?
Maybe that was why Holly was dead. Her share of the money? There was no money. Where would Georgie get money from? Why hadn’t they asked for it already?
She twisted to look down and saw Tabs’ upturned face at her hip, plaits coming undone, the little vest grubby at the neck and she knew, finally. She’s why.
Sue’s hand was on the door jamb, she was going to come inside.
‘Look,’ said Georgie, because she knew quite suddenly, that she didn’t have time for conversation. They had to leave. They had to get out of there.
‘We – I’ve got to – we’ve got to – I’m sorry, Sue, thanks for worrying about me but we’ve got – we’ve got to get going.’
Sue stepped back, startled and Georgie began to close the door immediately. Sue put up a hand to stop her and for a second they were pushing against each other. Georgie put her face to the crack. ‘Tim’s coming home,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’ She could see the questioning look in Sue’s eyes, the reluctance hardening and then Georgie simply had to close the door, setting her back against it.
‘Mummy?’ Tabs in her vest and pants, looking up at her. Georgie put a finger to her lips.
From outside silence, and then the sound of Sue’s footsteps receding, the car door slamming.
Georgie could have told her everything. Asked her to stay and help. Two against one, or three with Tabs, or would he bring Lydia? She wasn’t going to wait to find out.
Telling her everything would have been the problem, too: with Tabs there, bewildered and Georgie trying to interpret Sue’s expression, not knowing if she was disgusted, or fascinated, or angry. And someone dead, Holly dead: that would have frightened even Sue. And there wasn’t time. It was too late.
‘Upstairs and get your jeans on,’ she said to Tabs. ‘Quick now.’
Tabs just stood
there.
‘Quick.’ Her eyes were wide. ‘We’ve got to go and see Granddad,’ Georgie said, into her wide eyes, not quite improvising because it had occurred to her, once or twice in ten years, more often if she admitted it, that that would be the excuse she’d use. ‘He’s not well. And you’re coming with me.’ And she turned Tabs in front of her and hurried her upstairs.
With Tabs distracted, pulling open her drawers Georgie quickly took the teddy from her bed, old Stanley, worn at the paw Tabs hauled him around with. Nothing else. Just be quick.
‘And socks and jumper and trainers and put your pyjamas in your backpack.’ She hurried out before Tabs.
There was a big suitcase in the landing cupboard and Georgie hauled it into the bedroom. Open on the bed it looked too big, suddenly she didn’t want to take anything, nothing from here, nothing of his, she didn’t want to wait one minute more. But there’d be no money, not for a while, she’d have to have clothes. She’d need another job, Dad’s pension wouldn’t— and she paused, feeling the weight of it, the breadth of it, a whole wide unknown horizon. Georgie wavered, the ragged Stanley in her hands. She couldn’t do it. How could she?
Then she thought of Tim: his voice on the phone. His whispering, up here, in this bed, to Lydia. His fucking her, last night, in the kitchen and again in the bedroom, when she hadn’t wanted it and yet she hadn’t been able to say no. How many times had that happened?
Hundreds.
And when he found out, when he knew, when they told him: she didn’t have money to pay blackmailers, if that was what this was. Holly and Mark. Maybe he already knew. Maybe they’d gone straight to him for money, and maybe that was what she’d heard in his voice. He’d already seen that picture.
And the fear blossomed inside her, rich and dark as blood.
She had to do it. She dropped Stanley into the suitcase. A handful of underwear, at random, jeans, trainers. She tugged open the wardrobe and there they hung, Tim’s suits, orderly, mothproofed, dry-cleaned after four wears, every time. She shoved them aside. Dresses – what would she need them for? Offices, interviews, Christ knew – she felt herself on the brink, looked round for the time, the bedside clock said six, and beyond the window it was dark. All the lights blazing, advertising their presence – and soon he’d be home. He was on his way. She grabbed a dark thing off a hanger at random and then saw it, gleaming, the gold dress.
A Secret Life Page 24