Poppet

by Mo Hayder

  He inclines his head in assent. ‘You’d be right. There’s no new intel – it’s to distract them from the attractive prospect of Misty’s mum being in town. It’s a waste of time. We’re not going to find Misty’s body. Not here.’

  ‘Aren’t we? What makes you so sure?’

  There’s a pause, then he turns his eyes to hers. He shakes his head. His expression is so serious her confidence curls up and dies.

  ‘What?’ she murmurs. ‘Why’re you looking at me like that?’

  Again he shakes his head. He looks so sad. So very sad.

  ‘What?’

  He shrugs apologetically, then says, ‘I know what happened.’

  Cider Drinking

  THE GRASS IN the beer garden is still spotted with rain but the landlord has lit the chimineas and it’s warm enough to sit outside. They choose a gnarled old table next to the hedge that divides the garden from the street. The hedge is a dense evergreen laurel, but pedestrians can just be glimpsed passing on the other side.

  AJ has lined up four glasses of different ciders on the table between them. Three are almost empty – Melanie is peering thoughtfully into the fourth.

  ‘You can see the bottom, can’t you?’

  She nods. ‘And bubbles.’

  ‘Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’m honest I’m going to say this one will appeal to you more than the other three.’

  She looks up at him. ‘What – because I’m a woman, you mean?’

  ‘It does tend to be more of a lady’s cider. Sparklier. Sweeter – sort of golden, isn’t it? Appealing to look at. Not enough tannin in it for my taste.’

  ‘In that case …’ She pushes it away. Folds her arms petulantly. ‘In that case I’m not interested. You drink it.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t possibly. I’ve got a reputation to protect – anyone could wander by and catch me drinking it. That’ll be my cred right out of the window.’

  ‘Misogynist.’

  ‘Dungaree wearer. I should have known it when I saw your car – Beetle – dead giveaway.’

  ‘Ewwww.’ She wrinkles her nose and peers at him as if he’s a cockroach just scuttled out from under the table. ‘A fascist.’

  He nods happily. ‘And the worst sort of fascist. The liberal who got mugged – we make the nastiest conservatives. We’re as bad as ex-smokers when we meet a liberal – want to kill them. Attila the Hun was dangerously and irresponsibly liberal.’

  She laughs. She’s got a sweet laugh. He’s surprised he’s just said that and wonders if he’s half serious. ‘I don’t really mean that,’ he says. ‘I’m not really a fascist.’

  ‘I don’t care if you are. It’s a tough system we work in. It’s tough to see the way it’s abused.’

  ‘A waste of taxpayers’ money. And we’re dancing to Brussels’ tune most of the time.’

  ‘I know it. And I also know that if I hadn’t been a woman I wouldn’t have done half as well. I was up against three men for the job – I was maybe as good as two of them, not as good as the other, but what panel member was going to give him the job ahead of me?’

  ‘You’re being modest.’

  She gives a rueful smile. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I do still care. I do care about them – every last one of them. From Zelda to Moses to Isaac Handel to Monster Mother. I care about them all.’

  AJ presses his lips together. He decides not to answer that. Zelda? He’s just not going to lie on that issue.

  ‘So.’ He changes the subject. ‘Have I made you into a cider drinker? Do you like it?’

  She beams at him. ‘I love it!’

  ‘Another? I’ll get you a man’s cider this time.’

  Her glittering smile doesn’t change. ‘No thank you. I’ll have a vodka.’

  ‘You hate cider, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’d puke if I had any more.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’re so adventurous. Open to new possibilities – flexible.’

  ‘I know. Make the voddy a double.’

  AJ gets the drinks. When he sets them on the table he finds he can’t keep up the humour.

  ‘What is it?’ Melanie says. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t tell me nothing. It’s a lie. And I’m your boss.’

  AJ’s trapped. He can’t say what he’s really thinking – it would be the cider talking – so he says the first thing that pops into his head that sounds vaguely funny. ‘Oh, you know. Just I found my first grey pube today. Forty-three and already I’ve got grey pubes.’

  Melanie begins to open her mouth – all ready to answer that comment – then she realizes what he’s said and her mouth freezes as if her jaw has seized up. Her eyes open a little wider. AJ’s heart sinks. It was meant to be funny but he got it so, so wrong. The first rule of basic human psychology: never assume intimacy and ease too early on. He wants to defend himself, but of course it’s too late. Not only could this cost him any chance he might have had with her, she could accuse him of sexual harassment – he could get fired – he could be blacklisted.

  But Melanie grins.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That,’ she says, ‘is the best answer I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Is it true? Because I’ve had two since I was thirty-six. They glint at me in the bathroom mirror every time I have a shower. Sometimes I think they’re mocking me.’

  Usually AJ can come back with something, but now he hasn’t a clue. For four years he’s thought Melanie was off limits – that she was too serious and strait-laced ever to be interested in him. But, in the last twenty-four hours, he’s learned she’s completely different outside the unit – a natural, lovely human being with problems like the rest of the world. She’s struggling with her job, she likes a drink, she’s been having an affair with someone she shouldn’t, and she’s got two grey pubic hairs. Which glint when she gets out of the shower.

  He wishes she hadn’t said anything about the pubes and getting out of the shower. Too much – too much. He does that thing old-fashioned guys do when they’re nervous. He slides a finger into his collar and moves it side to side as if he’s struggling with his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘you’re lying. I can tell from looking at you it’s not true.’

  ‘Well, OK. It’s not true.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Actually, I noticed them two weeks ago.’

  She shakes her head and smiles. ‘I mean you’re not worried about pubic hairs. It’s more than that.’

  He feels defeated. And tired. He blinks. ‘OK, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m just thinking about what happened – remember our misunderstanding at that party?’

  ‘I do. And I don’t think it was a misunderstanding.’

  He lowers his chin. ‘I didn’t misunderstand you?’

  ‘No. I flirted with you. I was single – I’d just got divorced. I was on the lookout.’

  ‘And,’ he says slowly, putting the pieces together, ‘by the time I came back and asked you, you were—?’

  ‘With Jonathan.’

  ‘With Jonathan,’ he echoes, thinking, What a twat, what a lame wanker he’s been. He puts his head in his hands and groans. ‘I can’t believe it. You mean, all this time – all this time, you and I could have been … ?’

  She smiles a little shyly, holding his eyes. And then she gets half to her feet, puts her hands on the table, leans across and kisses him full on the mouth.

  Hit and Run

  FLEA’S FACE IS drained and white – as if all the moonlight is bouncing off it. Her eyes are locked on Caffery’s.

  ‘You what?’ she murmurs. ‘What did you say? Say it again.’

  He stands in the hollow night and repeats it – almost guiltily. ‘I know what happened to Misty. I know what happened and where. It was here. On this stretch of road.’

  Flea stare
s at him, incredulous. He imagines he can see a little buzz of light zipping round behind her eyes – the evidence of her brain working, formulating an answer. But she ducks the question – lowers her face, shrugs and says offhandedly, ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously – I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, you’re more insane than I ever suspected – and that’s saying something.’

  She begins to gather up her rucksack. She hikes it on to her shoulder and turns away, in the direction of the car.

  ‘Frankly, Jack, I can hear the sounds of someone losing the plot, and I don’t have to hang around to … Hey!’ She stops. He’s grabbed the dangling strap of the rucksack. ‘Let go!’ She struggles with him, leaning back and pulling on the bag. He holds on tight. ‘What’re you doing – let it go.’

  He answers her pull – using two hands. She’s strong – surprisingly strong – it takes all his effort to keep the bag level. ‘Stop this,’ he says. ‘Stop this and sit down. I know what’s going on – now keep still and listen to me. I know what he did.’

  ‘What who did? WHO WHO WHO? And WHAT WHAT WHAT? WHO did WHAT? See?’ She yanks the bag. ‘You can’t even answer. You can’t even answer me when I—’

  ‘Thom,’ he yells. ‘Thom, your fucking brother.’

  The breath goes out of her. She stops shouting, stops pulling, and stands there – glaring at him, head jutting forward, sinews on her neck standing up.

  ‘I know what happened. The whole thing. Get used to it.’

  A long moment passes. Somewhere, on a distant, invisible jet stream in the west, a plane changes course. Whines high and thin and lonely. Flea’s eyes glisten. And then, just when he thinks she’s going to spit at him, she releases the bag and sinks to the ground. Bone-weary – she drops her head between her knees, clasps her hands around the back of her neck.

  He stands a pace away, breathing hard. More than three years ago Flea Marley lost her parents in a horrific diving accident. Since then other things have gone wrong in her life – badly wrong, she hasn’t had it easy. Because of that he’s protected her role in Misty’s disappearance. But enough time has elapsed. Now it’s time for Flea to return the favour and help him. When he imagined this encounter he’d half imagined she’d be so grateful to him that she’d cry, throw her arms around his neck or something. He certainly didn’t anticipate this. But then, when someone’s kept something like this inside for so long it’s crazy to expect it to be a painless operation.

  He calms himself, pushes the hair off his forehead. He takes five paces, stops in the centre of the road and twists round.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m going to give you a demonstration. A lesson. About hit and runs.’

  She lifts her face, bewildered. Her eyes focus hazily on him.

  ‘A car comes from this direction.’ He points off to the east, away into the distance. ‘It’s a silver Ford Focus and it’s going fast. Too fast. The driver – Thom – is drunk. He thinks it’s an open road, a straight road. At the same time a woman is coming down from that field over there. She’s drunk too – and high on heroin she’s smuggled into the clinic. She’s disorientated. She gets to the road, and either she doesn’t realize it’s a road and walks into it without looking, or she knows it’s a road and she steps out deliberately, trying to flag down the car. Wanting a lift maybe. Either way, Thom doesn’t notice her until he gets here.’

  Caffery digs a finger down to indicate the place he stands.

  ‘He slams on the brakes, but he’s going so fast that he doesn’t stop until he reaches …’ Caffery takes fifteen strides along the road, then stops and opens his hands ‘… here. Too late. Misty goes up over the roof and ends up – well, right about where you’re sitting.’ He pauses. There’s a long silence, interrupted by an owl screeching somewhere above the hamlet. He clears his throat, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Thom doesn’t report it. Somehow he gets the body away from here. And you, Flea, you, in your infinite wisdom, you protect your brother. You cover the whole thing up for him.’

  He stops. She is getting to her feet. She’s a little unsteady, still disorientated and shaky. But she keeps her balance. She drags her bag up, hoists it on to her shoulder. She turns on one heel and walks stiffly away. After a few seconds he follows, only he’s left it too long. By the time he rounds the corner she has broken into a jog and is almost at the car. Before he can catch up she has jumped inside, started the engine and is screeching off into the road.

  He puts out a hand to stop her, but she executes a tight U-turn, guns the engine and within a few short seconds is gone. Then it’s just him and the night – the whiff of exhaust and burnt rubber like a handprint in the air.

  Strawberries and Marshmallow

  THEY END UP taking a taxi to her house, which turns out to be not a million miles from his – but quite different. Melanie lives in a very sparkly, clean new-build three-bed maisonette on the outskirts of Stroud. She has an overrun garden which, she explains to AJ, she doesn’t have time to venture into, a view of the surrounding hills on one side and a view of the city lights on the other. There’s no driftwood furniture – in fact she doesn’t have any discernible style. It’s clean and straightforward and not as perfect and grown-up as he thought it would be.

  She pours more drinks – vodka and orange – but they sit untouched on the glass coffee table while he and Melanie get down to some heavier kissing on the sofa. AJ is lost, his head turning crazily. She is soft and smooth and silky. She smells of all the things he imagined she’d smell of: strawberries and lemon and marshmallow. And she is making up for lost time – devouring him – holding him by both ears and pulling his mouth hard on to hers. He runs a finger down her spine – feels the soft nub of her bra fastening between her spine and blouse.

  ‘Mmmmmmm,’ she murmurs, not resisting him at all. ‘Nice …’

  ‘Melanie …’ He has to pull away from her. He puts both feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, head dropped. His thoughts are racing.

  There’s a pause, then she sits up. Pushes her hair back. ‘AJ? What is it?’

  ‘It’s been a long time. That’s all.’

  ‘Well …’ She gives a small, nervous giggle. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘Oh no—’ She clamps her hands over her mouth. ‘You’re gay.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘You’re impotent.’

  ‘No! No – none of that. I’m just …’ He swallows. Rubs his hands hard across his face, trying to bring a little sobriety into the equation. ‘I’m …’ He turns and looks at her. Her make-up is all smudged. ‘Christ, you’re so fucking fanciable.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘God yes.’

  ‘Then … ?’

  He sighs. ‘Don’t freak out when I tell you – it puts some girls off.’

  ‘OK,’ she says cautiously. ‘Hit me with it. HIV? Herpes?’

  ‘No. Worse. I’m old-fashioned.’

  ‘Old-fashioned? In what way? Kinky? Or sensitive?’

  ‘Not kinky.’

  ‘Sensitive then? And that puts women off?’

  ‘Can I explain?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I won’t interrupt.’

  ‘OK – three years ago I was with this girl, this woman—’

  ‘You’re still in love with her?’

  ‘Are you going to let me talk?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK – the answer’s no. I definitely am not in love with her and I definitely wasn’t at the time. In fact, I can’t even remember her name. But that was sort of common for me in those days.’

  ‘Racy.’

  ‘Yes – racy – but kind of pathetic and empty. So I’m in bed with this nameless, faceless girl, knowing that after the sex I’ll probably pay her cab home then avoid her phone calls, because that’s the sort of person I was in those days. Girlfriends came and went. It’s afternoon – y’know us shift workers have to get it when we can – and my mum’s
out in the garden.’

  ‘You live with your mother?’

  ‘Yes – I mean, no. It’s not like it sounds. It was good the way it was. Anyway, I’m in the bedroom and mum’s outside and …’ He trails off. He still doesn’t quite get this part right when he tells it to people – it never comes out as smoothly as he wants. ‘And Mum had a convulsion – she used to from time to time. Epilepsy. I used to take her to the neurology clinic at Frenchay to keep her medication checked – they said it was under control, except, no, the drugs weren’t working. So she’s having this convulsion and as she’s going down she hits a rock in the garden.’ He taps his temple. ‘Here.’

  ‘Nasty.’ Melanie sucks in a breath. ‘One of the worst places.’

  ‘She’d have survived if she’d been taken to hospital. But I’m so engrossed in what’s happening on the end of my dick that I’m not thinking about my mother. I can hear my dog barking outside, but I ignore it. There’s no one else at home and so Mum lies out there. There’s a bleed on her brain and before you know it …’

  ‘Christ. Christ.’

  ‘I know … Christ.’

  A long dulling silence comes down on them as they both go over this in their heads, Melanie maybe trying to picture it more clearly and AJ trying to picture it less clearly. Then, after what seems like for ever, she rests a tentative hand on his back. ‘Look, if it helps at all, my dad died – he had brain cancer, so I learned a bit about the brain. I used to go with him when he went for radiology. So you and I? We’ve got something in common.’

  AJ remembers the radiology department – he used to walk past it with Mum. All the living dead, their perspex radiology masks in their hands, waiting to have their heads blasted. So her dad too? He feels stupid. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m not the only one – I’m being selfish.’

  ‘No no! You’re not. Not at all – I completely get it, I promise. And I get the guilt thing too. But listen – let’s picture this: you’re at work when it happens. Or at the shops, or at the pub …’