by P. R. Black
‘It may be the very least you owe me, Dr Sillars. You have my number, I think.’
‘Yes.’ Then his expression hardened to the point of hostility. ‘Now that I’ve agreed to what you’ve asked – I want you to do me a favour.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Whatever it is you’re trying to find out… I don’t think it’s going to provide any answers for you. There’s no eureka moment here. There’s no treasure map. I think you should give this up. And I’ll level with you – you look terrible.’
Georgia wanted to spit at him. After a throbbing moment of utter rage, she managed to say: ‘They did warn me you were a charmer.’
‘You look as if you haven’t slept in weeks. If someone told me you hadn’t eaten either, I’d believe them. You look like a dead woman walking.’
‘That’s a very interesting turn of phrase.’
‘I mean it. I hesitate to tell you this, but I happen to give a shit what happens, so I’ll come out with it. If you keep living your life in this way, you’ll be in your grave before long. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? With your own practice? Get back to it, is my advice. Work hard. Work long hours. Think about other people. You’ve been given a terrible deal in life – I can’t imagine what it even feels like. But I can see where it’s going. Get out of this mindset. It’s going to kill you.’
In a voice that seized her by the throat, having been perched somewhere else in the auditorium, Georgia said: ‘The sooner the better.’
She left him in the gloom without looking back.
28
Silly kids, silly games. But the play can get a little rough, in our little group. Kisses are weapons, I’ve discovered. They cause casualties.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
It took Georgia a while to spot her. She was in among a group of women about the same age. For once, she had blended into the crowd. Like them, she was still in her gym gear. She looked radically different with her hair tied back and her make-up removed.
Whereas she’d been anxious in her movements heading into the gym, her bag clutched close to her chest, now she was open, beaming and laughing as part of the group, her backpack slung over her shoulder. If Georgia had been this girl’s mother, she’d have been pleased to see her at the centre of this scene, happy and relaxed and in lots of company.
The girl had changed out of the band T-shirt, ripped jeans and heavy boots she had arrived in, and now favoured those kind of camouflage-type Lycra bottoms that Georgia found a bit of an eyesore – purple, black and orange. Perhaps the design drew inspiration from the animal kingdom. Perhaps it was to baffle predators. On top of that was a fluffy hooded top with Ferngate University boldly embossed on the front – quite new.
She had her own car, tucked into one of the bays at the back of the sports and leisure department. It wouldn’t quite have qualified for ‘old banger’ status, like the car Georgia had bought off an uncle who should have known better once she was out on placement in her senior years. It had seen plenty of mileage, though, and one or two bumps that were probably too expensive to repair, and not serious enough to warrant it – a parent’s weekend runabout, donated for a noble cause.
Georgia caught up with her just after she slung her bag into the boot.
‘Colette?’
Recognition was immediate. Colette slammed down the boot. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you, if you have a spare five minutes.’
‘I’m heading home for a run. I don’t have any time.’
‘It’s about Stephanie.’
‘Of course it’s about Stephanie. It wouldn’t be about anything else, would it?’ There was a shrill note in Colette’s voice. Georgia recognised it from years spent in the surgery, when she had to suggest an unpopular lifestyle change to a patient. As in that scenario, Georgia wanted to give the other person a good shake, but her training kicked in.
‘I know it must have been difficult for you, Colette. It’s not easy for anyone, when a friend just vanishes like that.’
‘She wasn’t really my friend. I couldn’t say that.’
‘But you knew her, didn’t you? You guys all wrote. You all loved writing for the Hephaestians. You had that in common, didn’t you?’
‘No, we didn’t really have anything in common. I’ve said I’m busy. You’ll have to excuse me.’
‘I want to know why Stephanie didn’t go to the cheese and wine night, Colette. The night she disappeared. The night of the fight.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You remember the cheese and wine night, Colette, don’t you? The night you told Martin that Riley had been sleeping with Stephanie. The night it all kicked off. Everyone remembers that night, don’t they?’
‘I honestly think you need help. You’re a sick person.’
‘I am a sick person, Colette. Sick with worry, sick with fear, sick with dread. Imagine if every single time your phone went off, you got that jolt, and you thought: “This is it. This is when they tell me they’ve found a body. This is when I find out what happened to my daughter.” Just think about that for a minute. This is every day of my life.’
‘I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I would not have wanted anything to happen to Stephanie.’
‘Except you did, didn’t you? That night. You wanted something to happen to her, all right. You wanted her out of the way.’
‘Shut your mouth. Crazy old witch. And brush your hair or something. Jesus. You look a fright. Have you been drinking?’
Georgia smiled thinly. ‘Apart from one night just recently, I’ve had one… two glasses of wine. In the past two years. You see, I don’t want to find out what’ll happen if I have a lot to drink. I have a fear of that. Of doing something bad. I think I’ll go off my head.’
‘You’re a long way past that, love.’ Georgia had cut off the younger woman’s path to the driver’s side door of the car; seeing she was not going to give way, Colette turned and walked the long way round.
Georgia went after her, speaking to the retreating hooded top. ‘I’m curious about the night Stephanie vanished. Because she was expected to go to the cheese and wine, but she didn’t. And that suited you best of all, I think.’
‘You’re nuts. And if you try and stop me getting into this car, it’s assault.’
‘I haven’t touched you, and I’m not going to. Just answer me this: how did you persuade Stephanie not to go to the cheese and wine night?’
‘Keep taking the pills, Mrs Healey.’ She reached the driver’s side door. The car was so old it didn’t have central locking; Colette slid a key into the lock.
‘You arranged for Stephanie not to be there. And you made sure there was a confrontation of some kind at the party, while she was gone. You wanted to wreck the group, because you were after a man. I mean, making Martin jealous when you had it off with Riley, my God, that took some nerve. It makes you a determined little cookie, doesn’t it? I think what happened was, you diverted Stephanie, somehow. You distracted her – or you set up some other meeting. Somewhere out of the way. Somewhere down that dark road. Didn’t you?’
The girl’s face quivered; blood suffused that pale skin, spreading across her throat. ‘Shut your mouth. Just shut up!’
‘All I need to know is what happened. I know you weren’t there when she disappeared. But I think you were involved up to your neck in the drama that night. It fits. So, tell me – what happened? What am I not seeing?’
‘You know what happened! So do the police! I had nothing to do with what happened to Stephanie – everyone knows it! Get fucking lost!’
Georgia licked her lips. Calm. She had to be calm, now. But it was difficult now she had the scent. Now that she knew her instincts were right. ‘I’m on your side. Colette. Look at me. This is important. I need to hear you say it. How did it happen? Why didn’t Stephanie go to the cheese and wine event? What made her stay away?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you,’ Col
ette said. ‘If it shuts you up, if it gets you off our fucking case, I’ll tell you. It was a message system we had. In the Hephaestians. An actual message board. Not online. A cork board, like you’d have in your kitchen. At the department of English. Outside the refectory. We used it to keep in touch, to set things up. Daft messages. Cryptic things. We all had code names. I set one up for Stephanie.’
‘What was hers?’
‘Ginny Long Legs. I wrote to her, and I told her… I had something she wanted. I set up a meeting at Ferngate Bridge.’
‘What was it she wanted?’
‘What do you think?’ the girl screamed. ‘Her bloody Cornfed! The only thing she could think of! The only thing she could bloody talk about! She was hooked; she was an embarrassment. And Martin couldn’t see past her. He thought she was God’s gift. Thought it made her a poet. She thought it made her interesting. But she was a disaster. She went right off the rails. It took a matter of days. You should have seen the state of her. And she would have turned him onto it. She’d have ruined his life. She wasn’t even into Martin, and she was fucking that horrible twat of a singer. Martin had no idea about that, none. And she didn’t deserve him.
‘So yeah. I set up the meeting that didn’t exist. I pretended I was Riley. He had this weird script, I wrote, “No phones, no traces, just us. BAR.” Burn After Reading. And she did. I also wrote some hint that the cops were about; that I was getting nervous. There couldn’t be any phone record. That’s why she didn’t take the phone. As far as I was concerned, it meant she couldn’t text Martin, and so Martin couldn’t text her. It got her right out of the way. So yes – I wrote that. I told her I wanted to see her, and I had the Cornfed. But it wasn’t me who met her, if anyone did. I was at the cheese and wine night. And I was with Martin from then on.
‘I wanted her distracted. I did something a million other people do, every other day, to get that ungrateful witch out of my way. That’s all. And the police know about it, before you ask. It wasn’t my fault, whatever happened next. And you know something? If she hadn’t been a filthy fucking junkie in the first place, none of this would have happened!’
Georgia’s arm moved on reflex, a sudden surge from the elbow, as if a puppeteer had twitched her strings.
The slap was like a gunshot. Colette Browning sagged against her car, clutching her face. ‘Oh!’ was all she could say.
‘What did you do? You silly, nasty little bitch. What did you do?’ Georgia snarled.
‘Get away! Get away from me!’
Before Georgia could say anything else, two hands gripped her shoulders and she was spun around, then hurled to the ground, the world twisting, then exploding. She sat up, and blinked, stunned.
Martin Duke’s fists were clenched at the sleeves of his corduroy jacket. She didn’t look at his face. She didn’t want to.
‘You,’ he hissed. ‘You again. Haven’t you been told?’
Georgia stayed sat on the tarmac, legs splayed. She could only blink.
‘I’ve a mind to sue,’ he said. She felt droplets of spittle on her forehead. ‘I’ll definitely be calling the police. But I’ll say it loud and clear. I’ll shout it! For anyone else who’s interested!’ And he did, a terrible, deep sound like the lowing of a bull. ‘Stay away from us. Got it? Do not contact us again. Get out of town, and don’t come back. You are over. So is your daughter. She’s dead. What happened to her is no fault of ours.’
‘Maybe not of yours,’ Georgia said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll give you that, Martin. But as for that trollop behind you – you remember, for the rest of your life… in the middle of the night, when these things really come back to haunt you… That it’s all your fault.’
Georgia couldn’t make out Colette; just an impression of a face in profile, comically marked with the palm of Georgia’s hand, as the girl struggled to get into the car.
‘Get out of here. Don’t come back,’ Martin Duke sneered. ‘And don’t say another word.’
‘Dream on, son. I’m just getting started. Don’t be getting in my way. Either of you.’
She did not get the chance to catch Colette’s eye; the girl was already buckling herself into the front seat of the car. Martin Duke did not look back, easing his frame into the passenger seat. Then the little car started up and pulled away, fast.
29
I wonder what it would be like to just stop. That moment when everything fades out. I remember watching our old cat die, after it got an injection off the vet. I held it close, and looked right into its eyes while its inner light guttered and went out. I wonder if it would be like that. When you press the plunger and your whole life goes through the vortex. Everything contracting, everything black. It doesn’t sound scary when I put it like that.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
Georgia flew high overhead, watching the trees condensed into broccoli clusters, and the winding thread of the road pulled taut. Once she almost clipped the high branches, coming close enough to see them shot through with bright virgin green. More than once she saw her own shadow burning black spots in the heath as she banked this way and that in the sun. The irony was, she was a terrible flier in real life. She’d even medicated herself before one long-haul flight, that holiday they’d taken to Florida. She might as well have medicated herself for the holiday, too. But here and now, after she’d mastered a natural inclination towards vertigo, she got into it, and even knew delight as she soared, banked and turned. Took flight – that was the phrase. That was perfect.
She was sat in the car, parked in a lay-by off one of the high back roads, at the north side of Ferngate. Her laptop was plugged into the battery, and she was fully focused on the screen, her hands holding a peripheral joystick. Georgia was the type of person who never changed her ringtone, once she got a new phone. She only usually found out what she really needed on any handsets or computers and stuck to that. She couldn’t have imagined herself piloting a drone, even a matter of weeks ago. She might have shown some rare weakness at this point, asking Rod to take control, or at least to show her the ropes. But a strange, natural fluidity had come in, a dexterity she would never quite have credited herself with before. She wasn’t great with her hands, an attribute she had privately credited with the reason she hadn’t become a surgeon, despite being encouraged in that direction by more than one senior house officer. But here and now, she developed a talent, or at least a working interest.
The dry-stone walls criss-crossed the countryside much as they had on the online maps. There was no disguising Chessington Hall on the overhead shots. Much as Georgia instinctively distrusted modern technology’s insidious erosion of privacy, there was some democracy involved in that country estates could not altogether hide their location, their surroundings and their basic shape. But much like the OS2 map that Georgia had open by her side, these maps only provided so much information where publicly accessed thoroughfares turned into private roads. There, the 3D imagery and the precise kinks in the wires you could travel along gave way to mystery, flat images. She needed to know the topography, the magic OS2 maps could only hint at. She had to know the flaws, and the ways in.
She came across it quite by accident, distracted for a moment by a herd of sheep scattered beneath her like loose feathers in the wind. It was a part where a tributary flowed under a bow-backed stone wall. Georgia had a Scottish uncle who called such waterways ‘burns’, and this had stuck. Hovering high overhead with the dread persistence of a raptor, her drone focused on the point in the wall surrounding Chessington Hall. The adult sheep and their lambs nearby gave a good bit of perspective, and she was sure to keep them in view as the craft dropped slowly, and smoothly, towards the green grass below.
Strong afternoon sunlight was visible through the hole in the bridge. The aperture was big enough to admit one of the sheep, surely. Unless the breed was especially small, and the whole tableau was an elaborate perspective trick from a surrealist comedy show.
‘That’s the one,’ she said to he
rself, taking the drone back into the skies, watching the sheep become tufted grass, become cotton wool, become snowflakes. ‘It’s worth a shot. Now: a new outfit.’
30
I just tried to put make-up on. I remember boys saying something horrible about me, something like, ‘You can’t get make-up on a donkey, can you?’ Well, now I feel as if I’ve put make-up on a bad scarecrow. Or the scarecrow’s wife, I should say. I actually slapped myself. How my hands shook; how bad I look. Cornfed. I wish I’d never met you, but we both know I can’t leave. Still. I’ve got this job to do. I’m thinking this might turn into a book.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
It was a bit of a squeeze, as it turned out. But she forced her way through it anyway.
Even before she reached the gap, she had considered not going ahead with this endeavour. This was the moment when she crouched at the other side of the wall, where she had been berthed for most of the afternoon. She’d come on foot, having parked the car at a tourist spot. She wore dark clothes – putting them on had felt ridiculous. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wanted to laugh. She was a facsimile of a cat burglar, perhaps copied from the pages of a child’s picture book. A stripy top and a Dick Turpin number for her face wouldn’t have seemed too outrageous an accoutrement. She had decided against the tight-fitting black beanie hat as she headed out the door into a lovely mild spring evening, realising that it should look obviously dodgy for anyone who happened to be watching.
She had heard voices in the woods as she approached Chessington Hall from the west side – ostensibly the wildest route through to the hall. She had gone through a ‘PRIVATE – KEEP OUT’ sign at a five-bar gate, and until she had reached the grounds proper, she had spent a good portion of her journey staring over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to be run down by a bull. But she encountered no one, until she heard the sounds of voices and laughter over the stone wall that bordered the property.