by Danuta Reah
She felt a bit wary of this new Jonathan. She’d known him for almost fourteen years – oh, not well. He’d been her tutor at college – he’d arrived there in her final year. He had been a good tutor, if rather distant and impersonal. She’d had intermittent contact with him after that – the art world was a small one – and then he’d made her the surprise offer of her present job. Their relationship had always been an unequal, a professional one, with Jonathan in the position of power. She didn’t want confidences from him that he might regret tomorrow.
They were at Victoria Quays now, and the dark of the towpath became the lights of the shop fronts and cafés, the hotel. The Parkway ran behind the canal basin, and the massive blocks of Park Hill and Hyde Park stood against the night sky in the distance.
They went into the café, and ordered food. Jonathan ordered a bottle of wine as well. Eliza shook her head when he offered her some. ‘I’m drinking later with Laura,’ she said. He poured himself a glass and drained it. Then he poured another.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
He hunched over the table. ‘It’s just beginning to hit me.’
‘I know.’ There wasn’t much else to say.
‘My father wanted me to join the police,’ Jonathan said suddenly, surprising her. ‘It was what he always wanted to do. He didn’t understand about art. It was my mother who could see I had the talent.’
‘It’s a macho kind of business,’ Eliza said.
He looked surprised. ‘Art? No, of course, you mean the police. It is. And I’m not into that kind of macho.’ He drank more wine, frowning. ‘It’s all a power thing, intimidating people, pretending…’ He stopped. ‘I used to get bullied at school, you know.’ She realized that he’d already been drinking. Was, in fact, a bit drunk. ‘I got into karate after that,’ he said. ‘Worked like fuck at it for months. Then I beat them to a pulp.’ He frowned. ‘There was hell to pay. I thought my father would be pleased.’ He shrugged.
Jonathan would hate the recollection of this talk tomorrow, especially if it got more personal. She hunted around for a response, but their food arrived then, providing a useful distraction, and she took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘How’s your own work going?’ she said. Jonathan’s photographic study of socially excluded children.
He shrugged, carefully scraping oil off his fish. He watched his figure like a hawk. ‘It isn’t. It isn’t possible to be creative and get bogged down in all this paperwork. It’s death to the artist.’
This hadn’t been Eliza’s experience. For her, working closely with other people’s art acted as a stimulus.
‘Flynn’s not that good,’ Jonathan said suddenly. ‘He’s derivative. He’s just a good self-publicist.’ He drank some more wine. ‘I’ve got someone I’d like to exhibit, but he isn’t really a gallery artist. He’s a conceptual artist. He got really excited about Meadowhall.’ The vast shopping mall on the outskirts of the city that had sucked some of the life out of the city centre, a vast temple to consumerism. ‘He said it was created by an artist, a genius. It’s a parasite, you see, in the city’s guts and it keeps on growing.’
Eliza laughed. It was a clever comparison. Meadowhall stood beside the sewage works.
Jonathan gave a reluctant smile. ‘He was serious,’ he said.
‘OK, but it’s wonderful.’ Eliza was entertained by the idea.
Jonathan had finished the wine now. ‘I need to get home,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave the car. Get a taxi.’ He got out his phone and squinted at the numbers. He seemed hardly aware that she was there.
She checked the time. She needed to get going to be in time for Laura. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said.
He nodded absently, keying numbers into his phone.
By the time Kerry had done Stacy’s hair and they’d tried on clothes and listened to CDs, Stacy’s mum had come back and made tea.
‘How are you, Kerry?’ Stacy’s mum said as she scooped chips on to Kerry’s plate. ‘You hungry?’
Kerry nodded. She was starving.
‘You’ll get fat,’ Stacy said, looking at the piled-up plate.
Kerry was too hungry to care.
‘Oh, lay off, Stacy.’ Stacy’s mum put her plate in front of her. ‘Kerry’s not a big lump like you. You’ve got a lovely figure, Kerry.’
Stacy sat at the table and nibbled a chip. She was frowning. She didn’t like her mum paying Kerry compliments, but her mum only did that because she was sorry for Kerry.
So she nudged Stacy. ‘Shall I put those sequins on your T-shirt?’ she said.
Stacy stopped frowning. ‘Like the ones you’ve got on yours?’ she said.
Stacy’s mum looked at Kerry’s tiger T-shirt that she’d jazzed up to look like the one Samantha Mumba was wearing in Bliss. ‘Aren’t you clever, Kerry?’ she said. ‘I wish Stacy could sew like that.’ What she meant was, Poor little Kerry. Your mum drinks and your dad’s in prison. But Stacy didn’t see what her mum meant. She thought her mum was always saying that Kerry was better at everything. She was frowning again. If Kerry wasn’t careful, they’d fall out. Kerry needed to be friends with Stacy now, she needed her in a good mood, so she said quickly, ‘It’s Stacy’s idea. Stacy thought of it.’ And she pulled her magazine out of her school bag and started showing Stacy pictures, so that Stacy’s mum began to look a bit fed up, and then she left them alone.
Stacy gave Kerry a quick look, and they both started giggling. It was going to be all right.
Later, they sat in Stacy’s room watching the telly. Kerry was sewing sequins on to Stacy’s T-shirt, and they were talking. Stacy had the window open so that they could smoke without her mum knowing. ‘She says it’s you makes me smoke,’ she said, getting back at Kerry for the things her mum had said earlier.
‘It’s you makes me smoke,’ Kerry said, and tried to blow a smoke ring. They started giggling again.
‘Don’t get ash on my top,’ Stacy said, pushing Kerry’s cig away from the T-shirt she was working on. ‘Let’s have a look at Bliss, then.’ She sat cross-legged on the bed, turning the pages of Kerry’s magazine. ‘Mum says you shouldn’t be able to afford this,’ she said.
Kerry felt her face start to flush. She didn’t want Stacy to know she’d nicked it. ‘My mum gets it for me,’ she said.
‘No she doesn’t.’ Stacy went on turning the pages, looking at the clothes and the make-up. ‘I really want one of them,’ she said, pointing at a leather jacket that one of the models was wearing. ‘She’s taller than I am. She’s got nice hair.’ She glanced sideways at Kerry. ‘That blue one’d look nice on you. It’s only £65. I’m going to ask my dad to get me one like that, only cerise.’
Stacy knew that Kerry couldn’t have a leather jacket that cost £65, and she couldn’t make one, either. Then she looked fed up. ‘They’ll say I can have Mandy’s.’ Mandy was Stacy’s sister. ‘It’s not fair. Mandy always gets new things and I get hand-me-downs. You’re lucky. You haven’t got a sister.’
Stacy didn’t know about Lyn. But Lyn was only Kerry’s half-sister. Her dad had gone away before Kerry was born. ‘He wanted me to go with him,’ Lyn used to say to Kerry when they were upstairs together and Mum and Dad were downstairs. ‘But I said I’d stay and look after Mum. Because of him.’ Lyn blamed Dad. ‘We were all right until he came along,’ she’d said to Kerry. And another time, shaking her: ‘Say you hate him!’ But Kerry wouldn’t, and Lyn had been mad at her for ages.
Kerry tried to remember how it had been when Lyn left home. Mum had made her go, that’s what Lyn said. Home had been all rows, Kerry could remember that. Dad had looked tired and worried, but that was the time when there had been Maggie and Ellie. On Saturdays, Dad and Maggie used to take them out, Kerry and Ellie, or sometimes Dad took them on his own. He liked Ellie – Kerry had been jealous sometimes.
Then it had been the last day, the day they went on the picnic, the day something had happened. And then Ellie was dead and they came and took Dad away, and Kerry could reme
mber the eyes as her friends had walked past the house, still in a group. You coming, Kizz? But no one said that any more. Lyn…its abut yor dad meet u at the cafy 7 dont b l8…And FDAY SAME PLACE 5.00. Stacy had said something, and she’d missed it. ‘What?’ she said.
Stacy rolled her eyes. ‘What’ve we got tomorrow? In the afternoon?’
‘It’s English and then it’s French,’ Kerry said.
Stacy yawned and went back to her magazine. ‘I really love Dermot O’Leary,’ she said.
Kerry’s idea began to form. ‘He’s not as cute as Martin,’ she said, slowly.
Stacy thumped Kerry’s arm. ‘Shut up!’ But she looked pleased.
‘I think he fancies you,’ Kerry said.
‘Shut up!’ Stacy’s face was red now.
‘I know something about Martin Smith,’ Kerry said. She was stitching the last sequins on to the T-shirt. ‘There. You can wear it now.’ Stacy was watching her. Kerry smoothed out the T-shirt, making sure the sequins were lying flat. She held it up against Stacy’s plump chest. The black would make her look thinner. And the sequins would show that Stacy had boobs, which was more than Kerry did. ‘You’ll look fab. I saw him in the market last Friday,’ she added. Friday afternoons, the Year 12 students had study time.
‘Who?’ Stacy knew perfectly well who.
‘Martin. He’s got a job. He was loading stuff on one of the stalls.’ That was true enough, Kerry had seen him on her way home. ‘I saw Hog-face Susie talking to him.’ Stacy was frowning. Susan Hogg was in Year 11, and she was pretty and slim and she knew it. Stacy hated her.
‘You’re making it up,’ she accused.
‘I’m not! I’m just telling you because you’re my mate.’
Stacy looked at her. ‘D’you really think he fancies me?’ she said. Her face was all bright and hopeful.
‘Course he does. But I suppose if he doesn’t know you like him, he might as well go out with Hog-face.’
Stacy was biting her lip and looking uncertain. ‘I know!’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Why don’t we go down the market Friday afternoon?’ Stacy said. ‘We could go after school.’
‘I can’t,’ Kerry said. ‘I’ve got detention and I’ll get suspended. I want to meet someone too, and I can’t go.’
‘Who?’ Stacy’s eyes were round with interest.
‘No one,’ Kerry said. ‘It’s a secret.’
‘I tell you my secrets,’ Stacy said. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend, haven’t you? Go on, you can tell me.’
‘I might, after,’ Kerry said. ‘But I can’t go. You could, though. You don’t need me.’
‘Please, Kerry,’ Stacy said. ‘I daren’t, on my own.’
Kerry knew that was true. Stacy didn’t dare do anything. ‘What if we get caught?’ she said.
‘I’ll say it was me, I’ll say I felt ill and asked you to take me home,’ Stacy said. ‘I’ll say you didn’t want to.’
‘We’ll have to miss the last class,’ Kerry said. ‘Or I’ll be late.’ She kept her eyes on her sewing.
Stacy was quiet for a minute. She didn’t bunk off. Then she said, ‘OK, if it’s just the last class. And we go to the market first.’
Kerry wanted Stacy to say something like that, but now Stacy had, she felt uneasy, as though she was doing something wrong. It was all getting muddled in her mind. But there was only one thing that was important. Lyn had said its about your dad. And Dad saying, Prison changes people, Kizz. The last day, and then Ellie was gone, and Lyn was gone, and Dad was…
And Mum…Kerry hadn’t thought about it before, not like this, but really, Mum had gone too.
‘I’ll say I was ill. I promise.’ Stacy was leaning forward, her face urgent.
Kerry kept her eyes on the sequins that she was smoothing under her fingers. ‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘OK.’
Eliza pulled her scarf more tightly round her neck and quickened her pace as she walked up the hill towards the pub.
The pub was quiet, a few people at the tables and a couple of people standing at the bar. Eliza looked round. Laura was at one of the tables, and waved as Eliza came through the door.
The man behind the bar was reading the paper. Eliza wondered if he was reading about Cara’s death, ten minutes’ walk down the road. She caught his eye and gave him a smile. Eliza came here often enough to know most of the staff. She ordered a glass of wine and went across to the table. Laura jumped up to kiss her. ‘Eliza,’ she said. ‘Sit down. Why did you buy a glass? I’ve got a bottle. Oh, it won’t go to waste.’ She crossed her legs, the epitome of casual chic in linen trousers and a loose, chunky sweater.
Eliza thought about the jeans-wearing, paint-bespattered student who had been the third member of the group with whom she had spent most of her student days. Eliza, Maggie and Laura. This pub had been one of their haunts. It always gave Eliza an odd sense of déjà vu now it had become, effectively, her local.
Laura looked at her in silence, then she said, ‘You look awful. Or as awful as you ever do. Do you want to talk about it?’
Eliza had planned to tell Laura about Cara, about the police, about the man who seemed to be in charge of the investigation. But she wanted to get away from it. She shook her head.
‘OK,’ Laura said, ‘let’s forget about it for the moment. Tell me about the gallery. How’s Jonathan?’ Jonathan had been Laura’s tutor as well, but they had established a friendship outside of the college environment, and had kept in touch over the years. For a while, their relationship had been close, though Eliza was never sure exactly what the nature of that relationship had been. Laura always adopted a slightly protective attitude towards him.
‘Oh, he’s fine.’ Eliza found Jonathan an easy person to work for, on the whole. He let her shoulder rather more of the responsibility for the gallery than he should, but it was all useful experience. ‘Jonathan’s OK,’ Eliza went on. That brief, rather revealing conversation stayed with her. ‘I think he had problems when he was a child.’
‘Did he tell you about that?’ Laura’s mouth twisted. ‘The damage these macho men can do, trying to make their sons conform to their ideals.’
‘He didn’t say much,’ Eliza said quickly. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’ OK, she was curious. ‘You mean Jonathan’s gay?’ She’d often wondered. It would explain the failure of his marriage. But why the secrecy?
‘No.’ Laura said, lighting a cigarette. ‘OK,’ she said in response to Eliza’s look. ‘I started again. I’ll stop once I’ve got this next project out of the way. No, he isn’t gay. But he does have his problems with women. Anyway,’ she said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, ‘you’ve managed to entice the divine Daniel Flynn into exhibiting with you. How did you manage that, as if I needed to ask.’
‘Well…’ Eliza wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell Laura about her situation with Daniel – not until she had a clearer idea herself of what it was. She’d told Laura about the Madrid days, the heady relationship that had gone so well, but she hadn’t told her about its sudden end, the way Daniel had vanished behind a barricade of polite indifference. She gave her a slightly edited version of events. ‘I thought I’d got it right with Daniel,’ she said. Eliza had a history of unsuccessful relationships behind her. ‘But I didn’t. I don’t really know what happened. Every day, I’d be determined that we were going to sit down and talk about it, and somehow…’ Somehow, Daniel had evaded that. And as time had gone on, talking became less and less possible. ‘I gave up in the end. But now he’s here, it’s different…’
‘He sounds like a game player,’ Laura said. ‘Don’t waste your time. Believe me, it’s not worth it.’ She took a drag of her cigarette, narrowing her eyes against the smoke. ‘Now, tell me about this canal thing,’ she said.
Laura was a good drinking companion. They finished the bottle and had another glass each. Drinking made them hungry. Eliza had only had a sandwich with Jonathan earlier, and Laura hadn’t eaten at all, so they wen
t across the road to the Indian café. Their talk became more general as they sat at the Formica tables over dishes of spiced chicken and saffron rice. Laura was disparaging about Zak, her current – and apparently soon to be ex – boyfriend. In return, Eliza shared some more about her time with Daniel in Madrid. ‘I don’t think he’s playing games,’ she said. ‘Not now. He might have thought I was.’ Which was why he had avoided talking about it.
‘Look,’ Laura said, lighting a cigarette, ‘you take it all too seriously. Most people do. Be honest. Take me. Sometimes, all I want is sex. Most men don’t understand that. They go all defensive, expecting me to start looking for commitment and declarations, and I want to say to them, “From you? You are joking? All I wanted was a shag.”’
Eliza laughed. Maybe that was the attitude she needed to cultivate towards Daniel.
She and Laura arranged to meet on Saturday, the evening after Daniel’s opening, and walked some of the way back into town together before Eliza turned off to the canal basin. It was a longer route back to the gallery, but she preferred it to the shortcut via the footpath and the canal bank. Even before the murder, Cara’s murder, she wouldn’t have dreamed of walking the towpath at night. And when she got back, instead of going through the yard to the steps, where the dark mouth of Cadman Street Bridge might still be visible along the canal in the night, she went in through the gallery, going through the rigmarole of alarms and security locks. She walked through the silence of the gallery and up the stairs to her flat, turning her music on as soon as she got in and leaving it to play as she made herself some cocoa and got herself ready for bed. She preferred silence to relax her at the end of the day, but the silence from Cara’s flat spoke to her, and what it said, she didn’t want to hear.
She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but she woke late in the night, sitting up suddenly in the darkness. Something…she sat there in the chill silence. Nothing. There was nothing. She must have been dreaming. And after that her sleep was restless as she dreamt about footsteps and the sound of a child crying on the other side of the wall.