Sarah Rutherford thought it was when Dad found out the twins weren’t his, when he started asking if anyone had a gun, and when he’d got hold of one, killed them all. Did she still believe that? For one fervent moment she wanted Sarah Rutherford there at her side to face Simon Chatwin coming towards them across the marsh. The police monitored his whereabouts, she’d said, so they must still suspect him of something. Now he was in front of her, she felt his shadow.
Adrenaline tracked through her system, telling her to run. She stopped.
She looked up. The man was Paul.
Chapter Twenty-five
The pub was quiet inside, dust motes drifting in the low yellow light that shone through the back door. Everyone was at the finish, out along the spit, Ron had said, handing Paul his pint. Not looking at Alison.
‘Really?’ she’d said, trying not to show her reluctance when Paul suggested they go. He’d taken her arm.
‘You want to go back to the hotel?’ His expression was cool. She’d shaken her head.
‘The police were there when we got back,’ he said, sipping his pint, setting it down. ‘Christian and me. We came back early. Our hearts weren’t really in it, to be honest. Morgan’s idea.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Alison, taking a bigger gulp of hers than she’d intended. Something in her system was stopping her feeling drunk but she didn’t feel normal, there was a low-grade buzz that blurred things. ‘What did the police want?’
‘I think it was something to do with the fire alarms going off,’ he said. ‘They were talking to some woman.’
‘Some woman?’ Casually.
Paul shrugged. ‘Some woman in an overall. Smelled like an ashtray, so maybe it was smoking-related.’ Her, thought Alison. The woman on the gravel with the cigarette in her hand, looking at Paul’s car. ‘Jan told me there was no fire, it was just routine. So maybe it was a prank.’
‘I did smell smoke,’ said Alison.
He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, giving her a sideways glance.
That woman. Who was she?
A shadow passed across the open door, paused, moved away. Not everyone’s watching you, Alison told herself. She took a sip: she’d trained herself for so long to keep quiet, not to give herself away, waiting for him to speak first came easily.
Paul frowned. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘That’s OK,’ she said. Then when his frown didn’t go, ‘What are you sorry for?’
‘Hanging up on you,’ he said, staring fixedly at his drink. It wasn’t really an apology. He raised his head. ‘It’s just…’ And as Paul hesitated she thought, Here it comes, this is it. It’s over.
‘What did Morgan say to you?’ She heard the hostility in her voice, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘It’s just this … paranoia,’ he said, and she could feel his unease. ‘Insecurity. It’s immature. I don’t know if…’
He paused again, looking at her. She thought of what would happen if she told him what Morgan had said, and kept quiet. Paul made an explosive sound. ‘You’re suspicious of everything. Everyone.’
Which of course was true. Alison held the big glass casually in her hand, feeling him watch her. She lifted it to her lips and drank.
‘Not everyone,’ she said, feeling the small hit settle her. She smiled. ‘Not you.’
Paul made an impatient sound. ‘You know who I mean,’ he said. ‘Morgan. Morgan’s family. You’ve got to get over it.’ There it was again, the warning in his voice. She realised he was right, though. She did suspect Morgan’s family. Blustering thoughtless Dr Carter and his sweet little Lucy. They wanted her out of the picture just like Morgan did.
I’m not going, thought Alison. But what she said was, ‘I know.’ And made herself sigh, admitting it. ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked away and quickly she drank again. Over the glass she caught Ron looking at her across the room. She didn’t know if he was shunning her or protecting her, by keeping quiet. It came to her he’d been fond of her, looked after her a bit, when she’d worked collecting his glasses.
He’d shifted his gaze and was looking at Paul now, calculating. Paul rubbed his eyes.
‘You’re tired,’ she said in wonder. She realised she’d never thought of him as susceptible to any kind of weakness, and seeing him weary, something expanded inside her, something softer, more tentative. More loving.
Paul laughed, but it was strained. ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘The alarm last night, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘Work. I’ve got to get something finished and all this wedding stuff, rehearsals, stag business. Keeps getting in the way.’
‘And I’m not helping,’ said Alison.
He glanced at her. ‘Well,’ he said, clearing his throat.
Might she lose him? She held still, feeling a little pinball game of panic set up, not so much in her head as between the cells of her body, escalating.
But then he smiled, took her glass just as he had that first time, and set it down. ‘Let’s say you’re a distraction,’ he said, thoughtfully, shifting. His knee was between hers suddenly, behind the table. His hand was under her skirt, but above the pub’s table he kept his distance, just looking at her, quite relaxed. Across the room Ron wasn’t moving, a cloth and glass in his hands, half polished.
‘Do you really like this place?’ she said, in an effort to keep control, her throat constricted at what he was doing.
He nodded a little. ‘I could see us here, somehow,’ he said, leaning back. Her skirt fell back and his hand stopped, warm and heavy. If anyone came around the table they’d see it. He sighed a little. ‘Only if it was what you wanted.’
He spoke reasonably, lightly, but under his hand volition slipped from her, she felt as though she might agree to anything. Come back here and be Esme again: the dream unfurled in her head with the buzz of what she’d drunk.
Only then he cleared his throat and took his hand back, talking about something else. Alison saw that Ron had come round the bar and was wiping down the tables.
‘And no one could say it was dull here, could they?’ She focused; Paul smiled. ‘Fire engines. Murders. Police. She talked to the decorator too, I saw them. I suppose that stuff is flammable. Thinners, white spirit. Whatever.’
Hold on.
‘She?’ said Alison.
‘The policewoman.’ Paul was on his feet, his hand held out to her. ‘Let’s go back, shall we?’ Sarah Rutherford was here. In the village.
Her head swam as she stood up; around her the world contracted, the voices whispered in her ears, all of it getting closer, pulling tighter, with her inside. Paul folded her hand in his.
* * *
He wanted her to make a noise, and he wanted them to hear it.
The windows were open in the hotel room but the curtains were still drawn, shifting in the warm air. He didn’t turn on the light, he made her kneel in the gloom and from behind her he leaned down and whispered in her ear. Louder.
They’d passed people outside, in the reception area, on the stairs, but Alison had looked down, seeing shoes, a skirt, letting the faces blur if she had to raise her head. She’d heard Jan’s voice calling after them but Paul had answered, she hadn’t heard what he said.
Kneeling on the bed she felt the repetitive, mechanical force of him, felt the breath shoved out of her. Louder. Were they all gathered out there as they’d been for the fire alarm, were they listening? She heard sounds in her throat, they sounded like pleasure. On his desk she could see his work in disorder, and her thoughts seemed like the scattered papers and photographs, all sliding from each other.
A police car had been parked in the lane outside the hotel, the vehicle empty as they came around it. Alison’s heart had leapt but turning into the forecourt there’d been no sign of them, no uniforms, no serious face under its chopped fringe turning to look at her. And Paul’s hand had been around her waist, propelling her, so her head had gone down, it seemed better not to look. Sarah Rutherford might appear round a corner or through a door. Alison’s mind scram
bled at the thought of what she might say, in front of Paul. The hotel bedroom door had closed behind them and in the dim light he had moved her into the position he wanted and she’d gasped. He’d made a grunt of pleasure that had shocked her. She’d liked it. Louder.
His mobile had rung on the way up through the village and looking down at it Paul had detached himself from her hand and moved away from her, an arm held out to keep her at a distance. She’d hesitated but – smiling – he’d gestured to her to keep going and she had, up to where a hedge fell away and a terrace of houses appeared. Yes, she heard him say behind her. Impatient. What is it now? She was coming level, she realised, with Kyra Price’s house. No lights were on inside, the windows shut tight. She half turned and saw him talking intently into the mobile but even as she turned away again, not wanting to look nosy, he jerked his head up and snapped the phone shut.
When he caught up with her Alison didn’t ask who he’d been talking to. Of course. Although when Gina had called he, she remembered even as she took the hand he offered her in silence, had asked her.
In the half-light of the room he had one hand on each of her shoulders, pulling her back and then something stabbed, something sharp inside her, and her back arched, a noise came out of her louder than she could control. And suddenly Paul’s hands were gone, she was released.
He had finished without waiting for her. He was out and gone from behind her, and falling back in shock on her heels she felt jarred, panicked. He was moving in the dim room, saying nothing though she could hear his breathing as it slowed, heavy and ragged then muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. He threw his clothes down on the bed and then the bathroom door closed behind him.
Alison could hear voices below the window but she couldn’t move to see, she felt as though her legs might not hold her up. And if she went and looked down, they’d see her face. They would probably be looking back up at her to see who’d made that noise. Her skirt was still at her waist and tugging at it she felt heat under her shirt, spreading up her neck, behind her ears. Her glasses had fallen from her face, onto the bedcover, and she put them back on. Paul’s trousers lay on the bed in front of her, his phone half out of the pocket. She picked it up.
It wasn’t a flashy phone, it was such an old model, it even folded – and it didn’t seem to have a lock function. Either that, or Paul had nothing to hide. She clicked on the dial button to see his recent calls, although she already knew. Of course. Morgan. Alison held the unfolded phone to her, screen down between her breasts, stopping herself looking at anything else. And listened. Behind the bathroom door the shower was still running. Sliding her legs out from beneath her to sit on the edge of the bed she did look again. Messages. A list: Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. Scrolling down, she could see, even trying not to, the first word of each message. Darling. Hello. Please. Longing.
How recent? When had they last slept together?
The sound of the water stopped, just as another name appeared at the foot of the scrolling list, she didn’t have time to register whose. Hastily she folded the phone, shoved it back inside the trousers and went to the window. She stood behind the curtains, looking down. Sarah Rutherford stood there, her centre parting gleaming white from above, her hands in her pockets, talking to the stocky woman in her overalls. The woman was smoking another cigarette, the free hand across her body holding the other arm at the elbow. The policewoman looked up, and stepping back too late Alison heard her own sharp small intake of breath. As she moved she saw the number still written across her palm, already fading. Had Paul seen it?
Then he was behind her, still damp, kissing her neck. She dropped the hand away from her. From below the window she heard steps on the gravel, and the slam of a car door. He smelled so clean, Alison became aware suddenly of her own body, of the sex and sweat and panic rising off her. She turned her head away from him slightly and her glance fell on his desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured into her neck, and for a second he did sound it, almost heartbroken. ‘I couldn’t stop myself.’
She heard his words and saw the scattered papers on his desk in the same moment. The corners of some photographs emerging from a folder, a book with its spine cracked, face down. A stapled sheaf with the close print of an academic paper. ‘Massacre and Survivor Guilt’, she read. Below it some dates. 1942–43. Paul’s hands rested on her upper arms, his head heavy against hers. He was quiet.
‘’S all right,’ she heard herself say mechanically, and she felt him step away, humming something to himself. The wedding march.
‘That was Morgan,’ he said, and she turned to see him pulling on his trousers. He had his back to her.
‘Morgan?’ she said.
‘On the phone, before.’ Something uncoiled inside her, briefly murderous. Before what? She said nothing. ‘There’s some last minute bit of the service she wants to go over.’
I bet. ‘You want a lift?’ she said casually. ‘Shall I come too?’
He had crossed to the desk and was beginning to shuffle the papers together, stacking them. Unhurried, pausing to look at the written pages.
‘What?’ he said, after a moment, looking up. ‘Oh. No, I’ll walk.’ If he even said, come if you want, now, she’d have to. But he didn’t, he just looked at her, worried. He picked up his jacket.
At the door she stopped him. ‘Shall we go to the prize-giving thing, though?’ she said. ‘I could meet you back at the pub later? The barge race.’ Looking down, he examined her, as if waiting to be entertained. ‘It’ll be lively at least,’ she said. ‘Music and stuff.’ She hesitated. ‘Get away from the Carters for once?’ Defiant. Paul looked as though he was deciding whether to be impatient with her or not. She smiled.
‘Why not,’ he said, but he was already turning away and she couldn’t see his expression. She felt the panic response set up again, imagining his thoughts: immature; hysterical; insecure. They just needed to get away from this place, and they’d be fine, it was a test, that was all. Marry Paul and move back? The last thing she needed was to be Esme again. She made herself close the door.
Watching from the window Alison already had her phone in her hand. Paul sauntered across the gravel, leaning to peer around the side of the hotel as he went. He walked out into the lane and she saw that the police car was no longer visible through the hedge. She lifted her palm to read the number Danny Watts had given her, and dialled, feeling her heart gather speed as she listened. Waited, until that insistent question made itself heard: Why would you think you can trust him?
She hung up and dialled Gina.
Chapter Twenty-six
This close to, the boats were huge. Alison saw tiny figures bracing themselves, a man running forward at a crouch under the shadow of the sail.
Gina had her back to the sea, smoking at the edge of the water. She was alone. Alison had wondered where she’d left May, if she was with someone or playing alone in the back garden, but she didn’t ask.
‘Christ, I’ll be glad when you’ve gone,’ said Gina and Alison almost laughed but then she saw there was something different. Gina turned her cheek away into the wind and blew the smoke defiantly but she was quiet. Fearful: staring into the dunes.
‘There was a barbecue,’ said Alison, waiting. ‘We all came here.’ Silence. ‘You remember, don’t you?’
But Gina didn’t seem to have heard. ‘I know what they’d have said about Simon.’ Her jaw was set. ‘Those Watts boys. I know what they think of him. But the police talked to him, they did tests and that shit, I don’t know what. But they let him go.’ Resting her chin on her knees she drew her lower lip into her mouth and when she spoke again it was swollen as if she’d bitten down on it. ‘He’s the father of my kid.’
‘But he doesn’t see her.’ Ducked back behind her raised knees Gina froze, her eyes gleaming slits. ‘He doesn’t even have her for an afternoon? Where is she now?’
‘No,’ said Gina, muffled. ‘She’s with a mate.’ She cleared her throat, and then she turned
and looked. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘There was a barbecue, yes.’
And then it was all there, that evening, before it got dark. Gina has been there all along. She’s the first to arrive, in the low September light, she’s standing with her arms wrapped around herself as they stumble down through the sand off the sea wall and she is staring, staring, as if she could eat him.
‘It was Joe you fancied,’ said Alison. ‘It wasn’t Simon. Why did you settle for Simon,’ she said, ‘if it was Joe you wanted?’ But even as she said it she thought, would Joe have had her? Messed-up Gina.
Above her knees Gina’s eyes glittered. Her voice was low, strangely muddied, Alison strained to hear. ‘He was dead, wasn’t he,’ said Gina, and to her astonishment Alison realised she was crying. ‘Joe was dead by then.’
So Gina hadn’t turned on her at the sleepover because she was jealous of Simon’s kiss, because at the time she’d wanted Joe, not Simon. So why did she flare up, telling Esme she was stupid? Stupid girl. All she could think was, Joe had been still alive when they’d rowed, when Esme had banged out of Gina’s back door and pedalled furiously back down the high street on her bicycle. For another two, three hours, her brother would live. Alison’s head spun as she resisted the longing to howl, Take me back, let me start again. Let me stop it, this time.
‘Do you remember the night Joshua Watts died?’ she said, and slowly Gina’s head turned, she nodded. ‘Joe was out that night,’ Alison went on. ‘He was in a state when he got home.’ It couldn’t be unsaid. ‘Mum had to go and get him, nearly midnight.’
A scrape on his cheek, hair wild. Eyes bloodshot with something, drink or dope. Mum white-faced, in a stand-off with Dad in the hall and Esme at the top of the stairs shivering. Listening. And where were you when he needed you?
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