by Nicci French
‘This takes us into the unit,’ Griffith said, pressing a simple plastic doorbell which was glued to the wall beside the first door. A uniformed man came out of a glass-walled office between the two doors. Griffith showed a pass and my name was checked on a clipboard. It wasn’t there and we had to wait for several minutes for someone to come along from the main entrance with a docket.
‘How is he doing?’ I asked.
‘He’s one of our stars,’ Singer said. ‘We’re very pleased indeed. This is a new unit, you know. I – we – only set it up shortly before he arrived and he has been one of the people who has made it work. Do you know anything about us?’
‘We’ve all written. He hasn’t replied.’
‘The residents here all have long parole dates. Instead of letting them rot, we’re putting them together in an environment where they can help each other and also, we hope, spend their time creatively.’
‘Swap memories,’ I said.
‘It’s not like you think,’ Singer said. ‘He’s doing terribly well. He’s formed a seminar, got everybody involved. He’s… oh, good, here’s Riggs now.’
Another man in a uniform clattered along the corridor. He panted an apology. I had to sign a slip, insert it into a transparent plastic tag which was clipped onto my lapel. The first door was opened and locked. Then the second door. A warder with a name tag identifying him as Barry Skelton followed us through.
‘Am I safe?’
Singer smiled in amusement. ‘You’re safer here than you are out in the car park. Anyway, Barry will be nearby the whole time.’
A corridor with a soft felt carpet and whitewashed walls went in each direction. Singer took my arm.
‘I’ll try to find you somewhere quiet. There’s a storeroom along here that should be free.’
We passed a couple of rooms. I glimpsed some men watching a television set. Nobody looked round. Something – I couldn’t see what – was going on in the storeroom, so we walked on until we reached a seminar room which was empty.
‘You go in with Barry,’ said Singer and carried on down the corridor. A thought occurred to him and he turned round. ‘He’s writing a novel, you know. It’s rather promising.’
It was a medium-sized room with large windows at the far end overlooking a deserted recreation area. In the centre of the room was a circle of eight orange moulded-plastic chairs. Everything was bright under the strip lighting. Barry stepped forward and lifted one of the chairs and put it down just inside the door.
‘I’ll stay here,’ he said. He spoke in a light Ulster accent. He was a very tall man with pale skin and straight black hair. ‘You sit facing me. We’re relaxed about the rules here, but you’re not allowed to pass any object between you. If you want to end the interview, for whatever reason, you don’t need to say anything. Just touch your identification tag and I’ll come forward and escort you out.’
I nodded. I sat in the chair as instructed. I let my face fall into my hands. I needed to gather my thoughts.
‘Hello, Jane.’
I looked up.
‘Hello, Claud.’
Claud had lost at least a stone in weight. He looked leaner, sharper, with a touch more grey in his cropped hair. He wore a faded blue sweatshirt, black jeans and training shoes. He half looked round at where Griffith Singer was hovering in the doorway.
‘So, I’ll leave you two together,’ Singer said awkwardly, as if he had brought us together on a blind date and wasn’t sure how we would get on.
Claud nodded.
‘Shall I sit here, Barry?’ he asked, gesturing at the chair opposite mine in the circle. Barry nodded. He sat down and we scrutinised each other.
‘You’re looking well, Claud,’ I said.
He was looking well, better than I’d ever seen him. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging the compliment. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a crumpled cigarette packet and a grey metal lighter. He offered me a cigarette and I shook my head. He lit one for himself and drew deeply on it.
‘This is a stimulating environment,’ he said. ‘There are interesting ideas being developed here. In various respects, I think it’s an improvement on the Barlinnie model. And as for me personally…’ He gave a modest shrug. ‘It’s a remarkably healthy existence. But how are you?’
‘Have you heard about Alan?’
‘I don’t look at television or read the newspapers.’
‘He’s become a literary star again.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s written a prison memoir. It’s called A Hundred and Seventy-Seven Days. The publishers rushed it out this month. It’s been a sensation. The New Yorker devoted an entire issue to publishing it complete. The reviews compared it favourably to One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Alan told me that Anthony Hopkins is going to play him in the film version. I think Alan’s only uncertainty at the moment is whether he’s going to get the Nobel Prize for literature or for peace.’
Claud smiled. He tapped his cigarette and the ash fell on the floor by his right foot.
‘So you’re on speaking terms?’ he said.
‘Very much so. Alan took me in his arms and forgave me. I was very moved, even though it was in a TV studio on live television.’
‘What happened to your therapist?’
I shrugged.
‘How are the boys, Jane?’
‘Paul’s fine as well. He did a completely re-edited version of his film. It’s been sold all over the world. He’s at a television festival in Seoul as we speak.’
‘Good. I thought the original was rather superficial, myself.’
‘It must have seemed so to you, Claud.’
‘What about your hostel, Jane? Is it functioning?’
‘Not exactly, but we do have our third official opening date and we’ve got closer to it without it being cancelled than ever before. I’m hopeful.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Jane. That’s a good sign. It’s a wonderful project. I’m happy for you.’
A pain was gathering strength behind my eyes.
‘And what about your own magnum opus? I hear you’re writing a novel.’
Claud laughed. ‘Has Griff been blabbing about it? I know that one should never show people one’s work until it’s finished, but he wouldn’t be denied.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’m writing a sort of crime story, almost as an intellectual exercise. I must say that I’ve found it quite satisfying.’
‘What’s the plot?’
‘It’s about the murder of a teenage girl.’
‘Who kills her?’
‘That’s the interesting part. I’m trying to get away from the old hackneyed image of young girls as sweet, passive creatures. The murder victim is a manipulative adolescent, conscious of her awakening sexual powers. She is beautiful and charming, but she uses these qualities as tools to damage all those around her. She finds out their secrets and blackmails them.’
‘Is that why she’s killed?’
‘Not quite. She can’t resist using her physical attractions even on the men in her own family. Unknown to everybody else, she starts to lead her own eldest brother on.’
‘How does she do that?’
‘You know the sort of thing, a look here, a touch there, an air of complicity, moments of flirtatiousness. One of the things I’m trying to capture is the transition in a family from the stage where the relationships are innocent to the stage where similar behaviour becomes sexually charged, because the girl has become a sexual being and she is aware of the power she exercises.’
‘What happens?’
‘She gets more than she bargains for. She is leading him on, so he makes her go the whole way. He makes her see the logical result of her own behaviour. But this is the twist, you see. Even here, she uses her sexuality as a form of power over her brother, taunting him with it, humiliating him. What is meant to be her punishment becomes a pleasure to her.’
‘What happens?’
; ‘It’s one of those things that might have fizzled out, but she becomes pregnant.’
‘Couldn’t she have an abortion?’
‘That doesn’t arise between them. She threatens her brother with it. He receives a note from her saying that she will expose him to the family.’
‘You sound as if you’re on the murderer’s side.’
‘You always have to see every side of a story. It’s what makes us human, isn’t it, our imagination? That’s what you used to say, anyway.’
‘Do you think you will be able to persuade readers that a young girl deserves to be murdered by the brother who made her pregnant?’
Claud allowed himself a small smile and a shrug. ‘It’s an artistic challenge.’
‘How does he set about it?’
‘Yes, that’s interesting, isn’t it?’ Claud’s face was quite calm, reflective. ‘Easy to kill, difficult to avoid detection. The brother considers two contrasting methods. The first is to kill her openly, as if by accident in a quarrel. At worst the killer might receive a short prison sentence; if he’s lucky he might not even be charged. But it’s an unattractive solution. I needed to…’ Claud paused, suddenly at a loss. He stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and lit another. ‘I want to create a character who kills his sister almost as a matter of decorum. Obviously she has provoked him, but she is also poisoning the entire family. She is a girl who ferrets out secrets and then uses those secrets. Families need their secrets, the little subterfuges that hold them together. This girl is going to destroy a good family, a fine family. Many people might agree that it is better to lose a girl than to lose an entire family.’
‘We don’t seem to be hearing much of the girl’s point of view in your story.’
‘Her point of view is perfectly clear: to follow her own immediate desires, whatever damage that does to anybody else.’
‘How does he actually carry out the murder?’
‘It’s quite straightforward. There is going to be a large summer party at the country house where the family live. People will be staying all over the place. A disappearance will not be noticed. The brother is organising the party and he has an inspiration. He arranges for a barbecue to be constructed at the last minute, and orders matters with the builders so that it is only half finished on the evening before the party. He summons his sister to a meeting late that night. She has been involved in a flirtation with a local boy and he suggests she tell her roommate that she is going to see this new flame. He strangles her and buries her at a relatively shallow depth in the site where the barbecue will be tiled and constructed the following morning.’
‘Wouldn’t the barbecue be an obvious place to look?’
‘The beauty of the plan is that there are various other factors at work. The novel is set in 1969. At that time, if a restless, difficult sixteen-year-old girl disappears, it will be assumed that she has run away. By the time grimmer possibilities are being considered, it is much later and in the chaos of the party it is difficult to establish exactly when she disappeared. But people have a vague impression that they saw her at the party. The brother has told various local artisans and some friends that the sister will be fulfilling various functions at the party. Of course, when the party begins she is already dead and buried. But the sister had a close friend of the same age. A sweet girl. They look alike, they dress alike. The friend isn’t much known in the locality because she lives in London. All that I needed – all that the story needs – is for one or two people to mistake one for the other at the party and the hiding place becomes not just very good but perfect.’
I looked over Claud’s shoulder at Barry who was looking bored. Obviously not a book lover.
‘But I wasn’t at the party, Claud.’
‘Yes, I know. Theo told me all about it when I came back from India. This is the bit that isn’t in the novel. It’s just too serendipitous to be credible in the tightly organised structure of the book I’m writing. As you say, you were not on hand at the party in order to provide the crucial alibi. Yet when Gerald Docherty walked across the bridge over the Col on Sunday the twenty-seventh of July on his way to help dismantle the marquee, you were there, resembling Natalie. Not only had you provided an even more effective distraction from Natalie’s resting place, you had given me an alibi so perfect that I could never have constructed it for myself. You were, quite unconsciously, my fellow-artist in creating a perfect deception.’
‘Why did you marry me, Claud? Why did you marry me and have children with me?’
For the first time Claud looked surprised.
‘Because I fell in love with you, my darling. I’ve never ever loved anyone else. I’ll always love you. You’re the one. And I wanted to make you love me. The only flaw in the plan was my inability to keep you in love with me. Everything proceeded from that failure.’
‘And you were prepared to sacrifice Alan for your own survival. Was the note you planted really by Natalie or did you fake it?’
‘It was a note Natalie sent me. I only had to tear the paper to remove the “Dear Claud” or words to that effect at the beginning. I wasn’t sacrificing Alan. You’ve always talked about his theatrical nature. I saw the way events were moving and gave them a small nudge. He embraced the role by confessing. And from what you tell me, I assume he has never been happier. I’m not proud of it, though, if that’s what you mean. I’m afraid I saw it as a way of getting you back and that may have blunted my powers of reasoning. That was the flaw, wasn’t it? You realised that if Alan was innocent then I must have planted Natalie’s note in his diary.’
Claud leant forward and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper.
‘Do you want to hear my one regret, Jane?’ I didn’t reply and made no movement. ‘If you had discovered this when we were still married…’ Claud frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t mean married, I mean when we were together, really together, then you would have understood. No, don’t say anything. I know that you would. There’s just one more thing I want to say to you, because I know that you’ll never come to see me again. That’s all right, Jane. I don’t mind any of this. All that matters is that I still love you. You haven’t said what you think of me, and maybe that’s the best I can hope for from you. Just remember, Jane, the family and our two boys, that’s my gift to you. You will always live in the world I made for you.’
I touched my name tag. As Barry led me out, I avoided catching Claud’s eye. Neither of us spoke.
Griffith led me back through the corridors to the front door. He held out his broad hand.
‘Goodbye Mrs Martello. If it’s of any consolation to you, I…’
‘Goodbye. Thank you.’
I stepped outside, and the door swung shut behind me, closing with a muffled click. While I had been inside, the day had changed. The sun shone in a sky that between its strips of clouds was almost turquoise. The few dry leaves that still hung on the small trees fringing the path gleamed. I pushed my hair back with both hands, and tipped my face towards the light, and stood with my eyes closed in the warm air. After a few seconds the roaring in my head quietened. ‘That’s it, Natalie,’ I said out loud. ‘That’s finished.’ Then, ‘I wish you were still here with us. My sister. My friend.’
Slowly, I walked down the shallow paved steps, between the low hedges and neat, empty flowerbeds, then stopped again. In the car park a tiny figure in a bulky dufflecoat, with a pointed hood like a pixie’s, was twirling in a shaft of sunlight. She stopped, tipped, then sat down abruptly while her world went on spinning. A young man with shaggy blond hair and a thick sweater hanging down under his beaten-up leather jacket ran towards her, picked her up, and threw her high into the air. Fanny squealed with laughter, her hood falling back and a cloud of bright hair flying loose. Robert threw her up again, then lowered her gently onto the tarmac, and stood holding her by the shoulders.
Caspar and Jerome walked towards them; they were talking earnestly, and at one point Caspar stopped and put his hand o
n Jerome’s arm. They joined the other two, and Fanny slipped her hand into Caspar’s, tilting her pale solemn triangle of a face up to his, saying something. Jerome pulled her hood back over her wild hair.
Then they saw me and stopped talking. They turned towards me and waited: three tall men and a little girl. I took a deep breath, and I walked down the steps to join them.
Nicci
French
about Nicci and Sean
about The Memory Game
the recovered/false memory
controversy
top tens
Jane Martello’s recipes
the books
about Nicci and Sean
Nicci Gerrard was born in June 1958 in Worcestershire. After graduating with a first class honours degree in English Literature from Oxford University, she began her first job, working with emotionally disturbed children in Sheffield.
In the early eighties she taught English Literature in Sheffield, London and Los Angeles, but moved into publishing in 1985 with the launch of Women’s Review, a magazine for women on art, literature and female issues. In 1987 Nicci had a son, Edgar, followed by a daughter, Anna, but by the time she became acting literary editor at the New Statesman her marriage had ended. She moved to the Observer in 1990, where she was deputy literary editor for five years, and then a feature writer and executive editor. It was while she was at the New Statesman that she met Sean French.
Sean French was born in May 1959 in Bristol, to a British father and Swedish mother. He too studied English Literature at Oxford University at the same time as Nicci, also graduating with a first class degree, but their paths didn’t cross until 1990. In 1981 he won Vogue magazine’s Writing Talent Contest, and from 1981 to 1986 he was their theatre critic. During that time he also worked at the Sunday Times as their deputy literary editor and television critic, and was the film critic for Marie Claire and deputy editor of New Society.
Sean and Nicci were married in Hackney in October 1990. Their daughters, Hadley and Molly, were born in 1991 and 1993.