Silent Saturday

by Helen Grant

  De Jager gazed at the screen, his blunt features bathed in its cold light, and considered.

  49

  THERE WAS A horrid inevitability about it. On Saturday afternoon, Claudine was sick.

  Not today. Please, not today.

  Veerle shut herself in the downstairs bathroom. She felt the need to barricade herself in, to get away, to think, before she was engulfed by the bitter panic welling up inside her. If she stayed in the living room a second longer she was afraid that she would lose control, that she would start screaming in sheer frustration, venting the feelings that threatened to burst forth like the noisome contents of an overflowing sewer, but . . .

  Supposing she’s really sick?

  So what? she wanted to shout. She won’t die of it. And I have to meet Kris – I have to.

  The room was small, only a couple of square metres, and she hadn’t bothered to flick the switch on the wall outside the door, so the only light was from the small window with its patterned glass. Everything had a grey, almost bluish hue to it, even her reflection in the mirror: dark hair, pale eyes, skin tones so drained of warmth that she might have been looking at a corpse. A drowned girl. Vlinder, suspended under the ice. Veerle shivered.

  She looked at her dead self and thought, What am I going to do?

  There was no question of not going. She was meeting Kris no matter what.

  How am I going to deal with her?

  She had to find the answer to that question very soon because this was going to be their only chance, this rendezvous tonight at the old castle. Veerle knew that because she had tried to log on to the Koekoeken website that morning before Claudine was up and about, and all she had got was a URL not found message.

  It was possible that it was some sort of temporary glitch but she didn’t think so. Either Gregory had come home sooner than Fred had expected, or he’d found someone else to do the job. The Koekoeken had vanished. She imagined them all, precipitately disconnected from each other, like the thread of a necklace suddenly snapping; what had been an elegant pattern suddenly dissolving into a hail of individual beads, bouncing away on their own into the dark under the furniture, in corners, between the cracks in the floor . . .

  Gone, she thought. And if there really was someone out there, reading people’s messages and lying in wait for them, we only have one chance left to know it. Just one chance. Tonight.

  The thought of it made her feel slightly queasy, but she was resolved on one thing: Kris wasn’t doing it on his own.

  I have to go. I have to be with him.

  She thought she could hear her name, feebly called from the other side of the locked door: ‘Veerle, Veerle, where are you, Veerle?’

  Veerle sighed so heavily that her breath misted the mirror in a great circular patch. Now the drowned girl looked as though she were gazing out through a thin glaze of ice. She put up her finger and wrote K.

  Her mother was still calling. Veerle didn’t reply. She said nothing, even to herself; she didn’t even let herself think about what she was going to say, because then she would want to discuss it further with herself; she’d never open the door.

  She slid back the bolt and opened the door, crossed the hallway into the living room.

  ‘There you are,’ said Claudine reproachfully. ‘Where did you go?’

  Veerle didn’t reply to that. Her mother was on the couch, propped up on cushions, her stockinged feet outstretched. Veerle sat on the armchair opposite.

  ‘Maman, do you want me to call the doctor?’

  Claudine looked at her. ‘It’s Saturday afternoon.’

  Veerle leaned forward. ‘I know, but if you’re really ill, I can try to get someone to come. There’s usually a number you can call out of hours.’

  Stubbornness was seeping into her mother’s face like a dark stain, setting the lines. ‘Of course I’m really ill. I don’t know what you mean by saying that.’

  ‘Well, let me call someone.’

  ‘There’s nothing the doctor can do for me. Just stay with me.’

  ‘Maman . . .’

  ‘Just as long as there’s someone in the house.’ Claudine looked at her and Veerle thought she detected something sharp in that glance, hidden under the flaccid layers of reproach like a spiked burr in the blameless pelt of a rabbit. She saw that this was almost certainly going to end in a fight.

  She glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. Almost six o’clock. Kris wanted to meet at the castle at half past seven; he didn’t trust their quarry not to turn up early. Assuming he exists.

  There was a bus shortly after seven; if she took that one she would be at the Kasteel stop shortly before half past. If she took the one before, she would have a wait at the other end but at least she would minimize the risk of being late.

  Veerle looked back at her mother and saw a flicker in her expression that meant Claudine had noticed her checking the time. There was nothing for it. I have to be firm.

  ‘Maman, I have to go out tonight. I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t—’

  ‘Out? Where, out?’

  If you’re going to lie to her, now is the time. But Veerle couldn’t do it.

  ‘It’s private.’

  She felt something snag her sleeve and realized her mother had reached out with one thin hand and was clutching at her wrist.

  ‘You’re meeting that man. The one who came to the house and frightened me.’

  ‘His name is Kris,’ said Veerle.

  ‘I don’t want to know what his name is. You’re meeting him, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s not against the law, Maman.’ As soon as she had said that it occurred to Veerle that much of what she and Kris had done together was entirely illegal, and she felt her face grow warm. She prayed that she wasn’t actually blushing, that her mother would not notice anything, but when it came to misdeeds Claudine had the almost uncanny sense of the shark that can detect a single drop of blood in a million drops of water.

  ‘Not against the law, possibly, but it’s wrong,’ she snapped. ‘Your own mother is sick, and you want to go off God knows where with someone like that?’

  ‘Maman, I have to. I don’t want to leave you, of course I don’t, but this is really important.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I’m your mother.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I need you here.’

  ‘Maman, I can’t be here all the time.’ The question of whether Veerle wanted to be there all the time loomed in the background like some dark spectre. She did her best to ignore it. ‘I have to go to school, I have to—’

  ‘School, of course you have to go to school.’ Claudine looked at her balefully.

  ‘I mean, I can’t always be here. If you’re sick, we have to find some way—’ Veerle was running out of words. ‘You have to manage without me.’

  No. No. That was the wrong thing to say. Now she’s going to go nuts.

  ‘Manage without you?’ Claudine looked outraged. Spots of colour were appearing in the dull papery skin of her cheeks. ‘I have to manage without you?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Well, what did you mean then?’ Claudine’s hold on Veerle’s wrist was like the grip of some gigantic bird of prey, the nails digging into her skin like talons. ‘Manage without you? What does that mean? I have to do without food or drink if I can’t get up? I have to crawl to the telephone if I need the doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to call the doctor. So we could see what she said. I don’t want you to do without anything, Maman. I just— I really, really have to go out tonight.’ Claudine’s grip on her arm was becoming painful. Veerle had to force herself not to shake off her mother’s hand. She made herself look at Claudine, look her in the eye in spite of the resentment that smouldered there like hot ashes. ‘If you won’t let me call the doctor, why don’t I call that friend of yours, the one who came bef
ore?’

  ‘Berthe? You want to bother her again?’

  No, thought Veerle, remembering the woman’s stout, intimidating body blocking the hallway and her strident, indignant voice, I’d rather never see her again in my life. But time was passing – she could hear the ticking of the clock on the shelf and she had to go, no matter what it cost.

  ‘Just this once,’ she said. ‘Maybe she could come and sit with you. We could ask her.’

  But Claudine was shaking her head. ‘And tell her she has to drop whatever she’s doing and drive over here because my daughter wants to go out and meet a man? No.’

  ‘Maman—’ Veerle saw her mother flinch and realized that she had finally been goaded into shouting. With an effort she made herself lower her voice. ‘It’s not like that. I really wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important. I’ll stay here all day tomorrow with you,’ she added recklessly.

  ‘And I’m not important?’

  There was no reasoning with Claudine, and yet Veerle felt she had to try.

  ‘Look, I’ll get you anything you need before I go. I’ll go over to the chemist in the village if you want something. There are still a few minutes before it shuts. I’ll make you coffee – or something to eat – anything—’

  ‘I don’t want coffee, or something to eat.’

  ‘What do you want, then?’

  ‘I want my daughter to stay here.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Veerle.

  Claudine looked at her and said nothing. Her mouth was working as though she wanted to say something but no words came.

  Very gently Veerle unpeeled her mother’s fingers from her wrist. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply. Then she got up and left the room.

  There was still plenty of time to go before the earlier bus, at least half an hour, and yet already she was anxious about missing it. She was acutely aware of the passing of time: the ticking of the clock on the shelf in the living room, the slow track of the sun down the sky, the imperceptible, relentless turning of the world itself like the rim of a great wheel rolling towards nightfall and whatever awaited her at the castle.

  I want to go now, she thought as she ran upstairs to her room to get ready. Impatience sparkled through her like electricity; her skin crawled with it; she thought that every hair on her body must be standing on end. Now, she thought. She knew that part of her eagerness was fear, but that only made her keener to face up to what was to come. Waiting was what made you feel slightly crazy; it charged you up like a dynamo with tension. If it were trial by fire, she thought, if I had to pick up red-hot iron, I’d want to do it now, right away. The pain is not the torture, it’s the waiting.

  It was a warm day but still she chose winter clothing: dark, drab colours, matt fabrics, nothing that would show up in the gloomy interior of the castle. Black jeans, a black jumper with sleeves so long that she could pull them over her hands. The winter boots she rejected: she could see those thick soles clattering on the castle’s hard floors. She went for her Converse trainers instead.

  Veerle dragged her little rucksack out from under the bed and stuffed her rock shoes into it, together with a screwdriver and her torch. Ready for anything, she told herself unconvincingly. Then she sat on the bed and reset her mobile phone, so that it would vibrate but not ring. The last thing I need is for her to phone me at nine thirty wanting to know where I am. Appalling thought: herself and Kris lying concealed in the middle room at the back of the castle, peering cautiously round the doorframe at the deserted hallway, the shadows deepening as night slowly suffocated day. Hearing footsteps in the stone porch, the sound of the great door opening, its hinges groaning – and then the sound of her mobile phone trilling out like a canary in a coal mine. The thought of it made her a little queasy, as though she had narrowly avoided a nasty accident.

  When the phone vibrated in her hand she jumped and almost dropped it, but it was only an incoming text from Kris. OK for tonight?

  Yes, OK. V x, she typed back.

  She was sliding the phone into the pocket of her jeans when she heard it. A thump from downstairs; a definite thump, as though something heavy had fallen onto the floor.

  Veerle stood up and went over to the door, the rucksack in her hand. She stuck her head out. Silence.

  ‘Maman?’

  She listened again and there was nothing, no sound at all from inside the house except the creak of boards under her feet as she shifted her weight and the tick of the clock above her bedroom door. Outside she could detect the faint sound of a distant car passing through the village, but inside everything was still and silent.

  ‘Maman!’

  No reply. Veerle began to feel a sense of foreboding pressing in on her like a fog, thick and clammy and disorienting. She went out onto the landing, and still there was no sound from below, no reply to her call.

  Did I shut the living-room door?

  She couldn’t remember. Even if she had, she thought Claudine should have heard her. Veerle looked down the staircase at the patch of hallway visible below: the familiar tiled floor, the worn rug.

  Terrible feelings were rising up inside her, feelings so searingly hot and toxic that she thought they would choke her; her chest was tight with them, her throat was closing up painfully. Her heart was racing, its beat so frantic that she was afraid she might faint.

  If she’s fallen – if she’s hurt – I can’t leave her.

  I have to go. I have to.

  It was impossible – she was being pulled two ways, and it felt as though something inside her were tearing, ripping apart in two great ragged pieces. She went down the stairs, her knuckles white as she gripped the banister, and it was as if she were seeing herself from the outside, as though some grinning demon with red-hot iron tongs had dragged out her soul and it was hanging uselessly in the dead air above her body, watching it go down to Claudine.

  I can’t leave her.

  You have to.

  The living-room door was open, and as she rounded the doorframe she saw her mother lying on the couch, perfectly motionless, her eyes closed and her mouth gaping open. She looked like a carved cadaver on a tomb.

  Oh God. What if . . .

  Then she saw the little table that normally stood at the end of the couch lying on its side on the rug.

  ‘Maman?’ she said, and now Claudine opened her eyes and looked at her. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ asked Veerle.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you reply?’

  ‘I feel too ill.’

  ‘I thought you’d fallen,’ said Veerle. She advanced into the room. ‘What happened to the table?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Claudine.

  Was it Veerle’s imagination, or did she see something pass swiftly and almost imperceptibly across Claudine’s weary expression, some brief glint of cunning?

  Don’t be horrible, she berated herself. She’s sick, or anyway she really believes she is.

  But all the time the sense of urgency, the need to get away, was growing. Maybe I should have gone even earlier. Supposing the bus is late? Supposing it gets held up somewhere between here and Kasteelstraat?

  ‘Let me call someone,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Claudine’s lower jaw tensed; her mouth became a thin, rigid line. She looked at her daughter with eyes that were bright with mutiny.

  Veerle could feel her own breath coming quickly, hissing in and out between her teeth like steam. She looked at her mother and she looked at the fallen table. There had been nothing on the table that Claudine could have wanted, no hand control, no telephone, no pill-box. She looked at it and she saw her mother pushing it over, knowing that Veerle would hear the noise upstairs. She saw her lying there on the couch with her lips closed in that hard line, listening to Veerle calling down from the upper storey, knowing what Veerle would think when she got no reply.

  The desire to leave flamed within her like a fever. She was acutely aware of the living-room clock but wa
s trying not to glance at it, knowing that Claudine would notice and that it would upset her even more. Then she did look and it was already twenty past six.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  She waited for Claudine to say something, even for her to relent and say that, yes, Veerle could call someone for her before she left, but her mother said nothing at all. It was not until Veerle had turned and was halfway to the door that she heard a soft sound like a groan. When she looked back, she was horrified to see that Claudine was crying.

  ‘Oh, Maman,’ said Veerle. The need to leave was clutching at her, goading her, and yet when she saw her mother crying she felt a pain so sharp that it was almost physical.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ wept Claudine. ‘To feel so ill, to have so much worry all the time, to be alone . . .’

  Veerle went back to her. ‘You’re not alone, Maman.’ She put her arms around her mother, pressed her lips to the papery cheek. She could feel Claudine shaking as she sobbed. More words were leaking out of her now, barely coherent words of loneliness and anger and fear. She clung to Veerle like a child clinging to its mother.

  When at last she had run out of words she subsided into gentle coughing and then into silence. The sound of the clock ticking filled the air. Veerle looked at it and saw that she had missed the first bus.

  50

  KRIS REACHED THE old castle at twenty past seven. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know that he was early; he had done it on purpose.

  Kris had no doubts about involving Veerle. She wasn’t stupid and she had plenty of nerve; he’d seen that pretty plainly the first time she had scaled the front of a building. The memory of their climb down it still made his flesh crawl.

  All the same, he thought he’d try to get to the castle ahead of Veerle, so that he could take a quick look around and make sure that there were no surprises. He slipped over the wall at a spot where the top layer of bricks had crumbled away, paused for a moment in the safety of the shadows under the trees, and then began to wade through the grass towards the old building.