by K E Coles
‘Sorry.’ What else could he say?
‘Have they had any contact with Pearl?’ Jim said. ‘Any mention of her?’
‘No.’ He didn’t tell Jim he’d seen her, although he wasn’t sure why. It just didn’t seem relevant.
*
He got back to find Nico and Ruby sitting in the kitchen.
‘About time,’ Ruby said. ‘Been for a swim?’
‘D’you get anything?’ Nico said.
‘No.’
‘Pathetic,’ Ruby muttered.
One day, Spicer thought, one day. He focussed on Nico. ‘He pegged it.’
‘What happened?’
Spicer shrugged. ‘Frightened, I guess. Must’ve had a heart attack.’
‘You brought the package back?’
Spicer handed it over, sat down.
‘Anybody see you?’
Ruby leaned back in her chair, arms folded.
‘An old woman with a dog,’ Spicer said.
‘You’ll have to silence her.’ Ruby smirked.
Spicer shook his head. ‘She won’t remember. She was more interested in her yapping mutt than in me.’
‘Sure?’ Nico said.
‘Sure.’ Another death on his conscience? No thanks.
‘You wipe your prints?’ Ruby said, eyes sharp.
‘‘Course.’ Shit! What had he touched? The DVD player. His fingerprints must be all over it, and the remote. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. What would they see, first on the scene – no forced entry, nothing stolen, natural causes. There was no way they’d check for prints.
Nico turned the DVD round in his hand.
‘What’s on it, anyway?’ Spicer said.
‘Nothin’.’ Nico laughed. ‘Nothin’ at all.’
‘What did he think was on there?’
‘What?’
‘The old man. What did he think was on the disc?’
Nico frowned. ‘Him misbehaving.’
Misbehaving? ‘Were you there?’
Nico stared.
‘I mean – when he ‘misbehaved’?’
Nico put his mug down on the table, slowly, deliberately. He inhaled, leaned into Spicer’s face until their noses almost touched. ‘What’s with all the questions?’
Spicer shrugged. ‘Curious, that’s all.’
Ruby snorted.
Nico glanced over his shoulder. ‘Get the car.’
She got to her feet, pointed at Spicer. ‘He’s a liability.’
Nico straightened up. ‘Just do it.’
‘Right.’ She slammed the door as she left.
Nico shook his head. ‘Curiosity’ll be the death of you, man.’
‘I’ll stop asking then, shall I?’ Spicer said.
Nico laughed. ‘See? Even that’s a question. Seriously, man, you better learn, and fast.
Spicer nodded. Asking questions was never going to get him the answers he needed, but somewhere, somewhere, there was a DVD, of that he was certain. All he had to do was find it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX PEARL
To sleep with Art was a new level of stupidity, even for me, and yet I knew it would happen again. He filled the emptiness, just for a while, with his warmth, and his smell, and his touch.
After work, I messaged him, and asked him to come over earlier and have dinner with me. He didn’t reply.
I bought food and wine, carnations to go on the table, even bought myself some new perfume. I cleaned my room, made the bed, and paced up and down, cursing myself as the hours ticked by for being such a sad idiot.
At nine, I ate my half of the meal, and covered his with tin foil. At eleven, I ate the dessert – a raspberry panna cotta, and went to bed. At half eleven, I got up and ate his panna cotta too. I felt sick with creamy crap and nerves.
I lay awake all night.
Half dead, I dragged myself to work. They sent me home again, said I looked ill, told me to come back when I felt better. I sent Art a message, to say I was home if he wanted to come over. No reply.
I sat on the floor and cried.
He didn’t come that night, or the next, or the one after that. The flowers drooped, and started to smell. I threw them out.
I stared out of the window, and wondered what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t have a normal relationship like everyone else. I knew the answer, of course. To do that I needed a normal boyfriend, one I could go to the cinema with, take home to meet my parents, not someone who shagged me when he felt like it, and never even spoke – even if he did smell like heaven and move like a god.
I’d find his mother, just in case he ever came back, and then forget about him. Maybe that burning desire would go eventually, or attach itself to someone else, someone decent.
I expected to fail, and really only made a half-hearted effort to find her, but it was ridiculously easy. There was only one Maria Todd on parole. On my very last day at the probation service, I noted the address in my phone. Should Art ever get in touch again, I’d hand it over, and then slam the door in his face.
My work colleagues gave me a sorry-you’re-leaving card signed by a load of people I didn’t know. I pretended I was sad to be going but the truth was, I couldn’t wait.
The weekend was dark, gloomy and wet. I’d been looking forward to the new job, but as my first day grew closer, nerves set in. Mrs Arnold made cup cakes to celebrate, and we sat in her living room and had tea. I forced one cake down, but my appetite had disappeared.
‘You must eat, dear,’ she said. ‘You need to put some weight on. You look quite peaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just off my food at the moment.’
‘Hmm . . .’ She frowned. ‘That’s not good. Not good at all. We’ll have to feed you up.’
She insisted on making lamb stew and dumplings. I knew she’d spent all afternoon on it, but I could barely manage more than a mouthful. I tipped the rest down the toilet.
Monday dawned bright and chilly. I opened the curtains wide. New job, new start. How many times had I thought the same, and got nowhere? Too many. Well, yet another new start then, but this one was going to work. The bright blue sky, the pink-tinged clouds lifted my spirits. I’d focus on that, on the heavy dew that beaded the grass in the front garden, on the spiders’ webs that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I’d forget the empty nights. I’d be just fine.
Nula didn’t appear in work. Apparently, she’d gone for another job. How lucky I’d been to meet her that day. Without her, I’d still have been in the section house.
My boss, Stefan, and the other girl working there, Laura, were so cool I felt like a country bumpkin next to them. Every time I opened my mouth, my Gloucester accent sounded broader. The way I rolled my r’s made them laugh. It made me self-conscious. I concentrated on the way they spoke, and practised it back home in front of the mirror, shaping my mouth as they shaped theirs. I spent so much time staring at their lips, they must have wondered what was wrong with me.
Most of the time, I was content, except for the twinges of loneliness that hit me now and again, especially when I saw a happy couple. As the weeks passed, I got to know some of the regular customers, and it made me feel better, talking and laughing with them, made me more confident. The money was good, so I treated myself to new clothes, stuff that would help me blend in with those around me. What I wanted more than anything was to feel I belonged. And I did begin to feel that, and enjoy it, but I missed my family, if not home, so it was good to come back one night to find a familiar, beaten-up old car parked outside Mrs Arnold’s – what Dawn called her Clockwork Orange.
It creaked as she clambered out. In her jeans, t-shirt, and long, grungy cardigan, she looked more like a student than a priest.
‘Are you sure it’s safe to drive that thing?’ I said.
‘Not really. Got me here though.’ She patted the bonnet. ‘Dear old Clocky.’ Her new, dark-framed glasses made her look more serious and stern than the old ones.
I pointed at them. ‘They suit you.’
> She rolled her eyes. ‘Bloody nuisance. It’s all that computer work, apparently.’ She hugged me, kissed my cheek. ‘And how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Really.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost a bit of weight.’
‘You can talk,’ I said, although she wasn’t really skinny, just toned, super-fit, unlike me. ‘Been off my food a bit,’ I said. ‘Reckon it’s the water up here. D’you know it’s been recycled a million times.’
‘What, you mean . . ?’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Speaking of which, would you like some tea?’
‘Is it safe?’
I laughed. ‘It’s boiled,’ I said. ‘Kills the germs.’
‘Go on, then. I’ll risk it.’ Maybe it wasn’t the glasses after all. Her mouth, too, was tense, despite her laugh.
I took her up to my room.
She strode over to the window. There was something jerky and stiff about her movements. She commented on the house, the garden, even the pansies growing in the window box, although she didn’t appear to look at any of them. She shifted from one foot to the other, fidgeting.
‘The bathroom’s next door,’ I said.
‘Thanks.’ She shook her head. ‘Added my bit to the water supply at the services.’
My laugh sounded feeble. ‘Kind of puts you off your tea, doesn’t it?’ A knot of tension tightened in my stomach.
‘Sit down, Pearl.’
The knot grew, turned and twisted. ‘Are Mum and Dad okay?’ First thing, worst thing. Get it over with.
She nodded. ‘They’re fine. Everyone’s fine. Sit down.’
I sat on the bed. The tension seeped from my muscles, left me shaky with relief. Anything else, I could cope with - anything. ‘Then?’
She sat on the sofa, leaned forwards in counsellor-mode, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of her. ‘The thing is . . .’ She stared at her hands. ‘We have information,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to frighten you.’
Frighten me?
‘Mesmeris have moved.’
My pulse shot up. ‘And?’
‘They’ve come to London.’
Surprised, shocked people would do what? Gasp? Too late for that. The gasping moment had gone.
‘You may have to come home,’ she said.
I jumped to my feet. ‘What? No.’
‘Just listen – please.’
I couldn’t think, not with her staring at me as if I was something to be pitied. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
I went down to the kitchen. No way was I going back there. Home meant seeing that church again, that bare, unmarked grave under the yew tree. Home meant remembering, reliving the pain. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t be the old me – the grieving head case who frightened and fascinated the locals. That wasn’t me any more. That was someone I didn’t even recognise, someone I didn’t want to know.
When I emerged from the kitchen, she was standing on the landing, probably watching the front door in case I made a run for it. Why did she have to come and bring it all back, and spoil everything? Why couldn’t they leave me alone to live my life?
She smiled, but I couldn’t return it. I handed her the tea. She made some feeble joke about the water. I made no attempt to laugh.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I had to come.’
I nodded, perched on the edge of the bed. A heavy weight seemed to sit on top of me, pressing me down.
‘Have you seen them – Mesmeris – any of them?’
I needed to say something, deflect her thoughts. If she knew I’d seen Art, talked with him, slept with him, there’d be no escape, not ever. I turned the mug round in my hand, traced the design with my finger. My thoughts scattered hither and thither, searching, searching for words.
Her head moved into my eye line. ‘They haven’t . . . You haven’t seen any of them?’
The dark brown glaze felt gritty under my fingertip. Grit. Glaze. Death. Hell. All words, but not the right ones.
‘Pearl?’
‘Sorry?’ I looked up into warm, brown, honest eyes.
‘Art,’ she said. ‘Have you seen him?’
Art? Why choose him? I stood, wandered over to the window box, and picked off some dead leaves. Say something, anything. Anything but the truth. Nothing. My mind was empty, its vocabulary missing, corrupted, deleted. If I didn’t speak, they’d take me home, and I’d never see him again, never feel his warm hands on my skin, never kiss that beautiful mouth. Don’t panic. Breathe. Breathe.
‘You know he’s top man these days, don’t you?’ Dawn said. ‘Just about runs the whole thing.’
Who did she mean? Art?
‘He’s no small-time thug. He’s the brains behind the outfit, arguably more dangerous than Pitt himself.’
That wasn’t true. I knew that wasn’t true, and with that certainty, the words came back.
‘I’m not seeing Art,’ I said, ‘or any of them.’ And it was true, in a way, because I wasn’t – not any more.
She slumped back into the chair. ‘Oh, phew!’ she said. ‘For a moment there . . .’
‘Daydreaming,’ I said. ‘Well, more blank-braining. It happens sometimes.’ Guilt tugged at my conscience. The words may have been true, but the meaning was a big, fat, massive bluebottle of a lie.
Dawn’s eyes brightened. The tense lines around her mouth softened. ‘That’s good. That’s great, in fact. If they haven’t found you by now, there’s little chance they will.’
‘So, I’m safer here than at home,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
No maybe about it. Mesmeris were far from being the biggest threat to my life. That came from within. The biggest threat to my safety was me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN PEARL
My brain faltered for a while after Dawn’s visit. I slept a lot, climbing into bed as soon as I returned from work, and not waking until morning. Nightmares punctuated my sleep. Every one ended the same way – with me trying to scream, but unable to make a sound.
It took all my concentration to make sure I got up in time to get to work. I didn’t cook, afraid of forgetting to light the gas, or forgetting to turn it off and setting fire to the house, so I ate crisps and chocolate, and leftover cakes from work.
Slowly, the nightmares eased. Better sleep meant more energy, and the new me, the well me, crept back out into the light, and edged the old me back into the shadows where she belonged.
Two weeks went by, but the old me was stubborn. She loitered, switching my brain off at random moments. If it happened at home, I’d just crawl into bed and sleep, but a few times it happened in work. I’d feel those swathes of gossamer wrapping round and round my head again, shutting me away, imprisoning me in my cocoon. If I panicked, everything would fall apart, so I stayed calm, breathed evenly, and waited for it to unravel. Some people thought me odd, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. I was odd.
Dawn’s visit had been the trigger, but why did the illness linger? Maybe it was the lie, the bluebottle. Maybe if I went to church and confessed, albeit silently, albeit to no one but God, then it would go away, and the old me would disappear for good. It seemed like a plan.
Mrs Arnold went to visit her sister in Hove, leaving me in charge of the house and Tootsie, the cat. We made a good pair, me and Toots, both lazy, both preferring to sleep all day, given the option. I set alarms on my phone for her feeding times. I doubted she’d get off her backside to remind me herself.
On Sunday, I sat in an empty pew near the back of the church. As the service began, other people came in, sat next to me, but at least I was well away from Eileen. I knelt on the hard, stone floor, and recited the corporate confession. For once, the words meant something to me. I had plenty to confess. I was sorry for sleeping with Art, and swore I wouldn’t do it again. I was sorry for lying to Dawn too. Would I do it again? Yes, if I had to, to save my sanity. Would that count wit
h God, I wondered?
I’d planned to escape before the final blessing, so as not to have to speak to anyone, but the other people trapped me in the pew. They chatted and laughed, while I clenched my fists and my jaw, and waited. Finally, I was able to slip past, and into the aisle.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Eileen stood in front of me. She evidently didn’t understand the concept of personal space. We were virtually toe to toe. ‘You’re staying at number sixty-two then,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ It was like being at home, everyone knowing your business. I looked around for someone to rescue me.
She clutched at my arm. Her hand had no flesh on it at all, just shiny, transparent skin stretched over white bones and blue veins. ‘How’s Art now?’ she said, her beady brown eyes staring intently into mine.
What the hell? ‘Art?’ I said.
‘Terrible business.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You know Art?’
‘Oh, yes, dear. Known him for years.’
It was hardly a common name, but it had to be a different Art, surely.
‘Let’s go for tea.’ Eileen slipped her hand under my elbow. ‘We can have a proper chat then.’
I didn’t have much choice. Her grip was surprisingly fierce. As she steered me into the church hall, a faint whiff of urine wafted around us.
We sat, each with a cup of lukewarm, tasteless, brown liquid that could have been tea or coffee. It tasted like neither.
‘She’s always taken in lodgers,’ Eileen said, shoving a Rich Tea into her mouth. ‘Art had the back room . . .’
The Art I knew had been in Papa’s care since he was three.
‘. . . Ben the front,’ she said.
‘Ben?’
‘The young lad what went and hung hisself.’
I stared, had a feeling I’d missed something. It made no sense, none at all.
‘You didn’t know?’ Eileen covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Ooh, p’rhaps I shouldn’t say.’
Perhaps she shouldn’t have, but she did. She leaned close, her voice hushed. ‘Lovely lad, Ben. Cheeky little devil, mind. Always teasing. Thought Art was the bees’ knees.’ She sprayed particles of biscuit into my tea/coffee.