I remember going up a mountain. It was hot, and hard-going scrambling up the loose grey bits of stone. We stopped to eat our picnic on a patch of scrub. I was below Isobel on the slope and the way she was sitting, I couldn’t help but look up her legs. She was wearing cut-off jeans with a pair of Dad’s thick socks tucked into her walking boots. I could see stubble on her shins, also in the gap between her shorts and her thigh on one side, a strip of white cotton and a wisp of private hair.
It’s only natural for a boy to watch and see and try to learn the mysteries of women. Nothing perverse about it. Ask any adolescent boy with a sister if he’s never looked at her that way. She was wearing a white baseball cap, a little twig of heather or something caught up in her hair from where she’d flopped down earlier. I can see her clear as a picture. We had egg sandwiches. Mum had put chopped capers in them. Hard to credit the flair she had in those days adding that extra flourish to everything, even to egg sandwiches! I was complaining and spitting bits out and Izzie said, ‘Jesus, Mark, grow up,’ but smiled at me in the way she had, nose wrinkling.
I’d finished my sausages and folded the Mail when the phone went. Dad was upstairs with Mum. It was Detective Inspector somebody or other asking to speak to Mr Curtis. As well as Dad, I am also Mr Curtis, of course, so it was not a word of a lie to say, ‘Speaking.’ He went on to inform me that under the Victim’s Charter 1990 we had the right to know that Karen Wild was due to be released from custody in the month of October into the city of Sheffield. ‘Thank you,’ I said. He also told me that she’d changed her name by statutory declaration although he was not at liberty to divulge said name.
I put down the phone. It was like an explosion in my head and I had to wait for the dust to settle. Too much to take in just like that: that this was it. All systems go.
My gut feeling was not to tell them and I should have stuck to it, but it was too big a thing to keep bottled up inside. And she was their daughter; they did have the right to know. I went up to the bedroom where Mum was watching telly in bed while Dad tidied up around her and I came straight out with it.
Dad reacted with silence but Mum knocked the biscuit tin to the floor in her rage. She said all the things that are obvious but true, like: ‘That monster alive and kicking while our beautiful girl is dead and gone.’ Nothing you wouldn’t expect a grieving mother to say.
When I was younger Dad said I shouldn’t take Mum’s coldness to heart, that she had a kind of illness and I should try and understand. ‘One day she’ll snap out of it,’ he used to say. ‘Be patient. Give it time.’ But he stopped saying that somewhere along the line.
To get away from the atmosphere in the house I drove to Felixstowe. When I was younger I’d go there, push through the shrubs and stare at the hole in the ground, locked securely now that it was too late, surrounded by DANGER signs. But before long, the council, admitting some liability in leaving such a hazard unattended, cleared the area and created − Dad’s idea − an ornamental pool.
Isobel loved fountains; she said when she grew up she’d have one in her garden. She loved the noise. She tried to explain something to me about it standing for life, always falling, always rising. She had that imaginative, arty streak in her. The fountain was in the middle of a round blue pool, quite a tall spray that, when the wind blew, would sprinkle your face. People took to throwing coins in the water as they do and making wishes. But over the years it got neglected and now the fountain’s nothing more than a feeble bubble. When all this is over and done with, I’ll give money to the council for its restoration and bring Mum and Dad here just to see the look on their faces.
I called round to see Karen’s foster parents. Dad said he felt sorry for them bearing the brunt of her behaviour like that and her not even their own flesh and blood. They took her in out of the goodness of their hearts and look how she repaid them. It tore their lives apart.
When Dr Merriam opened the door I was taken aback by the mess of the house, the grime, the garden all overgrown, a huge monkey-puzzle tree blocking out the light. When I said who I was he sighed and asked me in. To tell the truth I wasn’t too keen on going in, what with the state of the place.
‘My wife’s out,’ he said and offered me sherry, which came in a tiny sticky glass. The room we went in was a tip, piled with plates and papers and suchlike. We had a bit of preliminary chit-chat, then I told him Karen Wild was going to be released. He nodded and said, ‘Well, she’s done her time.’
I had to count to ten then. I sipped the sherry, which was sickeningly sweet, until I could speak in a level voice. ‘So she’ll be free to live her life,’ I said. His eyes were nearly hidden under big ledges of white eyebrow but he gave me a sharp enough look.
‘Poor girl,’ he said and it was all I could do not to choke. ‘She wasn’t all bad, you know, not through and through.’
I looked at the floor and saw a cup clogged up with mould.
‘I wonder what she’ll do,’ I said.
‘There’s the bit of money Joan and I put away for her,’ he said. ‘We’d intended to fund her through university … but it turned out the state was to shoulder that expense!’ He gave the wheeze of a laugh. ‘But we put it aside for her all the same, to give her a start when she comes out.’
‘Will she come and see you?’ I said.
‘We cut off contact when she went inside − a mutual decision. So no, I don’t expect so.’
‘If she does,’ I said, ‘would you let me know?’ I took out my notebook, ready to leave my number, but he shook his head.
‘Take my advice and let it go, son,’ he said. ‘Let it rest its ugly head.’
Chapter 5
*
I went back to my room, fumbling the key in the lock. There was a sick, scummy sensation in my heart. I put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, locked the door and stood with my forehead against the Fire Safety Procedure notice. It was cool against the hot of my skin. I stood back and read about emergency exits, wishing there was such a thing for me.
I didn’t even want to be there. I’d only moved in with Charlie four months ago and had had no intention of leaving him even for a single night. But then this course, Women and Self-Esteem in the Workplace, had come up. There was only one place and everyone wanted it − Christine was mad keen − but it was me that Gary summoned to his office.
‘How would you like to go?’ he said.
‘No ta.’
His chair squeaked as he leant forward. The face of his wife beamed at me from a square of sunshine on his desk.
‘It would do you the world of good,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here four months and I’m delighted with your performance.’ He raked his fingers across his head and a fair hair fell out and fluttered to the desk. He beamed at me expectantly. ‘Go on, Nina,’ he said, ‘it’ll be the making of you.’
I gave him a sickly smile.
‘Good girl.’
And he wasn’t much older than me.
I trudged back to my desk where Christine was bursting to know what he’d wanted.
‘You!’ Her voice squeaked when I told her. ‘But you’re new. I’ve been here since school.’
I shrugged.
‘You don’t want to go, do you?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘It seems silly you going when you don’t want to.’
‘When you do?’
‘No.’
‘You do.’
The phone rang and I answered it. Christine rattled away at her keyboard, sighing huffily. Mid morning she usually fetched me a cup of coffee but on that day she didn’t.
‘I don’t want to go,’ I said when she came back ostentatiously brandishing a single mug. ‘It’s all Gary’s idea. I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve got far more self-esteem than me,’ she said, ‘than anyone.’
I stared at her but she was quite serious.
‘Why don’t you have a go at Gary then?’ I said. ‘I wish you would.’
‘Haven’t got the self-esteem.�
�� She sucked a point of her colourless hair. ‘I could of just done with it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’ And off she went, Dr Scholl’s slapping against the soles of her feet.
Now I sat down on my smooth hotel bed and looked at my phone. I’d switched it off in the restaurant, childishly, to pay Charlie back for not calling. I wished I hadn’t. If I’d spoken to him earlier then … But there are so many ifs in life, irritating little sneezes of fate: if this, if that, if not, if only.
Now I couldn’t bear to switch it on and hear his voice. I needed to shower. How could I even think of talking to Charlie with the smell of Rupert still on me? If there’d been a scrubbing brush I would have scrubbed my skin off. I stood for ages letting the steaming water pour over me but it didn’t stop me feeling like a whore.
I took the little photo of Charlie from my purse and stared at his dear face. It was done in a photo booth at the station, on impulse, while waiting for a (delayed) train to London. His hair looks darker than it is and there’s a line of brightness running through him where the curtain wasn’t properly closed, but I like the smile, the straightness of his look. Standing outside the booth waiting for the damp strip of pictures to issue from the slot, I’d said, ‘Can I move in with you?’ The question had just popped out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to ask him yet. We’d known each other only a few weeks, but when it’s the right person you do know. There’s no point wasting time.
He hadn’t answered immediately. We’d taken the strip of photos and had a coffee while waiting for our train. If he’d said no, I don’t know what would have happened, but after a bit of thought he said not yes but, ‘I don’t see why not.’ That is so much a Charlie thing to say. Understatement is his thing. We’d held hands all that day, on the train, walking by the Thames, sitting in the theatre watching Les Misérables. I have never felt so close to anybody, or so happy, in my entire life. In his wallet is a picture of me, cut from the same strip.
As I sat on that hotel bed and looked at his level eyes, my heart was crushed inside me with the force of what I’d done.
I had to see him. First thing, I’d go home. Sod the course. I couldn’t face another day of it − my self-esteem a lost cause now anyway. We’d go out to dinner, my treat, and then home to make love and then − but at the thought of dinner I had to go and lean over the toilet. I forced my fingers down and scratched the back of my throat. I wanted to spew up the dinner and the evening. I wanted to spew up my whole self.
I was shivering as if I was getting flu. I huddled in a towel and opened the mini-bar to find water. A pair of eyes met mine. I slammed the door and then thought, come on, get a grip. It was only a toy bear, identical to the one I’d spotted in Rupert’s fridge, a poor cold bear with the same sign around its neck.
Missing a Loved One?
Send them me!
I’m only £9.99
Including P&P.
Cynical marketing tactic, Charlie would have said, preying on people’s loneliness. Or guilt, he might have added. I took the bear out of the fridge; I couldn’t stand the thought of it banged up in there.
I lay awake for the rest of the night. I’d never told Charlie a lie, except about things that happened before we met, but everyone does that. I thought I’d tell him this and keep everything clean and shiny new between us. Come clean they call it and that’s a good expression. It would be the only way to lose the filthy feeling. But, then, as I lay waiting for the hours of the night to creep past, I began to wonder if telling him would really make me clean? Maybe it would only make him dirty too. Would it be better to be strong and deal with it myself? Which would be the better thing to do?
At last it started to get light. I heard a comforting creaking of feet in the corridor as newspapers and early breakfast trays were delivered, and then, with the relief that night had passed, I fell asleep. When I woke I lay in a horrible hungover blankness till it all came crashing back. I crawled out of bed, boiled the kettle and made a cup of coffee before I called Charlie.
‘Had your phone switched off?’ he said.
‘It’s gone a bit dodgy,’ I said, ‘battery or something. I’m coming home.’
‘What’s up?’ he said and I said nothing, nothing, nothing. Only that I’d missed him.
‘I’ve promised to go round Dave’s tonight,’ he said.
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘And Nina, I’ve got to go to Bradford tomorrow − I’ll be back late.’
‘Good job I’ll see you tonight then,’ I said.
‘See you later.’ He cut off the call.
A door banged in the corridor and someone coughed. I phoned reception and asked for a taxi. I switched on the TV while I dressed and stuffed everything in my bag. It was the news: guns and tanks, the birth of a panda, the weather, clouds and sunbeams on a chart.
Passing Rupert’s room on my way out, I caught sight of myself in a mirror, picking along on pantomime tiptoes. I made myself walk properly but my heart was thumping because, of course, he would be in there still, sprawled out on his wide bed, sleeping the sleep of the sated male. Bitter coffee crawled up my throat with the shame but as I got into the lift and left him behind I breathed out. It had been stupid but it was done. I’d never have to see him again. All over and done.
Chapter 6
^
I put off the move north till after Christmas due to Dad’s accident. He fell off a stool changing a light bulb and broke his ankle, so I was required to man the decks till he was back on his feet. It was frustrating, I was raring to go − but there it was. No question of leaving them in the lurch.
By December, Dad was up and about though he still had his outpatient appointments so I agreed to stay on until after Christmas, which is a painful time. The year Isobel went missing, we’d gone through the motions. I don’t know why. Is that the strange thing to do or the normal? There were presents under the tree for Izzie that have never been unwrapped and they’re still in a box in the attic now. From me, a manicure set in a leather case. I’d agonised over the choice, pink or white. She liked to do her shopping in a rush on Christmas Eve. ‘That’s half the fun,’ she said. So there was nothing from her. And I’m glad. How would we have coped with opening her presents?
Our table was square, unless you pulled out the leaf, which we only did when we had company. That Christmas we had none. ‘Just us,’ Isobel had begged. She’d been homesick at university, and now she was home wanted to be the centre of attraction. Christmas before the tragedy used to be fun, at least it used to seem fun to me then. Family jokes and treats; Cluedo; Monopoly − and the most terrible recorder consort. Mum bought us all a different pitch of recorder and about once a year we’d squeak and splutter our way through a book of Christmas carols. The female contingent were musical but Dad and me had cloth ears.
That last Christmas Mum laid the table for four as per usual. It was a gesture of faith. We all hoped above all hope that she would waltz in through that door. But her place stayed empty, her cracker unpulled, the recorders in their boxes where they’ve been ever since. And ever since they’ve set a place for her at Christmas. Every year I buy whisky for Dad, bath stuff for Mum and they give me money, which I don’t need. I’m better off than them due to Grandad’s will. We do turkey and the trimmings, a glass of something nice, try to put a brave face on it, reading the cracker jokes and suchlike, but after lunch it all dies off. A space yawns open between us. This year, Dad spent the afternoon under the bonnet of his car, Mum watched a film and I went through my scrapbooks.
Said my goodbyes on the twenty-eighth. Wanted to be settled in for New Year. Stayed in a B&B in Sheffield while I looked for digs. New Year’s Eve I went downtown and got on the edges of a throng, music pounding out and fireworks at midnight. When twelve struck people started reaching out and kissing. I scarpered off out of it then. Who would want the wet lips of a stranger on their own?
Found a place,
self-contained on top of a house near the park where you look out over the tops of trees. Landlady a nice sort and keeps herself to herself down there which is just as I like it. For a day or two I was heady with excitement. Independence at last, at twenty-seven! A trip to Tesco, it’s amazing all the things you have to buy, not just food and that but washing powder, bleach, cleaning stuff, lav paper and so on ad infinitum.
And I began to search. Of course in a city such as Sheffield, population 500,000, it was unlikely I’d spot her right off − not that I didn’t try. I went to all the places that girls go: Next, Marks and Spencer’s, All Bar One. I joined a couple of gyms, the bigger types. I tried to put myself in her shoes, just out of prison, a bit of money in the bank, what would she do? Self-improvement, I thought, hence the gyms. I kept my eyes peeled as I worked out and swam looking at the fair-haired girls. And as the weather warmed up there they’d be sprawling on the grass, shoulders, midriffs, bare thighs on show. I walked about among them looking. Some of them would glare back or get uppity but only because they didn’t understand.
I would be looking for the blondes but also there were the dark girls that sometimes caught my eye, the angels, the Isobels. Fair girls are ten a penny, most of them bleached, but girls with sleek dark hair, caramel eyes and rosy cheeks like Izzie, that colouring is rare.
On the fourteenth of January, the anniversary of the day that she was found, I do my ritual, allow my fantasy. All the better in my own place with complete privacy. A bottle of champagne − Dom Perignon. When she was sixteen, at a wedding, she took one sip of it and said, ‘One day I’ll drink nothing else.’ So I drink it in her honour, always raising a private glass to her. I had that and some burritos, extra chillies from a jar. It’s normal practice for a man to fantasise, particularly someone such as me with his love life put on hold.
I lit candles and put the music on − Isobel’s favourite Mozart Horn Concerto no. 4. I wore her dressing gown, which might seem strange but it is not feminised in any way, it’s just a plain blue silk kimono type thing with a red bird on the back. I took it from her room the day her body was found. Nobody ever missed it. I can see her in it after a bath, hair up in a towel like a turban. You could see the shape of her breasts. They were middle-sized. I couldn’t stand great big suffocating ones but you do want something to get your hand round. A flat chest is a letdown for a man, say what you like. It smelt of her then and still does faintly, the scent she used, and a little old whiff under the armpits. I kept her bottle of scent and put a dab on my wrist now and again.
Nina Todd Has Gone Page 2