I said nothing but looked behind to make sure we were not going to hit anything.
‘If that girl – Julia – was murdered,’ John said, waving a match around, ‘what do you think the motive was?’
I began to row. I got us clear of the other boats and the jetty before I answered. ‘Can you be so naive as to ask that?’ We were moving out into a clear space. There was less than half a mile of water ahead, with only Goose Island between our boat and the other side. ‘Read the newspapers and find out what happened to this week’s missing schoolgirl. Don’t ask questions, John, but tell me some things instead.’
A picture was developing in my mind of Owen and John talking quietly to each other in prison and Owen was confessing to Julia’s murder. I could almost hear him. I didn’t know whether or not to take it seriously but I couldn’t help imagining it. As the scene took shape, detail appeared in black, white and grey. Owen was on the edge of a bed and John was on the floor, leaning against the wall. Owen was holding himself, cuddling his chest with his long arms. He cast a faint shadow over John.
‘I’ll be as helpful as I can. What would you like to know?’
‘Did Owen talk much about Julia? I mean, what do you know about her?’
‘I believe she was Owen’s girlfriend for a while, at secondary school, but they were both very young. Puppy love. I think it was all very sweet. By that I mean that I don’t think he ever got his leg over.’
I cut the water with the oars and pulled extra hard. ‘And why do you say that?’ I was certain he was right. I realized that there was an inconsistency in my thought, though. I had always imagined Julia to have slept with Owen, but not Owen with Julia. Of course, that made no sense.
‘He told me the name of the first girl he had sex with and it wasn’t Julia and it wasn’t when he was fifteen or sixteen but, you know, I think he was lying even then. I think he was a virgin when he came to prison. The story didn’t ring true, you see. It was a fantasy about a woman on the beach somewhere like Benidorm but not Benidorm. I can’t remember where it was now. Anyway, she was wearing a skimpy bikini and he was swimming quite near her. He was there on holiday with some mates, though he didn’t say who they were. It was another thing that made me suspicious. So the woman kept smiling at him and then she beckoned him to follow her behind some rocks. And this is the funny part. The second they were out of sight, she got down in the water and started sucking him off Yeah, without even speaking to him. He came in her mouth and then, before he knew it, they were shagging on the side of the rocks and she was squealing. Her name was Jodie. Jodie, I ask you.’ John shook his head with a smile. ‘I reckoned he was making it up even as he told me. He probably thought something along those lines had happened to every other guy his age. I think he thought it should have happened to him. I can tell you, it didn’t happen to me. Then another time he told me he’d never been abroad, so how could I believe him?’
My memory of Owen was a fragile thing and John was putting it in danger. I didn’t know exactly how Owen’s memory was going to exist for me in future. I wanted to know the truth about Julia, of course, but until then I had to be fair. Owen might have been innocent, after all. And even if he was guilty, was it still all right to laugh at something silly he had once said about sex?
‘Well, it might have been true. We can’t know every holiday he ever went on. Look, never mind Owen himself. Specifically about Julia. What do you know?’
‘Nothing much. I know she was sixteen when she went off. Or was taken. Whichever.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Fifteen, then. I don’t know what she looked like. I know she was a gobby little thing. Owen once described her as a rum lass. Not being from the north I didn’t really know what he meant. I asked Owen and he couldn’t explain it to me. He just repeated it. “Julia was a rum lass.”’
He said ‘rum lass’ in a parody of a northern accent.
‘You don’t need to do such a comedy voice as if we’re both from Surrey and have never met anyone from Yorkshire. You live in Leeds now yourself.’
‘Aye. And I sort of know what a rum lass is now. At least, I know one when I meet one.’
I avoided looking at him. Something about the way he talked, the way he watched me was forcing me into a sensible, bossy role with which I was not comfortable, but I felt that if I did not keep control he would somehow get the better of me.
‘How did Owen sound when he talked about Julia?’
‘Sad. Wistful. Is that any use? Would you like some more? Lonely. Thoughtful. Confused. Lustful, no, romantic, no, starry.’
‘Starry? I don’t know what you mean. I need to see and hear it for myself. Can you do an impression of his face? Imagine you’re Owen talking about Julia. I want you to do his face and voice.’
‘All right.’ John shut his eyes and put his fingers to his temples. This was probably a stupid idea – I could hardly imagine the police using such a method – but I had no other way of getting to Owen. John narrowed his eyes and stared into the water. ‘She was a right rum lass, that Julia.’ His accent was still ridiculous but in a strange way his facial expression did make me think of Owen. ‘Ran rings around us all.’
‘That doesn’t help me much. Wait, you used the past tense there. Did Owen refer to Julia in the past tense?’
John looked confused and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why I used the past tense. I don’t suppose it came from Owen. I probably put it in myself because I was thinking about her in the past. But I think Owen would have spoken about her in the past by then anyway, wouldn’t he? A lot of time had passed. I don’t think you can take it as a clue.’
‘I suppose not. No, maybe you’re right. John, I’m afraid I don’t know how to do this properly. I’m not a detective so I’m just going to ask. Did Owen confess any crimes to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Breaking and entering, and arson. That’s why he was there.’
‘No, no. I mean, anything else. Any secrets.’
‘You think he murdered Julia?’ John’s tone was casual.
‘I don’t know. Did he?’
‘He didn’t confess to it.’
‘Good. So, that’s a start, then.’ I gave a nervous laugh.
‘I don’t know that he would have told me, though. Maybe he would but I would find it hard to believe that he’d done anything so serious. He was a kid when he was in prison, never mind when he was fifteen. Come on.’
‘Sixteen. He was big, and very strong. He liked to brood.’
‘He was soft. Violence wasn’t his way of doing things at all. He steered clear of fights. He avoided confrontation.’
‘Does the way an inmate behaves inside always reflect the crime he committed? I don’t think it does.’
‘You’re right there. Murderers can be charming and fun to spend time with while tax dodgers can be plain nasty. You have a point, I’ll admit, but it doesn’t quite apply in Owen’s case.’
‘And the fire?’ I was almost afraid to mention it again. ‘That showed violent tendencies, no?’
‘Perhaps that was your bad influence. Don’t look like that. I’m joking. No, he shocked himself with the fire, I think, but that was the most he could have done. He was never going to hurt anyone.’
‘It’s a different kind of violence that we’re talking about, though. It has nothing to do with getting into fights. Don’t you see? It’s not that at all. Well, never mind. You’re appalled that I’m asking these questions. He’s not even buried yet.’
‘But you need to know. I understand what you’re doing, Isabel. You think Owen killed Julia and, if he did, he might have been a danger to you, too, but at the time you trusted him. That makes you uneasy. In fact, you must have been frightened of him right until the moment you heard of his death. Give me a clear reason why you think Owen did it.’
‘He had a motive. Julia had dumped him for a fantasy relationship she was having by letter with a soldier. But that’s not
the main reason. It’s the way he behaved afterwards. Let me show you something.’
I steadied the right oar under my arm, took the letter from my raincoat pocket and shoved it into John’s hand. It was warm, a little tattier than when I’d packed it in the middle of the night.
John read the page. He reached the end, frowned, and read it again. ‘I’m not sure what he’s trying to say. Suicide?’
‘There’s no way she killed herself. Owen’s trying to justify her death, her murder. It’s bizarre. Even if she did kill herself, how could she have taken her body with her? No, I think this is Owen saying she asked for what she got. What I don’t know is why he thought that. It could be an admission of guilt.’
‘Could be. I don’t see how you can tell.’
‘I can’t. It’s a feeling. I know there’s more but I can’t get to it.’
‘Was the fire Owen’s idea? That was a pretty disturbed thing to do.’
‘No, I’m fairly sure it was mine.’
‘But you had nothing to do with Julia’s death.’
‘No.’
‘There you are, then. Why should Owen have done? What about your experience in the young offenders' institution? Didn’t you meet more dangerous people there than Owen?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You must. Of course you must remember.’
‘I don’t. I can’t. It’s not in there.’
‘You just have to try and—’
‘Shut up about it.’
The church bells were striking the time.
‘We’ve come too far.’ We were almost level with Goose Island and the shore was far away. ‘Let’s get back or we’ll never make it.’
‘You don’t fancy stopping off quickly? Couldn’t that be part of our adventure?’ John grinned and glanced at Goose Island.
I looked at the scrub of grass and the trees, claustrophobic and pointless. Then I turned to John, still smiling. There was a time when I would have liked to see what kind of adventure I would have, but not now. ‘It’s a bit cold.’
‘We could continue the conversation later, in the pub. It’d be nice to have a chat.’
‘Maybe, John. It depends on who else I bump into. I haven’t got long.’
‘Of course. Can I row now?’
We switched places, the boat rocked then steadied. John rowed fast. His arms were thin but moved the oars like whisks through the water. We reached the jetty and I jumped out while John tied up the boat. There was still no one around to take our money. I remembered that I had no cash but John had already taken a couple of pound coins from his pocket and put them on the jetty, just beside the rope. He was writing a note on the back of a bus timetable.
I left John and walked to the water’s edge. I picked up a handful of pebbles and chucked them in, one by one, to hear them splash but the sound was feeble. I was glad I had found a companion for the funeral. I had dreaded entering the church on my own, seeing Owen’s family full of grief. When I looked at the water I still saw John’s skinny arms with the oars. I felt as if I were still moving. I turned around to find John but he was not there. I couldn’t see him on the path. I called his name but he didn’t answer. He must have left for the church without me. I started to walk, quickly, almost a run. I looked at my wrist but I’d left my watch at the guesthouse. I looked at my phone but the time didn’t make sense. I would be late for the funeral.
I passed a beech tree with what seemed to be silver birds fluttering around the trunk. This was not far from the cottages on Julia’s paper round. I stopped, moved closer and saw that the silver birds were Cellophane around a bouquet of flowers. A card was nailed to the tree bark. It said, ‘Safe in heaven now xx’. I looked for a name but there was none. The flowers were fresh so someone must have died there very recently. I ran for the gate, pushed it open and left the reservoir behind me.
In my head I saw myself asking Kath, ‘Was there ever any news of Julia?’
‘No. I guess she made a new life somewhere.’
‘So, you think she’s still alive?’
‘I bet she’s married somewhere with kids.’
‘But you’d think she’d have got in touch.’
‘You didn’t. You’ve been missing for years.’
‘I haven’t, really. I didn’t have anyone to come back to here. The people who would have thought me missing knew exactly where I was. I put them through too much, you see.’
‘Nothing compared with what Julia’s family went through.’
‘No. You’re right there. But I can hear her. I can hear her saying, “I’m here. I’m still here.” I need to find her.’
‘You’ll have to stay longer.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I can only stay one night. That’s all I have.’
The sky deepened. Purple-black clouds were pressing down on the moors. It would rain soon.
The curtain flicks the back of the mirror and a spray of cold water strikes my leg. It is raining. I squeeze behind the dressing-table, open the window wide again, pull back the curtains and lean out. My legs and feet are in the room, but from the waist upwards I am out in the dark sky. The wind tastes of the moors and the lake. Rain spatters my face and hair. I drink a few more gulps of the night, then pull my head inside the room. To keep warm I put my clothes on again, my funeral clothes as they are all I have here, but it is uncomfortable and oddly formal to sit in a skirt and tights. There is a large oak wardrobe by the door. I open it and reach inside to see what is there. I’m sure it will be all right to borrow something, just for the night. I pull out a large brown coat, a man’s coat that will reach almost to my ankles. It will do me fine. It slips from the hanger and dust rises to my nose. I reach my arms into the long sleeves, shrug it onto my shoulders, sit on the stool and pull the duvet over my legs as fine rain hits the carpet.
I check my phone again, hoping that, somehow, another message from Mete has come through without my hearing it. Perhaps I’ll call him soon and make sure Elif is all right. She will be unsettled and might not sleep. If she begins to cry and I am not there, she may fret through the night. Mete can calm her as well as I can but he has to be up early to open the shop. Elif is going to Mete’s aunt for the day and I don’t know if she’ll be able to sleep there. Mete and I promised not to call each other but how can I not speak to him now? It’s expensive but I must hear his voice. I’ve become afraid, worried that if I stay another night, I’ll lose my balance. I won’t want to get back to them, or be able to.
It is because the business with the supermarket and the fire came up. I had thought I could avoid recalling the whole episode as it is not directly related to Julia’s disappearance. I would prefer to stick to Owen and Julia but John has shown me that I can’t do this. All right, John. Is this what I met you for? But I am not going to go through every little thing. If something is too painful, even now, to write down, then I shall not write it. So, then, this is the time to set down notes on Mr McCreadie. After all, he was our main suspect at the time of the fire. We thought he was a murderer. I have since cleared him of all charges but now I shall go back to be certain. Why is it so hard to discuss the mistakes I have made, even with myself, and so easy to talk about Owen’s when his were worse? I rub my face with my hands, take a pillow from the bed and place it on my knees for extra warmth. I shall not be afraid of this.
In the beginning, there was nothing wrong with McCreadie. It was my first job and he was exactly as I expected a boss to be: a bit like a teacher. He was middle-aged, balding, bespectacled and had the kind of posh North Yorkshire accent that people respected. He looked and sounded very much like all the local bank managers. I was one of the till girls so I didn’t speak to him unless he spoke first. I left school at sixteen and went to work there on a training scheme. To everyone who knew me it seemed that I had given up all ambition, but I was vaguely hoping that by continuing with my dance classes I would be able to leave the village within a year or so and go to a dance college. But I didn’t mind working
on the till and I never considered it to be a boring job. When I took tea-breaks upstairs with the women who had worked at McCreadie’s all their married lives, I did not think they deserved my pity, that I would go on to do better things. I looked up to them. I would stir my tea and listen with pleasure to their quick banter and their jokes.
The supermarket was busy, a focal point for the village since there were no huge out-of-town stores then. Mr McCreadie greeted staff and customers as he passed them. Beyond civilities, he didn’t stop to talk about things that had nothing to do with work. But that changed, for me at least. Usually I worked on the tills. I was put on checkout number one most days as I was one of the fastest and the queue was always longest there because it was near the door.
One morning someone remembered that I was on a training scheme – that was why I earned about twenty-five pounds a week when older people worked the same hours for twice as much or more – so had better try some other departments. They put me in the butchers' room behind the shop. I spent the day putting cuts of bloody meat onto polystyrene trays and covering them with clingfilm. Stewing steak, sausagemeat, pork chops, globs of liver. I wasn’t asked to butcher the meat. Men did that. I didn’t mind handling it but I hated being stuck in a dismal, dark room away from the bright lights and action of the checkouts and aisles, away from the comforting piped music. There was no clock in the butchers' room and at the end of the day I went into the stockroom to see whether it was time to clock off Mr McCreadie was watching me through the window of his office. No one else was around but this did not bother me for a moment. I trusted everyone I met. I saw him, went over to the door and said, ‘Have you got the time?’ I was pretty innocent back then. I understood innuendo and dirty jokes from other teenage girls but not from middle-aged men – I thought such language belonged to us not them – and it took me a few moments to understand his reply. He said, ‘Love, you tell me when your time of the month is and I’ll tell you when I’ve got the time.’ Once I’d worked out what he meant I could think of nothing to say or do in response so turned away from him. As I moved, I noticed that his hand was burrowing in his trouser pocket. I felt cold, a terrible sense of danger, but still did not know what I was supposed to do. I managed to say, ‘Fuck off,’ under my breath. Mr McCreadie lurched forward, put his arm around me and lowered his cheek to mine, spoke almost in a whisper, ‘Watch your mouth, treasure. You could end up like that friend of yours. We know what happened to her.’ He leaned forward. I pulled away from him then, but he followed me and pushed his face right into mine. He tapped his nose, ‘I know what happened to young Julia Smith,’ and walked away, chuckling. I pushed past him to the door that led back into the shop. ‘Don’t act as if you’re upset,’ he called. ‘You moved in on her young man fast enough, got your claws into him in a hurry. What a nice way to find a boyfriend.’ As I walked away, I said, ‘He is not my boyfriend,’ which was the weakest and stupidest of all the things I could have said to Mr McCreadie at that moment, though later I had my revenge.
The Missing Person's Guide to Love Page 7