by Diane Janes
‘I’m up here,’ I shouted, advancing to the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to wash my hair again.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Simon yelled. ‘You wanted to go to Kington – we’re going now.’
‘I can’t,’ I protested. ‘Look at my hair.’
Simon was standing in the hall with Danny just behind him. Both appeared to be on the edge of losing their tempers.
‘Can’t you wait a minute or two, while I at least wet it? Just look at it.’
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Come on. If we’re going, we go now.’
I considered ignoring him – but something in his face told me not to push it. I stamped down the stairs, then marched through the hall to the front of the house. Simon stood beside the front door, waiting to lock it behind me. I clambered into the back of the car as usual and the others took their places in the front. As Simon started the car I said, ‘We should have told the police.’
Neither of them responded. Simon revved the engine fiercely then slammed it into gear so violently that the car emitted a groan of pain. We swerved on to the lane sharply enough to send me sliding halfway across the seat and back.
‘Jesus,’ Danny objected. ‘Let’s get there in one piece, shall we?’
‘We should have told them,’ I said. ‘Sergeant Wotsit and the other one. We should have told them about Trudie.’
‘Of course we should,’ shouted Simon. ‘That was the whole idea of hiding her body – so we could tell the Staffordshire Constabulary all about it at the first opportunity.’
‘We could have explained it,’ I said. ‘We could have told them that Trudie had done it herself. We could have said that we got frightened and thought the best thing was to cover it up – but now we realize that wasn’t the right thing. We could have said that Trudie threatened to kill herself and went off on her own – and we all went out after her and were too late to save her . . .’ I was babbling by now. Clutching one straw after another.
‘Quite the little liar, aren’t we?’ said Simon.
‘You know that wouldn’t work,’ Danny said more gently.
‘We have to tell the truth now,’ I said. ‘Before it’s too late.’
‘Are you insane?’ Simon cut in again. ‘Before it’s too late? We’ve buried her – don’t you understand that? It was too late from the minute we moved that body out of the wood. There’s no going back now.’
I didn’t answer. Tears slid down my cheeks and made damp splotches on the front of my shirt. I knew he was right. Our compact had been forged the night before. There was no going back. We drove on in silence, with Simon taking it at a more reasonable speed. I attempted to work a comb through my hair, but even as I tried to concentrate on this, I was aware of a nauseating sensation as we got nearer to the town. It started as mere butterflies in the stomach, gradually progressing into little knots of fear which moved up through my gut. It was not as if anyone in town knew us: but we had made regular visits to the local shops – invariably accompanied by Trudie. Suppose someone asked where she was – just casually – at the till in the mini-market, or in the greengrocer’s. ‘Where’s your friend today?’ We had no answer planned, no story agreed. We were the most amateur criminals in history. We weren’t going to get away with this for more than half a day.
Simon found a parking space in the square. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, as he raised the handbrake and Danny moved to open the door.
‘Now what?’ asked Simon.
‘We’ve got to get our story straight: in case anyone asks about Trudie.’
‘We can do that later,’ said Simon, impatiently.
‘No – no, we can’t. Suppose someone asks about her, in one of the shops.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Danny.
‘They just might,’ I said, stubbornly. ‘You know how Trudie was – noticeable – friendly with everyone. Suppose someone does ask – what are we going to say?’
Danny thought for about half a second. ‘Just say she’s moved on.’
Simon was opening the door. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s not waste any more time.’ He tipped the driver’s seat forward and held the door for me to get out. As I straightened up my eyes momentarily met his. There was something in them that made me go cold. Something darker and more desperate than I had ever encountered.
Without another word, the two of them strode off towards the shops, while I scuttled after them. I wondered whether it might be easier to cope if you had experienced a sudden death before. Simon and Danny had already come into contact with a violent death on the campus where they both lived. Did you become anaesthetized? Did it work like a vaccination – a partial cure because of previous exposure to something similar? But their relationship with the death of Rachel Hewitt had been no more than second-hand. They had actually handled Trudie’s body – interred it themselves. A vision of Simon’s screwdriver shot into my head from nowhere. With it came a miniature bolt of lightning which used my spine as a conductor. Rachel Hewitt had been strangled. I banished the thought angrily. Trudie’s death had been an accident – a horrible accident. What we had subsequently agreed to do, while intrinsically wrong, was also understandable – and the arrival of the police that morning was no more than confirmation that our motives had been justified.
In the mini-market I wandered up and down the aisles, haphazardly collecting various items of grocery. Danny put two bottles of whisky into our basket, muttering that it would ensure we got some sleep. It was impossible to concentrate. There weren’t many other customers, but I was convinced that such as there were, were all covertly watching us. My haystack hair didn’t help matters and when we got to the till, the middle-aged cashier looked pointedly at our two bottles of spirits.
‘Let’s not go in the greengrocer’s,’ I said, when we got outside. ‘Trudie always used to chat to the man in there.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll go in on my own, if you like.’
If this was intended to shame me into the errand, it didn’t work. I told him what was wanted and left him to deal with the friendly greengrocer alone. Simon stayed with me on the pavement, affecting interest in the contents of the hardware shop window. There was a newsagent next door and by force of habit I extracted one of the papers from the rack which hung beside the door and began to flick through it. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just killing time, trying to be unnoticeable. Then my eyes caught the words Trudie Finch – a small item on an inside page – no photograph this time.
‘Simon, look at this.’ I held the paper up so that we could both read it.
. . . Trudie Finch phoned a friend to confirm that she is alive and well . . . hopes are mounting that she will return home soon . . .
‘Here – are you going to buy that paper or not?’ At the first sound of the shout from inside the shop, I hastily refolded the paper and stuffed it back into the stand. I could easily have bought it, but somehow even appearing to be interested in the paper felt like a guilty proclamation in respect of its contents. The proprietor, clad in a brown overall and flat cap, came bustling to the door and pointedly adjusted the paper. ‘Bleedin’ hippies,’ he said.
‘She must have phoned a friend,’ I hissed, when we had put a few yards between ourselves and the newsagent.
‘When – how?’
‘That day in Leominster – the day we bumped into Josser. I saw her coming out of a phone box. Suppose she told them where she was.’
‘She can’t have,’ said Simon. ‘If she had, the police would have been round by now. Or her parents would have come looking for her.’
‘There have been pictures of her in the paper,’ I said. ‘Someone might have recognized her.’
‘But they haven’t, have they? Not everyone reads the paper from cover to cover, you know.’
‘It was only a school photograph,’ I said. ‘She does look a lot older – out of uniform.’
‘Well, there you are. And no one has recognized her. Something would
have happened by now if they had.’ In spite of his confident words Simon’s eyes scanned the street nervously, as if he was expecting a challenge at any time.
‘He never said a word,’ Danny informed us on his return: but he let his hand brush mine – to let me know he understood my anxiety and was on my side.
‘Is that everything?’ asked Simon. ‘Right – let’s get back.’
We were mostly silent on the journey home. When Danny tried to initiate a conversation Simon seemed preoccupied and did not respond. I toyed with the idea of telling Danny what we had seen in the paper, but Simon didn’t mention it and I was reluctant to embark on a conversation which might force me to say her name. I was afraid I would choke on it. Even without the name I couldn’t shake off the tangible pain whenever I allowed myself to think about her. I tried to concentrate on something else, staring straight in front of me, fixing my attention on the back of Danny’s head. A small area of his neck was visible, where his hair had fallen to one side. The skin was pale where the sun didn’t normally reach it. A thin line of gold chain threaded neatly across the gap. Another series of thoughts crept up on me unawares. Necks led to strangulation and strangulation led back to Rachel Hewitt – and Trudie. Simon’s initials on the screwdriver. Simon’s initials on the torch.
I had to stop thinking like this . . . Look out of the window – are those horses in that field? . . . Stop it, stop it right now . . . I clenched my hands hard enough to make the nails bite into my palms. I carried on doing it until the pain drove out everything else. Then I threatened myself that I would do it again and again, unless my thoughts kept themselves under control.
Simon and Danny helped me carry the shopping into the house before they went back to work in the garden. After I had put everything away, I returned to the bathroom to stick my head in the wash basin again. I had dreaded the moment, but it wasn’t so bad as I expected. No strange noises assailed me; no unseen watchers brooded at my back. I rubbed my hair dry with the towel, then went into the bedroom to use the hairdryer. After a minute or two I caught myself humming. I stopped immediately. I glanced around, half expecting some signal of disapproval; but the familiar inanimate objects around me exuded indifference.
It had been a brief interlude of forgetfulness. No sooner had I stopped humming and banished the song from my mind, than its place was taken by a line of concerns, which formed up to compete for my attention. There was our story – we had to get our story straight – just in case anyone did come asking for Trudie, wanting to know where she had gone. Then there were her things. We would have to dispose of them somehow. We ought to have buried them with her body – but it was too late to think of that now. There was the seance room – that would have to be put to rights. The library book about murder and mystery would have to be returned.
Finally, hopping up and down at the rear of the line, trying desperately to engage my attention, was the thought of what I was to do about Danny. I tried to ignore it but it pestered at me, refusing to stay quiet and wait its turn. I knew just from the way he looked at me, the way his hand brushed mine, that for Danny nothing between us had changed. In his mind we were on course to spend the rest of our lives together – but for me everything had changed. Irrespective of anything else, our relationship was doomed now that we had shared in the disposal of Trudie’s corpse. I knew that however many years went by I could never look at him again without experiencing the searing pain of those memories. The only possible road to release lay in severing our connections for ever and trying to forget. I was going to have to break the news gently. But not yet – not yet.
In spite of Simon’s anxiety about how long it would take, the layer of sand was in place and had received a final watering before I had our dinner on the table. The meal was not a success. The jacket potatoes were hard in the middle, the chicken wings all bones and no meat, and the packet sweet and sour sauce was too watery. We ate in silence, the food turning to cardboard in our mouths, everything needing to be chewed and chewed, until it was rendered into mushy lumps which had to be washed down our throats with the remains of the sour-tasting beer. No one complained. In fact none of us had anything to say at all. Silence filled the kitchen like poison gas, stealthy and invisible. We ate and breathed it, our nerves inflamed by its toxicity.
After dinner Danny helped clear the table without being asked and Simon joined in. We floundered like zombies, drained and exhausted. When Simon and I collided between the table and the sink we apologized to one another as if we were virtual strangers, adopting the exaggerated courtesy which is normally reserved for the very sick or recently bereaved. When I had finished washing up I slumped back into one of the kitchen chairs. Simon had disappeared somewhere and Danny was putting away the last of the cutlery.
‘I can’t stay here,’ I burst out. ‘It’s driving me crazy. This whole place is driving me crazy. It’s full of her -everywhere I look, there’s . . . there’s stuff reminding me.’
‘It feels bad right now,’ said Danny. ‘But it will get better.’
‘It’s not just that,’ I said. ‘It’s not safe here. I don’t feel safe.’
‘It is safe really,’ he said. ‘No one knows she was here. No one will suspect anything – and tomorrow, when the guy comes with the concrete—’
‘No,’ I all but screamed at him. ‘Don’t talk to me about that. Don’t make me think about it.’
Simon chose that moment to reappear and I lapsed into silence. He joined me at the table and we just sat there – a weird artificial situation, in which every movement, each foot shuffled, each clearing of a throat was magnified. Our usual evening routine of inconsequential backchat and drinking games was completely inappropriate – singing was out of the question. Normal life had died with Trudie and emptiness stretched before us.
Danny produced one of the bottles of whisky from the pantry and set it in the centre of the table with three tumblers. We watched as if mesmerized while the golden spirit gurgled into the glasses. Danny pushed one each toward Simon and me, then lifted one himself, holding it up as if about to propose a toast. Simon and I looked at him doubtfully.
‘It’s the best way,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He lifted his glass and downed it in one.
I had never tasted whisky before. We generally drank beer or cider, though when in funds or attempting sophistication I might have a vodka and lime, or a brandy and Babycham.
‘I don’t like the taste,’ I said after one exploratory sip.
‘Haven’t we got anything to put in it?’ asked Simon.
‘Water,’ suggested Danny. ‘Or ice – you know – scotch on the rocks.’
‘We’re out of ice,’ I said. (We always were.)
Danny carried my glass across to the sink and topped it up with tap water, the way we would the despised orange squash. It was no improvement.
‘You can have mine,’ I said.
‘Try to drink it,’ Danny urged. ‘It’ll help.’
‘No – I don’t want to.’ I pushed the glass away from me, like a kid refusing its greens.
Danny pushed it back. ‘It’s an acquired taste,’ he said. ‘You’re not giving yourself a chance to acquire it.’
‘What are you, my dad or something? I don’t have to drink it if I don’t want to.’ I was suddenly very tired of being told what to do.
Danny backed off at once. ‘Don’t get upset. I was only trying to help you get some sleep.’
‘I’m tired – I’ll sleep without the whisky.’
The first part at least was true. I was exhausted: so sapped of energy that I could scarcely think or speak. The second declaration was merely optimistic. By nine o’clock I could not bear to sit there any longer and asked Danny if he was coming to bed. We left Simon alone in the kitchen.
Danny had been right about the soporific effects of the whisky. After a few mumbled declarations of love he fell asleep, while I lay beside him unable to follow where he had led. My mind had been sluggish while we sat in the kitchen, but now it
began to race. I kept going back to the moments in the wood. The images had become confused and my memory had begun to play tricks with the soundtrack. It seemed to me that there was something important that I ought to remember, but when I pursued this memory along the path, the trees turned into criss-cross forks of lightning and I had to turn back. Danny seemed to share my restlessness. His body gave a series of twitches and he muttered something inaudible a couple of times. Eventually his whole body gave a start and he woke up. He lay completely still for a moment, then put out an exploratory hand which connected with my thigh.
I took advantage of his wakefulness to ask: ‘You remember when we were in the wood – when Trudie screamed?’
‘Of course I do.’ He spoke cautiously. Or maybe he was half asleep.
‘Where were you?’ I asked. ‘Were you anywhere near Simon? You’d been right by us a couple of minutes before.’
There was a pause. I could hear him breathing steadily in the darkness. ‘I couldn’t see anyone,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d play a joke on her. I was going to creep up on her from behind. Then I got a bit disorientated and went too far. For a minute or two, when she screamed, I couldn’t find my way back.’
‘Did – did you hear anyone, crashing about on the path?’
‘Sweetheart, there were all sorts of noises – people yelling and trying to get to one another. Anyway, let’s not go over and over it. Try to forget it. It’s over now.’
That was Danny, I thought, always ready to turn the page – and sure enough within a couple of minutes he was asleep again. I tried to emulate his approach. It had been a terrible accident and all the agonizing in the world wouldn’t bring Trudie back. I tried to settle myself to sleep, but whether my eyes were open or closed I could still see Trudie. Not the dead Trudie – I couldn’t allow that image to come screaming into my head – I saw the oh so alive Trudie, dancing for the rain gods on Hergest Ridge, laughing and singing in the garden. I saw her golden body lying next to mine, in the exact same place where Danny lay now. Beautiful, beautiful Trudie. How could she possibly be dead?