by Carol Wyer
‘Definitely. Okay. I better get going. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Nice talking to you. Bye, Christophe,’ she shouted, blowing him a kiss as she left. ‘See you on Friday.’
‘Nice woman,’ said Robyn, engaging the barman in conversation.
‘She’s such fun. Always so bubbly and a bit mad. It’s like she’s on something. She races about at ninety miles an hour all the time. Love her to bits though.’
‘Does she come in often?’
‘Not as much as she’d like to. She loves it here. It’s the men, you see,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘All these businessmen, and needless to say, the pilots who come here for a drink after a flight. Zoe loves men in uniform.’
‘Do you know all the pilots then?’
‘Most of them.’
‘Do you know Jackson?’
‘Jackson Thorne,’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course I do. He owns BizzyAir Business Aviation. They have a couple of jets parked over at the terminal. Now if I weren’t married, I’d throw myself at that man. Actually, you should ask Zoe about Jackson. They’re good friends.’
Robyn couldn’t ask him any further questions as a group of people came in and he was suddenly occupied. She decided to go back to her room and check out Jackson Thorne and wait to hear from PC Patel. She hoped her gut feeling would pay off or she’d rapidly lose face with her senior officer.
30
Then
The bus is almost empty apart from two elderly people this afternoon on what I had am calling my liberation day. My mother’s working at the bar and won’t be home until late. I’ll have the rest of the day to celebrate the end of school, exams and everything that has bound me to the life I hate. I can’t wait to start afresh. There’ll be no one to hold me back now. I’m pretty sure I’ve done well enough in my exams to gain grades that will help me get a decent job, although at this stage I don’t care what that job is as long as it allows me to pay rent on my own flat and get away from this town. I won’t have too long to wait and if I’m lucky I’ll get some temporary work in a shop or somewhere to tide me over until I get a full-time salary.
I pull out the local newspaper that I bought to search for jobs, and then the postcard of a rainbow-coloured heart, and I stare at it. Once I get my exam results it will be time to send the card to Grandma Jane. It would be lovely to see my grandparents again but they would be horrified by my appearance. I would probably give them both heart attacks. I daren’t let them see how much I’ve changed over the years. They would hate my black spiky hair, gaunt looks and the Doc Martin boots I always wear. They have happy memories of a golden-tressed child with pink cheeks. Best not to spoil that for them. As much I would like to see them, I can’t risk it. They would probably insist I live with them and that is not part of the big picture.
Dad suggested sending postcards to my grandparents, and so every time we moved house, I’d steal money from Mum’s purse and buy a card and a stamp then send it Grandma Jane. I never wrote a message on it but I thought Grandma Jane would know who had sent it. I always chose a heart for her. She would work it out and know that I was alive and well and thinking of them both.
The bus clatters to a halt and I alight. I am for once in a reasonably good mood. The future is beginning to look brighter. I think about where I might live and what I might do. I have a good idea of what I’d like and it doesn’t involve bars, nightclubs or men. I am only a few paces away from our house when I spot the lumbering frame of my mum’s boss, Dirk. He’s waiting by the gate. He’s wearing his usual attire of jeans and shirt with a button-down collar. He thinks he looks fashionable and with it but I think he looks a dick. Dirk the dick. He appears to be particularly pleased with himself and grins like a half-witted fool when he sees me. I am never fooled by his smile. His looks are deceptive. Dirk can be ruthless, one mean son of a bitch. I’ve heard some pretty frightening tales about him and men who’ve had fingers chopped off or been kneecapped because they owed him money. He isn’t much nicer to the women in his life although my mum has fared better than most. He seems to like her and doesn’t rough her up like he did his last girlfriend. He knocked out her front teeth and smashed her face because she stole some of his stash of cocaine. She was in intensive care for weeks and was never able to eat properly again after the event. Dirk stubs out a cigarette on the path and waits for me to approach.
‘Mum’s not in,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he replies, displaying dirty yellow teeth. Someone ought to tell him about toothpaste.
‘What do you want, Dirk?’
He gives me a look and his eyes travel down to my chest. ‘What d’ya think I want?’
‘In your dreams,’ I reply then wish I hadn’t.
His features change in an instant and his arm snakes out, grabbing mine and twisting it high behind my back. The pain shoots through me so quickly and sharply it makes me yelp.
‘Don’t get cocky with me,’ he snarls. ‘You think you’re too good for me, don’t ya? Well, you’re not. You’re a skinny cow with no tits and a face that looks like it’s always sucking lemons. You need to be taught a lesson.’
He forces me to the front door. ‘Open it,’ he commands and yanks on my arm again, sending another bolt of pain through it. I wince this time but don’t cry out.
He hustles me into the house, releases my arm and pushes me hard towards the lounge. I stumble forward and only just prevent myself from falling onto the floor. He towers above me, his chest puffed out. The broken veins on his face stand out an angry red.
‘If it weren’t for me, you’d have nowhere to live. Your old lady couldn’t afford a nice place like this. In fact, she couldn’t afford anything. You’d be on the streets so you, you snotty bitch, will show me a little respect.’ He raises his hand and slaps me hard across the face. I rub at my smarting cheek and glare at him.
‘You can take that bloody look off your face. I’m not interested in your body. I doubt anyone is. I’ve seen you in the bathroom and seen all those marks on your legs. You’re a right turn-off. I’d rather shag a sheep. I want you to collect a package for me. You’re pretty good at skulking about and not being noticed. I want you to collect from someone and bring it directly to me, get it? If you don’t, I might have to show your mum the back of my hand and my belt. I think a few straps across her face with this buckle will finish off her looks for good.’ He rubs at the brass buckle in the shape of a serpent on his leather belt. ‘So, you’ll do it, right? And keep quiet about it.’
I nod dumbly. As much as my mother annoys me, I wouldn’t want her harmed by this goon.
‘Here’s the address. Get going. Bring the package to the back door of the club and up to my office.’
He hands me a scruffy piece of paper accompanied by a steely look. ‘Want some advice? You really should try to do something about your appearance. You’re a mess. No one is going to want you if you look like that.’
He leaves the house, his comments stinging in my ears. I don’t want to make an effort with my appearance. I wouldn’t want to end up with someone like him as my boyfriend, besides, I know what happens to pretty girls. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.
I ponder my predicament. No doubt there’ll be drugs in the package I am to collect. I curse Dirk. This won’t be the last time he uses me either. I just know it. I heard him on the phone last night mumbling about one of his employees getting banged up. I bet that poor sod was the usual courier. Dirk knows how to press my buttons. I won’t let anything happen to my mum. I can’t leave now. If I do, she’ll get beaten up or worse still, end up in a body bag at the local morgue. I’ll do what he asks but I have a dreadful feeling he’ll use me again and again until I get caught by the police.
Red mist descends. I am trapped again. I kick the wall; my boots make a satisfying noise as they connect with it. I wish it were Dirk’s face. A picture – a reproduction of a pale blue butterfly, falls to the floor and the glass covering it smashes. I retrieve it from the floor and gaze at the painting of the
delicate creature, with gossamer wings. I once read that in popular culture, the butterfly symbolises transient or short-lived beauty and looking at it I feel a connection to it. Like the butterfly, I have lived through various transformations but unlike it I shall never be beautiful. I feel a pain in my heart and I wish the butterfly in the painting could fly away now the glass is broken and more than anything I wish that I could join it.
31
Ross was shown into what the friendly nurse had called, ‘The Green Room’. The walls were green but a dreary, miserable green, one that had had all the life sucked out of it, much like the residents who were sat in chairs dotted about the room. He hated places like this. The last time he had visited a care home had been to see his mother, and that had been a horrendous experience with her screaming and crying to be let out and all the while the nurses holding her down. She hadn’t lasted much longer. The nurses said it was the cancer that had made her cry and shout and not comprehend where she was. Ross knew better. His mother had dreaded being left there to rot.
He moved towards the hunched figure, dozing in a chair and, bending down, spoke gently. ‘Mrs Clifford, can I speak to you?’
She woke instantly. Her wizened face, with skin as thin as aged parchment, pulled into a smile as she searched his face. ‘Josh?’ she said. ‘You’ve come to see me.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not Josh, I’m Ross, Ross Cunningham. I’m an investigator. I hoped you could help me.’
The light extinguished from her eyes as she searched his face. ‘Not Josh,’ she whispered more to herself than anyone in particular. ‘What do you want?’ she asked more lucidly.
Ross had come across this before too. His mother had had moments when she could talk articulately as if nothing was wrong with her then would be overcome by the dreadful cloud of confusion that would send her skidding back into the recesses of her mind, unable to communicate or recognise him.
‘I’m a private investigator but I’m working a case with a police detective from the Staffordshire police force. We’re searching for a missing person name of Lucas Matthews.’
‘I don’t know him,’ she replied and shook her head.
‘We believe your daughter-in-law Christina might have known him.’
The woman sat up in her seat, a new energy about her. ‘My ex-daughter-in-law,’ she said, a vivid scarlet spot appearing on her cheeks. Her eyes unfocused for a moment as memories rushed back. ‘I knew from the start when Josh brought her home, she’d be trouble. He was besotted. She was all legs and fluttering eyelashes. He wouldn’t have listened to me even if I told him. He’d have thought I was being a jealous mother. It was the way she wound him round her little finger that upset me most. He was such a bright lad, with friends and prospects and his whole life shining brightly in front of him. Then he married her and was always at her beck and call. He became nothing more than a puppet who jumped at her every whim and caprice. She spent his money faster than he could earn it. My poor boy.’ A faraway look replaced her emotional outburst as Mrs Clifford retreated to her world of memories, no longer cognisant of Ross beside her. He waited. He had waited often for his mother to rejoin the real world until, finally, she could no longer find her way back and he lost her forever.
Without warning, Jane Clifford spoke again. ‘He worked every hour of the day to keep up with her demands. He bought her new cars almost every year. She’d make those big eyes at him until he caved in. She was what people call “high maintenance”, with trips to salons, teeth-whitening, false nails and all that nonsense. No doubt influenced by the pictures in the glossy magazines she read. And, I can’t begin to estimate what she spent on make-up and facials and the latest trendy fashions. You’d have thought Josh was on a footballer’s salary instead of a brewery manager’s, the way she carried on. He didn’t stop her. He let her have her way no matter what the cost. His father, God rest his soul, said Josh was a doormat. I could see it was wearing Josh out. He began working longer hours and took on some night shifts to feed her spending habits. She didn’t work, of course. Spent all day shopping.’ She looked into the distance, her eyes moistening as she spoke. ‘I suppose the tiredness and worry played its part in the end. He maybe wasn’t concentrating on the driving, the day he had the accident. He drove straight into the back of a parked lorry on the hard shoulder. Couldn’t have seen it. The traffic officers said he must have misjudged where he was. He died,’ she said simply.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Jane Clifford eyed him. ‘You look a bit like him. How I imagine he would look today. If he were still with us. Your eyes are similar – you have kind eyes,’ she added. ‘He was killed in a senseless accident that might have been avoided had he looked up in time and seen he was no longer on the carriageway. It shattered our world. Josh was all we had – him and little Alice.’
Ross sat forward. ‘Alice, she was your granddaughter.’
‘Was or is. I don’t know if she’s alive or where she is. She was a light in our lives. After Josh died, she was even more important to us. So fragile, so precious.’ Jane Clifford’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Only a few months after Josh died, she – Christina – began hanging around bars, the sailing club, and golf clubs. She was trying to snare another man. It didn’t take long before she hitched up with an actor called Paul Matthews. She wanted to start a new life, shutting us off.’ She stopped for a second, and tapped the tips of her fingers together. ‘Matthews. You asked me about Lucas Matthews. Is there a connection?’
‘Lucas is Paul’s son.’
‘Of course. I did know that. I had forgotten. I forget things these days.’
She stopped again and stared at nothing in particular. Ross didn’t push her. He sat back in his chair until Jane Clifford was ready to talk again.
‘It didn’t last even though they got engaged. Soon after Christina and Alice moved into his house, there were problems with his children and Alice. I don’t know the ins and outs of it but the relationship crumbled. Christina visited us soon after she broke up with Paul Matthews. She was all tears and regrets. We were there for her even though we were not happy about her. She really wasn’t the sort of daughter-in-law anyone could like or love. She was so hard and distant. I put it down to losing her own parents and I really tried to get closer to her, but even after ten years of being married to my son, I knew next to nothing about her. Alice visited more often after the break-up with Paul Matthews. She had changed too. Something was broken inside her and we were anxious about her. Then we discovered Christina had become an escort – one of those women who gets paid for accompanying men, but it was more than just going out with men to functions.’ Her voice lowered again and she whispered, ‘She was getting paid for sex.’ She tutted quietly. ‘Poor Josh. He would have been mortified to know what his wife had turned into. It wasn’t long before she fell in with some lowlife sorts. She claimed she was working in a bar but we knew what went on after hours.’
Jane Clifford tugged at the beige cardigan and wrapped it tighter around her. ‘And as for Alice, we became even more concerned about her well-being. I was convinced she was being neglected. She always looked so pale and ill. I wanted her to come and live with us but she only stayed when Christina was too busy to look after her. It was obvious to us that Christina wasn’t interested in her daughter. I couldn’t keep quiet about it. I was horrified. Jack, my husband, told me not to say anything but I couldn’t help myself. One day when Christina came to collect Alice, I challenged Christina about it. She went crazy and without warning, took our granddaughter from us. She called us some terrible names and accused us of interfering, then left overnight and we never saw them again. Jack was right. I should have kept silent. I wonder what would have happened if I had or if I had engaged an investigator to search for her after they left. Someone like you. You would have got her back. You look like a man who would understand about family. Have you got any children?’
‘No. We haven’t been blessed with children but we wanted them. Badly,’
he added. ‘Now there’s only Jeanette and me but we’re good. We’ve accepted our lot.’
‘One has to Mr… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,’ she said, looking concerned.
‘Ross. You can call me Ross.’
‘And you can call me Jane. It’s very nice to talk to you. I don’t get any visitors. Since I lost my husband there’s only me.’
‘Then I shall come and visit you again.’
The corners of her mouth pulled upwards. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘What a shame Alice can’t visit.’’
‘She probably has no idea where I am. She didn’t get in touch again either although there were some postcards.’
‘Postcards?’
‘The first card arrived a few years after we had the dreadful fallout with Christine. It was a photograph of a large red heart but it had nothing written on the back of it, only a kiss. I had no idea who sent them but part of me hoped it was Alice and she would come home to us. I kept the card and a few months later another arrived, then there were others. Would you like to see them? I keep them in my room in my special box.’
‘I’d like that.’
* * *
Robyn had reached Farnborough Hill School when Ross rang but the urgency in his voice caused her to stay in the car to listen to him. He was recounting his visit to see Mrs Clifford.
‘So, Christina got involved with the actor Paul Matthews and stopped going to visit Josh’s parents. They never got on that well anyhow but Mrs Clifford was hurt by the fact they were dropped as if they’d never been part of her life. Next thing, it was all over. She was thrown out of Paul’s house and was back looking for a man to keep her. She began to get desperate and started looking in other places other than posh clubs, and began hanging around bars. She then picked up the wrong sort, if you know what I mean, and followed a different path – she became an escort and not a high-class one at that. Jane Clifford wasn’t willing to say more on that subject. She had a massive row with Christina after which Christina walked out and never spoke to the Cliffords again. Mr Clifford took the whole episode very badly and shortly afterwards he suffered a heart attack. He survived it but was never the same afterwards. She believes he suffered a broken heart, what with losing Josh and then Christina going as she did. Mrs Clifford blames it on Christina. Says she’s poisonous.’