by Danuta Reah
Debbie did. She looked at Louise, waiting. Louise took the picture back, looked at it again and went on, ‘He wasn’t equipped to cope with any of it, I shouldn’t think, poor bastard. You don’t learn a lot about relationships in a children’s home. What you learn is how to survive. Which is just about what he’s doing.’ She looked pointedly at Debbie. ‘You’ve got to survive as well.’ She put the photograph back into the envelope. ‘You wouldn’t believe the problems I had getting that lot out of Claire without her cottoning on why I wanted it. When I asked for the photograph I think she thought I was after him myself.’
Debbie had to know. ‘What was she like? His wife, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. I never met her. I was never in that crowd. I just know Claire. Claire didn’t like her – said she was arty, bohemian. Not Claire’s type, in other words. She was a musician. Played the violin, I think, and very well by all accounts. She was in her last year at university when she met Rob. Mick described her as weird, but he didn’t define his terms. I don’t know what he thought about her, apart from that. One thing Claire did say, she was beautiful.’
Strangely, that bit hurt. Debbie could cope with the idea that this woman had been talented and artistic in ways that she herself was not, but the idea of her being beautiful was harder.
‘I’m pathetic,’ she told Louise. ‘I’m jealous of her. She’s dead, her child’s dead and I’m jealous.’
‘You’re human.’ Louise had no patience with self-castigation. ‘What, specifically, are you jealous of? That he was in love with her? At least it shows he’s capable of it, and I can tell you, Claire never thought he was before.’
Debbie pulled a face. ‘That she was beautiful, actually,’ she said. ‘I told you I was pathetic.’
‘Yes, you are, but it’s par for the course. I’d be at a bit of a loss if you were going green about her musicianship, but her being beautiful shouldn’t present you with any problems.’ Louise looked at Debbie for a moment. ‘I’m not trying to interfere. I just think you need to know what you’re getting into.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything to get into any more.’ Debbie sighed. ‘I told you, it’s over before it really began.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t bank on that,’ said Louise.
Gina Sykes sat in front of her fire, reading the paper. The house felt unbearably quiet. Some nights it seemed empty, then she would put on some music, turn on the television, to give the illusion of company. Tonight, though, the quietness disturbed her. It was a waiting kind of silence. She didn’t like it. She kept looking over her shoulder, thinking someone had come in through the door. She looked at the clock. It was midnight. Maybe she should just go to bed. The stuff for her nightcap was all set out in the kitchen, the cup with the cocoa mixed to a cream with a little milk and a measure of rum, the milk in the saucepan waiting to be heated. She liked to drink her cocoa in bed then read until she felt sleepy. She lit the gas under the milk and watched to make sure it didn’t boil. The taste of boiled milk spoiled the taste of the cocoa. Just as the milk began to foam, she poured it over the cocoa in her cup, stirring it to make it dissolve. The smell of the alcohol was very strong. She liked the smell of rum. It reminded her of Christmas.
Christmases with Gerry, and with Debbie when she was little. Debbie used to love Christmas. It had been the same every Christmas morning, the excited whisper from the bedroom door – has he been yet, has he been? – and Gerry’s groan of despair as he looked at the clock. She remembered the war of attrition – has he been now? – at carefully calculated intervals until the required permission to open the stocking had been obtained. Debbie loved presents, she still did. Gina nodded. The new dress had been just right for Debbie. That blue was the perfect colour.
She put her drink on a tray along with her book and tea things for the morning, then she went up to her bedroom. She lay in bed, sipping her nightcap and turning the pages of her book in a distracted way. She was still thinking about Debbie. This man – Gina felt uneasy about him. Was it that that was making Debbie so unhappy? Was it the problems at work? Her mind wandered on. She sipped her drink. She’d certainly had a generous hand with the rum bottle tonight, or perhaps she hadn’t made the cocoa quite strong enough. She finished it. She really ought to go and clean her teeth, but she felt so drowsy that she couldn’t be bothered. She felt quite tipsy, in fact. She turned the light off and drifted into sleep.
Then she was wide awake. She reached instinctively, as she always did when she woke suddenly, to Gerry’s side of the bed, but of course he wasn’t there. What had woken her? Her head ached and swam, as though she’d had a bottle of rum, not one drink. She listened. There was a noise from the other bedroom, from the room Debbie slept in when she stayed. Gina frowned. Had Debbie stayed? She shook her head to clear it. No, of course she hadn’t. She heard the noise again, like – she couldn’t identify it, rhythmic, quiet but quite distinct. She was too fuddled to feel afraid. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers. Her eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Quietly, using the light from the lamppost outside her window, she crossed the narrow landing at the top of the stairs, pushed the door of the other bedroom open and turned on the light.
He was kneeling on the floor by the bed. He had those photographs of Debbie when they were on holiday, the ones in the bikini, his trousers were open, he was … His face turned towards her. His expression, slack and vacant, changed to one of anger and surprise. Gina took a breath as he got quickly to his feet, and before she could speak or move his fist slammed into the side of her head.
He’s angry. He’s taken risks to use this key, and now he’s been found, been seen and … And he hasn’t found anything useful. He thought he’d tipped enough vodka into the milk to knock her out for the night. He looks at the unconscious woman on the stairs. She’s drunk and disgusting. Will she remember? He can’t take the risk. He bundles the photographs back into the drawer where he found them and snaps off the light. He looks at the staircase, precipitous and narrow as they always are in these houses. Small and skimped. Like mother, like daughter. She’s halfway down the stairs. He goes down and looks at her. Though he’s bruised her he hasn’t broken the skin, and her hair is thick enough to conceal the fact that she was hit with a fist – luck, but use it. She moans. He’s breathing faster now. He doesn’t like to be rushed, not if he hasn’t planned things. Think. He knows what he’s got to do. He knows how to do this. He reaches for her …
She rolls the rest of the way down the stairs, and yes, her head hangs loose. He follows. He feels her pulse. Faint, racing, going, going … It excites him. It reminds him of a hunt. But now is not the time.
He waits until he’s certain she’s dead. Some people might have panicked, but the hunter knows how to deal with the unexpected. Has he left any traces? Few, if any. Will they even look? He checks his watch. One-thirty. He decides to leave it as it is. He knows when to stay and when to go. He slips out of the back door, pulling it shut behind him, double locking it on the Yale. He can’t think of a way to bolt it. It’s a dark, starless night. No one is likely to see him, but he stays in the unlit gennel until he is some way from the house.
12
Late on Thursday afternoon, Debbie was trying to interest her tutorial group in planning their university applications. She always felt at a low ebb at this time, knowing that she still had several hours of work ahead of her and wouldn’t be home until gone ten. She was organizing the group into subject areas, when Sheila, the departmental secretary, came to the classroom door. Debbie broke off what she was saying and, slightly puzzled, went over to Sheila. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said to her class, and the low murmur of chat that had been annoying her rose as the students realized they had an unofficial break.
Sheila said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, but can you go to Peter Davis’s room?’
Debbie was surprised that Sheila had interrupted her tutorial for that. ‘Yes, sure, tell him I’ll be along in’ – she checke
d her watch – ‘half an hour, if I haven’t killed this lot before then.’
‘No, he wants you to come now. He said to send your students across to the library.’ Sheila gestured to indicate that she didn’t know what was going on.
‘OK.’ Debbie thought hard. She hadn’t done anything to warrant a summons like this – leave your class was serious. She wondered if she ought to take her union rep. with her. ‘OK,’ she said again, more loudly this time. ‘Something’s come up and we’re going to have to finish early.’ She ignored the ironic cheer that went up. ‘I want you to go over to the library and spend the rest of the session with the UCAS handbooks. I want everyone to have a shortlist of institutions by next week.’ She heard Matthew Price saying to Darren Wilde, ‘Wormwood Scrubs, Strangeways, Wakefield High Security,’ and, reflecting that he was probably right, Debbie hurried up the stairs to the head of department’s office.
As she stepped through the door, she saw Peter Davis, Louise and two police officers. She stared for a minute, then her stomach lurched as the significance of this hit home. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said. Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she felt very calm, very detached.
‘Miss Sykes?’ One of the officers, a woman, came forward. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you about your mother, Gina Sykes. There’s been an accident …’
Debbie knew then that Gina was dead. She nodded. She felt very cold, and everything was crystal clear. ‘What happened?’
The policewoman said something about a fall, something about a neighbour and an ambulance, some other things that Debbie listened to, nodded at and didn’t take in. She understood that her mother had been dead by the time they got her to the hospital. ‘I must go,’ she said, ‘to the hospital, I must see her.’
The policewoman took her arm. ‘Are you up to it? We’ll take you.’ She was quiet, efficient. Debbie was glad of that.
Louise said, ‘I’ll come with you, Debbie. Don’t worry, I’ll come along and do whatever’s necessary.’ Debbie nodded again. She needed Louise’s good sense here. Peter Davis was saying something about being sorry, not to worry about her classes, fluttering around nervously in the background. She walked out of the office, the WPC still holding her arm. She was surprised to find she needed the support. Louise was behind her. ‘I’ll get your things, Debbie, and follow on in the car. I’ll be at the hospital soon.’ She checked with the other officer: ‘Moreham General?’
As they came down the stairs, she saw Rob Neave stepping out of the lift, his eyes widening with surprise as he witnessed the scene. Debbie was aware of Louise stopping, talking to him, as she went down the stairs with the woman still holding her arm, the man following behind. It must look as though I’ve been arrested. Debbie found this funny and wanted to giggle for a moment. Nothing seemed real. It all seemed very far away. She heard Louise’s footsteps hurrying on the stairs. ‘I’ll be there,’ Louise called, and ran towards the staff room.
At the hospital, things seemed to start moving more quickly, people came and went, talked to her, asked her questions. The policewoman said something about identifying the body. She said, Yes. Yes. Someone gave her a cup of tea. A nurse was standing beside her. ‘Are you sure you’re ready now?’ she asked. Debbie nodded, and went down a corridor with her. There was a lift and more doors, then she was standing by a bed with a sheeted figure on it.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
to show how cold she is, and dumb
The words flashed into Debbie’s mind. ‘Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.’ She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until she saw the nurse looking at her. ‘It’s a poem,’ she said. The nurse nodded, still watching her. Then she carefully pulled back the sheet from the face on the bed, and time lurched into place.
Debbie had been thinking about her mother, about the days they had spent together over Christmas, about the book she had given her for Christmas, about how she had liked it; and she had been thinking about her mother being dead, and the thoughts didn’t seem to gel but ran on parallel lines in her mind. She looked at the face. It was waxy-white, blue-tinged around the lips. The jaw hung slackly, the eyes were half closed and vacant. Her hair, her rich dark curls, looked dull and lifeless. Lifeless. Of course. It was her mother, and yet she couldn’t imagine anything less like her mother. She would have to write to the phone company to tell them not to worry about the faulty line. She would have to … Her mind ground to a halt. She didn’t know what to do next.
The policewoman was standing beside Debbie. ‘Is this your mother, Mrs Gina Sykes?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ Debbie said.
Then she was in the car with Louise. She remembered talking to a man, someone from the police, a nurse said, who was telling her what happened. She couldn’t understand much. ‘It looks as though your mother got up in the night and fell down the stairs. Did she always have a drink before she went to bed?’
‘She often had cocoa with a tot of rum,’ Debbie said.
‘She maybe overdid it a bit,’ the man said. He didn’t seem to hear what Debbie was saying. ‘We’re looking into it, Miss Sykes, but it looks like an accident, a tragic accident.’
‘What did he mean?’ Debbie asked Louise later in the car.
‘I think he thought she was drunk,’ Louise said.
It was dark by the time they got to Debbie’s house. ‘Do you want to come back with me for the night?’ Louise asked. ‘You’re welcome to our spare room. I’d stay here, but I can’t get in touch with Dan to let him know.’ The house was cold. Louise went over to the fire to light it.
‘No, leave it,’ Debbie said.
Louise looked at her. ‘OK,’ she said after a moment. ‘Let me get you something. You look awful. You’re white as a sheet.’
‘Just … I’d like a large whisky. There’s a bottle in the cupboard.’ Gina’s Christmas present to Debbie. Gina never got drunk. Louise got the bottle out and poured two drinks.
‘What about tonight?’ Louise asked again.
Debbie looked round her. She wanted to be at home, not anywhere else. She didn’t want to wake up in a strange bed, have to cope with Dan’s embarrassed sympathy. She wanted to be alone and think about her mother, and about her father. What would he have thought? How would he have coped with it? She felt angry with him for not being here. She needed him. ‘I really think I’d rather stay here. Thanks.’
Louise was concerned. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Look, I can stay anyway. I’ll get in touch with Dan later. He’ll be back after midnight. I’ll phone him then. Or I’ll get a neighbour to leave a note.’
‘No, really, I want to be on my own. I really do, Louise.’ Debbie was determined, and Louise gave in reluctantly.
‘Well, all right, but have another drink and then get yourself off to bed. Get enough of this inside you to knock you out for tonight. I’ll phone in the morning.’ She filled Debbie’s glass again then began to gather her things together. ‘I’ll phone …’ she said, and stopped for a moment. ‘I’ll phone you in the morning.’
Debbie waited until she was gone, then sat down. Being alone had seemed important, but now she couldn’t remember what it was she wanted to do. She drained her glass and filled it again. She picked it up and walked through to the kitchen, swallowing half the contents in one gulp. She could feel it starting to warm her now. Her face felt wet, and she realized she was crying. She didn’t feel as though she was crying. The tears just seemed to run down her face. She went back into the middle room and put her glass down on the table. It was empty. She looked at it and wondered if she should drink any more, then she filled her glass again.
The house felt dark and silent. Being alone didn’t seem like such a good idea any more. She ought to go to bed, Louise was right, but she didn’t want to go up the stairs into that dark emptiness. Except it wasn’t emptiness. There was something up there waiting for her. Things that watched her. Dark things that jumped out of shadows, S
arah on her lonely path, her mother on the dark stairway. There was a pattern that she couldn’t quite see. She drank the whisky and poured more into her glass. Maybe if she turned the light on – but she didn’t want to do that, be in the glare, in the view, while things peered at her from the dark outside. She could close the curtains, but then they would know she was there. It was very cold. She sat in the chair and drank more whisky, drawing her legs up under herself for warmth. She sat there shivering, staring into the darkness.
Some time later – how much later she couldn’t really tell – the doorbell rang. Debbie shook her head to clear it, and stood up, staggering a bit as she found her feet. It was hard in the dark. The bell rang again. ‘Coming, I’m coming,’ she mumbled. It was cold. The fire wasn’t lit. She went into the kitchen and squinted at the door. ‘Who is it?’ It didn’t come out too clearly. She realized that tears were running down her face again, and brushed them away.
‘Rob. Rob Neave. Let me in.’
She stood there for a moment trying to think, then she took the key off the hook by the door, and tried to put it in the key hole. She missed the first couple of times, but got the door open on the third try. She stood in the doorway blinking, as he stepped round her into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. ‘Rob,’ she said. ‘Did you know … how did you know …’ She couldn’t work out how to say it.