by Jess Kidd
Renata keeps talking. Halfway through an in-depth analysis of the merits of the tanga over a full brief I start to cry.
Renata takes my hand in hers and waits.
Then, in an easy, downy voice she says, “Tell me about it, Maud. Tell me everything.”
Everything.
Lightly, quietly, she says, “This is not just about Flood, is it?”
“No.”
St. Dymphna looks up at me from the hallway; an expression of dismay streaks across her face and she’s gone.
I don’t have to look around to know where she is: she’s right behind me. Quick as a ghost. So real I can feel her standing next to my chair; her robe brushes against my arm, her breath moves my hair.
She holds her hand an inch from my mouth. I see it before me.
I smell that medicated soap Granny always bought, and perfume stolen from the chemist, and the sickly strawberry sweetness of bubble gum.
If I try to speak of it, she’ll stop me with the pale flat dead palm of her hand.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say. “Nothing happened.”
CHAPTER 40
I follow her, the red-haired woman. She leads me across a furrowed field, through a wooded copse, and on, deeper, deeper, into the trees, her white feet sinking into the loam. Above me, light-dappled branches, leaves saturated with color—a vivid living green—and beyond a sky of cloudless blue. I wade through bracken and stumble over tree roots.
I am not frightened while I hear birds sing. For I remember that birds fly away when something bad is about to happen: they sense what’s coming. And the birds are singing all around us, brightly, persistently.
Here’s a clearing and there’s a stream. On the bank opposite, two children play in the water, sailing acorn cups. When they hear me they look up and smile. A dark blond boy and a bright blond girl with the same slow, wide grin.
As I smile back I realize that the birds have stopped singing.
CHAPTER 41
St. Valentine sits next to my weekend bag in the back seat of Sam Hebden’s green Golf with a dented passenger door. We’re making good time down the M3; with St. Valentine’s intercession we will no doubt be in Langton Cheney by lunchtime. The saint travels with his head out of the window like an excited dog, blessing vehicles traveling below the speed limit and gesticulating at van drivers as they pass by texting.
Sam is quiet, distracted. Perhaps surprised at my last-minute invitation, at my change of heart. Or perhaps it’s because with every mile we draw nearer to the place where it all began. I wonder when he will admit he’s not who he says he is.
Someone will recognize him. Surely there’ll be someone in the village who knew him as a child, who knew his sister?
You just have to watch his face—wait for it—there’s the same wide grin as Maggie’s.
Only he’s not smiling now.
I glance at him, in his T-shirt and trainers with his lovely gray eyes on the road. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I know what he has done.
He took the job to get close to Cathal. To investigate, in his own way, his sister’s disappearance, knowing that the Floods were somehow involved. He had revealed his identity to the old man, or perhaps Cathal recognized him; either way it led to the assault.
But why lie to us? To Renata and me?
He checks his mirrors often, as if someone’s tailgating him. I glance behind me and so does St. Valentine.
“We’re being followed,” says the saint.
A new black BMW is keeping a polite distance, pottering along the inside lane in a way new black BMWs never do.
And I’m about to exclaim when St. Valentine leans forwards, his voice cold. “Don’t say a bloody word, Twinkle.”
We drive on in silence, with Sam checking his mirror.
I steal another glance. St. Valentine is halfway out of the rear window trying to get a glimpse at the driver.
“Is everything all right?” asks Sam.
“Just looking for my handbag.”
“It’s there, by your feet.”
“So it is.”
Sam frowns at me.
“Tell him to pull in,” urges St. Valentine. “See if we can’t get a handle on the situation.”
“Can we stop at the services, Sam? I need the bathroom.”
Sam checks his mirror and pulls into the inside lane, indicating early, slowing down, checking his mirror again.
“Your fella not only knows we’re being followed, he’s encouraging it,” says St. Valentine. “And you’ll never guess who’s in that beamer.”
I would.
* * *
I SIT down on the toilet and look at my phone. There are five missed calls from Renata.
She answers at once. “Where are you?”
“On a toilet in a motorway service station being followed by Gabriel Flood.”
There’s a pause. “He’s following you? Are you sure?”
Someone in the next cubicle flushes. I wait. “Yes, I’m sure. What did you call me for?”
Another pause, then her voice flat and stern. “Sam isn’t Sam.”
“No, I know. He’s Maggie Dunne’s brother.”
She sounds surprised. “What gives you that idea?”
“Look at the photograph of Maggie. It’s the same smile. He came undercover as an agency worker to investigate the Floods. But Cathal found out, and that’s why he threatened him.”
“It would fit.”
The words vacant cunt are etched on the toilet door in foot-high letters; I try not to take it personally.
“Only there’s a real Sam Hebden,” says Renata. “I’ve just spoken to him.”
“How?”
“I got his number from one of the girls in the agency. Biba is off with a mild dose of gout.”
It’s as simple as that.
“He confirmed that he worked with Mr. Flood until he was run off the property. Then he was transferred to a new gig in Hull.” Renata’s tone softens. “The real Sam Hebden is of medium height, bald, with a goatee beard, and a port-wine stain on his left buttock.”
I frown. “So what does that mean?”
“No idea, but there’s something else: Mary Flood was a major figure at Cedar House.”
“Tell me.”
“I sent for a brochure and it arrived today, surprisingly glossy. Nowadays Holly Lodge offers tailored care for older people in a faith-led environment. There’s a whole page on the history of the place; it says Mary Flood built a wing.”
“I don’t see—”
“I’m working on a way to get you in. How are your acting skills?”
“You are kidding.”
There’s a smile in Renata’s voice. “Answer your bloody phone, Maud.”
* * *
SAM IS waiting outside with takeaway coffees. “Are you ready?”
St. Valentine is standing next to him, only now he has friends: St. Dymphna and St. George, St. Rita and St. Monica stand alongside. St. Dymphna chews her plait and St. George holds a sack in his gauntleted hand. St. Rita and St. Monica stand a little apart, ignoring each other like socially awkward party guests. I’m almost glad to see them.
Sam hands me my coffee.
The saints perk up and start to watch him closely.
“He’s nervous,” announces St. Dymphna to her plait.
“Agitated, more like,” says St. Valentine. “Look at his eyes; there’s a fair twitch to the left one.”
I gesture at a concrete planter. “We’ll sit here a moment, Sam, just while we drink.”
“I’d rather press on.”
I smile. “What’s the rush? Our meeting with Frank Gaunt isn’t until three. He’s the police—”
Sam looks at me, unsmiling. “I know who he is.”
He sits down next to me and puts his coffee on the ground. He searches in his pocket for his cigarettes, lights one, and gazes out across the car park.
“This is crazy, Maud. Let’s just go back to London. It’s all gone
far enough.”
“What’s gone far enough?”
He takes a deep drag and exhales. “This fictional crime case.”
The saints glance at each other, then at me. St. George puts his sack down and grasps the hilt of his sword.
I take a cautious sip of my coffee, moving slowly, counting to ten. “Mary Flood had a dubious accident; that’s not fictional. Maggie Dunne disappeared; that’s not fictional either. Mary kept the cuttings; she did that for a reason.”
Sam squints back at me through cigarette smoke. “People keep newspaper cuttings all the time; it means nothing.”
“In this case, it means something.”
“This is madness.”
“You have a sister.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“You have a sister. I asked you before. I said, ‘If she disappeared, like Maggie Dunne, would you just let it go?’ ”
“Nice one.” St. George nods under his visor.
Sam’s voice is low and full of contained anger. “None of this is any of your business.”
“You’re lucky: you know where your sister is.”
He screws out his cigarette in the planter. “I thought you had more sense. I can see why Renata does it, all that time on his hands.”
The saints tut. St. Dymphna mutters an expletive under her breath.
I watch Sam walk off across the car park. If I had a brick in my hand I’d be taking aim.
* * *
HE OPENS the car door from the inside. I get in, putting my handbag on my lap primly. All the saints slide into the back seat. As we pull out of the service station I see a brand-new black BMW parked by the petrol pumps. The man in the driver’s seat ducks. Sam looks straight ahead and dawdles towards the exit.
* * *
I HAVE to make a decision. I am in a car with a man who isn’t who he says he is and we are being followed. And he not only knows we are being followed, he’s encouraging it.
I look down. My phone is hopping in my bag, vibrating through the canvas: Renata.
The saints nudge one another and St. Valentine leans forwards. “The next service station is just up ahead. Get him to pull in there.”
“Can we stop again, please, Sam? That coffee’s gone right through me.” I sneak a look at his face. He is beyond irritation.
* * *
I SIT on the toilet for the longest time studying my phone. It’s entirely out of charge.
I flush the cistern for something to do, until St. Dymphna pushes her head through the cubicle and tells me its high bloody time I came out.
As I line up for the hand dryers with a dead phone, my itinerary, and a gaggle of ladies on a trip to Weymouth, a plan starts to take shape in my mind.
St. Dymphna is leaning on the sanitary-towel dispenser with her lamp in her hand and her robes arranged nicely. She flashes me an encouraging smile. She looks very sweet when she smiles non-sarcastically; she even has dimples. She could be the face of sainthood.
“Remember how convincing you were when you delivered that box of cat litter to Mrs. Cabello?” she says. “She believed you and she’s a savvy old high-class hooker. You can do this, Maud.”
I frown at St. Dymphna and she nods at me. For once I know she’s right.
I take a deep breath and feel the tears collect in my lying eyes.
* * *
THE WOMAN in charge is called Wendy; I can tell this from her name badge. I know she is in charge because she is the one holding a clipboard. She’s a little out of place in her anorak and walking sandals in a sea of appliquéd nylon and cork wedges. Wendy tells me that she’s a retired teacher who misses the headache of escorting ill-behaved miscreants on trips to heritage sites. The Dorking Nifty Fifties Latin Formation Team fills this gap in her life; she doesn’t dance but a trip away with them is a workout by itself.
This weekend there is a semifinal in Weymouth, a trip on a steam train, and a cream tea at Corfe Castle to contend with. All this and being in charge of two hobby kleptomaniacs, three habitual brawlers, and a committed sex addict who’s been plaguing the coach driver to distraction. Wendy shakes her head as an argument breaks out in front of the mirrors as thirty women simultaneously attempt to apply lipstick.
I take the opportunity to relay my tragic story and throw myself on Wendy’s mercy. She eyes me with alarm over her clipboard as I begin to cry, her long graying hair giving her the appearance of a concerned spaniel.
St. Dymphna gives me the thumbs-up.
“I’m sure it contravenes all manner of health and safety rules,” says Wendy, “but we do have extra places on the coach due to an outbreak of shingles.”
I grin like a lunatic.
“You’ll have to join the troupe as a temporary member. I have a form.” She rummages in her rucksack. “But what about your car, dear, can you just leave it here?”
“I think the main thing is to get to the home in time to say goodbye to my aunt.” I dab at my eyes with the tissue Wendy gives me. “Of all the times my distributor could fail—”
“I quite understand. I once had a very temperamental car, a fractious Hillman Imp.”
She glances across at the mirrors; the fight seems to be escalating. One of the Nifty Fifties has taken off her shoe and another is putting down her handbag and rolling up the sleeves of her batwing jumper.
A weary frown crosses Wendy’s brow. “If you’ll excuse me.”
* * *
WE EMERGE like the close-knit group we are; I am already linking arms with a woman with hard-boiled blue eyes, short red hair, and gums like a carthorse. She introduces herself as Fun Julie, shows me a half bottle of vodka in her handbag, and threatens to share it with me on the coach. I am careful to steer Fun Julie towards the middle of the group as we stampede, roaring and singing, across the car park. I see Virtual Sam waiting outside the entrance. He is speaking on his phone and kicking a post. He glances over his shoulder in the direction of the noise, then looks away, frowning.
A chorus of dim saints are drifting across the car park led by St. Dymphna, who, with her dark eyes flashing and crown glinting, waves me on board the waiting coach.
Wendy counts us on. I climb up the steps with the relief of an airlifted soldier. I encourage Fun Julie into the seat by the window and keep my head down until we are under way.
As we pull out of the car park, I see the black BMW parked by the exit. Gabriel Flood, in dark glasses, leans on his car door shouting into his phone.
I take the bottle Fun Julie is offering me.
* * *
UNDER DIFFERENT circumstances the coach ride would be one of my life’s highlights. By the time we are out of the car park the entire coach, including the driver, know about my broken-down car and dying aunt, and now we are on a mission.
The Nifty Fifties will see me all the way to the residential home. They will get me there before my aunt dies and fuck the complimentary scones at Corfe Castle. To settle my nerves I have a few more slugs from Fun Julie’s bottle.
Someone hands around paper cups of warm Lambrusco and three rows behind a ne’er-do-well sparks up a Café Crème, incurring the wrath of Wendy, who pads down the aisle on the verge of tears with her long hair flapping.
By the time we hit roadworks in Ringwood we have sung most of the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing and the girls have decided to set up a vigil outside the home. After the event they’ll bring me on to Weymouth and their seafront hotel with the all-day happy hour. They will teach me to merengue and kit me out with a pair of gold dancing shoes.
By the time we reach the village of Langton Cheney the girls are in a nostalgic mood. It’s inevitable they should turn to their losses: lost virginities, lost chances, lost time, lost parents, lost terriers, lost friends, and lost lovers.
Doreen Gouge would clean up.
The back row begins to sing a spontaneous Édith Piaf tribute; the rest of the coach goes with Elvis at his most reflective. But as the coach crawls up the drive towards Holly Lodge Residential Car
e Home the group are united with a rousing performance of the chorus of “An American Trilogy.”
It somehow seems fitting.
Fun Julie hands me the vodka bottle with a wink of a metallic eyelid. “Something tells me you’re going to need this a lot more than me, kiddo,” she says.
For a moment I feel homesick for Renata.
I shake hands with Wendy and the coach driver before stepping down onto the driveway and watching the coach depart. The saints are drawing in across the ornamental flowerbeds. They collect outside the entrance, nodding to one another, hands clasped, like wedding guests lining up for a photograph.
The Dorking Nifty Fifties Latin Formation team collectively salute me. It’s a dignified send-off, only slightly marred by one member of the troupe lifting up her blouse. An elderly gardener looks on in amusement, leaning on his rake.
I watch until the coach is out of sight and then walk towards the long redbrick building that’s going to provide me with a whole load of answers.
* * *
AS I stand in the entrance hall I am mindful of being under the influence. I concentrate on acting normally and ignore the disapproving glances of the receptionist and the amused gaze of the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose statue graces an alcove above me. In the opposite alcove the man himself is hanging out on a cross, fine limbs, jutting ribs, eyes closed, head heavy.
This would be a Catholic care home, then. I glance around me to find that my saints have melted into the shadows. No doubt lured away by the raft of expert petitioners in this place.
“Are there nuns around here?” I whisper, feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in me. For I love nuns. I wonder if they would take me in and let me live with them. If I behave properly and stop drinking and swearing and sleeping with hot men who lie about their identities.
The receptionist, a joyless woman with thin eyebrows, frowns. “We don’t have nuns but there’s a priest who visits. Did you want to see him too?”
“I don’t. I’ve come to see the manager.”
The receptionist fixes me with a look. “I’ve told Mrs. Chapman you are waiting and that you would prefer not to divulge what you want to see her about.”