Far Cry

by John Harvey

  No change in Roberts' expression.

  'Janine Prentiss, how about her? Young Janine. I met her the other day. Grown up, married, kids of her own. She'll not have forgotten you, either, you can be sure of that. Janine. I'll be talking to her again.'

  Now Roberts' grin had all but disappeared.

  Will stared at him for a few moments longer, then turned away.

  'This place yours?' he asked Lansdale, who was still standing by the garage door, looking on.

  'It's mine.'

  'Your employment policy—I should get it sorted, if I were you.'

  Back in his car, Will flexed the fingers of his right hand, slotted an old Blondie Greatest Hits CD Lorraine had bought him into the stereo and turned up the volume.

  'Heart of Glass'.

  35

  Ruth liked Tuesdays. Instead of having to pick up Beatrice from school, she left it to Fiona's mum to collect both girls and take them home for tea, before ferrying them off to their respective flute lessons. Then Ruth—or, occasionally, Andrew—would pick Beatrice up once her lesson was finished. All of which left her with a good two hours to herself, sometimes more.

  Quite often she would take a walk along the river, nothing too energetic, just enjoying the sense of space, clearing her head; other times, if the weather were especially nice, she would sit in the garden of the café close by the cathedral and read. Today it was something by Philip Roth she'd pulled off the library shelves and which, truth to tell, she was finding pretty hard going. It certainly didn't chime with her pot of tea and scone with jam and cream. After a few more pages she set it aside.

  A man's book, she thought, is that what it was? What was putting her off? For men and about men? She didn't even know if that were strictly true. What was true, though, most of the writers she really liked were women. Not thinking Woolf and Mansfield now, but modern-day. Contemporary. Helen Dunmore. Barbara Kingsolver. Kate Atkinson. Rose Tremain. Whereas Simon, she remembered—and she'd been thinking about Simon a lot lately—had read almost exclusively men: McEwan, Kureishi, Amis. Martin Amis. Simon seemed to like him more than anyone.

  Heaven knows why.

  He had sat her down once with a copy of Money and told her it was the most important book of the last twenty years. What it was, Ruth thought, after struggling through a hundred pages or so, was hostile and unpleasant; very, very unpleasant.

  'It's real,' Simon said, when she'd confronted him. 'The real world. In your face. And that's what you don't like about it. You don't want to face up to the truth.'

  'That's not so.'

  'It's not?' He made a small sound, somewhere between a snigger and a sigh. 'Come on, Ruthie, admit it. Something bad, unpleasant even, you switch off, turn your back.'

  Ruth didn't think that was the case. What she didn't want was to have her nose rubbed in it. Remorselessly. As if there were nothing else. Not when she was watching television, not when she was reading. Someone like Helen Dunmore could write about the most awful things—the siege of Leningrad, for instance—without making you feel contempt for the whole human race.

  She spread the last of the cream and jam on to the surviving piece of scone and popped it into her mouth, picked up her bag, and headed for home.

  Back indoors, she checked the answerphone for messages—none—picked up various bits and pieces of her clothing and deposited them in the dirty washing basket, made sure there was enough pasta for dinner later, and then, after a quick check of her watch, sat down at the computer to go through her emails.

  As usual, most of what was waiting in her inbox was unsolicited and unwanted: offers of fortunes to be made, holidays and flights at amazing discount prices; begging letters from Burkina Faso or Mozambique; a once-in-a-lifetime invitation to become a core investor in the Ecuadorian mining industry; wonder drugs for the menopause; marital aids; lottery winnings waiting to be collected if only she would confirm the following details...

  Ruth consigned all these to the trash and scrolled quickly down through the rest. Catriona asking if she would like to go to London to see a new play at the National; one of the fellow students from her library management course inviting her to join a group of them for a drink; her mother, who had taken belatedly to the Internet, reminding her how long it had been since she had made a visit north. I swear I shan't recognise my granddaughter if I don't see her soon.

  Ruth answered briefly—yes, maybe, soon, half-term—wrapping the reply inside a few conciliatory sentences about Beatrice's progress at school.

  She was about to close down when a new message announced itself with the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle—a mail sound which Andrew had set up and which she had found impossible to change.

  The sender's name was not one she recognised, but the subject was: Beatrice.

  Ruth manoeuvred the mouse and clicked the message open.

  One after another, images of Beatrice appeared on the screen.

  Beatrice—where?—on her way to school, it had to be; Beatrice in Ely with a friend, on a street Ruth didn't immediately recognise; Beatrice, skirt flaring out about her, pedalling furiously on her bike; Beatrice in close-up, head turning towards the camera, as if in response to the camera's click or someone calling her name.

  All taken, it seemed, recently; the last few months.

  Less.

  Below the last picture, a single line of type.

  Isn't she lovely?

  Ruth felt sick.

  Sat there for several moments, face down, head in her hands, not looking at the screen.

  When her breathing had steadied, she scrolled quickly back through the pictures, looking for the sender's name. A mixture of letter and numbers without apparent meaning. Hastily, she clicked on Reply, wrote, Who are you?, and moved the mouse to Send.

  Waited while her stomach churned.

  Nothing happened.

  Switching off, she reached for the phone, dialled the number for Andrew's mobile, and when he didn't answer left a message for him to call her as soon as he could.

  Then she sat in agony till she heard the sound of the car. When she threw open the door, Andrew was walking up the path towards the house, carrying his briefcase, smiling, Beatrice dawdling a few paces behind him, flute case in her hand.

  Ruth threw herself at Andrew and clung to his neck, crying.

  'Ruth, Ruth. Whatever is it? What's happened?'

  'Mum!' Beatrice looked on, alarmed.

  'Ruth, whatever's the matter?'

  'Nothing. Nothing. It's nothing.' Still crying, smiling through her tears, she stood away. 'I'll tell you later. I'm just being stupid, that's all. Hormonal probably.' Finding a tissue, she dabbed at her face. 'Come on, let's go inside.'

  It was a little after ten. Beatrice was in bed, sleeping. Most evenings they would have switched on the TV to watch the news, the headlines at least, but this evening neither of them had moved, the remote untouched on the arm of Andrew's chair. Ruth was sitting, legs folded, on the settee, a glass of wine on the small table beside her, still three-quarters full. When Beatrice had gone to bed—early for her—Andrew had fixed himself a Scotch and water and put a CD on the stereo, piano music, Handel, nothing too heavy. After a while, Ruth had asked him to turn it off.

  The email that she'd sent had come bouncing back. A second attempt, the same.

  'You sure you don't think we should phone the police?' Ruth said.

  'And tell them what? Someone's sent us some pictures of our daughter in an email?'

  Ruth sighed and pulled her legs closer.

  'You know,' Andrew said, moments later, 'there's probably a perfectly innocent explanation.'

  'You said.'

  'I mean, they're just pictures, after all. Perfectly ordinary. It's not as if there's anything—you know—funny ...'

  Ruth looked at him. 'Funny?'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'Don't keep saying that. You keep saying that. You know, you know, as if ... as if I did. As if we knew anything.'
/>   Andrew stood up to refresh his glass.

  'You know...'

  Ruth shot him an angry glance.

  'I'm sorry, but you know what I've just thought. Lyle.'

  'What about him?'

  'He's just bought one of those new cameras. Digital SLR. Nikon. Fancy lens. Cost him a pretty packet. I bet that's what it is. Lyle, trying it out.'

  'Taking pictures of Beatrice?'

  'Of course.'

  'But why?'

  'To surprise us.'

  Ruth shook her head in disbelief.

  'Showing off, that's what it is. I'm going to call him. I'll do it now.'

  But it wasn't Lyle. Yes, he had a new camera. D60. Ten million pixels. Fantastic. But Beatrice? No. No way.

  Andrew stood in the middle of the room, glass in hand, listening to the silence in the house. 'I could have sworn,' he said, after a moment. And then, 'Who else? Who on earth?'

  Hugging her legs tighter towards her, Ruth is thinking of Simon, but doesn't say.

  She's lovely, Ruth. Lovely. A smile in his eyes.

  36

  All evening Lorraine had been singing the words to 'I Got You, Babe'. Not the whole thing, just snatches of it, verses, occasional lines. Stupid, dumb song! She never heard the original, not at the time. Sonny and Cher, is that who it had been? Ten years before she was born. UB40 with Chrissie Hynde, that was her. Back when she was ten. What was it? Something about having someone to understand? Holding her hand? As soon as their singles compilation had come out she'd talked her dad into buying it for her birthday. She still had it somewhere. 'Stop Your Sobbing', 'Kid', 'Brass in Pocket', 'Back on the Chain Gang'. Those were the tracks she'd played again and again. Close on twelve she'd have been by then and old enough to want Chrissie Hynde as some kind of role model. Gelling her hair, miming along in front of the bathroom mirror.

  'Hey!' Will said, coming into the kitchen from the stairs.

  'What?'

  'What you doing?'

  'Nothing, why?'

  'Standing there, staring off into space.'

  'I was thinking.'

  'What about?'

  'Doesn't matter.'

  Will shrugged. 'Susie'd wet her nappy again.'

  'Our fault for letting her have that drink last thing.'

  'You want anything?'

  'How d'you mean?'

  'I don't know. Tea, coffee, something stronger.'

  'Stronger?'

  'I could open another bottle of wine. Beer in the fridge.'

  'I don't think so. You go ahead.'

  He fished out a can of Carlsberg, poured some—less than half—into a glass, wiped the top with the heel of his hand and, taking a swig from the can, passed the glass along. 'Split it, okay?'

  'Sure.'

  What Lorraine really wanted was a spliff, something to relax her before bedtime, help her sleep.

  'You want to sit?' Will asked.

  'Why not?'

  The living room was dark save for what little light shone in from outside, the curtains open out on to the garden and the fields beyond, and neither of them made any attempt to switch on a light. Seated at the opposite end of the settee, Lorraine kicked off her slippers and swung her legs round so that they were resting in his lap.

  When he began, slowly, to stroke her feet, not quite a massage, not exactly, she leaned further back and closed her eyes.

  Not sure how long she'd been asleep, she jerked awake when he stopped.

  'You ready for bed?'

  She held out a hand and he pulled her to her feet.

  'Helen,' she said, 'is she still seeing that guy?'

  'What made you ask that all of a sudden?'

  'I don't know. Is she?'

  'Declan? Maybe. I don't know.' He shrugged. 'At least she hasn't come into work with any bruises lately.'

  'It's not funny.'

  'I never said it was.' He pointed at the glass on the floor. 'You going to finish that?'

  Lorraine shook her head.

  He drank the last of the beer, carried the glass through to the sink and rinsed it under the tap.

  'Door locked?' Lorraine asked.

  'Safe and sound.'

  Following her up the stairs, he pulled her blouse out from where it had been tucked into her jeans, dipped his head and kissed the soft rise of skin between hip and rib.

  'What's that for?' Lorraine asked, surprised.

  'Later,' Will said and smiled.

  Helen had arranged to meet Declan late on in the Horse and Feathers, a sprawling roadhouse out towards the ring road, some fifteen minutes' drive from the house he still shared, despite a host of pillow-talk promises, with his wife and two kids, one his, one hers. There were other children, Helen knew, other mothers, some acknowledged, some not.

  She arrived at the pub a little late, fully expecting Declan to be there already, bellied up to the bar. The young woman serving, doubtless augmenting her student loan, set aside the book she was reading long enough to fix her a large G&T.

  Angled above her head, one giant TV was showing an omnibus rerun of Friends, the other was promising highlights from a Blue Square Premier clash between York City and Mansfield Town. Two fruit machines by the far wall were burping flashing lights across the tawdry furnishings.

  A middle-aged couple sat ignoring one another at a side table, the man in a sports jacket and tie, eking out his pint; the woman, her hair freshly done that morning in the same style as the last twenty years, was sitting with what looked like a snowball in front of her, barely touched.

  Another five minutes Helen thought and she was going to risk calling Declan's mobile and find out what the hell was going on. In the event, he rang first.

  'Helen?'

  'Yes?'

  'You in the Feathers?'

  'Only for the last half-hour.'

  'Look, I'm sorry, I've got this situation ...'

  'Situation?'

  'The littlest, Annie, she's not well, some kind of tummy thing. I may have to take her to Accident and Emergency if it doesn't get any better.'

  'Can't your wife...?' Helen didn't like to use her name.

  'She's out. Some do with her mates from work. Promised to be back before now, the cow.'

  'Declan...'

  'Look, just hang on for a bit, eh? I'll call you if I can get away.'

  Helen didn't think so. Letting the phone fall back into her bag, she took one last glance around the vast, almost empty bar.

  'Look on the bright side,' one of her girlfriends had said, 'at least you don't have to wash his pants.'

  There were worse things.

  The last time he had come round to her flat, two nights before, Scotch and vodka and who knows what else, after a lot of fooling around, she'd slapped his face, not once, but twice, and then when he'd laughed and punched her back—not the face, but the body where any bruises wouldn't show—she'd hit him a third time and heard her own voice shouting, 'Go on then, fuck me! Fuck me, you bastard!'—and remembering it now she'd hated herself almost as much as she hated him.

  It was way past time to call it a day.

  Back home, she poured herself a large glass of red wine and settled down to watch a DVD of My Best Friend's Wedding she'd picked up at the supermarket for less than a fiver. Dermot Mulroney not unlike Declan minus the odd ten kilos.

  It was close to one when her phone finally rang, Helen well into her second glass of Cabernet and contemplating turning in.

  'Declan,' she said, before he could speak.

  'Yes?'

  It's over.

  'Is it, fuck!'

  She switched off her phone, freshened her glass, watched the predictable end of the movie and got ready for bed. Declan wouldn't like being dumped, she was certain of that. He'd try phoning, intercepting her at work, being angry, being nice, doing whatever he could to change her mind. But, as long as she stood firm, he'd soon grow tired of making a fuss—a fool of himself, that's how he'd see it in others' eyes—and start spreading the word that he w
as the one who'd dumped her, just a slag after all. Then move on to someone else.

  At a little after two and still awake, Helen got up and took two paracetamol, tried to read, finally got to sleep somewhere around a quarter to three. By five o'clock, still with a slight head, she was wide awake again.

  'You look like shit,' Will said cheerfully a few hours later, stopping off at Helen's desk on the way to his own.

  'Thanks a lot.'

  'Good night?'

  'Not so's you'd notice. And anyway, what have you got to be so cheerful about?'

  'Oh, you know...'

  Helen thought she might. The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up.

  'Are you here?' she asked Will, her hand across the mouthpiece.

  'Depends. Who is it?'

  'Janine Clarke.'

  37

  Superficially, Janine Clarke looked much the same as she had the day Will had met her in Huntingdon: the same black suit, or similar, the same silver brooch—a gift, he guessed from her husband, a recent anniversary, perhaps, or birthday. Her hair was neatly cut and in place, make-up understated and precise. The smile she gave him as she came forward to shake his hand was the same assured professional smile as before. Except for the eyes. Nervous, flickering and dark. Afraid of where they were going, what they were going to see.

  Her hand was warmer than before, almost clammy, and Will felt the smallest tremor before she slipped her fingers free from his.

  'Janine. Thanks for coming in. This is my colleague, Helen Walker. Helen—Janine.'

  Janine gave Helen a quick, buttoned smile.

  'Why don't we go into my office?' Will said. 'Less chance of being disturbed.'

  'Can I get you anything?' Helen asked, when they were inside. 'Tea? Coffee?'

  'Just some water, please. If that's all right.'

  While Helen was out of the room, Will asked Janine about the drive over, how things were at work, her kids.

  'Two, isn't it?'

  'Yes. Drew and Damien. Drew's almost five, Damien's three.'

  'And Drew's a girl?'

  'Yes. After Drew Barrymore, that's where we got the name.'