The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  “Sorry,” I backtrack. “Yes, that would be her.”

  The nurse nods. “I didn’t know she was family. Anyway, I just need to go and serve the tea.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  She walks away. And a few things click into place. Where Chloe has been going when she hasn’t been at work. The visit last week. The same day, she returned drunk, in tears, making those odd comments about family.

  But why? More research? Revisiting her past? What is she up to?

  I wheel the reverend in and position him so he can see the television, which is playing an old Diagnosis: Murder. Christ, if you hadn’t lost your mind before you came here, watching Dick Van Dyke and his family hamming it up every day would probably send you over the edge.

  Then something else catches my eye. Past the television and the lolling residents in high-backed chairs a frail figure sits just outside the French doors. She’s wrapped in a thick fur coat, a purple turban perched precariously on her head, wisps of white hair poking out from underneath.

  Garden Lady. The one who told me a secret. But that was almost thirty years ago. I can’t believe she’s still alive. I suppose it’s possible she was only in her sixties back then. But that would still put her in her nineties now.

  Curious, I walk forward and push open the doors. The air is cool but the sun lends a faint sheen of warmth.

  “Hello?”

  Garden Lady turns. Her eyes are milky and hazed by cataracts. “Ferdinand?”

  “No, my name is Ed. I came here once before, a long time ago, with my mother.”

  She leans forward and squints at me. Her eyes disappear into a concertina of brown wrinkles, like crinkled old parchment.

  “I remember you. The boy. The thief.”

  I feel like I should deny it, but what’s the point?

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “Did you put it back?”

  “I did.”

  “Good boy.”

  “May I sit down?” I gesture to the only other seat out here.

  She hesitates and then nods. “But only for a moment. Soon Ferdinand will be here.”

  “Of course.”

  I lower myself into the seat.

  “You came to see him,” she says.

  “Ferdinand?”

  “No.” She shakes her head dismissively. “The reverend.”

  I glance back to where he sits, slumped in his chair. Confess.

  “Yes. You said before—he’s got them all fooled. What did you mean?”

  “Legs.”

  “Sorry?”

  She leans forward and clasps my thigh in one bony white claw. I flinch. I’m not someone who enjoys uninvited touching at the best of times. Today is definitely not the best of times.

  “I like a man with good legs,” she says. “Ferdinand. He has good legs. Strong legs.”

  “I see.” I don’t, but it seems easier to agree. “What’s that got to do with the reverend?”

  “The reverend?” Her face clouds again. Recognition fading. I can almost see her mind shifting, from present back to past. She lets go of my leg and glares at me. “Who are you? What are you doing in Ferdinand’s seat?”

  “I’m sorry.” I stand up. My left leg smarts a little from her grip.

  “Go and fetch Ferdinand. He’s late.”

  “I will. It was…nice…meeting you again.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. I walk back through the French doors. The same nurse who saw me in stands nearby, wiping someone’s mouth. She glances up.

  “Didn’t realize you knew Penny?” she says.

  “I met her when I came with my mum, years ago. I’m surprised she’s still here.”

  “Ninety-eight now and going strong.”

  Strong legs.

  “And still waiting for Ferdinand?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I suppose that’s true love. Waiting for her fiancé for all these years.”

  “Well, it would be.” The nurse straightens and offers me another bright smile. “Except, apparently, her late fiancé was actually called Alfred.”

  —

  I walk briskly back home. I could have driven to St. Magdalene’s, but it’s only thirty minutes on foot from town and I wanted to clear my head. Although, to be honest, not much clearing is going on. Words and phrases keep floating around my mind, like confetti in a snow globe.

  Confess. Strong legs. Her late fiancé was actually called Alfred.

  There’s something in there. Almost visible through the flurries. But I can’t seem to clear my swirling thoughts to see it.

  I pull up the collar of my coat. The sun has slipped away, gray clouds settling in its place. Twilight is already lurking, a dark shadow behind daylight’s shoulder.

  There’s a foreign feeling about the familiar surroundings and landmarks. As if I am a stranger in my own world. As if, all the time, I have been looking at things the wrong way. Not looking properly. Everything seems sharper, harder. I could almost imagine if I reached out to touch a leaf on a tree that it might slice right through my fingers.

  I skirt past what was once the edge of the woods but is now a sprawling housing estate. I find myself glancing constantly behind me, twitching at every gust of wind. The only people I see are a man walking a reluctant-looking Labrador and a young mum pushing a buggy toward the bus stop.

  But that’s not quite true. Once or twice I think I see someone or something else lurking in the encroaching shadows behind me: a flash of ivory skin, the brim of a black hat, and a pale glimmer of white hair, lingering for a shimmer of a second in the corner of my eye.

  I make it home, feeling tense and breathless, bathed in sweat despite the cool temperatures. I place a sticky hand on the door handle. I still need to call a locksmith to change the locks. But first, I really want a drink. Strike that. I need a drink. Several. I walk into the hall, and then I pause. I thought I heard a noise, but it could just be the wind or the house settling. And yet…I look around…something is wrong. Something about the house is different. There’s a smell. A vague aroma of vanilla. Feminine. Out of place. And the kitchen door. It’s ajar. Didn’t I close it before I left?

  I call out: “Chloe?”

  Resounding silence. Of course. Stupid. Just my nerves, strung tighter than a Stradivarius. I chuck my keys on the table. And then I almost hit the ceiling as a sardonic voice drawls from the kitchen:

  “About time.”

  2016

  Her hair is loose, worn down to her shoulders. She has bleached it blond. It doesn’t suit her. She wears jeans, Converse and an old Foo Fighters sweatshirt. Her face is free from the usual heavy black eye makeup. She doesn’t look like Chloe. Not my Chloe. But then, I suppose she never was.

  “New look?” I say.

  “Just fancied a change.”

  “I think I preferred the old you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m pissed off.”

  “Ed—”

  “Save it. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police right now.”

  “Because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Stalking. Threatening letters. How about murder?”

  “Murder?”

  “You followed Mickey out to the river that night and pushed him in.”

  “Christ, Ed.” She shakes her head. “Why would I kill Mickey?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Is this the part where I admit everything, like in a bad whodunnit?”

  “I thought that was why you came back.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Actually, I left a bottle of gin in the fridge.”

  “Help yourself.”

  She walks over and takes out the bottle of Bombay Sapphire. “Want one?”

  “Silly question.”

  She pours two hefty measures, sits back down opposite me and raises her glass. “Cheers.”

 
“What are we drinking to?”

  “Confessions?”

  Confess.

  I take a deep swig and remember that I don’t really like gin, but right now a bottle of meths would hit the spot.

  “Okay. You start. Why did you come here, to live with me?”

  “Maybe I’ve got a thing for older men.”

  “Once, that would have made an old man very happy.”

  “Now?”

  “I’d just like the truth.”

  “Fine. Just over a year ago your mate, Mickey, got in touch with me.”

  “Mickey?” It’s not the answer I was expecting. “Why? And how did he even find you?”

  “He didn’t. He found my mum.”

  “I thought your mum was dead.”

  “No. That’s just what I told Nicky.”

  “Another lie. What a shock.”

  “She might as well be dead. She wasn’t exactly a great mum. I spent half my teens in and out of care.”

  “I thought she found God.”

  “Yeah, well, after him she found booze, weed and any bloke who would buy her a vodka and Coke.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Anyway, it didn’t take much for her to tell Mickey who my real dad was. And by much, I reckon about half a bottle of Smirnoff.”

  “And then Mickey found you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you know about your dad?”

  She nods. “Mum told me years ago, when she was drunk. I didn’t care. He was just a sperm donor, an accident of biology. But I guess Mickey’s visit piqued my interest. Plus, he made me a proposition. If I helped him out with research for a book he was writing, he’d cut me into some of the cash.”

  I feel a depressing sense of déjà vu.

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Yeah. But unlike you, I insisted on an upfront payment.”

  I smile ruefully. “Of course you did.”

  “Look, I don’t feel great about it, but I told myself I was also doing it for me—finding out about my family, my past.”

  “And the money couldn’t hurt. Right?”

  Her face tightens. “What d’you want me to say, Ed?”

  I want her not to say any of this. I want this all to be some horrible nightmare. But reality is always harder and crueler.

  “So, basically, Mickey paid you to snoop on Nicky and me. Why?”

  “He said you might open up more. And it would make good background.”

  Background. I guess that’s what we always were to Mickey. Not friends. Just fucking background.

  “Then Nicky found out what you were doing and kicked you out?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Except, she’d already been planning to move out. She already had a job in Anderbury.

  “And I just happened to have a vacant spare room. Perfect timing.”

  Too perfect, of course. I had wondered why the young man who was about to move in (a rather nervy medical student) suddenly changed his mind and wanted his deposit back. But now I can hazard a guess.

  “What happened to my other lodger?” I ask her.

  She fingers the rim of her glass. “He might have gone for a few drinks with a young woman who told him that you were a terrible lech with a thing for student doctors and he should lock his bedroom door at night.”

  “How very Uncle Monty.”

  “Actually, I did you a favor. He was a bit of a twat.”

  I shake my head. There is no fool like an old fool, except perhaps a middle-aged fool. I reach for the gin and pour a tumbler full. Then I swig half of it down in one go.

  “What about the letters?”

  “I didn’t send them.”

  “Then who?”

  Before she can reply, I answer my own question. “It was Mickey, wasn’t it?”

  “Bingo. You win our star prize.”

  Of course. Stirring up the past. Putting the frighteners on us. It had Mickey written all over it. But I suppose, eventually, the joke had been on him.

  “You didn’t hurt him?”

  “Of course I didn’t. Jesus, Ed. Do you really think I’d kill someone?” A pause. “But you’re right. I did follow him that night.”

  Something suddenly clicks in the back of my mind.

  “You took my coat?”

  “It was cold. I just grabbed it on my way out.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it looked better on me—”

  “I mean, why did you follow him?”

  “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I was tired of lying. I overheard some of the spiel he was feeding you. I felt angry. So I went after him. To tell him I’d had enough.”

  “What happened?”

  “He laughed at me. Accused me of being your little fuck bunny and said he couldn’t wait to add that into the book, for color.”

  Good old Mickey.

  “I slapped him,” she continues. “Across the face. Maybe harder than I meant. I bloodied his nose. He swore at me and stumbled off…”

  “Toward the river?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hang around. But I didn’t push him.”

  “And my coat?” I ask.

  “It was dirty, it had Mickey’s blood on it. I couldn’t hang it back on the coat stand, so I just stuffed it in the bottom of your wardrobe.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t think you’d miss it, and I thought I’d just get it cleaned, when stuff had died down.”

  “So far, so convincing.”

  “I’m not here to convince you, Ed. Believe what you want.”

  But I do believe her. Of course, that still leaves the question of what happened to Mickey afterward wide open.

  “Why did you leave?” I ask.

  “A friend from the shop saw you come in, heard you were looking for me. They gave me a call. I figured if you found out about Nicky, you’d find out I’d been lying. I couldn’t face you, not right away.”

  I look down into my drink. “So you were just going to run away?”

  “I came back.”

  “For the gin.”

  “Not just the gin.” She reaches for my hand. Her fingernails are black, the polish chipped. “It wasn’t all lies, Ed. You are my friend. That night when I got drunk, I just wanted to tell you the truth, about everything.”

  I would like to pull my hand away. But actually, I don’t have that much pride. I let her pale, cool fingers rest on mine for a moment before she slides them away and reaches into her pocket.

  “Look. I know I can’t put everything right, but I thought this might help.”

  She places a small black notebook on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mickey’s notebook.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “I stole it from his coat pocket when he was visiting that night.”

  “You’re not really convincing me of your honesty.”

  “I never said I was honest. I said it wasn’t all lies.”

  “What’s in it?”

  She shrugs. “I haven’t read much. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but it might to you.”

  I flick through a few pages. Mickey’s scrawl is hardly more legible than mine. It’s not even written in coherent sentences. More like notes, thoughts, names (my own among them). I close it again. It could be something or nothing, but I’d rather look at it later, alone.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  There’s one more thing I need to know: “Why did you visit your dad? Was that for Mickey and his book, too?”

  She glances at me, surprised. “Been doing some research yourself?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, it wasn’t anything to do with Mickey. It was for me. Pointless, of course. He hasn’t got a fucking clue who I am. Maybe for the best, eh?”

  She stands and picks up a rucksack from the floor. A tent is tied on top.

  “Mickey’s money not stretch to five star?”


  “Wouldn’t even stretch to a Travelodge.” She eyes me coldly. “I’m using it to pay for a college course next year, if you must know.”

  She hefts the rucksack over her back. Under its bulky weight she looks thin and fragile.

  Despite everything, I say, “You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

  “Night or two camping in the woods doesn’t hurt.”

  “The woods. You’re not serious? Can’t you find a hostel or something?”

  She gives me a look. “It’s fine. I’ve done it before.”

  “But it’s not safe.”

  “You mean because of the Big Bad Wolf, or the wicked witch and her gingerbread house?”

  “Fine. Mock me.”

  “That’s my job.” She walks toward the door. “See you, Ed.”

  I should have said something. In your dreams. Not if I see you first. You never know. Anything. Something fitting to end our relationship.

  But I don’t. And the moment is gone, falling down the great abyss to join all the other lost moments; the should-haves and could-haves and if-onlys that comprise the big black hole at the heart of my life.

  The front door slams. I upend my glass and discover it’s empty. Ditto the gin bottle. I stand and grab a bottle of bourbon instead and pour a large measure. Then I sit down and flip open the notebook again. I only mean to scan through it briefly. But four more large measures later and I’m still reading. To be fair, Chloe is right: much of it doesn’t make sense. Random thoughts, streams of consciousness, plenty of nonsensical bile; plus, Mickey’s spelling was even worse than his handwriting. But still, I keep coming back to one page, right near the end:

  Who wanted to kill Elisa?

  The Chalk Man? No one.

  Who wanted to hurt Reverend Martin?

  Everyone!! Suspects: Ed’s dad, Ed’s mum. Nicky. Hannah Thomas?

  Pregnant with Martin’s baby. Hannah’s father? Hannah?

  Hannah—Reverend Martin. Elisa—Mr. Halloran. Link?

  No one wanted to hurt Elisa—important.

  HAIR.

  Something is itching at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite reach it to have a good scratch. Eventually, I close the notebook and push it away. It’s late and I’m drunk. No one ever found any answers at the bottom of a bottle. Not the point, of course. The point of reaching the bottom of the bottle is generally to forget the questions.

  I turn off the light, and start to stagger upstairs. Then I reconsider and stumble back into the kitchen. I pick up Mickey’s notebook and take it with me. I use the bathroom, chuck the notebook onto the bedside table and collapse into bed. I’m hoping that the bourbon will cause me to pass out before sleep envelops me. It’s an important distinction. Alcohol slumber is different. It’s straight unconsciousness, on the rocks. With true sleep, you drift and you dream. And sometimes…you wake.