But, no longer menaced by fear, to Kirsty this feels like a warm room in winter with a glowing fire to welcome her home. It takes time to acclimatize to the missing threats and shocks to the system—going to bed is a blissful pleasure, as is waking and knowing she’s not going to see him. She is no longer forced to tiptoe round forever metamorphosing herself so as not to annoy Trevor. Sometimes she jumps when someone goes by and then smiles to herself when it’s not him. Difficult guests don’t bother her. She is used to smiling and being humble. She often wonders what steps he is taking to discover her whereabouts, and Jake’s and Gemma’s. His hold over Kirsty is still uncanny; although his physical presence has gone he is psychologically still her keeper. He will go to the school, she is sure of that, but the authorities can tell him nothing simply because they don’t know anything. All she told them on the last day she delivered the children was that they were going on holiday. He knows nothing about the centre, but he’d get short shrift from there if he did. Kirsty left work without giving the required one week’s notice… she rang up and said she was sick.
Whenever she thinks of him she goes cold.
But she has friends, real friends at last.
Close as chums in a Blyton novel, thrown together by bizarre circumstance—people in cold climates huddle together for warmth and safety—Kirsty, Bernie and Avril are confidantes and sympathizers. They have already laughed till they cried three times, a release Kirsty thought she’d lost long ago. But she doesn’t get to see them enough because of Avril’s office hours, and Bernie stays up until after midnight working in the bar. It is heartening how much they have in common when you know how different they are—Avril and Bernie being ten years younger—Avril all soft, jelly and custard; Bernie a fiery, reheated curry.
‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Avril frowns on Bernie’s self-pity.
‘How would you know?’ quips Bernie.
Sometimes, like children in the dark, they talk so long into the night that Kirsty drops off in the middle of a sentence. Her only moans are of Bernie’s sluttish habits—she stubs out her fags on the bottom of her shoes and drops her old pants around like litter—and Avril’s adenoidal snores are as rasping as blasts from a liner’s funnel.
‘Give and take,’ says Avril happily. ‘We are family now. We must make concessions.’
‘You’re not my family,’ moans Bernie. ‘Prig.’
On her second day at the Burleston Kirsty had poured over a letter from Maddy and two precious home-made cards from the kids. ‘All is going beautifully smoothly. I’ve taken some snaps which I’ll send next time. Jake plays “Peggy Sue” on the guitar and Gemma is breeding newts for her farm. If those two children aren’t in their element then I will eat my hat.’
Kirsty had smiled and hugged the cards close, trying to breathe their soapy smell, but the messy bits of glitter and sticker and the raving mass of colours had said more than words to comfort her.
This evening, after a hectic Saturday and one week after she started, Kirsty takes up Mrs Stokes’s offer and heads for the quiet hotel lounge in search of the promised books. This is a room of antiques and pictures, made fluffy with tasselled cushions. Two elderly ladies reading by the fire sense she is staff and pointedly ignore her. She can smell the books before she reaches them, decaying paper, damp and neglect; dusted occasionally but rarely removed, they are in grave danger of welding together. Far more popular, it seems, is the vast array of periodicals set out on the coffee table, a far cry from those at the doctor’s surgery because every one is up to date, thick, shiny and fashionable. Below the books are stacks of board games, playing cards and jigsaws for use on rainy afternoons, but these days how many kids would be entertained by such simple pastimes?
Most of the kiddies staying here have gone out to the many all-weather attractions, chauffeured in one of the Audis, BMWs, Daimlers or Range Rovers parked round the front entrance, giant wet lizards under the palms. Unfazed by the weather these hearty, healthy, high-spirited kids go riding, sailing, climbing or walking, never a moment’s boredom. Bleep bleep bleep go their Gameboys in the evenings, and while their parents linger over dinner they shriek around in the indoor pool.
There are no lightweight paperbacks here, certainly no Mills and Boons among the colonel’s collection. These are jumble-sale offerings, books you buy by the box-load. Kirsty loses herself for a while reading the introductions so many travel books and manly adventures: King Solomon’s Mines and Moby Dick, White Fang and Huckleberry Finn. She is searching for something more romantic, something written, perhaps, by a woman. Were there no silly women in the colonel’s day? Ah, yes, here is a copy of Mrs Beeton, two by Emily Brontë, one Daphne du Maurier and several Reader’s Digest compilations. Not nearly silly enough for her.
‘Can I help you, my dear?’
One of the white-haired old ladies turns a cross, thin face towards Kirsty. ‘Was there anything?’
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Well, we can’t help but be disturbed with you poking and prodding away in the background. What a nuisance. What is it you are looking for anyway?’
‘I’m looking for something to read.’
‘Well surely it doesn’t take long to find something to read. There’s hundreds of books on those shelves and all very worthy I’m sure. But this is supposed to be a quiet room
‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry.’
The old lady tuts and looks away, her gnarled old hand reaching grumpily for the silver teapot. ‘Oh, before you go, you could fill up my cup, if you would be so kind.’
‘Certainly, madam.’
Hardly aware of what books she picks up, Kirsty hurries to obey.
‘It’s so difficult when your bones get old,’ says the old lady unpleasantly, lifting a sugar cube with the tongs. And a dismissive, ‘Thank you, dear,’ as Kirsty hastily leaves the room.
She leaves the fat orange book called Magdalene until last. During the next couple of evenings she forces herself to get through the others, although the first one loses her completely, clearly a clever literary work, and the second is all about the Boer War: blood, dead horses and heroes.
‘I’m going to Truro on Monday, I’ll get you some Mills and Boons from the library,’ says Avril. ‘Anything to stop you moaning.’ Kirsty has put Magdalene aside, fearing the worst; it’s a waste of time. ‘I can’t think why they don’t sell books in the hotel foyer,’ says Avril. ‘You’d think they’d sell out in this weather.’
‘What about you, Bernie?’
‘You could get me the latest TV Quick and a Take A Break, they’ll do.’
Bernie, a bird-brained beautiful butterfly, has skipped through life without reading a paper or listening to the news. ‘Now what would I want to do that for?’ She laughs it off. She can name the present prime minister and she knows where Liverpool is on the map, but she runs out of ideas when she reaches the leader of the opposition. Ask her who Bach is and she hasn’t a clue. ‘Was it your school?’ Kirsty muses. ‘Will my kids end up daft as you? Or is it because you’re so self-obsessed?’
‘Obsession keeps me thin,’ says Bernie, casting an unkind glance at Avril.
‘I’d rather be fat than in your sort of love,’ Avril sneers. ‘Uncanny and unnatural, that’s what you are.’
Bernie does every quiz she can find just to read questions about herself, delve into herself, test and judge herself by the pitiful answers on page forty-nine. She devours all horoscopes as though she’s starving for news of her future. And it isn’t that she’s stupid, far from it, it is just a complete lack of interest.
But although Kirsty knows she is limited with her easy reading and low expectations, how she wishes, now, that she had made more of her education. If she’d had a decent career she’d have had the confidence and the means to leave Trevor years ago. If she had bothered with exams she wouldn’t be making the beds of strangers, with no prospect of a home for her kids. Even the poor, defeated Avril has
managed to get an office job and is au fait with computers, despite lacking good looks and normal communication skills. Poor Avril is as dated as the Queen, overprotected, childlike, still stuck in the Fifties when children walked towards rainbows with their Clarks sandals properly fitted.
Oh my God.
This book is so utterly compelling she cannot believe what she’s reading.
Never has she…
‘And the petty roundabout a woman must ride in order to reach her goal…’
This is…
There are no…
Profane and shameless stuff from a nun posing in a state of grace. This woman is a set of wings, she is a suit of armour, with the black habit she dons and discards as her nefarious behaviour demands.
‘God deliberately created some of us to be evil. It is not for us to question why. It is up to us to worship; and on bended knee to give thanks for what we are.’
Her first reaction is shock and confusion, before being drawn in by appalled fascination. She has to read on, breathless, excited. Some of this is outrageous, vile, she cannot believe it is here, in print, and that she could be so absorbed by such evil.
One hour passes. This is no good. Kirsty has to get up in the morning; if she reads any more she’ll be exhausted, but she can’t carry on reading in bed, cosy with the light on, without disturbing Avril and Bernie. Nor can she put this book down. So she creeps to the recreation room in her nightdress and her parka and curls up on a battered chaise longue; she can’t put Magdalene down.
For these are no ordinary words.
This is not writing, this is witchcraft.
Everything in the world is forgotten as if it never existed.
‘I started my writing wearing gloves in a quiet corner of my room, covering each page with a hand as I went in case someone came up on me and learned the abominable secrets of my soul… like stone gargoyles on churches they were, be-winged devils straight out of hell…’
Tense and taut through the weird experience, one moment Kirsty is laughing out loud, the next she is breaking her heart as she unconsciously curls up tighter, pulling her feet up under her and wrapping her arms round her knees, a variation of the foetal position because she feels in need of protection.
‘He who killed me with his smile had to die. I hated him for his treacherous tenderness. I loved him with the terrible burden of my own desire…’
There is chaos in her brain as flash flash flash goes the book, connecting with Kirsty’s most inner fears, speaking thoughts only she understands, riveting with its terrors, blood-curdling with its dangers. From blackmailer to martyr, one moment loving, the next depraved; the author terrifies, comforts and laughs like a close but alarming friend. No no no, yes yes yes, why why why, be careful! The book turns Kirsty lost and cold, as if she has wakened alone in a dark, strange room. ‘Evil is not without purpose. I am a subterranean monster thrusting its head and mouth out of the earth in search of prey. Killing him is so sweetly easy…’ Occasionally Kirsty looks up, blinks and shakes her head like an owl, exhausted by emotional bombardment, but tenderness, humour and pity twist like wild roses through this blitzed landscape. Kirsty flies through the night on wings of exultation and courage, with a bigness in her head that is awesome.
Who is this person?
Kirsty is forced to pause, to wrench herself from the plot to find out.
Ellen Kirkwood.
Never heard of her.
This edition, in pristine condition save for the musty smell, was printed in 1913. The publishers, Bryant, list no other titles under the author’s name. There is no biography, no photo, no clues.
The underlying story is simple, a tale of a woman and her awesome revenge, a black-veiled woman, a bride of Christ.
‘My entire being is filled by an awareness of him, trembling uncertainly between existence and annihilation…’
If the force of this books grips Kirsty so violently then what about everyone else? The most incredible part is that a novel written all those years ago can strike the perfect chord today. It would only have to be slightly altered…
By the time Kirsty has finished, daylight is flooding through the streaky windows.
And all that makes the ending endurable is the knowledge that Kirsty can start at page one and read the whole lot over again.
Five
THIS COULD BE DISHEARTENING. No decent person would choose to be introduced to this scrawny little blackguard, but Graham Stott, black sheep, ungrateful son and Avril’s brother, has to be taken on board in order to be fully cognizant of Avril’s lack of self-worth.
Life is so unfair. Graham’s waist measures thirty and he tops the scales at ten stone exactly while poor old Avril…
Graham Stott prepares for parole after a three-year stint for burglary. It would have been longer, grievous bodily harm if the old biddy sleeping upstairs in the house had suddenly woken up, and the screw Mike Tarbuck despairs of a system that lets maniacs lose on the street when everyone knows they are worse than animals.
But Graham is homeless, poor lad.
Where on earth will he go?
With disbelief and raucous hilarity Avril and Bernie listened to Kirsty’s outrageous plan.
‘This is deeply immoral. You can’t re-write a book and make out it’s your own. It must be illegal for a start. What if you’re caught? What if you’re sued?’
Bernie took a more positive view. ‘You’re skint, she’s skint, and they wouldn’t send her down for that.’
‘But what about your kids?’ frowned Avril. ‘They’d have a spiv for a mum.’
Kirsty was shocked by their response. This felt so right, it had to be done. The decision was taken, it was already out of her hands. It was more of an urge than a rational thought, a potent mixture of bliss and anger. ‘You don’t have to join me,’ she said. ‘But there’ll be money in it, and a laugh.’
This sounded too crude for Kirsty.
‘Count me in for the dosh,’ said Bernie.
‘What help could you be?’ Avril scoffed. ‘You’re a moron, barely literate.’
‘I’m the only one round here who’s lived, and you need me for my experience of life.’
‘You’ve both got to read it,’ said Kirsty. Maybe her own reaction to Magdalene had been over the top, maybe the others would hate it. ‘I’m going to bring it up to date, I know I can do that, no problem. Avril can read it while she’s typing it up and if Bernie reads it when it’s finished we’ll know whether or not it’s something special.’
‘Well, it looks dead boring to me,’ said Bernie, eying the mass of small print, weighing the book in a drooping right hand.
But Avril is grateful for a chance to do something really useful. When they’d first arrived she’d thought Kirsty didn’t like her, that she saw her as fat and boring, and at first she’d been hurt by Bernie’s teasing, but now she’d got this relationship going and had the chance to contribute something solid. ‘I’ll nick an audio machine from the office and you can try that out. It would be quicker, and then I can type it up in my lunch hours.’
Kirsty’s gratitude was warming and pleasing, as was the way she sympathized with Avril’s on-going homesickness.
‘People find it hard to like me,’ she once confided to Kirsty. ‘That’s why you two are so special. Strangers seem to try and avoid me, but I try so hard to be warm and polite.’
‘“Smile and the world smiles with you” is a wicked lie,’ said Kirsty. ‘Smile and they think something’s seriously up.’
Avril irritates. She is always offering her services, sharing her snacks and smiling. Prepared to put herself out for other people’s convenience, she would make an excellent vicar’s wife. But Avril is an invader of personal space in the way that cats rub strangers’ legs. Yet she’s sensitive to the point of obsession. There’s no way she can handle the young pretender who runs the office, man-about-town, son-in-law of the dithering minibus driver, Colonel Parker, no matter how desperately she tries to please. She fin
ds his military directness unnerving and Avril is greatly relieved that she works in the outer office and is not his personal assistant. That dubious privilege rests with Meryl Pudsey, a bag of nerves and no wonder.
Mr Derek, as they must call him, although this makes him sound like a hairdresser, is conceited, rude and impatient. He is a Mills and Boon hero come unhappily to life, the kind of man you think you might marry before you meet him in the flesh: strong, demanding and good-looking, with the square jaw of the craggy. On the first day, Avril fell foul of him because she was flustered when he came for the post. Naturally she was flustered, she had never sorted post before, and as her fingers grew larger and fatter and finally lost all control, she could sense his rage burgeoning inside him like a bloodied alien about to burst out from under that stiff, striped waistcoat and starched white shirt.
How different from comfortable Daddy in his cardigans with their leather buttons, shiny and tempting as new conkers.
‘Just leave it,’ he’d barked with exasperation, eyes whisking hither and thither. ‘Go and sit down, whoever you are. Leave it, damn you! Can’t you see you’re making things worse with your clumsy fussing?’
As tears threatened Avril’s baby-blue eyes, as she chewed her dolly-pink lips, the thought of Mother came floating to mind, Mother in her fireside chair reading the Daily Mail, light from the standard lamp pooling her beiges in a pink glow of safety. But the game Miss Pudsey came to her rescue. ‘It’s just his way,’ she said through a slightly twitching mouth that belied her calm. ‘Take no notice of Mr Derek. His bark is worse than his bite.’
‘He’s a prick,’ said Kirsty.
‘He’s a wanker,’ said Bernie.
How Avril dreads the moment when her personal extension will buzz and Mr Derek will call her in with his now familiar, ‘If you please.’
‘Will there be bullies all through my life? Will they pick me out like beady-eyed seagulls pouncing on hot dogs?’
Veil of Darkness Page 5