Veil of Darkness

by Gillian White

  ‘I am sorry to have to say this, but the Miss Lewises have reported that an expensive item of jewellery has gone missing from their dressing-table drawer.’

  There is silence and then a shuffling from the audience gathered before her.

  ‘Now then,’ Mrs Stokes goes on, ‘Mr Derek is reluctant to report this matter to the police for very obvious reasons. The last thing any of us want is for the reputation of the hotel to be besmirched in the slightest way. Therefore he has decided, with the kind permission of the Miss Lewises, to wait for twenty-four hours before reluctantly taking the appropriate action. If anyone here knows anything about this distressing matter, could they please, first, come to me, or simply leave the bracelet in my office which, as you all know, is always open.’

  ‘Why us?’ asks one of the Burleston waiters, incensed by the injustice. ‘Why the hell do they immediately assume that if there’s something nicked it’s one of us?’

  ‘Typical, the sods.’

  ‘More likely the slapheads have gone and lost it.’

  ‘They’ve got one hell of a nerve to stand there and accuse us lot.’

  ‘We should tell them that this is right out of order,’ says another outraged employee.

  ‘We ought to make them call in the law. After all, who gives a toss about this doss-hole’s reputation.’

  Avril, in her corner, goes red. She feels her cheeks puff up around her and there’s nothing she can do to fend off these guilty feelings. Of course she knows nothing about the bracelet—she never visits the guests’ bedrooms—but she is keeper of the keys and it is entirely possible that Avril slyly picked her time before going up to a room which she knew to be empty and stole the bracelet as simply as that.

  This guilty reaction has dogged poor Avril since early childhood, when her mother would try to catch her out, probably concerned that Avril might follow in her brother’s wicked footsteps.

  She blames the whole thing on Graham, and Kirsty and Bernie agree that her brother has been her undoing.

  For instance:

  ‘Have you made your bed yet, Avril?’

  And if Avril said yes her mother would fly to check on her daughter’s truthfulness.

  ‘Did you brush your teeth this morning?’

  She would check the wetness of the toothbrush.

  ‘Have you posted those letters I gave you?’

  She would rush to Avril’s blazer pocket.

  On the few occasions when Avril was found to be lying, as all sane children do in order to get out of trouble, she was severely punished with a hard smack on the leg, or an evening shut in her bedroom, no supper, or having her favourite toy confiscated in a kind of religious ceremony with her mother as lord high cardinal and herself as grievous sinner. And various other unpleasant consequences.

  By the time she went to school Avril was not only secretive but had guilt in gold-leaf lettering printed upon her soul. And because she was plump and gormless and looked so obviously guilty, she was the one singled out and questioned, and hence she discovered confession to be the simplest way out. If she put her hand up and took the blame the awful tension that made her breathless would be over all the sooner. Compared to her mother’s punishments, the school’s were reliably tame—lines or detention, nothing to fear. But by owning up to so much she created her own vicious circle. School reports were worryingly bad and provoked Mrs Stott to chastise again. Although her school work was always pleasing: ‘Avril tries hard.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this, Avril?’ asks Moira Stokes, on spying a perfect victim, puce and quivering in a corner. ‘I must say I would be most surprised.’

  ‘No,’ says Avril firmly, determined never again to volunteer for self-sacrifice. She has grown up since those days. She has friends. She has a job. She no longer misses her mother. ‘Of course I don’t know anything about it. Why are you asking me anyway?’

  ‘Because you look so upset.’

  Avril is not at school now. Nor is she a child in her mother’s house. She is an independent young lady with a job and a future, fast and accurate. And what is more, she has just played an essential part in producing an almost perfect manuscript for Kirsty’s wonderful book, something she can be duly proud of. If Magdalene had been hounded in this kind of way, she would have put her inquisitors firmly in their place and she would have sliced their balls off.

  ‘Right,’ says the beady-eyed Moira Stokes, twenty-four hours later. ‘On your heads be it. Unfortunately nobody has, as yet, come forward with any information regarding the Miss Lewises’ bracelet, and so Mr Derek would like to see you one by one in his office before he informs the local police.’

  ‘Shame!’ shouts out Jimmy Smithers from the kitchens.

  ‘No way,’ adds Jacky Butcher.

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘What’s your problem? Call the cops. Nobody here gives a damn.’

  Moira Stokes looks shocked and her pointed chin turns up at the end like the striking tail of a scorpion. ‘Are you saying you refuse to help Mr Derek to deal with this matter sensitively?’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘It’s a bloody nerve.’

  ‘Why don’t you search their room?’

  All heads turn towards meek Avril, who has never spoken in public before, and now she looks racked, crucified, as if the bracelet in question is deep in her own pocket.

  ‘We are not about to start questioning the good faith of our guests,’ snaps Mrs Stokes, taken aback.

  But everyone else supports Avril.

  ‘It’s not the good faith, it’s the sodding senility.’

  ‘They’re nasty-minded hags,’ says Bernie.

  ‘Nothing but trouble. Same every year.’

  ‘They’re stinking bitches, both of them,’ says Avril, swallowing. Something has control of her mouth… she has never used such words before, but the release she feels is exhilarating.

  ‘I have no further option than to inform Mr Derek,’ says Mrs Stokes, drawing herself up in tight disgust, the same way she tightens her pelvic muscles, ‘that you all refuse, point-blank, to assist him in this distressing matter. I know what his response will be. Mr Derek will now have no option but to go to the police with all the unpleasantness that will involve.’

  ‘You were ace in there, Avril.’

  ‘Well, you’d think they’d have searched the room before they came blaming us.’

  A bubble of pleasure bursts inside her. Avril is thrilled by her little rebellion. Contrary to her normal melancholy she feels good and strong, and when the letter arrives the next day, typed and addressed to Kirsty Hoskins, she knows immediately who it’s from. The only other letters Kirsty gets are the bulky ones addressed in large, untidy writing, which always include notes from her children.

  Avril sorts out the mail, separating that of the staff to take to the recreation room where there’s a box for the purpose. She can hardly contain her excitement. Could it be possible that their novel will interest someone from London? An agent?

  ‘It is from them,’ cries Kirsty, excitement replacing the strain on her face as she unfolds the precious document.

  ‘Read it out,’ gasps Avril, breathing heavily over her shoulder.

  ‘Dear Kirsty, (may I?)’

  ‘It must be good news if she wants to use first name terms.’

  ‘I read the first five chapters of your novel with great pleasure and I am certain we can find somewhere for it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Avril screams fatly as Kirsty looks up in surprise.

  ‘Have you completed any more chapters? If so, perhaps I could see them, or, even better, would it be possible for us to meet next time you are in London…?’ Hah! That’s a laugh.’ Kirsty pauses. ‘When would I be in London? Anyone would think I visited regularly. What for, d’you think. The theatre, a shopping spree, important meetings, or just passing through to the airport?’

  ‘Go on with it,’ Avril urges.

  ‘I did try to telephone you on Monday afternoon
but was unable to get through…’

  ‘Typical,’ says Avril. ‘That must have been Mrs Danvers.’

  ‘… so l wondered if you could phone or fax me; we should meet as soon as possible. All best wishes, Candice Love.’

  ‘Wow!’ says Avril. ‘Ring now!’

  ‘Hang on.’ Kirsty’s reluctance is a surprise. ‘Let me think about this.’

  ‘What is there to think about? They like our book!’

  ‘But my name has to keep out of this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Kirsty pales and lowers her voice. ‘Trevor, of course! I’m a fool. Why did I use my own name?’

  ‘What you need is a nom de plume.’

  Kirsty shakes her head and looks suddenly small and defeated. ‘I can’t go to London anyway, I don’t have that sort of money.’ These seem like excuses.

  ‘We’d find the money,’ Avril enthuses.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with me? I could never have a book published under my name.’ How could she make such an obvious blunder? ‘Somehow Trevor would hear about it, he’d trace me, track me down… and anyway, Avril, what’s happened to you? Where are your strict moral values now? You seem quite happy to get started on this sordid deception.’

  ‘Sod the moral values,’ says Avril, quite unlike herself. And then her face lights up with hope. ‘Bernie would do it,’ she cries, pop-eyed.

  Kirsty frowns and stares at Avril. Avril has a mad glint in her eye… a ferocious glint… a worrying glint. ‘Bernie could do what?’

  ‘Bernie could pretend to be you. Go up to London. Use her name. Bernie would kill to do something like that.’

  ‘But it’s all too late,’ says Kirsty, suddenly needing Avril’s new energy. ‘I’ve already sent the manuscript up under my own name. They’re going to think it’s peculiar if we start using another.’

  Avril will not give up. ‘Say you made up the name Kirsty Hoskins.’

  ‘But why would I say that?’

  ‘All sorts of reasons. You were shy, in case they turned you down. You didn’t want anyone to know what you’d done, or you thought Kirsty Hoskins sounded more like a proper author.’

  ‘We could get round it, I suppose,’ Kirsty slowly agrees.

  ‘We can’t stop now, we have to go on,’ says Avril, whose heart and soul are sunk deep in the project. Never has she felt so determined. Stupid, uncanny really, and hard to explain how urgent this feels.

  ‘Well, we could ask Bernie what she thinks and get her to ring up. And Bernadette Kavanagh sounds more professional to me.’

  So Avril breathes a sigh of relief. Never before has she taken part in a venture so abandoned and daring.

  The following morning a formal memo is issued to the staff. Mrs Stokes pins it up discreetly on the recreation room noticeboard and retires with haste before she is seen. It reads:

  The Miss Lewises, who recently mislaid a piece of jewellery in their possession, are happy to say that the item has now been found. The management apologizes for any inconvenience caused by this matter.

  Derek Pugh.

  Nine

  THE NIGHT LIFE IN St Ives, although not a patch on Liverpool, gives Dominic Coates the release he desires after spending day after day lolling vacantly on the veranda outside the lifeguard’s hut surrounded by sultry beauties. A pretty boy, with the looks of a girl, he has never suffered from pimples.

  With his long, curly hair, enormous brown eyes fringed with long, dark lashes, and his suntanned chest with its couple of whiskers, he feels like the macho hero he is as he struts along in his flip-flops and shorts, staring importantly at the silver water. How Canute would have loved his power. Occasionally, to impress and to reinforce his own self-worth, he shouts into a megaphone warning the brain-dead on lilos to come in closer to shore, or admonishes those who insist on swimming outside the two red flags.

  But the most threatening aspect of his sweep of the beach are the lusty lads, like himself, who leap and sway and wobble and thrust themselves about on their surfboards, mostly locals whose favourite patch has now been invaded by sunburned grockles with flaming thighs. No wonder they are aggressive when you think that they endure their sport through the most majestic of winter storms, when the mighty waves curl and rise as high as the roofs, and the furious spray foams and screams into crests of blinding whiteness…

  Compared to these heroes Dominic’s surfing efforts are feeble, so he has to compensate in other ways to prove his manly credibility. Luckily he has an impressive crawl, the result of holidaying regularly in the deep blue seas of the Caribbean. The life-saving certificates he gained at his public school are impressive, while his ability to pull birds is awesome.

  His peers, impressed, watch his methods covertly while outwardly taking the piss.

  The sea is so calm today that the surfers are resting and each isolated swimmer spreads a halo of rings around him. All is well with the world. Dominic can afford to relax. Bodies on the sand move restlessly, arms wave, faces turn, shining surfaces flash back at the sun, and flags and towels and windbreaks slump without a breeze. All is massed and pulsing life, flickering and astir. Dominic’s concentration wavers.

  To Bernadette he gives not a thought. OK, she was a great lay for a while, and OK, he admits, he did lead her on to think they might get hooked one day. She assumed it, he didn’t deny it, and who is to blame for that? A looker, a real head-turner wherever they went. It’s fun to mix with those from the other side of the tracks now and then, but she was a clinger and Irish, highly strung and dangerous. God, she tried to top herself after they’d finished and they said it was because of him. Shit. Some of the tricks women play.

  ‘I shouldn’t drink on duty.’

  ‘It’s only one can of wine,’ says this classy bird from Yorkshire, rich and husky, here with her family and bored out of her mind. ‘It’s beautifully cold. What’s up, can’t take it?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’ He grabs her by her bare shoulders and bites the nape of her neck, daring her to taunt him again. He has already downed two lagers.

  She gazes at him full in the eyes, but he won’t respond, he makes her work for it. Leaning back on one casual elbow he rips the strip from the can and puts the chilled metal to his lips, watched by his small throng of groupies.

  Beads of sweat form on his forehead as the sun beats down mercilessly—if only he could cool off with a dip, but while he’s on duty that is out of the question. He must maintain his watch, but the sun is so hot that a haze has formed between him and the edge of the water, a haze through which a blend of sounds echoes: the shrill laughter of women, the happy screams of children, the mock-terrified shrieks of swimmers, and behind all these the whispering sea.

  Dominic glances once again at his expensive waterproof watch. Three more hours to go, bloody hell, he only got four hours’ sleep last night.

  The girl from Yorkshire is giggling now as she traces a sandy line down his leg, between the soft, downy hairs.

  He needs something spicy to keep him awake.

  ‘Get us a cheeseburger, sweetheart.’

  ‘You’ll get BSE with all the crap you eat. You don’t know what they put in those things.’

  ‘I’ll get you one, Dom,’ says a large-breasted rival of the Yorkshire grockle. ‘Sauce and mustard?’

  Dominic Coates is not quite sure what first turns his blood to ice as adrenalin surges through his body. It is like a silence on the edge of sound, a tiny, unidentified pocket of alarm with a heartbeat all of its own, and it comes to him like something primeval, like whales or dolphins communicating. He is up before he hears the first frantic screams.

  ‘It’s a child in the water!’

  ‘Help, get help.’

  He is like Cupid with wings on his heels, but the shifting soft sand holds him back. His eyes seem congested with bright red blood. His breathing thunders in his head as if he’s reaching the end of some marathon. Dear God, let it not be too late.

  Terrorized and impossib
ly white, her eyes gone black with fear, a woman stands at the edge of the water pointing out into the distance. ‘She’s out there, Melanie, she’s only three…’ and her teeth chatter with cold and fear.

  Three or four disorientated adults group helplessly round her, gaping stupidly into the void of disbelief.

  ‘Help me, God help me. My husband’s already gone out, but he’s not a strong swimmer.’

  Dominic’s desperate eyes scan the water, and there, at an impossible distance, almost beyond the fringe of the bay, he spies something floating.

  He runs at full pelt through the knee-high water until he can throw himself into his crawl. As his strong, young body picks up the rhythm he curses the booze that restricts his pace. He turns his head for breath now and then, gasping, gasping, trying to glimpse how far he has come and how far there is still to go.

  Dear God help me.

  Pace yourself. Pace yourself.

  He imagines himself in the pool at school, swimming for a medal in the relay, swimming for the cup. Now he is swimming for life itself. He had always believed this would be fun, a challenge, a test of his strength and courage.

  What crap.

  The sudden blow to his head almost stuns him. Bewildered and blind he gasps for breath and struggles to undo the heavy arms that clutch at his body like suckers and threaten to drag him under. ‘What the fuck?’ Such desperate strength, a madman gone wild beyond reason. The terrified words play back to him, ‘My husband’s already gone out…’

  ‘It’s OK, Dom, I’ve got him.’

  Dominic can breathe again. Thank God, it’s Justin, a young local lad, a surfer.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ screams Justin, ‘help me kick him off, get his neck.’

  With all the force at his disposal Dominic chops at the throat of the man with the beaten eyes and the mouth full of screams. If he wants his child saved he must loosen his grip.

  Now it’s just him and a hostile sea totally indifferent to the interests of men. And somewhere a child. And incredible silence. His body blunders on, but his spirit moves in an infinite waste where he sees no reassuring horizons. If he fails in this he can’t live with himself, knowing he should not have drunk alcohol, knowing full well what it does to the stamina.