by Daisy White
* * *
“Ruuuuby, wake up! We can’t be late today. Not when Eve and Catherine have actually started to be nice to us.” Mary is shaking my shoulder, with her fine hair tickling my face as she leans closer. “Ruby!”
I roll over, confused and exhausted by my dreams, rubbing my sore eyes. The banging headache seems unfair after a teetotal night, but at least the weather seems set to match my mood. After a month of beach weather, today our windows look out over a dull palette of soft greys as clouds roll in from the Channel, and the heavy sea fog hangs thickly in the street outside. The glass is covered in tiny water drops, and the light is muted and cosy in our bare little room. It’s a day for staying in bed.
“Coming. But why do you care if Catherine and Eve like us anyway? It doesn’t matter. We work hard and they work hard.” I move my hand automatically to push my hair over my shoulder. I’d forgotten for the umpteenth time that it’s short now. I do like it, especially being blonde, but I feel a bit naked without a mass of hair to hide behind.
Mary is making up her face, brushing extra blush across her skin to hide the few spots sprinkled on her forehead. She shrugs and turns, gesticulating with her mascara brush, “Future babysitters? No, not really, I just think we need all the good people, on our side. You know, the people we can really trust. Especially now.”
I force my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the wooden boards, and forage among the piles for clean clothes. I really need to do some more washing.
“You mean that one of our friends could have murdered Linda? Come on, you can’t think that Kenny or Ted, or anyone, could do that?” I’m quite shocked, but more shocked by her answer.
“I don’t suspect anyone. I’m just saying that you can be nice and normal and just like everyone else, but you can be a murderer underneath.” She catches my expression. “Ruby, I don’t mean you. That was different and we both know it.”
I stare at her, wondering — half hoping, I suppose — if she is going to talk about George. I want to tell her all of it, and what drove me to do it. I want to say that it wasn’t just because of the regular beatings, it was to save my unborn sister’s life. But her blue gaze slides away, and she makes a big fuss about choosing a necklace. Eventually she settles on a rope of coloured glass which she twists twice around her neck. I remember Linda’s pretty white-and-gold necklace. And then, although I try not to, her red slashed throat.
“I’m ready, and it’s still early. Have you got some coins for the paper? I want to know what Kenny and James wrote about this crazy witchcraft theory.”
I retrieve my plastic purse. I left the locket at the police station, of course, but my money is all there. “Here.”
Mary takes the coins, and picks up her key and coat, “See you in ten minutes!”
* * *
A couple of hours later, Johnnie’s is packed. The throng includes customers, a few other reporters who have heard I found the body, and friends dropping in to “check we’re okay.” Thursday is also delivery day for boxes of styling lotions, chemicals, soap, and industrial detergents.
Johnnie evicts the reporters angrily, and gets straight on the phone to the Brighton Herald to complain that they are harassing his staff and annoying his clients. When he finds out that one came from the News of the World, he even makes another call to shout at their news editor.
Even though we were a bit shocked to have the reporters sidle up with notebooks at the ready, the clients are loving the drama. Half the regulars seem to have suddenly rebooked for “a quick trim.” Today’s paper sits well-thumbed and slightly damp on the table next to the ‘waiting area’ (actually just a line of chairs in front of the window).
Three more women clatter through the door, grumbling about the weather, and shaking out umbrellas, raincoats and headscarves onto the rain-spattered dirty floor. The place is covered in wet footprints and hair, but with all of us working on clients there’s no time to clear up.
The phone rings again and I apologise to my client before leaning over to the reception desk.
“Good morning. Johnnie’s! Ruby speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hello, Ruby.” An unfamiliar male voice, with a northern accent.
“Hello? Sorry, can I take your name please?” I say breezily, ready to brush off another reporter.
“Why did you leave my locket at the police station, Ruby? It was a gift, and it really isn’t good manners to reject a present. But then I don’t expect your mam taught you any manners, did she?”
I hold my breath. The room’s chat and bustle seems a hundred miles away. The rain rushes down the windows, and I could be sealed in a glass box with this unseen man. Everything is spinning, and the blood drains from my face making me dizzy and faint. The watcher. I hold onto sanity, gripping the telephone receiver with one clenched fist, and the reception desk with the other.
“Was it you?” I manage. I mean of course, Was it you who killed Linda? but there are far too many people within earshot.
I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, far too fast. I feel as if my heart were powered by a faulty pump. I force myself to think. I can’t work out his age from his voice. The northern accent is unmistakable, though. I’d say Manchester, but only because my stepdad had friends up there. They were a rowdy bunch of roaming men, picking up work on the docks and railways. They only came to visit a couple of times, nodded approval at Mum and her tiny house, and disappeared down the pub with my stepdad.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I hear the click and buzz as he puts the phone down. The invisible bubble vanishes, and the roar and heat of the salon swirl around me. In her chair next to the reception desk, my client smiles politely at me, and then glances pointedly at her watch.
From his place near the back, Johnnie is flashing a hand mirror for client approval, Mary is busy snipping away at the indomitable Mrs Green, and Eve and Catherine are trowelling chemicals onto two regulars.
“Sorry, I’ll just be a moment,” I tell my own client.
“You’ve already been more than that. Are you alright, love? It’s just that I’ve got to be back at work at half past so if you could get a move on . . .”
“Yes! I will. Sorry.” I force my legs into action. My whole body is weak and my limbs move stiffly. It was him, calling me here. “It was — I just need to—”
I pick up the phone, and dial.
“Exchange.”
“Hello. Sorry, someone just called a minute ago. Can you tell me where they were calling from please?” I hold my breath and bite down hard on my lower lip. I grab a pencil to scribble down the location.
I hear the fingernails clacking on a keyboard, and then the telephone exchange girl says, “No, sorry, we can’t do that. Can I put you through to anyone else?”
Making “just coming” noises to my poor wet-haired client, I drop the pencil. “No. Thank you anyway,” I tell the girl on the other end of the phone. What next? He comes into the salon for a chat?
I give the client a super-quick trim (with Eve watching beadily to make sure I don’t do any wonky lines). I feel guilty enough to offer a few nuggets of news — yes, I have heard about the murder, and yes she was a friend of ours and a very beautiful, sweet girl who didn’t deserve to be killed. She leaves happy, with a bit of gossip for her own workmates, while I ponder on her comments. Everyone says that when someone is killed or dies before old age. They say, “Oh, he didn’t deserve to die,” or “she didn’t deserve to die like that” but does anyone deserve to die? I already know the answer to that one . . .
“Ruby, have you got some scissors? I can’t find mine!”
I dry a selection of combs and scissors carefully on a towel and pass them to Mary, who is combing a head of long wet hair. Catherine is watching over her, eagle-eyed and ready to tell her what she’s doing wrong.
“Next, please!” Wearily, I paste on a smile and usher a thin blonde in a pink mini-dress towards the basins.
Finally, w
hen we’ve waved the last of them back out into the rain, the six of us heave a sigh of relief and take in the chaos of the salon.
“Right. Tea all round, girls, a quick break and then we’ll get on with the clearing up. I must say — and don’t take this the wrong way because you know how much I want this bastard found — but murder is excellent for business.” Johnnie, down to his pale blue shirtsleeves for once, starts shuffling papers on the reception desk, cashing up the till, and flicking through the appointment list for tomorrow.
Eve stomps out to the back room to make tea and get the milk from the cold little nook that was once the entrance to the cellar. It’s been boarded up, but you can leave the hatch open and go a few steps down to the cool gloomy space. Perfect cold storage, especially in the recent hot weather.
“I’ll nip over to Dick’s and get some biscuits, shall I?” Catherine offers, delving in her handbag.
“You’re an angel. Custard creams if they have them. Here, I’ll pay.” She beams at him in her usual devoted fashion.
“Thanks for all your hard work today, girls,” Johnnie tells us. Then he looks at me closely. “What was that telephone call about earlier, Rubes?”
“I . . . which one?”
“The one where you looked like you’d seen a whole room of ghosts afterwards. Don’t tell me it was Mrs Richards-Bateman, because I already know she has that effect on people. Wait until you meet her in person!” Johnnie’s face crinkles into a smile.
“It was—” Mary interrupts herself at the sight of my face. “Another reporter. I didn’t get what paper he was from but he had a northern accent.”
“Mmmm, nosy bastards. Like those idiots who came in earlier. At least James and Kenny have the decency to keep us updated, and their story is pretty good — if total rubbish.”
I inch over and pick up the paper to reread the article, smoothing the crumpled front page. The ink is smudged and someone has torn a little piece from the bottom corner.
CURSED HOUSE GAINS LATEST VICTIM
Local girl Linda Beeston has become the latest victim of the so-called curse of Glebe House. Her battered body was discovered early this morning tied to the Witch Stone. Although police have made an extensive search of the area, the killer remains at large, and Brighton residents are asked to take special care when out and about.
A source tells us, “Linda was looking at Tarot cards as she picnicked with her friends at Glebe House last night. She picked the card marked Death and everyone laughed.”
Last August eighteen-year-old Katie Simmons was murdered at the Witch Stone, by ex-boyfriend Terence Jacks. The police have denied they are looking for a copycat killer and insist the cases are being treated an entirely separate entities.
Glebe House, originally owned by the Gordon family, and its lands have always been known for strange and often gruesome happenings. When the original house was constructed, it took far longer than predicted due to a high number of accidents to the workmen.
The Gordon family history was also punctuated by tragic happenings. In 1910, a younger son, Alexander, drowned in the newly constructed ornamental lake. The elder sons were killed in WWI, and a cousin, Henry, inherited the property. Lord Henry was known for his eccentric and often controversial views on witchcraft. In 1922, his wife Lady Isabella was found burnt at the stake in the gardens, not far from where the Witch Stone memorial stands today. Rumours that Lord Henry himself had murdered Lady Isabella, were widely accepted as true, but he escaped trial by boarding ship to Australia at Southampton.
Most recently, Glebe House has passed into the ownership of Brighton Council, who have sold much of the surrounding farmland for development. Green Ridges is the latest of the new housing estates, but construction work was blighted by several incidents and a serious fire, which delayed work for several months.
If anyone has any information that may help the police investigation, please call Brighton Police Station.
“No wonder nobody rebuilt the house. After all that tragedy, and what’s happened recently, I’d say it probably is cursed. The sooner the council get permission to clear the site and build new houses the better.” Mary gives a little shiver. She’s biting a thumbnail again.
“Would that help, though?” Johnnie says thoughtfully, “If a place is cursed, isn’t it cursed forever? I wouldn’t like to be living on top of an old burial site or whatever it is. Those ancient ghosts might be causing all of this. It might be ley lines or whatever they’re called, attracting bad energy. It’s like luck, isn’t it?”
“You sound like Victoria,” I tell him, “You can change your luck. Some people do.” I shoot a glance at Mary, but she’s still attacking her nails.
If you want something badly enough, you’ll always find a way.
Chapter Twelve
“So who is the mysterious source, then, Ken?” I ask, sipping my drink. I lean over to flick ash off my cigarette into the grubby white bowl in the centre of the table.
He shrugs and shifts in his chair. “I can’t tell you a name, but I promise it wasn’t any of our crowd. It was just someone who overheard us by the lake.”
“Male or female?” Pearl taps a pink-painted nail on the table between us.
We’ve gathered at the Milk Bar in Queen’s Road for a quick meeting before heading off to the ice rink. Johnnie got the word out while we cleared up, and a surprising number have turned up. Like threatened animals gathering in a herd, I suppose. We want to be close to our friends. But Johnnie’s and Mary’s words haunt me. How far can we trust these friends now?
Mary didn’t ask anything about the phone call, but I told her anyway.
“You’re still not telling the police about this?”
“No. He hasn’t actually done anything.” My words sounded weak even to me.
“Ruby, sweetheart, he’s following you! If he’s from one of your stepdad’s crowd, those men are hard. You need protection.”
“And if that protection led back to our lives in Croydon?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want Derek to find me, but if anything happens to you—”
I grabbed her hands, “Or if anything happens to you. But don’t you see? We’re stuck with the lesser of two evils. The watcher is weird, and yes, he must be something to do with my stepdad, though I can’t see why or how at the moment.”
“How can you say that, when the locket was obviously from someone up at Glebe House? Of course I don’t think someone accidentally put it in your purse. He was there!”
“So were we, but that was the night before. Say he was in the crowd, saw me lose my purse, or took it from our picnic blanket. I was too drunk to notice. That doesn’t mean he was back later with Linda’s body.”
We agreed to disagree, but I know she won’t let it rest.
The Milk Bar fills up as the rain starts to drift inland. More girls run in off the street shaking out umbrellas and laughing, a few scooters are lined up outside, and the jukebox plays all the latest hits. The seagulls over the old town swoop and soar over the jumble of houses. A few birds land only a few yards from us to peck energetically at discarded wrappers and chips.
Victoria is missing from our gang tonight because it’s her turn for the dreaded night shift at the hospital. Pearl’s working early tomorrow morning, but has slipped out “for a quick one.”
I stand up and prise a shilling out of my purse, “Who wants what?”
The jukebox is great at the Milk Bar, and you get five plays for a shilling, so it’s a bargain too. My current favourite is ‘The Loco-Motion.’ It seems to suit the party beach atmosphere of Brighton. Kenny and Johnnie both want some Dee Dee Sharp, and Mary goes for the Contours’ ‘Do You Love Me?’
James is missing tonight too. In a way, I’m glad. I have way too much to think about at the moment anyway. I remember him handing me another glass of champagne at the picnic, and the way his eyes lingered on my body when I stripped off by the lake. Which reminds me, I really must fit in a trip to Doctor Kales and pick
up the birth control pill. One baby in our bedsit is going to be quite enough.
I’m back at the table, sucking the last of my strawberry milkshake, squeezed between Mary and Pearl, when a familiar face appears at the door.
“Ted!”
His eyes are still red, he’s got two days’ worth of stubble and his T-shirt is grubby. Even his curly blonde hair is drooping. “I thought . . . I wondered if you’d had any ideas yet. You know, about who killed Linda? Because if you do, I want to help find whoever did this and hunt him down.”
Johnnie leans over and claps him on the back, and Pearl gives him a hug.
“We haven’t found anything, mate, but the police interviewed me and James, and a couple of girls who work on the subs desk who were up there that night,” Kenny offers. He leans back and crosses his legs, scraping a hand through his hair and making it bristle up on end. His hair is shorter, I realise suddenly, and he looks better for it. The chunky face and misshapen boxer’s nose look younger and cheekier. Not that he’s being cheeky at the moment.
“They spoke to me last night,” Johnnie admits, lighting a cigarette.
“You didn’t say!” Mary frowns. “But anyway, the police don’t seem to have any idea. There must have been over fifty people out at Glebe House that night, and it doesn’t even have to be someone who was there. It could be someone who saw Linda on her way home.”
“I wanted to ask her brothers if she went out again that night, but I don’t know where they hang out, and I can’t just ring her house. What if her mum answers?” Pearl says.
“The police will have done all that.” Ted’s voice cracks again. He pulls the remains of Pearl’s milkshake towards him and swigs it like beer, giving himself a white moustache.
The jukebox has just finished the last of our songs, so we start a move towards the SS Brighton. Ted trails along, and Pearl and I link arms with him, leaning our heads on his shoulders. He sniffs a bit, but that’s all.