Weirdo

by Cathi Unsworth

  Alex put his sketchpad down, slid off the bed and down next to her. The youngest of three boys by ten years, Alex’s own brothers had always been remote, leaving home while he was still a child. Debbie had always seemed more like his real sibling.

  “That’s really good,” he said, putting an arm around her, looking down at the drawing.

  “D’you think?” Debbie sniffed, glad for a change of subject.

  “Yeah,” said Alex. “Let me get some paint. I’ll help you with it.”

  7

  Silver

  March 2003

  On the pavement outside, Francesca laughed. “Oh dear,” she said, placing her hand on Sean’s arm for a moment. “Sorry about that. That’s what you call an Ernemouth welcome. I had it all myself when I started here, especially from Pat. She’s been here the longest, had that job since she was sixteen. Likes everyone to know who runs the place.”

  “Well, you must have made a better impression than I did,” said Sean. “She’s like your guard dog now.”

  “I have my ways. Now then, we go down here,” she led him down a Victorian arcade, past shops selling jewellery, souvenirs and women’s clothing.

  “There’s not much in the way of sophistication here,” said Francesca, eyes flicking towards a display of mannequins in florals that had probably been there half a century. “But what you can find is always in the oldest part of town.”

  When they came out at the bottom, Sean thought for one horrible moment that she was about to lead him back to his hotel and that institutional smell of meat and gravy. But instead she stepped to the left, went through a cutting into a square of Georgian houses.

  “See there, at the bottom,” she pointed to some much older buildings, remnants of the old Town Wall and a preserved peel tower. “That’s the Tollhouse. The old jail. Where Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, used to take the local girls to make them confess.” She raised one eyebrow suggestively.

  Sean laughed politely, wondering if this was a demonstration of how she got her staff onside or whether the vaguely flirtatious, familiar manner was just for him.

  “Here we are.” She stopped outside one of the townhouses, and Sean saw that it had been converted into a restaurant. A cream sign hung over the door, black letters spelling out the name: Paphos.

  “A Greek,” noted Sean.

  “The best in town,” Francesca replied. “There’s quite a lot of Cypriots in Ernemouth.”

  Before they had got to the top of the steps to the door, a man had opened it for them. Tall and muscular, with thick, jet-black hair and a wide smile that revealed perfectly straight white teeth, he was almost film-star handsome.

  “Kalespera, Francesca,” he said, taking her hand and making a little bow. “A pleasure as always. And you, sir,” he added, “of course.”

  “Did you …?” she began.

  “Yes, Achillias said. This way, please.” He swept them past the reception desk and up a staircase, into an empty dining room that had been redecorated in keeping with its original design: mahogany floorboards, duck-egg blue walls, heavy drapes at the window and tables set with crisp linen and silver candelabras. “I put you here,” he pulled out a chair from the table set in the bay window, overlooking the square. “We’ve kept the bookings downstairs until nine.”

  “Thanks, Keri,” she said, touching his arm the way she had done with Sean earlier. “I appreciate it.”

  Keri looked at her with the same level of admiration Sean had observed in her staff. He took their coats, leaving them with the menus and wine list. Sean felt a stab of hunger.

  “Do you want some wine?” Francesca asked him over the top of her menu.

  “Sure,” said Sean. “I’ll go a glass of red.”

  “Might as well make it a bottle,” Francesca spoke like a true veteran. “Don’t worry, this is on my expenses. Keri, can you get us a bottle of red and some mezze?”

  She paused as the waiter departed, then turned back to Sean. “So what was it that you wanted to discuss with me?”

  Her turquoise eyes were sharp. Sean leaned back in his seat, tried to appear relaxed. “I’ve never worked a case like this before,” he told her. “Never been to this part of the world either. You can read old reports as much as you like, but it doesn’t give you a feel for the place. That’s what I’m hoping for. A little local insight.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Like,” he went on, “can I expect the same kind of welcome that I got from your secretary from everyone in Ernemouth?”

  “Probably,” she nodded. “Pat’s a very good introduction to this town, as it goes. You won’t get a squeak out of her yourself, but once she gets home, the phonelines will be burning about the strange man who came into the office today. That’s why I didn’t want them to know what your business is. I mean, she will find out. First rule of Ernemouth – walls have eyes and ears around here. I just wanted to give you a head start.”

  Sean nodded. “Makes sense,” he allowed. “So what are you going to tell them?”

  “That you’re an old friend down from London. Let them make of that what they will. Hopefully they’ll get distracted by their own idle gossip into thinking you’re something you’re not.” She raised her eyebrows, looked over his shoulder.

  “Ah,” she said. “Good. Here come our starters.”

  Sean studied her as Keri arranged the bowls of dips, olives, pastries and pitta on the table, poured their drinks and then smilingly departed. He realised that she had chosen the seat that had the only clear view of the whole room. Walls have eyes, indeed.

  “So,” he prompted, reaching for the bread. “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve worked for the Mercury just over three years,” she said, spooning hummus onto the plate. “When I got the job it was just me, Pat and Paul Bowman, the Peter Stringfellow lookalike in charge of advertising. The old editor had been doing everything else himself for years, until he dropped dead at his desk from a heart attack. I had to work my arse off to turn the thing around. But it was good to do it, you know,” she picked up her glass, took a contemplative sip. “We’ve come a long way.”

  “And before then?” Sean asked.

  “I worked on a national for five years,” she said. “From news reporter to section editor. But, you know – not much chance of ever becoming an editor there.”

  “Still,” said Sean, wondering why she would have made a move to a dismal backwater like this. “Must have been a bit of a culture shock coming here.”

  “Not entirely,” she smiled.

  Sean lifted a triangle of pastry to his mouth, tasted warm, crumbling feta and spinach inside. It didn’t take long for them to clear their plates.

  “But what about you? I mean, I’ve done my research about why you’re here,” Francesca said. “I understand why you want your insight. But,” she looked up again without missing a beat, “shall we order our main course first?”

  “I know what I want,” said Sean, as Keri appeared soundlessly by his side. “A big plate of moussaka,” he said, looking up at the waiter.

  “I’ll have the same,” said Francesca. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Once Keri had gone, she leant forward in her seat, long fingers curling around the stem of her glass. “So what have you got that’s new?” she asked. “Forensics, I presume, DNA? Nothing that anyone’s actually come forward and said?”

  “Correct,” he nodded. “You didn’t imagine there was any chance of that happening?”

  She shook her head. “Too many people’s lives were ruined,” she said. “When you’re in a small town like this and the spotlight falls on you for such a terrible reason, the collective shame is unbearable. They offered up their sacrifice twenty years ago and expected to get left alone in return. You won’t find many who’ll want to go raking it over.”

  “Not even the editor of the local paper?”

  The question hung on the air as Keri placed plates of moussaka down, topped up their gla
sses and left them to their meal. Sean took a few forkfuls. Francesca was right; he wasn’t disappointed. For a while, they ate in silence, and he savoured every mouthful.

  “Is it good then,” she eventually said, “what you’ve got? Do you think it’s enough to change the story? To risk stirring up the hornets’ nest and everything that’ll go with it?”

  Sean blinked away the memory of Corrine Woodrow’s eyes, the sudden wave of fatigue that ran through him at the memory, triggering the ache in his legs that the food had been helping him ignore. The shadow of a young man stepping out from under the trees…

  “The evidence suggests I can,” he said.

  They stared at each other across the table. Then Francesca turned her head, gazed out of the window, into the night. “Ta en oiko me en demo,” she murmured.

  “What was that?” Sean asked.

  She turned back to face him. “Then you’re going to need help, aren’t you?” she said.

  8

  Because the Night

  September 1983

  “If you could have anything,” said Samantha, “anything in the world, what would you most want?”

  Corrine’s eyes opened and she squinted against the sun that was warming her as she lay on the soft slope of a dune. Still slightly queasy from the combination of the rides and all the ice cream they had put away afterwards, she had almost drifted off in this sheltered hollow they had found among the North Denes.

  “Dunno,” she said, drawing in her bottom lip. “I s’pose … I’d like today to go on forever.”

  “Oh, come on,” Samantha shifted herself from her back to her elbow, turning to face her new friend. “That can’t be it – you must want something more, surely?”

  Corrine’s mind struggled against the torpor of the Sunday afternoon heat. Three times they’d ridden the rollercoaster today, twice on the Rota, then the Ghost Train, the Superloop and finally the Waltzers, the boy swinging their carriage around as he joked with them, making her dizzy with laughter at the thrill of it all. A walk down the Front after and sweet treats at Mario’s at the top of Regent’s Road, bought with the five-pound note Sam’s granddad slipped into her hand as they’d left the Leisure Beach.

  She didn’t think life could get much better.

  Sam’s eyes gazed down at her intensely, somewhere between green and blue they were, the same colour as the North Sea. There was a vague smile on her lips, a piece of marram grass in her hand that she had been chewing, now waving just above Corrine’s nose.

  “Go on,” Samantha said, “tell me.” She lowered the grass so that it started to tickle.

  Corrine flinched. “Pfffff!” she tried to blow the stem away, inching sideways as she did. “Don’t, Sam,” she pleaded.

  But Samantha moved in closer, her head blocking the sun. Her smile deepened, her crooked tooth glinting. “Tell me,” she said, “or I’ll tickle it out of you.”

  “No!” Corrine tried to sit up but Sam was faster, pinning her arms down to her sides and sliding her leg over Corrine’s torso, so she finished up sitting on her chest.

  “Tell me!” Sam goaded, flicking the stem over the top of Corrine’s nose.

  “Get off!” Corrine could hardly breathe. She screeched and kicked her legs up, pitching herself sideways and sending the pair of them rolling down the side of the dune. A wave of hysterical laughter engulfed the pair as they went, landing up in a heap of tangled limbs, sand in their mouths and their hair.

  “Look what you’ve now done!” Corrine extricated herself quickly, jumping to her feet, her face a vivid red. “You’ve ruined me hairdo!” She put her head upside down and tried to shake the sand out, staggering on her feet as stars danced before her eyes.

  “No I haven’t,” said Samantha, still sitting, still with the piece of grass in her hand, looking up at her through the curtain of her fringe. “Don’t be such a baby. Sit down, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  There was an edge to her voice that made Corrine stop immediately and do as she was told. Despite having almost succumbed to a full-blown panic attack only moments before, the fear of losing out on days like this was greater than any physical discomfort.

  “What?” she said, gingerly hunkering down.

  Samantha’s expression changed as rapidly as a cloud flitting across the sun. Her smile dissolved, her face became solemn, her eyes now more green than blue. “I’ve never had a real friend,” she said, “not someone I could tell all my secrets to. You want to be my friend, don’t you?” Her voice was pleading, a mirror of her eyes. “Or are you just like everyone else – you only want to know me ’cos of who Granddad is and what you think you can get out of it?”

  Corrine felt a rush of shame that was reflected in the colour of her cheeks. “Course not,” she said, trying to look Sam in the eye without blinking. “Please don’t think that, Sam.”

  “I mean,” Samantha turned her head away, stared towards the sea, “it’s all right for you. You’ve got Debbie, she’s a real friend, isn’t she? Whereas I …” she bit her bottom lip. “I’ve got a mum who’s just run off with an embarrassing bloody kid and a dad who hasn’t got the guts to stand up to her. Neither of them cares about me. They’ve just dumped me here, where everyone just thinks I’m some spoilt little posh bitch.”

  “No they don’t …” A second front of panic assailed Corrine now, she couldn’t think of the right words to say. “They don’t, honest.”

  “Ha!” Samantha’s head snapped round. “I heard what that boy said the minute I stepped into the classroom. That Shane Rowlands and his scabby mates. They were laughing at me, all of them. And your precious Debbie,” her eyes narrowed as she said it, boring into Corrine’s, “doesn’t like me either. She makes that quite obvious.”

  “Look,” said Corrine, reaching out her hand, “you don’t want to listen to Rowlands, he’s a knob end, everyone know that. No one care what he think. Everyone like you, Sam.”

  The look in Sam’s eyes said she didn’t believe her. Corrine thought she had better go further. “And if they don’t, well … then I don’t like them either.”

  “Really?” Samantha’s eyes softened, blue flooding into the green.

  “I’ll always stick up for you, you know I will,” Corrine said fiercely. “I don’t take no shit off no one.”

  Samantha nodded solemnly. “All right,” she said. “Give me your little finger.”

  Corrine did as she was told.

  Samantha ran the side of the marram grass across the top joint of Corrine’s finger, fast and deep, drawing blood. Kept hold of her hand as Corrine recoiled.

  “No,” she said, digging her nails into the other girl’s hand, “wait. Now I have to do it.”

  The sudden pain bringing tears to her eyes, Corrine watched as Sam repeated the manoeuvre on her own little finger, making the cut without even flinching. Then she pressed their fingers together, holding them fast with her other hand.

  “Now our blood has mingled,” she said, that intense expression back in her eyes, “we’re sisters. No one knows but us. But we share all our secrets from now on. Right?”

  Corrine nodded, locked in the thrall of that stare.

  “Good!” said Sam, letting go of her hand and jumping to her feet. “Now let’s go and see Nana. She’s made some cakes for our tea. Come on, I’ll race you.”

  And she sprinted away over the dunes, faster than a bewildered Corrine could catch up with.

  * * *

  Edna’s insides churned as she sat at the kitchen table. Her eyes kept darting from the clock, where the minutes dragged towards seven o’clock, and the ceiling. Sitting on her rigid lap, Noodles was being stroked to within an inch of his life.

  Edna was wishing she had X-ray vision, wishing she could see what was going on up there in Sammy’s room, between her granddaughter and that … creature she had brought home with her. Wished that Eric would hurry up and get home. Wondered if she dared go up and suggest, since it was a school night, that it was time Sam
my’s guest was leaving …

  She and Eric had been so delighted at the prospect of meeting their granddaughter’s new school friend. Until she had opened the front door on Corrine Woodrow and gazed upon the rigid waves of garishly highlighted hair, violet eyeshadow and lipstick. Edna winced at the memory of a hand closing in on her fairy cakes, black-painted fingernails encased in a lace mitten. A thieving hand, if ever she had seen one.

  Noodles, fed up now with being ground into his mistress’s thighs, looked up and yapped, jumped off Edna’s lap and shook himself furiously, sweaty-palm-dampened fur springing back to attention. Then, casting a look over his shoulder as if to say, If you won’t sort it out then I will, he trotted briskly up the stairs.

  * * *

  “There,” said Corrine, stepping back from the stool so that Sam could see herself in the mirror. “What d’you reckon?”

  Samantha’s cool gaze took in the transformation. Her hair had been backcombed so that it stuck up and out, her eyebrows plucked and pencilled in. Black eyeliner and thick mascara against shocking pink and yellow eyeshadow, vivid, angular streaks of blusher down each cheek and Clara Bow lips outlined in black and filled in with purple gloss.

  Corrine looked from the reflection to the palette she held in her hands, a row of pouting lips in every colour from sugar pink to deep mauve, a sweet little brush to paint them on with. “This is ace,” she said. “You must have got it up London, I in’t seen anything like this round here, or I’d have …” she stopped herself just in time from saying, “nicked it”.

  “Keep it,” said Samantha airily, moving her head to a different angle. A picture of Siouxsie Sioux cut out of Record Mirror had been taped to the dressing-table mirror. Corrine had done her best to replicate the look over the past hour, while Tommy Vance counted down the Top 40 from the transistor radio on the windowsill.

  “You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” Samantha allowed.

  “Well, I’m hopin’ to become a beautician,” Corrine said, blushing. She’d never revealed this secret hope to anyone, not even Debbie. It had just sort of blurted out without her thinking. But, she supposed, now that she and Sam were sisters …