by David Mark
Irons opens the door and walks quickly along the hall and out the front door. He only notices that the wind tearing at his face contains rain when he spies the droplets upon his glasses.
He has left the cul-de-sac in moments, unseen and unheard, and feels a strange pang of relief at having found out nothing unpleasant. He does not know how we would react were he to find that Pamela’s boy had been given to unkind people.
The Toyota door closes with a click behind him as he clambers inside the vehicle. As he starts the engine he fishes his telephone from his pocket. The family phone contains three missed calls, all from Alison. He deletes the message and puts the phone away. Then he reaches into the other side of the great leather jacket. It contains a text message from his new friend. The one with the shaved head and the kind eyes. The tattoos and the failing restaurant. The one made tiny by the weight of pain upon her shoulders. She is asking if he remembers her, and whether he wants to talk.
Inside himself, a light no larger than a match-head seems to flare into life. It sends tremors through his system and he has to hold himself with both of his giant arms to stop himself giving in to a tremble.
He finds himself wanting to talk. To share his feelings with somebody else who knows how it feels to love Pamela’s blood.
THIRTY
Lathon Grange Hotel, Maidenhead
3.30 p.m.
The hardwood floors are almost black, save for a scuffed area by the bar which blooms with trodden-in chewing gum. The heavy, crushed velvet curtains look like matted animal pelts, and the tables and chairs are varnished to different mahogany hues. The lamps on the walls are skewed at angles, knocked by inconsiderate dusters and not put right. It’s not much larger than a good-sized living room, but the layout is chaotic, and despite there being no other patrons, the trio still feel cramped as they sit on backless stools and lean forward to hold their drinks. Another pint for Adam. Vodka and tonic for Alison. Orange and amaretto for Grace. The young girl in the white blouse and black skirt behind the bar had never heard of Grace’s preferred tipple, and it had been left to Alison to direct the barmaid’s finger until it was pointing at the correct bottle.
The lounge bar has the bearing of a toff who’s gambled the family millions away. It puts Grace in mind of a liver-spotted lord of the manor, clad in moth-eaten smoking jacket and paisley cravat, living in one room of his crumbling mansion, eating beans from the tin and watching a portable TV.
She reads the blurb on the back of the laminated menu, trying to find something to do with her eyes other than watch the sparks crackle between Adam and Alison. She feels hotly uncomfortable. A spare part. They are talking from beneath heavy eyelids, their voices soft, breath husky and sometimes tremulous.
‘It’s hardly recognizable,’ says Alison, again. She seems stunned at the decrepitude of this building that stood dumb witness to an event that changed her life. ‘We were in the big hall, which must be the other side of the reception and through those double doors, and that was like something out of a fairy tale. Big chandeliers, beautiful parquet floors. Every tablecloth was pretty as a wedding dress. I know Dad had arranged for it to be extra-special that night but it really was a place to be. I was a kid, of course, and the mind does edit your snapshots when you send them down to storage, but this might as well be a different building.’ She stops talking, and stares into the surface of her glass. ‘I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t know how I would have felt walking through the door and things being exactly as they were.’
‘It just leaves my imagination,’ says Adam, gently, turning away to stare through the leaded windows and gale-tossed bare branches scrawled into the purple and yellow crayon of the sky outside. ‘Maybe if I could have seen it as it was, I could just paint her face on it. Put you there. Maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe not. It’s so difficult to know what to tell your brain to do. What’s the right thing? Should I let my mind wonder? Let it take me over? Is that the way to honour her? She’s gone. She’ll never know me. Even if I could speak to her, somewhere, somehow, I wouldn’t know what to say. She’s a name and a story. Something terrible happened to her, but I don’t even know what she looks like.’ He sighs, looking across at Grace, as though hoping to find instructions written on her face. ‘You know what my dad says. That I fall in love with every woman I meet. That I feel I’ve got to save them all. Maybe this is just …’
‘Adam, this is a massive thing for everybody,’ says Alison, cutting Grace off before she can speak. ‘This is something that’s been inside me since I was a girl. Something hidden and horrible and buried away. There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t wished I could just smash down the walls we built up around what happened that night. We bricked it up. Bricked her up. But we blocked off the light. It’s been shadows ever since.’
They sit and brood, listening to the rain and the wind, watching the sky darken, the drinks go flat. They consider ordering food, but haven’t the stomach. A group of pensioners poke their heads into the bar, see nothing to intrigue them, and leave. They talk of business. Adam explaining what he does. Where he finds his contracts. The difficulties he has getting the bigger firms to pay up. They discuss sunbeds: Adam’s aversion, Alison’s addiction. Grace mentions she’s planning to go home to Malaysia for Christmas and Alison says she once spent a fortnight in the Maldives and thought it was paradise. Didn’t care for the food, but the people were so polite. The conversation turns to their surroundings and they criticize the layout. Make suggestions as to how they would decorate it differently. Alison looks at it appraisingly, and Grace realizes there is nothing to stop this woman from making an offer on the place, and the knowledge reaffirms her discomfort.
Adam stands, pulling his phone from his pocket. There are six empty pint glasses on the table before him, but other than a thickness to his voice and a heaviness to his eyes, he seems none the worse for drink. He nods to the women and heads for the door, gesturing at the phone.
‘Girlfriend?’ asks Alison.
‘Dad,’ replies Grace, feeling a sudden thrill at knowing him so well, at being able to read his face, his thoughts.
Alison nods, understanding. ‘It must have hit him like a brick,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘I really didn’t expect him to know absolutely nothing. It’s been such a cloud over our lives that the thought of somebody who was so much a part of all that not knowing about it is so hard to take. Then again, what good would it have done him? Sounds like he was raised by good people. He’s turned out a good man. I’m only seeing him in extreme circumstances, but he’s got his head screwed on. Clever, you can see that. And good-looking …’
‘Does he look like her? His mum?’ Grace jumps in quicker than she intends. Her words come out garbled and impulsive. She realizes it sounds like she doesn’t want anybody else noticing Adam’s looks.
‘She’s in there somewhere,’ Alison says. Then, as if for bad: ‘I suppose if I stared into his eyes long enough I could spot her.’
They sit quietly, staring at the sooty sky beyond the glass, cushioned from further conversation by their own thoughts. Finally, Grace says, ‘That’s what he’s finding hardest. The thought that all these people he doesn’t know anything about are somehow a part of him. His mum sounds lovely, but even if you find out Mother Teresa is your grandma, what are you supposed to do with that information? Go and look at lepers and see if you feel an overwhelming urge to help them? He kind of got into this out of curiosity. Just a basic need to follow a story to its next chapter. Neither of us were thinking of this, but he can’t put the genie back in the bottle now he knows what he knows. And that’s not much. He knows his mother was a little girl. He knows his dad was a rapist. And now he’s involved with a family that most people have only read about …’ She stops, colour draining from her face.
Alison looks for a moment as though she might take offence, then smiles and reaches across to touch Grace’s leg. She seems pleased that Adam has somebody who cares for him so much and feels
overcome by a sudden liking for her. ‘I can’t pretend we’re not known,’ she says, instantly effervescent and sparkly. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I’d like to be anonymous. I’ve always been Mr Jardine’s daughter. It’s not often I have to book a table. But that whole gangster world you see at the pictures is a nonsense. We still get people ringing up and offering to change our gas suppliers. You still need to remember a password before the bank will let you transfer funds between accounts. You try telling somebody in a call centre your daddy is Franco Jardine and see what difference it makes. None at all. Try going up to a chain pub and telling the spotty little manager they could be protected from any harm for a small fee each month, and see how far you get. They give you the phone number for head office. Dad used to have a few rough edges once upon a time, but they were different times. You need a degree in computers just to tape a programme off the telly these days. Then, you could just get by with a bit of swagger in your walk. Dad brought me up knowing we were a family which some people were afraid of, but he knew that those people didn’t deserve to live the easy life.’
‘It is exciting though,’ says Grace, in an enthusiastic whisper. ‘The thought of walking in to a restaurant and people nudging each other and then the manager coming out and saying your dinner’s free. It probably isn’t like that, but the thought of it …’
‘It can be like that, if you go somewhere that has a bit of history. If the owner made his money in the sixties. But trust me, you don’t get served any quicker in Starbucks for having my last name.’
‘Did you change it when you got married?’ asks Grace, and there are two spots of darkness on her cheeks. She’s a little flushed, suddenly enjoying this chat and hoping Adam will take his time.
‘I didn’t get married,’ says Alison, shrugging. She pauses, unsure how much to give away, then seems to make up her mind. ‘I haven’t always been on top of my game. For a long time I was a bit of a wild child. After Pamela … well, things were different. Dad had always wanted me to be at a normal school, but that changed after what happened. I went off to a boarding school full of little princesses, and every one of them had a mum or dad who had heard of mine, and all the kids had been told to be polite to me, but not get too close. So that was my life for years. Polite, but no real friends. Acquaintances, but no intimates. Same at home. Dad still gave me everything I wanted, but the house of comings and goings, and big men in suits, it all went away. We rattled around in a house too big for us and filled with memories we didn’t want. I hit seventeen and went crazy. Found out just how far you could go with a last name like mine. Behaved the way my silly boy is behaving now.’
‘Timmy, yes?’
‘Yes. His father’s son. Bloody idiot. I met his dad when I was still in my teens. Young, dumb and hard as nails. Didn’t take any crap from anybody. Not the best looking, but all man. Or what my idea of a man was, back then. Didn’t give a damn what my dad thought. Didn’t back down even when one of Dad’s lads had a quiet word in his ear. I ran off to be with him. I still had a nice allowance from Dad and we lived pretty decent. Then a while down the road I got pregnant. Dad and me buried the hatchet and me and Dean, that’s Tim’s dad, we moved into a nice family house down the coast.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘It was a farce. I was still off the rails. Dean was drinking for England. I didn’t know what the hell to do with a baby. I had nobody to confide in. No friends. So I had him, and we shuffled on. A few years back, Dean walked out, and I’ve been putting myself to better use ever since. I like working with Dad. I like what I’ve become.’
‘It must be daunting, telling all those men what to do, though,’ says Grace.
Alison giggles, and it sparks Grace into a fit of conspiratorial laughter. ‘It’s great fun,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I make them do things just to see if they will. There’s one lad at the pool hall. I caught him with his hand in the till and I made him staple gun it for every penny he had taken. Said I would tell Dad if not. He did it. Looked like he was a robot from the wrist down by the time he’d finished. I wouldn’t have said a word, that’s the funny thing. I don’t tell Dad anything. Not at his age. It’ll either upset him, or I’ll feel daft for not being able to sort it myself.’
‘He’s in the dark about this, then?’ asks Grace, starting to collect the glasses together to take back to the bar. ‘About Adam.’
Alison nods, her brows knotting. ‘Totally. There was maybe a time to ask him about any of this, but I missed it. He doesn’t need to know Adam and I have met. He doesn’t need to know any of it.’
‘It’s going to be hard,’ says Grace. ‘We’ve only got the memories of a child to go on.’
They sit on the edge of their seats, considering one another. It occurs to them both that without acknowledging it, they have silently decided to search for answers about Pamela’s rape, and Adam’s birth. They have agreed to dig down into the past.
‘How much do you remember?’ asks Grace. ‘In real terms. Where do I start?’
Alison stands and smooths herself down. She takes a handful of glasses to the bar and plonks them noisily on the counter. The barmaid is nowhere to be seen, so Alison opens the hatch on the counter and walks behind the bar. She reaches up and pulls down the nearest optic. It’s brandy. Posh stuff. Three tumblers from below the till. She walks back to Grace, sits down, and pours them each a measure. Adam’s glass remains empty.
‘I know who not to bother with,’ says Alison, eventually, sipping her drink. She remembers herself, and clinks glasses with Grace, whose lips tingle as she downs the unfamiliar drink. ‘I think of that night and there are huge blurs in the picture. Half the people who were there are just nobodies. They mattered enough to be there, but my family can be counted out. Some of the businessmen too. They had a van, that’s the thing. This is somebody who prepared …’
‘That’s what I keep coming back to,’ she says, then, dutifully, ‘Adam too. If they’d just done it on the spur of the moment, then …’
‘I know. These are the things that have been eating me away. They said it was Dozzle, so that’s what I accepted.’
‘But it can’t have been, can it? The way it happened.’ She pauses, unsure if she should continue. ‘Do you think it might have been you they were after?’
Alison looks down into her glass. Downs it. Pours another. ‘I think Dad does. I think Dad could almost understand if it was me. If it was to make a point. If it was for leverage. But to do Pamela. It’s the kind of thing that could have happened even if she had never met us. Maybe that’s what makes it harder. Not knowing if it was something that happened to her because she came into our lives. Not knowing whether this was a result of her being my friend, his princess …’
They stop, and Grace wonders if she can see a dampness in Alison’s eyes.
As they sit, quietly, thinking themselves sluggish, Adam comes back into the bar. His face is pale but red at the cheeks. His eyes are glistening and his jacket is damp. He’s been standing in the rain, listening to his mum, hearing about Dad’s funny turn in the night, when he fancied he could hear burglars and started swinging, wildly, in the dark. Knocked Pat down and hurt her side. Said she was fine, but there was blood in her wee this morning …
Adam pours himself a brandy, raises it, salutes, and downs it.
‘Everything fine?’ asks Grace.
‘I feel like doing star jumps,’ he says flatly.
‘Your dad?’
‘Oh he’s fabulous.’
Adam sits down, heavily.
‘We were talking about that night,’ says Alison, putting a hand on Adam’s.
‘Shocker,’ he says, blunt and cold.
‘I do remember a couple of Dad’s old contacts,’ says Alison, not stopping. ‘Dealt with one myself up until quite recently and he’s friendly enough. He’ll have been at the party here, I’m sure of it. He’s an old boy now but he could remember something. We could be subtle, of course. Mention the importance of keeping it all between
ourselves. Leonard Riley. And the footballer. Ace.’
‘Riley,’ says Grace, thoughtfully. ‘The chap from the stadium? Alderman, or something.’
‘Very good,’ says Alison, impressed. ‘You been doing your research?’
‘I’m good at it,’ she says, and tries to make it sound modest. ‘That’s what I did, before Tilly came along …’
‘How did I come out of it?’ asks Alison, with a smile.
Grace looks sheepish and guilty. ‘There wasn’t that much about you,’ she says, and isn’t sure how to read Alison’s expression. Already her mind is racing. Already she wants to pull out her phone and call King Rat. Perhaps even see him. Find out the truths that are hiding among so many lies.
They drink the brandy and smoke cigarettes, and nobody bothers them, because they look fiery and intense, and they reek of alcohol and cigarettes, and they are talking of horrid things. They mention names not spoken in more than thirty years. Councillors, policemen, businessmen, footballers. They make decisions, without acknowledging them. Alison will pick up the bill at the end of the session, and book them rooms. They will sleep fitfully and drunkenly, in sleeps peopled with killers and rapists, babies and each other. The tab for the night will set Alison back more than £400. She will pay it willingly, unaware the gesture is unnecessary. Her father has owned this hotel since 1974.
THIRTY-ONE
Chinatown, Wardour Street, London
8.07 p.m.
Yellows and reds, gold and green, a child’s drawing of Bonfire night made neon-real. Dragons, stencil-curves, grinning dogs and paper lanterns.
A wet street sticking into the centre of London like a needle into a vein.