by A J Waines
‘We’re here to talk about you,’ is all she says, as usual.
‘I want to know what a normal family is like,’ I tell her, but I really want to know more about her. She never gives anything away, always keeps herself out of reach. It’s so annoying. Therapy is terribly one-sided. She’s allowed to hide behind an iron door and I can’t ask her anything.
‘Okay, here’s something about me,’ she says, as if she can read my mind. ‘About what’s going on inside my head right now.’ She blinks twice. ‘I’m wondering what you expect from me. Whether you want me to help you recover your memories or whether you want something more from me?’
That shakes me. I try to stay centred.
‘Sounds complicated,’ I say, not looking at her.
Suddenly I’m not sure if I want to know what she’s thinking any more. The comfort of not knowing might be a safer place to be. In my case, the truth always hurts. Still, it’s nice to feel real contact for a change; sometimes I feel as though I’m in the middle of a game, one with stupid rules, like I’m playing chess with a waxwork at Madame Tussauds.
‘I want to remember what happened, that’s all,’ I add, hoping that will end the matter.
For some reason, my mind floats towards Richard. I’m putting together what his sister told me, about him having money problems, with the conversation we’d had in the pub that first night. Had he really been sounding me out, not just joking, about stealing Max’s Guarneri?
I make myself picture the van as it’s filling up with water. Where was Richard? Did he manage to get out and take Max’s violin with him? Had he planned it from the start?
‘As we work with your memories, what would you most like to resolve?’ Sam asks, leaning forward, noticing I’ve drifted off.
‘Lots of things. I want to know if the crash was deliberate or not, for a start. I want to know whether someone was trying to kill one of us. Or all of us. Or if it was about the violin. But most of all, I want to know where my viola is.’
We do some focused trance work after that and something incredible happens. Part of a phone call I overheard after one of the rehearsals in the big house comes back to me. It was the day of the accident and I’m convinced it’s significant. It’s only a few words, drifting up the staircase from the hall: It’s worth a fortune and it’s under the bridge. That’s all.
‘I’ve no idea whose voice it was or what they were talking about,’ I say.
‘A man’s voice or a woman’s, do you think?’ Sam asks.
‘A man’s.’
‘And you’re sure it was at the Hinds’ place? Could it have been at the B&B?’
‘No. It was during a break in rehearsals at the mansion,’ I say. ‘Max told us all to take five, while he made some “important calls to his agent”. He went onto the veranda with his mobile and I wandered on to the landing to stretch my legs. That’s when I heard it.’
‘So, it wasn’t anyone in the quartet?’
‘No. It was someone already using the phone downstairs in the hall.’
‘Someone from the house?’
I shrug.
Neither of us have a clue what it means. There are hundreds of bridges in the Lake District.
My phone rings straight after that. I forgot to switch it off. I think it might be the police so I answer it, even though Sam’s frown says she disapproves. But it isn’t the police – it’s Max’s mother.
I can’t hide the tremble in my voice. Why is she ringing me? DS Fischer must have dished out my number to all-comers, given how easy-going I was about taking Lucy’s call.
Feeling bold, knowing Sam is right by my side, I put the phone on speaker so we can both hear what she says. Her questions are similar to the ones Lucy had asked about Richard.
‘I hadn’t seen Max for six months,’ she says, her voice breathy and strained. ‘I wanted to know…can you tell me what happened? Did he seem happy? Did he suffer?’
Big questions. I stare at Sam for guidance, but she’s sitting back avoiding my eyes, waiting.
‘He seemed in really good spirits,’ I say, making my voice sound bright. ‘Didn’t the police tell you what happened?’
I don’t want to have to trawl through it all again.
‘Yes… of course, but you were there…you…’
A sick feeling takes over my stomach. You got out, you escaped, you were the lucky one…
‘I can’t remember much,’ I tell her. ‘I’m having memory therapy to try to bring it back…but I’m sure whatever happened, it was quick…’
It sounds like a cop-out to me, but it seems to satisfy her.
‘To be honest, I’m surprised he accepted the job,’ she tells me, shifting into a business-like tone.
We all were. It seemed beneath him following his meteoric success.
‘Especially as he’d had a bit of a run-in with the organiser’s son,’ she adds, ‘during that first visit, years ago.’
‘I didn’t know about that,’ I say, turning to Sam with my eyes wide. Funny how grief seems to encourage people to reveal all kinds of personal details probably best kept hidden.
‘Karl Hinds threatened him,’ she explains. ‘He accused my son of stealing something from the house.’
I keep my eyes on Sam to see her reaction. She looks annoyed that I’m allowing this intrusion to hijack our session, but she can’t hide the fact that she’s a teeny bit intrigued, too.
‘What did Karl say he stole?’ I say into the phone.
‘I’ve no idea. Max said it was all a silly misunderstanding and couldn’t wait to get out of there.’
‘Perhaps he wanted to go back to clear his name?’ I suggest.
‘Max always was an honourable boy. And so talented. He was over the moon when he was granted long-term loan of the Guarneri.’
Loan.
So, he didn’t own the violin at all; it was only on loan. He didn’t mention that!
Perhaps his high-flying concert tours weren’t as lucrative as he liked to make out. With Mr Hinds offering such an inflated fee, no wonder he accepted the gig.
I catch Sam’s eye and bring the call to an end after that. ‘I thought it would save time,’ I tell Sam. ‘I’d have had to explain it all to you in our next session anyway.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s your time,’ she says, her eyes betraying reproach.
Yes it is. And choosing how to use it is about the only way I get to gain any kind of control. I sit back and glare at her. Some of these rules are really starting to piss me off.
My mobile rings again just as we are finishing. I recognise the number; it is the Cumbrian police this time. I take the call, intending to be brief.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
‘They’ve found a body,’ I say, closing the phone. ‘In the lake.’
Sam can’t stop her eyebrows from shooting up.
‘They need to check the dental records, but it looks like it’s Stephanie.’
Chapter 22
Sam
I was on my way back from a spin class when I heard my landline ringing from the landing. My heart rate shot up, as though someone had sprung out at me from the shadows. Following two more silent calls on my mobile in the last couple of days, I was starting to get jittery. Unfortunately, I’d been on public transport both times and hadn’t been able to use my whistle; blasting the phone with a loud screech wouldn’t have exactly endeared me to my fellow commuters.
As soon as I let myself in, I darted over to the handset to check the caller ID. It was an outer London number I didn’t recognise. I got my whistle ready and slowly lifted the receiver.
‘Is Miranda there?’ came the voice. I let my shoulders drop. It was Stella, a friend of my sister’s from the care home she’d stayed at.
‘No, she hasn’t lived here for a while. I’m Sam, her sister.’
‘Oh, sorry, Sam. I must have got mixed up and rung an old number.’
‘She’s in Camden now.’
‘Of course.
I’ll try her mobile. I know it’s early days but you must all be so excited.’
‘Excited?’
Stella fought to backpedal without success. ‘Sorry. No. I shouldn’t have said anything…I’m sorry I disturbed—’
‘Excited about what?’ Miranda selling more paintings? Miranda’s new boyfriend?
‘Oh Lord, my stupid mouth.’ A strained silence. ‘I thought she would have said something by now. It’s gone twelve weeks and…’
I didn’t notice the handset slide to the carpet.
A cruel December freeze was already clawing its way over every watery surface as I hurried to the nearest bus stop. It filled the cracks between the paving stones, sent stiff veins into the puddles in the gutter. On the bus, I took the warmest seat at the back and pulled my hood over my woolly hat, hoping to shrink into a cosy oblivion. Stella’s words had hit me like an almighty punch in my stomach. She must have made a mistake. I’d speak to Miranda and find out it was all a misunderstanding. We’d laugh about it. I’d be on the bus back home in forty-five minutes.
The streets were a blur as I backtracked to my last session with Rosie. She’d remembered hearing part of a conversation in the Hinds’ residence while they were rehearsing and was all fired up about it. She’d latched onto the idea of something hidden under a bridge that was ‘worth a fortune’. I felt she was clutching at straws. Surely, just a random snippet of chit-chat, but Rosie was desperate to make things fit, like a child forcing jigsaw pieces into the wrong place.
The bus took forever, the ice making the driver cautious. Without warning, my mind drifted back to last Christmas. It would be Joanne’s anniversary in three weeks’ time. I didn’t want to go there. No – leave it alone.
I pressed the bell for the next stop. Once on the pavement, the wind caught me unawares. It snatched off my hood and whipped my hat away down the street before I had time to react. I caught up with it lying by a grate, soaking wet. I squeezed it out and squashed it into my pocket.
I fought another savage gust of wind and hurried round to Miranda’s front door. I kept telling myself not to barge in all guns blazing – she might slam the door in my face, but I hadn’t concocted an alternative reason for turning up unannounced. I spent my final steps scrabbling around for one. It would be the first thing Miranda would ask.
Her face was aghast when she saw me.
‘It’s Dad’s birthday next week,’ I said with enforced calm. ‘We need to think of something to get him.’
‘You’ve come all this way…you could have emailed.’ She looked up at the sleet spattering down on my hood and reluctantly opened the door.
‘You never reply,’ I said as I wiped my feet. ‘It would have taken ages. I want to get it sorted, what with Christmas around the corner.’
‘I’m busy.’ Miranda was wearing a long T-shirt with smudges of oil paint down the front. I couldn’t help checking to see if there was any hint of a bump underneath it, but it was too baggy to tell. A canvas stood on an easel in the centre of the room and jars and tubes lay around it on the floor. Miranda was barefoot and she’d brought a trail of yellow toe-prints to the front door with her.
‘Bugger!’ she said, following my eyes and spotting them. She hopped back on one leg, grabbed a rag and tipped white spirit onto it.
‘You can’t paint in this light,’ I said. A bare bulb, an old sixty-watt at best, hung down from the ceiling. ‘It’s not good for your eyes.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ she said, clicking her tongue as she rubbed first her toes, then the wooden floorboards.
Bad start. Would I ever learn? I peeled off my wet coat and perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘I was thinking perhaps cufflinks or a new tie…’ I said helpfully.
‘Whatever. You get yours on your own. I’ll think of something later.’
‘Okay.’ I slapped my hands together, hiding my disappointment that she wanted to go it alone.
‘You want a hot drink?’ she said grudgingly. I accepted with exaggerated enthusiasm – at least she was making an effort. I asked her about the art gallery, the sale of her paintings, about Kora, Sponge and Dezzie in an attempt to generate conversation.
‘Dezzie is thinking of buying one of my latest ones,’ she said. ‘He wants it for the café. A bright one to liven the place up a bit.’
‘Show me.’
‘It’s at the gallery.’ She handed me the hot mug, but didn’t offer to clear any of the papers and rags that had made their home on every seat.
I picked up a flyer from the arm of the sofa.
‘I’m going to a gig later in the week,’ she said. ‘An Indie band at The Dublin Castle – you’d hate it.’
Her last words effectively cut off any chance of an invitation.
I perched on the arm and she walked up and down in front of the easel, sipping her drink without looking at me. I wondered how I was going to find a way to tell her the real reason I’d bolted over there.
‘Nice and warm in here,’ I said. ‘I’ve found a damp patch in my bedroom. I think—’
‘Get it fixed.’ She swung the empty mug loosely by her side. ‘Is that it? About Dad’s present? I’ve got stuff to do.’
Miranda’s words hit me like tiny cigarette burns on my skin. Would we ever get to a stage where I could chat to her without bracing myself for the backlash? I would have loved to have a sister I could confide in, have fun with, but I had to accept that our relationship would never be like that.
I didn’t have much more to lose. ‘When will I get to meet this man of yours?’ I said, dipping my toe in the water.
‘Not yet.’ She made a move towards the hall, ready to show me out.
‘What’s his name? Surely I’m allowed to know that.’
She stopped and looked around as if she was trying to remember his name. I was starting to lose my cool.
‘When? When will be the right time?’
‘Not yet, okay? It’s too soon. It’s not serious. I told you.’
‘Not serious?’ I glared at her. ‘So, you’ll tell me his name when the baby’s born, will you?’
Her eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about?’
I exhaled with a huff, casting caution to the wind.
‘I had a call from Stella. She said you’re having a baby. Tell me she’s got it wrong.’
I took a step towards her, but she backed away, putting her mug down as if I might be about to smash it.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. ‘You’ve told people at Linden Manor before you’ve TOLD ME?’ I screeched.
‘Told you what?’
‘That you’re pregnant for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’m not!’
I stood pressing my fingers into my forehead. ‘You’re not?’
‘There is no baby.’
I bit my lip, confused. ‘Listen…Stella…’
‘I lost the baby.’
I gasped.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she said, walking away from me into the kitchen. I darted after her, grabbed her arm.
‘Miranda! I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you…? I could have…’ I pulled her limp body towards mine and squashed her against me. She hung there like a rag doll, floppy and unresponsive. I let go of her and took a step back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Like I say – it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Yes it does! It’s a massive thing to have gone through.’
She nipped her lips together and looked past me towards my coat.
‘I’m not going yet. I’m really upset!’ I cried, tears coursing down my cheeks. ‘I’m upset that you didn’t tell me anything. Nothing at all. You have a boyfriend, you got pregnant and you lost the baby. And I didn’t know one single bloody scrap of it!’
‘It’s over now,’ she said, leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. ‘In any case, I don’t have to tell you everything. I’ve had boyfriends before…plenty you don’t know about it. Why is it so important?’
‘I’m your
sister!’ I wailed pathetically.
‘Yeah. I’m still getting used to that.’
I’m not sure what happened next. One minute I was bawling at her, the next I was getting on the bus, going home. I stumbled up the stairs to my flat, a terrible emptiness swallowing up my insides. Only a year ago, Miranda and I had discovered a new understanding, a profound closeness I never thought we’d achieve. Rock-solid at last. But in recently months, I felt like she’d broken away from the mainland and my precious relationship with her was shifting further and further out to sea.
It was after 11pm, but I was wide awake. I wanted nothing more than to switch everything off and go to sleep, but I knew as soon as my head hit the pillow my brain would start tormenting me. I couldn’t seem to relax any more.
I kicked my boots off in the hall, then dropped my bag on the sofa. On top of it, I flung my travel card, scarf, gloves and coat, feeling too rattled to bother about tidying up after myself. Again. I flopped into a heap alongside the bundle, then straightened up sharply. Everything about my sitting room looked spic-and-span. Every book in place, cushions plumped up, magazines out of sight. I crossed the hall. All spotless in the kitchen, too. No crumbs on the work surface, no papers left on the table. I was sure I hadn’t left it looking like this. I needed to get a grip. I was spending too much of my life on automatic pilot these days.
As I approached the bedroom, scenes from another flat flashed into my mind. Trust those harrowing snapshots to hit me when I was already down. As I reached for the door handle, I was instantly transported back to that other bedroom door – her bedroom door. To the stain on the rug behind it and the curly pink letters on her dressing gown: Joanne.