I typed quickly: How?
This time his reply was immediate: Suicide. Overdose I think.
I leant back against the wall, felt the grit of the concrete against my head. An overdose. Suicide. Leukaemia or a car accident: these were the horrors I’d been imagining. Yet, in my mind, they hadn’t really been horrors at all. I’d incorporated the thought of them into the narrative of her life without real upset. But suicide was different. I couldn’t avoid the thought of Florrie in this – Florrie’s thoughts and feelings, her state of mind, her problems at work, whatever had gone on in the life she had led.
Shit, I typed. Wish I’d known.
Of course, I knew why I hadn’t known. I wasn’t in touch with anyone who might have told me apart from Alex, and he had been abroad so much of the time. Gillian – she was a friend of mine too. She and Alex and I had lived together in our second year, but I’d lost touch, just as I’d lost touch with most people – unless, like Alex, they were of use to me. It was what I did. It was how I was. But the success of my novel, first the flurry of the bidding war and then my brief period of so-called fame, when there were literary festivals and award ceremonies and photo shoots (‘Ten Young Writers to Look Out For’) . . . it had all encouraged that aspect of me. Why trudge to Peckham to see Gillian when I could be having cocktails in Bibendum with the arts editor of the Sunday Times?
Standing in that dark shed, I had a moment of regret. My finger hovered over the ring icon. It would be nice to speak to Alex, just for a chat. Find out how the LSO was treating him. Ask after Persephone. I stopped myself: God knows how expensive a call would be. Instead, I quickly padded out another text: Thanks. I put the phone back in my pocket.
I had lost interest in the van now so I left the shed and walked back round to the terrace. I poked around the house a bit – abandoned bedrooms, clothes and headphones scattered. Only the teenage boys used the sitting room, and there were mugs abandoned on the floor, a glass on its side, a curl of corrugated paper from inside a packet of biscuits.
A door from the sitting room opened into Tina and Andrew’s bedroom. It had been left ajar and, as it was so quiet in there, I peered in. Tina was asleep on top of the bed, laptop nudged to the side. One arm was thrown above her head revealing the dark crease of her armpit, her dress twisted tight across one breast.
I left the house quietly, grabbed a drying towel, and took the path down to the pool.
Artan was standing at the deep end with a long pole in his hand, scooping insects out of the water. Light flickered on to his face. His cheekbones threw shadows. I felt a moment of shock, seeing him. How long had he been there? How quiet he was. I greeted him and he put his hand up, fingers spread. ‘Five more minutes,’ he said.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘No hurry.’
But I felt self-conscious now. How could I lounge, recumbent, as he toiled? So I left my towel on a chair, as if that had been my intention, and wandered into the scrubby wooded area just beyond the pool: eucalyptus and pine, saplings mainly, tiny dry leaves under foot. Sun splintered the shadows. I was at the edge of the property – beyond the copse was the field where the construction had begun.
A low white wall, half collapsed, marked the boundary and I decided, to give Artan time to finish, to do a loop, walk through the field, over the gate and back up the drive. I took a couple of steps forward and tripped. I looked down and saw the raised lip of an old well, too small to fall into, and thick with leaves, but I had hit the bony bit of my ankle and I had to rub it hard to stop it hurting.
The walk round was pleasant: the air still hot but the sun much less intense. Bees hummed in long-stalked yellow flowers. A thousand cicada clocks ticked. In the distance, a row of tall thin cypress trees, emblems of death, formed quills of dark green against the landscape.
The diggers had their noses in the ground as if grazing. No sound from the guard dog, though I was careful to keep to the edge of Alice’s property and to tread as quietly as I could. From the gate, I could just make out, under a temporary tin hut, a black and tan shadow, prone, legs and tail flopped to one side. Smaller than I’d imagined from the depth of the bark, and painfully thin – you could see the curve of its ribs. ‘Poor mutt,’ I murmured as I climbed gingerly over the gate. The bar rattled as my weight sprang free, and the dog was immediately on its feet, rushing forwards, yanking on its chain. It began to bark and didn’t stop. I heard it all the way up to the house.
I was asleep on a bed down at the pool and then suddenly I was awake.
The air was musky, and full of bugs. The sun had long slipped behind the hill. The pool was navy-black.
Up on the terrace I knew something was wrong. They were all back. Andrew and Tina were standing looking awkward and Alice was sitting between them on a chair, her face pale, her lips almost bloodless. Her dress was damp in places where her swimsuit underneath was wet.
‘Oh God, are you all right?’ I said, the moment I saw her face. ‘Are you ill?’
I stepped forwards but Andrew put out his arm to stop me. ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘We’ve got it under control.’
‘What?’
Andrew said: ‘It’s nothing. She’s had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’ He spoke slowly, his voice calm. Someone was being patronised – and I thought it was me, but then wondered if it might be Alice. There was a tension in the air between him and Tina, as if they were scared of her, or worried about breaking her. Each word, each action, was being carefully chosen. Andrew turned and put his hand on Alice’s shoulder. ‘Take a few deep breaths,’ he said. ‘There. Come on. It’s important that you’re calm.’
‘I know.’ She patted Andrew’s hand and kept it there.
‘Poor Alice,’ Tina said. She was standing by the kitchen door. The light was on behind her and mosquitoes buzzed above her head. ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she said. ‘I think we could all do with some.’
As she turned, Alice shifted her head a fraction and kissed Andrew’s hand. Tina didn’t see. But I did, and I didn’t like it. I wanted to punch Andrew. Instead, I managed to say, ‘Can you tell me what’s happened?’
Andrew moved his hand away and took a step back. ‘Alice saw somebody,’ he said. ‘Someone who looked like Jasmine.’
‘We both did,’ Alice said, twisting her head up at him. ‘Didn’t we? This time we both saw her.’
‘Yes.’
Alice tipped back in her chair, tightly gripping the edge of the table. ‘In the little supermarket. It was packed. And there was this guy behaving oddly – wasn’t he?’
Andrew nodded.
‘He kept going up and down the aisles and then going out of the shop and coming in. I was just curious. I left Andrew in the queue and went outside to see what he was doing, and there was this car there – what was it?’
‘A Peugeot 205, pale blue. A hatchback, two-door.’
‘It was pulled up outside, waiting for the man, with its engine running. He was running out of the shop and throwing the food he’d stolen through the window. And there was a girl in the driver’s seat. I saw her. She . . . she was just there.’
She tipped her chair forwards again.
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘I went up to the car and I tried to talk to her through the window. I was calm, wasn’t I? Andrew? I was calm, wouldn’t you say? I was calm.’
Andrew nodded.
‘I asked her what her name was, but she wouldn’t answer. She put her hand on the car horn and the man came charging out, barged me out of the way, and then they just took off.’
‘They probably thought you were about to call the police,’ I said.
‘Because I knew who she was.’
‘Because of the shoplifting.’
‘No, Paul. Not because of that.’
She looked at me, her eyes troubled. I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps she had seen Jasmine. Perhaps she hadn’t. But no one could argue with how much she wanted to find her. I felt an intense tug of tenderness, and with it
an overwhelming desire to unbutton her damp dress, peel off the wet swimming costume underneath and take her to bed.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Nothing. Did you get the number plate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you should ring the police.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Gavras doesn’t always take Alice’s sightings seriously,’ Andrew said.
‘But he could find out who the car belongs to.’
He shook his head. ‘Pointless. It’s bound to be stolen, or unregistered. They looked like they lived rough, to be honest. You know, druggy, hippy types.’
‘Hippy types?’ I turned to Alice. ‘Didn’t you tell me there was a big hippy commune on the island? Didn’t you say you thought Jasmine might be there?’
‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Well, maybe we should go and look.’
‘It’s quite a way.’
‘I know, but if there is a chance . . .?’
Of course the woman wasn’t Jasmine, but this was what I needed, a day alone with her. I wanted to get her away from Andrew. We could bond. I could talk to her about Louis, help her do what was right, make her fucking mine. ‘Why don’t we go tomorrow, you and me, and ask around?’
Alice pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘Show me the photograph again, Andrew.’
‘You got a photograph?’ I said. ‘Can I see it?’
Andrew fiddled with his phone, and passed it to me. I sat down at the table to study it. The picture was poor quality. It was shot through the windscreen so the face was blurred, but I knew immediately it wasn’t Jasmine. She looked too old for one thing. This woman was in her late twenties with a long oval face, and two curtains of mousy blonde hair; a black stud in the side of her nose and another in her chin, below her lip. Thin arms stretched to hold the steering wheel, a dark cavernous gap between her armpit and her vest top. I stretched my fingers across the screen to zoom in on her face. There was a look about her – not of the photofit older Jasmine, but of the thirteen-year-old wearing the flowery bandana in the family snap, the same defiance, the same twist of vulnerability. It must have been that that Alice had recognised.
‘See?’ Alice said. ‘See?’
‘Yes. I see,’ I said. ‘This is useful. We can take it with us tomorrow.’
I flicked my finger across the iPhone’s screen. The next photo was also of the girl, but of the back of her head; the next a close-up of the car’s wing, at an angle; the next, the rear view of the car as it disappeared up the road. I flipped backwards, the way I had just come: car’s wing, back of head, blurred girl. I did a further flick with my finger. The previous photograph was not of the girl at the supermarket, or the car. The previous photograph was of me.
I looked more closely. It had been taken earlier that day on the beach. I was standing on shingle, tall trees visible just to the right, the sea in front, and in front of me the others were getting the boats back into the water. But my eyes were on Daisy, at the bright pink triangle of her bikini bottoms, as she bent over.
Lord, I’d been caught.
‘Thanks,’ Andrew said suddenly, at my shoulder. ‘I’ll have that back, if that’s all right.’
And luckily, before Alice could see, he took the phone out of my hands.
It was a tense supper. Alice and Tina were quiet, Andrew hectoring, and the children, fractious. Phoebe, furious at not going to the club, picked a fight with Louis about his table manners. Archie made a mildly negative comment about the spaghetti bolognese and Andrew suddenly exploded with anger, leaping to his feet and violently yanking his son out of his chair. ‘Go to your room and stay there,’ he hissed.
‘Calm down,’ Tina said carefully.
‘He’s got to learn.’
‘Now is not the time.’
‘I was trying to help.’
I was grateful when it was time to clear away and made a big point of doing it myself. ‘Everybody stay where they are. My turn.’
‘You’re kind. Thank you,’ Alice said. ‘I don’t think I have the energy.’
At the kitchen sink, I could hear snippets of conversation: chopped phrases. They were still at it. Alice’s voice now, almost tearful: ‘It’s different this time, Tina.’
‘I know. Be careful . . . I’m thinking about your own health.’
Tina brought some more glasses in.
‘She’s done this before, I gather,’ I said.
‘Yes. Poor Alice. It’s hard to know how to deal with it. And each time, of course, she might be right, so . . .’
She grabbed a tea towel, but I took it off her. ‘Leave the drying-up,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it.’
When I came out, Alice was nowhere to be seen. The teenagers were playing cards on my fag seat. Only Tina and Andrew were still at the table, nursing their wine glasses, talking quietly. They stopped when they saw me. In the distance the dog barked.
‘Everything all right?’ I said.
‘Yup. Humid tonight, though, isn’t it?’ Andrew replied.
‘And that bloody dog.’ He stood up, teeth clenched. ‘I CAN’T BEAR IT.’
‘Do you know where Alice is?’ I asked Tina.
‘I think she’s gone to bed.’
She was lying face down, still in her clothes, tearful, and compliant. I’d played the evening well, it turned out – washing up, keeping out of arguments. Sometimes, it transpires, a low profile is all you need. I pulled her round to face me, kissed the salt from her face. She didn’t demur as I wrinkled her dress over her head, rolled her Speedo down across her breasts, laid my mouth along the line of her tan.
Her arms were above her head, her face turned into the pillow. ‘Tina thinks I’m mistaken, I know she does. Maybe we shouldn’t go to Epitara. Maybe it’s just foolish.’
I lifted my mouth. ‘It’s worth investigating,’ I said. ‘And you promised Yvonne that you’d do everything in your power to find her. Just imagine if the woman did turn out to be Jasmine – how amazing that would be.’
She moved her hands to my head, cupping it, drawing me up so she could look with a peculiar intensity into my eyes. ‘Andrew says he’ll come with me. Why are you so keen?’
‘If it is Jasmine I want to be there when you find her.’
She half smiled. ‘Why?’
‘Because I care about you more than I understand.’
She looked at me for a long moment and then said, ‘I wish you were one thing or the other.’
‘None of us are that,’ I said. I brought my mouth up to stop her from talking and miraculously it worked.
I woke again in the early hours. The dog again, pitiful, but barking over and over: an unbearable sound, hacking the night into pieces. Mosquito bites, like a crawling under my skin. I thought I had heard a noise; Alice moving about the room, but I checked and she was asleep next to me, a bundle of heat, and hair.
Chapter Thirteen
I woke before Alice, had a quick shower, trying not to wake her, and dressed in long trousers and button-down shirt: the kind of clothes I felt were appropriate for driving to a village on the other side of the island to confront a shoplifting hippy.
Alice slept on, her hair damp across the pillow, her mouth slightly open.
Outside, in the heat, the construction workers were back with their churning and drilling. Various teenagers had stirred. Phoebe was sitting on the top step of the path, wearing a cotton sarong and chewing on a hunk of bread. At her feet, ants were collecting, slowly tugging at crumbs. In the kitchen, Frank was flapping hysterically at a large orange insect with a tea towel, while Louis was holding open the fridge door and staring in. He was a better colour today, though he might have been spottier. Hard to tell. I watched him take out a jar of peanut butter and unscrew the lid; he was about to dip in his finger when he saw me, and turned away, flushing red, to find a spoon. He was just a boy when it came down to it. Awkward and troubled, raging with embarrassment. Alice’s son. Not a rapist.
When I came out on to the terrace with a cup of coffee, Alice was standing by her bedroom door, talking to Andrew. She was dressed now, in a summer dress, high espadrilles and a floppy straw hat; he was barefoot, in a short towelling dressing gown. I heard her say, ‘No, he’s adamant.’ Her face changed when she saw me. ‘Here he is now. You want to come, don’t you, Paul? Andrew is offering, but I was just telling him he wasn’t needed.’
I put the coffee cup down on the table with a decisive clink. ‘I’m your man,’ I said.
Andrew walked towards me, shoulders back, chest braced. His chin was bristly this morning, but patchily, like an old man’s. ‘I’m not happy about her doing all the driving,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
Alice had turned away to talk to Phoebe. ‘She’s not a child,’ I said.
His mouth came close; his breath was stale and smelt faintly of chicory: ‘She’s in a delicate state.’
Behind my back, my fists clenched.
‘I tell you what,’ I said, ‘give me the paperwork and I’ll ring the hire company. I’m sure they’ll add me to the insurance.’
A pause in the churning of machinery; the air suddenly sweet.
Alice looked up. ‘How clever,’ she said.
Andrew looked like he was going to be sick.
‘Panic over,’ I said agreeably.
A delay, then, for Andrew to find the right phone numbers, and for me to wander out to the front to where I had a signal in order to deliver my driving licence number and payment details to an operative I pretended to call, but didn’t.
It was a two-hour drive on poor roads. We passed through a few scattered villages, where old men played dice under trees, but then began to climb steadily uphill, the scenery becoming barer, less cultivated, with bare rocky outcrops, sudden lurches of green below. We played the compilation tape – Pulp and Oasis and The Beautiful South – singing along sporadically. I pressed the button to roll down the windows.
‘Andrew’s obsessed with keeping them closed for the air-con,’ she said, turning her face to catch the hot breeze. Her hair fanned away from her face. ‘But this is nice.’
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