by Ann Cleeves
I’d started to doze when Nell and Dan came out. Dan pulled the door tight behind him. Neither of them looked towards me. I waited until they’d reached the end of the road before getting out of the car. I was stiff and sleepy. It seemed an effort to go after them.
The town was busy. There were holidaymakers and daytime shoppers – workers on their lunch hour, elderly couples, women with babies. Outside the pubs lads with bare chests sat on the pavement and drank too much lager from plastic glasses. And everywhere kids, shirts out, ties off, queuing outside the bakeries and chip shops. My mind wandered. I was still half asleep. Why didn’t Nell spend more time at school? Perhaps once the exams were finished the sixth-formers weren’t expected back. What were her plans? At the same age, the summer after A-levels, Kay Mariner had become pregnant with Thomas. But Nell was too canny for that. I tried to focus on the couple as they made their way through the crowd. Now I’d started on this, I didn’t want to lose them. They walked slowly, hand in hand, as if they were killing time. I just followed. I had no plan of action. I was killing time too. Perhaps jealousy had something to do with it. They were so obviously happy that I took a perverse pleasure in watching them. It was like scratching a midgy bite or sticking your tongue in a loose filling.
They stopped to buy a Big Issue from a guy outside Woolworths. I’d noticed him there before. He was one of the cheerful ones who put their heart and soul into selling, but I’ve always felt awkward around the Issue sellers since that time in Blyth and I looked away. When I turned back Nell had seen me and was waving. They seemed friendly and unsuspecting and I felt a bit of a rat for snooping round Absalom House and then following them here.
‘We meet again,’ I said.
‘We were just going for something to eat,’ Dan said. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me around. At least he didn’t ask what I was doing in Whitley.
‘Lizzie’ll come, won’t you, Lizzie?’
Nell put her arm through mine. It was a long time since I’d had such intimate physical contact, but I didn’t like it. It reminded me of the time I was arrested as a kid and the policewoman put her arm around my shoulder, then pushed my head to get me into the cop car. But I let Nell pull me along.
They took me down an alley through a hole in a rank of shops towards the sea. I’d never been down there before. There were high walls on either side, so we were in shadow, and the path was so narrow that Nell and I scarcely had room to walk side by side. Beyond one wall there was a garden. I could see the tops of apple trees. Despite the crush, Nell didn’t let go of my arm. She was wearing cropped black trousers and a thin batik top in purples and pinks; the sleeves were rolled back to her shoulders, which were very brown. Her skin was warm and she smelled of sandal-wood. I think she and Dan continued talking to each other, but I don’t remember what was said. I was feeling uncomfortable, trapped and panicky, and I had to concentrate on not letting it show.
At last the alley opened out into a cobbled courtyard, just big enough for two tables and chairs. Through an open door I could see a small café where a couple of ageing hippies were drinking coffee from thick yellow mugs. There was a smell of garlic, fresh coriander and joss sticks.
‘We’ll sit outside, shall we?’ Nell said in that tone which made me think again that she was used to getting her own way without question. I’d have argued to go in, just to put up a bit of a fight, but the room looked even more cramped and shadowy than the alley and I couldn’t face it. ‘What’ll you have, Lizzie? The chickpea and olive pâté is very good. And the salads are terrific.’
I said the pâté would be fine. I was opening my bag to find my purse but she’d already fished out a £10 note from her trouser pocket. ‘That’s all right. Our treat.’ And I wondered what she wanted from me. The night before she’d been sad and dreamy. Today there was a determined cheerfulness which reminded me of the lad on the street pushing the Issue. ‘Dan’ll get it, won’t you, Dan?’
He got up without a word and went inside. There were terracotta pots in the courtyard. One of them contained a buddleia with huge pointed flowers which pulled the stems down into arches. There were other plants I didn’t recognize; all had big, highly coloured blooms. The buddleia held three butterflies. They hovered over the purple flowers so close to the blossom that they seemed stuck to it. They could have flown away but they didn’t.
‘Who asked you to trace Thomas?’ Nell asked. I wasn’t expecting the question and had to think about the story I’d given her before. She looked at me with her intense trademark stare. Was this why she’d brought me here? Why was it so important now?
‘His family.’
‘Ronnie Laing, you mean?’
I paused. I couldn’t see the point in lying. ‘No. His real father was trying to trace him.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Poor Thomas. He’d have been so pleased. Did he know?’
I shook my head.
‘Did you ever meet Ronnie?’ I asked.
She paused. I imagined that she was trying to compose a plausible story, but I had no reason to believe that. Perhaps she was just making an effort to remember. ‘Once,’ she said. ‘Before Thomas left home.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘He was very pleasant. I wondered what Thomas was making all the fuss about.’ She paused again before adding, ‘But then appearances can be very deceptive, can’t they?’
Dan returned with the food. He passed a few coins of change back to Nell. ‘It wasn’t Ronnie who asked Lizzie to find Thomas,’ she said. It seemed a significant point for them both. I felt I should follow it up, but she went on to change the subject immediately, talking about her friends and their choice of universities.
‘What are your plans?’ I asked.
‘Art School,’ she said. ‘Glasgow or London.’
‘Does that depend on your results?’
‘No.’ She was matter of fact, not boasting. ‘They’ve seen my portfolio. They both want me. I just haven’t quite decided yet which I prefer.’
‘What about you, Dan? Will you stick with Ellen and Acting Out?’
‘Dan’s ready for a change too,’ she said, before he had a chance to answer.
The food was good. It should have been pleasant sitting with the sun on my neck, garden birds calling behind the wall. I couldn’t explain my unease.
‘Are the girls still in Absalom House?’ The question came out more abruptly than I’d intended and Dan seemed startled.
‘Which girls?’
‘The ones I met when I first visited there. Eastern European. They had the room next to Thomas.’
‘No,’ he said reluctantly. ‘They left last night.’
‘Where did they go?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Ellen found a family to take them. She thought it would be better. Safer. You know Ellen. An old mother hen.’
‘What can be unsafe about Absalom House?’
He frowned. ‘Nothing. But it’s mostly lads there. And Ellen thought they needed more support than we could give.’
‘Did she find a local family to take them?’
‘I don’t know. It was my day off yesterday and she wasn’t in this morning. I haven’t had a chance to catch up. Why are you interested?’
‘Social worker’s nosiness. Humour me. How long had they been there?’
‘I’m not sure. A couple of months.’
‘Long enough to meet Thomas?’
‘Yeah, they came just before he left. But you can’t imagine they had anything to do with his death. They were quiet. Amazingly shy. The other residents called them the ghosts, because of the white scarves they wore on their heads and because they only seemed to come out at night.’
I finished my meal and then I left. I half expected Nell to stop me, but she just waved me away. They lingered there. They seemed to have nothing better to do. I looked back once and saw them caught in their sun trap, bright and gaudy in the midday light as the overblown flowers.
I planned to go back to Sea V
iew then. Suddenly the idea of Jess fussing over me didn’t seem quite so tiresome. We’d drink tea in the shade of the kitchen with the door open to let in the breeze from the sea, and if Ray came to join us I wouldn’t even mind that. There’d be something restful about his slow movement and his silences. But as I emerged from the alley into the noise of Whitley Bay’s main shopping street, my attention was caught by a familiar figure, so out of place here that it was shocking. Like you’d bumped into your headmistress at a rave.
There was no doubt that it was Stuart Howdon moving briskly down the pavement on the other side of the street, past the banks and the building societies. I recognized the bobbing of the walk, the way he stopped occasionally to catch his breath. He was wearing a grey suit and a striped tie. Even in genteel Morpeth it would have seemed over-formal in this weather. Here, where skimpily clad holidaymakers and loud rock music spilled out of the pubs onto the wide pavements, he looked absurd. I supposed that there must be a meeting with a client, perhaps a business lunch, but even at the first glimpse I sensed something furtive about his movements. That was what I wanted to see. I disliked him and wanted to think the worst of him.
He stopped to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around him to get his bearings, then set off up the street which led to the metro station. He hadn’t seen me; he was, I thought, too preoccupied to notice. There was the rattle of a train and through the arch in the station building I saw it pull up to a stop. It was one of the brightly painted ones, advertising a chain of garden centres. Howdon put on a spurt of speed towards the ticket machines though he must have realized he didn’t have a hope of catching it. The doors opened and a horde of people pushed out. There was a school party, a group of five- and six-year-olds in bright red polo shirts shepherded by teachers and parents. It took them a long time to leave and perhaps Howdon could have caught the train if he’d had the right change for the machine, but now he hung back, content to watch. I followed his eyes and saw, framed by the metro doors, Ronnie Laing.
I was astounded. He must be here to see Howdon, but what could the two men have in common? I had found it hard to believe that Ronnie had been a friend of Philip’s. This connection made even less sense.
Ronnie looked cool and dapper waiting for the sea of red, chattering children to allow him through. I stood for a moment, trying to gauge my reaction to him. No excitement. No desire to touch him. That infatuation had been part of the illness, as I’d suspected. There was something disappointing in the coolness of my response. Did it mean that if I continued with the treatment I’d never be excited by a man again? I was still brooding about that when I realized how exposed I was, and turned quickly and walked away down a street which faced directly onto the station. On the corner was an old-fashioned launderette with huge cream machines, and posters for washing powder which looked as if they’d been there for forty years. There was a long window which gave a clear view of the station façade. An elderly woman, so shrivelled she was as small as a monkey, must have been in charge of the place. She was asleep on a chair behind a Formica counter. She breathed gently and regularly, like a baby sleeping. When I went in her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t wake. No one else was there.
Howdon had been looking out for Ronnie Laing. A meeting had been arranged. I could see that at once. They shook hands. It wasn’t like friends meeting. They kept a distance between them. I couldn’t hear anything that was said and it’s possible, I suppose, that I’d got the body language all wrong, but I don’t think so. My impression was that Howdon wanted something from Ronnie. He was the supplicant and Ronnie was listening, not liking what he heard, and starting to become agitated.
The conversation lasted no more than ten minutes. They walked a little way towards me and sat on a wooden bench under some horse chestnut trees. Another train came in and my view was obscured for a moment by the passengers who sauntered out towards the town centre. When the crowd cleared they were still there. I don’t think anything had passed between them. Howdon’s briefcase was still at his feet. Ronnie was calmer now, almost impassive. His expression suggested that he was open to persuasion but that the argument had better be good. As I say, I could have been reading the encounter all wrong, but that was how it seemed at the time. Howdon was squirming, waving his hands, flexing his stubby, sausage-shaped fingers. Then he bent to open his briefcase. He took out a file which he handed to Ronnie. Ronnie read for a moment, handed the papers back and slowly nodded his head. Howdon didn’t respond immediately, then he seemed so relieved that I thought he was going to pull Ronnie towards him in a bear hug, like two Soviet politicians cementing a deal, but he only relaxed his face into a smile.
Ronnie stood up first. There was the sound of a train in the distance and he walked briskly to make sure of catching it. He didn’t break into a run, but it seemed as if he wanted to escape. Howdon shouted something after him. It could have been Good luck or Thank you. I couldn’t make it out. Ronnie frowned slightly, as if he thought Howdon was making a show of himself. The train pulled into the station and he walked on without looking back, without acknowledging the solicitor’s presence.
Howdon only got up then. He straightened his trousers and wiped imaginary specks of dirt from his suit. When he started back down the road towards the town, I left the launderette and followed. The old woman muttered something in her sleep as I opened the door.
He headed for the main street, where I’d first seen him. He was in less of a hurry now and stopped to take off his jacket. He held it over his shoulder by the collar. Very jaunty. He slowed down at the entrance to the alley where Nell and Dan had taken me, and I wondered briefly if the two events were connected, if he intended to meet up with them too. Instead he went into a florist’s and came out with a big bunch of roses. I imagined them as a peace offering for his wife. She was a woman who would need constant placating. His jacket was back on. It was beyond him to carry it and the briefcase and the flowers. He walked to a side street, where he’d parked his car. He put the roses carefully on the back seat and drove away. He had no suspicion that I’d been watching him. That gave me a feeling of power, but it was unsettling too. It was as if I were invisible, as if I didn’t exist.
Chapter Thirty-two
It’s dark and I long for the light more than I long to be out of the cell-like room. In the light I’d feel more in control of the situation. If I could see Nicky’s face, I’d judge his thoughts, his intentions.
As it is, I’m helpless. There is nothing I can do. He can sense every movement. I open my mouth to speak, but before the words come out, he whispers, ‘Shut up.’
The footsteps return. Someone is opening every door on the corridor and calling to the kids in turn, ‘Is Lizzie Bartholomew there?’
I recognize the voice. It’s Maggie, one of my colleagues. She has cropped hair and big glasses. She sounds slightly worried, but there’s no panic in her voice. This is reassuring. I can almost believe it’s all a big mistake, a practical joke which will soon be over. Her footsteps come closer.
Nicky pulls me back into a sitting position. The knife is still against my left breast. His breath comes in small shallow pants.
The footsteps stop outside his door. I imagine Maggie’s hand reaching for the knob.
‘Don’t come in.’ After the sinister whispers I hear his words as a defiant shout.
‘Nicky.’ Now Maggie is panicking, but she tries not to let on. ‘Have you got Miss Bartholomew in there?’
‘If you come in, I’ll kill her.’
We both know it’s true. He’s killed once. He’s looking for an excuse to kill again.
He moves the knife suddenly. I feel it like a bee sting. A thin trickle of blood runs down my breast and dries, almost immediately. I begin to sob.
The next time I saw the main players of the day in Whitley – Nell and Dan, Ronnie and Howdon – they were all together in the same place, a coincidence which only added to my sense of the surreal and fuelled my fantasies. I admit now that I
was losing my grip on reality. At night my theories to explain the deaths of the two boys grew wilder and more paranoid. I saw a spider’s web of cause and effect, individuals all monsters and all interrelated. In the morning I’d wake exhausted and my dreams seemed ridiculous. The flashbacks were vivid and real.
I decided at the last minute to go to Wintrylaw, to the Countryside Consortium fund-raiser I’d seen advertised in the arts centre where Dan worked. There wasn’t any specific reason for the trip, though it did occur to me that Doreen the volunteer might be there and she might be persuaded to talk. At that time there was no planning to anything I did. I thought vaguely that Howdon and Ronnie Laing would be around, and hoped I might find out more about what they’d been plotting in Whitley Bay. I hadn’t worked out how I might get that information. I’d wing it as I went along. There was the possibility of seeing Dickon again too. I had an ambition to tell him jokes and make him laugh.
It was still only June, but I had a breathless feeling that summer was coming to an end. There had been occasional cool days but generally the weather that year had been unusually still and warm. Now I was looking forward to it breaking. The continual sun took me back to Morocco and Philip. I had the idea that a cold spell would kill off the pain and help me to think more clearly. That evening was still humid and sticky. Everyone was irritable. In Sea View Jess snapped at the bad boys and even at Ray. She seemed glad when I said I was going out; it would mean one less body under her feet.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from the event, but I approached the house with anticipation, a childish excitement even. From that first time, when I’d looked down onto the great chimneys, Wintrylaw had been a special place for me. It wasn’t only that Philip had lived there. It represented glamour, something I’d never had, and hadn’t even realized I wanted. The sort of thing I’d usually sneer at. Tonight I wanted it more than ever and hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed.