She arrived ten minutes early for her appointment. While she was waiting by the entrance, a silver-haired man wearing a navy blazer and neatly pressed cream slacks came out of the building. Though his face was deeply lined, Marion thought him handsome and intelligent looking, like someone who might read the news on TV.
The man had a small dog with him. It trotted over to Marion and then looked up at her with its head cocked on one side, as if expecting a treat. She wondered if she should pat its head. She was rather nervous of animals—Mother thought dogs were dangerous and filthy things, and, apart from poor Bunty, Marion had had little contact with them, but there was a bright, friendly look in the eyes of this dog that appealed to her.
“I’m sorry. He’s very sociable, you see. He always likes to say hello to people.” The man spoke in a nice middle-class voice, no smear of the muddy Northport accent. Though he was smiling at her, Marion felt anxious that he might be wondering what she was doing waiting outside the entrance. Should she offer some explanation as to why she was there?
He wore a gold band on his wedding finger, but then of course at his stage in life it was possible he might be widowed. She suspected that Ocean Vista Court was the sort of place where well-to-do “senior” persons moved following the death of a spouse.
“It must be pleasant to have him for company,” she said, cringing with shame as the dog nuzzled her laddered American Tan ankle. Those shoes with the mismatched laces were like two oddball relations, and it embarrassed her to be seen out in public wearing them.
“Well, yes, he is good company, but I only wish he could laugh at my jokes,” said the man.
Perhaps this meant he was lonely. His wife must be dead or at least someone with no sense of humor.
“Come along, Treacle,” he said to the dog. Making a clucking sound with his tongue, he pulled on the dog’s lead and the two of them went off along the path that ran by the beach.
Her heart bounced as Simon’s little blue car turned into the car park. He parked precisely between the white lines of an empty space, then, looking in the mirror, smoothed his hair into glossy waves. It was longer on top than before but still short at the back. Marion was briefly thrilled to think that he was tidying it in anticipation of seeing her; then she reminded herself he would probably do the same before meeting any client, male or female.
He swung his slim, athletic body out of the car and then reached in to grab a red folder. His blue suit was a little darker than the car’s paintwork, and it went well with a primrose yellow tie that caught the sunlight like a knight’s sword. When he saw her, a broad smile filled his tanned face. Marion realized she was trembling, as though she were going on a date with a boy she had been obsessing over for months. They went into the building together, and Simon pressed the button for the lift. As they waited he asked her how she had been and even commented on how nice her hair looked.
As soon as Simon unlocked the front door she felt a warm, familiar feeling. Looking around the flat, first into Aunt Agnes’s bedroom with its fitted wardrobes and huge double-glazed windows that faced the sea, and then the small room that had been especially reserved for her when she was a child, she was convinced she could feel her aunt’s presence, smell her favorite rose-scented bath oil in the bathroom and hear her singing in the kitchen.
“You probably think I say this to all my clients, Marion, but I get this feeling that you really belong here, don’t you agree?” said Simon.
“Yes—you have no idea how true that is.” There was a choke in her voice that he must have noticed.
“If the price is an issue, the seller might have a bit more room. The previous owner, a senior gentleman, passed away, and the family are keen to sell.” Then he added quickly, “I hope that doesn’t sound insensitive? But these flats are popular with older people and—well of course, the inevitable happens.”
“Oh—it doesn’t bother me at all—people have to die somewhere.”
Simon frowned.
“Well, I don’t know the details, but I believe he died in a hospice rather than the property itself.”
“Oh, of course,” she added, realizing she had embarrassed him by suggesting that the old person had actually died there in the flat, as though this fact might have permanently tainted it in some way.
“So you might be interested, then? In putting in an offer?”
Cold air rushed into her lungs as though she were about to jump into a river. Why couldn’t she buy the flat? Was it really so ridiculous? Might it not be possible to alter her life after all these years of just drifting along? After all, she had been left money and if she didn’t spend it, then who else would?
She had once considered leaving it to Lydia, but the thought of her receiving a phone call or letter and thinking wistfully, “How sad, that lonely old soul dying with no one to leave her money to but me, and I haven’t spoken a word to her in years,” rather angered Marion. I’d rather give the lot to charity, she thought with grim satisfaction. Or leave it to someone who is nice to me, like Simon.
“An offer, well, I suppose so—perhaps—I mean, why not? Of course, I’ll need some time to think it over.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
This time his sentence did not bounce upwards at the end; instead it was weighted down by disappointment, as if he knew she was lying to him but was too polite to say anything.
“No, Simon, I really mean it. I’m going to buy this flat. I want to more than anything.”
“Great, that’s great, Marion.” His lovely mouth, with the slightly feminine Cupid’s bow, curled into a smile. “Do you have a solicitor in mind?”
“A solicitor?”
Then her flesh began to prickle with anxiety. There would be so many complicated things to deal with, and she couldn’t ask John for help. She heard her mother’s voice: You will never manage this by yourself, Marion. You will probably end up getting conned out of every penny you possess, just like that fool Jean Page. Shut up, Mother, she told the voice sternly. Not everyone is a thief or a con man. I will manage. People will help me, good decent people like Simon.
“Of course, if you don’t, I can recommend someone. And you’ll need to get the finances in place,” said Simon. “Perhaps if you book an appointment with someone at your bank? Or I could give you the number of a mortgage broker. How about I call you in a couple of days, Marion? And if there is anything I can do, please give me a ring.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think I left the balcony doors open,” said Simon as they were about to leave.
“Don’t worry, I’ll close them,” said Marion, keen to be helpful.
She dashed into the living room as a chilly breeze was blowing in through the open doors. As she was pulling them shut, Marion looked down to the street below and remembered Bunty lying there, her white fur spread out like an old rug someone had discarded on the pavement. Suddenly the warm sea she had been floating in turned ice-cold. She heard her aunt’s voice in her head: You did it, Marion. You are bad through and through just like your brother.
And then it seemed impossible to even imagine that she could live somewhere like this, somewhere clean and bright. She would only bring the rottenness with her. After what she had done, didn’t she belong in Grange Road? Her father had murdered Sally. Her mother had killed their baby uncle. She had killed Violetta and let the others starve to death.
She suddenly exclaimed out loud: “No I don’t deserve this. I am an evil woman.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Simon was standing right behind her in the living room. She turned to face him.
“I have done bad things,” she said plainly. “When I was a child I killed my aunt’s dog; I threw the poor thing over this balcony. I was jealous because I didn’t want her to love anything but me. And I once killed another girl’s pet because she was unkind to me.”
A look of confusion clouded Simon’s face.
“I threw a rock at one of my schoolmates while she was cycling home. I
t cracked her skull. And I have done much, much worse things—I have killed someone.”
She stopped and waited for Simon’s reaction, not really knowing if she had said those things out loud or just in her own head. For a while he just stared at her, and then he laughed politely as if someone had told a rather inappropriate joke. Of course he didn’t believe a word of it. Marion was an ordinary, rather dull middle-aged woman. No one would think her interesting enough to be capable of evil.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She gasped, putting her hands to her face. Her skin felt cold and numb.
“Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”
“I do feel rather dizzy, it’s so warm in here—I have low blood pressure. Sometimes it causes me to faint.”
Marion had no idea what the symptoms of low blood pressure were and whether it might involve fainting or not, but she hoped Simon wouldn’t either. He sat her down in the kitchen and, after running the tap for a long time to make sure it was cold and fresh, gave her a glass of water.
Simon was so kind, he insisted on driving her all the way home to Grange Road. She told him that she lived at a house several doors down from her own. What would the neighbors think if they saw her getting out of a car driven by a handsome young man?
MONEY
Eileen, the special accounts manager, took Marion into a private office just off the main part of the bank. Everything in the room was newly furnished with the reassuring brown and orange colors of the bank’s logo. The door of the room closed with a gentle click, leaving the two women alone in an atmosphere that was businesslike yet at the same time warm and soft.
All the business of dealing with banks and estate agents made Marion feel as though she were acting out some charade, involving herself in serious, grown-up affairs when she had no right to do so, and it was only a matter of time before she was found out and punished for wasting everyone’s time. Yet if she held her nerve, then wasn’t it possible the game might carry on, that she might actually fool people into letting her start a new life in her aunt’s flat?
Eileen offered Marion a seat and then sat down behind her desk. She must have been about the same age as Marion, little lines surrounded her eyes and neck, but her hair was beautifully colored, a sort of burnished gold. She wore a suit and blouse that matched the decor in the room. Even though her attitude was professional, there was something kind and caring about her that Marion liked. She imagined how nice it would be to have her as a friend.
The two of them would visit cafés together and drink frothy cappuccinos, then afterwards look around the shops. They would call each other on the phone now and then, not for any particular reason, just to chat about life in general, recounting little stories about things that happened to them, the sort of thing that no one else would find funny but would leave the two friends in fits of laughter. If Eileen found a lump she was worried about, Marion would go with her to the hospital to get it checked out, and not mind a jot if she had to sit in the waiting room for hours and hours, because that was what close friends were for.
No, Marion, stop being silly, she said to herself, suddenly realizing how ridiculous it was to imagine that a stranger was her best friend. She had already spent too much of her life daydreaming. If it didn’t stop now, then she would never do anything for real.
“Normally my brother John deals with these things. I mean, just thinking about money and all that gives me a headache,” Marion explained. “But you see, he was ill recently, and I thought I ought to start taking more responsibility for my finances, you know, in case something happens. I mean, we never know what the future might hold, do we?”
Eileen smiled blandly as though as an employee of the bank, it was not within her role to speculate on the future, one way or another.
“Yes, of course. Won’t take a minute to get your details up.”
As Eileen tapped on her computer keyboard Marion noticed pictures of her family on the desk. It appeared that she had two grown-up children, a boy and a girl, in addition to a husband with a receding hairline and a round, kindly face. There was also a picture of the girl holding a newborn baby. This woman had achieved so much in addition to her career at the bank. How were such things possible, wondered Marion, how in roughly the same number of years had she managed to achieve next to nothing at all? In fact, instead of creating life, she had destroyed it.
“Well, Ms. Zetland, it seems you have a very considerable investment account with us that provides you with a healthy monthly allowance in addition to the sizable amount in your current account.”
She wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper as if it would be indecent to speak them out loud.
Marion looked at the numbers written on the paper. Instead of scaring her, what she saw made her feel nourished, like drinking something warm and sweet on a cold day. She hadn’t until now realized that her inheritance was so generous.
“So if, for example, I wanted to buy a flat for around two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, that would be possible?”
“Certainly. In fact, you wouldn’t even have to get a mortgage. There’s more than enough in your current account.”
“And would there be enough left over to live on, I mean for one person to pay bills and buy food?”
“Oh yes, you see, your investments are providing you with an income that would be adequate to provide most people with a decent lifestyle.”
Marion liked that phrase: a decent lifestyle. She imagined herself staying in plush hotels and having doors held open for her by men who called her “Madame” in foreign accents.
“And is it all my money, I mean, my brother—he couldn’t take it away from me or tell me what to do with it, could he?”
Eileen looked a little shocked.
“Absolutely, all of this money is in your name.”
• • •
MR. WEINBERG’S FRONT garden was overgrown with tall purple weeds that swayed from side to side in the breeze like woozy old maids. Empty tin cans overflowed from the recycling box next to the front door. Only a few tatters of lace curtain hung at the windows, but the glass was so filthy, it was impossible to see inside. Marion peeked through the curtains of Mother’s bedroom window. The police car was still parked outside the house. It was now half an hour since she had first seen it.
She imagined Mr. Weinberg coughing out his story to the police with thick lumps of phlegm. He had seen a girl arrive late in the evening. Perhaps he had heard sounds in the night while he was walking his dog. And then of course the burning, he knew that smell, the smell of burning bodies. Could a smell be considered as evidence of a crime? Would the police believe him? He was very old, they might suspect he was just losing his mind, but they would have an obligation to investigate all the same.
It didn’t matter how seriously they took his accusations, Marion felt sure that the minute the police spoke to her, she would fall to pieces and confess everything. Even if she succeeded in keeping her mouth shut, her body would betray her. The police were trained to detect all sorts of signs. They would see guilt in her shifting eyes and shaking hands.
How long before they knocked on the door? Of course, she should have known all along this would happen. An awful sick feeling twisted her stomach. Perhaps it was just better to accept what was coming. She deserved to be punished, and so did John. She would admit everything and pay for her crimes. And she would make sure that John paid too. That was the right thing to do, to accept her fate. Wouldn’t she feel better once everyone knew the truth?
When the doorbell rang, she got up from her bed, taking a last look at her room in case she never saw it again, and then went downstairs. Two tall dark figures loomed behind the glass. She opened the door. A man and a woman in uniform stood on the step; both of them were so well-groomed and attractive, they looked more like actors from a television crime drama than real-life police. She told herself that she must be polite and cooperate with them entirely.
She waited for them to
do something, to grab her and put her in handcuffs, or even push past her to search the cellar for evidence, but instead they just stood there, with sympathetic smiles on their young unblemished faces.
“Would you like to come inside?” suggested Marion.
“That’s not necessary,” said the female police officer. “We just wanted to inquire if you had seen the man who lives opposite lately.”
“Mr. Weinberg?”
“Yes,” said the male officer. “We received a call from his son in Cape Town. He hasn’t heard from him in a few days, and he was quite worried, so he asked us to check on him. Wanted to make sure no one had seen him before—entering the property.”
Later she watched from her bedroom as they took Mr. Weinberg’s body out on a stretcher. He looked like nothing more than a pile of sticks beneath the blanket. How lonely it must have been for him in that big house. I expect he just gave up after his dog went missing, thought Marion. She forced herself to imagine what it would be like to end up like that, living all alone and getting old and ill, being unable to wash or feed oneself, getting weaker and weaker until it was too late to get help.
• • •
AS SHE HAD her supper of poached eggs and cold ham that evening, Marion thought of Mr. Weinberg eating his last meal, forcing it down even though the taste made him sick. Afterwards he would crawl off to bed and then lie huddled beneath the covers, perhaps suffering terrible thirst or pain. Even then afraid of calling his son in Cape Town and causing him any inconvenience. How long had he lain in his own filth, waiting for the end to come?
Before she went to bed that night, she remembered the meeting she had the next day with the solicitor who would oversee the purchase of the flat and felt a flutter of anxiety. Simon had given her his name with the assurance that he would deal with everything. Could it really be happening? Was she really going to move away from this house where she had lived her whole life and away from John? Surely she was bound to make some mistake that would ruin everything. “No, Marion,” she said to herself firmly. “You can change things for the better, you really can.”
The Visitors Page 24