Tell-Tale

by Sam Hayes

  ‘What is it, love?’ He held her at arm’s length. Nina saw a window of opportunity, a moment in their lives when she could be totally honest with her husband. Did he sense her despair?

  But Nina remained silent, unable to utter a single word to describe how she felt. She was flotsam on the tide, heading inexorably to a whirlpool that would suck her down into the darkness. She knew she was about to drown. She knew she would have to go alone.

  ‘Come to bed. I won’t sleep properly knowing that you’re downstairs. I’m sorry tonight was stressful.’ Mick stood, pulling Nina up with him. His hands trembled as he guided her towards him.

  ‘Mick, there’s something I have to tell you.’ Nina was cold in his arms. Her back was rigid, and her eyes glassy and staring.

  ‘Go on.’

  Nina sighed. ‘You’re going to kill me but . . .’ She pressed her hands over her face. It had to be done. There was no room for emotional leakage. ‘It was an accident and . . .’ She let out a sob, not entirely forced. ‘When I was showing Karl your work down in the studio, it was dark and I stumbled and knocked over . . .’ Nina prised apart her fingers a little, so her voice wouldn’t be muffled. She didn’t want to have to say it twice. ‘I knocked over the beautiful painting you did of me and when I tried to save it, my foot went straight through the canvas.’ Further sobs joined into one cry. From the heart. ‘Oh Mick, I am so sorry. I didn’t want to ruin the evening by telling you earlier.’

  ‘Nina, Nina, Nina.’ Mick pulled his wife to him and held her as tightly as he could. He felt her ribs strain against his arms as she breathed. ‘That explains why you came back from my studio looking as if you’d seen a ghost. For a moment, I thought that Karl had said something to upset you or even made a move on you.’ Mick was almost laughing with relief. ‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t worry about the canvas. I can repair it so you’ll hardly know it happened.’ He kissed her neck and told her not to be silly, not to worry, that everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Thanks, Mick,’ she whispered into his shoulder, knowing that it wouldn’t.

  She must have slept because she didn’t remember it getting completely light. She’d seen the first streaks of dawn push through the sides of the curtains, heard the milkman hum and clink down the street, and felt the bed rock a little as Mick prised himself from under the duvet. When he didn’t return, Nina assumed he’d got up early to work.

  Then she remembered.

  The grace that a couple of hours’ sleep had provided slid from her as quickly as the down quilt. She got up and went into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stared into the mirror while she waited for the water to heat up. Gradually, her face disappeared as steam filled the bathroom.

  ‘Gone,’ she whispered, opening the glass door and stepping into the hot flow.

  Nina allowed the water to flood over her, soaking her hair, flattening it on her shoulders. She dragged her hands down her face – an attempt to wash away the grainy tiredness. It didn’t work.

  Last night’s food – not that she’d eaten much – sat heavily in her stomach. She thought she might be sick. Nina pressed her hands against the tiles and leaned forward. She stared down at her feet, just letting the water flow over her.

  Afterwards, she stood wrapped in a towel, dripping, staring into the steamed-up mirror. Gradually, the surface cleared. Gradually, Nina saw her face reappear. Gradually, as if she were being reborn, Nina forced herself to imagine it was a different person staring back.

  CHAPTER 38

  In the library there are paintings, and in the paintings there are faces. The cold eyes stare down at me as I walk along the length of the wall, studying them, whispering to them, wondering if they’ve seen as much as I have.

  ‘Some of them are meant to be valuable.’

  I don’t turn round, even though my instinct is to be startled, to spin round wide-eyed, to gasp, make an excuse, tell him I’m busy, apologise for my sudden exit.

  ‘Mr Palmer is an avid art collector.’ Adam stands behind me, a breath away from my back. My neck prickles from his closeness. I don’t move.

  ‘It takes a good while, you know, to appreciate a painting properly.’ It wasn’t what I’d meant to say. I was going to scuttle off with my pile of laundry.

  ‘Go on,’ Adam says as if he’s teasing an answer from a student. He doesn’t realise how hard it is for me to talk to him now. I am learning that the past runs faster than the present – way faster than me. Eventually, it becomes the future.

  ‘I just meant that they take a long time to paint. Therefore, looking at them should be a slow process too. To really appreciate what the artist did.’ Slowly, not knowing exactly how close Adam is, I turn round. I find myself pressed against the wall, face to face with him.

  I burst into fits of laughter, even though it feels so wrong. ‘What on earth do you look like?’

  He pulls a dejected face; the face of a sad clown with a daubed-on smile. ‘You don’t like my outfit?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like it. I’m just curious to know why you’re wearing yellow tights, a pink stripy tunic, and a blue fuzzy wig.’ My hand half hides my face. ‘And silly shoes.’

  ‘These are my normal shoes,’ he replies, joking. ‘Don’t you know anything, Miss Gerrard? It’s the school fun run today. Didn’t you get the email that was sent out?’

  ‘No. Why would I? I don’t have an email address or a computer.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘What?’ Adam keeps me confused.

  ‘How long do you think it took for the artist to paint these portraits?’ His mind switches between past and present like mine.

  ‘For a start, there’s more than one artist here.’ I scan the line of ten or twelve portraits. ‘There are four different styles. That last painting is unique. I love it. It’s very Matisse. You can tell by the colours, the composition, the lighting. If I ever invested, it would be in something like this.’

  ‘Your knowledge is impressive, but there are five artists.’ Adam’s square features speak earnestly from beneath the face paint and wig.

  ‘I don’t think you’re—’

  ‘And you do have an email address. Everyone who works at the school has one. It will be your initials followed by your surname at the school’s domain dot net.’

  ‘It will?’ Bright colours spill from Adam, dazzling me. His slightly crooked nose looks even more prominent under the dark eyeliner he has whizzed around his eyes. His broad jaw sets a wide expression on the clown’s painted mouth.

  ‘Checking your email regularly is important at Roecliffe. Just think, if you had read your emails, you could be dressed like this too, and preparing to run, walk or crawl five miles around the village for charity.’ He adjusts his wig. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to beg you to come with me, would I?’

  My bemused smile drops away, wondering if it will ever not hurt – from the cut on my cheek that’s taking an age to heal, to the internal bruising that makes me live life blank-faced. ‘What a shame I didn’t see it then,’ I say. I make a mental note to find out more about staff emails and the internet.

  ‘So, you like Henri Matisse,’ he states. ‘I score one point for finding something else out about you.’

  ‘You’re keeping score?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘Would you like to go to a gallery at the weekend? There’s an exhibition in Leeds that I think you’d love.’

  ‘I’m no art critic. I have uniforms to put away and sports kits to fold and . . .’ I shake my head, walking away. But I stop when I see the empty road ahead, the vast blank landscape of my life stretching before me. I turn back. ‘Maybe we could go to a gallery one day.’ I close my eyes. ‘I think I’d like that.’ It’s hard to tell him how much.

  ‘You can wear my wig if you join in the fun run,’ he calls out, making me smile, shake my head, quite unable to take another step away from him.

  Fliss and Jenny promised not to tell. Although after I broke down and sobbed on to the ke
yboard, they were wary of me. ‘Miss? Miss, are you going to be all right?’

  I heaved up my head. They hovered by the door, keen to get out before they were caught. They had essays to write.

  ‘Go,’ I told them. I nodded a thank you and they left, leaving me crying on to the desk. What I’d just seen had loosened every tendon, every muscle, every cell of resolve in my body. I was limp from sadness.

  After Jenny had finished swooning from the flowers that some boy had sent her on Afterlife, she ran my requested search. Eight Josephine Kennedys appeared on the screen – a more common name than I imagined. The one I was tracking down was third on the list.

  ‘There,’ I said, breathless, shaking. I stared at the tiny photograph, intrigued by the unfamiliarity of her face. I swallowed but my mouth was dry. Beneath her name, I read Location: Portishead. My heart galloped through a run of palpitations at the prospect of getting a glimpse of her remote world.

  Jenny clicked on the name. ‘She hasn’t been online for about two weeks.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I gripped the edge of the desk. It was information. Already more than I expected.

  ‘It says here, look.’ Jenny wiggled the mouse pointer over an information bar. ‘Last login was the tenth of October.’

  Now I know what Josephine Kennedy did on the tenth day of October. I marvelled at that simple fact.

  ‘What do those mean?’ I asked. I wanted more. There was a row of little icons next to her name.

  Fliss and Jenny glanced at each other and sighed. ‘Game stuff. It’s a summary of information about how she plays, what she does, what she has.’ The girls enjoyed knowing more than I did.

  ‘This heart means she’s looking for love.’ Fliss smiled.

  ‘She is?’ My heart raced. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘It means she has her profile set to private. Unless you’re on her list of friends, you won’t be able to see her details.’

  ‘And to get on her friends’ list, I have to make a character, right?’

  Jenny glanced at her watch and then at the door. ‘Right.’

  I was about to give up, about to thank the girls for the glimpse into this other life, when suddenly Josephine Kennedy’s profile lit up from its dim offline status. ‘Online Now’ blinked in neon green beneath her name.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. I leaned in to the screen. My eyes gaped wide to drink it all up, while my fingers spread rigid across the desk. I didn’t think I’d have the wherewithal to operate the mouse.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ Fliss said. ‘She’s just logged in. There’s always someone you know hanging out on Afterlife. That’s why it’s so cool.’

  ‘She’s at her computer now?’ My breathing was quick and shallow.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Jenny sounded incredulous at my ignorance. ‘Do you want to say hi? I can send a hug or a smile. It’s a kind of no strings attached “hello”.’

  ‘No! No, don’t.’ I sat staring at the screen until it flickered once again.

  Jenny refreshed the browser. ‘Look. She’s just changed her mood and tag line.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My eyes were cloudy. Focusing on the tiny words was nearly impossible.

  ‘She’s set her current mood to unstable,’ Fliss said.

  ‘And her tag line just states: Why?’ Jenny added, sounding puzzled. ‘Usually people put a favourite quote or saying in there.’

  My hand came up to the screen, my fingers spreading a distant safety net around Josephine Kennedy’s virtual life. Everything in the IT room became insignificant and blurred. All I could see was the glowing screen, a halo of light around her words.

  ‘Because I had no choice,’ I told her as my throat clamped shut.

  My head dropped on to the desk as the first proper tears began to flow. When I looked up, I saw that Josephine Kennedy was offline again as if she’d never really existed.

  The villagers of Roecliffe spill from their houses to watch the annual spectacle. Some have made banners and some have stuck bunting to their front windows. They cheer as the girls run past, throwing coins into their buckets.

  ‘I didn’t . . . realise that I was . . . so . . . unfit.’ I also didn’t realise that looking ridiculous would help take my mind off things, but it does. I am wearing a pink tutu and fairy wings dug up from the bottom of the drama group costume box. A sixth-former lent me some knee-high stripy socks. Lexi painted bright circles of turquoise around my eyes and daubed on scarlet lipstick. Hardly a professional make-up job, but it makes me the perfect partner for Adam as we jog through the village. ‘What’s this in . . . aid of? It’d better be worthwhile.’ I attempt a smile.

  ‘A local children’s home,’ he replies, hardly sounding out of breath at all. ‘We do this every year. The kids get to go to Scarborough for a day. It pays for the coach, meals, gifts, that kind of thing.’

  It stops me in my tracks. ‘Children’s home?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in Harrogate. It’s council-run and funds are low.’ Adam stops beside me, forgetting he looks ridiculous. ‘It’s a cause very close to my heart.’

  I’m panting, trying to collect my thoughts, prevent my insides from pouring out.

  ‘After the children’s home in Roecliffe was closed down, the locals wanted to raise money for a similar charity. From what I’ve heard, everyone was very badly shaken by the horrendous events going on right on their doorsteps. It was their way of making good from bad. It’s a tradition now.’

  ‘I don’t see how throwing a few coins into buckets is going to help . . .’

  Adam isn’t listening to me. He steps on to the pavement, pulling me with him as half a dozen men jog past dressed as nurses. Bystanders whoop and clap.

  ‘To begin with, it was just the villagers who raised money, but when the hall was sold off and the school opened, the pupils were invited to help each year.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, my heart rate returning to somewhere near normal. ‘So the children’s home in Harrogate has nothing to do with . . .’ I make a gesture back towards the school.

  Adam is already shaking his head. ‘None of the pupils or staff associate what happened in the nineteen eighties with life at school here today. It’s not something the headmaster broadcasts to prospective parents.’

  ‘So Mr Palmer knows about what went on . . . the murders?’ It’s hard to say the word.

  ‘Of course,’ Adam says, surprised. ‘Back then, he was a teacher at the village primary school. He’s a local man through and through.’

  The cries and calls of the crowd shatter my thoughts. Mr Palmer was a teacher at the primary school. Like a photograph album flipping in the wind, I see images of children, of schools, of worn-out shoes, of blackjack sweets, of toothless grins, of whips and bloody backs. I smell the wood smoke, taste the foul food, feel the desolation – once again, I see the faceless man.

  Mr Palmer, I repeat over and over in my mind. The name means nothing to me.

  ‘Why the sudden interest? Has my book whetted your appetite for a bit of mystery?’

  ‘I’m just careful about charity donations. I like to know where my money’s going.’ Adam’s crazy colours glow neon. I can see he doesn’t believe me.

  ‘And here’s me thinking you wanted to help me interview one of the locals.’ Adam’s eyebrows rise hopefully.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’re being left behind.’

  It’s true. The carnival-like group from the school has jogged down Roecliffe’s main street and is nothing but a wash of banners, whoops, and brilliant colours in the distance. Adam kicks off running again, a slight tinge of dismay creeping across his clown face. His pace is nothing compared to how we started out. By the time we draw level with Frazer Barnard’s cottage, he has stopped and stands with his arms folded in the middle of the street.

  ‘What’s wrong? Giving up already?’ I turn and jog on the spot. I just want to get this over with and return to the monotony of folding sheets and sewing on name tapes.

  ‘Woul
d you like a drink in the pub?’ Adam asks.

  ‘I thought you wanted to support the charity run? A drink in the pub is hardly the idea, is it?’

  ‘What if I promised to make a fifty-pound donation on our behalf? Would you come then?’

  Up the street, the group of runners is nearly out of sight. I can just hear the sound of coins being chucked into buckets. ‘You promise to make a donation?’ I imagine the kids singing on the coach to Scarborough, see them licking ice creams, hear the pinball machines ringing as they pump in the loose change from our buckets. It makes me want to empty my pockets.

  ‘I’ll drive the kids to Scarborough myself if I have to.’ Adam pulls off his wig. ‘To be honest, I hate running.’ His hair sticks up from static, until he sees me looking, until he flattens it down. He seems oddly at home in the Yorkshire village, even though his accent, sandy hair and tanned skin place him on an Australian surf beach. He ruffles his hair again, suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘I’ll have to be quick then.’ My hand rises to my mouth. I just agreed to go to a pub with Adam. It feels good, even though I’m filled with guilt. ‘It’ll be mayhem in the dorms once the girls get back from the run.’

  Adam says he wants to smoke so we sit outside. It’s mild for the end of October and there are several tables on the pavement in front of the Duck and Partridge. I straddle a bench, sipping on the half-pint of ale Adam bought me. He rolls a cigarette. The dappled light, the young couple sitting at the next table, the bag of cheese and onion crisps that gets tossed my way, even the silly costume make me feel just one per cent normal.

  ‘I’m having trouble,’ Adam says. The unlit cigarette hangs from between his lips. A flurry of ideas swims behind his intense blue eyes. He thinks I know what he’s talking about.

  ‘With what?’ I bite a crisp in half.

  ‘My book, of course. It’s always the book. I can’t concentrate on anything else.’

  ‘Do you think writing it will help you find your sister?’ He glares at me as if only he is allowed to mention her.