Ahead was Hay Lane and Annie swung a sharp left. The pavements were quiet, and the few other pedestrians they’d encountered stepped diplomatically out of the way. A double-decker bus rumbled across the junction with Broadgate, and Andrew, who’d developed a sixth sense for large vehicles, especially red ones, sat up from his restless slumber and pointed.
‘Bus!’ he said, as if he’d spotted exactly what they’d been searching for all this time. ‘Bus, Mummy!’
‘It is a bus, yes,’ Annie said, and she surged onwards to give him a better view. It pulled up at a stop a few yards ahead of them and Andrew bounced in his seat, a little gingerly because of his head. Three people stepped down from it: an elderly man with a stick and a flat cap, a thin girl clad entirely in denim, and Martha Hancock. Annie jerked to a halt and swivelled round so that the bus was behind them, and Andrew wailed in protest. In a flash Annie leaned over the top of the pushchair and clamped a hand over his mouth, and his eyes looked up at her in bewildered alarm. For a few seconds she and Andrew were frozen in this strange attitude while Michael looked shiftily between his mother and his brother, trying to process this new development.
No one approached.
Cautiously, covertly, Annie looked back. Martha was sauntering down the street away from them. The fear that had gripped Annie’s heart and squeezed her lungs now eased in a mighty pulse of relief as she comprehended the shift from being observed to being the observer: from suspect to spy, quarry to hunter. She turned. Andrew, free now to protest, was nevertheless utterly silent. The bus had gone. He sat back in the pushchair and plugged in his thumb.
‘So if your legs stay the same length, they’re not actually stretched?’ Michael said.
Annie started to move forwards. She’d follow Martha Hancock, and find out where she lived, and then she’d … well, she didn’t know what she’d do, but at least she’d know something about her tormentor, and knowledge was power, wasn’t that so?
‘Are they?’
‘No, Michael, my legs are not actually stretched.’
‘Then what you said was wrong.’
Annie kept her eyes on the back of Martha Hancock’s head. Her long hair was scraped into a ponytail and she looked like one of the grammar-school girls, except that Annie had seen her worldliness, the hard-headed confidence at her core.
‘What you said was wrong, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Michael, except you’re the only person in the world who wouldn’t understand what I meant by it.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Then the whole world is wrong and I’m the only right person. Are we following that lady?’
Annie was shocked at his acuity, though it was entirely typical. ‘Of course not,’ she said, although they patently were. They weren’t heading for the fish and chip shop, or even for home. Martha had walked past the Godiva statue and into Ironmonger Row, so they had too, creeping along at an unnatural pace to keep the distance between them safe and wide.
‘Why are we following that lady?’
‘Dat lady,’ Andrew said, although he wasn’t looking at Martha, only mimicking his brother.
Annie kept her voice light and said, ‘If you’re both completely quiet for five whole minutes we’ll …’ She cast about for a treat, any treat. Nothing much presented itself at this grey time of day, when the shop fronts were shuttered and people were closing their curtains against the encroaching evening. ‘We’ll get an ice-cream.’
Andrew unplugged his thumb and said, ‘I-cream?’
‘Ssshh. Only if you’re quiet.’
‘An ice-cream?’ Michael asked, his voice full of scorn.
‘In five minutes, and only if you’ve been quiet.’
‘But it’s cold. We only have ice-cream when it’s warm.’
This was true, and even if it were summer it would already be too late in the day to find such a treat. But Annie’s strategy was only to distract Michael’s forensic mind into questioning something other than her motives in trailing Martha Hancock. She’d become skilled at diversion, and did it again now.
‘Watch those lines,’ she said, pointing down at the pavement and speaking quietly, although Martha was too far ahead to hear. ‘Be ever so careful where you put your feet.’
He glanced down in spite of himself. ‘I will but it’s not because of the bears,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any bears. It’s because of the pattern.’
‘Mmm?’ Down the Cross Cheaping they wandered, towards the Burges, treading the path trodden by Martha. Annie wondered how far they were going, and where.
‘If I tread on the lines it spoils the pattern.’
Oh! Annie thought; she’s going to the river! And as if Annie had willed it, Martha turned immediately right, heading towards that strange, brief, degraded stretch of the Sherbourne behind the Burges; the only place in the city centre where the buried river came up for air. Annie knew it so well she almost called out to Martha to tell her. She was just a girl herself when she first found it; a low, slow, surly stretch of water, so dark it seemed unrelated to the sparkling little river on the outskirts of the city. Ah, thought Annie, the river, the river; her childhood companion, her secret solace. Even now she preferred the sloping banks of the Sherbourne on the fringes of the city to any of the parks and open spaces provided by the corporation, but back then, in her solitary childhood, she’d believed she was the only person in Coventry who knew about its underground journey. This section of it, dragging along beside the bins and back doors of shops in the Burges and Cross Cheaping, smelled of rank, rotten vegetation: murky and unwholesome. There were railings, and a steep drop to the water down vertical banks, cladded and over-hung with tenacious ivy and sad, plucky buddleia. It was accessible to anyone, though no one ever came, and even the surrounding buildings had turned their backs to look the other way. It was a place for unhappy people, Annie thought: a limbo, between the sky and the earth’s bowels. It was a dead end.
Annie glanced down at Michael. He was sucking a finger from the corner of his mouth as if it was a pipe. Andrew was heavy-lidded again, peaceful and slack limbed. They turned into Palmer Lane. Martha couldn’t be seen, but Annie knew where she would find her.
‘Michael,’ Annie said. ‘See the bricks on this wall?’
He followed the line of her hand and nodded.
‘Can you count them all?’
She knew he could, and he knew she knew. He nodded again disdainfully.
‘Then let’s park Andrew here by you where he’s safe, and you count every single brick, and by the time you’ve finished I’ll be back.’
He pulled out his finger with a wet pop. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just round the corner,’ she said. ‘Count loudly so I can hear you.’
‘But why?’ he said, and it wasn’t an unreasonable question, but she didn’t have an answer, and anyway she was already walking away from him. She just said, ‘Every single one, mind,’ without looking round, and because Michael found numbers impossible to resist, he began to count.
Martha was leaning against the railings, staring down into the murk of the water, and Annie was almost upon her by the time she turned, but instead of jumping in alarm, Martha only smiled knowingly.
‘Hello,’ she said, perfectly calm. ‘Did you think I didn’t know you were behind me?’
Annie, who moments ago had felt stealthy and powerful, was crushed, but she didn’t reveal this. She felt at home here, by the river; she had that at least, and it gave her the strength to appear as calmly cold as Martha. She didn’t answer the question, so Martha spoke again.
‘Where’s Robert? You had him with you when I got off the bus.’
‘There is no Robert,’ Annie said.
Martha laughed that pitying laugh of hers, and shook her head slowly as if she had never in her life encountered anyone so wilfully blind as Annie Doyle. Annie, watching her, felt a kind of gear shift in her head, as if she’d slipped into a fourth dimension so that she was as remote as she was present: an observer
and a participant at one and the same time. She could see that Martha was speaking, but she could no longer fully hear her because of the insistent sound of her own heartbeat, the pulse and thud of blood against her eardrums. More than anything, standing here by the brackish water of the Sherbourne, she felt the great weight of this encounter, its pivotal significance to her own history; herself and Martha Hancock, face to face in a shadowy place where they were unobserved except by the wordless river. Martha’s voice swam back into audible focus, but it was echoing and distorted like a voice in a dream. She’d waited long enough, she was saying; she was going back north and she’d take Robert now and there wasn’t a damned thing Annie could do to stop her. She adjusted her stance, hoicked her bag further across her shoulder, and Annie knew that any moment now Martha would push past her to the lane, where she’d find the child sleeping in the pushchair, and away she’d go, sweeping him out of Annie’s life and into her own. Annie looked into Martha’s scornful eyes, and knew she had to act, not merely resist. She knew she couldn’t stand this any more. She wouldn’t – couldn’t – live her life without her beloved little boy, nor could she live with the constant fear of losing him.
So while Martha was still berating her, Annie dropped like a hawk onto the footpath, where she’d already seen a sharp, pockmarked lump of stone, as grey as iron. It fitted her palm as if it belonged there. Martha’s brow creased and she regarded Annie with curiosity, puzzled as to her intentions. Annie stood, and cut straight through Martha’s confident litany of her rights.
‘You brought me here to trap me,’ Annie said. ‘But you made a trap for yourself.’
Martha looked sceptical, amused even: certainly she wasn’t afraid. Annie tightened her grip around its cratered surface.
‘Nobody ever thinks I’ll do anything,’ she said, in wondering tones, as if even she was surprised to find herself here, forcing her nemesis with a weapon in her right hand, ready to strike. ‘But I’m stronger than you think, and you’ll never, ever have my boy.’
Now her voice shook with vehement emotion but Martha just laughed, and said, ‘Oh, give it a sodding rest.’ She moved; a lazy, casual, sidestep, as if Annie wasn’t dangerous, or threatening, merely tiresome, and it was this nonchalance, this blithe disregard, that pushed Annie into action. She lashed out blindly with a full, desperate, wide-armed blow and the rock in her hand connected with Martha’s temple. Now, at last, the younger woman’s eyes registered fear, but Annie felt only a rush of unusual power. Once again she swung her arm, bringing the rock across the side of Martha’s jaw. Martha gave a shout of pain and staggered against the low railing, then jack-knifed over it so that her legs were on the footpath and her body hung over the riverbank. She was limp and loose and her bag slid casually to the ground as if she was just putting it down, only for a moment.
Annie stared. She dropped the rock and, for a brief while, she looked wonderingly between it and the inert body, as if each object was a puzzle to her, and entirely unconnected to her own actions. But then the memory of Martha – an intruder in her home, standing over Andrew’s bed – came into Annie’s mind and she sprang forward, heaving Martha’s legs up and over the railing until her body lay prone on the narrow bank, her face tilted up to the evening sky. Annie clambered over too, and she peered down into Martha’s eyes, but they were closed. Blood matted her hair and the skin at her temple was split, and the horror of what she’d done was suddenly evident to Annie, although it wasn’t regret that she felt, only a kind of grief, and anyway it wasn’t enough to stop her pushing desperately at Martha’s body until it rolled in a twisted, haphazard fashion through the mud of the bank and down into the dark and brackish water.
Now there was no triumph: only cold, and fear, and a deep sinister silence. Annie leaned as far as she dared over the edge of the bank; there was Martha, face up in the water, defeated, unresisting, and slowly, slowly, inch by inch, being carried on the sluggish current out of plain view and into the dark interior of the tunnel. Annie blessed the Sherbourne, her stalwart friend, then she closed her mind to Martha, turned her back on the river, and climbed back over the railings, and there was Michael, staring at her through narrowed eyes. She was panting and her coat was torn and muddied.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Where’s Andrew?’
‘What are you doing?’
She darted past him, into the lane. There was Andrew, where she’d left him, but there was an elderly woman too, clucking over the little boy and she tutted when Annie rushed up.
It’s a poor do,’ she said, ‘leaving a little dot like this on his own.’
‘He isn’t on his own.’ Annie said. Her breathing was ragged and her face was a livid white, but the woman only had eyes for Andrew.
‘That cut looks nasty,’ she said.
Annie ignored her and grabbed the handles of the pushchair. Now the woman looked at her and narrowed her eyes. Annie thanked God for the darkness.
‘That’s quite a rip you’ve got there, m’duck,’ she said, nodding at Annie’s coat front where a long V-shaped tear in the wool revealed the teal-blue lining. ‘It’s a shame, a rip like that in a good coat.’
‘What were you doing?’ Michael said, appearing from the alleyway into the lane. He was like Mrs Binley’s parrot, thought Annie: same phrases, over and over and over. The old lady hung about, waiting to hear the answer, but Annie just said, ‘Good evening then,’ in a genteel but pointed way, so she harrumphed a little and went on her way. Annie watched her for a while then shut her eyes. She was utterly exhausted, tired beyond tiredness; she could have lain down on this hard pavement and slept.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ Annie said.
‘Where’s Martha Hancock?’
Oh God. Oh good God. Annie snapped open her eyes. Michael had Martha’s handbag over one shoulder and a book in his hand.
‘She dropped this,’ he said, holding up the white bag, and then he held up the book. ‘And this was in it,’ he said. ‘She wrote her name inside here, look.’ Carefully he opened the cover and pointed.
Annie held her hand out, but Michael clasped the book to his chest and took a stride backwards.
‘Fine,’ Annie said, feigning indifference. She gripped the pushchair to hide the shaking and started to walk away from him down the Burges. Michael followed slowly, a few feet behind.
‘Give me the bag and the book,’ Annie said casually, without looking round. She marvelled at the controlled authority of her voice, but she wouldn’t let the child see her eyes, which she knew were desperate.
‘No,’ said Michael, always quick to sense an advantage.
‘Okay.’ Annie stalked away, as if she didn’t give a jot about anything; didn’t even care whether or not he followed her. He galloped along behind and said, again, ‘What were you doing?’
‘Give me the things and I’ll tell you,’ she said. She wondered what he’d seen. Not much, she was sure, or else he’d have been parroting that, too.
‘Do you promise?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t promise.’
This puzzled him; not what she said, which was easy to understand, but how she said it. He hadn’t heard this voice before. It didn’t sound like his mother. He trotted along beside her for a while, thinking, and then he held out the book. Annie stopped walking and took it, pushing it into the folds of the pushchair’s hood without revealing any sign of interest in it.
‘Bag,’ she said.
He slipped it from his little shoulder and handed it over. She opened it and took out a purse, a hairbrush and the birth certificate Martha had once waved at Annie. These things went into the pockets of Annie’s coat, then she flattened the bag and stuffed it deep into a litter bin. Michael watched.
‘Right. Fish, battered sausage or pie?’ she said. She felt strong, suddenly: invincible. Certainly she felt a match for this strange boy of hers. All that remained was to get the boys home, as naturally and normally as possible
.
‘What were you doing?’ he said, but he knew she wouldn’t answer. He could tell, by the new look in her eyes.
‘What were you doing?’ Annie said. ‘You were meant to be counting the bricks.’
‘Where’s Martha Hancock?’ he said again.
‘Gone,’ said Annie. And then she said nothing else, no matter how hard he tried to make her, until they got to the fish and chip shop and she ordered their supper in a light, bright voice, so that no one seemed to notice her damp hair and ruined coat, and all the while Michael stared at her, brimming with unanswered questions.
When they eventually got home it was late and all the lights were off in their house, although the television was on in the parlour. Annie peeped cautiously round the door and saw Vince spread out across the sofa in his string vest and trousers, fast asleep. His feet were bare; they looked bony and oddly vulnerable.
She turned on a light in the hallway then bent down in front of Andrew and unbuckled the strap that held him safe. He smiled dozily at her.
‘Mummy,’ he said, and held out his arms. ‘Chish and fips.’
‘Coming up,’ she said. She kissed his warm cheek, then carried him and the hot, damp parcel of food through to the kitchen. She put him on the floor and put the supper on the table then went to the sink and ran the hot tap over her hands, sluicing away the memory of the weight and the feel of the rock she’d held, and how she’d used it. Vince, woken by the light and the voices, loomed in the doorway and she braced herself, but he just said, ‘Who are you?’
‘Who am I?’ she said, amazed.
‘No,’ Vince said impatiently. ‘I know who you are.’ He scratched his head, rubbed his face. He looked older, suddenly.
This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret? Page 24