Child's Play

by Alison Taylor

  ‘You must have some friends.’

  She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t allowed to have them. I arrived here with a reputation, so Scott was afraid I’d be a bad influence.’ She groped for another cigarette. ‘Torrance is the nearest I’ve got to a friend, but that’s only because she won’t let Scott push her about.’

  ‘Surely you weren’t on drugs when you came here?’

  ‘Nah, but my brothers were. Their public school chucked them out in the end.’ She watched him through a haze of smoke. ‘I can almost hear your mind working. Do I do drugs because it’s in my genes and Scott knew that, or do I do them because she isolated me with her cruel little games? I don’t know the answer, so I can’t help.’ Crossing her legs, she draped her right arm over her left, the cigarette dangling from her long pale fingers. ‘I don’t want to sound more bitter and twisted than I actually am, but Scott marked me out from the start. I got excluded and ostracised in all sorts of ways, but you could never put your finger on how. She’s too subtle for that.’

  ‘Does the same thing happen to others?’

  ‘If Scott thinks you’re likely to ruffle her atmosphere, you get the treatment, and you keep on getting it until your spirit breaks.’ Rearranging herself into another unconsciously elegant pose, she added, ‘The teachers won’t interfere because they’re scared of her. They know if they side with the underdogs they’ll end up joining them. She doesn’t just victimise people, though. She has favourites, but the trouble is you’re never sure who’s in and who’s out of her good books, or why.’ With another smile she said, ‘You should talk to Torrance as soon as her head’s together. She’s got some really wild theories.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing very startling.’ Her smile died and her body slumped, along with her mood. ‘Only that Scott’s emotionally retarded, sort of locked in her own adolescence. She’s very fickle, you see. She’ll be all over someone one week and dropping them like a hot brick the next. She plays with people. Unfortunately, no one but her knows the rules of the game.’

  ‘Might Torrance know something that would help to explain Sukie’s death?’

  When she glanced at him, her eyes were narrowed, but perhaps only because of the smoke wreathing about her face. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘But they were close, weren’t they? Lady Melville said Sukie adored her.’

  ‘Lady Hester,’ Vivienne corrected him politely. ‘There’s a protocol to be observed, you know, not that it makes the slightest difference. “Lady Hopeless” would suit her better.’ She puffed on the cigarette. ‘She was barely out of rompers when Sukie was born and she stayed that way because her own mother locked her in a time warp by constantly harking back to the upset she’d caused. And of course, none of them ever missed an opportunity to tell Sukie how much misery and disgrace she’d brought on the family.’ Jack’s face clearly betrayed his feelings, for she went on to say, ‘Yes, they are cruel and unreasonable, but so are lots of people. Sukie coped with it by kidding herself she was a changeling. She was always wishing her real mother would come and take her away.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘She told everybody, and people sympathised to her face and sniggered behind her back, as they do if you let your dreams be known, although Torrance didn’t, ever. She once gave me a hell of a slap when she overheard me giggling with Charlotte about it.’

  ‘Did she slap her as well?’ Grappling with the dynamics of Sukie’s changing allegiances, he suddenly realised that Torrance’s casual gesture of support would be enough to provoke the lonely Sukie to shift her complete loyalty, particularly in the wake of her ruined friendship with Imogen.

  ‘Dunno,’ Vivienne replied. ‘Probably not. She’d know it was a waste of energy.’

  Gradually, silence fell about them, and at first it seemed pleasant and agreeable. Lolling gracefully in her chair, Vivienne continued to puff at the cigarette. Absently, he rustled papers. Outside, birds twittered, leaves whispered in the breeze and the motor mower chugged as Sean O’Connor went about his business. But for all its tranquillity the atmosphere was lethargic, and Jack began to understand how it could so easily become stultifying and oppressive, as if becalmed in the middle of a huge ocean. The questions he wanted to ask jostled in his mind, but he sensed she was near the edge of a precipice and was afraid of pushing her over. Settling for something innocuous, he said at last, ‘Why did you take Imogen out of the refectory earlier?’

  ‘Jesus!’ The cigarette fell from her hand and began burning another hole in the carpet. When she bent down, he saw shivers rippling down her skinny back.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Her fingers shook as she picked up the butt and when she looked up at him she seemed to have grown old in the space of seconds. ‘I brought her upstairs because she wasn’t well and nobody else was bothering.’ The death’s-head grin returned. ‘My brief reunion with the human race.’

  ‘Your bitterness is painful. If not to you, to others.’

  ‘Not half as painful as Imogen’s stump.’

  ‘Why?’ he wondered, almost talking to himself. ‘Why is her accident more important than Sukie’s death? Whenever we try to talk about Sukie, the conversation drags itself round to Imogen.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re one and the same.’ Her voice was weary. ‘Maybe because Imogen’s still here. Sukie’s pain is all over.’

  17

  Sukie’s room had been sealed shut since the day before and when McKenna pushed the door, stifling, foetid air belched in his face. As he opened the window, he nudged a parched spider plant on the ledge and almost sent it crashing down on to the forecourt.

  There was one chair in the room and he placed it so that he caught the breeze through the window. He sat down, the chair wobbling under his weight, and contemplated the sparse, shoddy furnishings, the disarray of clothes on bed and floor, the soiled jodhpurs slung over the radiator, the dusty riding boots, the untidy piles of magazines and schoolwork, and the threadbare teddy with a frayed blue ribbon round its neck which was tucked up in the bed. Sunlight falling on the counter that ran the length of the wall showed up a layer of gritty dust and talc, sticky rings left by innumerable mugs and cups, and even fingerprints on the silver photograph frames that vied for space with a china beaker crammed with pencils and ball pens, used bottles of pink, silver and glittery blue nail varnish, tubs of talcum powder, sticks of lip colour, a box of tissues, an empty letter rack painted with lotus flowers and dipping swallows, a stationery casket to match, a slender gold wristwatch, which had stopped at ten twenty some unknown morning or night, and a tangle of fine gold chains beaded with oval pearls.

  Scenes of crimes personnel had ransacked this room yesterday, but had come upon only the superficial residues of a young girl’s life. There were no letters, diaries, scrapbooks, notebooks, personal organiser, or mobile telephone, or even a calendar. Crammed higgledy-piggledy on the shelves over the counter were various school books, a clutch of popular novels, well-thumbed catalogues for tack, riding wear, stable equipment and horse feed, several Vogue magazines, a score or more horse magazines, a clutch of teen publications and the ubiquitous Hello!. When he checked under the mattress, there was none of the pornography Avril O’Connor had once found. The school-work files harboured no cryptic jottings that might yield insights, and the doodles defacing almost every sheet of paper were composed of stirrups, naïve depictions of a horse’s head and the meandering scrawls of boredom.

  He reached for the gold chains and, idly shaking out the tangles, imagined how their delicacy would have suited her. Then he picked up the watch, turning it in his fingers. The back of the case was hallmarked and it should have been put into safekeeping. The wallet and purse found in the bedside cabinet were already in the police station safe, along with ninety-seven pounds in cash and four platinum credit cards on the Melvilles’ accounts.

  One by one he lifted the photographs, taken unawares by the weight in t
he frames. A haughty grey-haired woman in country tweeds, whom he took to be a grandparent, stared at him unsmilingly, as did Freya, surrounded by her current sixth formers. The pictures of Purdey showed her with Tonto in the pasture, displaying her pretty head in a portrait and, with Sukie in the saddle, posing before a Victorian Gothic mansion that featured in its own right in another picture, its unprepossessing architecture softened by evening sunlight and the shadows of nearby trees in full leaf. The two remaining photographs faced each other in a double frame. In one Sukie and Imogen, arm in arm and laughing, screwed up their eyes against some blistering foreign sun. They were still laughing in the other picture and, wearing coloured sun tops and cotton shorts, were both on bicycles, their legs splayed out as they zoomed down a hill towards whoever held the camera. He stared at them for a long time, feeling almost as his own the terrible sense of loss.

  Rapping gently on the partly open door, Janet broke his reverie. ‘I’ve finished with Charlotte Swann, sir. Who shall I see next?’

  ‘Alice Derringer, when she gets back from the optician. In the meantime, perhaps you’d list and pack Sukie’s belongings. We’ll need to get the Melvilles to check if anything is missing.’ He left his seat to stand by the window and lit a cigarette. ‘How did you fare with the Princess Diana lookalike?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ She picked up the topmost garment from the heap, a dress fashioned from two layers of gauzy grey chiffon suspended from shoe-string straps. ‘The claws were out the moment you turned your back.’ The rolled-up garment was put on the end of the bed. ‘She was expecting you to interview her.’

  ‘I know. Dr Scott said she’d spent half the morning making sure she looked her best.’ He dropped ash out of the window, where it disintegrated in a sudden gust of wind. ‘That aside, did she tell you anything useful?’

  ‘Depends on your definition of useful.’ Holding a skimpy sweater by its hem, she lined up the side seams. ‘She gave me no end of “useful” tips on how the right make-up, hairstyle and clothes could do wonders for me, and even snare me a rich boyfriend if I went where the beautiful people hang out, which is, I hasten to add, a very long way from north Wales.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d rather stay where you are and as you are,’ he said. ‘Charlotte’s like a blown egg covered in jewels and enamel. She’s no family to speak of and no inner resources, and she’s besotted with the superficial. I almost feel sorry for her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t if you’d actually spoken to her,’ Janet said waspishly. ‘She’s shallow and spiteful, and talks a load of incontinent drivel.’ Absently placing the folded sweater on top of the dress, she took hold of a jacket. ‘I think she could be really dangerous. She’s got no moral sense whatsoever and, given the wrong sort of company, could incite others to do the most outrageous things.’

  ‘Come on,’ he chided. ‘That’s a very harsh judgement on the briefest of acquaintances.’

  Janet shook her head. ‘No, sir, it isn’t.’ Looking then at what was in her hands, she laid the jacket on the bed to fasten the buttons. ‘She said it would have been better for everyone if Imogen had died in the accident, because not only have her injuries made her repulsive, but her ugliness is incredibly embarrassing and very difficult for people. Charlotte was sick the first time she saw Imogen without her leg and even now, she says, her gorge rises every time she sets eyes on her.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s only voicing what others think but are too inhibited to say.’

  ‘Or too sensitive,’ she added. ‘Charlotte’s very cruel and even if that’s not her fault, it doesn’t make her any the less dangerous.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ At the small sink set into the far end of the counter, he doused his cigarette under the tap, then filled a toothpaste-smeared glass with water. As he dribbled the water around the spider plant it pooled on the dried-out soil and popped with air bubbles before being absorbed. ‘I’m going to see Imogen,’ he told her. ‘She should know if Sukie kept a diary of any description. When you’ve finished here, ask Matron for Sukie’s luggage. There’ll probably be a trunk stored somewhere.’

  The spiky leaves of the spider plant tickled his chin as he waited for Imogen to open her door. Bedsprings creaked in the room beyond, then there was silence. He knocked again, heard the bedsprings again, then a thump and imagined her stick hitting the floor. As another thump was followed by a dragging noise, he could almost see her hauling her maimed body towards him. A key rattled in the lock and the door was inched open, Imogen’s fingers like claws round the edge. Her face was grey and lined with pain. ‘That’s Sukie’s plant,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘I wondered if you’d mind looking after it for now. It was dry as a bone.’

  She hopped backwards a few feet then stood in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on the silver-topped stick, her body twisted, the stump of leg hanging uselessly. Her eyes were like huge black holes.

  As he put the plant on the counter, he accepted that however Sukie had parted with her life, it had not been at this girl’s hands, for her balance and equilibrium were totally destroyed. If I push her, he thought, she’ll simply topple. She backed further and collapsed on the bed, leaving him the chair. The artificial leg lay on the floor on a heap of discarded clothes.

  Lifting herself on her hands, she wriggled across the bed until she was leaning against the wall. The single foot in a fluffy pink mule, barely twelve inches from his knees, was disturbing. While his reason told him the quest was futile, his instinct was to search for its companion. She watched him, her face reflecting his own confusion.

  ‘I’ve been looking through Sukie’s things,’ he said eventually, ‘but there was very little of a personal nature. Would you know if she kept a diary?’

  ‘I — She —’ Words seemed to stick in her throat. She swallowed hard and tried again. ‘She sort of did, a long time ago. She wasn’t very good at keeping it up to date.’

  ‘Was she not inclined to commit her thoughts to paper?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘Not really. She preferred to talk.’ She wrapped her arms round her waist and hunched her shoulders, staring at her foot.

  What could you do with only one leg? McKenna considered all the new impossibilities forced on this girl, beyond the obvious, and began to hurt for her. ‘Has Dr Scott spoken to you about me?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Another head shake.

  ‘I thought she would have done by now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, as I said last night, I must interview all of you.’ He waited for her to respond and when she continued to sit in silence added, ‘She impressed upon me that I must be sensitive to your feelings.’

  A noise between a snort and a sob escaped her lips. ‘She isn’t!’

  ‘You know, Imogen,’ he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands, ‘I’m getting very mixed messages.’

  The corners of her mouth turned up, then down. ‘So you can’t tell whether you’re coming or going? Join the club.’

  People had been dangerously soured by lesser misfortunes than hers, he told himself. It was unfair to condemn her, yet her air of angry self-pity was so intense he could scarce believe she had not shared her anguish with someone in the school, who then, convinced Sukie was to blame, had settled the score by killing her.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘Vivienne brought me a sandwich.’

  ‘I noticed she helped you from the refectory earlier. Are you particularly friendly?’ Vivienne, with the ethical structure of her personality undermined by drugs, might well have dispatched Sukie, he thought.

  ‘No,’ Imogen replied. ‘Our paths hardly ever cross.’

  She could be lying, he decided. He gazed at her speculatively, but before he could speak, she added, ‘I was surprised myself.’ She met his eyes and shrugged. ‘It was probably because Torrance isn’t here. She sort of looks after me.’ She shuddered, just once, but with frightening violence.

  ‘Torrance wasn’t bad
ly hurt,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I know. Vivienne told me.’ The pink-clad foot began to wave from side to side. ‘Will she be staying in hospital?’

  ‘For a while. And she’s under twenty-four-hour guard.’

  ‘Good.’ Imogen nodded, as if to herself, then said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being a very good hostess. You can smoke if you like. There’s a tin on the shelf you can use for an ashtray.’ Apologising again, she added, ‘And I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink, but you can make yourself one in the common room.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want one. Do you?’ When she shook her head, he went on, ‘I expected your rooms to have better facilities. A kettle, at least.’

  ‘Dr Scott thinks we’d be less inclined to mix if we were too comfortable. I expect you’ve noticed how her ideas invade every corner.’ She glanced about her. ‘Even in these poky little cells.’

  His eyes on the enormous old key hanging from the door lock, he said, ‘Matron told me these rooms housed the most violent patients in the old days.’

  ‘That’s why the locks were on the outside. Sean had to turn my door and cut a new keeper. He’s good with things like that.’

  ‘D’you have much contact with him?’

  ‘Not as much as some would like, but a lot more than Dr Scott knows about!’ She smiled spontaneously and it was as if a light had come on behind her eyes, returning her fleetingly to the girl she should have been. ‘Don’t misunderstand. He doesn’t mess with us. He’s too nice to take advantage and anyway, he’s engaged.’

  ‘Nonetheless, he must get plenty of offers. He’s the only young man in the vicinity. Ken Randall at the lodge is in his sixties and so is Sean’s boss, and the guards and the caretakers are determinedly middle-aged.’

  ‘That’s no accident. It’s all part of Dr Scott’s grand design.’

  ‘And where do you fit into that?’ His voice was quiet. ‘What’s she got in mind for you?’