The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit)

by Gyland, Henriette

  And yet …

  A lonely figure was making his way across the sand pockmarked by heavy raindrops. As the rain increased, he made a run for it, thumping clumsily up the steps and under the palm-leaf roof. He was a short, rotund man with a shock of white hair and a white beard, and his polo shirt and chinos were soaked. Shaking off the worst of the rain, he stumbled into the shack and chose a high chair by the bar.

  ‘Horrible weather we’re having,’ he said.

  Joe wiped the counter with his tea towel. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

  The stranger’s eyes met Helen’s, and she had a curious feeling that she ought to know who he was, but she couldn’t place him.

  ‘I’d like to try some of your fire water.’ The stranger grinned at Joe, but his eyes slid back to Helen. She turned away and loaded a tray.

  ‘One feni coming up,’ said Joe.

  He took down a shot glass from a shelf behind the bar and poured a generous measure from a colourful terracotta bottle, then placed the glass in front of the customer with an utterly neutral expression on his face. Despite herself, Helen stopped what she was doing and watched surreptitiously as the man downed the drink in one.

  Predictably he gasped for breath. Feni was double-distilled and fearfully potent, and the uninitiated were well-advised to try it with cola first. The fishermen jeered and roared with laughter, and even Joe had trouble concealing a smirk. Yet all the time the stranger’s eyes had been on Helen, giving her the impression this was nothing but a show, entirely for her benefit.

  What did he want from her?

  She thought of herself as a good judge of character. In the two years she’d been here, she had learned to spot the different types of holidaymakers. She recognised the middle-class, middle-aged English divorcees seeking spiritual healing through meditation and Ayurvedic treatments after their husbands had done the clichéd bunk with a younger woman. Then there were the honeymooners, like the couple in the corner, and the old hippies drifting north from Anjuna, one time a hippie haven but now a ravers’ paradise, seeking the quieter beaches where they could chill out for a while. Sometimes there were families who wanted to experience a holiday away from the exclusive resorts further south, but mostly it was people like herself, whose faces spoke of a recent pain and a need to find themselves. Helen avoided that type more than any other.

  The man at the bar didn’t seem to fit into any of these categories. He appeared normal enough, although more conservatively dressed than most beach tourists, but behind the Father Christmas beard and the apple cheeks, redder now after the feni, lay a certain hawk-like awareness that made her feel uncomfortable. Involuntarily, she clasped the silver elephant pendant she’d inherited from her mother, which hung from a chain around her neck.

  The movement didn’t pass him by, and a small smile creased his lips. Pulling a photograph out of his pocket, he turned his attention to Joe. ‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for one Yelena Dmitriyeva Stephanov. I was given to believe she’d be here.’

  ‘We don’t have a Yelena – what was it? – Stefanov,’ Joe replied without looking at the picture.

  Helen felt her stomach muscles tighten at his next words. ‘She probably goes under the name of Helen Stephens. Honey-coloured hair, hazel eyes, five foot seven. No?’

  Joe crossed his arms and said nothing. He’d never give her away, but this stranger already knew who she was. Why keep up the pretence?

  ‘Who’s asking?’ She clenched her fist around the pendant to stop herself from grabbing him by the collar and yelling at him to just leave her the hell alone.

  Grinning widely, he stuck out his hand. ‘Ronald Sweetman, solicitor. I represent your grandmother, Agnes Ransome.’

  She shook his hand but only because it would be rude not to, and wasn’t surprised by the strength of his grip. As she’d suspected, the whole teddy bear demeanour was a front. ‘I don’t have a grandmother.’

  ‘You seem to have a grandmother when you withdraw your allowance every month.’ He sent her a sharp look from under bushy brows. ‘I should know, I deal with the paperwork.’

  Helen glared at him. ‘For your information, Aggie has threatened to cut that off many times. I don’t know why she doesn’t just do it. I couldn’t care less.’

  It was pure bravado. The money was useful. Besides, she knew Aggie would never stop sending it, because Aggie had abandoned Helen to the ‘care’ of social services and a children’s home at the age of five and was still atoning for it. As she would for the rest of her life if Helen had anything to do with it.

  Probably Mr Sweetman was aware of this too, for his expression softened a little. ‘Step-grandmother, then,’ he said mildly. ‘She wants you to come home.’

  ‘She does, huh? Fat chance.’ Joe touched her briefly on the shoulder. Mr Sweetman noticed and probably made his own assumptions about their relationship. Let him. He’d be wrong. ‘This is … where I’ve chosen to live. There’s nothing for me in England. Nothing.’

  ‘Mrs Ransome needs you.’

  ‘Needs me?’ Helen scoffed. ‘Aggie’s never needed anyone in her entire life, and she certainly doesn’t need me. That’s just bullshit.’ Her voice rose, and the few customers in the shack turned to look at her. She sometimes wondered what drove her to keep fuelling this inextinguishable rage she carried around inside her, but it had become as natural to her as breathing. She could never stop feeling that way. Couldn’t and wouldn’t. Ever.

  Mr Sweetman eyed her for a moment the same way a lazy, fat cat might look at a mouse, deciding whether it was worth the bother, then he shrugged and got down from the bar stool. ‘Well, if that’s your final word …’

  The rest, if there was more, was drowned out by a flash of lightning and a tremendous boom. A vicious gust of wind sent needle-sharp drops of rain up under the awning and in through the open door where they bounced off the wooden floor. The few lighted tea candles extinguished, and the electricity fizzed and cut out, then returned unsteadily.

  In the flickering light the solicitor’s eyes were bright and hard like polished granite. Shivering, Helen felt her nerve failing. ‘It is,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Please just tell her I’m not coming back.’

  ‘I see,’ he said and returned the photograph to his pocket. ‘It looks like I’ve had a wasted journey, then. Sorry to have troubled you.’ He left a few coins on the bar for Joe, nodded to Helen, and turned towards the door.

  His comment was probably designed to make her feel guilty, and it might have worked if it wasn’t for an overwhelming sense of relief. This was another person she’d never see again, and all the painful memories could go back in the box where they belonged. Memories of her mother and of Aggie’s betrayal.

  One day when she had the strength, she might take them out again.

  As Mr Sweetman paused in the doorway for the rain to ease up, it suddenly seemed odd to Helen that Aggie had chosen to send her minion all this way when she must have known what Helen would say. A pointless wasted journey indeed. Aggie could be accused of many things, but doing something on a whim wasn’t one of them.

  The solicitor turned around as if he sensed her thoughts.

  ‘There was one other thing Mrs Ransome asked me to tell you,’ he said. ‘Fay is out of prison.’

  Chapter Two

  Looking around his father’s London office, Jason Moody stretched his long legs out in front of him and regretted wearing a T-shirt and jeans. This was the kind of place where deals were made, and who you were and how you presented yourself counted for everything. Appearing too casual made him feel inferior when he’d prefer to be the one in charge of the situation.

  The converted warehouse was a very familiar environment to him, with its sanded oak floor, raw bricks painted white, and a large floor-to-ceiling window giving him an expensive view of Tower Bridge. The furniture complemented the décor: a sleek Scandinavian oak desk, minimalist floating shelves, and two brown leather sofas forming an L aroun
d a coffee table made from smoke-coloured glass. In the far corner stood a life-sized bronze statue of a naked Adonis with, incongruously, an owl in the place where the head should have been.

  Jason’s lips twitched. It would be so tempting to dress that statue in a canary-yellow Borat-style mankini, but somehow he didn’t think his father would see the funny side. Derek collected ornaments and curiosities, antique as well as modern, and was very proud of his collection. Like a magpie he’d never been able to resist anything shiny, no matter how tacky, although Jason had to admit that the statue in the office was one of his better pieces, if a little unnerving.

  He’d grown up in this environment and should be used to it, yet his father’s world was completely alien to him. Derek Moody did his best to appear a respectable businessman, but Jason knew he had a sideline or two. His father was, for want of a better word, a gangster.

  ‘Remind me again, what are you using the house for?’

  The question brought him back to why he was here. His father spoke with a pleasant baritone, but with a flinty undercurrent if you listened hard enough. As Jason turned to face the suit-clad figure across from him, he was all ears.

  ‘A halfway house. I’ve already told you that a hundred times.’ Impatience crept into his voice, and he hated the way it made him sound like a spoilt brat, never mind that he was almost thirty. ‘For people who come out of prison and have nowhere to stay.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  Infuriatingly calm, Derek Moody started opening the small pile of letters on his desk, slicing through the top with a paper knife. Jason gritted his teeth. How like his father to do his admin during a conversation with his only child.

  ‘I think you’re wasting your time,’ Derek said. ‘Housing murderers, rapists and paedophiles. Just scum.’

  ‘I’m not offering a home to either paedophiles or rapists.’ Jason felt his hackles rise. ‘As for the “scum” you’re referring to, I want to help the little people, the small fry who always pay the price while the big fish get away scot-free.’

  ‘The big fish, eh? Anyone particular in mind?’ Derek’s eyebrows rose.

  Jason felt his cheeks grow hot. ‘You know what I mean. The pot dealer who’s sent down while the organised crime boss gets rich. The hired gun who takes the fall so the posh git can inherit his wife’s money. The ones who work for those who always pay their way out of trouble.’

  ‘You’re an idealist, son. How sweet.’ Derek put down the paper knife and rested his chin on his folded hands. ‘Why don’t you come and work for me instead? Business is booming, and I’m sure I could find something useful for you to do.’

  ‘What? Cooking the books? Acting the goon, like Jones?’

  His father’s mouth curved in semblance of a smile. ‘You have a strange perception of what I do. I’m a run-of-the-mill property developer …’ Jason scoffed, but his father ignored him. ‘True, I sometimes circumvent a law here and there, and, yes, I didn’t get to where I am without making a few enemies – that’s why I need “goons” as you call them – but there are worse characters than me out there. Where would you draw the line? What sort of crime would qualify for a room in your house?’ Derek smirked. ‘Murder? Fraud? Rolling over little old ladies? Do you keep a score? Allocate points based on evilness?’

  His father was mocking him. Not only that, he was demonstrating that he had the means of unearthing every little detail about his son’s life if he chose to. Derek Moody knew exactly what sort of people were already living in the house Jason had been renting from him for the past six months. It was frankly galling.

  ‘Do I get the house or not?’ he snapped.

  He met his father’s ice-blue stare across the desk and cursed the fact that it was like looking at a mirror image of himself. Why couldn’t he be more like his mother, all blonde and peaches-and-cream? He’d be happy looking florid and jowly like his uncle if it meant not having to share the angular jawline, the thick dark hair, and the well-defined cheekbones with the man in front of him. Hell, he’d even settle for resembling one of his mother’s Pekingese dogs. Anything not to be like his father.

  Derek said nothing, just opened another letter with a ritsch. The sound set Jason’s teeth on edge.

  ‘The lease is coming to an end, Dad. I need an answer.’

  Still his father said nothing, but instead scanned the letter he’d just opened.

  ‘I have a lot of plans for the place,’ he continued with a sigh. ‘You know, new plumbing, rewiring, refurbishing the kitchen.’

  Finally, a response. ‘Where are you going to get the money for that? If you think—’

  ‘I’ve got my stall. I work six days a week there, so it’s doing all right. I was going to do most of it myself and just pay for materials, and besides, I don’t expect to be able to do it all in one go.’

  ‘My son, the plumber,’ Derek mused and tossed the letter aside. ‘No, is the answer.’

  ‘No?’

  White-hot rage suddenly welled up in Jason, taking him by surprise. Gripping the arm rests hard to restrain himself, he wondered how it would feel to leap across the desk and throttle his father. Or push him through that big window behind him just to see if he would bounce on the ground four storeys below. He could imagine the sense of release after years of pent-up anger, the rush of adrenaline, the freedom …

  He controlled himself. They’d be evenly matched, and his father had a bodyguard waiting outside ready to turn Jason inside out if need be. Maybe a dose of Derek’s own medicine would work.

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  His father sent him a sharp look as if wondering where this was going. ‘Your mother’s fine. She’s just bought another dog.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘How is that “lucky me”? I hate the stupid mutts.’

  This was the first time his father had shown any sign of passion, and Jason savoured it. Fifteen-love to me.

  ‘She’ll be too busy to notice your new bit on the side, then, won’t she?’

  Thirty-love. Derek turned a fraction paler, visible to Jason but probably not to anyone else. His father was a devout Catholic and believed strongly in commitment within a marriage, but as Jason had discovered in his late teens, Derek did have a slight problem with the fidelity issue. Or maybe it was about control, Jason could never figure out which.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Brunette. Former X Factor contestant. Nice legs, lives on Finchley Road.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have my own spies.’ He didn’t, but had followed his father himself a couple of weeks ago in a fit of pique.

  Derek regarded him for a long moment, a small muscle twitching over one eye, but Jason held his father’s gaze with steely resolve. Finally Derek said, ‘All right, I’ll consider it.’

  ‘You’re forgetting, I need an answer now. Next week might be too late.’ Jason waited to see how far he could push the old man.

  ‘You expect me to just give you the place?’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if it’s worth much. And you’ve got plenty of houses like it.’

  Derek hesitated a fraction of a second longer, then capitulated. ‘Fine, drop back in a few days and I’ll have the papers ready for you.’

  Forty-love. Game over.

  Jason felt like shouting it out loud but decided his father would probably change his mind if he realised Jason was comparing their squabble to a tennis match. Derek hated losing. He also had a tendency to become suspicious when something was important to his son. Better to remain neutral.

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘You realise there’s no way back. This is the life you’ve chosen. I can’t be seen to be involved. I can’t jump in and protect you. My business associates would be rolling on the floor with laughter.’

  ‘I don’t need you to.’

  ‘That,’ Derek paused for effect, ‘remains to be seen.’

  ‘You seem awfully pleased with yourself today.’<
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  His father’s secretary eyed him over her spectacles as he left the office. Ms Barclay – he had no idea if she was a Miss or a Mrs – was a formidable woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a timeless uniform of grey skirt, unadorned white blouse and black pumps. Her only concession to fashion and femininity was a pair of red-rimmed reading glasses and blood-red lipstick which she applied generously several times a day.

  She was the sort who could tell even the Krays to wait in reception and expect them to obey, and she guarded the door to the inner sanctuary like a dragon. Jason liked the old battleaxe.

  ‘He’s just signed over the house in Acton to me,’ he explained.

  ‘Well, good for you. Now if you don’t mind, he has important matters to attend to.’

  Jason grinned at her and left. This was as close to praise as she’d ever come, and he was happy with that.

  The week after Sweetman’s visit passed in a blur for Helen. As he’d intended, the solicitor’s words had hit home. No way could Helen carry on hiding out in India, or anywhere else, with Fay out of prison.

  Fay who’d killed her mother.

  Giving up her rooms, she bunked in Joe’s apartment for a few days. She said her farewells to the boys on the beach, to some of the long-term visitors, whom she’d got to know, and to Mamaji.

  The old woman kissed her on both cheeks. The gesture brought a lump to Helen’s throat. She didn’t think she’d ever see her again, but she’d been like a thing possessed since Sweetman delivered his bombshell.

  ‘No tears, bhachē.’ Child. ‘Life moves on and so must you.’

  She snapped something in Hindi at her daughter-in-law, who stood behind the counter of the shop. The daughter-in-law gave a petulant shrug and Mamaji gestured wildly, sending a torrent of words in her direction, some of them clearly expletives. Helen caught the word āalsī, lazy.

  The younger woman rolled her eyes demonstratively and disappeared into the back of the shop. She returned with a small parcel wrapped in a strip of saffron-coloured cloth, the Hindu holy colour. She handed it to Helen and put her hands together in the traditional Indian greeting.