The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  He crossed back through town, past Parkside, and had made it halfway down the wide university steps before realizing the irrelevance of his train of thought.

  It wasn’t even term time.

  He stopped in his tracks and sat down on a dry but dusty step. He couldn’t even be bothered to swear. His frustration lasted moments, until he realized how much more he now knew than even one hour earlier. And there were always methods to summon staff back to any teaching establishment, term-time or not. If he was going to swear he ought to direct it at himself, because maybe he had really been too tired to see the obvious.

  He glanced along East Road, in the direction of Parker’s Piece, thinking he ought to head back that way, go straight home and go to bed. Or put the jukebox on repeat and lie on the settee to see whether sleep really might catch up on him by accident. But he associated every bout of insomnia with lying endlessly awake up there so, for all he loved his flat, going back there now didn’t appeal. He stood, turned his back on it and set off the other way. He decided on coffee instead, and turned down Norfolk Street and into the CB2 café. Only one table was free, a corner seat away from the window, then he ordered a macchiato and a cappuccino, both at the same time, rushing the first then savouring the second.

  Over the next half cup he spent the time studying the café’s clientele. Some were students, plenty weren’t. Work by local artists hung on the walls, and flyers advertised acoustic music nights and poetry readings. He wandered over to the counter and found even more events advertised, most aimed at the student population. He held up one flyer to the man behind the counter. ‘Do you know of any regular fashion events?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m guessing there’s somewhere in Cambridge where would-be fashion designers meet?’ Would-be fashion designers? He cringed at his own use of words.

  ‘Not here, but if you go up the steps there, right to the back, you’ll see a table of eight. Ask for Olley . . . or if there’s someone wearing a maroon beanie, that’s him. He’s a bit like a student what’s-on guide.’

  Goodhew found Olley immediately, the beanie gave him away. There were only two men at the crowded table in any case and, as Goodhew headed over, the other one grabbed a couple of empty glasses before offering to buy the next round. As his first words were, ‘Oi, Olley,’ that pretty much clinched it – beanie or no beanie.

  Olley had a D-shaped grin, blue eyes and a fringe of lightened hair protruding from under his hat. Judging by the attention he received from the girls seated at the table, Olley was comfortable with his role as the lead man in the ensemble.

  Goodhew introduced himself and the curiosity of the group settled them into silence.

  ‘I’m trying to locate a female student who’d be studying for a degree in fashion, or in fact any course which includes painting textiles. I was hoping there might be a venue or a society or something. If it was poetry, I’d look here.’

  Olley looked from Goodhew to the assembled girls. A couple of them shrugged and all but one of them stared back blankly. The girl sitting closest to Goodhew leant forward on her elbow, the fingers of her supporting hand entangled in strands of long dark hair. In a barely-there Spanish accent, she announced, ‘I know what you mean. I expect she’s a student over there.’ At which she pointed in the direction of Anglia Ruskin University. ‘The Cambridge School of Art is in there.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not term time, and it’s urgent that I find her.’

  ‘I don’t know anywhere else to suggest, but all of us here are students there, except for Olley. What’s her name? Or do you have a photo . . . or a description?’

  Olley smiled in mock apology. ‘Though apparently I’m now just an ex-student, I might even recognize her too.’ He nudged the girl who had spoken playfully. ‘You never know.’

  She nudged him sharply in response, and was still smiling when she looked up again at Goodhew. ‘Tell us about her, then. One of us proper students might know.’

  ‘I don’t have an actual name, but she is slim with long, straight blonde hair. And probably with a tattoo of flowers running across one foot and curving around her ankle.’

  ‘Benz knows about tats.’ She leant over to the only red-headed girl in the group. ‘Who’s got a daisy tat across her foot?’

  Benz shook her head. ‘I don’t know that one.’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’ All eyes turned to back Olley. ‘It’s a daisy chain, isn’t it?’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘I think so. Do you know who she is?’

  ‘Not exactly, but she must be coming into her third year by now. I first noticed her at some fresher events that would have been during the start of the academic year before last – like two years ago next month. She was drunk and apparently she’d drawn the daisy chain on with an ordinary pen.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Revolution, maybe, or the Fez. Probably the Fez because I hardly missed it back then. Next time I noticed her was at Lola Lo, and the daisies had been henna-ed on by then. She said she was trying them out before making them permanent. I didn’t come across her anywhere after that, so I never saw them properly inked.’

  ‘And this is nearly two years ago.’

  The Spanish girl leant towards Goodhew. ‘He remembers women so well, even when he pretends not to.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘You can trust him for what you’re after.’

  ‘She had a bloke’s name,’ Olley added thoughtfully.

  ‘Like Dave?’ Benz shouted out, then laughed rather too loudly.

  ‘No, Andie. She’s called Andie.’

  ‘Fuck, yes.’ Benz suddenly sobered. ‘I know who you mean now. I’ve seen that tattoo as well. Andie Seagrove, that’s her. I used to see her on Facebook.’ Several of the others nodded then. ‘But I haven’t seen her for months.’ And they nodded at that as well.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Everything had changed. But it was going to be OK, Andie understood now. As of this morning she was grateful to be alive – and not just ordinary living, breathing alive, either.

  She’d draped a towel over the full-length mirror from day one, and still wasn’t ready to take it back down. But this morning she’d been finally ready to fully open the curtains and let the sunlight flood into the room without shrinking from what else she might see.

  Dust particles had tumbled through the air. Chocolate brown and cream leaf print warmed walls that had seemed monochrome for as long as she could remember. The room had gone from being barely satisfactory to the only place she’d been prepared to be. But she’d also realized that it couldn’t stay that way. And the hours she’d spent allowing herself to daydream of a fictitious life with safe outcomes had gradually evolved into visions of what her own life still had the chance to be.

  Perhaps there would come a day when she saw that deep regrets were as life-affirming as hard-won accomplishments. Unlikely. But she’d have to push herself to bring about such accomplishments if she wanted to test that theory, so today she must set about purging her life of all the evidence of her own stupidity.

  It was early evening now, and the bedroom was close to empty, while the area next to the front door was piled with bags destined for one of the charity shops in Burleigh Street.

  During the last two trips between her room and the hallway, she finally developed the feeling that she’d done enough. The front door itself was solid, apart from a fan of glass near the top, a spyhole in the middle and a letterbox at the foot. The view through the spyhole showed an empty street beyond, but it made the outside world look distorted and distant. The idea of stepping out into St Matthew’s Street still overwhelmed her, but tomorrow she would have to try.

  She pulled away from the door then and, without letting herself think about it for too long, opened it. The air outside was warm and smelt of a neighbour’s barbecue: sausages and onions. She sucked in several deep breaths, and then leant on the doorframe for another few minutes, watching the traffic passing the end of the road.

  When she was
finally ready, she returned to her room. The wardrobe doors hung open and the only items of clothing that remained were the ones that she’d brought with her when she’d first come to uni, and the ones she’d brought from home since.

  She felt satisfied with the room’s new and sparse appearance and, in spite of her tiredness, pushed herself on until she had cleaned down every surface and vacuumed into every inaccessible corner. Then she showered, and for the first time in weeks she washed her skin without breaking down.

  Instead the shuddering began as she dried herself. Her hands started to shake as she pulled her pyjamas over damp skin, fighting with the legs as they clung to her thighs. She put on a sweatshirt over the top, then bundled herself on to her bed, folding the duvet around her body and then up round her ears. Knowing the room was actually warm didn’t help her stop shivering; the coldness ran to her core.

  She reached out from her cocoon and flicked through channels on the television until she found the right level of bland. Snooker today. She didn’t even know the rules. The placid green rectangle of baize, hushed audience and the tapping of cue and balls played out meaninglessly. Bit by bit the warmth returned and the panic died away.

  Andie closed her eyes, still listening to the comforting rhythm of the frames being played. Those sounds eventually drifted into the background as she visualized tomorrow’s trip to Burleigh Street, mentally walking herself along the route and promising herself that she could do it. A week ago that idea would have felt hopeless, but possibilities were gradually appearing, and budding gently where four weeks earlier everything has been razed.

  She lost herself in these thoughts, drifting between them for a while, until she jolted back into the moment. As the interruption came loud and hard, she reorientated herself, then realized – someone was knocking at her door.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Carmel Marshall wasn’t impressed.

  She hadn’t even been impressed when Gully had rung to inform her that Marks himself planned to visit. Gully had explained that she’d be accompanying him, as it was ‘protocol for a female officer to be present in certain situations’. Carmel Marshall’s mood had darkened further.

  ‘If there’s someone else you’d like to have with you, that’s fine, Mrs Marshall.’

  ‘Like a friend you mean?’

  ‘Or a colleague.’ As she’d said it, Gully remembered that Carmel didn’t work. ‘Or relative,’ she had added.

  ‘But you’re coming with the policeman because of the sensitive nature of the conversation we’ll be having?’

  ‘There are some questions he’ll be asking . . .’

  ‘I get it and, no, I don’t want someone else there. I’m not at all impressed that you think you can just turn up and demand to see me just like that.’ She’d snapped out the words, then the receiver had rattled angrily back on to its rest.

  And when she’d opened the front door to them she’d made it clear again. Even if she’d opened the door smiling, and claiming to be keen to help, Gully doubted she’d have warmed to her. Carmel Marshall looked like the kind of woman who didn’t pick ’n’ mix her own outfits, but shopped by purchasing the mannequin’s whole look. Attractive but unimaginative.

  They’d followed Mrs Marshall into the sitting room, where she pointed them towards the settee. She positioned herself on the armchair furthest away before reciting another couple of reasons why they’d failed to impress her. ‘If you are going to call me at no notice and just expect me to make myself available to you, then I’m not really being given the chance to get my head straight, am I?’

  Marks had switched immediately to his diplomatic but firm tone. ‘Any investigation of this kind is protracted and, by nature, will involve elements that we can’t plan for, or inform you of, ahead of time. I’m sorry but these are questions I am forced to ask.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to say.’

  Marks spent several more minutes going over the situation, and barely seemed to notice Carmel Marshall’s complaints bouncing back at him. He’d probably see her tetchiness as a natural reaction to the stress she was under. Of course, he’d be right to at least give her the benefit of that doubt. Gully reminded herself that she was there to support, not judge. She stood up, produced her best attempt at a serene expression and offered to make hot drinks.

  ‘I don’t want you in my kitchen,’ Carmel snapped.

  ‘I’m only looking for a way we can break the ice here. Would you prefer to make some tea? I can keep you company while you do.’

  Carmel remained stony-faced, and Marks then cut in.

  ‘There are two of us here for a reason, but part of our training is to understand that you may find it hard to begin to talk to me with a third person in the room. And PC Gully is trying to give the dialogue a chance to get rolling.’

  Carmel leant back in her seat, folded her arms and glared. ‘Make your drinks, then.’

  Gully disappeared into the kitchen, filled the kettle and hoped it would be slow to boil. Unlike me, she thought, reflecting that her own suggestion of coming out here while Carmel made drinks had filled her with dread.

  The colour scheme in the kitchen and adjoining dining area had come from the same ‘natural’ palette as she’d already seen in the hall and living room. It looked to her like several shades of cardboard.

  What was her problem with this woman? So what if the furnishings and décor in this room had been bought with the same mindset as her clothes. Gully would not have been surprised to open a ‘kitchen and dining’ page in last year’s Next Directory and discover that this room had been an item A – P replication of their show model. She guessed that her inability to imagine herself in any kind of home-making role might be at the core of this feeling. It wasn’t therefore a reason to disrespect the woman.

  But equally, what was Carmel’s problem with them?

  Gully still had no answer by the time the kettle had finished boiling, and she now substituted those two questions for a single, simpler one.

  What would Goodhew say?

  She poured water into the mugs and took her time mashing the tea bags while she tried to think of the answer.

  In the end she sent him a text: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Walking.’

  ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Two minutes for you!’

  ‘She’s got my back up. I need a strategy?’

  ‘You never did like the liars, even when they’re OK people.’

  ‘What does that mean,’ she muttered to herself. ‘????’ she texted.

  The phone vibrated silently and he then spoke without preamble. ‘The house, marriage, car, clothes, topped-up tan, regular pedicures and a couple of weeks to somewhere sunny each year. Somehow they’re irritating you, right?’

  ‘Yes, but why should they? It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Well, it’s just a façade. Obvious to you, me and Marks, but that’s what’s got your back up. And the fact she’s a liar, even if only to herself. It’s only your cut-the-crap instinct butting in.’

  ‘Carmel will have to face up to the reality of the situation?’

  ‘Exactly. But in the meantime she’s clinging on to a lifestyle that, to be frank, vaguely repulses you. You wish she would just snap out of it, so we can make some decent progress with the case.’ Goodhew paused, and Gully said nothing. ‘Am I right?’

  He was spot on, but he wasn’t going to hear that from her. ‘So I should give her a break?’ she concluded.

  She finished the call and, not for the first time since arriving at Parkside, pondered why she was of any benefit to Marks at all. She was supposed to provide support, an open mind and comfort whenever required. She didn’t understand how he didn’t recognize her cynical streak. Almost any other female officer in the building would have been a better choice.

  She carried the three mugs back through and delivered the drinks.

  They both wore the same expressions as when she’d left. ‘I didn’t even ask how you like it, b
ut this is white, no sugar,’ she said to Carmel.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Gully manoeuvred a second armchair round so that she could sit closer to her, as Marks continued. ‘I’ve already explained the search of the boat to Mrs Marshall, and touched on some of the evidence found there. Now that Sue’s returned, I’ll carry on.’

  Carmel’s chest rose visibly as she drew a deep breath. She now held it as she waited for the body blow.

  ‘Are you aware of the purpose for which your husband used that boat?’

  She seemed frozen suddenly, and even her mouth barely moved. ‘No.’ She drew a small top-up of air into her lungs.

  ‘But you have been a visitor to the boat?’

  Her face twitched from side to side, in something less than a shake of the head.

  ‘We have discovered evidence that you were present on your husband’s cabin cruiser on at least one occasion.’

  ‘No.’ Finally her lungs deflated, and she stopped trying to suppress her words. ‘No, you’re wrong.’

  Marks stroked the bridge of his nose as he perused the notes. ‘The thing is, Mrs Marshall, we have recovered some of your blood from the scene. It came from a nosebleed – one which required medical attention.’

  Carmel pressed her right hand against her cheek, the third and fourth fingers pressing against one side of her nose. Her left hand held the mug, and for the first time Gully noticed there was an indent around her third finger where a wedding ring had once been.

  ‘We believe that at least two other women were subjected to serious sexual assault on that same boat. It you refuse to help us, you may be charged as an accessory to those crimes.’

  The gravity of the threat startled Gully; her attention darted from Carmel to Marks and back again. He had returned to reading through his notes, apparently unconcerned by the desperate thoughts his words had unleashed.

  Carmel fumbled with the mug, and Gully reached out and caught it before it fell. ‘It’s OK,’ she assured her. ‘We can sort this out.’