I always imagined Dad sitting here every day, his brain as silent and passive as him, when it must have been whirring. His wife wasn’t really his wife, his children may not be his children, and all the time he loved us, even if he was unable to protect us. How easy it was to ignore Vince, the unemployed loser to Ray’s fun, successful businessman. Other people had paid a high price for Ray’s fun and success. Dad was one, Becca another, and neither of them seemed to realise.
I’ve realised and Mum did. What about Edie? Had she found out, confronted him, angered him, stripped away the veneer of the indulgent uncle? It’s no use, however angry I am with Ray I can’t see him as a murderer, especially not of Edie. They had a special bond; they were alike in so many ways. People were drawn to them and they didn’t have to try. If they wore strange clothes or listened to unfashionable music it was because they were cool and didn’t follow the crowd, not because they were out of date and odd.
No one minded their selfishness, their casual cruelty, they were just happy to be with them. It’s not like that for most people, for Dad, for me. OK, it’s like that for me, but only with Max, and now I’m starting to guess why. And now I can finally answer Cassie’s question of why I stayed with him, he makes me feel how the Edies and Rays of the world must feel all the time, more wanted than wanting, more needed than needing.
It’s a pity Dad never found someone who made him feel like that. I sit in his chair and take out a cigarette. Mum was the very worst person he could have fallen in love with. She only emphasised how much he wasn’t Ray. How did that make Dad feel, how long did he put up with it? Did he snap one day? Did he find out Edie and I weren’t his daughters? Was it revenge on Ray and Mum, taking their favourite child? It makes no sense. Mum was dead by then. Besides, Dad couldn’t hurt anyone; he could never even get angry with us, let alone violent.
I stub my cigarette out. I can’t face Dad today. I need to get away and think. I’m no closer to finding Edie’s boyfriend and I can’t find a link between Mum’s alleged suicide and Edie’s death. This house, this town is sucking me in. If I don’t go soon, I’ll never leave. I could go back to London now, take the next train. The police investigation is going nowhere.
My throat’s becoming scratchy, so I fetch some cold water to soothe it then check my phone for the train times. There’s one in an hour, I could catch it if I leave now. I’m about to go upstairs to get my case, when the phone rings.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hello.’
A moment’s silence.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Hello, Tess. It’s Simon here. Simon Gossington.’
It takes a couple of seconds to remember him. Michaela’s father.
‘I wasn’t sure if I should phone you. It was difficult to say anything at the time, what with Lucinda and Arabella being there. My wife doesn’t know I still go to see Michaela and Arabella gets upset if she’s mentioned.’
‘I see.’
‘Lucinda thinks it’s best to leave her to it. Tough love.’
The line goes quiet again before he continues.
‘I saw her yesterday and said you’d been looking for her. She wants to see you.’
‘Really?’
‘She remembers you well. I think it’s a good sign, wanting to be in touch with her old friends. Don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say without thinking.
Michaela took no notice of me at school except to sneer. Why would she want to see me now? Perhaps she’s another drama-chaser and has heard about Edie. It fits in with what I remember of her, holding court, always the centre of attention.
‘I tried to persuade a couple of the others to go but they’re fair-weather friends. Do you remember Vonnie?’
‘Not really.’
‘They were so close at school. But she doesn’t want to know. Might as well ask her to go to Kabul as the Glades.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe I’m being unfair, I don’t know what happened between them. Michaela can certainly be strong-willed.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘So I really appreciate your going.’
‘No problem.’
He reads out the address and I write it down.
‘Go in the morning when he’s out.’
‘Her boyfriend?’
‘Yes. Best avoided. If he turns up, leave.’
‘OK. And thanks for your help,’ I say.
‘To be honest, Tess, it’s a relief. You’ll go and see her soon, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘And if you could just talk about the old times, say that you’ve been to see us, that we’d be happy to have her home…’ He stops. ‘I know it’s unlikely she’ll come back.’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ I say.
I look at the address I’ve written down. I still can’t believe Michaela lives on the Glades.
Chapter 52
Edie: April 1998
Just like the first time she was in The Green Leaf Café, it was raining. And just like the first time, she felt awkward. She and Bob had been to Irregular Records, where she’d bought a couple of forty-fives she couldn’t really afford. He must know, as she did, that Michaela was bridesmaid at a cousin’s wedding that weekend and there was no chance of running into her.
All the things she would normally talk about would let him know she’d lied. She couldn’t tell Bob about Max; he would guess her age straight away. Sometimes she thought she’d seen him when they were out together, but she was never sure. Today, she thought she’d seen Tess. As they’d left the record shop, a small figure had leapt into a doorway at the other end of the parade. But she couldn’t tell Bob about her twin. No one believed Tess was fourteen, let alone seventeen years old, the age Edie claimed to be. School was off limits, because she was supposed to be a hairdresser, and she obviously couldn’t talk to him about her friends and Michaela.
Instead, she told Bob about Mum, Nathan Bexley and what Raquel had told her about Uncle Ray. Bob stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, smoked a cigarette and listened to Edie without interruption.
When she finished, he asked, ‘So when did your parents get married?’
‘Not sure. Why? Does it matter?’
‘Well if it wasn’t too long before you were born…’
Edie traced the dirt running through the cracks on the table with the tip of her finger. She thought of all the trips with Uncle Ray, the presents and now he was paying their school fees.
‘You think Uncle Ray’s my dad?’
‘It’s possible. I mean, he’s sounds like he gets around a bit. He had a child with this Valentina woman too, right?’
‘It died.’
‘How long did their affair go on for?’
Edie remembered a hot summer day. Her birthday. She came out of the house. Uncle Ray and Valentina were standing close to one another. When they saw Edie, Valentina stepped back.
‘Uncle Ray’s not like that,’ Edie said. ‘And he’s been so kind since Mum died. Like …’
‘Like a father?’
Edie’s arm tensed and her fingertips tingled. Bob must have sensed her anger.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But it makes sense of what you’ve told me, doesn’t it?’
Edie didn’t answer.
‘Hey, finish up your drink and we can go to my mate Jim’s. He’s got a record player. We can put on some vinyl there.’
‘Won’t he mind me coming over?’
‘He’s not in. I’ve got the key.’
‘OK.’
Her mind was elsewhere. Uncle Ray in Stevenson Park all those years ago. Mum asking about Valentina’s weight. It had seemed a long time between finding Valentina and Mum’s death. Looking back, it was only a few days. Bob kept talking, something about music. She finished her tea, scalding hot and tasting of nothing.
‘Do you think he was seeing Mum and Valentina at the same time?’ Edie asked.
‘If he’s that type of guy, he’s not goin
g to stick to one woman.’
Bob squashed his cigarette butt into the ashtray. Edie looked up into his face. He should know about not sticking to one woman.
‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ Edie asked.
She wanted him to come clean, to tell her he was trying to escape from another relationship. If she only waited it would be just the two of them.
But he said, ‘Of course I’ve got a girlfriend.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘You. Come on, let’s go; it’s stopped raining.’
Edie stood up.
Two days between telling Mum about Valentina and her death on the dual carriageway. Had telling Mum pushed her to despair? She would have guessed Valentina’s fatness was pregnancy and would have known the peacoat belonged to Uncle Ray. Was she responsible for her mother’s wish to die?
‘Don’t forget your records,’ Bob said.
Edie realised she’d left them on the seat next to her. Nearly twenty pounds’ worth.
She picked up the plastic bag.
‘Are you OK? Don’t get so upset about your uncle. He’s probably not your dad,’ Bob said.
‘And Valentina?’
‘It’s all in the past, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Edie said.
The bag felt heavy in her hand. Outside, the traffic was too loud and the air too thick. Bob took the bag off her.
‘You can have a lie-down at Jim’s,’ he said.
Edie leant against him and didn’t reply.
If he’s that type of guy…
*
Bob pushed the door open against the weight of leaflets and free newspapers. Dust floated up, swirling in the shafts of light and making Edie cough. It was hotter than outside, far too hot. She had the urge to run, but Bob had stepped in behind her and closed the door.
She brushed against the radiator and pulled back. Someone had left the central heating on.
‘Why’s the radiator on?’
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘It’s upstairs.’
She wanted to stay where she was and talk about the radiator but couldn’t think of anything else to say, so climbed the stairs. The carpet was dark green and fraying. It led to a room with leaf-patterned wallpaper, a floral settee, turned grey by dust, and a kitchenette at the back.
‘Do you live here?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My mate owns the shop below. He lets me use it sometimes.’
The heat pressed upon her and she couldn’t breathe. She fell back onto the settee.
‘Why’s it so hot?’ she said.
‘I’ll open the window.’
He struggled with the sash before it finally lifted. The heat didn’t get any better and the noise from the road was worse.
Her limbs hung heavy and her brain slowed. She didn’t want to be with this boy in this flat, with its threadbare carpet and once floral settee. She couldn’t remember what she’d liked about him. He seemed so ordinary. The sort of boy she’d normally avoid. She wanted to be alone, walking by the canal, reading, anywhere but here.
Bob picked up her bag and took out ‘Glory to Love’.
‘Shall we play this?’
She looked at the record player; it was dusty and unused. The needle probably hadn’t been changed in twenty years.
‘Not now,’ she said.
‘I’ll play one of mine then.’
A loud thump came from the speakers when he switched them on. He took a forty-five and flipped it in his hand before placing it carefully on the turntable.
She knew this song. Not one Uncle Ray played; it must be off the radio.
‘What’s this? I know this.’
‘“In the Midnight Hour”, Wilson Pickett. Do you like it?’
‘Is this Motown or Stax?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’
He sat next to her, reached over and pushed the hair from her face.
‘Because most of the best Northern soul tracks are actually unknown Motown.’
He leaned in and placed his hand on her knee. She didn’t stand up. It seemed easier to get it over with. It was, after all, where this had been leading and what she thought she wanted. The scent of his aftershave mixed with the dust, traffic fumes and cigarettes on his breath.
‘U-huh,’ he said.
She closed her eyes and the rumble of traffic drummed through her head. And she thought of Mum’s death on the road not three miles from here. His breath against her cheek was hotter than the air in the flat.
Wilson Pickett’s voice filled her head. She wondered if Wilson took the girl he was singing about to a grubby flat above a launderette.
She turned her face away and watched the dust rise in the shards of light from the window. Soon it would be over and she could leave, go to the canal, find some cool air, be alone.
Chapter 53
Tess: July 2018
I’d pictured Michaela as a skeleton with greasy hair, cold sores round her mouth and track marks up her arms, living in a squat with stained mattresses strewn across the floor. When she answers the door she is very thin but looks well enough apart from the smudges under her eyes. She’s barefooted and wears just a plain grey T-shirt dress. The flat’s messy but not some junky hellhole. She shows me into the lounge, which has a mismatching armchair and sofa and a pine coffee table.
‘I didn’t think you’d come so soon,’ she says.
Her voice is unchanged. It holds a commanding quality that still makes me feel inferior. And though she’s not quite as tall as I remember, she towers over me.
‘I’ve got to get back to London,’ I say.
‘Oh, you live in London.’ She looks me up and down, a sneer twitching at her lips. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
I decide it’s best to be straightforward.
‘I wanted to ask you about Edie.’
She doesn’t offer condolences and her face remains neutral. Perhaps she doesn’t know.
‘They found her body three weeks ago. The funeral was last week.’
‘Yeah, I saw the news.’
‘I thought you might come.’
‘Me? Why would I come?’
‘You were best friends.’
She snorts.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Well, one of her best friends. I just wanted to ask you about the time, just before Edie when missing. It might offer some clues as to what happened.’
‘Like I told the police, it was a long time ago. I can’t remember.’ Vilas’s uncooperative friend. ‘You were her twin. What can I tell you? You must know everything there is to know about her.’
‘No. After she started hanging out with you …’ after she started hanging out with you she had no time for me any more. She lied and kept secrets. You came between us. You stopped us from being sisters, ‘… we started doing our own thing more.’
Michaela sits in the armchair and reaches for a packet of cigarettes.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No.’
I pull out my own, light up and take a seat on the sofa as she doesn’t ask me to sit down.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she says.
‘I didn’t at school.’
This comment makes her smirk. I don’t like her any more than I did back then. She’s smug and superior, even now, living here with this lifestyle.
‘Why did you agree to see me?’
‘You asked,’ Michaela says.
‘Your dad says you’ve cut yourself off from your old friends.’
‘They’ve cut themselves off from me.’
‘Your dad says—’
‘Urghh.’ She throws her arms down to her side; the ash from her cigarette brushes off on her dress. ‘My father says a lot of things. What did he tell you?’
‘Not much.’
‘You told him we were friends.’ She smiles. ‘Were we friends, I don’t remember?’
I ignore her sarcasm.
‘So why did you agree?’
‘Curiosity,’ she says.
She draws
on her cigarette then slumps into the armchair. Her T-shirt pulls across her belly and out of the bones there’s a small but discernible bump. She sees me watching.
‘Four months.’
‘You’re keeping it?’
‘Course.’
‘But Arabella?’
‘I never wanted Arabella. Mum and Dad bullied me into it. Well, they can look after her.’
‘But…’
‘What?’ she says.
‘Nothing.’
Jem told me her parents wanted her to have an abortion and she’d refused. And after Arabella was taken away, she used to go over there crying, begging to see her. I’m not sure who to believe.
‘You think I’m a terrible person leaving my child?’
‘No.’
Yes.
‘She’s better off where she is. Except I wish they hadn’t sent her to JAGS and I wish they didn’t let her see that bastard.’
‘He’s her father and …’
He seems to care about her, I want to say. But I don’t think letting on about seeing Jem is too smart a move.
‘Your dad’s nice. He’s really worried about you. He’d like you to go back.’
Michaela pulls a face.
‘I’m not going back there.’
‘What’s so bad you prefer it here?’
‘It’s not so terrible. Don’t look horrified, you’re from Limewoods.’
‘I wouldn’t go back.’
‘No. You wouldn’t, would you? Little Tess, so desperate to fit in, to speak properly and make friends with the right people.’ I was never like that. If I had, my life would have been much easier. ‘You think nothing could be worse than going back to Limewoods? Well, how about going back to boredom. To a life you have no say in? To a child you never wanted.’
‘OK, but you don’t have to live like this.’
‘I don’t have to, I choose to. You think you’re better than me now, don’t you? Is that what you always wanted?’
‘I didn’t come here to argue, Michaela. And I never pretended I was from anywhere but Limewoods. You’re confusing me with Edie.’
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