Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  There are still a few stars, dim but present. I want to cry, but my tears are as frozen as they often were in Sandra’s back room, when I tested to see how far I dared lean back from the window.

  What would happen if I leaned back now?

  What would happen if I fell?

  What would happen if I fell?

  What would happen if…

  I turn around, close my eyes, and I fall. It is slow. I fly. Somehow, I join the sky. Where do I belong? The stars. Who do I belong to? The sky. And I hear them all screaming my name; my mum, Tom, Stephen, The Man Who Knows. I hear, almost lost in the chorus, Victoria calling me too. And then there’s another voice; one I don’t recognise. Yet it’s one I know. My father. Yes, I think it’s my father. Harland Grey.

  Stella, Stella, Stella, they all chant. Stella, Stella, Stella.

  But they’ve got it wrong.

  Don’t call me Stella.

  Call me Star Girl.

  42

  ELIZABETH

  THEN

  There is a moment I had forgotten.

  No, I don’t really think I forgot it. We can choose what we look back at, can’t we? I’m a coward so I never could bear to see it. But I do now. Now she’s gone. All the time. Can’t get it out of my head.

  The memory hit me as Stella fell that terrible night. As we all lurched forwards, and I knew we could not save her. As we screamed her name and heard that horrible, horrible sound as the back of her head hit the concrete near my feet.

  I was the first to reach her. To hold her bloody and disfigured head to my chest. To know there was no chance she had survived the impact. But I could not let go of her, not when the ambulance arrived, not when they tried to prise her from my grip. I had barely wanted to hold her when she was born, but now I had to be the one to.

  When they carried her into the ambulance, her left foot fell from the stretcher. She had socks on. Pink ones, the same as her pastel work blouse. The one on that foot was wrinkled and had fallen right down. It brought back a memory I’d ignored all these years. I sobbed desperately. How could I have left her when she was just a kid? That abandonment had led to this, to her suicide.

  It was all my fault.

  Long ago, on the day I would leave her, I had watched my twelve-year-old Stella flounce down the path to school. So young and vibrant. So unlike me, tired at thirty-two by then, smoking thirty a day, still clubbing when I had the energy, trying to hide tired lines with make-up, and working my way through men who rarely bought me perfume anymore.

  Frumpy Sandra was pulling her wheelie bin out that day and made time, as she always did, to chat to Stella for a moment. Stella’s face broke into a natural smile. A pang of jealousy gripped me, despite my wish to escape being a mother. I hadn’t known then that it was the penultimate time I’d see my daughter for fourteen years. If I had, I might have gone after her. Hugged her, even though that was not our way. Pushed her hair off her face. Said sorry.

  When the letter arrived from Harland saying he was free, and I got everything together to escape, I’d felt terrible about deserting Stella so suddenly and absolutely. I did. I’m not just saying it now, after all that has happened.

  When the taxi I’d called arrived, I wondered if fate would bring that driver with the memorable name: Bob Fracklehurst. It didn’t. Fate was frowning on my decision to go. But still, I got in the car and ignored the young, chatty driver. As we passed Stella’s school, I shot forwards in my seat and asked him to stop a moment. Asked him to wait.

  I got out and approached the metal fencing. It was break time. Some of the kids were huddled close to the fence, gossiping and giggling as young teens do. I looked for Stella. I made a deal with myself; if I saw her I’d stay. I’d do the decent thing. I scanned the yard. She was sitting on a bench not far from me, facing the other way. If she had turned she would have seen me. But she didn’t, and I was glad because I knew she would have come over to me and asked a million questions.

  I had challenged myself to stay if I saw her.

  But Harland. Oh, Harland.

  I turned to leave.

  I looked back just once. It was then I noticed that one of Stella’s socks – a bright pink one, rebellious against her school uniform grey – had fallen down. It was wrinkled about her ankle. Such a thin ankle. I recalled how she had been born feet first. Awkward from the start, I’d often told her. She looked so young sitting there; so vulnerable. Lost in her own world. I knew I would have to erase the image of that sock from my head. Have to never think about it again if I wanted Harland.

  I pretended to myself that I had not seen her and got back in the taxi.

  I managed to bury that true last sight of Stella, and her errant sock, until I was with her in the ambulance, heading for the hospital. When I saw that pink sock loose around her still-slender adult ankle, I broke down. Tom was there, too. He looked stunned rather than grief-stricken. He patted my back as I sobbed, one of my hands gripping her ankle. The paramedics said they had to get her into the ambulance, so I followed, still holding it. As we travelled through the dawn streets, they were doing things to Stella, and I wanted to scream at them to stop because I knew she was long gone.

  She had left me.

  And I deserved it.

  I deserved it.

  Much later that day I took home that one pink sock. To remind myself that the girl who had arrived feet first had left the world as she should have been born – head first. She had lived her whole life with only those two feet to stand on. No decent mother, no father.

  I could forgive anything that Stella might have done.

  Anything at all.

  I just couldn’t forgive myself.

  43

  ELIZABETH

  NOW

  I didn’t go to Stella’s home while she was alive. As much as I wished to, she never invited me. I used to try and imagine what it might be like. Tidy. Organised. Perfect. Everything in its place.

  I was right. The front is immaculate. The little patch of grass is short, and the windows are clean, the curtains neatly tied back. She has only been gone a week and I wonder for a moment if Tom has kept it this way in her honour. To remember her. But it’s late October now, so the grass wouldn’t have needed cutting again, and he may not have touched the curtains since she died.

  I love the small house. I only wish Stella was inside it.

  I suddenly remember a pretty key she showed me once; a sterling silver one that didn’t actually open the door. It was large and had the initials S and T delicately inscribed into it. Stella and Tom. A strange thing, quite sharp. Stella had said it nicked her finger occasionally when she rummaged through her bag. Tom had an identical one. She gave him it as a moving-in gift.

  The thought of her being so kind, so happy to live with her love, brings a painful lump to my throat. But I can’t cry now. I’m here to be strong, not weak.

  I open the gate and go up the path, then compose myself before knocking on the door. For a moment, I think I smell the star perfume, fleeting, on the cool breeze. Is Stella with me? I have sensed her these past few nights; I’ve imagined her shadow in a window or mirror behind me, and then turned around to nothing. I might not have treated Stella how I was supposed to. I might not have been a true and good mother. I certainly didn’t see right by her in life, but I can make sure I do now she’s not here anymore. I will be her voice. I will say what she can’t.

  Because she didn’t kill Vicky.

  I know this.

  I knock on the door.

  After what seems like forever, just as I almost turn and leave, Tom opens the door. He looks dishevelled. His cheeks are sunken, as though they are pulled down by grief. For a moment, I want to reach out and stroke his face, but I resist. I’ve always found it far easier to touch and show affection for men. I’m not sure if it is because of the promise of sex, of attention, of love. But that now doesn’t come into it. Tom is not mine and I don’t want him to be.

  He says, oh, like he is confused
.

  I ask if I can come in for a moment.

  We haven’t seen one another since that terrible night. Not since we went in the ambulance together, since we hovered over Stella’s broken body at the hospital and got the horrible news we already knew. The funeral won’t be for a while yet. Due to the nature of her death, her body hasn’t been fully released yet. As next of kin, it’s my responsibility to claim it, though I will run all decisions by Tom. It’s only fair. I think she would want him to be involved.

  Tom opens the door wider and I follow him inside. It is just as tidy as the outside. In the living room there’s a huge, blood-red sofa. The cushions are neat and opposite each other. It’s too neat, in fact. Too perfect. Like it’s calculated and not someone’s natural way. I want to mess it all up.

  I realise he has the radio on. It’s not a presenter that I recognise, but then I rarely listen during the day. Maeve Lynch has been doing Stella’s evening slot the last few nights. She has the most beautiful voice. I almost feel guilty for enjoying her. She sounds sad, though. Like she misses Stella too.

  Coffee, Tom asks me, as though this visit is all normal, as though we know each other well and I’ve been here many times before.

  I suppose grief does strange things to people. It has certainly taken me unaware. It wakes me in the night – a pain that shoots right through me. The pain is mixed with horrific guilt – and self-pity I suppose – which makes it all the more wretched.

  I tell Tom that coffee would be good.

  Then I follow him into the kitchen and watch him put the kettle on. The radio is on in here too, like he needs it wherever he goes. Maybe he’s hoping to hear Stella, just as I do when I tune in. I sometimes hope it is all a nightmare and I’ll wake up and there she is, all elegant and confident on the airwaves. I remember knowing it was Stella that first night I came back to live here, before she said her name.

  They have been playing snippets of Stella’s final show – the confession, as they call it. But I turn that off. I can’t bear to hear it. It just doesn’t sound like her. Not the her I got to know.

  Sugar? asks Tom, and I shake my head.

  I notice the chopping board. It is placed straight, about four inches from the edge of the work surface, and it’s so clean it reflects the light above it.

  I remember, I say to him, that Stella shouted that you could leave it all wild and diagonal now. On the roof … that night.

  He nods; says that she always liked it dead straight. That he was messier, and they always tried to outdo each other with where they put the chopping board. It was just a thing they did. He looks at it. He doesn’t need to say that he has put it how she would want it to be. We both know it.

  I like to think… he begins, but doesn’t finish.

  As the kettle bubbles, he fiddles with the two cups.

  Now I’m here, where should I start? How on earth do I tell him? The room sways. I am wracked with guilt and sadness and knowledge. What will he do if I do tell him?

  Tom, I say eventually, I came because there are some things you don’t know.

  He frowns. About Stella? he asks.

  Yes. But about Vicky too.

  About Vicky?

  The kettle clicks off, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make our drinks. He doesn’t turn around either. Just remains immobile. I continue speaking to his back.

  I was Vicky’s doula, I tell him.

  Her what? Tom turns, confusion on his face.

  It’s a trained woman who helps another woman through her pregnancy and labour when she has no one else. I used to be one. Until … well, Vicky was my last.

  So that’s what it’s called, he says.

  What do you mean?

  Tom ignores me. He turns back to make the drinks, so I can’t read his face.

  I got quite close to Vicky. I liked her. I pause. So I know.

  Tom turns. What do you know?

  I know she wanted you back.

  Maybe. Tom stirs the drinks. But she would never have got me back. I loved Stella. Is that what this is all about? You think I was cheating on your daughter? You couldn’t be more wrong. I loved her.

  I know you did, I say gently.

  Tom hands me my coffee. Close up, his eyes flash with intensity. I can see again why Stella was drawn to him. He has the simmering presence Harland had. An electricity that fills the air. When he goes into the living room I follow him. A white cat is curled up on a red sofa. She – it looks like a she to me – looks up at us and then scurries away, brushing past my leg on her way out.

  She’s Perry, says Tom quietly. Never really liked me. Loved Stella though.

  He motions for me to sit on the sofa, so I do. He remains standing. I wonder briefly if he wants to appear bigger, stronger – in charge somehow.

  Should I be scared of him? Maybe. But I’m not. Just as I never was of Harland. But I’m afraid to tell him the rest.

  Tom, I say, one night I went to Vicky’s house.

  He studies me but doesn’t speak.

  She had told me earlier on that day that she was coming to visit you, to tell you she still loved you and she was going to get you back.

  I sip my coffee and watch for Tom’s reaction.

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t let that happen, I say. I knew how much it would hurt Stella. How much she loved you. So I decided I was going to intervene. Stop her. Whatever it took. I went and sat outside her house all evening. Until midnight…

  And? asks Tom.

  There is no going back.

  I tell him.

  44

  BOB FRACKLEHURST

  NOW

  It takes three attempts for Bob Fracklehurst to open the police station door and go inside.

  He almost wishes that no one will be sitting behind the desk; that way he can sneak back out and return home. But a young man in a uniform is there, and when he looks up with enquiring eyebrows, Bob knows there is no going back.

  He has been thinking about coming here for days. Four times he has even set off in the car and then turned back. But this morning he knew absolutely that it was the right thing to do. He got up early – trying not to disturb Trish, because he didn’t want her embroiled in anything too emotional, not after her recent hysterectomy. He put on his smart slacks and the shoes with the tassels that Trish got him, and then he drove around in his brand-new, not-a-taxi car until it was light. It took Bob a further half-hour to make himself go inside.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The officer looks too young to be in the job, as though he has tried on his father’s uniform and wandered in here by mistake.

  ‘Um, yes, I hope so.’ Bob goes to the desk. ‘I have something to report.’

  ‘A crime, sir?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Bob clears his throat. ‘I mean, it involves a crime, but one that’s already been committed. It’s about the Victoria Valbon murder.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s just that … well, I … I don’t know where to start really.’

  ‘If you think you have some new information, I’ll go and get someone to take your details.’ The young man disappears. After a while, he returns with a much older, female officer. Her smile is brisk, her manner even brisker, and her ash hair so tightly pulled back that her eyes are catlike.

  ‘We’ll go in here,’ she says, leading Bob into a private room. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  In the small space, they sit opposite one another at a wooden table. It’s too warm and Bob wonders briefly if this is intentional, so criminals sweat and make full confessions. No, that’s ridiculous; he’s been watching too many crime shows with Trish.

  ‘Okay, sir,’ she says, opening a folder. ‘I’m PC Greatfield and I’ll get some info from you here, and then if I deem it necessary, the officer in charge of the case will question you himself. He’s away until tomorrow so you’ll have to come back. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, whatever you need to do.’

  ‘Can I take your
name?’ Her pen is poised.

  ‘Bob Fracklehurst.’

  ‘And your—’

  ‘It’s all official then, is it? You’ve decided Stella McKeever did it?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’ She frowns at him. ‘But I can say that the case isn’t closed yet, so any info you have could still be immensely helpful. Can you give me your date of birth, address and phone number please?’

  Bob does so.

  ‘And what do you—?’

  ‘I don’t think she did it.’ Bob spills the words. They have been going around in his head for two days. It’s good to get them out. He was afraid to come, afraid he would be in trouble for not coming weeks ago. ‘I don’t think she murdered Victoria Valbon.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ PC Greatfield studies him, as though to assess his mental capacity. Is he a lunatic? An attention-seeker?

  ‘I listened to her all the time on the radio,’ he says then. ‘Stella McKeever, I mean. I drive you see; taxis. Or I did. I retired a few weeks ago. I miss it, you know. It’s a long time to be doing a thing and then not to be. I got to meet all sorts of folks, from all walks of life. I always had me radio on, listened to music, sang along. Sometimes now I get in the car and drive around, just to feel like I’m doing it again. My Trish thinks me quite bloody barmy. She said—’

  ‘Sir, if you could just tell me about Stella McKeever.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous.’

  Bob scratches his cheek. Though he gave up smoking three years ago, he suddenly longs for one. In the crime dramas he and Trish watch, suspects are allowed to smoke. But he isn’t a suspect. And this isn’t TV. A young woman’s innocence could be in his hands though.

  ‘It’s so terrible what happened. I just couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the news. I cried, I tell you. Cried like a baby.’ Tears fill his eyes now. ‘My Trish said she’d never seen me that way. But a young woman, doing that. Saying those things and then jumping from a roof. What a waste.’