The Girl in the Gallery

by Alice Castle

  And now here she was in a situation that was almost as exhausting. Every time she left the room, after playing UN peacekeeper to a knot of fighting boys, the scuffles broke out again. She decided there was nothing for it but to plonk herself down and make up the other pair, so that there were four of them playing each game. It was no better. Somehow, whatever was going on, and no matter how closely she supervised, it always went awry. It was astonishing. Ben and Charlie had spent so many happy hours here, blowing each other to smithereens on screen while co-existing perfectly peacefully in the here and now. But tonight, everyone was riled.

  It would be tempting to put it down to Matteo – after all, he was the new element in the mix. But Beth honestly couldn’t identify him as the lone perpetrator. Rather, it was as though his very presence had mixed up the elements of a previously harmonious relationship and rendered it, well, not exactly toxic, but certainly taxing. Beth studied him carefully, the corkscrew dark curls massing round his little pixie face, his large eyes usually mostly hidden behind the curly hair. Finally, after almost an hour of close scrutiny, Beth caught the ghost of a smile flitting across his face as Ben took one of the sofa cushions and thumped Charlie with it. Hard.

  ‘Right, that’s it. It’s going to be spelling practice round the table now,’ said Beth in her sternest voice. There was a chorus of ‘awwwws’ from the boys, but they were soon settled round the kitchen table with sheets of A4 and sullen expressions, while Beth got on with the not insubstantial clean-up operation demanded by the aftermath of spaghetti Bolognese for four. That was where they still were, kicking each other surreptitiously under the table every now and then, when Maria finally rang the doorbell.

  Beth almost ran to throw the door open to her deliverance, wreathed in smiles. Maria, who had thought her quiet compared to Katie’s perpetually sunny glow, was taken aback at the warmth of her welcome.

  ‘Come in, come in, the boys are just finishing up. I’ll just help Matteo pack his schoolbag,’ said Beth, shoving Matteo’s stuff away into his still-pristine bag, evidence that he was very much the new boy. As she put in his pencil case, she felt something rubbery at the bottom of the bag. She pulled out a stethoscope. Not a toy; a real one, if looking well-used. How odd. But then she remembered Katie saying Matteo had got the boys playing doctors the other night. Obviously, a bit of thing with him.

  Beth felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she should have encouraged that this evening. Or maybe she just hadn’t been welcoming enough? Maybe that’s why the boys hadn’t been playing nicely.

  At that moment, Charlie kicked out under the table and caught Ben on the ankle, and he wailed in distress. No. This kind of malarkey had just never happened before between them. She didn’t want to point the finger of blame too quickly – but she was not going to be sorry to say goodbye to this kid.

  To her surprise, Maria trilled with laughter as she heard the commotion between the boys. ‘Ah, boys! Always fun and games! I can tell Matteo has really enjoyed tonight. I want to thank you so much. It has not been easy for him, the move. And with his sister so upset…’ Maria made a little moue of distress. Beth hoped she wasn’t going to get emotional again.

  Although Maria spoke in a low voice, it was clear to Beth that Matteo was following every word. She wasn’t sure she’d have laid it on with such a trowel if Ben had been in the newbie position. Nothing like a lot of emphasis on the negatives to make a child feel like an interesting victim. But then again, Maria was a trained doctor, a psychiatrist. She must know what she was doing.

  Maybe Beth herself was too repressed? Was she bringing up a withdrawn child? She looked anxiously at Ben, who was at that moment laughing uproariously at something Charlie had said, their usual bonhomie restored. Well, he didn’t look too damaged to her. She shot a look back at Matteo, and saw a rather hunted look on his face, as he watched the other two boys. He was a complicated one, and no mistake.

  Normally, she would have invited Maria to stay for a glass of wine, made a bit of an effort to get to know her. But the evening had been frankly exhausting, and the grating of nerves and relationships only seemed to be dissipating now that Matteo was on the point of leaving. Beth could do with a large glass of red, all right, but she’d rather have it alone. She shut the front door on the pair of them with a feeling of unalloyed relief.

  Beth wondered if Katie had had a similar experience with Matteo. He’d been round a few times to play with Charlie. But Katie was all the things that Beth wasn’t feeling tonight – forgiving, open-hearted, generous-spirited.

  Beth was making herself sound like a monster, but there was no escaping the fact that she was more guarded. She blamed it on the shock of James’s death, still reverberating down the years. She’d been as open and loving as they came, then fate had blundered in and taken away her future. And Ben’s. And, while she’d never tell him that he was a victim of that day all those years ago, when his daddy had suddenly and unaccountably died, it was nevertheless the truth. Neither of them had been left unchanged by that disastrous quirk of fate. Beth knew, in a way that most didn’t, how easily and irrevocably life could be turned upside down. She supposed some people reacted by doing all that seizing-the-day stuff, and lived life in the moment. She had built a fortress around her boy, and her heart. It had worked for her.

  Realising the tea in front of her had gone stone cold while she’d been mulling over the odd evening, she stood up and trudged the little staircase to her son’s room. He was spark out on his bed, his feet poking out from under the navy blue cover emblazoned with stars. Charlie was on the little truckle bed, right next to his friend, but for some reason with his feet on the pillow and his head round the other end, his duvet crumpled on the floor. Beth shook her head and covered him up. She was pretty sure neither of them had brushed their teeth. Damn, another few bad mother-points added to her tally. She’d been too deep in her reverie. She should at least have yelled up the stairs to them. Katie, she was sure, would have hovered over them until every last molar was gleaming. Oh well, she wouldn’t tell if they didn’t. She couldn’t reach Ben without disturbing Charlie, but she blew both sleeping boys a kiss. At least Ben’s duvet was tucked in round his shoulders, the way he liked, even if his tootsies were open to the elements.

  She started picking up a few of the bits of Lego and the books that had been strewn around during all the horseplay this evening, then she gave up and just kicked a path clear to save them tripping up, in case either boy needed the loo in the night. She wouldn’t put Ben’s nightlight on. He still liked its reassuring glow, but he had said the other day it was a bit babyish. She didn’t want him to be mortified in case Charlie was already big and brave enough to do without these days.

  Once she’d flipped off the main light on the landing, she lingered for a moment, listening to two sets of untroubled breathing, allowing her own breath to slow as well. That made her realise how fast and shallow it had been up to now – a result, she supposed, of the stressful evening. Katie, with all her yoga skill, would have diagnosed an unquiet mind from that; and she would have been quite right.

  Returning to the kitchen, Beth chucked away the unappetising tea, which now had an oily film on its surface, and got a glass out of the cupboard. She sloshed in a goodly dose of red. It was nothing special – the remnants of one of those Marks and Spencer ‘dine in for two’ offers that she sometimes picked up for their supper if she felt lazy. She felt she definitely deserved it tonight.

  The house phone trilled. Surely it was too late for the double-glazing salesmen, PPI merchants, and other annoying junk callers? The only other person who used her landline was her mother, and Beth had spoken to her yesterday. She picked up gingerly.

  ‘Beth! It’s Katie. Just got back. I tried your mobile, but it went to voice. How are the boys?’

  By boys, Katie, of course, chiefly meant Charlie. Beth happily gave his doting mother a full run-down of everything he’d eaten, confirmed he was sleeping peacefully, and glided past the tooth-brushing part
. ‘But listen, Katie, you’ve had Matteo to play before. How did that go? Did they… get on?’

  There was silence for a beat. ‘What happened?’ said Katie.

  ‘Don’t get alarmed, nothing bad. It was just… so much less easy than it usually is. You know how Charlie and Ben are. They’re in their own little world, they just get on with it… Tonight, well, it wasn’t like that.’

  Another pause. ‘Katie?’

  ‘I’m here. Just thinking. I’m not sure. I put it down to them not knowing each other so well… but there’s sometimes more… friction? I don’t know how to describe it exactly,’ said Katie.

  ‘It could just be that they’re getting each other’s measure,’ said Beth, playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘Yes… But Matteo’s been over three times now and, well… Maybe it’s just that he’s a complicated little chap.’

  ‘“Complicated”. Funny, that’s exactly the word that came to my mind,’ said Beth, taking a quick swig of wine. ‘Well, I hope Maria’s had a chance to talk things through with her daughter, at least.’

  ‘We can find out tomorrow. I said I’d meet her for a coffee after drop-off. Well, you’re doing the drop-off, but we can all have the coffee,’ Katie laughed.

  ‘I’ll have to make it a quick one. I’ve still got mountains of work to catch up on,’ said Beth, with a guilty flashback to her bulging in-tray.

  ‘No problem. See you tomorrow then, and thanks again for having Charlie.’

  ‘That reminds me – how was Benedict Cumberbatch?’

  ‘Mmm, dreamy. I’m not sure how he does it, with that long face like an otter, but he’s gorgeous despite being so… ottery.’

  ‘Ottery? Is that a word?’

  ‘It’s not only a word, it’s a whole meme. Google otters and Benedict.’

  Half an hour later, after double-locking the front and back doors, Beth drifted off to bed, still giggling to herself at the deluge of images of the distinguished actor alongside mugshots of otters, looking incontrovertibly alike. She forgot to check her phone. In the depths of her bag, it jolted into life. The screen flashed urgently, but the ringer was still off.

  ***

  York, back in his bedsit, with his copy of The Crime at Black Dudley spine-down on his sofa, flicked the phone off in irritation. So much for amateurs. Beth might pretend she wanted in on the investigation, but where was she when it mattered? He needed to discuss the case. Every Sherlock needed his Watson. Granted, Beth – knowing her – probably saw herself as a Harriet Vane in her own right, and not some subordinate sounding-board to his infallible detective genius. But she was falling at the first hurdle as a detective sidekick. No matter how pivotal or otherwise their role in bringing things to a neat conclusion, they had to be available.

  He sighed, and shifted to try and get more comfortable. On his next days off, he’d definitely get another sofa. But even the thought of what was involved in replacing this lumpy monstrosity overwhelmed him. The trip to Ikea, or the pig-in-a-poke purchase over the internet, all involved time and decision-making skills that he’d rather devote to something – anything – else. Luckily, he wouldn’t have a day off any time soon, so there was no need to worry overmuch. Anyway, by slinging his long legs up onto the sofa and adopting a semi-reclining position, he was now avoiding the most spiteful of the springs.

  In the meantime, he should probably cultivate one of the DCs at work, get a proper partnership going on a more professional level. Another copper always picked up the phone whatever the time of night, single mother coping alone with a young boy and a job or not. York frowned. He hoped she was ok. She was usually good about getting back to him. It wasn’t that he really needed her help. In fact, she was going to get quite a shock when she played her messages in the morning. He almost wished, now, that he hadn’t called her at all.

  ***

  Beth made the mistake of starting to replay her messages as she was waiting at the school gates for Katie. There hadn’t been a moment earlier, though she’d been startled when she checked through her bag to make sure the phone was actually there, and saw the two missed calls from York. She kicked herself, belatedly remembering she’d meant to ring him back last night. The one from Katie she knew she needn’t worry about; they’d already caught up. From that point on, she’d been dying to replay York’s messages, but the usual breakfast chaos was doubled this morning by having Charlie with them. Both boys always woke up full to bursting with beans, and this bright sunny day was no exception. Getting them to sit down long enough to shovel some Weetabix into them was a major feat.

  Luckily, both were now having school lunches, so she no longer had to face the ghastly job of stuffing two lunchboxes with delicacies that squared the circle of appealing to small boys yet ticking all the no-nuts, icing-free, gluten-avoidant guidelines with which the school attempted to protect the increasing number of pupils with allergies and intolerances. Even if your own offspring could eat anything, woe betide them bringing a peanut onto the premises and causing someone else’s child to go into anaphylactic shock.

  She just popped a couple of apples into each schoolbag for snack time, and filled up their water bottles. She wondered if Charlie really ate his snack time fruit. She was used to emptying out the equivalent of a greengrocer’s shelf of bruised and battered offerings from Ben’s bag every week. Occasionally, she made a crumble with the results, but usually they were beyond salvaging. She couldn’t abandon tucking the apples into his bag, though. It was an act of faith. One day he’d be hungry enough at break time to remember. Probably. The best yet had been when they’d had to bring in an avocado each for a life drawing project. Three months later, she had discovered brown puree zipped away in a little-used pocket – and Ben had had a lovely new bag the next day.

  By the time they got to the school gates, Beth was thanking her lucky stars that Ben was an only child. The boys had had a splendid time, laughing uproariously over arcane in-jokes, seeing who could walk backwards for longest without banging into something (Charlie), and generally messing about in infuriating small-boy ways. The walk, which usually took a few carefree minutes, seemed to stretch like chewing gum as Beth tried to corral the boys away from innocent passers-by and keep the noise down to under ten billion decibels. It was pointless even trying to hear a word of the voicemail messages.

  As soon as the boys had been let loose in the playground, Beth had a pang of regret for her grumpy attitude. They were just full of the joys of spring – well, early summer now, with the lilacs starting to come out – and she shouldn’t be so churlish. Just then, Ben looked over for a second and she gave him a beaming smile, which he just about had time to return before bombing over to join another game. She sighed, happiness restored, and pressed play on her phone messages.

  No sooner had she heard York rasping out a few words than her face fell again. Funnily enough, the slight hint of an Irish brogue was more apparent than usual in the clipped, harassed tones. But the message he had to pass on was grim.

  Simone Osborne was dead.

  And Lulu Cox, another girl from Dulwich, was in Intensive Care.

  Chapter Twelve

  Raf was deep in a dreamless sleep, a surprisingly innocent smile on his boyish face, when the annoying thumping sounds from outside finally penetrated his consciousness. Sounded like someone was going to kick the door in. For a moment, he paused. Better to ignore it, maybe? Quickly, he rattled through faces in his mind’s eye, wondering who he’d pissed off recently and how violent they might be as a result. Nah. Came back empty. Sure, not everyone was his best mate, but he didn’t owe any money – thanks to Sophia having dropped her bank card down the sofa. He’d been searching for coins when he’d found it. It had been like Christmas Day. She’d given him her PIN code a while back, though she’d resisted at first. He’d had to give her the big eyes, the speech about trust. Silly bint, she actually fell for it. No way he’d ever give her any of his PIN numbers; that went without saying. Not that he usually had any money to pro
tect, but still. It was the principle.

  He shambled to his feet and went to the door, where the thumps continued, but more sporadically. Whoever was out there was tiring.

  ‘Yeah, wassup?’

  ‘Raf! You are there! Let me in,’ Sophia’s cut-glass tones seemed to cut through the fug in Raf’s brain. He did a quick scan of the room for signs of other girls – he could do without a slanging match this early in the morning – and then reluctantly unbolted the door.

  ‘Babe, wassup?’ he said feebly, expecting female diatribe number one, ‘where have you been?’, followed swiftly by ‘why haven’t you called?’ The where-have-you-been bit was easy, he’d been here, hadn’t he? Just partying. Well, what could she expect? He kept telling her to cut school and, if she wouldn’t, there were plenty of girls who would. And the calling part, well, she could have called him, couldn’t she? In fact, she probably had, he couldn’t remember. But he didn’t have much credit on his phone and he wasn’t going to waste it listening to her whining voicemails. So, it was her fault, really. He braced himself, as best he could, and glared at her.

  Instead of letting fly with the accusations, Sophia threw herself into his arms and burst into noisy sobs. If anything, this was much worse.

  He tried turning the hug into a clinch, making hay while the sun shone, but she pulled away. Not like her. She was usually up for it. Now she’d found a tissue and was honking noisily into it. Raf turned away in distaste, finding the display seriously at odds with his Victorian notions of ladylike behaviour. There were no reciprocal standards for men, it went without saying. He idly scratched his belly, which remained temptingly taut despite his five-a-day Margherita diet, then moved on to root in his crotch for a loving moment. Then, stumped, he subsided back onto the sofa, pushing a heap of clothes out of the way to make room for the waif-like Sophia.