by Keane Jessie
He’s not right.
Chrissy’s wild, frightened eyes.
He was leaning over me with a knife in his hand.
Of course the kid had only been mucking about. Chrissy had gone on to say that he’d laughed and then she’d taken the damned thing off him, told him he should never play with knives. It was only a joke, he’d explained. He didn’t mean any harm, he was just joking, couldn’t she take a joke? It was an old bone-handled knife from the kitchen anyway, nothing really dangerous. But Chrissy hadn’t found it at all amusing. If it really had been a joke then it had been a pretty damned poor one, and she’d been shaken by it.
Nula couldn’t talk to Charlie about this. But there was the woman from the adoption agency, didn’t they still have her number? Nula went into Charlie’s study and rummaged through the only filing cabinet he kept unlocked, the one that contained household paperwork. It was a faint hope, and she spent a good hour sorting through the mounds of crap that every household accumulates. It was no good. There was nothing there.
Nula paused, looking around the study. Charlie’s desk was clear; nothing on it except a dog-eared pink blotter and a silver paper knife. She went around the desk and sat in the studded ruby-red leather chair and yanked at the drawer handles. All locked.
Damn.
She looked again at the blotter, the paper knife. Oh fuck it. She snatched the knife up and jammed the blade into the top drawer, above the lock, and heaved. The drawer snapped open with a crunch, and Nula gulped as she saw the damage. She’d broken the damned thing now. Charlie would be livid. But for fuck’s sake! If the bastard wasn’t so damned shifty, she wouldn’t be driven to do things like this, would she?
She opened the first drawer and checked through the contents. Nothing. The next – and it was sort of satisfying now, levering the drawer open, hearing the wood give way – nothing. Some brass knuckledusters. A pile of invoices. Goods Inwards notes. The next drawer? Nothing again. She was getting fed up with this. And nervous. She was wrecking Charlie’s desk, and he was not going to be happy. She’d do one more, and then she’d get the stupid thing repaired, get a cabinet maker in, before Charlie got home; he’d be none the wiser.
Nula tried the next drawer and there it was.
She pulled out the copies of the official forms both she and Charlie had signed, and there was the letter from the woman who’d delivered Harlan to them, and there was her office phone number. Nula was sweating lightly with nerves. She wiped her hands on her skirt, then pulled the phone toward her and dialled, aware of her heart thwacking hard against her ribs. She knew Charlie wouldn’t like this, her going over his head this way. But she had to do it.
‘H’lo?’ asked a female voice.
That threw her. The woman sounded half asleep.
‘Hello?’ said Nula. ‘Is that Mrs Bushell?’
‘What?’
Nula was starting to get impatient. ‘Mrs Bushell, it’s Nula Stone. We got a little boy from the adoption agency, you remember? Harlan?’
‘Oh!’ There was movement on the other end of the line, what sounded like more voices, and when the woman spoke again she sounded sharper. ‘Yes. Mrs Stone. How can I help you?’
‘Well . . .’ Now Nula was actually talking to the woman, she found she didn’t know what to say. Did you send us a psycho? No. That sounded wrong. ‘Look, Mrs Bushell, we’ve got some concerns about Harlan and what we’re wondering is, do you have any information about the kind of background he had before he went into care? That sort of thing?’
‘Oh.’ Silence again.
‘If we could have information like that . . . ?’ said Nula.
‘Well, I would have to look into my records. If I can take your number, Mrs Stone, and call you back tomorrow?’
‘You’ve probably got it on file,’ said Nula.
‘Let me take it again anyway.’
Nula reeled off the number.
‘I’ll get those details for you, Mrs Stone,’ said Mrs Bushell, and put the phone down.
Nula went over to the photostat machine and quickly took a copy of the form containing the agency’s contact details. Charlie had said it was a government agency, completely above board. Then she went out into the hall to head for the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee. Later, she would phone up and get the desk repaired. And she would phone the agency number again, maybe check it in the Yellow Pages, make sure she had that right.
Now, she needed caffeine. She felt unsettled by the conversation she’d just had with the Bushell woman. As she was crossing the hall, she nearly tripped over Harlan, crouched near the doorway to the sitting room.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, startled.
Harlan looked up at her and smiled that thin smile of his.
Had he heard any of that?
Now she really was getting paranoid. Of course he hadn’t. He was absorbed in his own little world, as always.
56
Terry didn’t like this. That consignment falling prey to Customs down in Southampton? All right, if one was stopped there were still a hundred more that would get through. He knew it wasn’t a big deal. But it gave him an uneasy feeling because he had never traced it back to anyone. Someone had blown the whistle on them, and if they’d done it once, and gone undiscovered, then they could certainly do it again and possibly with greater consequences to the whole Stone operation.
No shit had stuck to them that time. They’d been lucky. But he didn’t want to risk the same thing ever happening again.
Then it did.
It ate at him, his failure to track down the culprit. Charlie had already poked around, seen what was going on, but drawn a blank so he’d asked Terry to go over the whole thing again. But still – nothing. Terry arrived home at the gatehouse day after day, wrung out, frustrated, to tell Jill that he’d questioned dockers, talked to their insiders in the port authorities, done everything he damned well could, and still come up with a big fat zero. This was his job, covering Charlie Stone’s back. He’d sworn to do it, right from when they were kids, and he was going to go on doing it while he still had breath left in his body. So to fail in this task was monumental for him. It killed him.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. Dusk was coming down and the lights were on. They were eating stew. Nothing fancy. Terry had never developed a taste for posh food like Charlie. He was telling Jill, not for the first time, how frustrating he found it, that he wanted to track the bastard down who’d done it, shopped them once again, caused them such trouble.
Suddenly Jill put down her knife and fork and looked him dead in the eye.
‘It was me,’ she said.
Terry’s fork was halfway to his mouth. His hand froze, mid-air. He stared at his wife.
‘You what?’ he said, thinking he must have misheard her.
‘I did it from a phone box in town. I told the police that the consignment was coming in and that there would be drugs in it. I did it the first time, too.’
Terry put the fork down. His eyes were fixed on her face. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt like he’d been gut-punched.
‘For God’s sake, why?’ he managed to get out at last.
Jill picked up her glass and took a long pull of wine. Then she said: ‘Come on, Terry. This business. You don’t like it any more than I do.’
That much was true. He’d known and understood the heavy game on the rob. This was something very different. But for fuck’s sake!
‘You grassed Charlie up?’ he gasped out. ‘You mad, girl?’
‘People die on this stuff he brings in. You know that, don’t you. And we live well on the back of that. We’re dealing in death. It’s wicked. There’s no other word for it. It was playing on my mind. So I . . . I did it.’
That wasn’t the full story – not by a long shot – but it was as much as she could bear to tell him.
‘We could have gone down. The whole fucking lot of us, did you think of that?’ Terry burst out. ‘If they’d traced it back
to us, the shit would have hit the fan big time. What the hell’s been coming over you?’
Jill looked at her half-eaten meal and abruptly stood up. ‘Look, keep your voice down. Belle will hear.’
Belle was up in her room, doing homework. It was the unwritten rule between them; Belle must never know the true nature of the trade they were all wrapped up in. She was an innocent child, and – like Milly up at the big house – she would stay that way. None of Charlie Stone’s dirt would ever be allowed to touch the girls. They’d all agreed on that, long ago.
‘I’m not talking about this any more,’ said Jill, and left the room.
Him and his fucking mate Charlie. It hurt her, how strong the bond was between the two men. She knew that, for both of them, friends came first; wives, second. It devastated her, every day, that Terry was so up Charlie’s arse, but she had no choice but to soak it up – when Charlie had done such a dreadful thing to her, right here in Terry’s home.
Later, in bed, Terry held her. In the darkness he squeezed her tight and whispered: ‘Why’d you do it?’
‘I told you,’ she murmured.
‘There’s nothing else?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’
‘It wasn’t because of what I told you about that daft cow Nula? Not to spite her, to spite both of them?’
‘No. It wasn’t that.’
‘There was nothing in it. Truly.’
‘I know that,’ said Jill, and for a moment she was on the point of saying it, out loud: Charlie Stone raped me. So what the hell else does that rotten bastard deserve but treachery? Why do I have to spend every day here, seeing him, living in fear, wondering if he’ll do it again when he sends you away on ‘business’ to Christ knows where?
She couldn’t say it. Terry’s whole world would collapse if she did.
‘There’s nothing else,’ she whispered, and kissed his cheek.
‘You’ll never do it again?’ he asked. ‘Swear to me.’
‘Never,’ said Jill.
She wouldn’t. Minutes after making the calls, she’d been shaking with fear. She knew Terry was right. It could be the end of everything, what she’d done. Years in jail for Charlie and Nula, Terry and her. Belle and Milly and Harlan left, taken into care, their lives ruined.
‘I swear on Belle’s life,’ said Jill. ‘I will never do it again.’
‘Good,’ said Terry, and finally he turned away from her and slept.
57
Charlie got a call from Candice, one of the working girls on his manor, when he was at one of his London houses.
‘Your wife phoned me,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Nula. Your frigging wife. She called and she’s asking about the kid. About Harlan. About what sort of background he had, before he was with the agency.’
Charlie stared at the phone. ‘What’d you say?’ he asked.
‘I said I’d get back to her, but I didn’t. I said I’d have to check the files.’
Charlie gazed across at Terry, sitting there looking a question at him. What in the fuck, he wondered, was Nula asking about that for? And where did she get ‘Mrs Bushell’s’ number, which was Candice’s number, the same one she had answered as ‘the agency’ all throughout the process of Harlan’s adoption? He thought he’d had that all locked safely away, out of sight.
‘Change your number with BT, OK?’ he said.
‘Christ, Charlie, do I have to? All my clients . . .’
‘Do it,’ said Charlie, and slammed down the phone.
‘What’s up?’ asked Terry.
‘Nothing,’ said Charlie, thinking of Harlan as they’d first seen him, crouching pale-eyed and filthy in the cupboard under the stairs in that shit-hole of a squat.
He thought of Harlan’s ‘background’ with his junkie mother. Of course, Charlie had told the kid he must never talk about that. Never. No way did he want Nula ever finding out about it. And the kid never had. Actually, Harlan never talked much about anything. Charlie had been worried that he might speak out, at first. Now, he didn’t worry any more. It wasn’t in the kid’s nature to make conversation, and that was a relief.
58
The cabinet repair man had come and mended the desk. After he was gone, there was a strong smell of fresh varnish in the air, so next day Nula opened all the office windows and hoped for the best. Any luck, Charlie wouldn’t be home for a few days and that would give it time to clear. He wasn’t the most observant man, anyway. The day-to-day running of the household never seemed to concern him at all. And since the tragedy with Jake . . . well, he’d lost interest in a lot of things. Including sex, which she was glad about because she had never felt less like sex in her life. If the bastard had laid a single finger on her, she would have bitten the thing right off anyway. Any time he tried to so much as hug her, all she could see in front of her eyes was Jill. All she could think was rapist.
She laid out by the pool until mid-afternoon, wondering what the hell had happened to them. She was deep in mourning over baby Jake, and where was her husband? Here comforting her? Not on your life. He was off, burying his pain in business. Nula thought of her mother and wondered whether she ought to try to get in touch, tell her what had happened. Suddenly, stupidly, she really missed her. They hadn’t spoken in years. But she didn’t think she could bear to talk about it anyway. Any conversation that headed in that direction usually ended with a monumental crying jag that could go on for days. Sometimes she felt that her grip on sanity was hanging by a thin thread; any additional strain was likely to break it.
Even Milly wasn’t much of a comfort to her, as a daughter should be. Nula thought with guilty envy of Jill and Terry’s girl Belle, who was self-confident and pretty as a new spring day. Then she thought of poor Milly, who’d inherited all the Perkins genes. Milly wasn’t a girly girl, not at all. She had no interest in clothes shopping. She was shy, studious, uninterested in make-up. She avoided boys. Didn’t bother with pretty clothes. Meanwhile, Jill got a pretty, outgoing, self-confident little princess called Belle. It wasn’t fair.
At three Nula showered and had coffee. Then she took the photocopy of the adoption form and went back into Charlie’s office – the sickening varnish smell was gone now. She closed the windows and took down the Yellow Pages, sat at the desk and checked out the government agency’s address and phone number.
It was a different address. A different phone number.
That was odd.
She sat staring at the Yellow Pages entry for a long moment, then she pulled the phone toward her, tapped in 141 and then dialled the number from the Yellow Pages. It was picked up straight away.
‘Good afternoon, who can I connect you with?’ asked a brisk receptionist.
‘Oh!’ Nula was taken off-guard. ‘Well, I . . .’
‘Which department?’ snapped the woman.
‘I want to talk to a Mrs Candice Bushell,’ Nula glanced at the photostat form. ‘She’s Chief Adoption Officer.’
The receptionist was silent for a beat.
‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any Candice Bushell here,’ she said.
Nula looked at the phone in bewilderment. ‘But you must do. Unless she’s left . . . ? She came to our house. Over five years ago. I spoke to her on the phone only yesterday . . .’
‘I’ve worked in this office for over twenty years. Trust me, no Candice Bushell has ever worked here.’
Nula found that she was gasping. Her chest felt tight. She couldn’t draw air down into her lungs.
‘But . . . you must have us on record. Mr and Mrs Stone. We adopted a little boy. Harlan. Maybe there’s someone else there I could talk to about this . . . ?’ And then another name sprang into her tired brain. ‘Wait! There was another woman, this Bushell person said she’d taken over from her, a Mrs Mulville. You must remember her, Mrs Bushell said Mrs Mulville had been with the agency a long time.’
‘You must be mistaken.’
‘What?’
‘As I told you,
I’ve been here for twenty years. And there has never, to my knowledge, been a Mrs Mulville working here.’
‘No. No! You’re mistaken.’
‘Mrs Stone, please leave me your telephone number and your address, and I will have someone contact you.’
Nula didn’t bother. She put the phone down in a daze.
‘Mrs Stone?’
Nula was so startled by the voice that she almost shrieked. She looked up and there was the new au pair, Chrissy’s replacement.
‘Sorry, did I make you jump?’ Fern was a meaty, motherly girl, dark-haired and broad-hipped. ‘I was about to take the kids up, if you want to come . . . ?’
‘No.’ Nula levered herself to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber. ‘You go ahead.’
The au pair went off upstairs. Nula walked through to the sitting room and slumped onto the couch, gazing out of the window at the flat open fields. It was pretty here and now she hated it. She wanted to be back in London, in the thick of the action, where things always seemed to make much more sense. Where she had once belonged.
She sat there until the light started to fade from the sky. The sun set in a burning blaze of apricot and gold on the far horizon, and then the evening star winked on and night started to fall. She supposed she ought to go to bed. She never slept well, not any more. Her marriage was a joke, her life a disaster. Tiredly she pushed herself to her feet. Not bothering to switch on the lights, she walked the familiar path across the big hallway and up the rounded sweep of the stairs.
For once she slept deeply, but it was a bad sleep, wracked with nightmares. She dreamed of dead babies and cool, oily black pools that she fell into and drowned in. But Jake was in there, and he was alive, he was OK. She held him and stroked his face, and felt a breathtaking happiness, such a huge sense of relief. He was alive! And then it was morning and she woke up and realized all over again that her baby was dead, gone forever.
