by Mel McGrath
He squeezes the Volvo between a Ka and a Fiesta, switches off the radio, checks the time on his watch, scopes about for the correct building number and, not seeing it, gets out. His eyes float over cheap homeware shops and takeaways in search of three golden balls indicating the entrance to S. Harold & Sons, a family-run pawnbroker which he hopes will be more discreet than the big chains.
Spotting the sign, he heads down the street, fiddling with the gold and diamond bracelet in his pocket. You couldn’t really call what he’s doing stealing. Doesn’t he pay the majority of his mother’s care home fees? Does he ever think of her as pilfering from him? No, of course not. Not stealing then, more like borrowing against his inheritance. Feeling buoyed now he stops before the golden balls and rings on the bell. A voice invites him in and he finds himself in a dingy, cream coloured hallway at the end of which is a stand-alone signpost printed with the names of several businesses. An arrow points up a narrow staircase. Taking a deep breath, Cullen begins to climb the stairs. On the first-floor landing, above a sign printed with the name of the pawnbroker, a camera blinks. He presses the buzzer. A male voice says, ‘Come in!’ The door clicks open and there before Cullen stands a lean man in his fifties with a close-cropped, balding pate dressed in a suit that has seen better days. Behind the man and on two sides of the room are a series of vitrines displaying mostly gold jewellery. A locked gate bars the way to offices at the back.
‘Can I help you?’ the man says, smiling.
‘Yes,’ Cullen says, fumbling in his pocket and drawing out the bracelet. ‘My mother left me this. It’s diamond and twenty-four carat gold. It was originally her mother’s.’
‘I see.’ The man’s eyebrows rise and, if Cullen’s not very much mistaken, his eyes glaze over just a little. He’s heard all this before, he thinks, and wasn’t much interested then. ‘If you’d like to come over here and take a seat?’
A plastic chair of uncertain vintage sits on the side facing the wall, another on the far side of the vitrine. The man waits for Cullen to sit before going around the end of the vitrine and assuming a place of his own. On the countertop sit the tools of his trade; a weighing scale, a series of magnifiers and some other, less familiar paraphernalia.
‘Are you looking to borrow on it or to sell?’ the man says.
Cullen blinks. The idea that he might borrow using the bracelet as collateral and pick it up when he can pay back the money hasn’t occurred to him. If he did that, the Dalek might never know.
‘Give me a quote for both,’ he says.
The broker inspects the bracelet, then holding a magnifier in his eye socket, makes a closer examination. Finally he weighs it, then steepling his hands says, ‘This is a very good piece, but it’s old-fashioned and you should be aware that we price on the size of the diamonds and the weight of the gold.’
‘So if I sell it, someone will melt it down?’
‘Most likely, yes,’ the pawnbroker says, quoting two prices, one sum for pawning and a sum almost three times as much for selling.
He could pawn it, of course, and try to pay back the money. But how realistic is that? Looking on the bright side, the Dalek scarcely has need for jewellery these days. Who is going to notice that she’s wearing a bracelet? Most of the residents are half blind or doolally. If she knew I was in trouble, she’d probably want me to have it, he says to himself. Most likely she won’t even notice it’s gone. And if it’s gone why shouldn’t it be completely gone, taken apart, melted down, removed from the world, not unlike its original owner in fact. He smiles at the existential elegance of the idea.
‘I’ll sell it then,’ he says, thinking now of the thug in the driveway.
Moments later he’s bouncing back down the stairs with a wedge of twenties in his pocket where the bracelet once sat. How easy was that? Remarkably quick and with none of the sadness, the tawdriness, the seediness he’d anticipated.
Out on the street the cloud has cleared and the morning sun has broken through. See, he thinks, everything is suddenly looking rather cheerier, even Lawrence Hill. He pops his car door open, clambers in, stations his phone in its bracket and keys on the engine. Mozart caresses his ears. All is well.
He is buckling his seatbelt when there comes a text from Mark Ratner. He reads and reads again.
Jessica Easton has killed herself.
Oh shit, not this, not now.
Chapter 29
Nevis
It’s late morning and Nevis needs coffee, though that probably means waking up Tash, who is crashed out on the sofa in the living room. There came a point last night when neither of them could stay awake any longer but they each didn’t want to be alone. She offered Satnam’s empty bedroom but Tash rejected the idea, saying the space felt creepy. Nevis only had a single bed so it had to be the sofa.
It had been a disturbed night. Nevis lay in bed struggling to sleep while lights from passing cars flickered in through the curtains and made play around the walls of the room. Everything seemed off and unfamiliar in the manner of a dream from which she could neither force herself to wake nor depart into sleep. Once or twice, she heard keening sounds coming from the living room but her body felt too heavy to heave from the bed. It was as if her body had been occupied by another soul. She told herself that she did not believe in souls, or spirits, but still the impression remained imprinted on her mind. She wondered if she was ill. A blank dawn arrived. The return of the light seemed to calm her and it was not long before she fell into a fitful sleep.
She pads into the kitchen area and sets the kettle on.
Woken by the noise, Tash appears from under the blanket, blinking. ‘What the fuck time is it?’
‘Just gone half past ten,’ Nevis says, laying down the coffee on the table beside her.
‘Oh God, I wish you hadn’t woken me. I feel like shit.’ She reaches for her tobacco and begins to roll her first cigarette of the morning. ‘It’s still true, isn’t it?’ she says, drawing the smoke into her lungs. She’s sitting up now, dressed in last night’s T-shirt and underwear, with the blanket sprawled across her knees.
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck. You looked on social yet?’
‘They’re saying she was on those pro-suicide websites.’
‘Who’s saying that?’
‘Students.’ Nevis takes a big mouthful of coffee, the bitterness slipping down her throat and souring her stomach.
A pause while Tash takes her first sip of coffee then a grimace. ‘Shitzer, you put the entire bean harvest of a small central American republic in this?’
‘The standard brewing ratio for a 0.35 litre mug is 21.3g. I usually use 26g but I do like the mug to be full right to the top.’
Putting the mug down, Tash flaps a hand in the air to signal that she wants more milk or sugar in the coffee. Nevis goes over to the kitchen and brings both. Tash is already on her phone by the time she returns.
‘They’re saying she was mentally ill.’
Nevis says, ‘I saw her the other day.’
‘Oh?’
‘We talked about the photo of you and her and Satnam, remember?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Tash’s face is sombre suddenly, lips parted, forehead furrowed into a deep frown.
‘Jessica told me you and she started arguing, because you’d got involved with her ex-boyfriend. And then Satnam intervened and you got gnarly with her. She said that all three of you were thinking about leaving Avon because of your grades, and then she implied that something else was going on, too. Is that why Jessica killed herself? Is there a link to what happened to Satnam?’
Tash closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. A few moments later, when she opens them once more, they are wet. ‘It’s too complicated to explain. There are things you don’t know about…’
‘That’s what Satnam and Jessica said.’
‘It’s best you don’t know.’
‘Seems like everyone knows something except me. What’s so bad that you can’t tell me?’
Tas
h sniffs and swallows. ‘Jess was ill. You must have noticed how thin she was. She’d had anorexia or whatever as long as I’ve known her.’
‘You two fell out because you got involved with Jessica’s ex, though, right? Not about her anorexia.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ says Tash, as though it’s something she’s only just thought through.
‘I’m confused. If Jessica had this eating disorder for a long time, why did she decide to go off the bridge now? Does that have to do with the thing I don’t know about?’
‘There’s no logic to it, Nevis. Sometimes, people just do this stuff,’ Tash says, evasively. ‘People used to put their heads in gas ovens, you know that? In the old days. Then they changed the kind of gas and the suicide rate went right down. Same with the suspension bridge. They put that barrier up a while ago. It stops lots of people, makes them think twice. So I guess that must mean some people do this stuff because they’re confronted with an opportunity.’ She coughs and screws up her face. ‘What I bet you don’t know is that Jess tried before, a few months ago, before that picture you keep going on about, but she didn’t go through with it. That’s what she told me anyway. I don’t think she said anything to anyone else. She didn’t want her parents to know because they would have made her go back home and she hated it there ’cos they made her eat.’
Nevis, who has been standing all this time, takes a seat in the chair opposite the sofa. ‘Did Satnam know that?’
‘No, I didn’t tell anyone. She made me promise not to. Anyway, I’ve got enough shit of my own.’
‘When you sent me that email saying “Who’s next”, you knew it was going to be Jess.’
‘What are you talking about? I was just worried someone would be.’ Tash pushes up a sleeve and displays the ladder marks on her arms. ‘I need a smoke.’
‘You are smoking.’
‘Not that kind of smoke.’ She lights another rollie. ‘I got some in my bag. Want to join?’
‘You know smoking makes you 84.7 per cent more likely to die of lung cancer?’
‘No, Nevis, I did not know that. But, hey, thanks for the heads-up.’
Nevis wonders if this is snark, decides it probably is and wishes she were better at detecting that stuff.
‘I have to go in a bit. I have a seminar at twelve then the Dean invited me for lunch.’ Professor Cullen had called her from his personal phone to suggest it. Said he wanted to discuss her work, make sure she was keeping up.
A cloud scuds across Tash’s face. Balancing the rollie precariously on the mug of coffee, Tash lies back down on the sofa and pulls on last night’s jeans.
‘He’s taking you to lunch? I get squeezed in between meetings. He’ll want to find out what we know about Jessica obviously.’
‘He told me he thought I could get a first, so I thought…’
‘What, that you’re special?’ Rising and brushing the cigarette ash from her jeans onto the carpet, Tash says, ‘Sorry.’ The cigarette is between her lips once more as she reaches for her coat. Her eyes are on Nevis. ‘I have to go now. You want my advice, don’t go to lunch.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re really clever Nevis. You don’t need Cullen’s help.’ With that she pulls on the coat and picks up her backpack. Curious, Nevis follows her to the door. The Tash who first came in seems softer now and more subdued.
In the doorway she turns and, reaching out a hand, quite unexpectedly touches Nevis’s face. ‘Take care of yourself, doll. And remember, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.’
Chapter 30
Honor
The wood burner is warming up the Helene, the sun is out, and Honor and Alex are eating his scrambled eggs and talking over the work that needs doing on the Halcyon Days. When was the last time I did something like this, Honor wonders to herself. It almost feels like a date.
‘How are the eggs?’ says Alex, bringing more coffee.
‘Wonderful! It’s been ages since someone made me brunch.’
‘Any time,’ Alex says, laughing. ‘I do an excellent cooked breakfast too.’
‘Oh!’ Heat stipples Honor’s cheeks and Alex, seeing this, holds up a hand and says, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘No, I didn’t think…’ Honor says, trying not to sound disappointed.
A moment’s silence falls before Alex says, ‘How’s your daughter?’
Honor recounts the sorry finale to their last encounter.
‘I’m sorry. Kids can be such a worry.’
‘Yours?’
‘Tim, my son? He lives in Berlin. I wish I saw more of him. His mother lives not too far from here so when he does come over, we both get a share of him.’
‘Were you with her? The mother, I mean.’
‘We tried but it turned out we were better at being friends. You in touch with Nevis’s father?’
‘No and I don’t intend to be. Nevis has never met him.’
‘Because?’
‘Because it wouldn’t help.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Alex says, not seeing, but backing off. ‘Are there grandparents?’
Honor lets out a bitter laugh, then checks herself. ‘Her birth mother’s parents were a nightmare. And mine were never really “around” in the traditional sense. During the late eighties and through most of the nineties they were busy colonising Planet Rave. I was brought along for the ride, and because they would never have had any money for babysitters. Now they’re on a commune in mid Wales. More of a cult, actually. I see them once a year or so. They sort of left me to bring myself up. We were always on the road so I never had any stability, never really had any close friends until I met Nevis’s birth mother, but I had a great time with my imaginary friends and it made me pretty self-sufficient. It was an amazingly free childhood, I’ll say that for it, and it’s left me with this anti-authoritarian streak. I want to kick out against the man without having a man to kick out against, if you see what I mean.’ She looks up and smiles. ‘That’s probably more than you wanted to know.’
‘Not remotely. Explains the boat life. All that roaming.’
‘Maybe, though the Kingfisher’s been on a residential mooring for the last decade and a half so there hasn’t been much of that. I do feel more peaceful on the water though. And you’re always moving, aren’t you, even if it’s only on the currents or with the tide. We bargees know we can always cut loose and take off on the water. That’s the biggest part of it. Not feeling trapped.’ She looks up and smiles. ‘I wasn’t really cut out for the rat race. I haven’t really made very much of myself.’
‘I’ve had a look at the work you’ve done on the bulkhead. You’re a very fine restorer of boats.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Anyway, the rat race is hardly something to aspire to. I should know, I was the rat that the phrase rat race was invented for,’ Alex says.
‘Were you working on the tabloids?’ she asks, feeling her chest tighten. There had been a little coverage of Zoe’s death in the red tops. This was before everything had gone online. It hadn’t been kind.
‘Oh no,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘Local papers mostly. Actually it wasn’t particularly high-pressured. The rat bit was more about occasionally having to doorstep some mother who’d just lost her kid in a fire. I remember one poor woman turning to me and saying, “How do I feel? I couldn’t be happier. How the fuck do you think I feel, you knobhead?” Totally deserved. Nowadays I stay away from all that. Better for it.’
‘Ever married?’ Honor finishes the last morsel of food on her plate and lines up the cutlery.
‘Nearly, to my son’s mother, but no. You?’
Honor shakes her head. At that moment Nevis’s ringtone chirps and Alex bustles away with the plates.
‘Hello darling?’
‘Something awful happened.’ There is a quaver in Nevis’s voice, a stumble almost, but she is not crying. A moment passes before Honor can fully absorb the news. The name Jessica Easton is unfamiliar but distinctive enough for
Honor to be sure that she would have remembered it if Nevis had ever mentioned the girl.
‘Her poor parents! Why don’t I come over? I can be with you in a jiffy.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got uni stuff to do. Avon has issued a statement on social which is, like, Jessica Easton had mental health problems.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Not really, she was a friend of Satnam’s or maybe not a friend but Satnam knew her better than me. She was really, really skinny so I guess it was obvious she had anorexia or something…’
‘I think you can be any size and have anorexia.’
‘Maybe, but that’s not the point. The high-ups are trying to make it look like Jessica and Satnam aren’t connected.’
‘And you think they are…?’
‘I’d say the probability is pretty high, yes.’
‘Darling, don’t you think this is all a bit much for you? Why don’t you let me come round? Or you can come here if you like.’
There’s a pause then Nevis’s voice, sounding more resolute. ‘It’s OK.’
Doing her best not to sound hurt by yet another rejection, and thinking about Lea Keane, Honor says, ‘Is there someone you can talk to at the university? Student welfare?’
‘The Dean maybe. I’ve got a meeting with him later.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes.’
With that Nevis rings off, leaving Honor poised as if on the brink of something and not knowing whether to step forward or hang back.
‘Something wrong?’ Alex says, returning five minutes later with more coffee.
‘No, no, I mean, yes, but…’ Everything Honor has seen of Alex so far suggests a sensitive, open-hearted type but they barely know one another. ‘Someone my daughter knew, another student, took her own life last night.’
