The Under Ground (Strong Women Book 4)

by Sarah Till

  “Look, John. Let’s see what the solicitor says. When’s the will being read?”

  “Friday.”

  “Bloody hell, John, that’s quick. Whose idea was that?”

  More irritation. Now John’s voice was pushy and demanding.

  “It was mine. I’m sure Sally would want this all tying up quickly. And I’m equally sure that she would want me to live in the house at least for a while.”

  I was beginning to lose my temper. John’s urgent insistence that he should stay in the house seemed odd, almost irreverent.

  “And I’m sure that the person who is the benefactor of the house will do with it as he or she feels fit. Who knows, John, she could have left that house to Reverend Sloan. Or Shiralee and Jupiter. Or to you. She could have willed it to you. We won’t know until Friday, so there’s no point.”

  The ensuing silence told me that he knew full well what was in my mother’s will and he was trying to pre-empt the sale of the house. Now his tone was downright nasty.

  “All right. Have it your way, Jinny. We’ll wait and see. In any case, I’ll expect you at the weekend to go through your mother’s belongings. Can you manage that?”

  His sarcasm made me want to tell him to fuck off, but I held it in.

  “Yes, of course. We’ll discuss it in more detail when I see you tomorrow. At the funeral.”

  “Hmm. I do hope it will all go well. Without incident.”

  I smiled at the phone.

  “Oh, yes, John, you can rely on me. I said everything I needed to say seven years ago.”

  “OK then. Jinny.” Another silence. Was he trying to intimidate me? “I’ll see you tomorrow. And then on Friday. And on Saturday. In fact, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, won’t we?”

  Suddenly John sounded creepy, and I felt a chill down my spine. What was he inferring? I managed to speak again through the thick atmosphere that pervaded the call.

  “Bye then.”

  My voice sounded weak in contrast to John’s strong vocal.

  “Bye, Jinny. See you soon.”

  I thought I heard him laughing as I replaced the receiver. I rubbed my face and looked around. It was hard to believe now that when I had seen John Baxter at the morgue, he had appeared to be approaching normal. Maybe it was just my current frame of mind, but now he seemed to be merging into all the other people I held on the periphery of my life. He wanted something from me.

  My phone rang again almost immediately and I almost didn’t answer it in case it was John again. My hand hovered above the receiver as I waited for Martina to pick up the call. She was away from her desk, chatting away to Laura on the other side of the office. I quickly grabbed the receiver and resigned myself to another browbeating from my mother's husband.

  A serene voice met me.

  “Could I speak to Virginia Munro, please?”

  The vowels were long and I sensed a slight amused laughter in the voice.

  “This is Virginia speaking. Can I help you?”

  “Well yes, Virginia. I’m Lynus Joyce. I work for The Joseph Emmanuel Organisation. We’re the prayer people that Mr Brierley told you about. I understand that you will be working on our project.”

  I breathed in the soothing tones. Was there a hint of an American accent? Or perhaps Southern England, Devon, perhaps? Lynus Joyce’s voice was as smooth as melted chocolate and his tone twice as sweet.

  “Yes, Mr Joyce.”

  “Lynus, please.”

  “Lynus. Yes. OK. I will be working on your account. I’m just preparing the campaign. Actually, I only just got started. I didn’t really expect to hear from you so soon.”

  Lynus laughed loudly.

  “Yes, I know, not a good time for you.” I felt slightly uncomfortable that he seemed to know my business and that he was laughing. “Actually, I was just wondering if we could meet up this afternoon. Just for an hour or so?”

  I glanced at the clock. John’s call and my musings about my family had taken a good part of the morning. I sighed. Would people never lay off? If this Lynus knew about my mother, why was he insisting that I meet him today? It was nearly twelve o’clock. I decided to be as polite and businesslike as I could, even though my stress levels were sky high. I gritted my teeth.

  “What time would you like to meet, Mr Joyce?”

  Lynus laughed again and this time his warmth pervaded my being.

  “Call me Lynus, Jinny, Lynus. Don’t worry. It’ll be a walk in the park. In fact, meet me there. In Hyde Park. We can have a coffee and chat about the project and things. I’ll look forward to it. Near the Kensington Entrance, around one?”

  My mouth curved upwards. I couldn’t help it. The park sounded lovely.

  “OK then. At one. How will I recognise you?”

  “I’ll be wearing dark glasses.”

  I glanced out of the window. The sun was shining.

  “Everyone will be wearing sunglasses.”

  Lynus laughed again.

  “You’ll know who I am, Jinny, you’ll know who I am.”

  The receiver clicked down and I was still smiling. I was still facing the window and the warm sun was on my face. For a moment, everything felt good and I searched for someone to thank, someone to tell that I was grateful. In another instant Martina burst into my office.

  “Lunch order!”

  Her expectant poise, complete with pen and pad, made me sigh with exasperation.

  “Martina, have you thought about knocking? Yesterday you were scared to death of me, telling me to go home. Today you can’t wait to get in here. What’s up?”

  Martina breezed closer.

  “Well, I heard about your project. I wondered if I could help. I pray, Jinny, I pray all the time. If you ever need any advice on praying, I’m your girl!”

  Martina nodded vigorously. I stared at her. Maybe she could help.

  “Ok then. Let me ask you a question. You’ve prayed for someone or something, right?”

  “Yes, I certainly have.”

  Martina nodded as she spoke.

  “OK. Think carefully, Martina. Of all the things and people you have prayed for, have any of those prayers come true? Honestly now.”

  “Yes, they have. Many of my prayers have come true. Lots of them.”

  My interest suddenly intensified.

  “Give me an example, Martina.”

  Martina sat down now on the edge of a chair and leaned forward in a conspiratorial way.

  “Well, my granddad was ill, and he had his gall bladder removed. I prayed for him, in fact we all prayed for him and he got better.”

  She stared straight at me, her dark eyes ablaze with something I didn't recognise in myself. I felt as if I was about to extinguish that light.

  “But wouldn't he have recovered anyway?”

  I asked my question quietly and expected Martina to crumple under the realisation that modern medicine had probably cured her granddad, not her family's prayers. She was still smiling widely.

  “He probably would have recovered anyway. But it wasn't about his gall bladder!” She let out a humongous roar of laughter. “Oh no no! It was about us being there for him. We went to the hospital and prayed. When he came home, we sat beside his bed and prayed. He knew he was loved. He told us it made him feel light as air. Or maybe that was the morphine. I don't know! But we prayed that he got better and he did.”

  I looked away as she laughed loudly. It was clear that Martina really believed what she was saying, yet she could make a joke about it and trivialise it. Suddenly, I felt a little insecure. I felt like Martina had a huge advantage over me and that she had suddenly revealed some kind of superpower she had hidden until now. I studied her face for a moment as she became more serious. I was loath to ask her another question in case she had more to offer but risked it anyway.

  “What about asking for things? Like praying for material things? Have you ever done that?”

  Now she laughed more.

  “Oh no, it's not for that. I have ev
erything I need.”

  I pictured her in the small house she shared with her family, squeezing into the lounge full of adults, kissing her pint-sized aunt who never smiled. I had been there with her one day to pick up a report she had forgotten, and she had insisted I meet her aunt who had looked me up and down and offered her hand. Her expression had been neutral and her emotions hidden; there was no obvious way of telling if she approved of me or not. Several small children were running around the dining room and a young girl, maybe six or seven, had stopped and asked my name. I had bent down and whispered.

  “Virginia, I'm Virginia.”

  The girl took my hand and spoke loudly.

  “Do you love Jesus, Virginia?”

  I had stood up quickly, my world collapsing in on me until I imagined I was under a solitary spotlight in Martina's aunt's dining room, children quiet now and adults waiting pensively for my answer. Martina’s aunt grounded herself heavily on both feet, folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. My own mind raced over the rights and wrongs and attendant karma of lying to a small child to save myself. Finally, I donned a wide, false smile and the girl released my hand as I turned towards the door.

  “OK, better get back to the office now!”

  Martina had shaken her head slightly and the girl looked from one adult to the other for guidance. I’d walked quickly to the company car I had borrowed and put my seat belt on and the key in the ignition before Martina had opened the passenger door.

  I looked at her and saw she was still smiling. I persisted.

  “But don’t you ever ask for any material things? Like a wish list?”

  “No. I might ask for the strength to look for another job or the faith to help me through another day, you know, stuff connected with material things. But no. It wouldn’t be right. Like I said, I have enough. My life is full up.”

  Again, I felt my mouth turning up at the corners. Martina probably meant it. She was full. Full of faith. Full of her family. Full of hope. I stood up. Martina took the hint and headed for the door. I felt a little sad, as if I had used her for something and given nothing in return. I spoke before the door fully shut.

  “Martina. Thanks.”

  She stopped and grinned.

  “Any time. I mean it. Any time.”

  It shocked me a little that this was the first time I had seen Martina as superior to me. I argued with myself about ‘superior’ being the correct word. More knowledgeable may be more apt. I was aghast to realised, previous to our encounter today, I had felt sorry for her. About her living conditions, about her dysfunctional family, about her low salary, about the distance she had to commute, about her lack of boyfriend. I had automatically assumed that she envied my lifestyle with my designer clothes, my great salary and my smart phone. She had certainly made very positive remarks about Ellis and my children, as if she one day wanted what I had. I remembered telling her to be careful of what she wished for, and now I felt I had acted like a spoilt child. She was careful what she wished for. A lot more careful than me, it seemed. Her wishes came true. Unlike me and my unfulfilled wonderings, she seemed to have a balance: she knew what to wish for against the odds of it coming true. The other main difference was that I always wished for things for myself. Martina’s prayers were for others.

  I scribbled down my thoughts and pushed them into my handbag. My heart was beating fast as I rushed out of the office to meet with Lynus Joyce at one. Something deep inside me intuited that he wouldn’t mind if I was late, but I still rushed. I felt a pain in my chest as I ran to the lift and out of the building. I caught myself as I was sprinting across the square to the tube station. There was no need to hurry. I breathed deeply three times as I stopped myself from rushing and dragged my hunched shoulders down the incline of the tunnel towards the tube.

  Tolerance

  It was lunchtime and people ran like rats to jump onto the waiting trains. I stared as someone squeezed into the crowded train and his bag jammed in the door. He swore loudly and two women standing beside him looked at their shoes.

  After a morning spent torturing myself about my family situation again and then my strange conversation with John Baxter, the neutral atmosphere of the tube station platform where I was completely anonymous was soothing. There was no time to sit around and think. I would have loved to sit back in the plastic seats and think of nothing but the inside of my mind. Sometimes I imagined it to be marshmallow, all spongy and soft and brain-like. Other times I knew it was angular, a sort of maze that must be negotiated. Today it was just red and runny. There was no real coherence. I often felt like this before an important event, as if all the run-up time must be spent preparing myself. As the countdown to the funeral commenced I felt a boulder-like heaviness in my stomach, one that urged me to sit and feign illness to avoid having to go. The redness of my mind burst into a red splash that settled in my shame. Shame on me for not wanting to attend my mother’s funeral.

  The train arrived and it was half empty. I stood in my usual spot near the door. There were two vacant seats and several people looked from me to the seats. I smiled a little then turned away. At the next stop seven people got onto the tube train. A couple with a small child who was misbehaving. They filled the two seats and lifted the boy onto the woman’s knee. An old man and a teenage boy stood near the doors, beside me. Finally, a South Asian teenager and his girlfriend, who had bleached blonde hair and a Scottish accent, moved into the middle of the carriage. Both teenagers were dressed in cyberpunk clothing. The girl had her back to me and I marvelled at the number of piercing in her ear. I saw a tattoo on her arm and poked my head around the small glass partition slightly to get a better view of the brightly coloured ink. It was then the smell of ammonia or peroxide hit my sinuses. In the time it took me to realise what the smell was, I had watched the eyes of the people sitting in the carriage take in the black rucksack carried by the teenage boy, his awkward stance, and the strong smell. The train approached a station and in a split second everyone had rushed towards the doors. They all alighted quickly and ran up the platform, glancing into the carriage that now held just three people. I watched as a bottleneck formed at the exit escalator and people pointed at the train. In a whoosh, we had departed the station. Now the carriage was quieter, I could hear what the boy and girl were saying. He was touching her brilliant white hair.

  “So, did you just dye it?”

  The girl touched his hand.

  “Last week. Although I can smell bleach. It's not my hair.”

  She looked embarrassed and he moved quickly to clear up the misunderstanding.

  “I'm sorry, I just assumed... anyway it looks beautiful.” The girl looked at him shyly, as if she had just unburdened a long kept uncomfortable secret. The boy smiled and moved a fraction closer to her. He looked into her eyes. “I can’t smell anything. It’s lovely. Just lovely.”

  His fingers ran gently through her hair and over her scalp.

  I wanted so much to warn him that everyone had just got off the tube train because they thought he had a bomb. They’d each been so involved with the other that they had been oblivious to the panic. When the woman with the child had snatched him up and rushed for the door, the couple had been engrossed in a silent conversation of glances. When the old man and the boy had pressed against the doors of the tube, willing them to open, the couple had been whispering in each other’s ears.

  The train approached the next station and I saw the flash of yellow jackets first. Three stewards pressed the emergency open button on the door the moment the train stopped and rushed towards the couple. As the boy turned, I saw a wet patch on his rucksack, the stench of peroxide hitting me now. Wide-eyed and rigid, the pair were led away.

  “I didn’t do anything, man!” The South Asian teenager spoke a voice which was completely different from the loving tones he used to speak to his girlfriend. “You can’t fucking do this! I want a lawyer! Why you victimising me? Leave her alone!”

  “Just come with us, sir. Come on.
This way.”

  The stewards led the boy and girl up the platform and through a door. The train doors shut and I stood in the deserted carriage, wondering why I didn’t get off the train when everyone else did. My conscience flickered back and forth along the lines of human rights plus equality against safety, law and prudence. Suddenly, a lightning strike of insight hit me. Was I too allowing? Had I let my criminal husband and children use me as a housekeeper? Why did I always give everyone the benefit of the doubt? I had just stood still when the consensus had stampeded for the exit. Was that why John Baxter had expected me to agree to his continued stay at the house, because I was a pushover?

  Chapter Six

  It was two minutes to one by the time I had rushed up the escalator and out of the tube station. The usual stress of emerging from my safe haven was doubled by the prospect of being late for my meeting in the park. I could actually see my destination from the road where I stood, but I knew that it would take me several minutes to navigate the traffic. My face was tight as I pushed my shoulders back. The little green man was showing on the traffic lights but the cyclists still came. I dodged three men in blue lycra who pedalled past me and looked back over their shoulders in disgust. I found myself right on the edge now, my mouth forming complaints and muttering them to myself.

  “Bloody cyclists should have their own lane. Think they own the bloody roads. If I had a bike...”

  I crossed relatively safely and wondered, during my brief walk to the park entrance, if there was a way to measure how much stress one would need before one had a heart attack, and where cyclists came on the stress-o-meter. I smoothed my hair and trousers and looked around the park entrance. There were several people wearing sunglasses and I counted four men at tables by the ice cream stall in shades. I caught my breath and looked around again. Surely Lynus Joyce would approach me? I began to panic a little. Some of the sunglasses men moved away after purchasing a coffee or an ice cream. Three were left at the tables and one apparently blind man tapped his white stick on a stone. I walked over. Maybe Lynus was late. The urge to find a cigarette from somewhere was strong, and I automatically felt in my pocket for a lighter. One of the men at the tables was smoking, and the smell drifted over to me, making the need more urgent.