by A J Waines
My name was scribbled in for that night and there was only one other entry all week. It was for Saturday night and there was one word: Wyndham’s.
Ah-ha – this was my chance. I was going to get beneath the skin of the real Sam, for a change.
Chapter 18
Rosie
It’s Saturday morning and I’ve put on my dusty old trainers and taken to the streets. I know there’s no point in breaking into a jog – I’d only get as far as the first bus stop – so I take big strides and swing my arms and huff and puff around the block.
Why on earth am I doing this? Well, last night I had a nasty shock. Normally, I cover my bedroom mirror with scarves and bags so I can’t see myself, but when I got undressed, I pulled everything off it and took a good look at myself, stark naked. I didn’t recognise what I saw. It was as if someone had run amok with my body when I wasn’t looking and slapped great chunks of lard over my belly and hips. My thighs looked like they belonged to a rhinoceros. I’m never going to be properly loved looking like that. I have to do something.
Being out of breath like this reminds me of another time after Mum and Dad had gone. I must have been around ten. There was a gang at school who never let me join in; kids in my class, who I thought were edgy and cool at the time. They went everywhere on bikes and they’d ride towards me in a group, scaring the shit out of me. They’d snatch my school bag and toss it into the beck, grab hold of my jacket as they spun past and rip the sleeves, the lapels, the pockets off.
I didn’t have a bike. But I wanted to be like them. Be one of them.
Then, one day, they said they’d consider letting me join their gang if I gave them half my dinner money. They said if I did it for a week, I was in. I was over the moon. I stopped having a main meal at lunchtime and ate a bit of fruit instead. They were true to their word and invited me to meet at Picket’s Wood, at the back of our local supermarket.
They got off their bikes and pushed them along the muddy tracks into the thickest part of the wood. It was getting dark and the undergrowth grew thicker as we got deeper into the tangled mass, but I wasn’t scared. I was with my gang now.
Ralph suggested hide and seek. His dad was a policeman. He whispered something to Neil. They said because I was new, I could go first. Ralph and Julie wrapped a woollen scarf tightly over my eyes. Miles and Kelly spun me round, then put my hand against the trunk of a tree and told me to say the Lord’s Prayer out loud three times. I was excited, so I kept having to start again. When I finally got to the third ‘Amen’, I took off the blindfold and started looking.
At first, I thought it was fun. Then all of a sudden, it wasn’t fun anymore. The sun had slipped away and I could barely see what was on the ground in front of me. I tripped over a branch and fell into some nettles. Everywhere looked the same. I didn’t even know which direction we’d come from. I stumbled over a tree stump, narrowly missing a coil of barbed wire and stopped to listen. Looking up, I could hear the rustle of leaves high above me in the treetops, and nothing else. I called out. Nothing.
I wanted to go home. It was cold and I didn’t know which way to go. The light had almost gone completely, there was only the moon flickering between the branches.
Then I knew what the whispering had been about. It was a trick. They’d never intended for me to join their little gang at all, they just wanted to make fun of me.
‘I want to go home now,’ I called out. ‘I don’t want to play anymore…’
I started to sob, standing there, helplessly, making little circles. Then it was as though a bomb inside me exploded. It came from nowhere. A fiery, scalding ball of flames that sent energy to my legs. I know now that it was anger; a surging, roaring rage that I’d never felt before, not even when Mum and Dad died. I wasn’t having this. I was going to show them – the snotty, shitty bastards. They weren’t going to get away with what they’d done. I was going to get home for tea and somehow I’d pay them back.
I began striding out fast, tripping and falling every few steps, but plunging onwards with darting eyes and determination. I didn’t care that my knees were shredded with thorns and broken branches. That my jumper was torn and I could smell dog poo on my shoes. I kept going. I knew if I walked through the wood for long enough in the same direction I’d come out the other side. The air around me was boot-polish black by then. I staggered on, humming to keep myself company and then I saw a sprinkling of white dots. I was near enough to the edge of the wood to see the car headlights. I started to run towards them, breaking out of the undergrowth into a car park.
I’m back at my flat by now, exhilarated after my walk and ready for a shower. I haven’t reached the end of that particular story, but I want to put my mind to my next task. I can savour the way it turned out another time.
I dry off and dress in my usual gear. A tunic top that hides my stomach, leggings to cover my dumpy legs, my purple Doc Martens, because they’re comfy.
I was never introduced to make-up when I was growing up. My various ‘aunts’ were too old to bother with it and younger foster carers didn’t take the trouble to show me. I wasn’t allowed in their bedrooms. Everything ‘ladies did’ was behind closed doors and I’ve had to learn about it from magazines.
No one warned me about periods either. I screamed when I went to the toilet and found the mess. Thank goodness I wasn’t at school when it happened. Mrs Lillie tore an old bed sheet into small squares and told me to pin one to my knickers with safety pins. I felt like a leper.
I’m sitting on the grubby settee in my dingy flat, feeling lonely. I’m hungry, but I’m not going to eat. I think about having sex. It’s not something I’ve done very often. I haven’t fancied anyone in ages and there’s no one at the music store. Jack is a laugh, but he’s always falling in with the wrong people and getting involved with dodgy deals. The store attracts those kinds of people. There’s an underground element; drug users, fraudsters, people out to make a quick buck. Lee is more ‘sane’ than the rest of them. He smokes weed, is vegetarian and goes on animal rights’ demos. Swears by fennel tea for constipation and something chewy called tofu. He’s a bit too downbeat for me.
Lee and Jack know various ‘low-lifes’ who lurk outside the back exit now and again. It’s designated for smokers, but I often hang out with them and they don’t seem to mind. They think I’m dim and gullible and haven’t a clue they’re smoking pot half the time.
Anyway, finding romance at work is a non-starter, but I’m not bothering about it for now. I’m going to throw all my efforts in a different direction, and to do that, I’ll need to make myself more presentable. I should maybe pluck my eyebrows and polish my nails for a start. What else do women do to spruce themselves up? I’ll have to get along to Boots and buy some spot cover and lipstick.
I grab the newspaper and check the TV listings. There’s a programme on that afternoon called Style Diva. I’ll watch it and get some tips.
Sam’s going to get one heck of a shock!
Chapter 19
Rosie
I’m ironing when the phone rings. It’s DS Fischer with an update on the crash. My heartbeat shoots off like a greyhound bursting out of the starting box. What have they found this time? A body? My viola?
‘Nothing like that I’m afraid,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Do you remember anyone wearing a green Barbour jacket before the accident?’
I can picture it straight away, almost smell it. ‘Yes. Max had one.’
‘Just Max?’
‘Yeah. Richard wore a kind of baggy brown hoodie.’
There’s a silence.
‘You found it?’ I say, my mouth dry.
‘Can you remember if Max was wearing it when he got in the van?’
I recall the crackly sound it made when he put it on and the waxy look of it, but the images are from Hinds’ place, not from driving around the lake.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him.
‘Okay. It was found this morning in the water, about seventy metres f
rom the place where the van went down.’
‘After all this time?’
‘Let me know if you remember anything about him wearing it, will you?’
‘Sure.’ I can see what he’s thinking. When did Max and the jacket part company? That’s his real question. In the water? In the van? Did Max shake it off in the lake in an effort to swim to safety? Did he manage to escape? Is he still alive?
His voice breaks through my chain of silent questions. ‘We’ve also had a call from Richard White’s sister. She’d like to get in touch with you about what happened. We don’t usually give out numbers, so I wanted to check if you felt comfortable speaking to her.’
‘Oh,’ I don’t try to hide my disappointment. ‘That’s fine, I suppose. You can give her my number.’
‘You sure? You don’t have to.’
‘It’s okay.’
I don’t mind talking about it with people, even if they are ringing about their loved ones and not really interested in me. I might even be able to find out some background information that could be useful in explaining the crash.
The call comes through that same day. Lucy White lives in Kent and hadn’t seen Richard since a couple of months before the accident.
‘I don’t really know why I’m ringing,’ she says. ‘I suppose I needed to speak to you, because you were the last person to see Richard…’ There’s a gap. She can’t bring herself to add the final two syllables.
‘What have the police told you?’ I ask.
Lucy runs through what she knows: why Richard was in the Lakes, how we drove up from London together, that for some reason his van left the road.
‘They don’t even seem to know if it was an accident or not,’ she says. Her voice is light and thin, like pink chiffon. ‘They said the steering wasn’t right and there’d been a puncture in one of the front tyres, but they didn’t know if that was wear and tear or signs of…’
‘I know,’ I commiserate. ‘I can’t add much, I’m afraid. I remember we swerved and left the road. I don’t know why.’
I don’t tell her that the police have worked out that the brakes were jammed at the time of the accident. It meant Richard wouldn’t have stood a chance.
‘I suppose what I really want to know is – do you think he suffered?’
God, what a question. Has anyone ever drowned and not suffered? I’d only had a flavour of it: the water scorching my nostrils, the pain as it burst into my lungs, the terrifying panic when I realised I couldn’t breathe. But I’d got out before the worst part set in. Surely, drowning couldn’t be anything other than a frenzied, frantic agony.
‘It would have been quick,’ I say with assurance, leaving it at that.
I don’t remember any glimpses of Richard after we hit the water and I’m trying not to allow invented images of him, fighting to get his seatbelt off, his door or window open, to flood into my mind.
‘Did he seem happy?’ she says hopefully. ‘I know he’d been struggling with money lately. He’d fallen out badly with Dad and he’d had terrible fights with his brother. Greg’s always been a liability. He stole from Richard a couple of times.’
Richard hadn’t told me any of this. But then, why would he?
I scrabble around for something positive to say. ‘He was chatty in the van on the journey up north. He thought the whole idea of us playing together again was a lark and he seemed to…be enjoying himself.’ That wasn’t strictly true. Wasn’t true at all, in fact. Richard hated the whole idea as much as I did, but he was there for the generous fee, like the rest of us.
‘Did he tell you about the first time, when you all did that original concert, years ago?’
‘What about it?’
‘Apparently Richard slept with the wife of the guy who organised it, the night before the celebrations.’
Shit! This is news to me. I wonder if Cameron Hinds knows about it. I try to think back. Had he seemed hostile to Richard at any point? Had there been a bad atmosphere or was he completely in the dark about it, like me?
‘Did you tell the police?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’ I can hear her fingernails tapping on the edge of the phone. ‘Do you think Mr Hinds might have got you back up there after all this time under false pretences?’ Lucy says. ‘Did he find out about his wife’s infidelity and decide to punish Richard?’
She’s way ahead of me. She’s obviously spent time working all this out.
‘Hold on,’ I say, flopping back onto my settee. ‘Mr Hinds didn’t get us all together on a whim, it was for his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’
‘Yeah, but what if her infidelity just came out while you were there, somehow…maybe they were talking about that first time and his wife let something slip…’
‘You think Cameron Hinds messed with Richard’s van? You think he felt angry enough to kill him?’
‘Why not?’
‘But Mr Hinds knew Richard was ferrying us all around. Are you saying he didn’t care if he murdered all of us?’
She goes quiet.
‘Cameron Hinds doesn’t come across as the mass-murdering type,’ I conclude.
‘Maybe you’re right. I just, you know, need someone to blame.’ She starts to cry.
I hold the phone away from my ear. Even though I’ve had plenty of therapy I still don’t really know what to do when someone else is upset. In any case, I’m not sure I’m up for offering full-blown counselling, so I apologise and tell her I’m going to the theatre.
I take my seat early and watch everyone file in. It’s years since I’ve been to see a play. It isn’t really my thing. But, I couldn’t miss this opportunity to see Sam ‘out of hours’. Good job she put ‘Wyndham’s’ in her diary, and not just ‘theatre’ – I wouldn’t have known where to start. Not that I intend to bump into her. I’m wearing a beret to hide my flaming hair and I’ve experimented with a bit of make-up to make me look different. Even so, I slide down low in my seat.
It isn’t until we’re halfway through the first act that I spot Sam through my little binoculars, towards the front of the stalls. Expensive seats. I watch her for a while to see if she’s made any contact with the people sitting on either side of her, but she doesn’t seem to know them. On her own, then. I’m surprised she isn’t with friends. I watch her as the play unfolds. During certain scenes she sits upright and during others she slumps a little and appears to be delving into a packet of sweets. She seems to be most interested whenever ‘Frank’ comes on. When he has a short scene to himself, she sits there, completely transfixed – you might say she is ogling him. Then I twig why she’s here.
According to the programme, the actor playing Frank is a guy called Conrad Noble. I remember the name ‘Con’ from the postcard I read at her flat. She has every reason to be interested, too. The black and white photo of him in the programme barely does him justice; he’s gorgeous.
Is this love in its early stages, or love gone wrong?
As the final curtain comes down, I feel a wave of extraordinary excitement as if I’m the one in love with him. I watch him take his bows, clapping wildly.
It’s okay, Sam. This is going to be our little secret.
Chapter 20
Sam
I poked the hot crumpet out of the toaster with a fork and smothered it in butter, watching as it slithered into the holes. My mind was on Rosie; our last session had been a tough one.
There was so much I still didn’t know, not just about the accident at the Lakes, but about Rosie’s background. I couldn’t imagine how she coped with those chilling memories of the day her parents died, nor could I get those shattering words out of my mind: Even in death, my dad didn’t want me.
She’d reached out and I’d let her hug me. What else could I do? She’d have slumped to the floor if I hadn’t caught her. Then I’d had to peel her fingers away to make her let go of me. It was getting decidedly tricky working with her; such a fine line to tread between wanting to help and creating a situation where she was starting to
become dependent on me.
I barely tasted the crumpet and put another in the slot, mechanically. She’d told me her childhood carers had ranged from brusque, no-nonsense types, who’d shown sporadic kindness, to zealous religious types intent on saving her soul from the sins of her father. Was there really no one she was close to?
As I took another bite, the phone rang. I answered it absent-mindedly, with butter oozing down my chin.
‘Hello?’
There was no reply.
‘Sam Willerby – hello?’
More silence. I sank my weight onto one hip. ‘Bruce? Is that you?’
One long background hiss. I put down the phone.
Wrong number, that’s all. I swallowed hard, my tongue inexplicably gritty as if I’d taken in a mouthful of eggshell.
I leant against the sofa and recalled how Rosie hadn’t batted an eyelid when she’d told me about finding her mother in a pool of blood. She must have developed such thick skin over the years.
I was still intrigued to know what had happened during the eighteen months of therapy she’d had with Erica Mandale. Losing a surrogate parent figure when she died must have brought back all the pain. And yet, Rosie seemed unscathed by it.
I dearly wanted to know how Rosie had coped at the age of seven, watching her mother and father die so gruesomely within minutes of each other. How had she dealt with it? How had the loss and shock affected her as an adult?
She’d clearly learnt the knack of detaching herself and switching off, but what about all those horrifying images locked up inside her head? Had she ever really opened up to anyone? I was seeing more and more sides to Rosie as the weeks went by and yet I felt I wasn’t seeing the real Rosie at all.
It was Sunday, my diary was blank and I was still in my dressing gown. I texted Hannah to arrange to meet up, but she sent a message back saying she and Alan were driving around Kent, taking a look at various properties. I didn’t want to know. There were other friends I could try. Five minutes later, I’d left three messages on different voicemails and still had no plan for the day.
