by Paula Daly
Karen suspected this was to curb his drinking as much as anything else. She’d noticed he’d been putting more away than usual. But she didn’t say anything, because she could see he wanted to delude himself with the idea of the kitchen being the heart of the home. So she let it go.
And all the shitty stuff in the media of late had taken its toll on him. She knew some patients had been asking him about the real reasons behind Brontë’s running away, but when she asked him about it he brushed it off, as if it were a minor issue. As if he was dealing with it. But this whole thing had aged him. And he’d started smoking again. He came home smelling like Russell used to when he’d had a row with someone at work: stale smoke, alcohol, mints and whatever floral soap he’d managed to scrub his hands and face with in the gents.
She hadn’t told Noel about Russell.
She’d toyed with the idea, just in case Russell took it upon himself to turn up at their door, but in the end she had decided she would face that particular problem if it arose. It was unlikely anyway. Unlikely he’d make the three-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey north, because if Russell was anything like the Russell Wallbank of old, he would have trouble scraping together enough money for a fish supper, never mind enough to make it all the way to Windermere from Brighton.
He had contacted her a couple of days after that clip had been shown on TV. Karen had dropped Brontë at school and, on returning home, had begun a thorough, systematic search of her daughter’s bedroom in an attempt to find something – anything. Anything to shed light on who could have taken her daughter and held her hostage for over twenty-four hours. Karen was hoping to find a gift of some kind, maybe a present that Karen had never seen, and then she would have what she needed to prove that she was right. Right in thinking that Brontë had not left of her own accord.
When she was half underneath Brontë’s bed, her skin itching from all the dust that Rosa had neglected to deal with, she heard the phone ring.
She wriggled out, answered it, and heard a voice say, ‘Guess who?’
It was a voice she recognized instantly as belonging to Russell Wallbank.
‘I don’t know,’ she said tentatively.
‘Sure you do, Karen,’ he said, and she felt a chill run through her. ‘Long time no see.’ And then he laughed in the way he used to do when something wasn’t funny.
‘I saw you on the news,’ he said. ‘Looking good, Karen. Looking very good. I see life’s been kind to you.’
Karen didn’t speak. She was trying to work out if Russell could know her address and, with a sickening dread, she realized that, yes, if he’d found her phone number with her name and postal town, then her address would be listed on the British Telecom website as well.
‘What do you want?’ she whispered.
‘Just to chat.’
Karen could hear the sound of a faraway siren. Did he still live in Brighton?
‘How long has it been?’ he said.
She didn’t answer.
‘It must be – what? – getting on around nineteen years now?’
‘Around that.’
‘And you’re married to a doctor,’ he said. ‘How did that happen?’
‘The usual. We fell in love.’
‘There was a time when you loved me.’
‘Yes, well, all good things come to an end eventually, Russell.’
‘You left without saying goodbye,’ he said. ‘That was kind of shitty.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I looked for you. I left messages for you. Did you get them?’
‘I was ready to move on.’
‘With my baby?’ he hissed.
Karen closed her eyes. ‘What is it that you want, Russell?’
‘Just to talk.’
‘So, we’ve talked. I’m going to go. I have things to do and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to call here. I have a life. I have—’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said. And before Karen could say, ‘No, please don’t,’ he hung up, leaving her standing in the hallway, wondering if the back door was locked.
Karen left the cereal aisle now and headed over to the fresh counter for some pancetta and five hundred grammes of minced steak.
Chatting to the butcher was Pia Nicholls, someone Karen had hoped to avoid for at least a couple of months, until this nonsense in the press had been wiped from everyone’s minds and they all got back to thinking just about themselves again.
Karen paused, deciding whether to change direction, but she dallied for a moment too long and, before she knew it, Pia was telling the butcher in that overloud voice of hers that she had all manner of tasks to do and really must get this pork tenderloin into its marinade. Then she swung her trolley around, almost crashing into Karen.
‘Karen! It’s you! How are you?’
Usually, Pia Nicholls was elegantly dressed, even if she always looked rather old-fashioned (her favourite song was ‘Africa’ by Toto). Today, though, she wore a pair of black skinny jeans which she really didn’t have the legs for, and a weird woollen cape which Karen knew would turn into a rag the minute it was washed.
‘Lovely to see you, Pia,’ Karen said to her, inching away. ‘How are the family? Good, I hope? Anyway, so sorry, but I have to run, I’m actually late for—’
Pia reached out and clutched Karen’s arm.
‘Karen,’ she said, her face grave with concern, ‘this is me you’re talking to. Your friend. Don’t feel you need to dash. We should talk. How about coffee?’
‘I really—’
‘Great. Meet you in the café in five minutes. Do you have much left to buy?’
Karen reluctantly shook her head. ‘I’m almost done.’
‘Excellent,’ Pia said. ‘My treat.’
Karen thought about bolting through the front doors of Booths, leaving Pia Nicholls waiting for her in the adjoining café, bewildered and alone. As a teenager, Karen had often fantasized about breaking her right arm during exam season so that she could be excused. And once, she actually went through with it, persuading her big-boned friend to jump up and down on her wrist during lunch hour. The pain had been worth it. Right up until she was informed that she would be dictating her answers to a member of staff instead of taking the exams with the rest of her year. Then it had absolutely not been worth it. And Karen wondered if bolting from Pia Nicholls might also have its own unique set of repercussions.
She told the cashier, wearily, that yes, she had forgotten her Bag for Life, so yes, she would require carrier bags, and yes, she had her Booths card, and no, she didn’t want any cash back, before paying and heading towards the café, her mouth set in a grim line of resignation.
Pia was her friend, she’d said. They should talk, she’d said. But this would not be friends talking.
This would be Pia dressing up her interrogative questions as those of an anxious ally while Karen sidestepped her queries, answering like a politician and sticking to the script she used whenever anyone began to probe too deeply.
The thing was, Karen did like Pia Nicholls. She was one of the few mothers she knew who actually had some backbone, who stood up for things she believed in, rather than scurrying around like a frightened mouse, which was more typical of the majority of the mothers at Reid’s. Karen said no to those mothers when they invited her to attend scented-candle parties, or school fundraisers, giving Brontë’s tight schedule as an excuse. But really, it was because she couldn’t bear to spend an evening listening to their apologetic small talk, their petty worries and fears about their offsprings’ futures.
Pia, though slightly on the stupid side, knew who she was and didn’t mind offending you if she thought something needed saying. Which Karen had always admired in a person.
Karen removed her shopping from the trolley, leaving it alongside the potting compost and cheap bunches of flowers. Not allowed, but sod it. Then she went into the café. Pia was sitting at a table by the window. Good. Hopefully, she might get distracted and start to bitch about the peopl
e who passed by.
Karen sat down while Pia pushed a coffee her way, once again plastering a look of deep sorrow on her face, until Karen said, ‘Oh, do stop it, Pia. It’s not that bad.’
‘But the website is so ghastly!’ she exclaimed. ‘I sent you a text. Did you get it?’
Karen had received lots of texts of support from her ‘friends’. People were outraged. Anything at all they could do to help, just ask, they said. But Karen knew very well that if she did call on them for help, there would be excuses made, her calls would go unanswered.
People, she’d learned, had a tendency to scatter when the press was involved.
‘Is there any way you can put a stop to the maliciousness?’ Pia asked. ‘Can you take legal action?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Freedom of speech. People can say what they like.’
‘But how is Brontë coping?’
‘Fine. Absolutely fine. Back into the swing of things. Busy, busy.’
‘Did she give you any indication where she might have been when—’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all that—’
‘No.’
Karen took a sip of her coffee and smiled sweetly at Pia. She could push all she liked, but Karen wasn’t about to give her anything.
‘I like your cape,’ said Karen, and Pia looked at her in surprise.
‘You do?’ she replied, pleased, fingering the neckline. ‘I wasn’t sure at first.’
‘It really suits you. Goes nicely with those jeans.’
Pia preened a little at the compliment, saying something flattering about Karen’s choice of handbag in return, in that way women feel they must do when praised. It was a silly dance they did, and Karen wondered how many of these exchanges were genuine. Probably about one in ten. She often found herself commenting positively on the things she liked least about a particular woman.
Why was that? she wondered. She really couldn’t say.
‘So, I’ve not seen much of Ewan,’ Pia said casually, as if by way of an afterthought. ‘He and Hamish don’t seem to be as close as they once were.’
‘Different interests, I suppose.’
‘Did I tell you we employed a woman to help with Hamish’s personal statement? A total whizz. Eight hundred pounds, and worth every penny. She seems confident that Oxford will be impressed.’
‘That’s good,’ Karen said.
‘Hamish can’t wait to leave home. That’s a positive sign, isn’t it? I’m trying to take it as a good sign, and not as an insult. I’m not sure how I’ll cope when he does leave. Roger says so little nowadays it’ll be like living on my own.’
‘You’ll adapt.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Have to throw myself into something. Keep occupied, that’s the key.’
‘Absolutely.’
Pia drained her coffee cup and took a look around the café, waving to a couple of Reid’s mothers she’d noticed over by the entrance. They waved back enthusiastically, happy to have been noticed by Pia, as she carried a lot of clout at the school.
‘Useless, those two,’ Pia said under her breath. ‘I had them baking cookies in the school kitchen for the summer fair, and would you believe it, they could only seem to put one batch in the oven at a time? When I asked why they didn’t use the other shelves, they looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.’ She shook her head, something Pia often did, since she considered herself to be one of the few competent people on the planet.
Karen was wondering how much longer she would have to stay, and sifting through excuses, when she noticed that Pia’s face had suddenly taken on a high colour. She was building up to something.
Pia took a steadying breath and leaned in towards Karen. ‘I heard some news the other day. Well, not news as such – a rumour maybe.’
‘And…’
‘And I wondered if you could tell me if there’s any truth to it.’
‘I’ll try my best.’
‘It is rather delicate,’ Pia said.
Karen waited. ‘Well, you certainly have my interest.’
‘It’s about Ewan,’ Pia said, and Karen thought, Oh.
Now she knew what was coming.
‘People are saying he’s been arrested,’ Pia said, scandalized. ‘Is it true?’
‘Absolutely not true,’ Karen said.
‘Then why…?’ She paused. ‘They’re saying it’s to do with drugs, Karen.’
‘He hasn’t been arrested. He was cautioned.’
And Pia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, so it is true! You must be going out of your mind.’
‘Not really,’ explained Karen levelly. ‘I was the one who called the police. I needed to put a stop to it, and it seemed as good a way as any.’
Pia stared at her, shocked.
Karen had called the police about her own son.
If you asked her, Ewan needed a sharp shock to get him back to the land of the living. She would not watch him screw up his life any more than he already had. And yes, he’d hate her for it. But so what? This is what parenting involved. Hard decisions. She was his mother, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to like her.
Pia was blinking rapidly, as if grit had blown into her eyes. ‘Did Ewan ever mention whether Hamish—’ And she halted, biting down on her lower lip. ‘Did he ever say if Hamish had dabbled in—’ but Pia couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘drugs’, and Karen suddenly understood the true reason for this impromptu powwow.
Nothing to do with friendship. All to do with finding out if her son smoked weed.
Well, as far as Karen knew, Hamish was too much of a goody-goody to smoke even tobacco, but she went right ahead and said, ‘I’m sure it was only once or twice, Pia. I really wouldn’t make a fuss about it if I were you.’
Pia started to stammer some sort of reply, while gathering up her shopping and making a hasty exit.
Poor Hamish, thought Karen. The kid could deny it for the rest of his days and Pia still wouldn’t believe him.
Never mind. Life was unfair that way.
She finished her coffee and wended her way through the tables before going out to the car park. There was a biting chill to the air and she found herself suddenly looking forward to winter. After half-term, the last of the tourists would be gone. She’d be able to find a parking space in Windermere instead of driving around twice, often three times. The air would smell of wood-smoke and the view from her upstairs windows wouldn’t be occluded by leaves. Brontë would be on her way to finishing Grade Six piano, and there would be less pressure. Yes, she thought to herself, winter was going to be good.
She opened the boot of the Volvo and took a minute to arrange the bags so the contents wouldn’t tip out if she should take a corner too quickly, and then she climbed into the driver’s seat.
Turning the key in the ignition, she became aware of a sound that shouldn’t be there. It was an unfamiliar rustling of cheap fabric, nylon on nylon. She flicked off the radio, which had come on automatically, to work out what it was.
She felt something sharp against her neck. A point pressing in, just below her right earlobe.
Then, a trickle of warmth running down to her clavicle.
‘Don’t speak,’ a voice said.
25
WHEN NOEL GOT the call that Karen hadn’t collected Brontë from school, he had no other alternative than to bring Brontë to work with him for evening surgery.
He’d found a spare desk among the receptionists and set Brontë up with a stack of printer paper, a red and a black ballpoint and some Post-its. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Each afternoon, Verity would catch the bus home from school – she finished forty minutes later than Brontë – and Noel had assumed she would be around to babysit while he got on with patients. The trouble was, when he called Verity’s mobile, there was no answer. Which Brontë told him meant she must be doing cross-country, as that was the only time Verity would be without her phone.
He did think
about roping Ewan in, but Ewan was always stoned. And though Noel was desperate, he could see it wasn’t good form to leave ten-year-old Brontë with someone incapable of forming proper sentences. So into the car she went. Happily, he thought, even though she was missing her dance lessons.
After surgery, he took her for pizza and ice cream. Verity had been in touch, saying she was fine to look after herself until they came home. She didn’t want to join them at the restaurant, as she had a ton of prep to do for her geography coursework. ‘Rivers and shit.’
Noel checked his watch. It was seven fifteen. He wondered where on earth Karen could have got to and when it would be an appropriate time to contact the police. He knew that twenty-four hours had to pass before a person was considered missing, but didn’t it look a little odd if you actually did wait the full twenty-four hours? He wasn’t sure.
Brontë made a grand attempt on her pizza, leaving only two slices, which Noel polished off with a large glass of Barbaresco, then ordered a Scotch. It occurred to him, the Scotch warming his belly through, that he rarely had his younger daughter all to himself. No one’s fault but his, he supposed, but something that certainly needed remedying.
Methodically spooning strawberry ice cream into her mouth, Brontë looked just about as happy as he’d ever seen her.
‘It’s really good, Daddy,’ she said.
‘That, I can see,’ he replied.
He passed her a napkin so she could wipe her chin, and his thoughts unexpectedly turned to Jennifer. She had seemed to know how to make kids happy.
His ex-wife had run a rather haphazard household and you had never quite known what you were going to get when you walked through the door. Often Verity would be in front of the TV, a bowl of cereal in her lap, while Jennifer was in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a cigarette, nattering to one of her family members who happened to have called in.
There were a lot of them. They were like a clan. Jennifer had three brothers: all good-looking, good-hearted, but each one a bit of a scally. Noel would find a stolen portable TV on the kitchen worktop, a new camcorder without a box, a set of steak knives, and once, a young Japanese maple, its roots held in a carrier bag. It had clearly been stolen from someone’s garden, but Jennifer’s youngest brother, Dominic, had thought it would look good in their rockery. He was happy to plant it himself if Noel didn’t have the time, he said.
