The Siren

by Alison Bruce

  Rachel’s breathing steadied for a moment. ‘I didn’t know you’d have Riley,’ she blurted.

  ‘I wasn’t going to leave him indoors, was I?’

  ‘I don’t mean now. I meant . . .’ Rachel held out her hands in an expansive gesture, a gesture that said Think bigger.

  ‘You meant what?’ Kimberly demanded, but she could already see she’d been naïve. She felt a familiar anger rising, and she tried to restrain it, grabbing at its tail and willing it to go quietly back into its cage.

  Kimberly asked her again, knowing that her voice sounded hard and unforgiving. ‘What was it you meant?’

  This was the wrong tactic with Rachel, and Kimberly knew it. Rachel stiffened, then pulled away and began walking the more direct route back to her house.

  By the time Kimberly had manoeuvred the pram across the bumps and heavy clumps of grass, Rachel had almost reached the low wall before her back garden.

  Kimberly spoke again as soon as she thought she was close enough to be heard. ‘Please, Rachel, I don’t understand.’ Parking the pushchair, she caught up with her finally and reached out for the woman’s arm. ‘What’s scaring you, Rach?’

  The next moment Rachel was hugging her, constantly repeating her name. Kimberly held her close at first, gripping her as tight as she was being gripped. Then the seconds began to stretch on too long. This wasn’t just an expression of close friendship, and Kimberly didn’t understand it. It began to feel claustrophobic. She needed to know what Rachel was now feeling, needed to catch her breath and assess this new pitch of emotion. Is this love or fear, or something else? Regret perhaps?

  But, in their relationship, Kimberly believed she was the sole custodian of all the regret. She’d held on to it for so long now.

  She eased herself free.

  ‘I know how much I owe you. I’ll never forget that, and I’d never want you in any danger because of me.’

  Rachel turned to her, her eyes already puffy and her nose running. Her words sounded thick and heavy. ‘Everything’s scaring me. You, Stefan . . . the whole fucking, miserable mess.’

  Then, Rachel began backing up as she continued, ‘Go away. Take Riley and go. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t already know, so don’t ask me any more. Just get away from Cambridge.’

  ‘I don’t know everything, do I? What’s it got to do with Riley?’

  ‘Kim, there’s nothing else I can say.’

  ‘There is. Just tell me what’s happened.’

  Rachel hesitated and, when she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible: ‘You saw the news?’

  Kimberly couldn’t let it go so easily and followed her right up to the low wall. ‘Spain’s a thousand miles away, probably more. It has nothing to do with Cambridge.’

  Rachel shook her head and stepped right over the wall. They were only thirty feet from the pushchair but Kimberly wasn’t prepared to be any further from her son. She hurried back to collect it, and pushed the buggy towards Rachel. ‘Wait, there’s something else, isn’t there?’

  ‘You really must go away from here.’

  ‘I can’t just vanish.’

  ‘You have to. I’m going early tomorrow.’

  ‘Without Stefan?’

  ‘No.’ It was Rachel’s instant answer, then she checked herself. ‘Maybe. Look, the less you know the better.’

  ‘You’ve had it all planned.’

  Rachel shrugged, but seemed increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘Why didn’t you warn me earlier?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘It was an old plan – one we never thought we’d need.’ Again her gaze alighted on Riley.

  ‘Is he in danger, too?’ Kimberly whispered.

  She guessed Rachel wished she could deny it, but instead she gave her a small nod. It did nothing to soften the sense of betrayal: Rachel had let her down but more than that she’d let Riley down.

  The truth of the situation seemed to strike Rachel only then. She paused, then said, ‘OK, how long do you need?’

  Kimberly couldn’t help the sarcasm. ‘To arrange a new life?’ she snorted.

  Rachel didn’t visibly react. ‘To collect some cash and a car and go,’ she said quietly.

  That sobered Kimberly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m all ready. Why don’t I take Riley for a few hours? Pick him up when you’re sorted.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘It’s all I can offer.’

  And Kimberly could tell then that there was no half-truth or selfishness in the suggestion. ‘Help me get the pram over the wall.’

  Rachel nodded reassuringly. ‘You know I’ll look after him. I’ve always tried, you realize. And, Kim, please don’t tell anyone else what I’m doing.’

  Kimberly nodded silently, then hung back until both of them were out of sight. She finally made her decision and turned – but not towards home. Instead she left the cemetery at the south-west exit, then broke into a run.

  Change was in the air, and it smelt sour. Maybe there was something bad coming, or perhaps it was already blowing in and opening up gangrenous wounds in her current life. One thing was certain; it was stirring up the one memory that she never wanted to revisit: hot pavements and the sound of her own footsteps echoing on them as she ran for help.

  THREE

  Rachel was in the habit of deliberately studying her own house each time she approached it, no matter how short a time she’d been away or which elevation she was facing. It was a habit she had developed as a form of motivation, a reminder of how far their hard work had brought them and what they could accomplish when they remembered to work together. She had finally realized that such achievements had been brought about by nothing but her own determination. And, although her motivations subsequently changed, her habit of staring at the house remained.

  It was a mid-terrace residence with a small passage that led from the back garden straight through to the street at the front. Including this in its overall ground plan made the house several feet wider than the neighbouring properties. It had allowed Rachel and Stefan space for an upstairs bathroom and an en-suite extension to their bedroom. The house was one hundred and seven years old and had spent the entire post-war period mostly in the hands of the same family.

  The first thing they had done was hire a skip. Apart from three brief trips to the landfill site near Milton, it remained outside for a full week as layers of the house’s history were stripped away and discarded. The thick brown and cream lounge carpet, the wood cladding from the chimney breast along with the two-bar electric fire with the fake coals. A free-standing kitchen unit and a Belling cooker. The twin tub with its flaking paint, rusting from the bottom up. A double bed with velour headboard and the plastic laundry basket printed with orange and yellow flowers all over its lid. Interior doors, strips of old skirting, the sink, the bath, the immersion heater, and on and on until all that remained had been a windowless, featureless shell.

  They’d then extended outwards at the back and upwards into the loft. And the builders had used the narrow side passage each time new building materials were delivered. Everything from wiring and plaster to shelves and cushions was replaced.

  But the passage itself stayed, too convenient to be deprived of it for the sake of a few extra square feet of floor space. They’d never worked out how to give the place a more contemporary feel, and so this passageway and the one surviving plum tree stayed as relics of the house’s original guise as a cramped and unfashionable Edwardian family home.

  Although Rachel always studied her own home in this way, she rarely thought about it in any depth. For some reason today was different, and by the time she’d manoeuvred Riley’s pushchair in through the patio doors, she was preoccupied with the idea that she was leaving the one place they’d truly made their own.

  She corrected herself: the one place she’d truly made her own.

  Rachel drew a deep breath and wondered if living alone somewhere new would really be any better.
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  It was her exchange with Kimberly that had brought about this occasional sentimentality, Kimberly whose pregnancy had brought her a sense of purpose as well as a beautiful baby boy. Rachel loved this house but it was just a house, a means to an end. Her next steps were all about getting herself to a point where she could afford to be sentimental. The chance to become as lucky as Kimberly.

  She lifted Riley on to the settee, and he opened his eyes. ‘Hi, Riley. It’s Rachel.’

  ‘Where’s mummy?’

  ‘Gone shopping.’

  That satisfied him clearly. He was still drowsy and turned his head to one side.

  ‘Sleepy boy,’ she murmured and stroked his hair. He seemed oblivious to her and a minute later she was in the kitchen with the hob alight and a deep pan of cold water sitting over it. She was sure he would come to find her when he wanted attention. And, even though she couldn’t see him, she’d hear him if he called out.

  She went back to thinking about the house, trying to imagine locking the door for the last time, then telling herself that there was no point in getting emotional when the decision had already been made.

  She was far too deep in thought to notice the lengthening of the shadows outside the kitchen window, or the TV burbling in the front room. It was the key in the latch that made her start, and notice that the water in the saucepan was now boiling. The tiles behind the cooker were moist with steam.

  She glanced at her watch but didn’t bother looking out into the hall. ‘You’re early,’ she called.

  There was no reply, so she tried again. ‘Stefan, I’m in the kitchen.’

  She listened for a reply but, if he had bothered speaking at all, he’d only mumbled one, merely grunting back at her some dutiful greeting. ‘Sulky git,’ she muttered, slowly drying her hands on the nearest tea towel, feeling acutely aware of how stale the air became when they shared it. She knew she should go to welcome him, though, and make the effort for one last meal.

  She straightened up, determined to seem caring, relaxed, content and display every other positive aspect of being happily married that it was appropriate for him to see.

  That lasted all the way along the hallway and as far as the front room, where he stood in the doorway with his back to her.

  ‘When d’you want dinner?’ she asked, her smile fading as he turned and she could see the darkness in his expression. She glared instead, knowing that the words would come out of her mouth sounding sharp and indifferent. ‘What’s up now?’

  She looked inside the room and the answer was all too obvious. While she’d been distracted by a saucepan of boiling water, Riley had gone out of the lounge and found the CD racks in the front room. There were at least thirty cases, now separated from their disks and booklets. She knew immediately that most of them were hers, but she doubted that would change the outcome.

  ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’

  Rachel lowered her voice, hoping he would take the hint and do the same. ‘That’s not why you’re back?’

  He kept his voice at the same pitch, not exactly loud considering it came from a six-foot-two wall of a man. But it was loud enough. ‘Answer the fucking question.’

  ‘You’re back because you saw the news?’

  ‘I said answer the fucking question.’

  For the first time Riley glanced over at them. He grinned and shook another loose CD on to the floor.

  ‘Shhh,’ Rachel said, ‘I am answering.’ She backed away from the door, jerking her head to persuade him to follow her to the kitchen. Thankfully he did.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Shut up, let me finish, and you’ll see that I’m actually answering the fucking question.’

  She paused, wondering whether she’d already pushed her luck too far. He looked angry, pissed off even, but was yet to tip into the dangerous mood. She knew she now had to try to keep things smooth.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘You saw the news, and Kim’s seen it too. I’ve taken Riley while she sorts some stuff out. She’s going to leave town for a while.’

  ‘Like we don’t have our own shit?’

  ‘It won’t hurt for us to stick together.’

  She saw him change then, a tiny twist in his expression, more tension evident round the mouth and a narrowing of the eyes. His voice took on another tone, a kind of one-wrong-step-and-you’re-out type vibe.

  ‘You mean loyalty? That’s new.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All this faithful crap doesn’t include me, does it?’

  ‘I haven’t a . . .’ She could see where this was going but had no idea why they were heading there. She tried to remember anything she might have said or done to trigger this jealousy. She kept returning to the idea that somehow he’d discovered the only thing that couldn’t be explained away. He was standing about six feet from her but his fury seemed to fill her entire field of vision.

  ‘I kept my mouth shut. I put up with your coldness, always avoiding me touching you, but don’t you think it’s always on my mind, Rachel? I don’t need you telling me how you’re going to stand by her, when you won’t stand by me. Rubbing my face in the shit like that. Do you see what I’m saying? Do you? You have pushed me until all I want to do now is snap. I’m not keeping my mouth shut any longer. So tell me . . .’

  ‘What?’ He waited for just a few seconds before he spoke, but to Rachel it felt like several long minutes, and in that time she was no closer to finding anything to say to save her situation.

  When he finally whispered the words, she wanted to sob with relief. ‘Who are you shagging?’

  Who are you shagging?

  She shook her head and kept her response low-key. ‘No one.’

  ‘Liar.’ He stepped closer, and in response she stepped backwards. The wall behind her was nearer than she expected, so she found herself pressed up against it. Stefan leant towards her, one broad hand pressed to the wall on either side of her face.

  She tried to turn away, but those big hands were quick and she found herself slapped back against the wall. ‘This is stupid,’ she breathed.

  He just shook his head. ‘I have to know,’ he said finally.

  ‘There’s no one.’

  He grabbed her face, cupping it in his hands, pressing his thumbs into her cheekbones. ‘Tell me.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Riley appear in the hallway. He remained silent, with an intent expression on his face. Stefan gripped her just as tightly as she tried to smile despite the pain.

  She knew he would let her go soon, and until then there was nothing else to say.

  FOUR

  It was approaching 8 p.m. and the afternoon had faded. Inside Parkside Pool the artificial lighting maintained the illusion of daylight, but the restaurant had already closed and the children’s swimming class had finished. Only a few adult swimmers remained to wind down the day.

  The man at the very back of the viewing gallery sat low in his seat. He held open a copy of The Times but wasn’t reading anything on the page in front of him. Below him, Gary Goodhew swam the last of his hundred lengths with the same swift but unrushed front crawl that he’d used on the first. He cut a clean line through the pool, with a technique close to textbook perfect and timing that was damn near metronomic.

  Goodhew left the water then. He didn’t use the steps, just made the sort of easy exit rarely accomplished by the unfit or overweight. Judging by the female lifeguard’s intent expression, she’d already spotted that he was neither. He tugged his towel from the back of a chair and rubbed his hair a couple of times, enough to leave it looking about as tidy as it ever appeared. He headed towards the men’s changing rooms, as lithe and almost as fluid when he walked as when he was swimming.

  The spectator slipped away then, similarly fluid and equally focused, the evening having proved more than satisfactory. It had taken Goodhew forty minutes to swim just over a mile and a half, and in that time he had demonstrated discipline, fitness and an undoubted capaci
ty for patience. Perhaps patience was the wrong term for it, more like a determination to play the long game. All of these were attributes that Goodhew normally hid behind a mask of quiet diffidence.

  Not that this was news to the spectator, who had drawn several conclusions before today, and was only present here to confirm them. DC Gary Goodhew, the youngest detective serving at Cambridge’s Parkside Station, wasn’t the only one capable of silently observing the truth.

  From leaving the water to exiting the building Goodhew took less than ten minutes. It wasn’t a hot summer yet, but more than warm enough to lift the remaining dampness from his short and slightly unkempt hair. He ran his fingers just once through the front, as if that would salvage something. There wasn’t any particular style to salvage, so the result was pretty irrelevant.

  As he turned right from the pool, the Parkside Station fell within his line of sight, and he wondered what would be waiting for him on his return. But then, as he turned right yet again into Mill Road, he forced his thoughts away from matters of work.

  In fact the coming fortnight would hold nothing more taxing for him than meeting a light-hearted challenge set by his grandmother. Just returned from two weeks in Cuba, she had flown back bursting with stories of jazz and salsa clubs. She reckoned that his choice of spending his two weeks’ holiday in Cambridge couldn’t touch that, especially when the place was already his home town.

  He’d grinned and said, ‘You’ll see,’ despite having virtually no plans yet for his time off.

  Now he walked alongside the clog of traffic that inched slowly in each direction, first overtaking then being overtaken by cars that were heading away from the city centre. In recent years Mill Road had become an end-to-end traffic queue, but it was far more than just a commuter route. The shops ranged from a tattooist and a traditional toyshop to antiquarian books and an oriental supermarket, with newsagents and kebab shops in between. Some had unlocked their doors at 6 a.m., while others would stay open until two the following morning. No other part of Cambridge was so diverse or vibrant.