They were there. Together.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, calm descended.
A few more yards and the path opened up. She stood on the edge of a clearing with a pond and a tree by its edge. The tree under which her father had once told her stories. The tree under which she and Paul had made love on that fateful summer’s day the previous year.
And under which Ronnie now sat with Uncle Andrew.
They were sitting very close, their heads almost touching. A strategy of Ronnie’s to ensure their voices remained soft. Uncle Andrew sipped from the almost empty whisky bottle then passed it to Ronnie, who suffered from poor circulation and wore gloves to protect his hands from the cold. Tilting his head, Ronnie pretended to swallow, fooling his companion, who was far too drunk to notice the deception.
She looked across the clearing to the trees that acted as a barrier from the river. Again she listened for sounds of life but heard nothing. Just as she had expected. Few people ever came to this stretch of the river, especially outside the months of summer. Her father had loved such places for that reason and taught her to love them too, while never dreaming of the use to which such knowledge would one day be put.
Ronnie handed the bottle back, checked his watch and looked up. Their eyes locked.
For a moment he did not react. Then he nodded.
She walked into the clearing. Ronnie rose to his feet. Uncle Andrew followed his cue, staring at her with drink-befuddled eyes. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m here for Jennifer.’
‘Jennifer?’ He took a step towards her, wobbling unsteadily. Ronnie put an arm around him. Supporting. Guiding. Manoeuvring him towards the designated spot by the water’s edge. Close to where the tree roots broke the surface. The ones her father had called the troll’s fingers.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘That I’m here to watch you die.’
‘Die?’ He turned to Ronnie and began to giggle. ‘She’s mad.’
Ronnie nodded. He was smiling but then his expression became one of surprise. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to a spot over Uncle Andrew’s shoulder.
Uncle Andrew began to turn, still holding the whisky bottle. Ronnie dropped down, put his hands around Uncle Andrew’s ankles and gave a gentle tug. In Uncle Andrew’s unsteady state that was all that was needed. He fell forward, too disoriented to cry or put out his hands before his head slammed against the troll’s fingers.
He lay with his head in the water, the dropped whisky bottle by his side. She watched him, her throat dry. Was he unconscious? Or would they have to hold him down and risk leaving telltale bruises. Ronnie had assured her that they wouldn’t. That he would be too incapacitated by the blow and by drink to struggle. But she didn’t want to take the chance.
Twenty seconds passed. Thirty. Forty. He remained motionless. Ronnie could hold his breath for a minute and a half. She for nearly two.
But they were younger and fitter than he was.
Ronnie came to stand beside her, treading gingerly, careful to avoid the one spot in the clearing where the ground was damp enough to register footprints. He took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
One minute. Two. She waited for him to start moving. But he just lay there.
Three minutes. Four. Five.
It had worked.
‘It’s done, Susie.’
‘But …’
‘He’s dead. We have to go. Now. Before someone comes.’
They made their way up the path, still hand in hand. Leaving the river and returning to the woods. She was running, feeling as if her feet were made of air. Wanting to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time. Terrified and exhilarated. Dizzy with adrenalin.
Back in the woods, he led her to the hut. ‘We have to stay here for a few minutes,’ he told her. ‘You musn’t appear excited when we go back. You have to be calm.’
‘How can I? We did it.’ Laughter erupted from her throat. ‘We did it!’
He began to laugh too, while trying to cover her mouth with his hand. She pulled away, opening her mouth to laugh some more. Again he covered it, only this time with his own.
Desire exploded through her like dynamite. She kissed him back, savagely, greedily, wanting to devour him completely. His eyes were shining and she knew he felt it too. That sense of union. Of oneness. I am yours and you are mine and not even death can break this bond we have between us.
So their union became physical, there in the hut, while outside the ghost mother cried for her child and kept other watchful eyes away.
Half past six. She stood in the hallway of her house, breathing in the smell of supper.
For the last two hours she had been sitting in Cobhams Milk Bar with Ronnie, forcing herself to drink a strawberry shake and talk about school, Scotland, films, music. Anything except what had taken place by the river.
‘Is that you, Andrew?’
‘No, Mum. It’s me.’
Her mother appeared from the kitchen, looking anxious. ‘Your stepfather’s not back yet. You don’t think he’s gone to the pub, do you?’
‘It won’t be open yet. He’s probably just lost track of time. Last weekend he went for a walk and was gone for hours.’
‘I suppose so.’ Her mother sighed. ‘I’m making a casserole. He likes that, doesn’t he?’
‘Very much.’ She forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. He’ll be back soon …’
Twenty to seven. From the kitchen window Anna saw Ronnie coming up the drive.
She walked out to meet him. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asked.
He nodded, looking sad. Overhead the evening star climbed into the night sky.
‘She hasn’t left yet, Ronnie.’
The sadness remained. ‘It’s just the thought of someone I like going away. It reminds me of what it was like in Hepton, always watching you go away.’
‘And is this as bad?’
‘No. Nothing could ever be as bad as that.’
She felt a warmth in her stomach. ‘It’s only until Christmas. That’s not long.’
But by then you won’t care. I’ll see to it that you don’t.
Another nod.
‘What did you do?’
‘Had a walk in the woods, then went to Cobhams.’ His expression became guilty. ‘Where I ruined my supper with a chocolate milk shake.’
‘That’s a pity. I’m making your favourite lamb chops with mint sauce.’
‘Really?’ His face lit up into a perfect Ronnie Sunshine smile. ‘Thanks, Mum. You always know how to cheer me up.’
‘Of course. It’s my job. Who knows you better than me?’
‘No one.’
Together they walked back into the house.
A quarter to nine the next morning. Susan stood in the hallway with her mother, both of them staring at the telephone.
‘You have to call them, Mum.’
Her mother reached for the receiver, then pulled her hand back again. There were bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. Neither of them had slept the previous night.
‘He’s probably just stayed with a friend. If I call the police and they come round he’ll be angry. You know what he’s like.’
‘And you know he’s never stayed out all night before. What’s he going to do? Wake the mayor at midnight and say sorry but I’m too drunk to find my way home?’
‘We don’t know he was drinking.’
‘He was out all evening. What else will he have been doing? Anyway, it doesn’t matter what he was doing last night. The question is where is he now?’
Again her mother reached for the receiver then pulled back her hand.
‘Mum, he’s got an important meeting this morning. Don’t you remember him talking about it? He should have left for the office an hour ago but he’s still not here. That’s got to tell you something.’
Her mother was looking frightened. Susan ached to put her out of her misery and tell her that he would never be coming back. But of
course she couldn’t.
‘He drinks at the Crown. Why not call them first. Ask if he was there.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Or ask Ben Logan. If Uncle Andrew did go to the Crown he’ll have had to walk along the river bank and Ben will have seen him. Ben sees everybody.’
‘You should go to school. You’re late already.’
‘I’m not leaving you.’
If he comes back and finds you here he’ll be angry with me. Please, Susie.’
She didn’t want to go. But she didn’t want to stay either. Even the best actresses needed the occasional break from the stage.
‘OK. But I’m coming home at lunchtime, and if you haven’t heard from him by then we’re calling the police …’
The following afternoon. She walked home from school with Ronnie.
Neither spoke. She knew what he was thinking. What she was thinking herself. When would they find him? When would the real performance begin?
Her mother had phoned the police the previous lunchtime. Two officers had come to take a statement. She had stayed home all afternoon, sitting by her mother’s side, looking anxious, saying nothing.
Except that if he had gone to the Crown then Ben Logan should have seen him.
Everyone who knew Uncle Andrew had been called. Uncle George, who had spent the previous evening at their house. The mayor. Other friends. The landlord of the Crown. Nobody knew anything.
Though Ben Logan had seen him walking by the river the previous afternoon, looking a little unsteady on his feet. And not for the first time either.
They reached the corner of Market Court. A police car was parked outside her house. Were they there to ask more questions? Or to break the news?
‘This could be it,’ she said.
‘It was an accident. That’s how it looks and that’s what they’ll think.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Let me come too.’
‘No. It might seem strange. I have to do this on my own.’
‘Are you ready?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Lights.’
She kissed him back. ‘Camera.’
‘Action.’
As she walked towards the house the light around her seemed to fade, like the darkness that fell over an auditorium at the start of a film. In her head she was seven years old again, sitting in the cinema with her father, holding his hand and watching the girl on the screen who looked like an older version of herself. The girl who was in danger and needed all her wits about her to survive. The girl who felt sick with fear, just as she did.
But her father wasn’t frightened. He was smiling, keeping her hand safe and warm in his. ‘Don’t be scared, Susie,’ he whispered. ‘She can do this. She can do anything because she’s my daughter and she makes me proud. I wish she were here so I could tell her that but she’s not so you’ll have to tell her for me. Keep the knowledge safe in your heart so that one day years from now when she really needs to know it she will.’
I do know it. I love you, Dad.
And I can do this.
She opened the door. From the living room came the sound of voices. Her mother appeared, her eyes red from crying. ‘Oh, Susie …’
‘Mum, what is it?’
Her mother burst into tears. A policeman stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable at witnessing another’s grief.
‘Mum?’
‘Oh, Susie, he’s dead.’
Inside her head the camera whirred and the music swelled. She thought of her father. She thought of her audience. Surrendering to the scene, she began to cry too.
Wednesday evening. Charles listened to Mary Norris on the phone.
‘There was an empty bottle beside him. At least, that’s what I heard. He was partial to the bottle, by all accounts. Often in the Crown three sheets to the wind.’ A sigh. ‘Poor Susie. How must she be feeling?’
He didn’t know for sure. But he could guess.
Happy? Free? Safe?
Guilty?
The thought stuck in his brain like a tick. He didn’t want to believe it. Susan was someone he liked a great deal. A genuinely warm and likeable human being. He had learned to trust his instincts about others and those he had about her had always been good.
But he couldn’t say the same about Ronnie.
And good people could do bad things. If they felt trapped. If they were afraid.
Where there’s a will there’s a way.
Susan had the will. Had Ronnie shown the way?
As Mary prattled on he shook his head as if trying to dislodge the thought. But it clung on like the parasite it was, feeding and growing stronger.
The next morning he sat in his study, smoking his pipe and trying to work.
A subdued-looking Anna entered. ‘Would you like some lunch?’
‘No thank you. I’m not very hungry.’
‘Neither am I.’
He put down his pen. ‘It’s a terrible business.’
‘The funeral is on Saturday. We must go. Show support.’
‘Saturday is Ronnie’s birthday.’
‘So?’
‘Nothing. I was just pointing it out. I know how you’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘We can celebrate another day. The funeral is more important.’ As she spoke she began to fiddle with her left ear. The way she always did when she was nervous.
‘Of course it is,’ he said soothingly. ‘And of course we’ll go.’
‘All three of us will. You, me and Ronnie. He wants to go. He said so last night.’ The hand continued to fiddle with the ear. ‘And that’s how it should be. He and Susie are such good friends. People would think it strange if he wasn’t there.’
He nodded, breathing out clouds of tobacco and watching her.
You suspect him too. You don’t believe it was an accident any more than I do.
He asked about the time of the service. She answered, her voice tight. Again he saw the hardness in her mouth. But this time it seemed even more pronounced. Another wrinkle in the picture Dorian Gray kept in his attic.
She continued to speak. Suddenly tears came into her eyes. Concerned, he rose to his feet. ‘Darling, what is it?’
‘Someone dying so unexpectedly. It brings it all back with my family. One minute they’re there and the next they’re gone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s so stupid. You’d think I’d be over it by now.’
‘It’s not stupid. You never get over something like that. Not totally.’
‘I wish I could.’ She swallowed. ‘I wish I was brave.’
‘You are.’ He walked towards her. ‘I told you that the first time we ever really spoke. Here in this study. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes. You said I had courage because I’d kept Ronnie and I said it wasn’t courage that made me do it. It was knowing as soon as I held him that I could never give him away. That he was mine.’
She leant forward, resting her head against his chest. He put his arms around her, stroking her hair, feeling her tremble.
She’s frightened. Frightened of what he’s done. Frightened of him being caught.
But it had been an accident. That was what everyone else seemed to think. He hoped they kept thinking it. For her sake. And for Susan’s.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he whispered. ‘You’re not alone any more. You’ve got me and I’ll get you through this.’
Did she read the message in his words? Perhaps. Though she would never tell him so.
But her head remained pressed against his chest, allowing him to feel, for a brief but precious moment, that he was needed.
Saturday. Cold and clear. Susan stood next to her mother in Kendleton churchyard, watching Uncle Andrew’s coffin being placed into the grave.
The vicar began to say a prayer. She lowered her head, staring down at her black shoes which had been bought especially for the ceremony, just as so much had been bought for her in prev
ious weeks. The clothes for Scotland still lay on the floor of her bedroom waiting to be returned to the shop. This should have been the day of her departure but she would not be leaving now. Not when her mother needed her.
The prayer ended. Her mother threw a handful of earth on to the grave. She did the same, feeling the weight of eyes watching her performance of grief. In her stomach she felt the fluttering of butterflies. She was nervous, though not excessively so. The autopsy had revealed high levels of alcohol in his system and though the inquest would not be until Tuesday the release of his body for burial suggested it would be a formality. That was what one of the policemen had told her mother, and there was no reason to doubt him.
Who, after all, would suspect her? To the world Uncle Andrew had been a good and decent man. A little too fond of a drink, perhaps, but that was hardly a crime. She had been lucky to have had a stepfather like him. That was what people would think, and her loss would inspire their pity, not suspicion.
Uncle George threw earth on to the coffin. Jennifer remained by her side, holding her hand, gazing up at her. ‘Are you OK, Jenjen?’ she whispered.
A nod. ‘Are you?’
‘Better because you’re here. Much better.’
Jennifer’s face broke into a smile. Bright and full of trust. A wave of love swept over her, together with a sense of calm. Jennifer was safe. She had done what needed to be done and she had no regrets.
Ronnie stood on the other side of the grave, flanked by his mother and stepfather. He looked sad, though not as sad as she did. He was performing too. Both of them giving their audience what was expected.
For a moment their eyes locked. Then both looked away.
Wednesday afternoon. Mary Norris, grocery-shopping in Market Court, saw Anna emerge from the post office. Quickly she made her way over. ‘How are you, dear? I haven’t seen you since that lovely tea party in your garden.’
‘I’m fine,’ Anna told her.
But she didn’t look it. Her features were drawn and there were bags under her eyes. Mary felt concerned. ‘Are you sure? You seem a bit under the weather.’
‘I’m quite well, thank you.’ Anna smiled but there was an uncharacteristic brittleness to her voice. Perhaps she wasn’t sleeping well. Mary, who sometimes slept badly herself, knew that the resulting tiredness could make her brusquer than she meant to be.
Apple of My Eye Page 31
