Liv looks as though she’s just been caught stealing.
‘I’ll know if you try to escape,’ Katherine calls down through the bolted door. ‘And then I’ll have to stab you!’ Her voice is so breezy, Martha has no doubt that she means it.
For a few moments neither Liv nor Martha moves. Martha’s head is feeling fuzzy, and she thinks it’s some kind of residual concussion, until she turns to look at Liv and sees the drugged look in her eyes.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks, and Liv shakes her head slowly.
‘The coffee,’ she replies, and she rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes, blinking widely, trying to focus. ‘Shit. She put something in our coffee.’
Overhead, they now hear Katherine speaking into her mobile phone, but there’s a large vessel travelling up the waterway, making enough noise to obscure her words. Who could she be calling? Martha wonders. And, more to the point, what has Liv got to say about Katherine’s revelation?
‘I don’t know how I didn’t see it,’ Martha says in a whisper.
She still has the bundle of letters clutched in her hand, and she slides them along the table towards Liv. ‘This is your handwriting on the envelopes, isn’t it?’ Not David Crown’s.
Liv runs the tip of her finger across the letter on top. ‘Juliet and I swore that we’d never tell you,’ she says, her words emerging slowly, as though it’s taking her greater effort to speak. ‘We knew if we did it would have been the end of our friendship.’
‘No, it wouldn’t!’ Martha protests, but she knows that Liv is right. How could a friendship of three survive when two had paired off so intimately?
With great effort she squeezes herself beneath the table and up out the other side.
‘Yes, it would,’ Liv continues. Martha beckons for her to follow, but she shakes her head sluggishly. ‘We never planned it, Mart. Before Venice, we’d always been close, but there, it was like we were in this bubble, where it was just the two of us, in this beautiful city, where we could do whatever – be whoever we liked—’
Martha is now standing unsteadily in the small galley space, facing the wooden steps where Katherine has stowed their bags. ‘You were different when you came home,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d gone off me. I thought you’d got fed up with all my boozing. I was a real pain in the arse back then.’
On soft feet, she crosses the floorboards and drags out her bag, retrieving her phone and dumping the bag back where it had been.
‘How can you say that?’ Liv asks. Her head is now slumped back against the small window, her eyelids closed. ‘You were the one that held us together all those years. Don’t you see? Whenever Jules and I fell out, it was you who talked us around. You were the one who always talked sense. These …’ She holds up a wrist, and Martha sees she’s wearing her silver friendship bangle. ‘These were your idea. Martha, you held us together. You held everything together.’
Martha has left so much in the past, packaged up tightly, sealed away. Had she really been so central to their friendship? Only now can she see that it’s true; so often she was the one holding things together. At home, at school, at work – Martha could be relied on. Martha was strong. Ha, she thinks now. If only they knew.
She stares at the phone in her hand. How long has she been standing here like this?
‘A whole year and a half you kept it secret? You should have told me, Liv. If I was so important to you both. You should have told me.’
An apology crosses Liv’s expression. ‘No, no, it wasn’t like that. After the sixth form ball, we didn’t know how people would react – our friends, our family. Juliet was so scared of her parents finding out, terrified that she’d somehow let them down. They weren’t exactly homophobic –’ she stumbles over the word, laughing when it comes out as phomohobic – ‘but they weren’t keen on the idea. Don’t you remember Juliet telling us she’d overheard them talking about Tom once? They had some idea he might be gay, and Juliet said the way they discussed it, you’d have thought it was a disease. So we stopped. We tried to pretend it was just a summer fling, a bit of fun – not real life. There was no reason to tell you, Mart – it was over.’ She pauses, biting down on her lip. ‘But the next summer it all just started up again, and this time we knew it was serious—’
Martha holds up a halting hand, feeling her body sway. A dreamlike image of Liv and Juliet pushes in, at the riverside picnic, the two of them behind that tree, their faces close together, sharing a secret while the others packed up the lunch things. Martha had one end of the picnic blanket, Tom the other, and even now she is reminded of that feeling of envy, of being left out. Martha turned to place the folded rug inside the basket, and she caught it, the moment their faces separated before they ran along the bank and back on to the boat.
She is about to reply, but Katherine has raised her voice. Martha tilts her head to listen in on the conversation.
‘I just think you should come, that’s all! There are things you need to hear.’ Katherine’s tone seems to be a blend of pleading and irritation. ‘No, of course I don’t want to argue. No, I know it’s a mess.’ She’s sniffing now, quietly crying, making the occasional noise of assent as the person on the other end of the line continues to speak. Who could she be talking to? Her voice sounds so close, Martha realises there’s no way she is going to be able to make a phone call without being overheard. With fumbling fingers, she begins to tap out a message to Toby instead, but when she gets halfway through, Katherine lets out a yelp of distress.
‘Dad!’ she cries out. ‘Of course that’s what they think!’
Dad? She’s speaking to her father? Is it possible that those postcards really were from David Crown – that he’s here in London right now, just as his wife had told them? When she hears Katherine’s feet overhead, Martha shoves her phone into her coat pocket, the incomplete text unsent.
She glances at Liv briefly, scared to take her eyes from the top of the stairs. ‘So, that last night when you two were arguing outside the Waterside Café – what was that about?’ she whispers, her eyes fixed on the cabin door as it opens again.
Katherine’s feet appear on the stairs, only reaching halfway down before her phone rings again, and with a tut she returns above deck. Martha feels light-headed. Again she reaches for the phone in her pocket, but is halted when she sees that Liv is slumped, her head on the table. She rushes to her, propping her up, pushing at her eyelids until she’s sure Liv is still conscious, her own heart hammering all the while. What the hell has that woman given them? Martha is woozy, but Liv is physically of much smaller build than her, and it’s clearly affected her more quickly.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers, in a tone of confidence far greater than she really feels. ‘Help will be here any minute – I promise. In the meantime, when she comes back we’ll just talk to her calmly, reassure her that we want to be friends too. OK?’
Liv swipes a streak of mascara from her face, and she speaks in an urgent whisper now, her fingers hanging on to Martha’s sleeve. ‘The night Juliet was taken – it was all my fault, you know? I’d had too much to drink, and we were mucking about with Tom when I made a stupid joke about getting off with Juliet. Tom didn’t take any notice, but Juliet was furious, and after she’d finished her drink she stormed outside, saying she was late for work. I followed her, on a mission – I’d got it into my idiot head that now was the time for us to declare our love to the world. To get it all out in the open.’
Unsteadily, Martha perches on the stool opposite. ‘Was that when I interrupted you – by the bikes?’ There’s a thought in the back of her mind: she was about to do something just now. What was it?
‘Yes, but not before she’d told me that if I said a word to anyone about us, it was over. She said she’d rather throw herself in the river than tell her parents. I’d never seen her so mad, and I really thought she might do something stupid. So when you said that you’d walk home with her, I was relieved. I thought you’d be safe together.’ Liv lays her, head
on folded arms.
Martha’s own guilt rises again. She had chosen to leave Juliet on that dark path alone. Like a spoiled brat, she had wanted to punish Juliet for keeping secrets from her, and she’d wanted to get back to … to what? Oh, God, no. Grim realisation slams into place: the missing piece of the puzzle. She’d wanted another drink, hadn’t she? She’d wanted another fucking drink, and she’d left her best friend alone on a dark canal path just to get one. Despite having not touched a drop for more than ten years, shame engulfs Martha.
When Liv manages to raise her head again, it looks as though it’s taking every ounce of energy she has just to stay awake. ‘If she did something to herself because of me, Mart, I … I’ve never stopped worrying that everything that happened to Juliet from the moment we parted was down to me. Did she kill herself, Martha?’
All this time, and Liv has been tortured by the same shade of guilt that has haunted Martha. The shift in what Martha understands of the past is so great, her mind is struggling to put it all in the right order. Is it possible that Juliet threw herself into the river, as she’d threatened to Liv? She’d had a drink or two, but she had seemed completely fine when Martha left her, hadn’t she? But perhaps, left alone on that dark path her, fear of exposure got the better of her? Perhaps, like Martha, she was concealing all manner of dread. Maybe it was enough to tip her over? But Martha thinks back to that vibrant smile, to the plans and dreams Juliet spoke of with such enthusiasm, and is certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is not what happened to Juliet.
‘No,’ she tells her friend, suddenly aware that she hadn’t answered her. ‘Juliet didn’t kill herself.’ But the words come out sludgy, unclear.
From her jacket, her phone rings out. Alarmed, she staggers to her feet and pulls it from her pocket, trying to shut off the ringer, bringing it to her ear. ‘Toby?’ she hisses, desperate to keep her voice down.
Toby’s voice is firm. ‘Martha, listen, this is important.’
She would interrupt him, but she can hear Katherine unbolting the door at the top of the steps, and she doesn’t even know if she can get the words out. Liv is now waving at her, pointing to the stairs, and for a moment Martha feels paralysed.
‘Martha?’ Toby asks. ‘Finn says the police spoke to David Crown’s ex-pupil Vicky Duke an hour ago and she told them that she did lie about the assault. But before she got a chance to retract her allegation she was snatched on her way home—’
In a flurry of whirling arms, Katherine is screaming down the stairs, dislodging Martha’s phone with a vicious wallop across the ear. The phone flies across the room and skitters into the corner with a crack.
‘Now sit down, please!’ she cries out, her voice high with emotion, the knife in her other hand punctuating each syllable. For a brief second she closes her eyes, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Please. I’m expecting another visitor, and I want them to see you at your best.’
32. Katherine
I’m really cross that she’s been out of her seat, wandering about, when I specifically told them not to! This is my boat, and they are my guests, and you’d think they’d have better manners, quite frankly. But then, instead of complaining that I’ve broken her phone, Martha tells me that I’d given them both a scare with that knife. She was worried that I was going to hurt her again, and that’s why they’d tried to get out. I’m so ashamed of myself I don’t know what to say. This is not how Dad taught me to make new friends. Whatever happened to ‘smile and ask lots of interesting questions’?
‘You said you want to be our friend,’ Martha says when I point her towards her seat.
I pull the table out a little, so they’re not so uncomfortably squashed. It was unkind of me, I know. I am the one with the bad manners, I realise, and I feel my cheeks flaming, and it’s all I can do to simply nod. My hands are trembling terribly, and I’m shocked at how easily I lashed out again. At least now it appears they are somewhat sedated; Liv looks positively floppy.
‘We want that too, Katherine,’ Martha is continuing. ‘As you say, we’ve never got to know each other properly – have we, Liv?’
Liv looks uncertain at first, but then she’s agreeing with Martha. I have to concentrate to hear what she’s saying because she’s mumbling terribly. ‘I really enjoyed meeting you before. When you bought my house, remember? I was pleased to be selling it to someone as nice as you.’
As nice as me? Oh, my goodness. My goodness. ‘I still use Carl,’ I volunteer, but it comes out in a bit of a rush. Liv looks confused. ‘Carl from Sainsbury’s,’ I add and her face slowly shifts in recognition.
‘Oh, yes, Carl! Did you keep the same time slot?’ She seems to be blinking a lot, and I wonder if she’s nervous, but then I think perhaps she’s just animated, enjoying our conversation!
‘Yes! Exactly the same slot! Two p.m. on a Friday! He was so nice when he delivered your shopping that time, I thought …’ But then my concentration wavers, because I’m thinking about poor Carl, stumbling in on that terrible scene in my hallway, and Martha lying there, and the blood, and how he must be thinking heaven knows what about me. What must he have thought when he heard them talking about me on the radio, a ‘wanted’ woman? If he knew the secrets I’ve been keeping, the lies that I’ve told …
Martha and Liv are watching me intently, and I realise I’ve been sitting here, thinking about Carl for several minutes, not speaking.
And then, quite out of the blue, Martha asks, ‘Katherine, is your dad here in London?’
I stare at her blankly, not wanting to give my emotions away – not wanting to give the game away.
‘We know about the postcards, you see. Your mother showed them to us when we visited her, and the last one was a London postcard. Have you spoken to him lately, Katherine?’
Her tone is gentle, and I so want to tell her everything, to confide in her as one friend to another. Should I do that? Could I do that?
‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ I ask them, and I leave them at the table to sit on the bottom step with my face in my hands. I just need a bit of time alone with my thoughts, to get my head straight before we run out of time and I’ve no longer got them to myself. I’m trying to understand why Mum would have shown Martha those postcards. They were meant to be a secret.
Mum was unreachable for the best part of a year after Dad had gone. She stopped trying to control my meals, and my life, and all my home study for A-levels went by the wayside. It was as though, in my dad’s absence, I had ceased to exist too. From the outset, she made it clear that the subject of Dad’s departure from our lives – the circumstances surrounding his disappearance, and that of that girl – was strictly off limits. She would not, could not, discuss it, and if I knew what was good for me, I would remain tight-lipped too. If there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that she couldn’t tolerate the idea of scandal, of her life looking anything other than respectable. ‘The police are looking for any excuse to sully your father’s good reputation,’ she told me. ‘Do not give them the excuse they need.’ If the police were to come calling again, our versions must remain the same: Dad had appeared completely normal when he returned home that night; no, we’d never met Juliet Sherman, the missing girl; and no, we had no idea where he’d run away to or why. My mother coached me so thoroughly on the subject that today I struggle to know what’s true and what’s not – which events actually occurred over those days and nights, and which are simply memories planted there by Mum.
But, after a year had passed, Mum displayed a miraculous recovery, when she announced to me that life was far too short and that she planned to seize opportunity whenever it presented itself. She joined a local interest group and started going out on day trips with her new friends, enjoying a second lease of life visiting places such as Kew Gardens and Hampton Court Palace – the kinds of places I know Dad once loved to explore with her. It had been their shared passion, gardening, and I thought that perhaps it was her way of feeling closer to him, to get
over the trauma of the past year. Before long, I even began to wonder whether she might have another man in her life, because she spent so much time out and about. Instead of growing closer, like so many bereaved or abandoned families do, we grew further apart, until we merely existed under the same roof, Mum sharing the occasional gripe about my ever-increasing weight, me biting my tongue and working hard at my distance learning studies. When, on my twenty-first birthday, I plucked up courage to ask her if she’d met someone new, I thought she might never forgive me, so wounded was she by my suggestion. ‘No one will ever replace your father,’ she told me, before taking to her bed for a week. The following month she updated her passport and flew out to Prague with her group.
On her return, she called me into her bedroom to give me chocolates and a wooden marionette fashioned in the shape of a mouse, and she embraced me with more warmth than I could recall since I was tiny. ‘You mustn’t worry about your dad,’ she said, seating me at her dressing table and running her hairbrush through my long, dark hair. Oh, how I had missed this one small tenderness! ‘He’ll be home before we know it.’ She said it with such certainty, undermining everything I thought I knew about his disappearance. How could I question it?
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