by Alex Marwood
‘Oh my God,’ she says. Glances over her shoulder at the copper to see if he’s noticed. But though she knows he must be listening, he shows no sign that he has any clue as to what they’re talking about, or that he has any interest. Why would he?
‘You were great,’ says Vic. ‘You were so great. So calm. Like nothing could get through to you. That was when I knew for sure.’
Someone’s turned the air-conditioning on full-blast. The cold crawls over her skin like leeches.
‘Was that what it was like the first time, Annabel?’ he asks. ‘I always wanted to know. I was just waiting till you wanted to …’ he rakes his fingers through the air to look like inverted commas, ‘share.’
The child lay like a broken doll, half propped against a broken wall whose garish red and green stripes were smirched with blood, his jaw opening and closing automatically as though he were being operated by strings. Amber dropped her bin bag and started towards him through the crowd, the old familiar feeling of icy calm washing over her. Even from here, and above the screams of the crowd around her, she could hear the rising wail of the kid’s mother, the feckless bint who’d finally learned that sometimes rules are there for a reason, still strapped into her seat on the coaster, forced to sit out the corkscrew, the loop-the-loop, the whole of the rest of her ride, while her offspring leaked white matter from what was once his head. His eyes stared straight ahead. He seemed to see Amber as she approached; seemed, strangely, to recognise her.
Her hearing changed focus. Distantly she registered someone throwing up, sparking a chain reaction. Walked, unaffected, through a morass of gagging, sobbing, screaming people, and heard it all as background. All she could hear clearly was the kid’s voice: the nonsense syllables that spilled from his tongue as his mangled brain struggled to function. She dropped to her knees beside him: the two of them in a pool of quiet, his eyes fixed on hers.
She was wearing an oversized belted cardie that came down to her knees; it was the beginning of the season and the weather had yet to warm up. She gazed into his rapidly darkening eyes as she sat back and stripped it off. Shaved head, puffy arms, grey cheeks as full as a hamster’s. He was wearing a Liverpool strip: she remembers the horrid blue and yellow nylon, the Carlsberg logo, the dark damp patch that grew and grew as cerebrospinal fluid dribbled down his neck.
‘Oh look,’ she said, as kindly as she could, ‘you’ve got cold.’ She draped the cardie over him – she never saw it again once the ambulance had taken him away – and took his hand; felt the weakening pulse, knew that he was dying. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m here. I’m with you.’
‘Ak-haaaaaaaaaa,’ said the boy. He couldn’t have been more than eight. What a way to go. Rides and candyfloss and – death. She wondered, randomly, what he had had for breakfast that morning. A last meal of Coco Pops and milk, eggs and soldiers, half a pack of Hob Nobs?
She tore her eyes away for a moment, looked over her shoulder. A couple of hundred gawpers now: the sort of people who slow down to look at car crashes. Faces wide-eyed and full of speculation as they formed the words to make the anecdotes. Poor little mite. Blood everywhere, people screaming, and there was nothing we could do.
‘Ambulance,’ she cried out hoarsely. ‘Has anyone called an ambulance?’
*
Vic suddenly bursts out laughing. ‘Oh my God,’ he says, imitating her. She gapes, recoils.
‘You didn’t know,’ he says. ‘All this time you didn’t know. Oh my God, you thought you were keeping a secret from me!’
She can feel a scalpel-edge of panic slice at her skin. They’re not alone. He can’t – he mustn’t – carry on like this. ‘Don’t,’ she pleads. ‘Vic, don’t—’
He’s tickled pink. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Ambel,’ he says, the mispronunciation deliberate and obvious only to her, ‘your secret’s safe with me. It’s just – hah! – all this time I’ve been thinking we didn’t talk about it because we didn’t need to. Because we understood. And those presents I’ve been leaving you …’
‘Presents?’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says. ‘You know.’
And she does. She should have seen it before. Two of those bodies were left where she would find them, and it was only pure chance that prevented her being the first upon the second. And his questions. Those little probing, gloating, prurient enquiries as to how she’d felt, what she’d seen.
‘No,’ she says. ‘No, no, no. No.’
Vic stepped forward, his face a portrait of calm under pressure. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘It’s on its way.’
The kid began to flap his hand in hers, dragging her eyes back. Drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Some pointless urge to preserve his dignity drove her to dab at it with the sleeve of the cardigan. The syllables had deteriorated, now, to formless gurgles. A woman sobbed hysterically in the crowd. She noticed it; thought, with irritation: If you can’t handle it, just go away. Do something useful, or fuck off. Even in a situation like this, there are people who think that it’s all about them. Who parade their distress for others’ benefit to demonstrate their greater sensitivity.
As if he could read her thoughts, Vic turned and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Can someone take that woman away please? She’s not helping.’
A stir. A ripple of comprehension. Someone led the woman away and a straggle of gawpers, chastened, followed. Vic knelt down beside her. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
Amber shook her head, because words wouldn’t come. Held the child’s hand and felt the pulse flutter, weaken.
He came closer, put his face next to the child’s. ‘Hello, mate,’ he said. ‘You’ve had an accident. Don’t worry. The ambulance is on its way.’
Then he stared into his eyes, as though drinking in the last of his life.
‘You thought I was your hero?’ asks Vic. ‘Oh, Amber. I’d thought better of you than that.’
She feels sick. Sweaty. Afraid.
‘I noticed you noticing me, you know,’ he says. ‘That day. It wasn’t just me recognising you. You recognised me back. I saw it. That was the start of everything, wasn’t it? When you noticed me.’
The smile flicks back on like a searchlight.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘That was a good one. I was a bit late to the party, but it was fun.’
Chapter Thirty-four
Despite the fact that they lead down to the seafront, the botanical gardens are almost always empty, mostly because big signs at the gates forbid alcohol, barbecues and ball games. The only people other than Martin himself who ever come here are pensioners with foil-wrapped sandwiches and the odd mother with toddlers, though the formal flowerbeds and lack of swings don’t make it particularly attractive to them. He likes to come here to think – and, after what he’s read in the Tribune, he has a lot of thinking to do today.
He takes his usual seat, on a bench on a hummock of earth that raises him high enough to see over the hedges that surround the garden and watch the comings and goings without being forced to participate.
And the first thing he sees is Kirsty Lindsay, hurrying from the direction of town, her head bowed. He almost jumps out of his skin. The bloody cheek of it. She’s the last person he expected to see. She shouldn’t come here ever again. Not after what she’s done to his town; what she’s done to him. Then he thinks: If I can see her, she can see me, and ducks down on his seat to take himself out of her line of vision. An old couple, toddling along below him, look up at the sudden movement and cross to the other side of the path, as though the extra five feet will act as a barrier against lunacy.
He gives them a big wide smile to assure them that they’re safe. It seems instead to make them more afraid. The woman clutches the man’s wool-wrapped arm and they march purposefully towards the nearest exit.
He waits until they’ve passed, then pops his head up to see where she’s got to. Registers with amazement that she’s covered a couple of hundred yards in the twenty seconds he’s been down, and is very nearly at the fence. She’s no
t looking around her. Seems to be buried in thought. She crosses Park Road, reaches the fence and swings left towards the entrance. My God, she’s coming in here, he thinks. Stoops down once more and scuttles for the cover of the hydrangea bushes behind him.
Through his screen of heavy foliage, he watches as she turns in through the gate and starts to walk along the path. She slows her pace a little now she’s off the road, but still seems blind to her surroundings. She seems to be having trouble breathing. Certainly, her chest is heaving like a character in a Victorian melodrama. Intrigued, he creeps round as she circles his mound, and watches her progress. She does a full circuit of the park – it doesn’t take long, as it’s barely bigger than one of those London residential squares – then flings herself down on a bench as though she’s simply run out of puff.
She does some strange things. Holds her hands out in front of her and stares at them. They seem to be shaking. Then she puts them up to either side of her forehead and rocks back and forth like a child’s toy. Something’s upset her, he thinks. Good. See how she likes it. Gingerly, he comes down the mound on the far side and works his way along behind the gardener’s hut to where a big clump of rhododendrons looms darkly, covering him until he’s within hearing distance.
She’s already on the phone. Her voice sounds high and weak; different from when he last heard it. As though she’s had a shock. As though she’s filled with panic and doing her ineffective best to control it.
‘Hi, Minty,’ she says. ‘It’s Kirsty Lindsay. Is there any chance Jack’s out of conference yet? Damn. OK. Can you get him to call me the minute he is? Yes, my mobile. I’m down in Whitmouth. Yup, OK. Thanks.’
She puts the phone on the seat and resumes her rocking. Wraps her arms round her body as though she’s cold, though the sun is bright enough to show up the peeling paint on the façades in vivid detail. She gets up and moves to another bench – Martin has to shadow her movements, as quietly as he can, to keep himself behind his cover – in the shade of a stately beech tree. Sits back and closes her eyes, covers them with her palm as though she has a headache.
The sound of her ringtone shatters the quiet. She snatches it up. ‘Hello? Oh, hi, Jack. Thanks for calling back. Yes, not yet, but I think it’ll definitely happen today. He’s still only charged with the stuff from Saturday right now, but I’d say it was ninety-nine per cent they’re going to do him for the murders. Name? Yes. Victor Cantrell. Yup. Same guy as last week. Works the dodgems at the theme park. No, not officially, yet. They’re holding off till they do the other charges. But half the town seems to know it’s him, and the wife just turned up to visit. So yes, I’m pretty sure. I’ll write it so you can drop the name in later if they announce it. Yeah. Look, the thing is, I’ve got to go home. Sorry. I don’t think I’ll be late filing, but I … can’t stay here …’
He hears her pause. She’s rethinking what she’s just said, he thinks. Didn’t mean it to come out like that. ‘I mean, I’ve got to get home. Childcare, I’m afraid. Yeah, sorry. Jim’s working in town this week and Soph’s gone down with something. Looks like flu. She’s really ill. Yuh, her school just called. No. Like I said, he’s in town. It’s got to be me. I’m sorry.’
She’s lying through her teeth. He can tell because she wrings her hands, the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear, as she speaks. ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s not even noon yet. It won’t take me more than an hour to file once I’m back. But I don’t have any alternative. I’m sorry. And Dave’s on the case tomorrow anyway.’
She goes quiet, and listens. When she speaks, it’s in a small voice. ‘I know. Yes, I know, Jack. I’ve got a couple of contacts down at the scene and I know they’ll call me if anything happens. And it’ll turn up on AP in seconds anyway. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I can do. I can’t just leave her in the sick bay. And Jack? I don’t think I’m going to be able to get out for the rest of the week. If you’ve got any pieces I can do on the phone, maybe …? No, OK. I understand. I’ll call Features. Hopefully they’ll have something. Yes, I know. But you’ve got kids yourself, haven’t you?’
Another silence as Jack speaks. Martin sees her blush, sees a look of exquisite pain cross her face. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I understand. No later than four. And I’ll give you a call next week when—’
She pulls the phone away from her head and looks at it. Jack has clearly hung up. She opens her bag to put it away, then sits up, alert, and looks towards town.
Martin looks too. He’s been so engrossed in Kirsty’s conversation that he’s not noticed an approaching hubbub. But it’s unmistakable now. Voices, calling, and many scuffling feet. He turns within his cover and looks towards the top gate. Hears a name separate itself from the cacophony, then hears it over and over. ‘Amber! Amber! This way, Amber!’
She’s half walking, half running as she enters the park, preceded by a dozen men in waxed jackets who run backwards, bump into each other and shout her name. Every now and then one breaks loose and scurries a few yards forwards, stops and holds his camera high in the air above his head, pointing down at the approaching mob. Behind, another knot of followers, all calling her name. ‘Amber! Amber! Amber!’
Amber Gordon is white and shaking, and holds her handbag up in front of her face like a shield. Stumbles forward like someone who has suddenly lost her sight. She doesn’t speak. Just staggers on, moving the bag from side to side in a futile attempt to block the cameras. She too has a phone clamped to her ear, though Martin can’t make out who she might be talking to.
They come nearer. He can make out more of the words now. ‘How are you feeling, Amber?’ ‘Do you have anything to say to the families?’ ‘How was Victor when you saw him? What did he say to you?’ ‘What does this mean to you, Amber? Did you have any idea?’ ‘Has it come as a shock? What are you going to do now?’
So it is. It’s Vic Cantrell. He’s heard the name half a dozen times, in the shops, on the Corniche, in the café where he bought his breakfast, as well as from Lindsay’s lips just now. And if ever there was proof, the sight of Amber Gordon and her sea of followers is it. He thrills at the sight. How are the mighty fallen, he thinks. That’s all you have to do, isn’t it? Wait for long enough and they all come tumbling down, one by one by one.
He glances over at Kirsty Lindsay and sees that she’s left the bench. But she’s not done what he would have expected. She should be running up to join her colleagues, but instead she’s doing something very strange. She’s clambering into the earthy flowerbed, over the roots of the beech tree, crushing the leaves of left-to-rest bluebells as she goes. She reaches the trunk of the tree and puts her hands on it. Works her way round it and hides herself behind, in the shadow of the hedge. Martin frowns. What the hell is she up to?
The front-running photographers are almost parallel with him now, their faces lit up with the thrill of the chase. It’s like watching a fox at bay. Amber’s hair is wild and her lips are pulled back in a snarl – rage? Fear? – that shows her teeth all the way to the molars. For a second he almost feels sorry for her, but then he remembers the humiliation, the cold way she saw him off when he called Jackie, the shock when he uncovered her link with Kirsty Lindsay, and the pity vanishes. She’s getting what she deserves.
She stops stock-still and tries to appeal to their better natures. ‘Please!’ she cries. ‘Please! Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I don’t have anything to say!’
Silence hangs in the air for one, two, three seconds, then the baying begins anew. ‘Where are you off to, Amber?’ ‘How did you find out?’ ‘Tell us how you’re feeling!’ ‘Are you standing by him?’
Amber takes a deep breath and lets out a scream. ‘Leave me alone!’
She breaks into a faltering run. Looks like there is little strength left in her legs. The chase continues, past Martin’s hiding place, past Kirsty Lindsay concealed in the shadows, past benches and bins and flowerbeds. She comes to the side gate and shoves her way through, staggers up Park Road toward
s the seafront. I’ll bet she’s going to Funnland, thinks Martin. That’s where I’d go. At least they’ve got security of sorts there.
Kirsty steps back out on to the path and stands for a moment staring after her bloodhound colleagues, her mouth taut, her face unreadable. Then she wheels on her heel and starts to walk, quickly, in the direction of the town gate. She’s up to something, thinks Martin. Anybody would think she’s trying to keep away from Amber. That she’s scared of something.
He waits till he’s sure she’s not going to look back, then comes out from behind the rhododendrons to follow her.
Chapter Thirty-five
Home. Sanctuary. Walls that enfold and protect. A barrier against the world outside, the place you long for in the storm. Kirsty sits in her quiet dining room, the Sun spread out on the table before her and sunlight falling through the window to her right. Wonders about Amber. Wonders if she’s home too, or if she’s been driven out to some anonymous motel room, some friend’s spare bedroom, some safe-house for the relatives of the loathed.
The Sun’s gone front-page with Whitmouth. A huge, grainy colour photo – in the absence of a court appearance by the man himself – of Amber in the park, dark glasses covering the upper half of her face, a cream mac tightly belted. A phone clamped to her ear and her teeth bared in the age-old primate expression of distress. But that’s not how the paper interprets it. Or chooses to, anyway. There’s not an editor in the world too green to tell the difference, but that doesn’t mean they’ll go with the truth when there’s righteous outrage to be drummed up. NOT A CARE IN THE WORLD, says the headline.
Kirsty scans on. Heartless Amber Gordon takes a seaside stroll, chatting and laughing on her mobile phone, mindless of the pain of victims’ families.
Shit, she thinks. They’ve turned her into Sonia Sutcliffe.
She reads on.
