The Pull of the Moon

by Diane Janes

  Suddenly conscious of wasted time, I turned to the assortment of toiletries which stood on the dressing table. Bottles of shampoo and cans of deodorant were unsuitable for burning, so I gathered them together in a stray carrier bag, ready for the dustbin – there was nothing traceable about discarded cans of Us or part-used Biba lip gloss, after all.

  I found myself continually drawn back to the window with its view down to the wood and its telltale set of fingerprints in the dust. I tried to concentrate on the task in hand, but it was only a couple of minutes before the marks on the window sill caught my eye again. I swept my hand across to obliterate them. It came away coated in a thin film of dust, which I cleaned off on the counterpane, as assiduously as if it had been someone else’s blood.

  In one of the dressing-table drawers I found what I was looking for. One hundred pounds in tens and fives, held together in an elastic band and tossed casually among her clean knickers. I stood contemplating the bundle of notes, wondering where to conceal it. I had no pockets and if I openly carried it across to our bedroom, Simon or Danny would be sure to choose that moment to pop upstairs for something and catch me in the act. Another glance outside strengthened this possibility – the water was still running but neither of them was standing beside the pond watching it. The library book offered me a solution. I hid the notes inside the back cover, where the weight of the book flattened the bundle to the extent that no one could possibly have guessed it was there.

  Soon the only thing I had left to deal with was Trudie’s Greek bag, which was slumped forlornly on a chair under the window. There were only five things inside – her purse, an unopened packet of Handy Andys, a used envelope, a crumpled Kit Kat wrapper and a small volume covered in pale blue imitation leather, which had the word DIARY on the front and the initials T.E.A.F in the bottom right-hand corner, both embossed in fancy gold lettering.

  After putting the rubbish with the to-be-burnt items, I sat down on the edge of the bed while I checked the purse, pausing every so often to glance over my shoulder towards the door. In the pouch reserved for cash I found twenty-three pence in coins, which I extracted and piled neatly on the dressing table. In the wallet section there were two one-pound notes, several crumpled till receipts and a torn bus ticket. When I picked up the envelope I noticed it had a foreign stamp. It had been addressed in loopy old-fashioned writing and slit neatly along the top. There was no letter inside, just two adjoining photo booth snaps cut from the strip of four. They were of Trudie and another girl, the pair of them crammed close together in the space designed for solo shots, laughing and acting up. I almost slipped the pictures into the back of the library book with the money. It felt wrong to burn a photo of someone. Common sense reasserted itself. I turned the pictures face downwards so that Trudie’s eyes couldn’t try to meet mine, then replaced them in the envelope which I pushed well down inside the bag. The purse had a metal clasp and press stud fastening which wouldn’t burn so I put it with the other things to be thrown away. Thank goodness Trudie hadn’t written her name and address inside it – not like Simon, plastering his initials all over everything, the idiot.

  Only the diary remained. I knew I shouldn’t, but the urge was strong. It was fastened shut with a dainty little strap and buckle. That buckle wouldn’t burn either, but it was so tiny it scarcely mattered. Before opening the diary I skewed myself round so that I was almost facing the bedroom door – that way it would be much harder for anyone to catch me unawares. My fingers were trembling as I undid it. Stupid, I said to myself, it won’t bite you.

  Someone had written inside the front cover Happy Christmas 1971 with love from Auntie Edna and Uncle Bob. Overleaf, on the page reserved for personal details, Trudie had dutifully completed most of the sections. It was all there – her home address and telephone number, who to contact in case of emergency (Mr and Mrs R.G. Finch above address), even her blood group. I stared at this information, feeling slightly sick.

  Flicking through the first few weeks of the year, it appeared that Trudie had been an enthusiastic diarist. Her small round handwriting detailed successes at school (Came out top in French again), visits from relatives (Granny came for lunch), and undercurrents of a more serious nature, principally her passion for someone called Bev and her hatred of her parents.

  As the year progressed Trudie’s resolve to emulate Pepys had evidently faltered. Gaps between entries grew longer until some weeks there was nothing more than an isolated note, Maths test 64%, or Nilsson still number 1. I fast forwarded too far, finding myself among the virgin pages of early September. The pristine sheets reproached me silently: empty except for the little black dates coupled with symbols marking the state of the moon – a mocking reminder that nothing would ever be recorded on them.

  I hastily turned back in time, stopping short as I caught sight of my own name. Katy doesn’t seem to like me much, Trudie had written, in the early days not long after she had first moved in, which is a shame because I fancy the pants off her.

  Out of the corner of my eye I thought I caught a movement on the landing. I froze, a tangle of conflicting emotions competing with one another and blind panic getting the upper hand. I held my breath, not daring to call out or question who was there. In a moment of déjà vu I heard Trudie’s laugh as she said, ‘It’s only Murdered Agnes.’

  I silently closed the diary, my eyes all the time on the gap between the door and its frame. There was nothing to be seen or heard – no suggestion that anyone had been there at all. I stuffed the diary well down among the things to be burnt. I didn’t know what else Trudie might have written about me or how recently she had made her last entry.

  I gathered up the things which wouldn’t burn and carried them down to the dustbin, taking care to bury the purse under much less interesting items. At the back of my mind I entertained the vague idea that such a personal item might be traced back to the missing schoolgirl Trudie Finch.

  On my next trip upstairs I stripped off the bedding and collected the towels, carrying them down to the kitchen, where I dragged the twin tub across to the sink and began to fill it with water. Simon entered the room while I was waiting beside it.

  ‘Can you get a bonfire going in the garden?’ I said. ‘I’ve got everything ready to burn.’

  He took a box of matches from the shelf above the boiler and left without a word.

  Once the machine was full I set the controls and fed the sheets and towels into it. Then I took a duster back to the bedroom and made a start on the cleaning, all the time keeping an eye out for some sign that Simon had managed to get the fire started. From the window I could see beyond the garden to Bettis Wood. It wasn’t so hot as it had been the day before. Grey clouds hung over the valley, making the trees look gloomy and forbidding. I knew where Simon would build the bonfire. There was a sort of clearing beyond the hydrangeas, where garden fires had obviously been made before. Sure enough after about five minutes a few wisps of smoke began to appear above the bushes. I made sure the diary was bundled up inside one of Trudie’s shirts, then carried the bulging bag down to where Simon was feeding a small blaze with some dried-up sticks.

  ‘I got it going with some old newspapers I found in the shed,’ he said. ‘But it’s quite difficult. A lot of the stuff we’ve cut down is too green to burn.’

  ‘So long as it gets going well enough to get rid of this lot,’ I said.

  ‘Is that all there is?’

  ‘Yes. Everything else has gone in the dustbin.’ Seeing his look of alarm, I continued hastily, ‘It’s only deodorant, stuff like that. Nothing personal. Nothing that can be identified.’

  I fed the things into the fire a few at a time. In spite of my impatience to get finished in Trudie’s room, I was determined to stay and make sure the diary and everything else was safely destroyed. Simon seemed indifferent to whether I was there or not. There was no sound in the little clearing except for an occasional crackle from the blaze. When smoke occasionally billowed in our direction we moved aside a
s one, but otherwise we might have been inhabiting separate galaxies, steadfastly ignoring each other’s existence.

  ‘Where’s Danny?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘Mooching about somewhere.’

  ‘Any idea what he’s doing?’

  ‘No.’

  I noticed that his eyes were red-rimmed. It might have been the smoke from the fire or lack of sleep, but I wondered if he had been crying again. It occurred to me that out of us all he had been Trudie’s most consistent friend. They had confided in each other. He had known about Trudie running away – and also about the afternoon Trudie and I had spent in bed together. I tried to remember what she had said – that Simon wasn’t happy about it. What had he meant that night – when I overheard him in the hallway, saying that someone was going to get hurt? Did he mean emotionally – or had he been threatening her? My thoughts tracked round in wider and wider circles while I shied away from ever reaching the hub – and in the meantime we stood in silence, solemnly observing the effects of fire on different materials. Some burned slowly, blackening, threatening to smother the flames like a fire blanket; others sparked and blazed, while a couple of tops melted, shrinking away like something in a horror film. The process seemed interminable – but I knew I had to make absolutely sure of everything.

  Both the bags proved stubborn. Simon had to poke them repeatedly into submission, using a long blackened hoe he had found nearby, which was clearly a veteran of garden fires. Only when everything had been rendered down to ash and blackened lumps did I leave him, still encouraging the bonfire with whatever bits and pieces of garden combustibles he could find, the object of the exercise apparently forgotten, the maintenance of the fire having become an end in itself.

  Before returning to the task of cleaning Trudie’s room I spun the washing and emptied the machine. I hung the bedding outside to dry, ignoring the proximity of the smoking bonfire. Then I took fresh sheets from the airing cupboard and remade the bed. As I finally dragged the eiderdown into place I startled myself by knocking the library book off the window sill. It landed on the carpet with a muted slap and fell open at the chapter headed The Murder of Agnes Payne.

  THIRTY

  The nurse returns briefly to check on Mrs Ivanisovic from time to time. During one of these visits she switches on the bedside lamp and draws the curtains, making the room at once cosy and conducive to sleep. Images of bedtime stories and mugs of cocoa creep unbidden into my mind.

  ‘She’s very peaceful, isn’t she?’ Fat Bottom nods approvingly as she moves about the room, surprisingly light on her feet for someone carrying so much bulk.

  This is the way we all want to go, I suppose – starchy sheets and a clean nightie. Never mind all that raging against the dying of the light – give me a comfortable bed and appropriate analgesia any time.

  The lampshade has a pattern of daisies on it – I hadn’t noticed this until it was illuminated. Lead, kindly light, amid th’ encircling gloom. The night is dark and I am far from home – isn’t that the right hymn? To rest forever after earthly strife, In the calm light of everlasting life. Or, as my generation would more likely have it, she’s climbing the ‘Stairway to Heaven’.

  Fat Bottom departs on tiptoe, the door closing behind her with the faintest of clicks. At this point Mrs Ivanisovic opens her eyes and struggles to focus. She says something, but her voice is weak and croaky, and the words are completely obscured by the oxygen mask.

  ‘It’s Katy,’ I say. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Katy.’ It’s very muffled, but there’s no mistaking her acknowledgement. Her gaze moves beyond me, searching for something (or is it someone?) behind my right shoulder. I steel myself not to look round. I have learnt that there is never anyone there. Only the consequences of our own actions can haunt us.

  Mrs I scans the immediate area until she lights on the bedside table. I follow her look.

  ‘The crucifix? You want the crucifix?’

  I take up the faded brown jewellery case and open it, handing her the crucifix and chain so reverently that they could be holy relics. She receives them in the same way: closes her hand around them, then motions me to take them back. When I hold out my hand she places the crucifix and its chain carefully on my palm, then closes my fingers around them. Her intention is clear. She has given them into my keeping. Time stands still as she retains her frail grip on my hand, inside which I can feel the cool weight of the treasure she has bestowed on me. It is like a gesture of forgiveness – a benediction.

  I know there will be no more questions. Do I feel a pang of guilt at deceiving her to the very end? I do not – for I am protecting her from a truth far more devastating than anything she has imagined.

  When she releases her grip, I withdraw my hand and deposit its contents into my pocket. Her eyes are closed again, her breathing shallow. The clock ticks louder now, taking the leading part in the duet.

  My mobile phone tweets softly from the depths of my bag, alerting me to the arrival of a text message. If Mrs Ivanisovic hears it she gives no indication. I fish the phone out and read the message:

  How are you? Call me later if you can.

  Hilly of course. We always use proper spelling and punctuation in our texts. Two ex-teachers – what do you expect? I reply:

  Still with Mrs I. She is very poorly, so I am staying a while longer.

  Hilly’s reply comes back almost immediately.

  Poor you. Thinking of you. Don’t ring if too tired.

  When I read the message I can hear her voice in my head, saying the words. Darling Hilly – who loves me as a friend, but cannot love me in that other way. ‘I’m not like that,’ she said, so many years ago – pretty much the exact same words I used with Trudie – the difference being that for Hilly they are true. Sometimes we fall in love with the wrong person – but friends is good – friends for more than thirty years.

  THIRTY-ONE

  When I bent down to retrieve the library book I noticed something small and shiny under the bed. I dropped on to my knees to see it better and discovered it was a pen – not just any old pen but a fancy stainless steel one, which had been personalized by the engraving of that same quartet of letters TEAF. Was I the only person in the country who didn’t have my initials stuck all over everything?

  The discovery made my heart lurch. I thought I had managed everything so cleverly and yet here was a dangerous telltale of Trudie’s tenancy that I had all but missed. Nor could I decide what to do with the pen. Neither bonfire nor dustbin seemed appropriate.

  Several silly distracting thoughts crept into my head before I could stop them. Perhaps Trudie – or was it Agnes – had made the book fall to the floor, just so that I would find the pen. Or maybe finding the pen was entirely incidental and something meant me to read the chapter about Agnes Payne. The rational side of me wasn’t having any of this. I had brushed the book off the window sill myself. Naturally it had fallen open at that particular place, because it had been left face down in that position for the best part of three days. If you dropped the book a hundred times it would probably fall open at the Agnes Payne story for no other reason than that.

  As I lifted the book my attention was caught by the opening line – Although the murder of Agnes Payne remains officially unsolved . . . Although? Why although? In spite of myself I was intrigued. I couldn’t really spare the time but I started to read it anyway.

  Although the murder of Agnes Payne remains officially unsolved, local historian Maisy Gregson is widely believed to have uncovered the true culprit, more than half a century after the event. So much for the magazine article, I thought. The author of that couldn’t have done his homework very thoroughly. I scanned through the rest of the piece at top speed. It was mostly repetition of the stuff we already knew – until I reached the last couple of paragraphs.

  Scotland Yard were called in, but the detectives from London made no more progress than the local men. The investigation slowly fizzled out and the case remained unsolved. That is
until 1967, when Maisy Gregson started to write a history of the parish. One day when she was looking at the old parish registers, Maisy noticed some entries signed by a clergyman she had not come across before – an R.W. Wilkins-Staunton. Maisy subsequently found an old parish magazine which alluded to the fact that Reverend Wilkins-Staunton’s calling had taken him across the world – to a teaching post in Nova Scotia, and from there to a church in Massachusetts.

  Intrigued by the globe-trotting curate, Maisy made some enquiries with a friendly librarian in Boston who wrote back with some shocking information. Roger Webb Wilkins-Staunton had been executed in the USA for the murder of one of his flock in 1931. The murder bore many similarities to the killing of Agnes Payne, right down to the victim’s membership of Wilkins-Staunton’s Bible Group and the use of an expensive silk scarf. It has been said for many years that we will never know who killed Agnes Payne – but Maisy Gregson is convinced she knows the answer.

  A note at the bottom of the chapter said See Plate viii, so I obediently flicked to the glossy central pages expecting to see a picture of Maisy Gregson. The caption below Plate viii, however, identified it as Agnes Payne. It was a rather grainy reproduction of an old photograph, which showed a plain woman in a severe high-necked blouse. Although Agnes was wearing a hat, I could see she had light-coloured hair. She looked nothing like Trudie at all.

  I shut the book feeling oddly disappointed. Although I couldn’t hear a thing, I felt as if Trudie and Agnes were both screaming at me, trying to tell me what I’d missed.

  I left the book and pen lying on the bed while I had a last look round the room. The discovery of the pen made me so nervous that I opened and shut all the drawers again, looked down the back of the dressing table and chest of drawers, even investigated the top of the wardrobe, almost choking myself in an enveloping cloud of dust in the process; but I made no further discoveries.