by Jane Corry
Instead, they pretended to wait for the bus but then hung around the park and smoked and drank the last few drops that people had left in beer bottles. The others had been right about the teachers. No one had complained.
‘We’ll forge a sick note when we go back,’ announced Dawn. ‘Not that they even give a shit about us foster kids. Now, about today. We’re going to do something different. You did say you was eight, didn’t you?’
Scarlet nodded.
‘You look older.’
‘I know.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘Why?’
‘Nothing. We need to get going.’
Scarlet felt an unexpected beat of excitement along with the fear. ‘Are we going to play the game?’
Her friend’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Mum told me.’
‘She was on the game?’
‘No. We did it in the park or shopping centre.’
‘You went with her? You poor kid.’
They were walking now. ‘I didn’t mind. I got pocket money sometimes.’
‘I’ve got you wrong, haven’t I? You’re actually pretty cool.’
Scarlet flushed with pleasure. It was nice to have a friend. ‘Have you got the cans?’ she asked Dawn. ‘Mum either took drink or crisps.’ A big lump came up in her throat. ‘Then they took her away. I really miss her.’
They were standing outside some shops, just like the centre where she and Mum used to go.
‘They said I would see her soon.’ The tears were pouring out. ‘But I don’t know when.’
Dawn shrugged. ‘Your mum’s gone to prison. I heard Mrs W say so.’
‘No, she hasn’t. She’s with the judges in court. My social worker told me that.’
A woman walking past with a little dog glanced across at them and then hurried on.
‘For Chrissake, stop screaming.’
‘Then stop pinching me and making up stuff about my mum.’
‘I’m not making it up. But if you want to help her, you’ve got to do what I say. See the boys?’
Scarlet’s vision – blurred by her tears – finally settled on ginger Darren and the others from the house. They were outside a shop with lots of stickers on the window.
G–R–E–A–T V–A–L–U–E.
‘There’s a big stack of DVDs just inside. Darren’s going to push Kieran into it, pretending to have a row. They’ll come falling down. While the assistants are distracted, you’ve got to go to that other display – see? The one on the right. Grab a load and scarper. OK?’
‘But what if I get caught?’
‘You won’t if you’re quick. And if you do, you say nothing. Got it? Not even “No comment”, cos then it looks like you’ve done this sort of thing before. Just act scared and cry.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘Cos I’ve already got a caution.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t mess around with me, Scarlet. You know what I bloody mean.’ Dawn gave her a push. ‘Move it.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m scared.’
‘Want to be my best friend?’
She nodded.
‘Go on then. You’re clever. I know you can do it.’
Scarlet’s legs began to walk unsteadily towards the shop door.
‘About fucking time,’ one of the boys said. Then suddenly, without warning, he raised his fist. One of the uncles had once hit Mum, and she’d clobbered him back, just as Darren and Kieran were doing to each other.
There was a loud clattering noise as the DVD display fell over. ‘Those kids are at it again,’ shouted one of the shop assistants.
Quickly! Scarlet’s fingers were shaking so much that she could hardly pick them up. One, two, three, four.
‘STOP THAT GIRL,’ she heard someone yelling after her. ‘The black kid with the braids and red beads.’
No! She’d dropped one. Too late to bend down. Running out of the door, she dashed down a corridor. Where should she go now? Dawn hadn’t said.
Then she saw it. A sign. L–A–D–I–E–S.
‘If you ever get into trouble, go to the toilet,’ Mum had always said. ‘Lock yourself in and then scream for help.’
Scarlet shut the first cubicle door behind her. There was shit all over the floor (ugh!) and no toilet paper. Sitting on the seat, she panted with terror. Someone was coming!
‘That one’s occupied,’ said a voice. ‘Take the next one.’
Scarlet waited until the loo had flushed and the footsteps had gone.
Creeping out of the toilets, she started to walk as fast as she could across the centre to the main doors. Round the corner maybe? And down this road here towards McDonald’s? Someone had thrown a bag of chips into the bin outside. Scarlet wolfed them down. There was a park over the road. Some swings. Mum might be there, looking for her. Perhaps they’d let her out of prison by now …
‘There you are!’
It was Dawn.
‘Got the stuff? Good girl. Time to pass them on.’
Scarlet didn’t like to ask what that meant in case Dawn stopped being her friend.
They walked and walked through the rain until they reached a market on the other side of town. It was different from the one where the man used to give Scarlet vegetables. This one had men who didn’t smile or ruffle her hair.
‘I’ll give yer a fiver,’ one of them said to Dawn.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me. These are the latest.’
‘Seven then. Not a penny more. Or I’ll hand the two of you in.’
‘You wouldn’t dare. Or they’ll get you too.’
‘Go home, the pair of you.’
‘Mind your own bloody business.’
‘All right. Eight quid. And that’s yer lot.’
They had to hang around the park for a bit after that until 4 p.m. Then it would look as though they’d been to school. Scarlet was beginning to learn not to question her new friend. You never knew when she was going to be nice or not.
That night, Scarlet stayed very quiet when the ginger-haired boy came into the room. He and Dawn made lots of strange noises, a bit like Mum and the uncles used to.
When the boy left, her friend went straight to sleep. Her snores sang in the dark. Outside, car brakes squealed in the rain. Scarlet tossed and turned in the too-big brown pyjamas which Mrs W had finally found her. When she was little, Mum had taught her to speak to the universe. ‘You can ask for whatever you want,’ she’d told her. ‘Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. So you might as well try.’
‘Please, universe,’ prayed Scarlet, ‘can you fix it so I see Mum? As soon as you can?’
Then, because Mum had always taught her to be polite to everyone (apart from the cops), she added two more words. ‘Thank you.’
9
Vicki
I am still staring at the photograph.
There’s no denying it. There I am. Wearing the same pale-blue high-necked jumper that I am wearing now. Waving a finger at the man standing in front of me.
David.
A red London bus is going past behind us, and the Embankment is clearly visible in the background.
‘You two look as though you’re having a bit of an argument,’ says Inspector Vine. His voice is steady. Balanced. It strikes me that his name is perfect. Vine. Clings tenaciously to whatever support – or clue – it can find. My ex-husband and I used to have a rather lovely Virginia creeper which clambered all over the balcony at the back of the house in Kingston. We spent ages one weekend fixing little green supports onto the wall. David was up the ladder and I was at the bottom, keeping it steady. I remember thinking how good it was to work as a team. I wonder if it’s still secure.
I, on the other hand, am still trying to find something to hang on to.
‘Do you see that Evening Standard placard in the corner?’ he continues. ‘When you enlarge it, the front page shows the date. 30 November 2017. Yet you told me you
hadn’t seen your ex-husband since 2013.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say unsteadily, ‘I just forgot. My medication … it affects my memory.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His eyes are cold. ‘We talked about that before, didn’t we, in the hospital. How very convenient.’
‘That isn’t fair.’ Panic is making my throat tight. ‘I need to speak to my solicitor.’
The detective sighs. His breath smells of mints. ‘No solicitor in the world is going to be able to deny this photograph.’ Then his voice softens. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Vicki. I feel for you. I really do. I’m not sure I could deal with it. Not being able to trust my mind. Never knowing when I’m going to have another seizure …’
‘I sometimes get a smell of burning,’ I say suddenly. ‘Just before it happens.’
His eyes light up with interest. ‘Really?’
‘And I’ve got one right now.’
It’s not true, but I can see I’ve scared him.
‘Stress can bring it on.’ I sit down heavily on the sofa. There’s a nervous glance between the two detectives.
‘Go ahead,’ he says quickly. ‘Make that call to your solicitor.’
The only one I know is the woman who handled my divorce. Her name was Lily Macdonald. I’d liked her. Professional and also understanding. Does she do crime? The very word seems absurd and yet all-too familiar. Amazingly, I still have her number on my phone. The voicemail is on. It is a Sunday, after all. I stammer a message, stressing the urgency.
‘Now what?’ I say to my inquisitors. ‘Are you going to charge me?’
Instantly, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.
The inspector’s eyes narrow. ‘What exactly do you think we should charge you with?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘Are you sure about that?’
He’s trying to confuse me. I need to get the upper hand somehow. There’s no proof, I tell myself. The photograph just shows that I had seen David the month before he’d disappeared. But it doesn’t mean I’m guilty of his murder.
‘May I look at the photograph again?’ I say.
I turn it over. There’s a silver-and-black sticker with a name on it. Helen Evans.
‘Who’s she?’ I ask.
‘The photographer. She was with Mr Goudman at the time.’
‘Handy,’ I say acidly. I notice that the sergeant is no longer in the room.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Vine as I try to move past him.
‘To find my diary.’
‘I have it here,’ says Sergeant Brown, coming in from the lounge. She is tapping a thick black book. I think back to the psychologist who’d suggested keeping one. ‘It’s good for mental health,’ he’d said, ‘because it releases emotion safely without hurting anyone physically.’
Luckily, this is my office diary for appointments. Not the personal one.
‘How dare you? That’s private property.’
‘Come on, Vicki. If you’ve got nothing to hide, then surely you won’t mind me looking.’
‘Fine,’ I nod, after a moment’s hesitation. He’s right. Much better to show good will.
He turns a page. ‘Your diary says you had a client at 8 a.m. on the same date that the photograph was taken.’
‘There you are, then,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I couldn’t have gone to London.’
‘Then how do you explain the woman in the picture who looks just like you?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
I want to scream. ‘Can’t.’
He taps his fingers on the page as if doing Morse code. ‘Even if you’d seen this client, you would still have had enough time to have left Cornwall and got to this part of London.’
‘But apart from medical appointments, I hardly go up to town any more,’ I say, choosing not to share the fact that I had just been about to pay Tanya a visit when the detectives had turned up.
‘Town?’ queries the woman officer. ‘That suggests you used to be familiar with it.’
‘You know I was,’ I snap.
‘Do we?’
They must. My medical notes would surely have mentioned my past. It’s all connected. So why haven’t they brought up the big thing that’s missing here?
‘None of this proves anything,’ I say.
DI Vine glances around the room. ‘We’ll decide that when we’ve finished looking around. How’s the burning smell, by the way?’
I’d almost forgotten.
‘Gone,’ I say lamely.
‘That’s good.’
He turns and walks into my studio. I follow meekly, feeling wretched, conscious that I’ve given the E word a bad press.
They start with my desk: one of the few items here which belongs to me and not my landlady. After David, I walked away from material possessions. Besides, when you are constantly moving on, it’s easier not to have too much. I bought the desk the other week from a local antique shop in the mistaken belief that I might stay here for a while.
I can hear the policewoman in my bedroom. More drawers are being pulled out. Cupboard doors open and shut.
I ring Lily Macdonald again. The solicitor’s answerphone is still on. I leave another message.
Outside, the sky is turning pink. It’s nearly evening. I yearn to get out. Walk along the seafront. Hear the waves gently lapping on the shingle. Smell the salt air. Pretend that none of this is happening. Kid myself that I’m like everyone else walking past.
The inspector has my ‘Bills’ file out. My heart catches in my throat. He is flicking through. Any minute now, I tell myself, he will see it. Any minute.
In a way, I want him to.
In another, I don’t, because – dammit – part of me still loves David, despite everything. It’s as though there’s no logic left in my head.
He puts the file down. Either he hasn’t noticed the document hidden amidst the other financial papers or else he doesn’t realize it’s important.
‘May I look in your kitchen?’ he says.
‘It hasn’t changed in the last ten minutes.’
He ignores my sarcasm, spreading his hands as if apologizing. But I know he isn’t.
I shrug. ‘Be my guest. I’ll come too. I need to get my medication anyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ I follow him and reach for the bottle, which – because it’s a controlled drug – I keep on a high shelf as advised by the consultant.
The detective is watching me closely. ‘Do you ever forget to take it?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I neglect to mention there are times when I choose not to for reasons already given. Sometimes I think I’m damned if I swallow the stuff and damned if I don’t.
I point to the DON’T FORGET board on the wall with its jaunty border of flowers around it. There’s a mark for each date. I add to it now.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Take a look for the day that David went missing.’
It’s there. We can both see it. So is the mark for the day before and the day after.
‘It can’t be easy for you,’ he says in a softer tone.
‘It’s not.’ This time his kindness seems genuine, causing my eyes to blur. I turn to one side. ‘I’d make you a cup of tea,’ I say, ‘but I don’t have a kettle, as you can see.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Hot liquids,’ I add. ‘I might scald myself. Some people use microwaves to make hot drinks but there’s still a chance you could get burned.’
I’m definitely striking a chord there. I learned that in my old life. Find something that makes others sympathetic. It’s the first chink in the armour. Then you start to get in there.
But has this man found my chink yet?
There’s nothing for it but to wait and see.
10
Scarlet
13 March 2007
The next morning, Scarlet woke to find Dawn prodding her in the ribs. ‘Get up. Quick. Mrs W is going mental. She wants us out early.’
Y
esterday began to float back to her. The DVDs in the shop. The man they’d sold them to. The ginger-haired boy in Dawn’s bed. Still, thought Scarlet with a fresh spring of hope, maybe they’d let her see Mum today.
‘We’re going to have to go to school,’ said Dawn. ‘Or they might get suspicious. But we’ll do a sick note first and pretend it’s from Mrs W.’
‘Won’t they check it with her writing?’
‘They’re too busy to bother. You do it. My spelling’s crap.’
‘After school, will you help me get to see Mum?’
Dawn was pulling up her tights now. They had holes in the knee. ‘She’s banged up. Didn’t get bail, according to what I heard Mrs W say.’
‘What’s bail?’
Her new friend’s voice softened. ‘It’s when they let you out before the trial. But they won’t give it you if they think you’ll run off or are dangerous.’
Dangerous meant the man in the flat next to their old home, who had beaten up his son. Dangerous meant cars that drove too fast, like the one that knocked over a kid from their block last Christmas. Dangerous meant one of the uncles who had offered her some white powder ‘as a joke’. Mum said she’d bloody well kill him if he didn’t get out there and then.
‘My mother wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
Dawn was pulling up her skirt now. It didn’t cover the holes in her tights. ‘Then count yourself bleeding lucky. Mine tried to strangle me once when she was pissed.’
‘That’s really bad.’
‘No, there’s worse than that.’ Dawn had a weird look on her face. ‘My brother stopped her. It was the next bit that was shit.’
Scarlet said nothing. This was something she’d learned from Mum. Sometimes you had to wait to get someone to give you an explanation.
But Dawn was silent for a bit as though there was something in her mouth that she didn’t like the taste of. ‘Anyway,’ she said at last. ‘It don’t matter now. Someone told on him and then the authorities got me.’
Told on him? Who? What had her brother done, wondered Scarlet. But she didn’t like to ask.
‘You done that note yet?’
‘Shall I tell them we all had a stomach bug?’
‘Can you spell stomach?’ Dawn frowned. ‘I’m not sure I can. We need to get it right or they’ll know we wrote it ourselves.’
