The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  I close the bedroom door, check that no one is outside and answer the phone.

  ‘Any luck?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. Spurs are two nil up,’ Dave says. ‘It’s looking good for tips at full time.’

  ‘Good, but I meant your sister.’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘She couldn’t help?’

  ‘I don’t really know if what she said helps at all,’ he says. He sounds hesitant. ‘I can’t believe there’s one Henry Campbell Black in the whole of Greater Manchester, let alone two in Wythenshawe.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘Your sister knows them?’

  ‘One of them,’ he says firmly. ‘She worked at the nursery where my nephew used to go.’

  ‘Your sister did?’

  ‘No, this Henry character.’ He sucks in his breath. ‘She’s a woman.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ My heart sinks. Frustration boils. ‘Bugger! Look, did your sister say anything else?’

  ‘She was good with the kids, apparently,’ he says. ‘Even if she was a muff-muncher.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A lesbian,’ he says. ‘Bit of a porker, going by the photo my sister sent me.’

  ‘And your sister doesn’t know where this woman is now?’

  ‘No idea,’ he says. ‘She just didn’t turn up at the nursery one day. Not been seen since. So that’s that then.’

  I’m not so sure.

  My head rushes with images and echoes with words.

  The sly looks from the mothers at the school gates, the sensation of being left out of a joke. The sudden and recent obliteration of Henry Campbell Black from the household bills. The lewd pink wriggle of Billy Gibson’s tongue.

  Didn’t he say something about Libby not being a proper mother? And what I thought was just a slip of his runaway tongue when chanting Esme’s name could actually have been what he meant to say: Lesme.

  ‘Beth?’ says Dave. ‘You still there?’

  I catch my breath. I grip the phone harder.

  ‘You mentioned a photo,’ I say, my eyes narrowing.

  ‘That’s right. This Henry playing with my nephew in a paddling pool. Taken about a month before she did a flit, apparently.’

  ‘Can you send it to me?’

  ‘I don’t think my sister would mind,’ he says. ‘Hang on.’ I hear voices in the background, the clump of car doors shutting. ‘Gotta go, Beth. Duty calls.’

  A few moments later my phone buzzes with an incoming message.

  Here you go. Hope it helps. You know where I am when you’re ready to go back to Piccadilly station.

  My hand shakes as I open the attachment.

  A toddler stands in a paddling pool, eyes shut, mouth open, thrilled at the torrent of water splashing over his head. The woman tipping it from a bucket has meaty hands and thick arms; the rest of her body is lost beneath a baggy beige shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms.

  I look closer. The mop of black hair and chubby cheeks make it hard to see her face properly, but I guess her to be in her late twenties, maybe a little older. I zoom in. The picture dissolves into a pixelated blur. But even as she fractures and dissolves, I sense a heaviness about her, a cowering, as if buckling under pressure. There is no joy in her game with the boy, no pleasure in making him squeal.

  That night, with the others asleep, I lie on my bed, trying to fit things together. In my head I run through Esme’s essay for the umpteenth time, especially the part about her life in Manchester with Libby. There are secrets in it, I’m sure – as sure as I was with the overlooked clue in Libby’s paperwork. But I can’t see where. Everything flies by, like a speeded-up film.

  I pause, flick back and replay the entry about the film again.

  Things were easier with Mrs Doubtfire around. She was funny and kind and made everything all right. Made a family of three happy and whole.

  Even though it’s a bit of a silly film, it made me cry. Mum too. I told her everything would be fine. But there are no more Mrs Doubtfires. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.

  I’ve seen the film too, some time ago, but in my memory the family in it comprise a husband, a wife and three children. A family of five. Mended by a mannish nanny. Like Henry Campbell Black.

  Esme wasn’t talking about the film. It wasn’t the happy ending that made both her and Libby cry. It was losing Henry Campbell Black.

  I get up, tiptoe down the corridor. I take Esme’s laptop from the living room table and carry it back to my room.

  My head thumps as I type in the password box.

  Mrs Doubtfire.

  Bingo. The screen yawns open and I dig around the folders and files with the cursor like an archaeologist with a trowel.

  ‘Spice World’ is nothing but photos of the Spice Girls, song lyrics and links to videos on YouTube. Lady Gaga’s work is collected in ‘Gaga4Gaga’. I’m more hopeful of ‘Homework etc.’ but it’s only bits of poetry, a chapter of a story about a meerkat and a list of Esme’s teachers, rated in preferential order. ‘Xmas’ has her wish lists for the past few Christmases and a shopping list for the next one. I’m touched to see my name on it and feel a pang of guilt for mistrusting her.

  But that is the only reference I can find to me or to her previous life. Even her essay isn’t on the computer. I expected folders full of research on Amy’s case, with links to news sites, information about reincarnation, Kennington, unsolved murders and people who’ve gone missing.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself throwing the computer at the wall. Instead I take the USB stick from my bag and copy over all of the files I’ve found. I can’t risk Esme going into the front room and finding her laptop missing. But I need more time than I’ve got to scrutinise the files.

  Even when I’ve copied them, I still feel cheated. I’ve not got what I wanted but somehow, yet again, I know I’m close. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. I try and put myself in Esme’s head.

  She’s crafty and clever. She’d cover every eventuality. She’d expect me to try and look on her computer. If I managed to get past her password, she wouldn’t make it easy for me to find incriminating information. She’d hide it as best she could. Bury it in the hard drive, in the last place I’d look.

  I move the cursor to the trash can. Open it up.

  She’s been as careless as her mother was with the household bills, but in a different way. She’s tried to be too clever. Being overly cryptic has given her away.

  All the files in the trash can have self-explanatory labels. All except one.

  HCBLegDict.WMA.

  I recognise the initials HCB. But I don’t recognise the suffix after the full stop or the little logo on the file icon. It’s nothing I’ve ever worked with. Not a Word document, jpg or gif. I copy the file on to the USB stick, close the laptop down and return it quietly to its place on the front room table.

  Back in my room, I copy the files to my own laptop. I’m about to click on the file with Henry Campbell Black’s initials, then stop.

  I remember the light I saw under the door when Esme and Libby were using their laptop. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be using mine – I could say I was watching something on iPlayer – but I’d rather not make them suspicious.

  I swing my legs into bed and pull the duvet over me; I’m caught in a hot little space lit by a forensic glow that makes my shadow sharp.

  I click on the file. A small grey dashboard appears on the screen. There are buttons with arrows on it, like on a CD player. Fast forward. Rewind. Play.

  The inbuilt speaker hisses. It’s loud, too loud. I scrabble for the volume button. I don’t know what I’m listening to; it could be nothing. But if Libby and Esme hear it too, there will be awkward questions to answer, whether it contains anything revealing or not. Yet again I’m on the brink of being thrown out. Thrown off the scent of the truth.

  It could be something perfectly innocent and mundane; a recording of a pop song, or some music track downloaded from the intern
et. But then there’s a clunk, as if the laptop had been moved and the microphone tested. It goes quiet. I lean in towards the laptop, straining to hear. Like someone at a seance. Is there anybody there?

  There is.

  I hear someone cough and clear their throat. The sound is muffled but the cough is too deep for a child. Not deep enough for a man.

  My mouth is dry and my heart thumping.

  There’s another cough, a rustle of clothing. Then, suddenly, a voice. A rush of words tumbling out at me so quickly I can barely catch them. All I know is I don’t recognise the voice, but the accent has a London twang.

  I stop the player, press the back arrow, begin again at the start.

  11

  I hope you can hear this. I ain’t sure if this recorder thing is working as I’ve never used one before. It’s not mine; I borrowed it from someone at work who lent it to me ’cos I told her I was learning French and had to listen to meself to make sure I’d got it right. She believed me too. Like I’d be learning French . . .

  All these computers and gadgets and all that does my head in but I reckon I might just about have got the hang of this now so I can tell you what I need to and you can understand what all this is about.

  I can’t write it, you see. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can write, despite what some people used to think, it’s just I don’t do it good enough or quick enough. And I ain’t got too much time as I’ve gotta catch a train in about an hour. I’ve got things to do. Well, something, anyway.

  But I’ve gotta get all this out too. It’s like when you wanna be sick or got a cold and your head’s full of snot, you know, when it’s all inside you and wants to come out? But you don’t wanna puke in front of people so you run to the bog or the bushes and do it there? And then you feel all clean? All better?

  Well this is me. Puking up the past, gobbing off about it and clearing it all out. Every bloody bit.

  Like I say, I ain’t big on words and books and stuff, especially stories and all that made-up crap, but I like books of spells and star signs and angels and books that tell you what your dreams are supposed to mean. That’s my bag.

  I’ve read so many of the bloody things I should be one of them experts you get on the telly, you know, telling everyone how they can be rich and have flashy flats in London and New York and big houses in the country and villas in Barbados. Living the dream with lots of top mates and a decent bloke who loves you to bits and kids that do as you say and bring you tea in the morning – just like the books say.

  But I ain’t got none of those things. It’s not the books’ fault. It’s all down to me not understanding and getting it wrong like I usually do.

  There was one book, mind, that made a right big difference to me life. The bloke who wrote it got right under me skin and turned things around, for a little while at least.

  It weren’t even mine. I found it on the counter of the Little Chef on the A435 when two posh students left it there while they faffed over paying their bill. Instead of just going halves like friends are meant to, they worked out what each of them owed, down to the last penny. Whatever they were meant to be studying it weren’t maths, as it took ’em ages.

  Anyway, as I was waiting for them to cough up, I spotted this book, on the counter, like I said. I only picked it up because I got the title wrong.

  Black Law Dictionary.

  I thought it was a guide to black magic, you know, spells and voodoo and recipes for potions to keep evil away and keep me safe. The words in the book were in columns, all lined up, black and neat, like bullets in a box ready for shooting.

  Turned out it weren’t spells at all. It weren’t Black Law but Black’s Law. Black – with an s on the end. All it was was jargon, you know, definitions and explanations and all that. The sort of things that posh boys and clever people understand. Not for the likes of me.

  ‘A Law Dictionary’ it said on the inside page. ‘Definitions of the terms and phrases of American and English Jurisprudence, Ancient and Modern. By Henry Campbell Black, MA.’

  It was all head-fuck nonsense, like the alphabet at school.

  We had an alphabet chart on my classroom wall, see. Scared the shit out of me, that thing. It had little pictures on it . . . you know, ball, clock and whatever to the bloody zebra at the end . . . all meant to make the alphabet look like a game and make it easy, but that chart was just a trap, like the Child Catcher’s wagon in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, all covered with sweets and ribbons so it looked like fun when really it was just a paddy wagon taking kids off to the nick.

  Even I knew what the pictures on the wall chart were, but the letters . . . they was just shapes, all lines and angles and sticks with knobs on. Meant fuck-all to me. The shiny green apple at the beginning was like a big boulder. Keep out. No entry. Piss off.

  But Miss Clapton let me in. She said she could help. I stayed behind after school, like I’d been naughty, and had separate lessons as if the others would catch something from me. I did rhymes and exercises, learnt patterns and shapes until me head hurt so much I wanted to kick the kicking k’s back.

  I got there in the end, though. I untangled the letters bit by bit until I could put ’em together to make words and write ’em down in the right order. Some of ’em, like ‘friend’, were easy but others, like ‘love’, always tripped me up.

  I don’t use words like that no more, mind, even if I can spell ’em and know what they mean. Now it’s words like ‘revenge’, ‘justice’ and ‘death’ on the tip of me tongue.

  I ain’t got a Scooby about how Black’s Law Dictionary began but I ain’t never gonna forget my alphabet. It’s mine for ever. I’ve got the same letters, in the same order . . . only now they’re telling different stories . . . ones that belong in a court, not a classroom.

  That’s why A ain’t for apple. It’s for Amy.

  Hearing my daughter’s name spoken by an unfamiliar disembodied voice hits me like a fist, winding me. I stop the player once again and throw the duvet back, catching at breath. But I remember to shield the screen of the laptop, shutting out its light; whatever is on this recording, whoever made it, must have the answers I’ve been desperate to hear for the last ten years. I will not lose them now.

  I pull the duvet back over my head, watch the shadow of my shaking hand as I click play once more.

  . . . It’s no wonder her name began with an A. It’s the first letter of the alphabet, the first letter of the word alphabet too . . . It’s used to being first. It’s a right show-off, look-at-me letter. It’s for A-list celebrities and the best grade teachers dish out . . . only not to me, of course. They all went to Amy.

  She was a double A. Amy Archer. Blessed twice.

  My parents didn’t get the power of A; no surprise really, as they didn’t know much about nothing to be honest. They believed things never changed and said it was pointless hoping they would, so nothing did change. Hope was hopeless. Deal with what you got and what you get and just suck it up with no whingeing or bellyaching.

  No big surprise then that I didn’t get a name beginning with an A. I got a D instead.

  Dana.

  I come up for air again. Dana. I reach for my phone on the bedside table. The screen still shows the picture of Henry playing with the toddler at the nursery. The picture of Dana.

  I try to make out the features of the girl I knew in the heavy, joyless figure in the photo, but she’s hard to find. Perhaps in the shape of the eyes and the line of the nose, but they are blurred by fat and the poor picture quality, so it’s hard to be certain. She looks older than she actually is. I guessed her to be in her late twenties, when really she’s only twenty, the same age as Amy. The same age Amy would have been, rather. I could have walked past Dana on the street and not recognised her.

  I take the phone back under the duvet, rewind the recording a little way and press play.

  . . . I got a D instead.

  Dana.

  The little shits at school soon turned that into Dunno. Then Dumbo
. In Spanish lessons, a speccy bitch with braces and plaits spotted that my name was an anagram of nada. Nothing. My life in a name . . .

  I didn’t have a bloody chance . . . not with my genes. Dad was a postman. He never read nothing except envelopes, and even that was a stretch.

  It’s funny in a sad sort of way . . . he was the one pushing letters into letter boxes but really it was them who pushed him around. The letters in his bag controlled where he went and when, as he couldn’t go home until he got rid of ’em all.

  If dogs growled as he shoved the post through the door, he’d stand there and growl back. Woof, woof. Dozy bastard . . . And those red rubber bands they use to keep the post together? Other postmen just chuck them on the floor, but my dad, he brought ’em home, made ’em into balls and dropped ’em from the window of our tenth-floor flat. The balls shot around like the ones in a pinball machine. I’d laugh but he just stared, like he wished he could fly away too.

  Mum worked part-time in a crappy shoe shop on Walworth Road. She didn’t like it much and only put up with it for the staff discount. Just as well really . . . if it weren’t for her twenty per cent off, I’d have gone to school in me socks and given the kids something else to laugh at.

  ‘You gotta be more careful,’ she’d say to me. ‘Look after your shoes. Money don’t grow on trees.’

  I used to cover up the scuffs with black crayon.

  The shoe shop was just around the corner from East Street market, so it was dead handy for end-of-day bargains. We never had cabbage, as Mum said she got enough of sweaty feet at work, but she always got some strawberries in. She smothered ’em with sugar and ate ’em like a Roman eating grapes. She’d sit there with a silly look on her face, all greedy and naughty and smiling. Then she’d pull a face as she bit into the stalk and spat it out. I didn’t get why she wouldn’t cut the stalks off first, until she told me.

  ‘It’s how I first had strawberries,’ she said. ‘We used to rob them out of some old boy’s window box. Had to get them in our gobs pronto. Got caught once. He scared the shit out of me.’