by Roberta Kray
61
After Tommy had stopped speaking, Helen was overly aware of the stillness of the room. Of all her emotions – and there were many of them – anger was the first to rise to the surface. ‘All this time, you’ve known that she was still alive. How could you?’ she hissed. ‘How could you do that to me?’
Tommy turned from the window and finally met her gaze. His mouth twisted down at the corners. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry. It was… I didn’t know what else to do.’
As she leaned forward, Frank placed a hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if it was protective or restraining, but she quickly shrugged it off. ‘You let me think she was dead. You came to her funeral. We scattered her ashes on your mother’s grave. You let me go through all that, and it was nothing more than a filthy, dirty lie.’
‘I couldn’t tell anyone, not if Chapelle was going to come sniffing around. It was the only way to keep her safe. If he found out… I couldn’t take that chance.’
Helen stood up, a sourness in the pit of her stomach. She gave a choked, despairing laugh. ‘So where is she, then? Where’s she hiding out?’
Tommy shook his head. ‘I dunno. I swear I don’t. She might still be in Ireland. She might not. She could be anywhere. We haven’t spoken since that day, and that’s the God honest truth.’
‘The truth,’ she repeated mockingly. ‘And what the hell would you know about the truth?’
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ Frank said. ‘It was a tough call.’
Helen gave him a glare. She had expected, hoped that he would be on her side, and didn’t appreciate his response. ‘You think he did the right thing?’
Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t say that. All I meant was that it must have been a hard choice. People were going to get hurt no matter what he did.’
‘Not people,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Me.’
Moira was sitting on the sofa, a stunned expression on her face. Her gaze, full of bewilderment, jumped to each of them in turn before finally settling on Helen. ‘What are you going to do?’
It was a question Helen couldn’t answer, not right at that minute anyway. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if the walls of the room were slowly squeezing in on her. All she knew was that she had to get away. As she grabbed her bag and made for the door, she heard Moira calling out after her, but she didn’t stop. She needed air and she needed it fast.
Outside, Helen ran as quickly as she could in her black high heels. The evening air was cool but her face was burning hot. She was still frantically trying to absorb what Tommy had revealed: her mother was alive, her mother had made a choice, her mother had chosen to abandon her. She felt sick and confused. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her head was spinning, anger battling with grief and despair. Somewhere, someplace else, Lynsey Beck was getting up every morning and going to bed every night. Did she ever think about the daughter she had left behind?
Helen only slowed to a walk when she was certain that she hadn’t been followed. She was at Chalk Farm tube station, not that far from home, but she didn’t want to go back to the flat.
That would be the first place they’d look, and she needed time on her own. She glanced around for a cab but couldn’t see one. Instead, she ducked into the station, bought a southbound ticket and went down on to the platform.
Almost immediately there was a faint rumbling and a stirring of the air. Seconds later, the train came rushing out of the tunnel. As the doors opened, she got on quickly, glancing over her shoulder to check that she was still alone. There were plenty of seats and she chose one as far away as possible from the other passengers.
As the doors closed and the train moved off again, she caught her own reflection in the glass of the window. A girl with red lips and lost eyes. A girl dressed in a sleeveless black cocktail dress. Her fingers fluttered up to her throat, touching the string of pearls. They had been a present from Moira for her twenty-first birthday.
Helen passed the journey in a daze, barely noticing the stations or the passengers getting on and off. In her mind, she stumbled blindly through the past, searching for answers that could not be found. Her anger had subsided, shifting into something dull and hollow. She almost missed her stop, only alerted at the last moment by an announcement over the intercom. Leicester Square. She leapt out of her seat, out of the train and on to the platform.
When she was up at street level again, she realised that she should have grabbed her jacket on her way out of Moira’s flat. It wasn’t freezing, but the evening was chilly enough to make her shiver. She strode up Charing Cross Road to Cambridge Circus, and then headed west. Without really thinking about it, she already knew where she was going.
In Soho, the streets were buzzing, the place alive with noise and light. The smells of food and dope and traffic fumes drifted on the air. She had been drunk earlier, tipsy at least, but Tommy’s revelations had shocked her back into sobriety. The cut on the palm of her hand was starting to hurt, a throbbing ache that made her wince. She found an off-licence and bought a half-bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes.
For the next half-hour, she wandered aimlessly around, revisiting the old haunts she had once known so well. She walked among the dealers, the punters and the pimps. She studied the toms with their hungry mouths and blank, empty eyes. What was she doing? She had no idea. She drank and smoked and tried to blot out the horror of what she had learned.
Terrible things had happened to her here on these streets, but terrible things had happened in other places too. Maybe this was where she belonged. She had bad blood – that was what Joe Quinn had said, and it was true. She had his bad blood, and her father’s and her mother’s. It ran in her veins, an inherited evil she could never be rid of.
Helen was in Brewer Street, leaning against a wall, when the man approached her. He was a tall, shifty-looking bloke in his mid forties. He kept his hands in his pockets, his gaze darting left and right as he sidled up to her. ‘How much?’ he muttered.
She felt a shudder of revulsion as she looked him up and down. ‘More than you can afford,’ she said.
His face tightened, a cruel expression entering his eyes. ‘Try me.’
And she knew in that moment that this man wanted to hurt her, that his lust was full of loathing too. Although all her natural instincts railed against it, she didn’t immediately dismiss his proposition. A small voice was whispering in her ear. Bad girls did bad things, and perhaps this was nothing more than she deserved. ‘Make me an offer.’
He leaned in towards her, scowling. His sour-smelling breath made her flinch. ‘What’s the game, darlin’? What you playing at?’
Helen stared back. ‘No game,’ she said.
‘So I ain’t got all night. Name your fuckin’ price.’
Helen hesitated, aware that the decision she made would be irrevocable. She felt like she was standing on the edge of an abyss – one simple step and she would fall off the edge and descend into a nothingness from which she could never return. And suddenly, through all the rage and rejection and self-pity, she had a moment of clarity: she could be a victim for the rest of her life, or she could start fighting back. Quickly, she shook her head. ‘I’m not interested. You’ve made a mistake.’
He glared at her and then reached out to grab her wrist. ‘Don’t fuckin’ mess with me, you bitch!’
But Helen wasn’t afraid. He might be a nasty piece of work, but she’d known worse. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’ Snatching away her arm, she stared back at him, her eyes full of contempt. ‘Just push off, okay? Push off or I’ll call the cops.’
Aware that the altercation was starting to attract attention, the punter decided to back off. His eyes were two cold slits, his mouth tight and angry. He gave her a final black look before turning his head and spitting on the ground.
Helen watched as he strode away, and then started walking in the opposite direction. She’d only gone a few yards when there was a familiar voice behind her.
�
��You’re not an easy person to find.’
She spun round to find Frank Meyer standing there. A few hours ago, there was no other face she would rather have seen, but a lot had changed since then. ‘What do you want?’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘To talk.’
‘No thanks. Just leave me alone, huh?’
‘Ten minutes,’ Frank said. ‘That’s all I’m asking. You can spare me that, can’t you?’
Helen carried on walking, and he tagged along beside her. She wondered how much he had heard of her exchange with the punter. Enough, she was sure, to get the gist of the conversation. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I checked the flat and you weren’t there, so Moira suggested…’
Helen gave him a sideways glance. Her past life, her life with Lily, could never have stayed a secret for ever, but she hadn’t wanted him to find out this way. ‘She told you, didn’t she?’
‘She didn’t tell me anything. She just suggested looking here.’
‘So now you think I’m a whore.’
‘So now you’re telling me what I think.’
Helen kept on walking. She was quiet for a while, and he didn’t say anything either. As they turned on to Wardour Street, she looked at him again. ‘I thought you wanted to talk.’
‘Not here. Let’s go back to Camden.’
‘I don’t want to go to Camden.’
‘Just you and me,’ he said. ‘There won’t be anyone else there.’
‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he wheedled. ‘I’ll make a deal with you. Come back to the flat for an hour, and then if you want to come back here, I’ll drive you myself.’
‘You can’t drive. You’ve had too much to drink.’
‘We’ll get a cab, then.’
Helen chewed on her lower lip, recalling another deal Frank had made, many years ago. The two of them sitting in Kellston cemetery after Joe Quinn’s attack on her in the cellar. Frank trying to persuade her to go back to the Fox. The memory, bittersweet, brought a lump to her throat. ‘You said ten minutes. You said you only wanted to talk for ten minutes.’
‘So we’ll split the difference. Call it… half an hour.’
‘That’s not—’
But before she could make any further protests, he had hailed a passing black cab, opened the door and quickly ushered her inside.
Helen sank back into the seat, a terrible exhaustion washing over her. She wasn’t sure if she was too drunk or not drunk enough. She had downed a fair bit of vodka, but the sharp pain in her heart remained. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this. There’s nothing left to talk about.’
Frank settled down next to her, not too far away, not too close. ‘We’ll see.’
62
Walking into the flat, Helen felt like she was entering a stranger’s home. It was all familiar to her – the furniture, the curtains, the lamps, even the two empty glasses sitting on the coffee table – and yet none of it seemed to belong to her. It was another Helen Beck who had lived here, a different girl, with dreams and aspirations. Her life had been nothing but a house of cards, and now, with just a breath of truth, it had all come tumbling down.
Frank went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She followed him, standing by the door and watching as he got out the coffee and sorted mugs and spoons and sugar and milk. They had barely spoken in the cab, the driver’s presence too much of a deterrent for any real intimacy. She had huddled into the corner and stared out at the flashing lights, at the crowds of people. She had wanted to get lost in those crowds. She had wanted to disappear for ever.
‘You going to sit down?’ he asked.
Helen slipped off her shoes and left them by the door. She padded into the kitchen, the lino cool beneath her feet. The metal box was still on the table, and she pushed it aside, hating everything it represented. She saw Frank looking at her, and frowned. ‘You see? She didn’t even bother to take this with her. That’s how much her precious memories meant.’
‘I’m sure she loved you,’ he said.
‘So why didn’t she take me with her?’ The tears sprang into her eyes, and she brushed them away roughly. She still had the same aversion to crying in company that she’d had as a kid. ‘Why did she leave me at my grandmother’s?’
He spooned the coffee into the mugs and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Maybe she figured that Chapelle would check to see if you were still around. She had to make him believe she was dead, and she couldn’t do that if she took you with her.’
‘Because no decent mother would ever leave her child behind, huh?’
‘You don’t think it may have been you she was protecting?’
Helen felt the anger rise inside her again. ‘Why are you defending her? She was only interested in saving her own skin. She didn’t give a damn about anyone else.’
‘I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to see it from her point of view. If she had taken you, she’d have been looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, wondering when Chapelle was going to catch up with you both. What kind of a life is that for a kid, for anyone?’
Helen gave a snort. ‘So you’re saying she did it for me?’
‘Maybe, partly. Is that so difficult to believe?’ He put the mug down in front of her and pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. ‘And I wasn’t taking sides earlier when I said it was a tough call. All I meant was that I didn’t know what I’d have done if I’d been in Tommy’s shoes.’
‘Told the truth?’ she suggested. ‘Told me that my mother wasn’t actually dead.’
Frank gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah, perhaps you deserved the truth. But you were, what – eleven years old? He barely even knew you then. And the longer you keep a secret like that, the harder it is to let it go.’
She pulled a face. ‘So he was just going to pretend for ever?’
‘Perhaps he thought it was better that way. How would you have felt if you’d found out that she was still alive but that nobody knew where she was?’
‘Like I feel now,’ she shot back. ‘Angry, betrayed, rejected, bitter, twisted. Do you want me to go on?’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Best not. I might start feeling sorry for you.’
‘It’s not funny.’
Frank placed his elbows on the table and balanced his chin on the roof of his hands. ‘No, it’s not. But you can deal with this, Mouse. You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let it destroy everything.’
‘What, just come to terms with it and move on? That simple, is it?’
‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound flippant. All I’m trying to say is… Shit, I dunno.’ He studied her carefully and sighed. ‘Look at you. Despite everything, all the rubbish you’ve been landed with, you’ve still managed to make a decent life for yourself. You’re young, smart, beautiful. You can do anything you want.’
Helen felt the colour rise into her cheeks. He may have called her smart before, but he’d never called her beautiful. To hide her blushes, she bent her head to the mug and took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong and sweet. She frowned. ‘You’ve put sugar in this. I don’t take sugar.’
‘For the shock,’ he said.
‘That’s only for tea.’ She paused, then said, ‘And you don’t know anything about me, not really. I’ve done all sorts of stuff. Bad stuff. I’m not the girl you think I am.’
Frank shrugged it off. ‘We’ve all been there. So you’re not perfect, so what? I’ve made mistakes.’ He hesitated, as if in two minds as to whether he should continue. He chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds, and then said, ‘I was married once, you know.’
‘Eleanor,’ she said softly.
Frank looked at her, surprised. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I saw you once in the cemetery. You were visiting a grave and I was… I was curious. So I waited until you’d gone and then went to take a look.’
‘You never said anything.’
‘I felt bad about finding out that wa
y. It felt like I’d been snooping. And I figured that if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.’
He placed his hands on the table and linked his fingers together. There was a tightness to his jaw, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth. ‘Ellie. She was called Ellie. And I wasn’t a good husband. Not in any way. We used to live in Kellston. It was years ago. She got ill and… Well, you’re supposed to be there when the person you love gets sick, but I couldn’t cope with it. I felt bitter and angry and trapped. Do you know where I was on the day she died?’ He gave a small, hollow laugh. ‘I was out in a pub, getting drunk.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Helen instinctively reached out to touch his hand, but then stopped herself. Instead, she pretended she’d been reaching for the metal tin. She pulled it towards her and lifted the lid. She stared at the contents for a second and then raised her eyes to him again. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because people make mistakes, big ones. They mess up. And sometimes the mess is so immense it can’t ever be put right. All you can do is try and find a way to live with it.’
Suddenly Helen understood how he had managed to accept the unfairness of his jail sentence with such apparent equanimity. He had viewed it as a punishment for a different crime. He might not have been guilty of attempting to dispose of Joe Quinn’s body, but that hadn’t mattered. A more corrosive kind of guilt had been eating away at his conscience. ‘And have you?’ she asked. ‘Found a way to live with it?’
Frank forced a smile. ‘Let’s just call it a work in progress.’
Helen, aware that they hadn’t talked like this since he had moved into the flat, felt a mixture of emotions. She had longed for him to confide in her, to trust her, to share the secrets of his life, but now that he had, she felt that it was all too late. She remembered the imaginary friend she’d created back when she was eleven – Ella – and thought how odd it was that that name and the name of his wife were so similar. To cover her confusion, she took the envelopes out of the tin and put them on the table. She pulled the notes out and laid them side by side, staring hard at the threats that had been sent to her mother.
