The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  “At his house?”

  “Yeah.”

  My dad put his knife down with a clatter. “Eddie. You must never go round there again, do you understand?”

  “But he’s a friend.”

  “Not anymore, Eddie. Right now, we don’t know what he is. You mustn’t see him anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we say so, Eddie,” Mum said sharply.

  My mum never said that. She used to say that you can’t tell a child something and expect them to do it without a reason. But she had a look on her face right now that I had never seen before. Not when the parcel arrived. Not when the brick came through our window. Not even when the bad things happened to Reverend Martin. She looked scared.

  “Now, promise me?”

  I dropped my eyes and muttered, “I promise.”

  Dad rested a large, heavy hand on my shoulder. “Good boy.”

  “Can I get down now, go to my room for a bit?”

  “Of course.”

  I slid from my seat and padded upstairs. On my way, I uncrossed my fingers.

  2016

  Answers. To a question I hadn’t even asked. Hadn’t even considered asking. Was Chloe all she seemed? Had she been lying to me?

  I had to let her go. She had an argument with a customer. Nicky.

  I rifle through my kitchen drawers, scrabbling through old takeaway menus, tradesmen’s cards and supermarket flyers, trying to piece together the bits of my scrambled mind, trying to think of a rational explanation.

  I mean, maybe Chloe got another job and just didn’t bother telling me. Maybe she was embarrassed about being sacked—although that doesn’t sound like Chloe. Maybe the argument with Nicky was completely coincidental. Maybe it wasn’t even the Nicky I know (or knew). It could be some other slim, attractive older woman with flaming red hair called Nicola Martin. Yeah, right. I’m grasping, but it’s possible.

  Several times, I almost call her. But I don’t. Not yet. First, I need to make another call.

  I slam the drawer shut and head upstairs. Not to my bedroom, but to my collection room. I stare around at the stacked boxes, mentally dismissing some straightaway.

  After Nicky left she sent a postcard to all of us with her new address. I wrote a few times but never had a reply.

  I take down three boxes from one of the upper shelves and start working through them. The first box yields no results, nor the second. Feeling disheartened, I open the third.

  When Dad died, I got another postcard. Just one word. Sorry. N. And this time, a phone number. I never called it.

  My eyes alight on a creased card with a picture of Bournemouth pier on the front. I snatch it up and turn it over. Bingo. I take out my phone.

  It rings and rings. It might not even be the right number anymore. She’s probably changed phones. This is—

  “Hello?”

  “Nicky, it’s Ed.”

  “Ed?”

  “Eddie Adams—”

  “No, no. I know who you are. I’m just surprised, that’s all. It’s been a while.”

  It has. But I can still tell when she is lying. She’s not surprised. She’s worried.

  “I know.”

  “How are you?”

  Good question. Many answers. I settle on the easiest.

  “I’ve been better. Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue, but could we talk?”

  “I thought we were.”

  “In person.”

  “What about?”

  “Chloe.”

  Silence. For so long I wonder if she has hung up on me.

  Then she says, “I finish work at three.”

  —

  The train to Bournemouth gets in at three thirty. I spend the journey pretending to read, occasionally turning the pages of the latest Harlan Coben. After the train pulls in, I shuffle out of the station and join the throng of people heading down toward the seafront. I cross at the pedestrian lights and meander through Bournemouth Gardens.

  Despite it barely being twenty miles away, I rarely visit Bournemouth. I’m not really a seaside kind of person. Even as a child, I was slightly scared of the charging waves and hated the feeling of the squishy, gritty sand between my toes; a feeling compounded when I once saw someone bury their half-eaten sandwiches in the sand. From then on, I steadfastly refused to set foot on the beach without my flip-flops or trainers on.

  Today, not the warmest of late-summer days, there are still a reasonable number of people wandering around the gardens and playing on the crazy golf (one thing I did enjoy as a child).

  I reach the promenade, skirt the now empty site where the once monstrous IMAX cinema slowly decayed after years of disuse, walk past the amusement arcade then turn right toward the seafront cafés.

  I sit outside one, nursing a lukewarm cappuccino and smoking. Only one other table is occupied, by a young couple. A woman with short, bleached-blond hair and a companion with dreadlocks and multiple piercings. I feel—and no doubt look—very old and very straight.

  I take out my book but, again, I can’t concentrate. I glance at my watch. Almost quarter past four. I take another cigarette out of the packet—my third in half an hour—and hunch over to light it. When I look up, Nicky is standing in front of me.

  “Disgusting habit.” She pulls out a chair and sits down. “Got a spare one?”

  I push the packet and lighter across the table, grateful my hand doesn’t shake. She slips a cigarette out and lights it, giving me a chance to study her. She looks older. Obviously. Time has etched lines onto her forehead and around the corners of her eyes. The red hair is straighter and streaked with blond. She is still slim, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. Beneath the careful makeup, I can just see a faint sheen of freckles. The girl beneath the woman.

  She looks up. “Yeah. I’ve aged. So have you.”

  I am suddenly very aware of how I must look to her. A stringy, disheveled man in a musty jacket, crumpled shirt and half-knotted tie. My hair is awry and I’m wearing my glasses to read. I’m amazed she recognizes me at all.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Glad we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way.”

  She stares at me with her vivid green eyes. “You know the weird thing?”

  Many answers. “What’s that?”

  “I wasn’t surprised when you called. In fact, I think I was expecting it.”

  “I wasn’t sure I even had the right number.”

  A black-clad waiter with a hipster beard he doesn’t look old enough to grow and one of those trendy, gravity-defying quiffs saunters over.

  “Double espresso,” Nicky orders.

  He gives the barest inclination that he has heard her and ambles away again.

  “So?” she says, turning back to me. “Who’s going to go first?”

  I realize I have no idea where to start. I look into my coffee for inspiration. None is forthcoming. I decide to go with the obvious. “So, you stayed in Bournemouth?”

  “I moved away for work, for a while. I came back.”

  “Right. What do you do?”

  “Nothing exciting. Just clerical stuff.”

  “Great.”

  “Not really. It’s actually pretty boring.”

  “Oh.”

  “You?”

  “Teaching. I’m a teacher now.”

  “In Anderbury?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  The waiter returns with her coffee. She thanks him. I sip my cappuccino. The movements seem deliberate and exaggerated. We’re both stalling.

  “So, how’s your mum?” I ask.

  “She died. Breast cancer. Five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We didn’t get on so well. I left home when I was eighteen. I hadn’t seen her much since.”

  I stare at her. I always thought Nicky had had the happy ending. Getting away from her dad. Her mum coming back. I guess, in real life, there are no happy endings, just messy, complicated ones.<
br />
  She blows out smoke. “D’you still see the others?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Hoppo’s a plumber now. Gav took over The Bull.” I hesitate. “Did you know about the accident?”

  “I heard.”

  “How?”

  “Ruth used to write to me. It’s how I found out about your dad.”

  Ruth? A distant memory stirs. Then I place it. Frizzy-haired friend of Reverend Martin. The woman who took Nicky in after the attack.

  “But she kept going on about visiting my dad,” she continues. “After a while, I stopped reading her letters. Then I changed address and didn’t let her know.” She sips her coffee. “He’s still alive, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Ah, yes.” She nods. “Your mum. The Good Samaritan. Ironic, no?”

  I offer a small smile. “You never visited once?”

  “Nope. I’ll visit him when he’s dead.”

  “Never thought about moving back to Anderbury?”

  “Too many bad memories. And I wasn’t even around for the worst of it.”

  No, I think. She wasn’t. But she was still part of it.

  She leans forward to stub out her cigarette.

  “So, we’ve done the small talk. Shall we cut to the chase? Why are you asking about Chloe?”

  “How do you know her?”

  She studies me for a moment, and then she says, “You first?”

  “She’s my lodger.”

  Her eyes widen. “Shit.”

  “Reassuring.”

  “Sorry, but…well, it’s just—” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe she would do that.”

  I stare at her, confused. “Do what?”

  She reaches over and takes another cigarette from the packet without asking. Her shirt sleeve slips back, revealing a small tattoo on her wrist. Angel wings. She notices me noticing.

  “In memory of my dad. A tribute.”

  “But he’s still alive.”

  “I don’t call that living.”

  And I don’t call that tattoo a tribute. It’s something else. Something I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with.

  “Anyway,” she continues, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag, “I didn’t know her until just over a year ago. That’s when she found me.”

  “Found you? Who is she?”

  “My sister.”

  —

  “You remember Hannah Thomas?”

  It takes me a moment. Then it clicks. Waltzer Girl’s blond protester friend. The policeman’s daughter. And, of course…

  “She was the girl Sean Cooper raped,” I say. “And got pregnant.”

  “Except he didn’t,” Nicky says. “That was a lie. Sean Cooper didn’t rape Hannah Thomas. And he wasn’t the father of her baby.”

  “So who was?” I stare at her, confused.

  She looks back at me like I’m an idiot. “C’mon, Ed. Think about it.”

  I think about it. And realization dawns. “Your dad? Your dad got her pregnant?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. Those protesters were like Dad’s own little harem. Groupies. They worshipped him like a rock star. And Dad? Well, let’s just say the flesh is weak.”

  I try to process this. “So why did Hannah lie and say it was Sean Cooper?”

  “Because Dad told her to. Because her dad couldn’t kill a kid who was already dead.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I heard them arguing about it one night. They thought I was asleep. Just like they thought I was asleep when they were fucking.”

  I think back to the evening I saw Hannah Thomas in the living room with Mum.

  “She came to see Mum,” I said. “She was really upset. Mum was comforting her.” I smile thinly. “Funny how principles go out the window when it’s your unwanted baby and your life.”

  “Actually, she wanted to keep the baby. Dad wanted her to get rid of it.”

  I stare at her incredulously. “He wanted her to have an abortion? After everything he did?”

  Nicky raises an eyebrow. “Funny how your godly beliefs go out the window when it’s your bastard kid and your reputation at stake.”

  I shake my head. “Fucker.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  My brain scrambles around again, trying to think this all through.

  “So she had the baby? I don’t remember.”

  “The whole family moved away. Her dad got a transfer or something.”

  And then Reverend Martin got attacked, so he certainly wasn’t in any position to keep in touch.

  Nicky taps cigarette ash into the ashtray, which is starting to look like a government health warning.

  “Fast-forward almost thirty years,” she says. “And Chloe turns up on my doorstep. I still don’t know exactly how she tracked me down.

  “She said she was Hannah’s daughter, my half-sister. I didn’t believe her at first. Told her to go away. But she gave me her phone number. I didn’t intend to call it, but I don’t know, I suppose I was curious…

  “We met for lunch. She brought photos, told me stuff that convinced me she was who she said she was. I found myself liking her. Maybe she reminded me a bit of myself when I was younger.”

  Maybe that’s why I liked her, too, I think.

  “She told me her mum had died—cancer,” she continues. “She didn’t have a great relationship with her stepdad. Again, I sympathized.

  “We met up a few more times. Then, one day, she said she had to leave her flat and was having problems finding somewhere. I told her she could stop at mine for a bit, if it would help.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. For three months she was the perfect lodger—almost too perfect.”

  “And then?”

  “I came home one evening. Chloe must have gone out. She’d left her bedroom door ajar…and her laptop was open on her desk.”

  “You snooped in her room.”

  “My room and…I don’t know, I was just—”

  “Invading her privacy?”

  “Well, I’m glad I did. I found she had been writing about me. About the chalk men. About all of us. Like she was doing research.”

  “For what?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Did she explain?”

  “I didn’t give her the chance. I made sure she packed her bags that night. She said she was planning to move out anyway. Had a new job in Anderbury.”

  She stubs out the second cigarette and takes a large gulp of coffee. I notice her hand shakes just a little.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About nine or ten months ago?”

  So, about the time she turned up on my doorstep, thanking me for giving her the room at short notice.

  The wind gusts along the promenade. I shiver and pull up the collar of my jacket. Just the wind. That’s all.

  “If you hadn’t seen her in months, what was the argument at the shop all about?”

  “You know about that?”

  “It’s how I found out she knew you.” I frown. “How did you find out where she worked?”

  “There aren’t many places in Anderbury that would employ Chloe.”

  True.

  “And I went to see her because I had a letter—”

  My heart falters. “The hangman and the chalk?”

  She stares at me. “How did you know?”

  “I got one, too, and Gav, Hoppo…and Mickey.”

  Nicky frowns. “So she sent one to all of us?”

  “She? You think Chloe sent those letters?”

  “Of course,” she snaps.

  “Well, did she admit it?”

  “No. But who else could it be?”

  There’s a pause. I think about the Chloe I know. The sassy, funny, bright person I have become rather more than accustomed to having around. None of it makes sense.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I’d rather not jump to conclusions.”

  She shrugs. “Fine. Your funeral.�
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  Talking of which. I wait as she sips her coffee and then I say, more gently, “Have you heard about Mickey?”

  “What about him?”

  Ed Adams—bringer of joy and happy news.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Christ. What happened?”

  “He fell in the river, drowned.”

  She just stares at me. “The river in Anderbury?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing in Anderbury?”

  “He came to see me. He was thinking about writing a book about the chalk men. Wanted me to help. We had a fair bit to drink, he insisted on walking back to his hotel…but he didn’t make it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But it was an accident?”

  I hesitate.

  “Ed?”

  “Look, this is going to sound crazy, but before he left that night Mickey told me he knew who really killed Elisa.”

  She snorts. “And you believed him?”

  “What if he was telling the truth?”

  “Well, that would be a first.”

  “But if he was, maybe his death wasn’t an accident.”

  “So? Who cares?”

  For a moment, I’m taken aback. I wonder if she was always so hard. A stick of rock with “BITE ME” stamped all the way through.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes. I do. Mickey spent his life making enemies. He wasn’t anyone’s friend. You were, once. That’s why I came to meet you. But now I’m done.”

  She pushes her chair back. “Take my advice—go home, kick Chloe out and just…get on with your life.”

  I should listen to her. I should let her go. I should finish my drink and catch my train. But then my life is one long wreck of “should haves,” crashing into each other in a big tangled mess of regrets.

  “Nicky. Wait.”

  “What?”

  “What about your dad? Don’t you want to know who was responsible?”

  “Ed, just leave it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know who’s responsible.”

  For the second time, I’m wrong-footed. “You know? How?”

  “Because she told me.”

  —

  The train back to Anderbury is delayed. I try to dismiss it as an unfortunate coincidence and find I can’t. I pace the concourse, cursing the fact I decided to take the train rather than drive (and also stay and drink a bottle of wine rather than catch an earlier train). I glare intermittently at the Departures board. Delayed. It might just as well read: “Determined to screw with you, Ed.”