Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You’re not Susan or Ian. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Eleanor, I’m Ian’s niece.’

  ‘Oh, well I’m Aisha, pleased to meet you. Are Susan and Ian home?’

  ‘Not right now, no.’

  ‘Okay then, will you tell them I called? Actually, would you mind if I just waited for a moment with you until this rain stops – I don’t want to get soaked on the way back to the Tube.’

  Eleanor hopes her lack of enthusiasm doesn’t show on her face. She’s not keen to invite this woman into the house, but it seems impolite to send her back into the rain. ‘All right then,’ she steps back, ‘I’ll make you a drink, if you like. How do you know my aunt and uncle?’

  Aisha smiles, then steps in ahead of Eleanor. ‘I’m an old friend. I just wanted to see how they were doing after the awful events of last week. I thought perhaps they would be taking some time off work, but I guess I should have known better – work never stops for some, does it?’ She heads to the kitchen, and begins to take off her coat.

  ‘Ian might be back soon,’ Eleanor says over her shoulder. ‘He’s taken the girls to school.’

  Aisha looks at her watch. ‘I don’t have long, but I might just catch him,’ she says, sitting down in the kitchen at the long bench. She seems to be waiting for something and Eleanor can’t think what. Then she realises.

  ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

  ‘Water will be fine, thank you,’ Aisha replies with a warm grin. ‘So, how are you all bearing up? I’m just devastated for Dickon and June. And Nathan, of course.’

  Eleanor is caught off guard. At first she bristles – she really can’t bear to talk about this again. But as Aisha sits there, smiling sympathetically, she tries to relax. ‘It’s been awful,’ she says. ‘Everyone is upset – the kids too.’

  ‘And no one knows what happened?’

  Eleanor recoils from the blank spot in her memory. ‘Nothing – no one can believe it’s happened. I don’t know anyone all that well – I’ve only been here for a few weeks, and I only met Arabella once or twice while I was temping, but she seemed very nice.’

  ‘Yes, but did she seem happy, that’s the question, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard on the grapevine that her husband, Nathan Lane, is a piece of work. Lots of affairs. A conviction for brawling and an arrest for domestic violence a few years back, though it was never taken further. Can’t imagine it would be easy being married to a man like that.’

  ‘Really? Domestic violence?’ Eleanor is shocked but not surprised, remembering the way Nathan had grabbed her throat just a few days ago. Involuntarily, she shivers.

  Aisha leans forward and puts a cool hand on Eleanor’s arm. ‘Is something wrong, Eleanor?’

  The gentle touch makes Eleanor pause. How much dare she say? ‘Nathan was here at the weekend,’ she begins tentatively.

  ‘Oh.’ Aisha keeps her hand on Eleanor’s arm. ‘How was he?’

  Eleanor shakes her head. ‘Not good at all. Suspicious of me too, because I chatted to Arabella at the party.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be thinking straight,’ Aisha says, withdrawing her hand. ‘Not while he’s lost in grief.’

  ‘Yes . . . it’s very awkward because I was temping for him. Susan has told me to stay away from the office this week – probably for good.’

  ‘Hmm, that is a shame.’ Aisha runs a finger around the rim of her water glass, deep in thought. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Find another job after Christmas, I guess. Know of any vacancies?’ she jokes half-heartedly, immediately embarrassed at how inappropriate it sounds.

  Aisha smiles, but her eyes are alight with something Eleanor cannot fathom. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’d like it where I work. Listen, I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time this morning. I’ll just go and use the bathroom and I’ll be on my way.’

  She is up and out the door before Eleanor has a chance to reply. And as soon as she’s gone, Eleanor realises how hungry she is. She roots around for some cereal, hearing footsteps on the stairs, waiting for Aisha to return. As she prepares her food at the counter, it occurs to her that Aisha is taking a remarkably long time to come back.

  Finally, those footsteps register. Why did Aisha go upstairs when there’s a downstairs bathroom? She jumps up and runs up the stairs two at a time, checking the landing bathroom, which is empty, rushing to look in the other rooms.

  Aisha is in the master bedroom, hurriedly opening and closing drawers.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Eleanor gasps. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eleanor,’ Aisha says, her smile twisted, ‘but when there’s been a suspicious death it is in the public interest to know who might be responsible.’ She brushes past Eleanor and heads down the stairs. ‘I wish you and your family only the best,’ she trills as she goes. ‘Thank you for inviting me in for a drink.’ Then she opens the front door and walks straight into the sheeting rain.

  Eleanor runs into the front bedroom, from where she can see beyond the low wall at the front of the house. She watches Aisha climb into a sleek black car.

  Eleanor sinks onto the bed in dismay, trying to make sense of what just happened. There must be some kind of law against coming into the house under false pretences like that. Should she ring Susan or Ian? She can’t, not yet, not while they are both under such strain, with the funeral so close. It surely won’t help to know a stranger has been searching through their house, and it will diminish their trust in Eleanor even further.

  Eleanor’s mind races as she thinks over everything she just said, afraid she may have unwittingly committed some monstrous indiscretion. Who the hell was she? A journalist? An undercover detective? She wants to chase after that car and find out exactly what Aisha wanted, but it has already gone.

  Your thoughts are running away with themselves.

  She breathes deeply, trying to calm down.

  Will’s words are loud in her ears: The more information you have to protect yourself, the better.

  She has to keep hunting for answers. She goes downstairs and checks the front door is locked. Back in the kitchen she tries to eat the stodgy cereal, even though it sticks in her throat, while she uses her phone to flick through the different articles over and over again, looking for anything new that might give her some kind of lead.

  Eventually, Eleanor returns to one of the CCTV photos of Arabella walking along the Embankment, alone, drenched, her head down as she approaches the stone steps that lead up to Cleopatra’s Needle.

  Eleanor skim-reads the article again. Police are appealing for witnesses. As she scans down there are more stills, showing different groups walking. In one of them, in the upper right corner, another slight figure without an umbrella leans over the stone wall as though looking into the murky waters of the Thames. Only the top half of the person is visible, the bottom half obscured by a cast-iron bench.

  Eleanor’s eye is drawn to the small items dangling from the woman’s hand. Heart pounding, she tries to zoom in, but as she does so the picture grows ever more pixelated. However, could it be that the small figure is holding a pair of three-inch peep-toe heels? Eleanor balks, her throat burning, remembering her dirty feet on Friday morning. Could it be that she is looking at a picture of herself?

  27

  solomon

  March 2005

  The truck first rumbles towards them one Sunday morning in late March. The tyres crunch on the loose gravelled track, and Eleanor’s parents both stop working to look up and shade their eyes as the ute draws a dusty circle in the dirt and comes to a halt.

  Eleanor is inside the shed, trying to do her homework. She hears the vehicle first, and watches its arrival through the window. An old man climbs out and ambles across the short distance towards her mum and dad, while a large black labrador waits on the flatbed, still tied on but his paws up on the side, enthusiastically wagging his tail. She sees her dad hastily
wipe his hands on his dirty jeans, and reach out to shake the old man’s. Curious, Eleanor heads out to join them, walking shyly down to where they stand. The stranger wears an akubra hat and a plaid shirt, tucked into trousers that are held up high on his thick waist by a large brown belt. Her father sees her coming, and says, ‘Eleanor, this is Solomon. He lives just over there,’ and indicates the distant block beyond their house.

  When Solomon turns it’s with his whole body, as though he has stiffened up so much that his neck doesn’t work independently any more. He squints at Eleanor, and she waves quickly, arm and elbow tight against her chest as she blushes. She glances towards the dog, who is leaning towards them and licking his lips in anticipation of a stroke.

  ‘Go on, give him a pat, he’s friendly . . .’

  Eleanor walks over, reaches up and pets the dog, who begins to lick her hand eagerly.

  ‘Charlie’s just a big softie,’ Solomon continues, ‘wouldn’t even bite a trespasser.’

  Does she imagine it, or is he sizing her up when he says this? She remembers sprinting away from that little weatherboard house, and instantly her whole body burns with embarrassment. Has Solomon come here to discuss her intrusion onto his land?

  But he doesn’t say more. Instead, he holds out a hand. She has no choice but to shake it, and as their palms touch she is repelled by his callused, clammy grip. He is older than Eleanor had thought any living person could be. His face is a mass of veins and lines. It is impossible to think he had once been a child or a young man – his skin looks like it’s slowly folding and firming into tree bark, as though one day he will stop where he stands and plant permanent roots in the earth.

  He keeps his gaze on her for a moment, as though he’s trying to decide something. She averts her eyes and waits.

  Then Solomon turns away. ‘Came to see how you’re going,’ he drawls to her father, pointing at the house.

  ‘Hope we’re not making too much noise,’ Eleanor’s mother says politely.

  ‘Nah. I’m too far away, and half-deaf.’ He makes a sound that could be a laugh or a cough, then stares up at the house, hands on hips, and Eleanor notices that although his body is still his mouth is continually chewing on something. They all follow his gaze, but no one says anything and the silence grows awkward.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Eleanor’s mother asks eventually.

  ‘One sugar,’ is all he says in reply. Eleanor’s mother nods and starts walking to the shed. Eleanor follows.

  ‘He’s got to be the oldest person I’ve ever seen,’ she whispers to her mother, and gets a sharp ‘Sssh’ in reply.

  Once they are inside, her mother says, ‘I’m just grateful he’s giving me a break. Your father is a complete slave-driver.’

  ‘He just wants to get the roof on before winter, doesn’t he?’ Eleanor replies, unsure why she is defending him. ‘Maybe he’ll relax a bit after that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Eleanor’s mother seems far from convinced. She takes her time brewing the tea and carefully adds one sugar, then flops down in a chair. ‘Here, you take it out to him.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t want—’ but then Eleanor sees her mother’s expression tighten and relents. ‘Okay, okay.’

  She walks carefully across the yard, holding the mug as steady as she can. Even before she’s halfway there the boiling water has heated through the ceramic cup and is beginning to burn her knuckles. She quickens her step, desperate to hand it over, and finally reaches the men.

  ‘Here,’ she says, and gratefully passes the tea over, but she hasn’t taken notice of the tremors in Solomon’s hands, and she lets go too soon. The mug full of hot tea clatters to the floor, its fall broken by Solomon’s feet.

  ‘Eleanor!’ Her dad bellows, kneeling down and picking up the mug. ‘Can’t you be more careful?’ He grabs a rag and kneels in front of Solomon, dabbing at the mess on the old man’s boots.

  ‘Can’t feel a thing,’ Solomon says, watching him. ‘Solid shoes.’

  Eleanor’s father’s face is bright red as he thrusts the cup back at Eleanor. ‘What are you standing here for – go get another one.’

  She can feel tears already tipping over, running down her face. Who took her gentle, loveable bear of a father and replaced him with this horrible man? She runs to the shed, pushing the door hard and letting it swing back on its hinges with a great bang. Her mother, still sitting where Eleanor left her, looks up in surprise.

  Eleanor slams the mug on the table. ‘I spilled it,’ she cries, and stomps across to her bunk, throwing herself on it. ‘You take it next time.’

  She listens as her mother prepares more tea and takes it out, hears more polite voices outside. It seems as though she lies there for hours, and even when she hears the truck rev up and begin to move, she doesn’t get up. She hopes her father might come in with some gentler words for her, but nothing happens, and eventually she picks up her sketch pad and settles down to draw.

  28

  the memorial

  Emilia Tate has decided on a striking pink dress for the memorial. She briefly considered black, but screw that, she’s damn sure it’s not what Arabella would have wanted. Besides, she’s never been one for convention. There’s a slight jangle of nerves as she puts on a pair of oversized shimmering gold earrings, because she’s heard Arabella was high on the night she died. But Arabella had sworn she wouldn’t tell anyone who supplied her with blow. They had shared the highs and lows of having a father in parliament, the accompanying pressures to be good girls, and how bloody awesome it was to break free of the constraints. She sniffs and wipes away a tear. She’s going to miss that stuck-up bitch like crazy.

  Eleanor is on her way to the Queens Head pub, where Will is waiting for her. His call had come as a surprise, and his voice had registered low and urgent as he asked her to meet him. Ever since she agreed, her nerves have been buzzing.

  The pub isn’t far from the church where the memorial service will take place in just over an hour. Eleanor is wearing a plain black long-sleeved top and her grey work trousers, the most appropriate items in her limited wardrobe. She imagines all the mourners scattered around London, getting ready, their clothes sombre, black neckties cutting into Adam’s apples. Is Arabella’s killer among them? Will there be someone in the crowd whose stricken face belies secret knowledge of just what took place after Arabella left The Atlantic? Whenever Eleanor tries to picture the memorial, she can’t see beyond Nathan’s livid expression, and Susan’s contemptuous stare.

  The warm air from the pub fire hits Eleanor as soon as she walks in. Will is waiting at a small table in the corner. As she sits down opposite him, he leans forward and brushes his fingers lightly across her cheek. ‘You look really tired, Eleanor.’

  His touch makes her tense. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ she admits.

  ‘Neither did I. This is taking its toll on all of us, I think. I’m dreading this afternoon.’ He hesitates. ‘So, what’s happening about the ring?’

  She feels herself stiffen. ‘My uncle still has it,’ she says reluctantly.

  ‘And you don’t know what he’s done with it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look,’ Will leans forward. ‘The police came to see me again yesterday evening. They know I was talking to Arabella outside, after the party finished – at the moment, as far as I know, I was the last person to see her.’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Shit.’ He leans forward, his eyes wide, and there’s a vein bulging on his forehead as his face reddens. Eleanor sits back automatically. ‘They think I know something, I’m sure of it. Eleanor, you have to try to remember, why did you have that ring? Please.’

  ‘Are you going to tell them?’ Eleanor asks quietly.

  ‘How can I now?’ he says desperately. ‘It might only make me look more guilty if I’ve known about concealed evidence. But if you could remember, if you could try to think how you came by it, it might really help.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ she replies miserably. She thinks a
bout the CCTV footage she’s stared at all morning, but she’s not about to make Will privy to that as well. The bright edge to his gaze is unsettling. Might he be so keen to get himself off the hook that he would let more suspicion fall on her?

  As she stares at him, he seems to finally sense her nervousness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, sitting back, ‘I’m just shaken up by it all. I’ve seen Nathan get away with so much, and he has friends in high places – I could easily become the fall guy.’ He checks his watch. ‘Anyway, we’ll have to carry this on later. Come on, we’d better go or we’ll be late.’ He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and pulls it on. Once outside, Will knows the way, so Eleanor tags along, shivering and hugging herself, her thick coat, scarf and hat failing to keep out the cold. To begin with they are still in the main shopping district, and an endless snake of Christmas shoppers push past and around them, people seamlessly negotiating their way so that they hardly ever do more than brush against one another, despite the throngs. That so many people can live in one place without it being total anarchy still amazes Eleanor.

  But today, as she and Will head towards the church, the dead seem to be everywhere too, hidden in the footsteps and shadows of the living. Eleanor glances at the strangers around her, wondering if any of them carry their own ghosts with them. How neatly packaged these others are, she thinks. When Eleanor looks at them she sees complete beings, skin that loops them into a neat start and finish. So why does Eleanor always feel as though bits of her are escaping, running into the gutter with the rain, melted by sunshine or eroded by the wind?

  As she follows Will down a side street, the people disappear almost instantly. Only a huddle of sombre terraced houses are present now, to witness them pass. With every step closer to the church Eleanor regrets her decision to come. It’s as though she’s stretching, unwinding, pulling tauter and tauter towards the snap. With every step she tells herself she could still turn around and go back to Harborne Grove.