Survivor: Only the strongest will remain standing . . .

by Roberta Kray

  ‘You thought of something?’

  ‘Only that Angela had a dog called Bruce when she was young. I just remembered. She told me about him once; he was a boxer. She could have… Only if she was hoping to stop Billy from finding her…’

  Stanley nodded. Unable to risk reverting to Parr, she had maybe chosen it as a reminder of happier times. ‘It’s one way of choosing a new name.’

  ‘For all the good it did her.’

  Stanley, sensing that he’d come to the end of the road as regards any further useful information, rose to his feet. ‘Thanks for talking to me.’

  ‘I still don’t get why she did it. She must have loved that kid. Why would she have taken her own life? Why would she have done that to her?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Who knows what goes on in someone else’s head?’

  ‘It’s a bad business.’

  Stanley couldn’t argue with that. As he left the café, he glanced back over his shoulder. Calvin Cross was staring at the wall with a dazed expression on his face. There was always a legacy with suicide, feelings of guilt and regret. Calvin was feeling them now and one day Lolly would feel them too. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but eventually they would come to haunt her. She would wonder what she’d done wrong, what she’d said or hadn’t said; why she hadn’t been important enough to live for.

  33

  Everywhere Lolly went in the house she was reminded of time passing. The clocks tick-tocked, chiming on the hour and sometimes more often. The sound echoed through the empty rooms, a lonely kind of noise breaking through the silence and leaving an eerie echo in its wake. It was Friday, four days since she’d arrived, and Esther Fury would be coming home soon. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  By now she knew her way around and already had her favourite places. One of these was the den, a small room with a squashy sofa and easy chairs. Here there was a TV, a radio and a record player, along with hundreds of LPs. She had discovered albums by, amongst others, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Marvin Gaye and Janis Joplin. In a box packed full of singles she had found ‘Hey Jude’ by The Beatles. She’d already played it over twenty times, the song reminding her of her old friend.

  Mal had given her some good news last night after he’d got back from work. He had been in touch with the police and they wouldn’t need to talk to her again. Their enquiries into Jude’s connection to the murder of Amy Wiltshire were over.

  ‘So he’s in the clear?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  Lolly had been relieved. ‘Do they know who killed her?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll find out eventually. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it any more.’

  Lolly, thinking back on the conversation, was surprised he had any confidence in the cops at all, bearing in mind his own experience. But maybe he’d only said it for her benefit, to stop her worrying about a murderer being on the loose. He still hadn’t mentioned Kay and she wondered if he ever would. The police hadn’t been able to find her, so what chance they’d find Amy’s killer? Of course, it was staring them straight in the face – it had to be Tony Cecil – but they’d been fooled by the false alibi Terry had provided.

  As she walked into the library, Lolly’s stomach churned at the thought of Tony. She hoped he was still banged up because she knew he blamed her for his arrest. What if he came looking for her? She had no idea if Brenda had her new address or not. And what if he came when Mal wasn’t here? There would be no one to protect her.

  Lolly sat down in one of the big leather chairs by the window. It had a view of the garden and she briefly gazed out at the lawn before turning her attention back to the room. At first she’d been daunted by it, by the endless shelves of books running from the floor to the ceiling, but as she’d explored further she’d found all sorts of interesting things: books on exotic birds and butterflies, all with big glossy pictures that had a peculiar and yet strangely pleasing smell. There were books on travel too, with photographs of India and Egypt, China and Japan.

  When she thought of China, she thought of the weeping willow, and when she thought of that she was reminded of the lake. Despite Theresa’s warning, she’d been back several times, trying to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid of ghosts. She’d heard nothing, seen nothing, since that first occasion. If poor Cathy Kershaw did haunt the place, she was keeping a low profile.

  Early this morning, just as the sun was rising, she’d heard footsteps outside and got up to look through the window. It had been fear that propelled her from her bed – fear that Tony Cecil had come – but it was only Mal walking down the path towards the water. She couldn’t see his face but she reckoned he was sad from the way his shoulders were hunched up.

  Lolly liked spending time with him. He was funny and kind and didn’t ask too many questions. Last night he had shown her the insides of a clock – the movement, he’d called it – all the tiny metal parts that made it work. She had never thought about it before, what made the hands turn and the clock chime, and some of the names had stuck with her: the mainspring, the ratchet, the pinions. He’d been patient with her, never snappy, even when she couldn’t quite grasp what each of the parts was supposed to do.

  Lolly heard the distant ringing of a phone – the door to the library was solid and heavy – and shortly after, Mrs Gough came in and announced there was a call for her.

  ‘It’s Mr Parrish. He wants to talk to you.’ There was disapproval in her voice as if she objected to Lolly receiving calls at the house – or maybe she just objected to Lolly, full stop. ‘You can take it in the hall.’

  Lolly went through and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, it’s Stanley. How are you?’

  ‘All right, thanks. Do you have any news on Joseph?’

  ‘I do. He had some nasty injuries, but he’ll live.’

  Lolly, who still felt guilty, gave a sigh of relief. He wasn’t dead, at least. ‘What about his eye?’

  ‘They weren’t able to save it, I’m afraid. But Tony Cecil’s been charged so I don’t think he’ll be around for a while.’

  ‘Is he locked up?’

  ‘Locked up and staying locked up. I’ve heard his mates are going to give evidence against him so he’ll definitely go down.’

  But Lolly knew this wouldn’t stop him from blaming her. ‘What about Amy? Is there any news?’

  ‘None that I know of. Look, I know I’ve asked you this before, but does the surname Martin mean anything to you in relation to your mum? I mean, did you ever see letters or envelopes addressed to her in that name?’

  Lolly frowned. ‘Our name’s Bruce not Martin.’

  ‘Yes, I know but… Maybe on the bills or in that tin box that went missing?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Okay, it doesn’t matter.’

  And then something came back to Lolly. She could remember pulling out the strings of beads, her fingers pushing aside some folded sheets of paper. ‘Hang on, I’m not sure but there might have been a few letters. They didn’t have envelopes though, nothing with Martin on it.’

  ‘Can you recall who they were from?’

  In her mind she could see the writing, big and untidy and sloping to the left. Dear Angela… But try as she might, she couldn’t remember any more. Had she ever read them? If she had, the words had slipped from her memory long ago. ‘No, sorry, it was ages back.’

  ‘That’s all right. You’ve got my number if you think of anything.’

  ‘Okay. Could I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  Lolly, who was on the verge of inquiring as to whether Theresa’s story about Kay Fury was true, suddenly became aware of Mrs Gough’s presence in the hallway. The housekeeper was carefully running a cloth along the sides of a long gilt mirror, dusting or at least pretending to. What she was really doing was earwigging. As an expert on snooping, Lolly could see exactly what she was up to. ‘No, don’t worry. It’s not important. Thanks for letting
me know about… Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. You take care of yourself.’

  Lolly said goodbye and hung up.

  Mrs Gough smiled at her. It was a fake sort of smile that didn’t get close to reaching her eyes. ‘So what did Mr Parrish want?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The smile slipped a little. ‘Well, he must have wanted something or he wouldn’t have made the effort to call.’

  ‘Just to see how I am,’ Lolly said. ‘That’s all.’ She suspected Mrs Gough of ulterior motives, of trying to do more than merely make conversation. There were things the housekeeper wanted to know, although she wasn’t sure why.

  Mrs Gough gave a disapproving sniff. ‘Well, think on. Mrs Fury doesn’t care for him, and she’ll be home tomorrow.’

  It was said like a threat – as if she was expected to choose sides – but Lolly refused to go along with it. If her betrayal of Joseph had taught her anything, it was that sometimes you didn’t get second chances. ‘He’s always been nice to me.’

  ‘Nice?’ Mrs Gough replied mockingly. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s been that. After all, you’re his meal ticket, you and your like.’

  Lolly had no idea what she meant by this. She stared at her blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t get too comfortable. You might not be here for long.’ And with that parting shot, she turned on her heel and click-clacked away along the hall.

  Lolly wondered if it was true. Maybe, in a day or two, she’d be off somewhere else. Maybe Stanley would come and pick her up and take her to another house where she would have to start all over again. The very idea made her feel tired. With a sigh, she went upstairs to her bedroom and sat down on the bed.

  Beside her, on the bedside table, was the seashell box. She remembered when Mrs Gough had plucked it from the Moffat’s carrier bag on Tuesday and held it aloft.

  ‘What on earth is this?’

  ‘For Lolly’s bits ’n’ bobs,’ Theresa had said. ‘It wasn’t expensive.’

  ‘I can see that. If she’d wanted a box, there are plenty in the house. I could have found her something decent.’

  Lolly still couldn’t understand Mrs Gough’s disdain. She loved the box and hoped she’d be allowed to keep it even if she was sent away. She ran her fingers over the pretty varnished shells and then opened the lid and looked inside. There, nestled in the red velvet, was the mother-of-pearl button, the Fanta cap, the photo she’d had taken in Woolworths and Stanley Parrish’s business card.

  The latter reminded her of what Mrs Gough had said. What had she meant by a meal ticket? She couldn’t figure it out. What she did understand, however, was that her presence wasn’t welcomed by everyone in the house. Tomorrow, when Esther Fury returned, she could be packing up her things again. Lolly closed the lid on the box and put it back on the table. She felt a flutter of anxiety. There was a storm brewing, no doubt about it, and she was right in the middle.

  34

  Mal Fury gazed at his wife. Dressed in a pale green dress and fur coat, she was looking extraordinarily beautiful, but this wasn’t why he was smiling. It was her anger that pleased him. These days he was only ever able to provoke two emotions and these were rage or contempt. He preferred the former to the latter, and preferred either to complete indifference.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ she asked. ‘Have you gone completely insane?’

  ‘There’s nothing mad about it. She needs a home and we can provide one. What’s wrong with that?’

  Esther flung off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair. She turned back to him, her eyes flashing. ‘Listen to yourself! For God’s sake, she isn’t Kay. How many times do you need telling?’

  ‘Of course she isn’t,’ he replied calmly. ‘That isn’t why she’s here.’

  ‘So you’ve just decided to take in some waif and stray, some random kid you know nothing about? Why would you do that? Why would you even consider it?’

  ‘I know plenty about her. I know she has no one and nowhere to go. Do you think that’s right?’ He sat back and shook his head. ‘Come on Esther, have a heart. If Kay was out there in the same situation, wouldn’t you want a family to take her in, to take care of her?’

  ‘Kay isn’t out there. And you can’t just bring a child here without discussing it first.’

  Mal shrugged. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘She can’t be returned like some unwanted bit of shopping. It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘This is all down to that Stanley Parrish. He’s a bloody pariah! And who’s going to look after her? If you think it’s me, then you’d better think again.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen, she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself. Anyway, it’s not as though you’re going to be around much. Didn’t you say you had a couple more films in the pipeline? You won’t be here so you hardly need to worry about taking care of Lolly.’

  ‘Oh, is that what this is about? You’re annoyed that I’ve gone back to work, and so you’re looking for a way to punish me.’

  Mal rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus, I hate to break this to you, Esther, but not everything is about you. I don’t give a damn whether you work or not. I feel sorry for the kid, okay, and all I’m hoping is that her future with us might be marginally better than spending the next God knows how many years in care.’

  ‘And since when did you become so charitable?’

  ‘And since when did you become so heartless?’

  Esther gave a snort. ‘She’s not staying here. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘It’s too late – unless you want to throw her on to the street. And that wouldn’t reflect too well on you. I mean, everyone in the village already knows we’ve taken her in. What are they going to say if you kick her out again?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what they say.’

  ‘And what about the papers? What if they get to hear of it? They’ll be interested now you’re back on the scene again. They’ll be digging up the past, poking their nose into our business, looking for some juicy gossip.’

  Esther leaned over the desk and snarled into his face. ‘Don’t try and blackmail me.’

  ‘I’m just saying it like it is.’

  ‘I don’t want her here. Do you understand?’

  ‘Loud and clear. But I’m sure you’ll get used to it. All I’m asking is that you’re kind to her. She hasn’t had much of a life so let’s not make things worse.’

  Esther straightened up, her face tight and angry. ‘You’re the only one who’s making things worse. Trying to play daddy to some scruffy East End orphan. What’s all that about? What’s going on in that twisted head of yours? You can’t replace Kay with this Lolly. And Lolly, for Christ’s sake, what kind of a name is that?’

  ‘Short for Lolita.’

  ‘I know what it’s short for. What sort of mother calls her daughter that?’

  ‘One who doesn’t read much? I don’t know. What does it matter? It’s not the girl’s fault. She didn’t choose it.’ Mal tilted his head and stared at his wife. He was certain she’d been speaking to Mrs Gough on the phone, getting the lowdown on Lolly’s lack of social graces. ‘She’s a nice kid. She won’t be any bother.’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps, seeing as you’re out at work all day.’

  ‘She’ll be at school once I get it sorted.’

  ‘She should be at school now.’