Dead Time

by Anne Cassidy

  There were other things in glasses case. There was a business card for a hotel and ten British fifty pound notes. I kept the case for many weeks. I hoped they would come back in. I did not want to give it to Boss because he would take the money. The card had the name of a hotel in Twickenham. I remember place because I have friend who lived in Twickenham (my cousin’s old girlfriend) The name of hotel was something like Star. I remember this. I have to confess something. I am shamed to say that after three weeks I took the money and got rid of the glasses case. I knew that the man and lady were missing. I took the money and I never felt good about it. This is why I have sent you email. To clear my conscience. I am honest girl but living in London was not always very good. Please ask me any questions you need and I will tell you anything else I can remember. I owe this to your peoples. Valeriya

  Rose lay back on her pillow. The laptop slid to the side. Why did they have ten fifty-pound notes in the glasses case? Why were they so unhappy during the meal? What was the row they had on the street outside? Why did they get into a taxi when their own car was parked round the corner?

  She closed her eyes. She’d known this email would open up old wounds. And what was the point? They would never find them. Five years without a word. Five years without being able to see or touch or talk to her mum. Five years without smelling her mum’s perfume or laughing at her poor jokes.

  She lay like that for a long time. Then she sat up and caught sight of the email, still displayed on the screen of her laptop. She shut it down and placed it on the floor beside her bed. The hot drink she had made was still there untouched. She turned the light off and lay in the dark.

  Five years of emptiness.

  Except for the sightings.

  Three times in the first year after the disappearance she thought she saw her mother. At the time she’d been positive. She would have sworn to it and almost went to the Head of House to tell her but then stopped at the last minute, afraid that she would say that the sighting was a product of her overactive imagination. As time went by she even began to believe that herself. But in that moment the joy she felt at seeing her mother was tangible; her hair, the shape of her shoulders, the funny way she stood; that joy was real.

  Had she imagined it?

  All three sightings were during her first year at Mary Linton. The first time she’d been standing at the side annexe when the leaving bell was ringing. She watched parents moving out of the school building after dropping their children off for the beginning of term. In among the coats and scarves and boots she glimpsed her mother’s profile. Her head was down and she was deep in the middle of the chattering crowd, some people turning back to wave, others rattling car keys, others hugging themselves against the cold. Rose had taken a few shaky steps forward but lost of sight of her and even though she stepped this way and that she couldn’t see her. When the crowd melted away there was no one left. Her mother had gone.

  The second time was just weeks later when she had woken up in the middle of the night. The other girls in her dorm room had been sound asleep and she’d been restless, unable to settle. She got up and tiptoed to the window, holding her breath in case she woke anyone. It was bitterly cold, with a light dusting of snow across the school car park beneath her dorm. Her eye swept across the emptiness to light on a figure standing in the corner under the trees. With a shock she saw her mother’s face. Rose stood perfectly still for a long time, tears blurring her vision. She reached round for a tissue and blew her nose as quietly as she could and when she looked back there was no one there. The car park was empty, wisps of snow ebbing and flowing across the ground.

  Then there was the night of her thirteenth birthday, 18 September. She had been back in school for three weeks and hadn’t settled well into her second year at Mary Linton. In previous days she’d been unwell, feverish. The Head of House had said she should sleep in the sick bay. She woke very early in the morning. It was dark but she could see the luminous numerals from the clock. 5.12. She lay and watched them for a while and felt her eyelids grow heavy and it was then that she heard what sounded like someone breathing. She made no move because she thought it would be the matron checking up on her but after a few seconds she sensed that this sound, this breathing, was different, lighter, hardly audible. She turned to look and saw, across the room, her mother, standing by the door. She was buttoning her coat. Rose remembered her mother’s fingers fiddling with the top button and just as Rose was about to say something, her mother went out of the door and closed it gently behind her. It seemed as though Rose got up and went after her mother but the next thing she remembered was the matron waking her up. Light flooded the room and she looked at the clock to see the faint outline of the time – 8.03.

  Three sightings and no more.

  Except that sometimes she felt as though she was being watched. She had never told anyone about this but every now and again she would feel as though someone was following her or watching her. Recently, since changing schools and living at Anna’s, she’d noticed it more keenly. She’d been walking along the street or dawdling in a shop or having coffee in the Dark Brew and a kind of prickling feeling would start in her shoulders and she’d glance around sure, positive, that someone was watching at her. Waiting in line to enrol at Camden she’d felt it and looked around to see if she could pick someone out of the crowd who was showing an interest in her (she knew, in her heart, when she used the word someone, she meant her mother) but the hall was jam-packed with new students and parents, teachers and staff. In the days afterwards she’d walked to and from the station and felt as if someone was looking at her but when she turned around the streets yawned back at her emptily, deserted, the lines of hedges and walls hiding nothing but flowers and shrubs. She’d tried to snap herself out of it but the feeling, the anxiousness stayed with her.

  A psychologist would say that these manifestations were a projection of Rose’s desires. She wanted to think that she had sighted her mother and she wanted to think that her mother was watching her, keeping an eye on her like some guardian angel. Rose wasn’t stupid. But these memories and feelings were all she had left. Joshua had his websites and his plans and she had unreliable sightings and a vague feeling that her mother was watching over her. It was a tenuous thread and she wanted to hold on to it even though the sensible side of her brain told her that it was just grief and loss playing tricks with her.

  Now she sat up in bed and turned the light on.

  There would be no sleep for a while.

  She picked up her laptop and puffed her pillows up behind her. She opened it up and began to read the email from Valeriya Malashenko once again.

  FOURTEEN

  The George Bernard Shaw Studio was in a new block of the school. At just before ten on Friday Rose found herself outside the main door with a number of other students and staff. A few minutes later the doors opened into the auditorium. People filed in and she followed. It was the first time she had been in the studio since the beginning of term when there had been a welcome session from the principal for all new students.

  The seats were tiered and she sat in a row by herself, halfway up. There were about thirty students there, some who she knew, partially filling up the first three rows or so. Dotted in among them were members of staff; her form tutor and others that she recognised.

  There was classical music playing and a table had been set up centre stage with vases of flowers and in the middle was a large picture frame showing a photograph of Ricky Harris.

  Rose sat back in her seat as far as possible. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She certainly had no feelings for Ricky Harris, not even in a general it’s a shame when people die way. But Ricky’s death was inexorably linked with Emma Burke’s. How could it not be? They were boyfriend and girlfriend and she had been near to each of them when they died. When Rose thought of Ricky’s death, Emma came into her head and vice versa.

  People were shuffling in their seats and whispering to each other. Maggie and Sara appeared
at the studio door and headed towards her. These girls from her English group had been looking after her one way or another over the last couple of days. They had made sure that they were with her during breaks and lunchtime and before and after school. It meant that other kids didn’t get the chance to quiz her or say things. Sitting between Sara and Maggie meant that she could relax and just ignore the pointing and the looks from curious students.

  She’d told them what had happened on Saturday, how Emma had come to see her and how she’d said she would go and meet her at the cemetery. The two girls had been uncharacteristically silent, giving the tiniest nods. They, who never seemed short of conversation, couldn’t find much to say about a dead girl.

  ‘Hi,’ they both mouthed, coming up to her row.

  ‘Hey,’ Sara said in a loud whisper. ‘I got this for you.’

  She handed over a strawberry lip salve.

  ‘Only I noticed your lips were dry. Probably the stress.’

  Rose took the tiny pot and felt suddenly emotional. It was a kind act. Solid in their own friendship for many years, they had enough warmth and generosity left over to look after a loner like Rose. She unscrewed the lid and put her finger into the pink greasy ointment. Then she spread it over her lips and felt them soften.

  ‘Nice flowers,’ Sara said.

  ‘Not like Emma Burke’s, though. We went to see them yesterday after school. We, like, looked for you but you must have gone home. In any case we didn’t know whether you’d want to go back to St Michael’s. Not after …’

  ‘Flowers?’ Rose said.

  ‘Oh my God! You should see them. All along the path in the rose garden. You know where …’

  Rose knew only too well.

  ‘The police were going to clear them away but Emma’s family hit the roof. Now they’re just lying there. It’s, like, really beautiful.’

  ‘They’re taking them away on Saturday night at six. A week after she …’

  There was a gap in the conversation. Maggie quickly filled it.

  ‘You know you said that Emma Burke had a note from Lewis Proctor asking her to meet him?’

  Rose nodded.

  ‘It turns out that Lewis had a note from Emma telling him to meet her! This girl in my Key Skills group is a friend of Bee Bee Marshall? Bee Bee told her! Bee Bee found it in his coat.’

  ‘And,’ Maggie continued, ‘Lewis Proctor has been arrested. Police found him at his uncle’s house in Southend.’

  ‘And this girl says that Bee Bee is going to withdraw the alibi she gave him for when, like, Ricky Harris was killed,’ Sara carried on, breathless. ‘She says why should she lie for Lewis if he was, like, going to see Emma on the quiet!’

  They carried on for a few moments going over the details. Rose listened but didn’t respond. She was taken aback. Lewis also had a note. Maggie and Sara seemed to sense the fact that she had stopped listening. They began to chat quietly to each other. The murmur of their voices receded as she took in the new information.

  Lewis Proctor’s alibi was gone. He hadn’t been with Bee Bee on the night that Ricky was stabbed. Perhaps he had been at the station.

  Rose had thought and thought about it over the last couple of days. It kept her mind from going back to the email from the Russian girl and Joshua’s attempt to find out what happened to their parents. Lewis Proctor had been Emma’s boyfriend over the summer and then she finished with him and went back to Ricky Harris. Ricky and Lewis had been rivals; two bad boys from the same estate. Maybe, when Emma first started seeing Lewis, after finishing her long-term relationship with Ricky, Lewis had been euphoric. He had delighted in getting a girl who he liked and getting one over on his rival. Maybe he strutted around, thrilled with his acquisition of Ricky’s old girlfriend. They had been all loved up, Emma had said. It was an odd phrase. Loved up. The very words gave Rose a shiver. She, who had never been kissed by a boy, had only an intellectual notion of what it might be like. She’d read books and heard girls from Mary Linton talk about their experiences with boys and she’d smiled in an embarrassed way. She had experienced strong feelings for someone, of course, but that was different. Entirely different and a lifetime ago.

  So possibly Lewis Proctor had lorded it over Ricky, had spent the summer telling his mates, showing Emma off. All the while Bee Bee, who had wanted Lewis for months, for years, had been watching from the wings, waiting to see what happened.

  Then Emma cooled off and dropped Lewis. Had Lewis felt furious enough to kill Ricky? Or had it been a spur of the moment action? Ricky Harris had been with Rose on the platform of Parkway East. He’d got a phone call from someone. He’d been pleased. Change of plans, posh bird! he’d said and gone off. Had Lewis been coming on to the bridge at the same moment? Had these two lads not been able to pass each other without some words being said? Perhaps Lewis had disrespected Ricky in some way, made reference to his girlfriend. Maybe Ricky pulled out his knife, intending to shame Lewis into backing down but Lewis had had enough, his girlfriend going back to Ricky after he had been so sure that she was his? Possibly Lewis had simply taken Ricky’s knife from him and in a moment of rage stabbed him in the chest and left him to die.

  And Lewis definitely was at the cemetery on the evening when Emma was stabbed. He had got a note asking him to go there. Bee Bee had found it in his pocket. Had she followed him to try and catch him meeting Emma? Was that why she was running across the footbridge minutes after Emma had been killed?

  Could Bee Bee have stabbed Emma?

  Some new people had come into the studio. Rose recognised Sherry, Emma’s stepsister. Her orangey hair had been pulled back off her face with a black band. She was pale and wearing a black shirt over leggings and boots. Another girl was linking her arm. They both came up the stairs of the auditorium and sat across the aisle from Rose. A couple of Rose’s teachers came in and one of the secretaries from the office. The principal burst through the door then with a sheaf of notes in her hand. After her came a male member of staff, his name tag tucked into the pocket of his shirt. Rose recognised him. It was the technician who had stuck up for her that day when Ricky had been nasty. She remembered that Ricky had called the technician gay and had tried to embarrass and insult him.

  How odd that he should come to this. How odd that he should feel any need to pay respects to a boy who had been vile to him.

  Was he gay? Rose looked him up and down. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt and tie. He looked like many of the male teachers. They wore so-called smart clothes but looked uncomfortable, as if they were wearing a uniform they didn’t particularly like. When she’d seen him in the cafe the previous week he’d been wearing a biker’s jacket. He looked different out of his work clothes, less stiff, more friendly. But had he looked gay? He hadn’t looked any different to any other man. Was there a gay look? Some gay people did seem to go out of their way to dress and act in a certain way but most gay people were probably just like everyone else. Trying to look the best they could with what they had been born with.

  Why would he come to Ricky Harris’s memorial?

  Maybe he was a church man, a Christian. Possibly he was here to forgive.

  She looked back to the principal, who had started to speak. Her voice was low and respectful. A young man who had had some challenges in his life. A young man who had strayed. A young man who had started school in a positive way. A young man whose life had been cruelly shortened.

  Rose felt her mobile vibrate and she looked at the screen. She had a text message from Joshua.

  Can you meet me at the Dark Brew after class? Say five? It’s important.

  Normally a message from Joshua would lift her spirits but this time she felt apprehensive. It wasn’t just a social meeting. This was something to do with the email from the Russian girl. She sighed as she sent a reply.

  See you there.

  There was music playing. It was not a band she recognised. No doubt it had been one that Ricky Harris had liked. The mood had lifted a little
and the principal had sat down in a chair and looked as though her mind was already elsewhere. Some kids in the front rows were shifting in their seats. It would be over soon.

  ‘You all right?’ Maggie said.

  She nodded. Maggie and Sara were looking at her with concern. They both had short dark hair and pale faces and looked like sisters. They weren’t related, Rose knew that, but perhaps their closeness over the years meant that they had dressed alike and had similar haircuts and styles. They liked the same bands and movies and read book after book about vampires. They seemed to know what each other was thinking and sometimes finished each other’s sentences. They were studying the same subjects, probably had the same plans for university.

  Rose was grateful to them in a way she couldn’t express.

  Friendship was a difficult thing. At Mary Linton it had seemed easy but in the end she had been bruised. Really, if she was honest, the only person she wanted to be friends with was Joshua. That was why she would go to the Dark Brew and talk about the email from the Russian girl.

  She glanced around the studio as people started to stand up, picking up their bags and walking towards the door. Was anyone from Ricky’s family here? How many of the people who were here were actually friends of Ricky’s? How many cared about him one way or another? She looked around, across the aisle at Sherry. The girl with her was on her feet but Sherry was still sitting staring at the front. Rose focused on her. Sherry’s shoulders were shaking and there were tears coming down her face. It puzzled her but then she remembered that she had come to the memorial not because of Ricky but because of Emma. Perhaps Sherry too couldn’t think of Ricky Harris’s death without thinking about her stepsister, Emma, and how she was gone.