by Ed O'Connor
‘I like music. I don’t hear the music of the spheres, though. Isn’t that just a poetic idea? A romantic construction?’
‘All the meanings we attach to things that are beyond our understanding are poetic constructions, Dr Stussman. The music of the spheres is no less provable than the idea that we all exploded out from some compressed mega-atom. Poetic constructions are the only things that distinguish us from cockroaches.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Crowan Frayne said, ‘and you will understand the nature of my conceit. When the world has become a carkasse you will understand, Dr Stussman. In the meantime, I recommend that you call your police friends to discuss “The Anniversaries” and “A Feaver”. Be gentle with them: the clever one has a terrible headache.’
The line went dead. Heather Stussman ran to her door and called in the bored police constable who was standing guard outside.
Two minutes later, at the news desk of the New Bolden Echo, George Gardiner also received a phone call.
36
Underwood raced his car along Blindman’s Lane towards Afton. Harrison had called him half an hour earlier and had told him about Elizabeth Drury and then about Dexter. Underwood had been filled with a sudden terrible sense of shame. And anger.
‘Dexter has been hurt,’ Harrison had said sharply. ‘Seems like she caught the bastard in the act. She’s lucky to be alive.’
The driveway at The Beeches was crowded. There was an ambulance, police squad cars, Dexter’s car too. Dexter was sitting on the back step of the ambulance, holding a large cotton swab to the side of her head. She had dried blood on her cheeks. It looked like she had been crying as well. Underwood went straight up to her.
‘Where have you been, guv?’ she asked, half annoyed, half pathetic.
‘I’ve been ill. Went to the doctor’s,’ he lied. ‘What happened, Dex? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ She considered for a second. ‘Actually I’m shaking like a fucking leaf and I’ve got the mother of all headaches.’
‘She’s got concussion,’ said a nearby ambulance man. ‘She should go to hospital for a scan.’
‘Did you see him?’ asked Underwood.
Dexter shook her head and winced as the pain rushed at her again. ‘Not really. I found the Drury woman in the bath. I went back into the bedroom and something whacked me. I went down. He whacked me again. I didn’t see his face. He was quite tall, I suppose – about six foot. He had a boiler suit on, I think. But I didn’t see his face clearly, guv. I wouldn’t recognize him again. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly. You should go to hospital now.’
‘No, thanks.’ Dexter looked at the blood on her fingertips, surprised and irritated.
‘That’s an order.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. This is my party.’ She wiped her fingers clean on her skirt and tried to will the pain away. ‘There were two hammers on the bed, sir, and a black box, like a little briefcase. They’re not there any more. And there’s more poetry on the ceiling – I wrote it down.’ She offered him her notebook. ‘Bastard messed her cat up, too. It’s not pretty up there.’
‘He took her eye?’
‘Yes. Left eye, same as before. Dumped her in the bath. I turned the taps off just before he whacked me.’
‘You’re bloody lucky to be alive, Dex. You should have brought someone with you.’
She ignored the rebuke. It was rich, coming from Underwood. ‘There’s something else. I think he said something to me.’
‘What?’
‘This might sound stupid but I think he told me to go to bed.’
‘You sure?’
‘That’s what it sounded like.’ Dexter suddenly lurched forward in a half-crouch and was sick onto the driveway. She was swaying and Underwood had to hold her firmly to stop her from falling.
Underwood took the notebook and sat Dexter back down on the step of the ambulance. She wiped the vomit from the side of her face. He put his arm round her. After a minute or two, she stopped shaking.
His mobile rang. It was Heather Stussman. She sounded panicky.
‘He called again, John. He sounded different. Pissed off.’
‘I’m not surprised. My sergeant interrupted him in the middle of his morning workout.’
‘Oh, God, John, were we right? About the name?’
‘Dr Elizabeth Drury.’
‘Christ. Is she dead?’
‘Very.’
‘How’s your colleague?’
‘She’s OK.’ He looked at Dexter. ‘Tough as old boots.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say. Your list got us very close to him. Quicker than he anticipated, judging by what’s happened this morning.’
‘Is there anything I can do? I feel so useless, cooped up here.’
‘Write down everything you can remember from the conversation this morning. I want you to come down to New Bolden. We’ll send a car. I want you to look at the poetry he’s left on the wall for us here and tell us what you know about it.’ He looked at Dexter’s notebook. ‘Something about a bath full of tears.’
‘I know it. It’s from a poem about the original Elizabeth Drury. The girl I told you about.’
‘OK. I’ll send a car in an hour or so.’
Underwood hung up and looked at Dexter. She looked very small and embarrassed. It was strange to see her bleed: it was almost like seeing her naked.
‘Our man called Stussman a few minutes ago,’ he said after a pause.
‘He’s a creature of habit,’ Dexter mused.
‘And that’s why we’ll catch him.’
He had meant the words to be a fillip. In fact, they sounded hollow. Underwood had stopped believing in most things now – even in his own bullshit.
‘Are you all right, guv? You’ve not been yourself for a while,’ asked Dexter.
‘Julia’s gone,’ he said suddenly. ‘Pissed off with another bloke. Keep it to yourself.’ It sounded like an admission of failure and insecurity. It was. Dexter nodded silently and tried to think of something helpful to say. Underwood didn’t give her a chance. He stood up and walked wearily into the house where Leach and his scene-of-crime officers were waiting.
37
Suzie Hunt loathed stacking. Working the till was boring enough but at least you were sitting down. Stacking tins of beans and pork mini-sausages was hard work and Suzie’s hangovers were unforgiving. She was sweating beneath her unflattering work apron and her headache seemed to be sharpening with every can she put in position.
Suzie wasn’t one for philosophy but on mornings like this she did begin to wonder whether there was any point to anything at all. How had she ended up here? The sequence of events was unclear. Time had mugged her.
She was single, thirty-six, screwing pub landlords by night, arranging tinned mini-sausages all day. Perhaps it was Fate. Maybe this was her punishment for enjoying herself too much, too early. Screwing up her O levels had been the beginning of it all: her endless helter-skelter slide of bad luck. Why have life-determining exams at sixteen? Sixteen is precisely the age when you are least able to cope with it. Sixteen is when pubs and boys sparkle before you like presents round a Christmas tree. How can Physics and History and Economics compete? Suzie had been an early developer – like Katie – and she had always been popular with the boys. Education was boring: those endless afternoons in stuffy classrooms staring out of dirty glass windows. She regretted it now, though. Schoolwork had been tedious but stacking shelves was soul-destroying.
‘All right, Sooz?’ her friend Mo was standing behind her, next to a trolley laden with packets of toilet rolls. ‘The beast of burden has arrived.’
‘You on bog rolls, then?’ said Suzie.
‘That’s right, love. It’s a shit job …’
‘But someone’s gotta do it!’ It was their running joke. They both laughed.
‘On earlies again, then, Sooz?’ Mo wiped a film of sweat from h
er brow. There was a gap between her teeth that seemed to flare open when she smiled. Suzie had seen Mo wedge a baked bean in there once: Mo was funny like that.
‘Bloody nightmare, darlin’. I’m hanging today.’ Suzie stepped down off her foot ladder.
‘Ooh! Late night?’ Mo folded her arms in mock disapproval.
‘Stayed late at the pub, didn’t I?’ Suzie winked at Mo: Mo knew all about Fat Pete.
‘Old Mr Sausage been up to his tricks again?’
‘It’s a shitty job …’
‘But someone’s gotta do him!’ They both laughed again.
‘Beats sitting at home by meself.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, darlin’. I’m only jealous.’
‘Don’t be, Mo. I’ve had better. A lot better.’
‘Ain’t we all? Still when you get to our age any fuck’s better than fuck-all. That’s what I always say.’ Mo shrieked with laughter. Suzie giggled too but felt a tinge of sadness: Mo looked ancient to her.
‘My head’s killing me,’ said Suzie.
‘Vodka?’
‘Suzie’s ruin.’
‘Think yourself lucky. My cystitis is playing up like a right bugger,’ said Mo reflectively. Suzie smiled. Mo was a good sort, really: not many people could make her smile on a Thursday.
‘My Katie stayed out all night. Little cow.’
‘You should put you foot down wiv her. It’s a dodgy age. Give ’em an inch and they take the piss.’
‘Kids grow up fast these days.’
‘No faster than we did, girl. There’s no excuse for disrespect.’
‘I s’pose.’
‘Be thankful she’s not shoving pills down her throat.’
‘She better bloody not be.’
‘Oh well. I better get going. That little shit Harrap has been on my case already. Bums need a-wiping, darlin’.’
‘Someone’s gotta do it, Mo.’
Mo pushed her trolley slowly to the end of the aisle and disappeared out of sight. Suzie watched her with affection. Good old Mo: always friendly, always the same, game for a laugh, ready for a chat. Wanker of a husband, twat of a supervisor. But it all seemed to wash off her. Like the millions of other Moes who put up and shut up.
Suzie returned to her stacking. Tins on the shelf, tins on the shelf. So many tins: vacuum-packed; mindless, pointless. On the shelf: like her. Tins that hide and never see the light; tins in the darkness, rotting on the inside; tins that have passed their sell-by date. Opened up once and ruined for ever: just like her. Sometimes the light flickered inside her on Wednesday nights but apart from that it was darkness: behind, around and ahead.
Suzie looked up and down the aisle. There was no one about. She withdrew her mobile phone from her apron pocket and called Katie’s number. It rang and rang for an age before the voicemail came on. She switched the phone off in frustration and looked at her watch: six long hours to go. She would brain that little madam when she got home.
38
Julia Underwood bagged up the charred remains of her clothes and threw them into the rubbish bin at the end of Paul Heyer’s driveway. She checked the road but there was no sign of John or his car. Relieved, she hurried back inside.
She hadn’t slept at all. The previous night’s events had scared her. She was scared for John, for what he had done and for what he might do. She felt ashamed that she had left him a note and had not stayed to rough it out face to face. But what choice had he given her? He had deliberately avoided her calls and had refused to come home. It was pathetic. How had he found out about Paul? The thought troubled her. They had no mutual friends. Had John seen them out together? Had someone else tipped him off? Riddled with anxiety, self-doubt and shame, Julia had lain perfectly still for four hours – watching each digital minute snap past. She had sensed that Paul was awake too, which hadn’t helped her. Julia wasn’t used to sleeping with him yet: you get used to one person’s movements and stillness, noises and silences. It had been a long, anxious night.
As she walked back through the front door, she could hear Paul on the phone in the living room. She decided to make them both a cup of tea and went into the kitchen. To her shame, she realized that she didn’t know how Paul took his tea.
‘Good news,’ he called out after putting the phone down.
‘What’s that?’ Julia replied, loading sugar and a jug of milk onto a tea tray.
‘We’re going away,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve booked it.’
Julia walked through to the living room, carrying her tray.
‘Booked what?’ she asked, sitting down next to him.
‘A week away. In Norfolk.’
‘Norfolk?’
‘It’s not Barbados, I know, but it’ll do us good to get out of here for a few days. Sitting around fretting with your mother isn’t going to achieve very much.’
‘What about John?’
‘I wasn’t planning on inviting him.’
‘I’ll have to speak to him eventually.’
‘Bugger John. He’s had the opportunity to speak sensibly and he’s decided to play silly beggars. Harassing me, setting fire to suitcases: it’s pathetic, Julia. Frankly, he’s bloody lucky I haven’t reported him to the Police Complaints Commission: my lawyer is recommending that I should. You should feel no guilt about him at all. It’s his choice to act like an arse. And his loss, too.’ He kissed her furrowed forehead.
‘OK.’ She was coming round to the idea of some peace and sea air. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Blakeney. North Norfolk. It’s only an hour and a half’s drive. There’s a cottage by the water. A friend of mine owns it. It’s ours for a week. No charge. I’ve been there before. It’s great.’
‘It’s very sweet of you, Paul. I think it’s a brilliant idea. Thank you.’ She kissed him hard, gratefully, on the lips.
‘I need to go into the office for an hour to tie up a few loose ends and tell them what I’m up to. Will you be OK?’
‘I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll try and get some sleep.’
‘Good idea. This will be great, Julia. It will remind us of why we’re tolerating all the bad things. This is what it’s all about. You may not feel like it, but you deserve a chance to get away: to clear your head.’
‘I know. You’re right.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. Pack your bag.’
‘I didn’t unpack it.’ She looked out of the vast living-room window across the front lawn. ‘The rest of my stuff is ash.’
‘We’ll buy you more clothes. Clothes are easy.’
Paul left about five minutes later and Julia suddenly felt very alone, dependent. She told herself those feelings were natural; she was bound to feel vulnerable. She was paddling in uncharted waters. It was a big house, still unfamiliar to her. The rooms were airy and uncluttered. They were vestigial traces of Paul’s ex-wife here and there: a pot-pourri, a curtain tie, cookbooks. Silly things that made her feel like an intruder.
‘Keep busy,’ she told herself, ‘keep moving.’
She unpacked some of her clothes and then, not knowing how Paul would react to her commandeering a drawer or some wardrobe space, she repacked them all again. Find something to do. She decided to have a shower. The warm water began to stir her brain into action and wash the tiredness down the plughole. A phone was ringing. Julia jumped in surprise: the noise had startled her. It was Paul’s house phone. She let it ring and continued her shower. A minute after the ringing had stopped, it started again. Maybe it was Paul. Had he forgotten something? Had he forgotten her mobile number? She climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. Her mobile was turned off: perhaps it was Paul. She sat on the edge of the bed, cold air goose-pimpling her exposed skin, and the phone fell silent. When it started ringing for the third time, she picked it up.
‘Hello.’ She tried to sound like a guest rather than the lady of the house.
‘So how’s your mother?’ asked John Underwood, his voice tart with sarcasm, ‘
Did she sleep well?’
Julia’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘I called Wife-Fuckers Anonymous. They gave it to me.’
‘I’ll hang up.’
‘I’ll call back. Or maybe I’ll come round. I don’t get out much these days.’
‘What do you want, John?’ Julia was tired of playing games. ‘What was last night’s little escapade in aid of?’
‘Eighteen years of marriage blown to shit. That’s what.’
‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty, John. It’s as much your fault as it is mine.’
‘Is it really?’ He was aggressive, frightening. ‘So you humping this flowery ponce is my fault, is it?’
‘Don’t talk like that, John. It doesn’t achieve anything.’
‘Oh, it does. It makes me feel a lot fucking better.’ He read aloud from her note: ‘“I will be staying with my mother for a couple of weeks … blah … blah … blah, oh, by the way, in case you are interested, I have met someone else.” Thanks for letting me know, Jules, I’d never have guessed. I’d never have figured out that you creeping in at three in the morning reeking of come was anything unusual. Those Haydn recitals must be pretty fucking spectacular. I’d hate to see you after the 1812 Overture.’
She paused before replying. ‘Have you finished? I met someone else because you were never “fucking” there emotionally. I left you because you were never “fucking” there mentally. And I left you a note because you’re never “fucking” there to speak to. Is it sinking in yet, John? Are you getting the “fucking” picture?’
Silence.
She continued. ‘You are different, John. Different from when we got married. You resent me for what I am. You resent me for what you’re not. You blame me for things I don’t understand. You can destroy yourself but I won’t let you ruin me too. I refuse to be an inmate in the private hell that you have created for yourself for another twenty years.’ She was shaking. She couldn’t believe what she had just said. Her heart was smashing at her ribcage. She had said it! Finally had the courage to say it after all these years.
