‘But what if he hasn’t? What if it’s more serious than that? Leave me the vet’s number. I’ll sort it.’
I don’t know if it’s because I’m worried about Howard or sorry for Onnie, but against my better judgement, I hear myself agree.
Something has happened at school. I can tell the moment I walk in. The head’s door is closed and Michele, the school secretary, who’s talking to a young man in the foyer, doesn’t smile at me when I walk past. Hushed voices in the kitchen. Jane and Pat are hovering by the fridge. Pat’s holding her hand over her mouth. Jane’s eyes look red and swollen.
‘Have you heard?’ Jane says, seeing me.
‘No. What?’
‘Sam.’
A twinge of unease. ‘What about Sam?’
Pat leans forward. ‘He’s in hospital. He’s had an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘He’s been mugged,’ Jane says. ‘Badly. Head injury. He’s unconscious.’
‘He’s at St George’s,’ Pat adds. ‘His ex-wife is with him and rang to tell Sandra last night.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Yes, I think it is.’ Jane nods, and then nods again, as if to calm herself. ‘He hadn’t gained consciousness when Michele rang this morning.’
Something dark pulses in my chest. ‘When?’
‘Shortly after he left the pub,’ Pat says. ‘He was found just after nine by some teenagers on the common, the other side of the bridge, near the pond. He told us he was going straight home when he left us, but—’
‘He walked me home,’ I say. ‘He had an umbrella. It was raining. I told him I was fine.’
Jane is staring at me.
‘You should tell the police,’ Pat says. ‘It’s possible you were the last person to see him.’
Zach
June 2011
She swam this evening, down in that cove that only appears at low tide.
We’d been walking back along the cliff from Daymer Bay and bumped into Victoria and Murphy coming the other way. I panicked for a moment in case they mentioned Onnie’s ‘sessions’. I needn’t have worried. Victoria, who even as a teenager used to refer to people as ‘common’ and call tourists ‘grockles’, was too busy looking down her nose at Lizzie to expand the conversation beyond casual niceties. ‘Sorry you couldn’t come the other night,’ she said.
‘We had a laugh,’ Murphy agreed, though he pronounced it ‘laff’ because he thinks he’s one of the lads.
‘Nice people,’ Lizzie said when they’d gone, and then, as if to release the tension their company had induced, dragged me along the path to the sea.
The air was quiet down there, tucked out of the wind, and she threw off her clothes and ran, squealing, into the gathering foam. Trails of seaweed clung to her thighs. She dipped, like a porpoise, into the water and came up spluttering. Her white skin, pale limbs, the flash of her wet hair. How ordinary she is, I thought, how plain, and yet she holds my heart in her hand. I realised if she ever slept with someone else, I would kill her.
And him.
Chapter Fifteen
Lizzie
I am up in the library, staring out of the side window across the grey streak of common and the red rooftops of South London. I press my forehead against the cold glass. The conviction is back, unfurling inside, spreading out its fingers – the clenching of dread and fear, and something else, lower down, a stirring so shaming I want to crush my head against the glass, bite my lip until it bleeds.
I am luring him into the open, forcing him to action. It’s working, even if it’s at Sam’s expense.
I hear Hannah Morrow’s voice in the corridor. ‘Goodness me, those stairs,’ she is saying. ‘You wouldn’t need a gym membership if you worked here.’
‘Murders your knees,’ Michele replies.
Hannah strolls straight into the room. She’s in her uniform today – dog-tooth tie, chevroned hat, walkie-talkie under her chin. It’s only when the students stand up and begin to file out that I see someone else is with her, a tall, dour man in jeans and a grubby waxed jacket. DI Perivale, her boss. He’s leaning against the far wall of the corridor, his arms folded. When he walks in, he nods but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he stands by Fiction, A–H, pretending to study the shelves, his head to one side, cupping his chin with his hand, stroking it back and forth as if deep in thought.
Michele asks if they want a tea or coffee or a glass of water and Hannah, whose new bob is pulled back into a tiny ponytail with the aid of a blue fabric scrunchie and several kirby grips, says, ‘Oh go on then. Cup of coffee. Lovely.’
Perivale, his back still turned, doesn’t say anything and Michele waits, grimacing – she’s forgotten his name and doesn’t know how to get his attention – before scurrying out.
Hannah came up here once before, the morning after my break-in, but she hovers by the window and makes small talk about the view. ‘Is that Crystal Place? God, you’d think it was the Eiffel Tower.’ Her chatter is more bullish today, as if she needs to prove Perivale’s presence is not intimidating. We’re waiting for Michele to come back, to be clear of interruption, but I want to get on with it. Zach needs to be stopped before he does anything else. Before I do, or think, or feel anything else.
Michele pushes the door open with the tray and I pile up books to make room on the desk for her to put it down. ‘Biscuits,’ she says.
Hannah sits down at the desk and helps herself. ‘Ooh, rude not to,’ she says.
Perivale closes the door quietly behind Michele and joins us at my desk, spinning the free chair round and sitting on it backwards, resting his chin on the bar. It’s the gesture, I think, of someone who likes to be in control, or who is so bored he will do anything to shake up his environment. The hems of his trousers are coming undone. The heels of his brown leather shoes, which he is tapping, are worn on one side.
‘Right then,’ he says on a sigh. It’s a routine visit. He wants to get this over with. He runs his hands through his lank locks. ‘PC Morrow says you were the last to see Sam Welham yesterday evening.’
I explain what happened. He writes notes. He has unkempt eyebrows, a tiny flicker of dandruff in his hair. I try to be as factual as I can. I run through the relevant details, the weather, the flow of commuters from the train station, the few minutes we spent on the corner of Dorlcote Road. ‘We talked about my dog, who’s ill,’ I say. ‘We argued over the umbrella. He wanted me to take it.’
‘And did you?’ Hannah asks.
‘No. It was his. I told him he needed it more than I did. I was nearly home.’
Perivale scans the pages of his notebook, listing his questions in a mechanical monotone. ‘Did you see anyone at any stage? Was anyone behaving suspiciously? Did anyone appear to be following?’
‘Only the commuters. No one stood out.’
‘And did Mr Welham say where he was going after he left you?’
‘Home, I assumed.’
‘Was he carrying anything valuable as far as you are aware?’
‘No. His phone. His wallet, I suppose. Is that what they took? The muggers?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘They didn’t take his phone or his wallet. It appears, unless we’re missing something, to have been a random act of violence.’
‘Random?’ I say.
Perivale doesn’t look as if he is going to answer for a moment. He narrows his eyes and then says, almost conversationally, ‘Did you know Mr Welham well?’
‘No. No, not really,’ I stammer. ‘He only started this year.’
Perivale grips the back of the chair, his elbows jutting out at an angle, like a driver bracing himself at the wheel. ‘Do you know of any reason why anyone might want to do him harm?’
I glance across at Hannah. I wish she had come alone. This is my moment. This is when I could be telling her everything. My heart begins to race. I look back at Perivale, so sure of himself, so brusque.
‘No,’ I say falteringly.
‘OK, then.’ He
stands up, swirls the chair quickly in the air and replaces it on the ground. ‘I think we’re done,’ he says to Morrow.
She too stands up, brushing biscuit crumbs from the corners of her mouth. Perivale, arms at his side, heels together, gives me another nod, more formal this time, like a courtier taking his leave, and strides out of the room. He stands in the passage, talking loudly into his mobile.
One more chance. I haven’t got much time. If I tell her now, she can catch Zach before he does anything else.
‘He’s a funny one,’ Morrow says quietly. ‘I’d love to meet his wife some day, find out how she puts up with it. Anyway,’ she adds, ‘you all right?’
‘Actually. No. I’m not,’ I say. I’m breathless, my voice is tight. I am close to tears. Saying this out loud is almost unbearable. ‘I need to talk to you about Zach. I think Zach is responsible. I . . .’
An expression fleets across her face. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I caught it. It wasn’t concern, her usual expression, but boredom, tempered by slight irritation.
Perivale is still talking on his phone. I hear a door shut loudly – Joyce Poplin in the lesson opposite expressing her disapproval. Any minute the bell for the next lesson will go.
‘Responsible for what?’ Morrow asks, her freckled nose wrinkled in sympathy now, her head tilted.
I let a beat pass. My hands are clenched, out of view, in my pockets. ‘I found out that his last girlfriend died,’ I say. ‘Shortly after they split up. She was in an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’
‘What was her name?’ She sits back down at the edge of the desk.
‘Reid. Charlotte Reid. She lived in Brighton.’
‘Right. PC Morrow.’ Perivale looms in the doorway. ‘If I could drag you away, we’re needed at the hospital.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Perivale darts me a look, heavy with impatience. Ignoring me, he says to Morrow, ‘Sometime today, this week. Unless you have other plans?’
‘All yours,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘Developments?’
‘That was the doctor. We can take a statement.’
It takes a moment for his words to sink in.
‘He’s conscious?’ I ask.
‘Apparently so,’ Perivale says.
Relief makes my legs feel weak. I sit down on my chair. Better to say nothing. It needs to play out, this game. It’s the only way.
Perivale is looking at me. He rubs his cheeks with one hand, thumb and finger splayed. ‘KISS,’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘KISS. K: Keep your bag and mobile close. I: If you suspect you are being followed, cross the road once, then again, and if your suspicions are confirmed, enter a public place. S: Stick to busy, well-lit streets. Final S: Shout “fire” not “help” if accosted. It’s more effective.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘Just in case you’re thinking of wandering around any other dark commons any time soon.’
‘I’ll bear the advice in mind. Thanks.’
Morrow has joined him and they walk together towards the stairs.
Zach
August 2011
What a tosser. Waste of space. All that effort for nothing.
It wasn’t even a gallery so much as a poster shop, tucked down a side street in Bristol, between a shoe shop and a patisserie. John Harvey, Kulon’s friend, had forgotten we’d even made an appointment. He flicked through the canvases slowly, massaging his chin, nodding wisely. Interesting, brave, original, he said. ‘I can see you have a lot to say, but . . .’
There’s always a ‘but’ with people like him. No imagination. Can’t take the leap. Not the sort of thing his customers are looking for, he said. Too much darkness. He’d love to take a punt, ‘but . . .’ If he had the cash himself, ‘but . . .’ But. But. But. But.
I stood in silence, watching him as he wriggled. A spider on a pin. Narrow-hipped, slight build, wispy beard. Jeans and Jesus sandals. I weighed it all up. He couldn’t even afford me. He’d been mucking about from the start, keeping in with Kulon. My fist impacted with his jaw; it had happened before I could do anything about it. He lay on the floor, clutching his mouth, blood spilling through his fingers. I bent down. ‘If,’ I said in his ear. ‘If I ever see your face again, I’ll hit you so hard you’ll know the meaning of “too much darkness”.’
I drove straight back to London. All I wanted was Lizzie, to see her, to hold her, but the house was empty. Just the dog – I kicked him until he whimpered and hid under the table. Then I rang her over and over, ten times in total, until she answered. She was in school, she said, she’d told me, didn’t I remember? She’d gone in to help a group of sixth-formers who wanted to defer their university applications. I drove straight round there. The door to the school was locked and I banged and banged – but no one answered. In the end, I sat on the pavement to wait.
When she finally clipped down the steps in her sensible shoes and saw me, she flushed red to her roots. She covered it well, I’ll give her that. She ran over and put her little arms around me, kissed my bruised hand. (I told her I’d caught it in the car door.) I explained what had happened – the first part anyway – and she said I shouldn’t blame myself, that I was brilliant, ‘exceptionally talented’, the guy was a philistine. She stroked me with words. She wasn’t clever enough to hide what she really thought. I could see it in her eyes.
It’s more than I can stand, the disappointment, the leaching of faith. She was supposed to save me. She’s the one I chose. She’s everything to me. Yet she wasn’t even in the house when I got home. She couldn’t let her students down, but she lets me down over and over again. She needs to learn how much she needs me. It’s the only way forward. I am the one. She’ll know it in the end. I just have to work out how to prove it.
I shouldn’t have given Onnie my address. It was a weak moment. Still, even if I hadn’t, the dirty minx would have tracked me down.
Two things played into her hands. 1) Lizzie was out for the morning – some health crisis with her mother – and 2) I was in when she knocked. I haven’t been able to work this week, not since my trip to Bristol. In fact, I’ve thrown away a load of paintings – dumped most of them in a wheelie bin around the back of the greyhound stadium. I was just hanging around the house, avoiding the dog, and there she was at the door. She was crying, too snotty to speak for a while.
‘Results,’ she managed to sob out eventually. Took a moment to work out what she meant. Her exams. The GCSEs. Three Es, two Ds, a C, and a B. ‘Which one was art?’ I said.
She wiped her nose on my shoulder. By this stage, she had wrapped herself all over me.
‘The C,’ she said. ‘Sorry. The B was for Religious Studies. God knows how I got that.’
I pushed her off. ‘Perhaps you could train to be a vicar.’ Honestly. Fuck, I worked hard for that exam. All that work I put into her sketchbook. All the thought I put into ‘Force’. C. What does that say about my talent?
She begged to come in. I was sick to the back teeth of my own company, and God knows when Lizzie would deign to return, so I made a sweeping gesture with my arm. ‘Enter,’ I said.
I made her a coffee in the kitchen. It was clean – I had cleared away Lizzie’s mess. I told Onnie how untidy my wife was – ‘She’s actually quite slutty. It’s the cross I bear.’
‘I hate mess,’ she said.
‘Yeah, me too.’
The dog was sniffing about and I pushed him into the garden and shut the door on him. ‘Filthy animal,’ I said, under my breath.
‘I hate dogs,’ Onnie said.
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘I don’t get what people see in them.’
‘Me neither.’
We both laughed.
My phone rang – Lizzie. She’d taken her mother to hospital. They were still in A & E, waiting for tests. She had no idea what time she’d be back. It’s just
one betrayal after another. If she’d picked up on my tone, had the sensitivity to know when I needed her and come straight home, then everything would have been all right. ‘Will you be OK?’ she said. ‘Will you make yourself something to eat?’ All week she has been talking to me as if I were a child. I don’t need her pity.
So – if I succumbed to Onnie, mea culpa. She was gagging for it; girls her age always are. I only had to look at her – that lingering glance, that skew of the lips – and she was peeling off her clothes, opening herself like a present. We did the deed there, on the floor in the sitting room, and later upstairs, in the marital bed. Fresh skin, new breasts. Brazilianed. Up close, she has spots around her nose. Her hair, dyed, feels coarse. Passive, too, on her back, waiting for me to show her what to do: so young of course.
Did it make me feel better? This small victory? I thought about Lizzie the whole time, imagined her face, the soft feel of her limbs. So, no, it didn’t. I felt sickened with myself, with the fear of what she had made me do. That’s the thing about revenge. People get it wrong. It isn’t always sweet.
Chapter Sixteen
Lizzie
I open the front door to silence and the smell of furniture polish. Tiny motes of dust twirl in the hall light. No music, no TV. No click-clack of Howard’s nails.
He raises his head when he sees me enter the kitchen but doesn’t get up.
I crouch on the floor and feel him all over. When I spoke to Onnie at lunchtime she told me he was better. She’d walked him to the vet and they could find nothing wrong – ‘Something he’d eaten probably, you were right.’ But now he’s breathing fast and his eyes look milky. He lifts his front paw, suspends it in the air, so I can rub his stomach. ‘Poor old chap,’ I say. ‘Are you not feeling yourself?’ The whiskers of hair below his mouth are tinged with white. He is what – nine, ten? It’s no age. ‘Is it?’ I say. ‘No age.’ He puts his head down on the edge of the basket. ‘We’ll make you better,’ I say, stroking along the side of his head. ‘Won’t we?’
Remember Me This Way Page 21
