Criminals

by Margot Livesey

  When they stopped near Nottingham for coffee and petrol he moved to act on his resolution, but Mollie, with a resumption of her former possessiveness, had already lifted Olivia out of the car and was carrying her towards the restaurant. She and Vanessa seated themselves at a table while Ewan went to get coffee and biscuits. Waiting to pay, he watched the women chatting and wondered how they had achieved this easy footing; their only time alone together had been during Chae’s phone call.

  He came over, and Vanessa said brightly, “I was asking Mollie about her weaving. The pieces you have are so beautiful. They remind me of the Rothkos at the Tate—the soft greys and browns.”

  Ewan unloaded the tray. “I got lots of biscuits. These kinds of trips make me ravenous.”

  “These kinds of trips?” echoed Mollie.

  “Cars,” he said, awkwardly. “Should I have got something for Olivia?”

  Mollie shook her head.

  “She’s sleeping like Rip Van Winkle,” Vanessa said. “If she keeps this up for another few hours, we’ll be set. I’m longing to see Scotland.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not very picturesque to start with,” said Ewan. “The first major sight we come to is the ruins of Lockerbie.” He unwrapped a chocolate biscuit, took a bite, and saw that Mollie was crying. He put the biscuit down on the neat square of foil. “Oh, Mollie, I know this is a ghastly day, but everything will be fine soon, I promise.”

  At the next table, a woman and a girl, both in purple anoraks, were staring. Ewan felt a flush of embarrassment. His sister was making a scene. Then he despised himself for caring, even for a moment, about the opinions of others. The main thing was that Mollie was in pain. Once they got back to London, he would take her to a doctor, someone who specialised in what the Victorians had quaintly called nervous disorders. Nowadays there were drugs to ease the spirit’s suffering, just as penicillin relieved the body’s. Meanwhile, in the harshly lit restaurant, he took her hands in his. “Whatever happens,” he said, “I want to help. Please don’t be so sad.”

  Vanessa went off in the direction of the Ladies, and he moved over to put his arm around Mollie. She was blubbering incoherently about love, betrayal, about Chae not giving her a baby.

  “There, there.” He did his best to be soothing. But when she claimed that Olivia hated her, he could not contain himself. “Olivia doesn’t hate you,” he said sharply.

  “No, listen to her,” said Mollie. “Next time she’s awake, you just listen.”

  The day wore on. At eleven they were making excellent progress. Two hours later, for no discernible reason, the reverse was true. They would never escape this dour, industrial landscape. It had begun to rain relentlessly, and Olivia howled. They stopped at two motorway cafés in a row to try to placate her with food and changing. Mollie clutched her, wild-eyed, her own face still streaked with tears. At the second stop, Ewan said, “Why not let me have a go with her? You know what they say about a change being as good as a rest.” With Vanessa aloof and Mollie hysterical, he felt acutely helpless.

  Mollie thrust Olivia into his arms and raced towards the cafeteria, followed by Vanessa. Ewan walked around the car park, holding an umbrella over himself and the baby, and recited the story of the three pigs. On his fourth rendition, just as the wolf blew the house down, she quieted, and he carried her inside. Mollie and Vanessa were buying fruit salad. “We’re fine now,” he said.

  “Well done,” said Vanessa.

  Mollie said nothing, nor did she reach for Olivia. When they returned to the car Ewan offered to sit in the back, and she silently acquiesced. As Vanessa accelerated onto the motorway he remembered they would have to repeat this whole trip again tomorrow, minus the baby. Perhaps he should suggest that Mollie use the return ticket from his original train journey. But no, that would leave him to drive back alone with Vanessa and their cargo of delicate compromises.

  He was rescued from this daunting prospect by the sight of a man’s glove on the floor. That had been the other major revelation of the last twelve hours: it was Mollie, not Chae, who had ended their relationship. On the phone Chae had said he still loved her. Now, Ewan thought, if only they could be reconciled. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt—already the white cotton was slightly soiled—and cautioned himself not to presume that Mollie would return to London. Once Olivia was safely united with her parents he would take Vanessa out to dinner, leaving Mollie and Chae alone together.

  Near Beattock the rain ceased. A few miles later they passed the small town of Moffat. He leaned forward and asked Mollie if this wasn’t where Great-Aunt Ethel had come to take the waters. “I have this memory of her in our living room,” he added, “showing us how she could touch her toes since she’d been to Moffat.”

  “That’s right.” Mollie nodded. “She said the well was awfully smelly.”

  “Probably the sulphur,” Vanessa said. “Some of the springs in Bath have quite a pong.”

  Bad move, thought Ewan. “One of my neighbours is a chiropractor,” he offered quickly. “She claims that hot springs are about as beneficial as hot baths.”

  “Nonsense,” said Vanessa, but before she could remonstrate further, Mollie interrupted.

  “I’d like to sit in the back,” she said.

  They stopped at the next lay-by. As he walked round the car, Ewan saw a sign by the side of the road with a list of towns: Glasgow, Stirling, Perth, Dundee. How on earth was he ever going to apologise to Olivia’s parents?

  Mollie stared at her brother’s wispy hair lying neatly above his white collar. Like everyone else, he had betrayed her—My home is yours, she thought sardonically—but all those past betrayals paled in comparison to her fear of Olivia’s treachery. She turned to look at the baby. She was asleep, her lips pursed, her eyelashes curved against her plump cheeks; yet what if she were to raise those beautiful eyelashes, as she had the night before, to reveal something vile and vicious?

  Mollie bent so close that Olivia’s breath whispered on her cheek. I must be going mad, she told herself. She’s four months old, a helpless infant. Look how sweetly she sleeps. But there, right at the corner of her eye, wasn’t that the edge of a mask, no different from Ewan’s and fitting even more perfectly?

  She had scarcely taken in the maelstrom of confrontations that lay ahead. The man on the phone—Olivia’s father?—was about to reclaim Olivia. She and Ewan would be accused of kidnapping, or worse. If Olivia was wearing a mask, it was only because these last few days had been so fraught. When the two of them were once more alone together, she would become her angelic, transparent self. The only real terror, Mollie thought, was the terror of separation.

  The man wanted money, and didn’t Ewan have money? Then she remembered Chae. Her brother had his own complicated problems, but Chae was in her debt. And if they were together, then the arguments against single parents would disappear. Yes, that would work, and it would leave Ewan free for Vanessa. Though hadn’t she mentioned a boyfriend? Besides, you had only to see the two of them together to know she was untouched by Ewan. Like Chae, she found his virtues absurd.

  She pulled her gaze away from Olivia and saw that they were nearing the town. On the left was the Grahams’ farm, and just ahead the caravan site. Her skull tightened as if all the bones had simultaneously edged closer together. A list—a list would calm her. She was searching her bag for paper and a pen when the car suddenly swerved. From the road ahead rose two rooks, their beaks stained with blood. They had been feeding on the corpse of a rabbit. Mollie shrank down in her seat. Her hand, she discovered, was holding her cheque book. On the back of a cheque she scribbled: 1. talk to Chae. When she couldn’t think what to put for 2, she reached into the bag for her make-up.

  In the dusty mirror of the compact she saw a human face: two rather heavy eyebrows, two dull eyes, the lids shiny, the skin beneath drawn, a mouth, the lips thin and pale, though none of these features seemed to belong to her. So I, too, am wearing a mask, she thought. All the better for playing my part. She raised
her hand to tap one cheek. Yes, she could feel that, surprisingly enough. She began to put on eyeliner, remembering the dexterity with which her teenage self had performed this task on the bus to school each morning. She rubbed in foundation, applied lipstick—Ginger Flower, it was called—and considered the result. More mask-like, she decided, better, and blotted her lips on a tissue.

  • • •

  That night Kenneth had another dream. He was stoking a wood stove in a hovel, and he kept having to go out and find more sticks. Joan was there, draped in a red dress, the one he had planned to buy her if it wasn’t too dear. She began a zany dance, disappearing into the dress and emerging again. He came in with another load of sticks. They were no longer alone. Behind Joan, near the stove, stood a shadowy figure who had some dreadful power over him. Before anything else could happen, thank Christ, he opened his eyes. An unfamiliar expanse of gold-patterned wallpaper lay before him. Then he spotted the dresser with its bottles and gewgaws and remembered Joan.

  Maybe he’d dreamed of the red dress because he himself was dressed. He was wearing a tee shirt and jeans. The former for warmth and the latter because he needed a safe place to keep the keys. The previous evening he had dimly grasped that Joan was so desperate she might do anything, including running away to find Grace.

  Suddenly he was struck by the silence. The usual car noises, of course, and someone hoovering downstairs, but nothing human nearby. Could Joan somehow have escaped? The idea brought him to his feet. He tiptoed round the bed. From the doorway he surveyed the empty hall with its four doors. The door of the flat was closed, still locked, and the bathroom door was ajar. That left the living room and the kitchen.

  He stood for a minute, listening, and had a twinge of that weird loneliness he’d felt walking up the track to Mill of Fortune. Was this what life was like—you had a new feeling and it kept coming back, like this dreaming shit? Quickly he stepped into the kitchen.

  Joan was seated at the table, her head resting on her arms. In spite of his noisy entrance, she did not stir. What if she was dead? Fucking hell. He’d never seen a dead body, although once in a London park he and Duncan had come across an old codger sprawled under a bush. They’d been about to throw stones at him when they both saw the funny purple colour of his face and, without speaking, hurried away. Later they’d had a good laugh: fancy being scared of a bum sleeping off a bender.

  Joan’s shoulders rose and fell. She was just sulking, as usual. Something about the room was different, though. He scanned the tidy counters, the cupboard, the orange bread bin, the fridge. That was it: Lalit no longer smiled from the fridge. During the last week the snapshot had been his friend and ally. Hadn’t he even said Lalit’s name in his sleep, according to his mum? He stepped across the room and shook Joan’s arm. “What’ve you done with the snap?”

  She raised her head, barely. “Snap?”

  “Your brother on the fridge.” As he spoke, he noticed that not only Lalit’s but all the photographs were gone.

  “Your eyes are evil,” Joan said, putting her head down again. “Your gaze hurts my family. That is why we suffer, because I let you gaze upon them.”

  Evil? Bloody hell. She sounded like she’d been at the kirk. “What rubbish,” he said. “How about a nice cuppa?”

  While he waited for the kettle to boil, he leaned against the sink, studying her. She was wearing the same navy sweatshirt as the evening before, and he realised he hadn’t felt her come to bed. She must have sat up all night, silly cow. He’d get her to wash and change before they went out. He and Duncan always collected more money on the days they shaved. He made tea and put a cup beside her. “We’re fetching her today,” he said. “Quit being such a mopy Mary.”

  From Joan’s bowed head came a muffled reply. “You have no heart.”

  “Okay, be that way.” He slammed out of the room.

  On the box two women were discussing primary school education. Kenneth slumped on the sofa and pondered his plans. No point being too finicky. The Laffertys had nicked Grace and must pay for it. Joan would raise the stakes. The only danger was she’d be so glad to get Grace back she’d blow off everything else. It was up to him to turn her motherly gushing into dosh. They’d be like those detectives in the films—the hard one and the soft.

  He pictured himself saying, “Excuse me, my wife and me”—no, my wife and I—“we’ve suffered mental anguish.” Mental anguish, that was good. Then Mr. Lafferty, maybe the bloke in the suit too, would reach into their pockets and haul out wads of notes and hand them over with smarmy apologies. Yes, he thought, draining the tea to the sugary half-inch at the bottom that was his favourite part, money and apologies. Once again he flashed on the bored way the infirmary superintendent had given him the sack. Now, finally, he would have his revenge, and didn’t they say revenge was sweeter than wine?

  “Nearly there,” Ewan said. “We turn right in about half a mile. Look how the daffodils are just coming out here. In London they’re already dead.”

  “Daffodils,” murmured Mollie.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ewan stifled a gasp. Before, his sister, though pale, had looked more or less herself. Now her cheeks were an unlikely beige, her eyes outlined thickly in black, her lips smeared. And as he took in her bizarre appearance, the acrid odour, which once or twice since Perth he had almost smelled, rushed over him in a wave.

  Speechless, he turned away and rested his hand on Vanessa’s thigh. “We take the next left,” he said, leaning closer to inhale the comforting fragrance of her shampoo.

  “What an amazing place,” she said.

  “Perhaps there’ll be time to show you the sights before it gets dark. Here are the gates.”

  They passed the pond, and Ewan remembered the ducks. He never had found out the name of the fourth one. Thank goodness, he thought, Chae will be here. Whatever Ewan’s reservations about him in daily life, his presence this evening seemed eminently desirable. He directed Vanessa to the back of the house. She braked hard, and they all rocked slightly in their seats.

  Before any of them could move, Chae appeared. He opened the back passenger door and leaned into the car. “So this is Grace,” he said. “What a beautiful baby. Hello, everyone.”

  While Chae extricated Grace, Ewan went round to Vanessa’s door. “You’ve been terrific,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “I agree.” She smiled, then climbed out and began to bend and stretch.

  Ewan opened Mollie’s door. In one hand she clutched a piece of paper on which something was written; he could not read what. “Here we are,” he said.

  Her garish face remained expressionless. Without hesitation, however, she got out and went to join Chae. “You haven’t met Olivia, have you?” she said. “Chae, Olivia. Olivia, Chae.”

  “Actually,” Chae said, “her name is Grace.”

  Ewan waited to see how Mollie would respond to this direct attack. Perhaps she grew a little paler, but she did not protest, only suggested they go inside. In the kitchen Sadie bounded around and Plato chirped a few notes. Vanessa asked where the bathroom was and disappeared up the creaking stairs.

  While Mollie and Chae fussed over the baby, Ewan stood near the stove, trying to keep out of the way. His presence in this familiar room filled him with renewed amazement at the events of the last week. He had found a baby in a bus station and unwittingly kidnapped her, gone to Milan, sat in a chair belonging to Lucrezia Borgia, slept with an Italian pianist in one way and Vanessa in another, met the deadly Coyle, discovered his sister had kept the baby, and accepted the offer of the woman who had betrayed him to drive them back here in a desperate effort to avoid grief and scandal. He watched Mollie, as she measured out formula, and wondered if she had ever really believed she could get away with keeping Olivia. He wanted to say it was ludicrous and then, remembering his own recent behaviour, thought, no, all it took was a small talent for forgetfulness, and anything was possible.

  Kenneth was glad to see the snooty driver of his two earli
er bus journeys had been replaced. A lard bucket of a bloke was squeezed behind the wheel. “Cheers, mate,” he said, handing Kenneth two tickets and his change.

  “Cheers,” Kenneth said.

  Usually he sat near the back, but today he nudged Joan into a seat only a few down the aisle. At his insistence she had washed her hair and changed her clothes, all without emerging from her silent cloud of rage. Now she stared straight ahead while he tried to read the newspaper. He’d bought the Sun, hoping there might be news of that American kid, the one who’d given him the idea of making money off Grace in the first place. Today, after twenty minutes’ battling to turn the pages against the swaying bus, he found nothing. Lowering the paper, he caught sight of the graffiti on the back of the next seat. George loves Lindy forever, he read, and, more inspiringly, Remember the Krays.

  Four thousand quid, he mouthed, and felt a slight choking. Could he actually say the words aloud? “Four thousand quid,” he said, tugging Joan’s sleeve. “What’d I say?”

  “Four thousand quid.”

  It was a lot, no question, but look how easily Lafferty had given him a thousand. Look at what a house like that cost, or even that stupid car in which he’d given Kenneth a lift to the town. They had the ready, no mistake. And faced with a choice between gaol and handing over a piece of it, they’d hand it over in a flash. Anything else would be mental. He slipped his hand into his breast pocket and encountered the reassuring, slightly rough texture of a twenty-pound note.

  By the sepia light of late afternoon, Ewan took Vanessa up the hill to St. David’s Well. Since his last visit the leaves on the beech trees and horse chestnuts had unfurled like little green flags, and the rhododendron buds were swelling. Sadie ran ahead in rapturous circles. Vanessa strode along in her jeans and leather jacket, seeming quite at home. She remarked, disconcertingly, how handsome Chae was. “I suppose,” Ewan said. This was not a topic he cared to pursue. “What kind of state do you think Mollie’s in?”