Her mind was conspiring against her with all these doubts.
Fay seemed to enjoy being outside on this mild spring morning. She stopped to stroke a cat sunning itself on a garden wall, picked up a stray crisp packet and put it in a plastic bag which hung from the handle of her shopping trolley.
She’s picking up litter now. Helen bit back an angry outburst. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Fay was doing it on purpose. To wind Helen up.
Suddenly, eyes narrowed, Fay swung around and manoeuvred the shopping trolley to create a shield between them. ‘What do you want?’
Adrenaline surged through Helen, and she took a step back. Fay might be old, but she was a killer. Dangerous.
‘You look familiar. Do I know you?’
Helen shook her head.
‘Then why are you following me?’
The way Fay was standing took Helen right back to the old nightmare. Crazy-haired and wild-eyed this woman had stuck a knife into her mother’s throat. Blood – sweet, dark, and life-giving – had ebbed away, splashing the inside of the car. Helen’s life plunged into darkness.
The terror of the memory almost paralysed her, but her rage was as fresh as ever, and her hand closed over the knife.
Bitch.
Murderer.
Something shifted in Fay’s eyes, and the demon who’d killed Helen’s mother was gone, replaced by an unremarkable middle-aged woman who just looked sad.
Helen eased her hand out of her pocket. Reality hit her with a thump. Even in a moment of rage, did she have what it took to kill another person? Did Fay, who gave apples to beggars?
What really happened that day?
For years she’d been so certain of what she’d seen, but she’d been five years old at the time and had suffered an epileptic fit. It occurred to her now this didn’t exactly make her a reliable witness.
‘Well?’ said Fay. ‘I’m waiting. Are you going to tell me what you want or do I call the police?’ She produced a mobile phone from her coat and held it like a weapon while directing her challenge at Helen.
Helen supposed that prison made you expect the worst of others, but she had no pity for the time Fay had spent inside. Her mind blank, she was struck dumb. All the things she’d wanted to say for such a long time floated around her, unformed like mist. After all, what did you say to the woman who murdered your mother?
Hello?
Long time no see?
No way.
She needed an excuse for being in the area, and heard herself say, in a chirpy, happy voice she didn’t recognise as her own, ‘I’ve heard that there’s a room to let in this road.’
‘Who told you?’ Eyes narrowed again.
Think, Helen, think. ‘Winston.’
Fay relaxed. ‘Oh, yeah, Winston knows everything that goes on around here. Don’t tell him anything you don’t want other people to know.’
‘I followed you down the road because I thought you might know where it is,’ said Helen, encouraged.
‘You did, huh?’
The challenge was still there, and Helen backed down. There was time for revenge another day. She’d find a way to make Fay’s life miserable, and then she’d make sure Fay knew why.
Suddenly Fay smiled, losing ten years in an instant. ‘Trust Winston to only give you half the picture. You’re standing right in front of it. For what it’s worth.’
Chapter Five
Taken aback, Helen blinked. Was Fay having her on? Was it possible for a fabricated excuse to turn to gold like this?
Fay didn’t seem to notice her surprise. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘See if you like the room. Jason will be back soon. He deals with the official stuff. He’ll fill you in.’
She began to hoist the shopping bag up the steps to the front door, pausing on every step, with the strain showing in her face after each heave.
Without rationalising it, Helen put her hand on the trolley handle. ‘Here, let me help.’
‘No!’
Helen withdrew as if she’d been slapped.
‘Sorry,’ said Fay. ‘It’s not you. It’s a matter of principle. As long as I can haul this thing up the steps every day, I can persuade myself I’m not getting old. Silly, isn’t it?’
‘No, not really,’ Helen murmured, surprised she was chatting with this murderess.
Fay unlocked the door and beckoned Helen inside a spacious hallway. Despite the cracked floor tiles and yellowed and stained wallpaper, you could see the house had once been a grand family home, but two world wars and economic decline had reduced it to a humble state.
Running her hand over the wall, Helen didn’t see the neglect. Instead she saw the house as a gentle giant, patiently waiting until someone lavished tender loving care on it.
‘I like it,’ she said.
‘Wait until you see the kitchen. It’s ancient. This way.’
The back of the house opened up into a large kitchen which doubled as a communal living room. Mismatched kitchen units on the walls provided a frame for a large scuffed dining table in the centre with a collection of odd chairs around it. A pepper grinder stood between two old wine bottles which served as candle holders. Years of use had created a multicoloured-wax drip pattern, red, green, white, blue and even black. A stack of unwashed dishes stood on the kitchen counter next to a chipped ceramic sink with some antiquated plumbing which might possibly be original. At the end of the room a set of double doors led into an untended garden with a dilapidated shed leaning against the fence at the back.
From a battered sofa a young woman was watching TV with a black cat on her chest and a ginger one by her feet, but she put the cats down when she saw them come in, switched off the TV, and began to help Fay with the shopping.
She had blonde dreadlocks, tattoos on her arms and silver rings through her nose, eyebrow and bottom lip, and she stared unashamedly at Helen.
‘Another one of your strays, Fay?’
‘No, this is …’ Fay frowned at Helen. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t give it.’
The girl with the dreadlocks snorted with laughter.
‘It’s Helen. Helen … Stephens.’ She’d almost lied about her name before remembering that Fay would never have heard it before. Yelena Stephanov had died with her mother. Helen Stephens had been born at age five, when Aggie put her in foster care.
Opening the fridge, Fay sent her a sideways glance. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There’s something very familiar about you. You weren’t at New Hall, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘Holloway?’
Helen shook her head, puzzled by this line of questioning. ‘I get that a lot. Apparently I look like Sheryl Crow.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, this is Charlie. Helen’s interested in the room,’ she added for Charlie’s benefit.
‘Lucky you,’ said Charlie. ‘So where did they bang you up, then?’
She was saved from answering as the door opened and a man came in. Her eyes wandered from his trainers and jeans to his brown hair and blue eyes, and instantly she felt her cheeks go hot.
It was the annoying stall-holder with the fancy goatee.
‘Jason,’ said Fay, ‘this is Helen. Potential new house mate.’
Jason managed to hide his surprise thanks to years of keeping his thoughts to himself. It was the pretty girl from the market, and this time she was smiling. Or rather she had been until she recognised him. He knew what she’d been up to, or rather what he’d stopped her doing, and she obviously knew that he knew.
He decided to make light of it. ‘Hi, there. Finished your shopping, then?’
It was entirely the wrong thing to say, and he could have kicked himself for his big, stupid mouth. She flinched visibly as if he’d slapped her.
Jason, you complete shit.
Without realising it, Charlie came to his rescue. ‘Have you met before?’
‘I saw her at the market.
Looking at Winston’s fabrics, I think?’ Jason sought her eyes, read the gratitude in them. He’d seen that same look in other people before: friendless, exposed, remorseful, yet defiant at the same time. In recent probationers. He wondered if she’d recently been to prison and what had made her come here. Then he wondered what her crime was, and thought from the haunted look in her eyes it was probably something more than theft. Something momentous and life-changing.
Whatever it was, she clearly didn’t want to be reminded of the one she’d almost committed half an hour ago.
‘I was just browsing,’ she explained, falteringly, then her confidence seemed to return. ‘I haven’t been to Shepherd’s Bush in ages, so it was a bit full-on. You run a stall there, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I sell vinyl and CDs. Collectors’ items. Recordings which are difficult to get hold of, that sort of thing. You should come and have a look some time.’
‘Maybe I will.’
She met his stare, and Jason thought perhaps her earlier blip wasn’t a relapse at all and he was losing his ability to read other people. He hoped not.
‘Well, you’d better come and see the room,’ he said. ‘It isn’t much but it’s clean and we’ve given it a fresh coat of paint.’
He spoke in the clipped tones he inadvertently returned to whenever he was on thin ice, and which he knew flagged up visions of boarding school and top universities in his listeners, but he couldn’t help it. He wondered what she made of it, if she found it hard to equate with a person who manned a market stall and ran a shared house for apparent losers. It annoyed him that he should care about her opinion but he did.
As soon as the kitchen door had swung shut behind them, she touched him lightly on the arm. Jason felt as if someone had tasered him and was grateful for the dim lighting in the hallway.
‘Listen, about earlier, I wasn’t planning to, well, you know, take that woman’s wallet,’ she said.
‘That’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself.’
‘You seemed to think I was.’
He shook his head. ‘My mistake. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble, that’s all. You looked like you’d lost your way a little, if that makes any sense.’
‘Like I said, I hadn’t been to the Market in a while.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
He led her up the wide stairs to the first floor, running his hand along the dado rail as he often did. The paint on it was chipped and uneven where it had been painted over countless times, but beneath it the wood was reassuringly solid. The stairs also had a dependable feel to them despite the threadbare carpet, and the water stains on the wallpaper, which appeared here and there, were bone dry because the problem with dampness had been superficial. It was one of the things he loved about this house, that it was solid. Whatever else might happen in life, this old relic would still stand.
Glancing over his shoulder, he was amused to see the new girl do the same, tracing her fingers where his had been.
On the first floor he opened the door to the vacant room which had a view of the street and the houses opposite. He had recently redecorated it in neutral colours, and although it was sparsely furnished with only a bed, a narrow wardrobe, a desk and a chair, he’d tried to make it as bright and welcoming as possible. Catching her expression, it looked as if he’d succeeded. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes had lit up with appreciation.
The window was open, and the pale curtains were billowing in the breeze. Tentatively, she crossed the room to the cast-iron fireplace and, resting her hand on the mantel piece, turned to face him.
‘Very nice,’ she said
‘Interested?’
‘Yes, but er—’
‘But what?’
She bit her lip. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me for some kind of identification? Or references perhaps? I mean, I just walked in from the street. I could be anybody.’
Taken aback, he replied, ‘At some point, I suppose. Why? Do I need to check you out, is that what you’re saying?’
She shook her head. ‘I was just wondering.’
‘I’m not worried about you,’ he said, ‘so long as you understand that the people who live here, apart from myself, have all had trouble with the law and have been to prison. This is a halfway house.’
‘Yes, I got that impression. I should fit right in, then.’
Jason ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Usually we get sent people from the Probation Service, but you’ve beat them to it.’ He closed the door. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know about the room?’
‘Winston.’
‘Ah, that figures. Anyway, let me show you the rest of the house. There’s just the four of us at the moment. Fay’s across the landing from you, and the bathroom is up here as well.’
He opened another door to show her the shared bathroom. This room he wasn’t quite so confident about. It was in dire need of replacement, but he’d been putting it off until he knew where he stood regarding the lease. The toilet had an old-fashioned porcelain cistern with a pull-cord, the claw-footed tub was stained grey-green from lime scale, and one of the brass taps in the basin dripped continuously. He stepped past her and tightened the tap.
‘It needs a firm hand,’ he explained.
‘So I see.’
He heard the laughter in her voice and wished he could explain the situation to her, but decided it could wait until another time. Chances were, she hadn’t heard of his father anyway.
Closing the bathroom door, he said, ‘Charlie has the big room on the ground floor, next to our shower room, I’m in the basement, and Lee, whom you haven’t met yet, is on the top floor. We also have a small spare room for emergencies up there.’
‘Emergencies?’
Her amusement was gone, and she was wary now.
‘People don’t usually stay here for very long. A couple of months on average. Sometimes after they’ve moved out and gone back to their friends and family, things don’t always work out. I let them stay here for a few days until they can sort something else out. I’ve never closed the door on someone who’s come back, not unless he’s given me grief. It can be a shit world out there.’
‘Yes, it can,’ she said. ‘So if I move in, Fay and I’ll be the only two people on this floor together?’
‘Does that bother you? I mean, do you feel uncomfortable sharing a floor, because I could probably persuade Lee to move down. His room isn’t as big as this one, though.’
‘No, no,’ she said quickly.
Too quickly. Alarm bells rang in his head, but she seemed so sweet and so lost that he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘It really doesn’t bother me,’ she added as if she’d read his mind. ‘Would it be okay to take a look at her room?’
He shook his head. ‘House rules, I’m afraid. We don’t enter other people’s private space without being invited. Anyone who does will be out by the end of the week. I hope it won’t be a problem for you?’
He could tell from the sudden pink spots in her cheeks that she’d caught his warning. It was the same expression she’d worn at the market, when she’d been furious with him. Jason experienced a toe-curling and gut-churning sensation of having kicked someone who was already down.
‘I was just curious,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t going to invade her privacy. I’d hate it if someone invaded mine.’
He assessed her for a moment. ‘Obviously you’ve got principles. Why do I have this feeling you haven’t been in prison?’
‘Why would I want to live in a halfway house if I hadn’t?’ she retorted.
‘You tell me. Usually principles are some of the first things people put on hold when they’re locked up. They can be difficult to find again.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my principles.’
‘Okay, fine, no need to get on your high horse. There’s just one other thing. If you don’t mind me asking, what was your crime?’
‘My
crime?’
Her eyes flew to his and suddenly there was such a fiendish rage in them, a deeper and older rage different from the one before, that he almost stepped back in alarm. Then her shoulders slumped.
‘Let’s just say someone died who shouldn’t have,’ she said softly.
‘Who?’
For a moment she stared at a point somewhere over his shoulder. He feared this was her way of saying she wasn’t going to answer his question, and if she didn’t, he couldn’t allow her to have the room, simple as that.
Which would be a crying shame.
Finally she said, ‘A child.’
‘A child?’ he repeated and sent her a startled look.
It was the first thing which had sprung to mind because there was a certain, odd truth to it – a part of her had died that day and her childhood with it – but she could see now that perhaps it hadn’t been the smartest thing to say. Everyone hated child killers, and rightly so. However, it was too late to take it back. No matter what she said, he wouldn’t believe her now.
She found herself torn. She rarely went out of her way to make people like her, would often push them away because it was easier that way, and she’d prefer Jason’s condemnation to him knowing the real reason she was here. At the same time the thought of being condemned by someone who seemed so tolerant of others was almost unbearable. Dammit, she wanted him to like her.
When he said nothing, just continued to stare at her, she turned away and headed down the stairs. Talk about messing up. Story of my life, she thought.
He caught her arm, the lightest of touches. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, surprised he even bothered with her.
Something must have made him think she wasn’t the devil incarnate. He smiled suddenly, and she basked in the glory of that smile like a sun-starved tourist. It transformed his face, lit up the intensely blue eyes, and the little goatee she’d scoffed at so rudely no longer looked like a gravy stain, but instead soft and beguiling, inviting her to trace it with her finger. She stopped before she made another mistake.
The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) Page 6
