Tara isn’t one of the dancers. She’s a waitress. All the same, she’s been lying to her parents about where she works. Her dad already hyperventilates because she’s dyed her hair jet-black and gotten a few more piercings. He’d have a heart attack if he knew her work uniform consisted of a corset, booty shorts and platform perspex heels, and that she gets groped every night of the week.
Cassy would have talked her out of it.
But Cassy isn’t here.
The well-heeled guys are the worst—the ones flashing fifty-pound notes around the place; rowdy show-offs buying private dances and breaching the no-touch rules with dancers who need the money. If those men saw the place when the lights are on—if they knew the things the cleaners deal with—they wouldn’t want the girls to sit on their laps. They wouldn’t sprawl on the red velvet couches in the alcoves, or roll around the sticky velour of the private cubicles. They wouldn’t go near the toilets, let alone snort cocaine off them. They wouldn’t even drink from the glasses.
But last night, something happened to make everything she’d had to put up with worth it. Last night, she struck gold.
It was a stag party. About ten City suits, all sporting green plastic antlers with extra big ones for the stag. They’d obviously been having a good night because they were already on a high when they arrived. They ordered vast quantities of champagne before the dancers descended on them: a cloud of fantasy women wearing nothing but silver thongs and high heels, their cellulite and caesarian scars obscured by the black light.
Tara had stopped for a word with her ex, Mick, a reassuringly muscled bouncer, when laughter and catcalls erupted from the stag party. One of the dancers, a Romanian woman called Carmen, stumbled away from their booth and ran up to Mick. She was visibly distressed, her mouth stretched out of shape.
‘Weren’t you watching?’ she hissed. ‘Those guys are off their heads! The stag’s an arsehole. He and his mate held me down and shoved their hands everywhere. It wasn’t even a private dance.’
Mick peered across at the group. ‘D’you want them chucked out?’
Tara looked too, searching for the one with the biggest antlers. Then she blinked, and moved closer. There he was, red-faced and guffawing, grabbing at a passing waitress. Ginger. Balding. Brick-shaped chin.
Parliamentary candidate Adele Roberts to wed investment banker Graeme Kirkpatrick.
She stared at him for several seconds, thinking fast. This was too good an opportunity to waste.
‘I’ll take care of him, Carmen,’ she promised. ‘Mick, small favour: could you turn a blind eye? In exactly ten minutes’ time, walk into the shed in the alley. Act outraged. Okay?’
Good old Mick. He was one of the few ex-boyfriends who’d become mates. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘As long as you know you’re putting your job on the line.’
She nipped into the staffroom, grabbed her phone and stuffed it into the waistband of her shorts. As she walked back past Mick she undid her ponytail and mussed her hair, whispering, ‘Ten minutes,’ before holding up the fingers of both hands.
It was child’s play. The sad fact is, she thought, I’m wasted as a waitress. She swung through the group, making smouldering eye contact with the bridegroom-to-be while running her tongue around her lips. It was the same guy all right, though he wasn’t looking so respectable now.
‘Hi. Anyone sitting here?’ She slid one arm around his neck as she straddled his thigh, pressing herself against him. It was like sinking into a fug of alcohol, sweat and lust. His fingers were inside the booty shorts in a nanosecond. She fought an urge to grab his nose and twist it hard. Then she thought of Rex and remembered why she was there.
She pretended to writhe with desire. ‘What’s your name—Graeme? Gray . . . ham. Ooh, lovely. Hello, Graeme.’
She told him her own name, though she lied. None of the girls gave her real name.
‘Last bit of freedom?’ she purred. ‘What a tragic waste.’
‘Fucking tragic, all right.’ His voice was thick, the words slurred. He was unlacing her corset with intense concentration.
She held up her wrist behind his head, checking her watch. Four minutes. Time to go.
‘I’d love to give you something very, very special,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Something you’ll never have had before, and never will again. It’s my gift to you.’ Her tongue flicked his ear. ‘Would you like that?’
Oh, but he would. He really, really would. He was too far gone to ask questions. These men were like sheep.
‘Not in a private booth,’ she said, pulling him to his feet. ‘I’m breaking the rules, and the bouncers check the booths.’ She led him by the hand past the DJ, out through the staff door and into a cold wind. It seemed eerily quiet now that the pulsating music was muffled. As soon as they were in the alleyway he tried to push her against a wall.
‘Too public,’ she breathed. ‘Come on.’
It was probably a coal shed originally, but now streetlights spread their sickly glow on piles of empty kegs and cardboard boxes, a cracked basin, a torn couch from one of the private booths. The air was a stale medley of urine, beer and rats. None of this seemed to dim the stag’s enthusiasm any more than the fact that he’d be a married man in a few days’ time. He staggered as she swung the door open; bumped his head as he crawled along the couch, burping with proud boorishness. For a nasty moment she was afraid he might throw up. That would ruin everything.
Seconds later her corset had been ripped off, followed by his shirt and trousers. He was a surreal sight, massive antlers sliding down the side of his head, bright blue boxers around his knees.
Time was running out. She had one chance, and that was right now.
‘Let me show you my party piece,’ she murmured. ‘Sit very still . . . this is going to blow your mind, I promise you.’
Perhaps he was used to doing as he was told. After all, he was engaged to a woman who got off on power. He swayed drunkenly, moaning as the topless girl clambered onto his lap and wound her legs around his waist. She’d have liked to shove him onto the floor, maybe give him a hefty prod with a six-inch perspex heel. But she had a job to do.
She pushed her lips into a lustful pout—duck face, perfect—before tapping his cheek. ‘Hey, gorgeous. Look up! Say cheese!’
He followed her gaze, up towards her outstretched hand. Saw the flash of her phone. Panicked.
‘Fuck!’ he bellowed. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Just a selfie. So I’ll always remember our magical night together.’
‘Are you off your head? If that photo ends up on Twitter or something—’
‘Shh.’ Laughter churned in her throat. ‘I’m deleting it, see?’ She showed him the screen. ‘Look . . . there we are. Gone.’
But his mood had changed. He was an angry, urgent drunk now, not a happy one. He snatched the phone and hurled it across the shed. Then she felt the weight of him forcing her down, his hands gripping her neck. She stopped laughing and began to struggle, shocked at how fast she’d lost control of the situation. Playing with fire. Stupid me.
That was when the door crashed open. Mick filled the shed, shining a torch in their faces and shouting about club rules.
‘Well,’ gasped Tara, as she wriggled free and retrieved her phone from the floor. She felt triumphant, light-headed with relief. ‘Congratulations. Your bride’s a lucky, lucky woman! You were made for each other.’
Graeme let forth a stream of obscenities, telling Mick exactly what he could do with the club rules. Tara winked at Mick as she passed him, mouthing thanks. Then she marched back into the club, straight to the staff lockers, and changed into her own jeans and sweater and scuffed trainers. No more perspex heels, no more corset. She was riding high on the sense that she’d taken control of her life. She’d seen enough. It was time to get back on the rails.
•
Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-three. Twenty-two.
It has taken the rest of the ni
ght to prepare Rex’s revenge. She’s worked steadily, drinking non-stop cups of instant coffee, a duvet over her shoulders. First she set up an anonymous Hotmail account and found all the email addresses she wanted. Easy-peasy. There are eleven of them, taken from the websites of the school as well as the local Conservative Party headquarters. Then she chose the better photo of the two she took, which were both uploaded to cloud storage before she deleted them. She edited the image to enhance the sweaty nakedness of their bodies—especially his—and disguise her own appearance. The result is a masterpiece of debauchery. A work of art, if I do say so myself.
She won’t post it on social media. That would be tacky. Somebody else might, of course: one of the teachers, or someone in the political world. Miss Vampire must have made quite a few enemies over the years.
Her final task has been to write the message. It took two hours to get the words exactly right. As she worked, watery dawn seeped into the room. Traffic began to rumble along the main road outside.
Dear Miss Roberts,
Do you remember Rex Jones? He was being abused at home. He was only safe at school. But he wasn’t safe at all, was he? Because you tormented him for fun. You made his life a misery.
You might have forgotten the day you found his worry dolls. They were his only friends, and you made everyone laugh at them. You mocked the most precious thing he had. You broke him.
I thought you might like to see this pre-wedding snap of your fiancé. He certainly enjoyed his night out, though I think you need to remind him to carry a condom next time he goes to a gentlemen’s club. I hope he hasn’t caught anything. Eczema isn’t contagious, but herpes certainly is. And chlamydia.
I’ve BCC’d this to quite a few people. Ten people, in fact. I’ll leave you to guess who they all are.
Can you hear them laughing?
I can.
Now you know how it feels.
The photo is attached. Eleven addresses have been typed in. Locked and loaded.
Twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen.
She’s lining up the crosshairs, steadying on the target. Revenge is a dish best served cold, according to the proverb, and she can already taste it.
Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.
But. But . . .
All things seem possible in the darkness, especially in the weird otherworld of Fallen Angels. But in the cold light of day—literally—her jubilant resolve is seeping away. As soon as she sends this message, all hell will break loose. She might get into serious trouble. People will be hurt. Lives will be changed. She knows what Cassy would say; she can almost hear her sister’s voice. This is wrong! You know it’s wrong. Sleep on it, at least.
Tara stops counting.
She’s holding her breath, slapping her cheeks with both hands, her eyes watering from the pain. Yes, no. Yes! No! Her poor parents will be devastated if this ends up in the newspapers, and surely they’ve been through enough, but she’s willing to bet it won’t be reported. Graeme’s indiscretion will be hushed up. A wedding quietly cancelled, a parliamentary candidate stepping down.
She exhales, forcing herself to relax. Then she reaches under her pillow and brings out a soft, well-worn bag. Faded stripes. The dolls know everything. They know all about Rex. They know all about Cassy. They care.
‘What do you think?’ she asks, tipping them into her lap. ‘Yes or no?’
They smile up at her. Seven smiles. Their eyes sparkle. Go on, go on, they seem to whisper. For Rex.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
She arranges the dolls along the pillow so that they can see the screen. Cassy once arranged them like this—in a line, neat and tidy—long ago.
‘There,’ Tara says. ‘Ringside seats, for Rex’s best friends.’
She returns her finger to the launch position.
Three. Two. One.
•
It’s eight-thirty in the morning. Adele Roberts is already with the florists, talking about table decorations.
There are two of them, and she’s got them eating out of her hands. They’re all over her. Of course they are. By this summer she’ll be their MP. She’s a celebrity customer and this is going to be a dazzling occasion, the wedding of the year. The press will be there. She might even end up in Hello! magazine.
From her handbag, her phone gives its cheerful double-beep. An email.
‘Probably the constituency office,’ she says grandly, reaching for it. ‘No rest for the wicked! They don’t give me a moment’s peace.’
The message is headed Graeme Kirkpatrick. She opens it. For a long moment, she simply stares.
Prologue
Diana
2016
It doesn’t look like a scene of death. It looks like paradise. Wooden cabins dream in autumn sunshine, goats graze by the lapping waters of a lake. Even the hills seem placid, luxuriating in their pelt of native bush. She can’t hear a man-made sound: only the distant chuckle of a stream, the fluting and whistling of birds. The valley is submerged in a blue haze of peace.
Paradise.
Or not. Gaudy plastic stirs among the flax bushes. Police tape: a jaunty, jarring souvenir of tragedy. There are other signs too, if you look for them. Empty buildings, marker pegs on the beach. The authorities set up camp here, she knows, and stayed for weeks. Squads of divers plunged into the lake; dog handlers combed the shadowy folds of bush. They even used a drone to take aerial footage. She imagines them tramping around in heavy-booted incongruity, coaxing and bullying statements from people who desperately want to forget.
Until a few years ago, Diana had never heard of Justin Calvin. She’d never dreamed that events in a valley on the other side of the world could decimate her family. She and Mike were pretty bog-standard people in those days. They’d been married longer than the national average, got through his army years and come out the other side. Not rolling in money, not struggling. A redbrick- and-stucco semi in South London. Most of their worry, their focus and hope were centred on their two daughters. Nobody had gone off the rails. Not unless you counted Tara’s suspension for smoking behind the gym.
No sign; no sign at all of what was to come.
There’s a new sound among the cabins. It’s strong and clear and utterly unexpected. Someone is playing a piano: rippling, complex triplets with a haunting melody woven through them. A pair of fantails swoop and dive around Diana’s head as though riding on the currents of the song. In this strange and beautiful place, after so much loss, the music seems to speak of appalling sadness. It makes her want to cry.
She has a photo of Cassy, taken as they waved her off from Heathrow. One final picture. One final smile. A butterfly in a glass case. Have fun, they were yelling, in the moment it was taken. Watch out for man-eating kiwis! Diana has used it as her desktop background ever since. She greets her elder daughter in the morning, and last thing at night, and a hundred times a day.
The girl smiling out of the screen is dear and familiar and . . . well, she’s just Cassy. Voluptuous, long-legged, quick to blush. A thick plait hangs over one shoulder, an in-flight bag over the other. Her nose isn’t quite straight, never has been since it was broken by a rogue hockey ball, but there’s something arresting about the dark blue eyes and flicked-up lashes. She’s always had that wistful expression: a downturn at the corners of her eyes, as though she knows something that others don’t.
My God. Did we really make jokes about killer kiwis? If I’d seen what was around the corner, I’d have begged her not to get on that plane.
Across the lake, the volcano is a sleeping giant. The peace has a hypnotic quality. It stills your soul. It slows your breath. No wonder the media has become obsessed with this glorious wilderness. No wonder the police struggled to understand what happened here. No wonder the nation is still searching its soul, wondering who to blame.
She’s often wondered the same thing herself. There have been moments over the years when she’s found she has stopped. Just stopped dead. She was meant to be walking to work or feeding t
he cat. Instead she is far away, arms limp by her sides, gazing at the past.
It’s like watching a milk bottle falling off a table. It rolls and falls in nightmarish slow motion and yet it seems unstoppable. There was a time when the family was whole, and a time when it hit the ground, milk and shattered glass spraying across the tiles. In between is the moment when she should have caught it.
One
Diana
July 2010
Such a precious memory, those last minutes in Cassy’s bedroom. They were driving her to the airport soon, but there were no long faces. After all, this was just a glorified holiday. She’d be back before they knew it.
Diana heard laughter and put her head around the door. There they were, her daughters: twenty-one and fifteen, both taller than their mother. Cassy had dumped everything she was taking into piles on the floor and was trying to cram it all into her backpack. Tara sprawled across the bed, hair a dark fan on the pillow, music pouring from her phone. It sounded tinny and pointless to Diana, but perhaps beauty was in the ear of the beholder.
‘Mum!’ cried Tara. ‘For God’s sake, tell Cassy she’s taking way too many socks.’
Diana sat down at the end of the bed, glimpsing her ruddy complexion and silvery roots in the mirror. Dowdy, she thought, though without regret. No other word for it. Never mind. She could still scrub up when she had to.
Tara stirred an imaginary cauldron.
‘When shall we three meet again?’ she demanded in a witch’s croak. ‘In thunder, lightning—’
‘Third of September,’ said Cassy, stooping to retrieve three pairs of socks from her pack. ‘We’re due to touch down twenty-four hours before Imogen walks up the aisle.’
‘I wish you weren’t cutting it so fine,’ said Diana.
‘So does Imogen. She’s obsessed with this wedding. Never mentions poor Jack at all. I think he’s just a by-product.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
Cassy pouted. ‘She says I’m not allowed to get a tan.’
Best Served Cold Page 2
