Dylan set the pace, returning to the bar for pint after pint. Simon, meanwhile, hugged the same bottle of cider all night. He seemed more interested in talking than drinking. As he droned on, Jock felt his eyes closing. He lay his head down on the table and was almost asleep when his phone jolted to life, jumping up and down in his pocket like an impatient dog.
“Is that the tune from the exorcist?” Simon asked.
“Yeah! That’ll be my mum.” He switched it off.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Nah! She’s always checking up on me. You’d think I was twelve.”
“Why don’t you just tell her to piss off?” Dylan asked.
“Dylan!” Angie shook her head.
“No, he’s right,” Jock said. “There’s no telling my mum. I tried ignoring her for a couple of weeks but she called the police and reported me missing. So I ended up calling her and now I’m back at square one, with the incessant phone calls and parcels. She even monitors my bank account. I’ve had to change the password.”
Angie whistled. “Your mum sounds like a stalker!”
“She is! She really is. I just don’t know how to handle her. And it’s not just me; since I’ve been away, she’s been bugging my nephew, too. I wish I could get her off his back, but I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward.”
“To cowards!” Dylan said, raising his glass.
“But you’re not, Jock.” Simon said. “What you did for Anthony that day at the station …” He laid a heavy hand on Jock’s shoulder. “That was brave. You could have walked past, but you didn’t. You stepped in and did something. You put yourself on the line to make sure Anthony was OK. To be honest, I wasn’t terribly sure about you before then. You’d seemed a bit weak and needy. But you’re not, Jock. You’re not.”
“You thought I was weak and needy?” Jock repeated.
“Sorry, I didn’t phrase that terribly well. What I meant was, when it came to it, you really showed what you were worth. You are capable of being brave, Jock. You have to step up to the plate.”
There was a loud thump as Dylan fell backwards and landed on the floor.
“Dylan? Are you OK?”
Simon pulled him to his feet and set him back down in his chair. Dylan did not seem bothered by his fall. He grinned broadly, like he was auditioning for The Muppet Show.
“He’s going to feel that in the morning,” Angie commented.
“He’ll be fine,” Simon said. “His skull’s so thick it would take a jackhammer to harm him.”
“Still, I think it’s time we called it a night,” she said, slipping on her denim jacket. “Some of us have got an early start.”
“I’m pretty tired, too,” Jock admitted.
“What about Dylan?”
“I’ll take him back to his boat,” Simon offered.
“Er, no, that’s OK,” Jock said. “He can doss down on my floor tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
Jock nodded. Just in case. Though, if Simon did turn out to be a serial killer, he would have to be the most boring one in history.
I hold the spoon in the air and watch the honey drip down onto the crumpets. The little holes remind me of the inside of a beehive. Jock sits by the window, bashing away on his laptop as if it were an old typewriter. Definitely a worker bee, that one. Bronwyn clumps out of the kitchen and smiles at me.
“The tulips are lovely,” I say. “They make the place smell really fresh.”
“They were Sapphire’s favourite, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” I try to look sad. “There hasn’t been anything in the news today?”
“No, there’s no mention of her. They’re all moving on to other things.”
“It’s gone quiet in here as well,” I note.
The tea shop is half empty; quite a change from the last few weeks of mayhem.
“I like it better this way,” I admit.
“Me, too. But it’s such a shame we’ll have to close down.”
I nod. “I’ll just keep praying for a miracle.”
Glancing outside, I notice young Evan and his mates with their noses pressed against the window of the Dragon. I walk outside and he sidles up to me.
“Can you get us some cider? Usual deal.”
“The price has gone up,” I tell him. “Unless you want to do another little job for me?”
His gold tooth glimmers. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve got a couple of dogs for you to look after. Their owner’s planning an extended holiday.”
“I don’t know. My mum’s not going to like it.”
“I’m sure you can convince her. They’re Rottweilers. Excellent fighters. Could be good little earners for you.”
As far as Jock could tell, Dylan had replaced drinking at the Dragon with drinking alone on his boat. Aside from saving himself money, there didn’t appear to be any particular advantage to this. In fact, it was probably worse. Even Neil had the decency to stop serving him once he fell off his barstool. But alone on the boat, there was no one to stop him reaching for one more can. And no one to stop him toppling over the side either.
Dylan shuddered as he took a swig of the alcohol-free beer Jock had brought with him.
“Tastes like tadpoles,” he complained. But he drank it, all the same. He was only humouring him, Jock knew. But if it was diluting the alcohol even a little bit then it had to be doing some good.
“So when do I get to read this book of yours?” Dylan asked.
“I’ve got a copy in my bag, but it’s still a bit rough.”
“Hand it over. It’ll come in handy in case I run out of loo roll.”
“Thanks!”
Reluctantly, he handed Dylan a copy of his precious manuscript. In the past, he had always had plenty of beta readers, but this book was different. Fragile. He wasn’t sure he was ready to have Dylan rip it to pieces.
Dylan scanned the first couple of pages, his facial muscles twitching in that unnerving way of his.
“Wow!” he said. “You’re really messed up!”
“Which bit?” Jock asked apprehensively.
Dylan folded back the first page and read aloud: “This book is dedicated to my mum, Mavis. I didn’t go to school, like most other kids. Instead, my parents home-schooled me. My mother was worried about me hurting myself or catching germs, so I never joined the scouts, never learnt to swim or ride a bike. I never had friends round to play and I never had a girlfriend. I’m thirty years old now and last year, I bought myself a flat in Notting Hill. My mother did not want me to move out, so she told me she was dying. But I knew in my heart it wasn’t true. She would say anything to keep me under her control. She once told me that no one else would ever love me. Thanks to her, I am alone and a coward. But I am also a writer. And as a writer, I can do anything. I can travel anywhere I want. I can create life. I can even kill.”
A slow smile spread across Dylan’s face.
“This is eerie, Jock. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
“Just wait till you read the book,” he said.
“I can already tell I’m going to like it,” Dylan said, placing it in the cupboard for safekeeping. “You weren’t exaggerating about your mum, then. She really is a nutter!”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Have you thought of getting a restraining order?” Dylan asked.
“Do you think it would do any good?”
“Probably not. But this dedication might just do it.”
“I hope so.”
Dylan looked at him with something approaching concern. “Just as long as you know what you’re doing. Because once you’ve done something like this, there’s no going back.”
“I know that.”
“Good.”
They fell silent for a few minutes and watched a pair of swans glide by, their heads high in the air. A string of fluffy, grey signets followed, one behind the other, all in procession.
“Stuck-up buggers, aren’t
they?” Dylan commented. “You’d think they own the place!”
“Maybe they do,” Jock said with a smile. He took a long swig of his drink and tore open a packet of pork scratchings Dylan had left over from the party.
“Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you,” Dylan said.
“Go on.”
“Do you mind if I draw a bit of your blood?”
“Are you serious?”
“I just want to find out if we’re the same blood type.”
“Why?” But he had a feeling he already knew the answer. “You’re after my liver, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t need all of it. Just about sixty percent.”
He couldn’t tell if he was serious. “I thought you said they wouldn’t give you a liver transplant because of your drinking.”
“There are ways.” Dylan drummed his fingertips on his beer can. “We could go private. Maybe get it done abroad. It would be cheaper that way.”
“Would it be safe?” he asked. He didn’t know why he was even entertaining the idea. The whole thing was ludicrous.
“Safe as houses,” Dylan said, his smile as wide as a crocodile’s.
Definitely time to change the subject.
“Can I have a go at driving the boat again?”
“Yeah, why not? Just as long as you don’t capsize us.”
Jock felt a sense of pride as he steered the Kingfisher downriver. It was much easier than steering a car, he thought. Not that steering had ever really been his problem; his mind had an annoying tendency to wander and that combined with the need to avoid other vehicles and objects on the road …
“Jock, watch out for that boat!”
He pulled the tiller back sharply, just in time to avoid a collision.
Dylan pushed him aside.
“Have you had a drink today?” Jock asked.
“Only a couple,” Dylan said. “I’m still a better driver than you.”
They chugged on for a while, enjoying the relative tranquillity of the water. Most of the boats were tucked in for the night, so there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Just the swans, the reeds and the beginnings of a beautiful sunset.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” Dylan said, wrapping his arms around Jock.
“Sod off!”
“Better start heading back,” Dylan said after a while.
“How do we turn round?”
“There should be a winding hole coming up soon. We can turn round there.”
But Dylan’s recollection was a little foggy and it was a lot further to the winding hole than he remembered. By the time they reached it, it was already starting to get dark and Dylan had to take over the steering again.
“Bugger!” he said, as they came back to where they had started.
“What?”
“Some dipstick’s taken my mooring! We’ll have to go a bit further and find another one.”
“Oh dear!”
“It’s alright. It’s not like I own the space. It just makes life easier if I moor in the same spot each night.”
They moved on upriver.
“Crikey! We’re going to have to moor in Pepper Hill at this rate,” Dylan said. “I’d have let you off at Fleckford if I’d known. You’re going to have a bit of a walk home and I know exercise doesn’t agree with you.”
“That’s alright,” he said, looking out at the water.
“Hey! Isn’t that Simon’s bike?” Dylan asked.
“Where?”
“There, chained to that tree.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s the only poser I know with a neon-green saddle.”
“He probably has to get it specially made, doesn’t he, because he’s so tall.”
“But what’s he doing here at all?”
Sapphire pulled a button off her dress and put it in her mouth. She could feel her stomach eating itself from the inside and her mouth was so dry, her lips kept sticking together. She sucked hard on the button, trying to pretend that it was a boiled sweet. A lemon-flavoured sweet, she decided, from a large packet. She could hear the lift creaking as it made its way down the shaft. Would it be Claire, she wondered, or was it the May Queen Killer coming to ask her about her ear?
She braced herself, but even before the door opened, she knew it was Claire from the lightness of her footsteps. Sure enough, there was a knock. The door swung open and Claire held out a sandwich and a cup of tea.
“Thank God!”
Sapphire grabbed the tea right out of her hand and took several desperate gulps. But as for the sandwich, it wasn’t enough to feed a squirrel let alone four hungry women.
“Sorry,” said Claire, seeing her face. “It’s got ham in it, but there isn’t any butter. I never was much of a cook, was I?”
Sapphire forced a smile. “What about you? What are you having for dinner?”
“Oh, there should be a bit of food left in the kitchen for me.”
Sapphire wondered. Her sister looked pale and gaunt. Her own diet could not be any better than theirs. She turned to go.
“Wait!” Sapphire said. “We have so much catching up to do. Surely you can stay for a few minutes.”
“Better not,” Claire said apologetically. “I don’t want to get in trouble. Maybe … maybe another time.”
“Stop!” said Sapphire. “There’s something I wanted to ask you!”
Claire hesitated. “What?”
“They said they would let me go … if I let them take my ear. Do you think they’re telling the truth?”
“No,” she whispered. “No, they won’t let you go.”
“How can you be sure?”
Silently, she pulled off her socks and shoes.
“Oh my God!” Sapphire gasped.
Claire was missing a toe on each foot. Her beautiful dancer’s feet mutilated.
Sapphire reached out and touched her arm. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s no big deal,” Claire said, trying to shrug her off. “It was five years ago.”
She watched as Claire walked back up the steps, only now noticing the difference in her gait.
“I’m going to lose my ear, aren’t I?” she called after her.
Her sister didn’t answer. Sapphire slumped down on the bottom step, still clutching the sandwich. And she probably would have taken a bite if it weren’t for the fact that Claire didn’t quite shut the door after herself.
She was giving them a fighting chance.
31
There was no time to lose.
“The door’s open!” Sapphire hissed to the others. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“No!” said Harmony. “It’s a trick!”
“Please,” Sapphire begged. She stood in the doorway, afraid the door might lock itself if it was allowed to close. Nothing would induce her to go back into that cellar. “We have to go now! This might be our only chance!”
“I can’t!” Harmony said. “It’s too dangerous!”
“You can,” Fizz said, taking her by the hand.
“No. You can’t make me!”
“Leave her,” Ingrid said. “She’s right. It is dangerous. This is a decision we all have to make for ourselves.”
“Well, I’m damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this rat hole,” Fizz said, scrambling for the door.
“We’ll send for help,” Ingrid promised, hugging Harmony tightly, “as soon as we’re out.”
“Keep it down!” Sapphire warned. “You never know who’s about.”
Certain as she was that Claire had let them out intentionally, there was still room for doubt. Claire was an unknown quantity these days and it was hard to know what she might do. What if she had been asked to let them out? It might be a trick. And even if it wasn’t, there was no knowing who or what was out there. No knowing if they had any real chance of escape.
“Why didn’t she wait for us?” asked Fizz.
“I don’t know,” said Sapphire. It made her uneasy. If Claire tru
ly wanted to help them, why didn’t she stick around to guide them out? What good was it to leave them to wander round the building when they didn’t know the layout?
The lift stopped creaking, signalling that Claire had gone back up to her own floor.
“OK,” Ingrid said. “Let’s go!”
The feeling of leaving the hated cellar was incredible, if only there were time to appreciate it. They congregated in the dimly lit corridor, which was, nonetheless, several times brighter than their miserable cellar. For a moment they just stood there, shivering like a row of paper dolls in their pathetically thin dresses. Their bodies looked bony and angular, as if their creator had been too rough with the scissors. They lacked warmth and colour and life. They had no weapons and little strength. They leaned against each other, barely able to walk.
“We can do this!” Ingrid said. She had been locked up longer than anyone. She was the hungriest for freedom.
The walls were a damp, monochrome grey. Dismal as it was, it was amazing to have something else to look at, besides the same four walls. There was a small, dirty window just below the roof. Sapphire could just make out the sky she never thought she would see again. It was a beautiful purpley-grey. Almost silver. And it was raining a little: slanted drips of water that streaked sideways down the pane.
“Here’s the lift,” Ingrid called.
Sapphire watched as she pressed the button.
“What’s taking so long?” Fizz muttered. She bounced nervously in place.
Sapphire pressed the button again. There was a loud creaking noise as the lift finally descended. It was very noisy. The thick cellar walls must have muffled the noise significantly.
“What if the May Queen Killer hears?” Fizz asked.
“It’s too late to worry about that now,” said Ingrid.
The doors jolted open and they all jumped back. But the lift was empty. A slight hum came from the overhead light. They shielded their eyes as they crowded in, unable to cope with the glare. The lift stank even worse than the cellar.
“Ugh!” Fizz squealed. “I stepped in a puddle!”
“Which floor do we want?” Sapphire asked. The buttons looked like they had been burnt off, but they still had little backlights on them.
The Perfect Girl Page 23
