‘No!’ exclaims Dawn, shaking her head as tears of laughter gather in the corner of her eyes, her cheeks glowing with a flush of red. ‘Mind you, sausages in baked beans? There’s no call for that.’ And now it’s Craig’s turn to laugh.
Dawn stands and as she does I catch her graze her hand against his shoulder.
I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I lock the door and run the cold tap, splash my face, press the towel against my skin. The intimacy between them stings. It’s something I have never had. I feel empty and more alone right now than I’ve ever felt, even as a lonely, only child behind the walls and locks of my home.
I walk back into the kitchen and find Dawn at the sink. Craig is beside her, but they split apart like naughty children when they realise I’m there.
‘I’d better be going,’ says Craig. ‘I’ll tell—’
He is interrupted by a loud crash and a shout from Dawn. She’s dropped a plate, and shattered china litters the floor.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It slipped.’
She stares hard at Craig. He mouths something then looks at me and smiles, self-conscious suddenly. Dawn bends and starts to pick up the pieces of broken plate.
‘He’s lovely,’ I say, soon after Craig leaves.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve been together all this time?’
She blushes. ‘What? No! No, it’s not like that.’
‘I thought you—’
Her watch alarm interrupts me. She moves her chair and turns up the volume on the flickering television as her gossip show starts. I want to talk about Craig. I want to talk like sisters, ask her how they met, but she silences me yet again with a lifted hand as she leans closer to the television.
I hate that stupid television.
I go into Alice’s room, kiss the top of her head, then pick up our book. ‘I think I’ll read a different story today.’
An hour later the theme tune that accompanies the credits of the programme drifts through from the kitchen. Then the sound stops as Dawn turns the volume to mute once again. I hear her footsteps in the hall and wait for her to appear at the door.
‘Reading again?’
‘We enjoy it.’
Dawn glances at Alice who sits motionless. ‘I doubt she even knows you’re here. But as long as you enjoy it…’
She lets her sentence hang unfinished, but I don’t respond.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ she asks. She goes to the bed and runs her hands over the covers to smooth away any evidence of me having sat there.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think you might be able to look after Mum for a few hours on Friday? On your own? I normally don’t leave her. Craig comes every now and then to sit with her, you know, so I can get money and that, but I never leave her more than an hour. But I’d like a bit longer, there’s something I need to do. If you think you’ll manage?’
‘You can have as long as you need.’
‘A few hours will be fine.’
‘You should have longer. Go for a walk on the beach or something.’
A light smile crosses her face, replaced quickly with a wistful sadness. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went on the beach.’ Then, as if justifying herself, adds, ‘I only leave her for the necessaries. But…’ She pauses, the half-smile still showing on her face. ‘But if you think you’ll be alright, I could remind myself what sand between my toes feels like.’ Then she nods. ‘Yes, that would be nice. I’ll look forward to that. And you sure you can manage?’
‘We’ll be fine, I’m sure. Actually, I also have something I need to do. I won’t be here tomorrow.’
‘Oh?’
‘I need to sort out something to do with Henry Campbell’s will.’
‘That bastard. How can you even say his name? They should be in bloody prison. It’s not fair they got away with it.’
I have a sudden flash of Henry and Elaine. His body with the pool of blood beneath his chair. His empty, glazed eyes staring at nothing above him. Her triple-bolting the doors and checking behind the curtains a hundred times a day and tearing at her skin until her nails drew blood.
‘They didn’t get away with it,’ I say then. ‘They lived with it every single day.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘So what’s the weather’s going to do today?’ I ask Phil, as I take my coffee from him.
‘Drok newl,’ he says, with a serious nod.
I stir in my sugar and think. ‘Bad something or other?’
Phil grins. ‘Fog,’ he says. ‘I reckon we’ve got fog as thick as semolina on the way. There’s rain coming, too.’ He takes my money and hands me the change. ‘What are you up to today? Nothing that’s going to be ruined by rain, I hope?’
‘Going to Bristol.’
‘What you doing there then?’
‘Something I’d rather not be.’
‘It’s nice, Bristol. I went there once myself. It’s a long way, mind. You staying the night?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
He opens his mouth as if he might ask me something else, but I smile and turn to leave the shop before he can.
‘See you tomorrow, Phil.’
‘Looking forward to it already, love.’
I walk along the harbour in the direction of the taxi rank on the other side of town. A sudden gust of wind takes the corner of my jacket and whips it up against my lower lip. It stings and I instinctively touch my finger to my lip to check for blood, but there’s none. I lick my lip and taste the salt from the air as I pull the zip up as far as it will go.
On the train I have a towering sense of déjà vu as I remember the journey down to Cornwall. Though I am travelling in the opposite direction, the feeling of going from somewhere familiar to somewhere unfamiliar is overwhelming, and the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach grows heavier the further I travel from St Ives. In St Ives I am hidden, cocooned and relatively safe, but sitting on this train I am exposed and vulnerable as I race closer to the world I left behind. I jump each time the electric doors at the end of the carriage push themselves apart. I imagine David or Jeffrey or Miss Young, or even worse, the ghosts of Elaine and Henry Campbell, walking through them at any minute.
When the train finally pulls into Bristol Temple Meads, a sense of relief spills over me; I’m desperate to escape the confines of the carriage, which has become unbearably claustrophobic. I step off the train and immediately miss the saltiness of Cornwall. The Bristol air seems tighter, darker somehow. Standing in the station taxi rank the feeling of ominous repetition deepens: another taxi to another address on another piece of paper. As I wait, my chest tightens and my breathing grows shallow.
I know I’m my own worst enemy. The anxieties I inherited from my life with the Campbells shouldn’t merely be kept in check, they should be banished. They are based on lies and secrets; they aren’t real. To allow them to run amok like they do is madness. I concentrate on calming my rising panic before it takes hold.
The taxi driver makes no attempt to converse. Instead he asks if I mind having the radio on. I don’t, and as we drive we listen to horse racing. I watch him muttering under his breath, his knuckles whitening as he grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter and tighter, until he bangs the dashboard and turns off the radio with an aggressive punch and we sit for the remainder of the journey in tense silence.
He turns into a crescent and pulls up to the kerb.
‘This is it,’ he says gruffly, pressing a button to calculate the fair. ‘Eight pounds forty.’
I give him ten and tell him to keep the change. He thanks me, a little friendlier now, and I climb out. The area is upmarket. There’s no rubbish, no depression, just newly painted buildings and pavements that look like they’ve been vacuumed. The street curves in a graceful sweep of smart, terraced villas in varying shades of cream and white with window boxes and hanging baskets that would have made Elaine nod approvingly. Each house mirrors the last with shiny black railings marking tidy boundaries,
broken at intervals to allow paths of black-and-white tiles to lead their way to pillared front doors. I turn my face into the gentle breeze that blows up the street, pushing my hair out of my face as it cools my nervous skin.
The house the Campbells own is different to the others. Rebellious weeds break through its chequerboard pathway, and leaves and rubbish scatter the small front garden. As I stand on the front doorstep I listen obediently to Tori’s voice in my head as she tells me to be brave and reminds me I am here for information and I don’t need to be scared. I’m not sure about opening the door and walking in. It feels wrong just walking into a house I don’t know. I push my finger against the doorbell. My stomach pitches. There’s a peephole in the centre of the door like a tiny bullet hole, and I imagine being scrutinised by an unseen stranger behind. I press the bell again. A gust of wind blows and lifts the fallen leaves at my feet, making them dance around me then fall back down. I lean across and cup my hands around my face to peer in the window. It’s dusty and dark, a layer of grime and old cobwebs turning the glass murky. I can’t see anything much, a chair, I think, and an old cushion or pile of clothes on the floor on the far side of the room. Other than that it looks empty. I step back from the window and open the zip pocket in my bag and retrieve the key. A single Yale carrying a red plastic tag with the word Bristol written in black block capitals.
It’s your house, you know, says Tori indignantly. You are allowed inside.
I bend and peer through the letterbox. There’s nothing; just a collection of pizza leaflets and junk mail, which litter the floor of the hall. I put the key into the lock and turn it, trying, irrationally, to be as quiet as possible. The door swings open with a loud creak. I stand on the doorstep and call into the house.
‘Hello?’ I call.
The hallway is filthy. Dirt and leaves coat the floorboards. There’s an old coat in a heap and a bent bike wheel rests against the grubby white wall. This doesn’t look like the sort of place where Henry would spend time. He had been clean and neat to a fault. I step inside and pull the door closed behind me. The noise of it closing makes me jump. I walk down the hallway into a large, dilapidated kitchen. I concentrate on keeping my footsteps as light as possible. The place stinks of rubbish bins and when I enter the kitchen it’s obvious that the house has someone living there.
I fight the urge to turn and bolt.
Stay.
The state of the place is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s a tip. The sink is rammed full of dishes, papers and packets litter the floor, and everything has a thick layer of grime. There’s a large sash window with a line of pigeons on the sill outside. Their feathers are puffed out and they coo so loudly I can hear them through the glass. The wall beneath the window inside the room is smeared with bird droppings, fallen like drips of paint to the floor. There is a small, portable hob with two rings and a bottle of gas attached by an orange rubber pipe, and there are stubs of candle glued to surfaces by their own wax wherever I look.
I back out and then turn and walk back down the hallway. I don’t think I’ve drawn breath yet. My hands are sweaty and every instinct inside me is screaming for me to run. There’s a staircase with an ornate iron balustrade, the treads carpeted with yet more litter and grime. I peer up the stairwell, hesitating, but don’t go up. Instead, I go into the room on my right, the one by the front door, the room I’d peered into from outside. A thick, sour smell hits me and makes me gag as soon as I step inside. It has high ceilings and an intricately carved cornice. There is no furniture other than the single wooden chair I’ve already seen. The chair has curved arms and a tattered upholstered seat. Beside it, on the floor, is a battered black radio with a coat hanger for an aerial. There are more candles and more rubbish – food containers, dirty plates, newspapers, empty bottles.
I don’t want to be here when whoever has made this mess returns. I back out of the room but, as I do, there’s a stirring. The sound of a person groaning. I jerk my head to look. It’s coming from the pile of clothes in the corner. Except, now I’m in the room, I see it’s not a pile of clothes. It’s a figure, a man, his face to the floor, his arm outstretched. I scream involuntarily. My heart leaps into my mouth and I turn and make for the door, but as I do I trip and land on my hands and knees. I scream again. I look over my shoulder. The man has sat upright. He is mumbling. He wears a navy cardigan and fingerless gloves revealing dirty, calloused fingers. On his head is a woollen hat, greasy black hair streaked grey visible beneath.
He turns his head in my direction.
I scramble to my feet, ready to run, cast another look over my shoulder. And then I stop in my tracks. I take a sharp inhalation of breath and the smell in the room catches at the back of my throat. Fresh fear floods me instantly. I recognise him, but it takes a moment or two to place him.
When I do, my knees give way.
‘Well, well, well,’ his voice rasps, rusty and dry, his Cornish accent heavy. ‘If it isn’t Bella Campbell. I wasn’t expecting to wake up to you today.’ He laughs quietly, the noise incongruous against my shock and confusion.
The man is from Dawn’s photograph.
The man is my father.
Mark Tremayne blinks blankly. His face registers no emotion. I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot as panic holds me in its vice-like grip.
I can’t process this. Secrets and lies scream at me from the chaos. Can it be him? I only saw that one photograph. I could be mistaken. And he called me Bella. Bella Campbell. Not Morveren. I continue to fight my instinct to flee; I need answers. Even if I have got it wrong, if this man isn’t the man from the photograph, he knows things.
He knows me.
‘You’re Mark Tremayne?’ I breathe.
‘Ah!’ He laughs again, this time harder, and the laugh dissolves into a hacking cough. He bangs his chest with one of his gloved hands. ‘So,’ he says, grasping at the words. ‘You’re Morveren again.’
He stands up, unsteady on his feet and then he walks towards me. I shuffle backwards until I hit the wall. My hands feel for the doorframe. He continues to approach.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I say weakly.
But he doesn’t stop, he walks past me, through the door, and as he does I catch the smell of him, unwashed and foetid, like a tramp from the street. I lift the back of my hand to my nose to repel the stench. I am left there alone. I could run.
No, don’t run. You have to follow him. You have to find out what the hell is going on.
So I walk after him into the kitchen. He is at the window, sliding the sash upwards. The pigeons jostle and grumble but don’t fly away. He strokes one of them as he reaches into his cardigan pocket for a handful of seeds, which he scatters along the window ledge. The pigeons begin to peck frantically, as if they’ve not eaten in weeks. He turns back to me and then slaps his forehead and smiles.
‘Where are my manners? I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m not used to guests. Would you like a drink?’
He doesn’t wait for my answer, but shuffles over to the sink and roughly shoves dirty plates and cups aside as he fishes for a glass.
‘I want to know how you know Henry Campbell. Is it you taking money out of a savings account he set up? Why? Why are you here? Did you arrange for him to take me? Is that why you went to France? I don’t … understand … I…’
I watch him fill a dirty, smeared glass with water, his eyes fixed on the tap.
‘Answer me!’ I shout then. ‘Why!?’
But there’s no reply. I shake my head to rid it of the sudden, vivid image of Elaine locking the top of bottom bolts of our front door while holding my hand so hard I think my bones will snap.
‘I don’t understand!’
The man straightens his back and faces me. I remain in the doorway, my arms wrapped around me, but I don’t look at him. I should phone David. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here on my own. I’m unsafe. I have another flash of memory. A man, a monster, looming at the door, his hand reaching out for me. I feel as if I’m walkin
g a tightrope suspended thousands of feet above a ravine.
‘So he’s dead then? The doctor?’ Tremayne clears his throat and then spits something vile into the sink.
After a moment I nod.
‘And her?’
I look at him again, and anger begins to well inside me as I look at his filthy, brutish face.
‘How did you find out?’
‘He wrote a note.’ I’m surprised how steady my voice is. ‘Shortly before he slit both his wrists.’
‘Ah, yes. He likes notes.’ He smiles with what appears to be genuine amusement. ‘I knew he’d top himself. He was the type. No balls, see? Did the crime but never let go of it, let it brew, like an apple with rot – looks fine on the outside but inside it’s black and festering. I walk up to the suspension bridge sometimes. Wait and watch for jumpers. I don’t always get lucky, but you’d be surprised how many turn up to try it. You know there’s this metal sign screwed to the bridge with the number of the Samaritans on it? Poor souls. Hardly any of them see it through. They spend hours dithering about on the railings then pack off home to bed. I’ve seen three jump over the years. Each of them had the same look about them. Different to the others. They hung low. The doc? He hung low.’ He tips the glass of water up to his lips and then put the glass onto the pile of dishes in the sink. ‘Why are you here?’
My skin bristles with sweat and my heart thumps. I can’t read him. There are no signs. His body language gives nothing away, nor does the flat tone to his voice. There seems to be no remorse or guilt or grief or even a jot of happiness at seeing me alive. No relief.
In Her Wake Page 17
