by William Shaw
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2018 by William Shaw
Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox
Cover photograph by Steve Stenson / Arcangel
Cover © 2018 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First ebook edition: June 2018
Originally published in Great Britain by Quercus: May 2018
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ISBN 978-0-316-56346-8
E3-20180504-JV-PC
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DISCOVER MORE WILLIAM SHAW
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY WILLIAM SHAW
For LaLa
PROLOGUE
1995
WE ARE WATER.
That summer afternoon, as dragonflies hovered above them, the boys played in the long grass while Mum painted the words in big letters on the side of Royale.
‘There,’ she said, stepping back.
‘We. Are. Water,’ the older boy read aloud.
‘That’s right. We are.’
‘No I’m not.’ He touched his own bare arm; it didn’t feel like water.
The woman smiled at her young sons, green paint on her hands, and laid the paintbrush down on the can. ‘We are made of water,’ she said. ‘Like water we go everywhere. However much they hold us back, we still flow.’
The boy nodded, though he didn’t really understand. His attention had already moved on; a big hairy caterpillar was crawling up his brother’s leg.
‘Nothing can stop our flow,’ said the man called Deva, squatting near the boys on the grass and blowing a cloud of white smoke out through his nose. ‘We are water. We are elemental. We seep through the cracks.’
‘Right,’ said the woman, smiling at Deva. ‘Elemental.’
He grinned back. The boy watched them, wondering if Mum preferred Deva to them now. They had only met Deva for the first time two days ago when they had arrived on the site. Deva had looked at Mum, perched behind the wheel of their Land Rover, smiled and said, ‘You can park it next to me if you like.’ He had pointed at a big bus, windows covered in fading curtains; the sign on the front of it read: Heaven.
At the back of the bus there was an enormous bed, big enough for loads and loads of people to sleep in. The boys had been allowed to sit on it while Deva and Mum had manoeuvred Royale back and forth into place, putting bricks under her to keep her steady.
Now Mum is in that bed with Deva, and the boys are alone in the caravan. But the wind comforts them, rocking Royale on its axle in the dark.
‘Royale rocks, Royale rolls
Royale carries the royal three.
Royale rolls, Royale rocks
Across the wide and empty sea.’
The two boys chant the words in unison.
It’s a caravan though, really, not a boat. They know that.
It’s just a rhyme Mum made up, but for the two small boys, it has magical power. She got the name Royale from the badge on the front, fixed between the two grab handles. The royal three is the boys and Mum; not Deva. He’s not one of them. Never will be. Hope not, anyway.
Royale. Mum loved the sound of it so much, she always calls their caravan that. Royale is my ark in which I am queen, and you are my princes. Together, we are Royalty, roaming Albion under the protection of the White Goddess.
The two children are alone in bed in Royale, but their mother is just a few yards away even if she is with him, and the familiar buffeting reassures them that everything is OK. They are in the right place, in the top bunk, snuggled warm under heavy blankets and coats that smell of sheep and cigarettes, chanting the rhyme like it’s a spell to protect them. There is a stove, made from an old gas bottle, fed with wood pillaged from skips and copses, and it keeps them warm enough, even in winter.
This is home. When they stay with their gran in her brick house with carpets, banisters and a bathtub, it seems too solid, too stable, too orderly. They can’t sleep there. The quiet of the place is sinister. It’s as if the silence there is full of monsters and demons, ready to pounce.
It’s noisier here, but that’s what they’re used to. Noisier than most places they’ve stopped. Outside, they hear men shout and argue. On a windy night like this the dogs are restless, barking. The trees creak, still heavy with fluttering leaves.
But wherever they park up, by the side of a road, like here, or off in some field or wood, they know that here within Royale it’s always safe and cosy, rocking in the breeze. They’re never anywhere for very long. People in suits and uniforms always come and move them along, but nothing bad can happen in Royale.
So they are both lulled to sleep in the gentle rocking, arms around each other.
They wake only briefly when the caravan is filled with un-expected light and warmth and the stink of hot petrol. And now the shouting around them is louder than it has ever been.
‘Fire!’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fucking fire.’
Royale is burning. Their castle is vanishing. And in the abrupt blare of brightness, the two boys cry out, holding on to one another, heads peeping above the blankets, suddenly afraid. But only for a little while.
<
br /> It is how the fireman finds them, arms still around each other; two pale bodies under burnt black bedding. It is a sight he will never recover from.
ONE
The day the woman who claimed to be his mother arrived at the door, Julian Keen was killing Nazis in the spare room. He didn’t even hear the bell.
‘Can you get it, darling?’ Lulu called.
He had no idea, as he thumbed his PlayStation controller, that the woman at the door would change his life for ever.
At that moment, he was outside Castle Wolfenstein, climbing the wall by the lift shaft, and he knew from previous experience that if he didn’t kill the Nazi at the top within seconds, he’d be shot and have to go all the way back to the castle entrance again.
‘Get what?’
He had spent the afternoon in the park pushing Teo on the swing, then spent the last half hour reading The Gruffalo to him, twice. She should know by now, this was his me-time. Tomorrow morning he would be back at work; why shouldn’t he spend just a couple of hours on a Sunday evening playing games?
‘Julian? Didn’t you hear it? The doorbell.’
‘Can’t you get it?’
‘I’m making dinner.’
He wasn’t sure how much of the story Teo actually understood, but Lulu was convinced that the more you read to them at this age, the smarter they’d be.
‘Julian?’
It would only be someone selling cleaning equipment. Those young men with bad tattoos and lean faces who came round every week, box full of dusters and brushes tucked under one arm, dubious-looking ID held up in the other.
For God’s sake.
The Nazi had shot him anyway, sending him plummeting back down the lift shaft; the screen dimmed. He hadn’t been fast enough. He sighed, stood, put down the controller.
He heard it now, the doorbell ringing. ‘Coming,’ he shouted, irritated, pushing back his chair and setting off down the steep stairs.
Their flat was a duplex; first and second floors. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Magnificent views of canal from big glass windows. Use of swimming pool and gym. He squeezed past the buggy and his new bike. ‘Yes?’ he said, yanking open the door.
He saw and smelt the old woman simultaneously.
It was warm, late summer, yet she was cocooned in a dark men’s overcoat, greasy at the cuffs, frayed at the collar. Her face was filthy, the lines on her skin crusted black. The air around her was infected with the sharp scent of the unwashed.
She moved her head to one side slightly, as if examining him.
He returned her look, puzzled. ‘What?’
Her mouth opened, but nothing emerged.
She was scared, he realised; and, equally, he was too, because there was something frightening about homeless people. She was old and dirty and would want something from him.
It was a crime that such poverty existed in this modern city, but it was also impossible to know what to do about it. Maybe that’s what was so disturbing; the sense of not knowing what was to be done.
‘Look, I don’t know what you want. I’m sorry,’ he said, and firmly tried to close the door.
‘Who is it?’ Lulu called from upstairs.
But the door wouldn’t shut. He looked down and there was a threadbare shoe in the way. Dimly, Julian registered that it was a blue Converse, the kind of thing a teenager would wear, comical on a woman her age. Just before he had swung the door to, the old woman must have thrusted her foot into the gap. The thin shoe can’t have been much protection. It was a thick door, heavy with security features. The weight of it must have hurt her, he thought.
When he opened it, she was standing there weeping dirty tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t have…’
She was mumbling something.
Was this some attempt to extort him? Would she claim that he had assaulted her? It struck him that it might be some kind of scam. There might be more of them. They had heard stories of a barrister – or a journalist – being stabbed to death on his own doorstep. Hadn’t it been on the news? He looked past her into the darkness of Canada Street, more afraid now, but no one moved from behind the rows of cars. She was alone.
‘What are you doing, Julian?’ Lulu was at the top of the stairs now, above the baby gate, a glass of Gewürztraminer in her hand.
In spite of himself, Julian leaned towards the woman, trying to catch her words. And finally heard what she was saying.
He was so shocked by the five words she spoke, he took a step backwards, recoiling.
‘What’s wrong, darling? Has something happened. Shall I call the police? Julian?’
But he just stood there, open-mouthed, looking at the old woman, who was weeping on his doorstop.
‘Why did you invite her in?’ demanded Lulu in whispers.
‘Because she said…’
I am your mother, Julian.
‘You told me. But it doesn’t make any sense.’
They were in the kitchen. The woman was sitting in the living room on the orange Eero Saarinen butterfly armchair, waiting for the cup of tea Julian had said he would make her.
‘You don’t even have a mother,’ Lulu said. ‘Your mother is dead.’
He was in weekend clothes – jeans and a sweatshirt. In a slate grey skirt, Lulu always looked like she was dressed for work.
‘She is dead, isn’t she? Your mother?’
Through the open door, Julian peered at the woman. She was perching uncomfortably on the edge of the designer chair, looking down so that he couldn’t see her face.
‘I mean. I was told she died before I was adopted. But what if she wasn’t?’
Lulu was behind him now on tiptoes, attempting to examine her. ‘I don’t think she even looks like you. Did you see the scab on her face? It’s revolting. She’s just trying it on. Or sick in the head or something.’
‘Probably,’ said Julian.
‘You’re upset, aren’t you?’
‘Well, obviously. Yes.’
‘Tell you what. Ask to see some proof.’
‘What sort of proof?’
Behind them, the kettle roared.
‘I don’t even understand why you’re making her tea.’
‘I couldn’t really offer her wine.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He went to put a teabag into a cup. Lulu remained at the door. ‘She’s probably got lice. I’m going to call the police.’
‘Don’t,’ said Julian. ‘Not yet.’
‘But she can’t be your mother. It’s not possible. She’s obviously mental or something.’
‘Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you.’
Julian realised his hand was in front of his face. It took him a second to realise he had been chewing the skin on the side of his thumb, something he hadn’t done for years.
TWO
They were in the downstairs ladies’ washrooms, facing the row of sinks. ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Constable Ferriter. ‘You just have to read out what they’ve wrote on the card.’
‘We had television in London, too, you know,’ answered Detective Sergeant Cupidi.
‘Right. Obviously.’ Her junior officer pouted into the mirror. Cupidi was still new around here; the young constable was just trying to be helpful. ‘What is it then? Are you nervous?’
Behind them, a toilet flushed. ‘Nervous? No.’
‘I would love to give it a go, being on telly. So why don’t you want to do it, then?’
Ten minutes ago the Kent Police press officer had announced it would be better if a woman did the piece to camera, so Inspector McAdam had suggested his newest officer do it, the woman who had joined them from the Met: Sergeant Cupidi of Serious Crime.
‘In London nobody knows who you are,’ said Cupidi. ‘It’s different round here.’
Ferriter ran a finger across her neat eyebrows. ‘What’s the point of going on telly if people don’t recognise you? Half the fun. Your daughter will be proud.’
‘You don’t know my daughter. Besides. I’m supposed to be at home. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
Ferriter smacked her lips together. ‘Want a lend of some of my concealer?’
‘Concealer? Why?’
‘I could have a go at your hair too, if you like.’
‘Jesus. It’s an appeal to the public to identify the body of a dead woman.’
‘I know. But there’s nothing wrong with trying to look nice.’
Alex Cupidi frowned at herself in the mirror. What was wrong with her hair? ‘I do look nice.’
‘Yeah,’ said the young constable. ‘Course you do. That’s the spirit. See?’
A fist banged on the door. ‘Ready for you now, Sarge.’
Cupidi paused, ran her fingers through her hair, and looked at herself again, conscious of the younger officer’s critical gaze. For a second, she imagined she saw not herself, but the dead woman looking back.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Ferriter.
As if the glass were water, and her face was floating below it, just as the corpse had been.
She blinked. Opened her eyes again.
The man from the Marine Unit, in long waterproof waders, hands beneath the pale body floating in the dark ditchwater, preparing to lift her out. The long greying hair swirling about her white-skinned face, as if it were her own. She shivered. She felt suddenly old.
‘Sarge?’
‘Coming.’
They had set a camera on a tripod facing the sign that said Kent Police. A man from the BBC was trying to clip a mic to her lapel as she mouthed the words, written on the board that someone was holding up next to the camera.
‘You don’t look well,’ whispered Ferriter. ‘Want me to have a word with the DI?’
‘I’m fine. Who even wrote that?’ She pointed at the board.
‘It’s from the press office.’
‘There’s only one “t” in requesting.’
‘You don’t have to spell it out loud, just read it,’ muttered the BBC man, who had moved to stand behind the camera. ‘We’ll cut from you to the artist’s impression of the victim. Stand a little to your left… Do you mind crouching down a bit so you’re in line with the sign?’
‘Won’t that look stupid?’ At 5' 11" she was tall for a woman.
