Shape of Snakes

by Walters, Minette

  "Is that true, Geoffrey?" asked Wendy in shocked tones.

  "No," he muttered, looking at Sharon in sudden disbelief. "She didn't say anything ... just kept grabbing at my sleeve, trying to hold herself up ... so I pushed her away..." His voice petered into silence as he began to question how many lies Sharon had fed him. "No wonder you let me think it was my fault," he said resentfully. "Who were you protecting? Yourself or that bloody son of yours?"

  But Sharon's only response was a tiny gesture of denial as the last vestiges of color fled from her face.

  "If she faints she'll hurt herself," I warned.

  "Let her," said Maureen spitefully. "It's no more than she deserves."

  "Oh, for God's sake," I sighed wearily, standing up to help Wendy support the limp body. "If you believed that then why didn't you tell Mr. Drury the truth at the time?"

  But it was a stupid question, which she didn't bother to answer. She had no regrets over Annie's death. Indeed her only goal had been to steer retribution well away from herself so that she could indulge her spoils to good advantage. And if that meant exploiting men's baser instincts to instill terror in women, then so be it. In a bizarre sort of way I could even admire her for it, for hers was a vicious world, where greed-be it material or sexual-was a way of life, and by her own standards she had made a success of it. Certainly she was the only person in that room who owned her house through the quickness of her mind.

  I touched a hand to Sharon's peroxide hair and it felt dry and dusty beneath my fingers. "The worst thing this lady ever did to Annie was pour a bucket of water over her head and make a few complaints to the council," I told Geoffrey, "but if you can't believe that then you should bugger off and give her a chance to get her son back. Wendy's right. All you've ever done is make her a prisoner to the truth."

  "But-"

  "But what?" I snapped. "Would you rather trust Maureen's version of events? Mine come free, remember, and hers come at a price." I grabbed his elbow and forced him to look at Sharon. "This woman has stood by you for over twenty years-how much longer do you need to know her before you trust her? Or must she always be judged by the rotten standards that you"-I gestured toward the sofa-"and this vermin over here choose to live by?" I spoke as much for myself as I did for Sharon, for I knew all too well the pain of living in an atmosphere of disbelief and distrust. You sink or swim ... fight or give in ... and whichever route you choose, you take it alone.

  Geoffrey gave an uncertain shake of his head.

  I knelt down abruptly in front of Sharon and took her hands in mine. "Sell your house and move," I urged her. "Cut this man out of your life and start again. Make friends with Bridget ... help Michael go straight. He needs his mother's love just as much as he needs his wife's ... and you owe him that much. He thought you were a murderer, Sharon ... but he protected you ... and he doesn't understand why you were so quick to abandon him. Fight for him. Be the mother he wants you to be."

  She was too dazed to grasp what I was talking about and stared helplessly from me to Geoffrey, her subservience to men so ingrained that she would do whatever he told her to do.

  Maureen's triumphant voice came at me from the sofa. "There's only ever been one tart in this street, and she's gone down like a sack of potatoes because she's been found out. So go tell that to the police and see if they care about the few bits of trash we pilfered."

  I wanted to kill her. I wanted to squeeze her scrawny throat between my fingers and choke the venom out of her. Instead, I stood up with a sigh and reached for my rucksack. "Annie never called Sharon a 'tart,' Maureen, she called her a 'whore.' You told me that yourself."

  Her mouth dropped open, for once unable to find words, because she knew I was right. I longed to be strident ... to scream and yell ... to stamp my feet ... to roar my frustration to the winds. I had hoped for the miracle that would prove me wrong, but instead I just felt desperately sad and desperately weary.

  "And I wouldn't rely on the police letting you get away scot-free if I were you," I went on with commendable steadiness, exercising the sort of ladylike control that would have brought a smile of approval to my mother's face. "The only protection you've ever had was other people's silence. As long as they had secrets to hide you were safe." I shrugged. "But there aren't any secrets anymore, Maureen. So where does that leave you?"

  Derek gave an unexpected laugh. "I told her you'd never give up," he said, "but she wouldn't listen. Said schoolteachers were too prissy to get up off their knees and fight." Maureen pursued Wendy and me to the door, demanding answers, which I refused to give. Who did it if it wasn't Sharon? How much was I going to tell the police? What proof had I of anything? Her lip had fattened from the punch I'd delivered and she caught at my sleeve to hold me back, threatening me with prosecution if I didn't give her some "fucking explanations."

  I pulled away from her. "Go ahead," I urged. "I'll even tell you where I'm going-I'll be with Mr. Jock Williams at 7 Alveston Road, Richmond-so by all means send the police 'round to arrest me. It'll save me having to call them. And, as for giving you answers"-I shook my head-"no chance. What you don't know can't help you, and I'm damned if I'll be party to Derek and Alan telling any more lies for you." I raised my eyes to where Alan was standing in the shadows of the hall. "I have every reason to hate and despise you," I told him, "but I think your wife is the one woman in a million who can rescue you from your mother. So my best advice is, go home now and take your father with you. If Beth hears the truth about you from Derek, then she may understand and forgive. If she hears it from your mother, she won't."

  "Goodness me!" Wendy gasped, patting her fluttering heart as we walked away. "That's the first time I've seen her afraid."

  "Are you all right?" I asked in concern, reaching out to support her under the elbow.

  "Absolutely not. I've never had so many shocks in my life." She lowered her bottom on to the garden wall of number 18. "Just let me get my breath back." She took some deep breaths, then wagged a finger at me as she began to recover. "Peter would counsel you strongly against this obsession with revenge, my dear. He'd say the only path to heaven is through forgiveness."

  "Mm," I agreed. "That's the advice he gave me when I told him about Derek and Alan."

  She tut-tutted crossly. "Is that the time he let you down?"

  I watched a car negotiate the speed bumps in the road. "He didn't do it on purpose," I demurred. "He was like everyone else ... He thought I was hysterical." I looked toward Maureen, who still hovered by her gate. "I think I know why now. I never remained objective long enough to keep my voice under control. And that worries people."

  "But why Peter?" she asked curiously. "Didn't you have anyone else to talk to?"

  Only Libby ... "It was the church more than Peter," I said noncommittally. "I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

  "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. You really were let down then.''

  I shook my head. "Rather the opposite actually. I went in weepy and pathetic, looking for sympathy, and came out like an avenging angel." I gave an abrupt laugh. "I kept thinking, if I ever forgive, it'll be on my terms and not on the say-so of a fat, sweaty bloke in a dress who thinks I'm lying." I sobered just as suddenly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

  Wendy squared her thin shoulders and stood up. "It's a good description of Peter," she said tartly. "He's an actor at heart so he's only really happy when he's in costume. He thinks it lends authority to what he's saying."

  "I was pretty peculiar at the time," I said by way of apology, "and he did try to be kind."

  "He's got no fire in his belly, that's his problem. I keep telling him his sermons are ridiculously PC. He's supposed to be addressing evil, not offering a policy statement on behalf of liberals."

  I chuckled. "You'd be a thunderbolts-and-lightning vicar then?"

  "It's the only kind to be," she agreed cheerfully. "A whiff of brimstone and sulphur puts sin to flight quicker than anything. And it's more dramatic. The fires of hell and da
mnation are a great deal more exciting than the bliss and majesty of heaven."

  I adored her ... for her openness ... her steadfastness ... God save me, her similarity to my mother ... but I could see she was too exhausted to take another step. I persuaded her to sit back down while I fished in my rucksack for the mobile I'd borrowed off Luke that morning for the purpose of calling a minicab. A car drew up beside us before I could find it.

  "Do you want a lift?" asked Alan gruffly through the open passenger window as he leaned across to fasten his father's seat belt. "We'll be passing Alveston Road."

  I was too startled to answer, and looked at Wendy.

  "Thank you, my dears," she said, rising graciously to her feet. "That's most generous of you."

  Nothing more was said until Alan stopped his car in front of Jock's house. Derek and Wendy were content to appreciate the silence, while Alan kept darting me worried glances in the rearview mirror, his mouth working to frame a form of words that would be acceptable to me.

  But it was only when he drew to a halt in Alveston Road that he found the courage to take a chance. He turned 'round. "It's probably a bit late"-he faltered-"and I wouldn't blame you if said no-but I wish I'd never-Did Danny tell you I've been straight these fifteen years?"

  I stared him down. "If you want to say sorry, Alan, then say it. Don't spoil it by making excuses."

  He ducked his head in a scared nod, an echo of the schoolboy I had caught thieving from my purse. "I'm sorry."

  "Me, too." I held out my hand to him. "I didn't help you when I had the chance and I've always regretted it."

  His hand was warm and sweaty in mine-and I can't say my flesh didn't crawl at the contact-but it felt like closure. For both of us. I toyed with warning him against interpreting it as a reason not to be honest with Beth, but Derek's presence was an optimistic sign and I held my peace. In the event I was glad I did.

  "Just so you know," he said, as I assisted Wendy out of the car, "it wasn't us who put cats under your floorboards."

  I frowned. "Does that mean there were no cats? Or someone else put them there?"

  He jerked his head at Jock's front door. "There was nothing Mr. Williams didn't know ... He used to watch everything us kids did from Sharon's window ... and the only reason he kept quiet was because the nigger called him a 'faggot.' He hated her for it 'bout as much as we did for being called 'trash.' "

  I closed my eyes for a moment. "I will be going to the police, Alan," I said sadly. "You do understand that, don't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then do yourself a favor," I said with a heartfelt sigh, "and drop 'nigger' from your vocabulary because I will take you apart piece by piece if you ever refer to Annie in that way again."

  He nodded obediently as he engaged his gears. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Ranelagh."

  Wendy rapped sharply on Derek's window. "What about you?" she asked. "Are you going to apologize, too?"

  But he looked at her as if at an irrelevance before gesturing to his son to drive on.

  We stood on the pavement, looking after them until they turned on to the main road. "I think you've just been suckered," said Wendy with a small laugh. "What's the betting they head straight for the nearest cash-point so that Alan can drop Derek a hundred quid to vanish off the face of the earth?"

  "Oh, ye of little faith," I said, escorting her between our car and a mud-splattered Renault Espace that was parked beside it in Jock's drive. I wondered briefly where the elderly Mercedes was before it occurred to me that Jock, forever a prisoner to truth, would have hidden it away in order to continue his pretense that he had an XK8 in a lockup garage.

  E-mail correspondence with Libby Garth, formerly

  Libby Williams of 21 Graham Road-dated 1999

  M. R.

  From: Libby Garth (Iiga@netcomuk.co)

  Sent: 17 August 1999 20:17

  To: M. Ranelagh

  Subject: Re Meeting on Friday at Jock's house

  Dear M-written in haste before I rush out to collect Amy from her friend's house. You say it's water under the bridge and that none of us needs be embarrassed after so long, but I am MORTIFIED! How can I look any of you in the face, particularly you and Jock? I know you've asked me not to explain or apologize, but I do feel badly about it. AND I AM SORRY. Please believe me, whatever Sam and I had going all those years ago-it was dead as a dodo before you left England.

  I know you say this meeting on Friday is important, but I truly can't face it. You and Jock must feel very raw to have Sam confess after twenty years-you, in particular, must hate me for my hypocrisy. You probably think I was only pretending friendship by helping you over Annie, but it honestly wasn't like that. I was pleased to help, even more pleased that we went on being friends in spite of everything. The truth is I let myself believe that Sam would never tell-more because he remained so close to Jock, I think, than because he thought you wouldn't be able to take it-and it wasn't as if it was terribly important where he was that night, just so long as he and Jock admitted they didn't see Annie at 7:45. In all these years, the only lies I have ever told you were to do with that wretched alibi-God knows, I wish we'd been honest at the time-but it seemed so unimportant compared with the hurt you'd feel to learn about the affair. Of course, it was wrong, but I couldn't see any harm in it. Sam and Jock obviously had nothing to do with Annie's death-as I kept telling you-and I didn't want you thinking badly of me.

  Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I have written out a statement, with precise times and details of all movements in and out of number 21 that night-insofar as I remember them-which I am sending as an attachment. I think you'll find they agree with what Jock and Sam say. I will, of course, do it formally when the time comes. Meanwhile, I will end with love, and pray you can still accept it.

  Love,

  L

  PS: Apart from anything else, I can't just abandon the girls to their own devices for the day, and poor old Jim would be deeply alarmed if I told him I was about to have a reunion with my ex-husband! He'd want to know why ... and then I'd have to tell him about Sam ... and how I'd wronged my best friend. I'm sorry, m'dear. I hope you understand.

  LIBBY GARTH

  From: M.R. (mranelagh@jetscape.com)

  Sent: 18 August 1999 12:42

  To: Libby Garth

  Subject: Re Friday

  My dear Libby, attachment received and understood and love accepted in the spirit it was given! Believe me, I've always valued the help you've given me re Annie's "cause"-I wouldn't have known half as much as I do about her hateful neighbors if it hadn't been for you! Unfortunately, there are one or two discrepancies between your statement and Sam's-i.e., he says you were doing the laundry when he arrived, while you say you were watching TV. Also, he says you'd had a bath before he arrived, and you say you'd been cooking. I know they're only small things-but I really do need the accounts to match before I hand them to the police. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. And there really is nothing to worry about. Jock and Sam are reconciled-if a little cool-while Sam and I are like Darby and Joan. We've been together so long we're tied at the hip and can only walk in step these days. However, if you can't manage to come down here because of leaving the girls and worrying about Jim, the three of us can-and will- come to Leicester.

  Love,

  M

  *28*

  I had asked Jock to leave his front door ajar so that Wendy and I could let ourselves in when we arrived, and as we walked through the hall toward the kitchen I saw Libby before she saw me. She was sitting on a hard-backed chair, her face in profile, and I had a second or two to take stock before the sound of our footsteps alerted her to our presence. Oh, sweet revenge! Gone was the startling brunette in her mid-twenties who had flaunted her looks and figure to good advantage, and in her place was a scrawny, beak-nosed woman with a sagging chin and newly dyed hair that was too dark for her complexion.

  My strongest memories of her were the impatient gestures and petulant expression that had s
poken volumes about her frustration with her life in 1978, and I was amused to see she still had them. Indeed, the impression she gave was that all the water that should have passed beneath her bridge had merely piled behind a fragile dam ... which was on the point of burst ing.

  "I've had enough of this," she was saying, stabbing angrily at her watch as Wendy and I approached. "She told me 12:30, and if she doesn't come in the next five minutes-"

  She broke off as Sam and Jock looked up in relief to see us in the doorway.

  "Hello, Libby," I said with a bright smile. "You're looking well."

  She took similar stock of me but there was no answering smile. "You're late," she snapped.

  Perhaps I should have been surprised by her lack of cordiality after the numerous letters, faxes and e-mails she'd sent over the years professing support, friendship and ... love ... but I wasn't. Her saccharine sweetness had been conditional on my continued ignorance of her affair with Sam because that made me a fool. But Sam and Jock had obviously told her, as I had asked them to do, that I'd known about it since before my first letter to her-which made her the fool. And that was the one thing she had never been able to tolerate ... being a laughingstock.

  "I know and I'm sorry," I said cheerfully. "It took longer than I thought. Do you remember Wendy Stanhope, the vicar's wife? Wendy ... Libby ... Jock ... Sam." I raised inquiring eyebrows at the men as they stood up to shake Wendy's hand. "Did you get the sandwiches? Because we- are-starving!"

  Jock pulled open his fridge door with a flourish. "All here," he said, removing plates to the table, and handing a bottle of chilled Chardonnay to Sam.