by Camilla Way
‘Sure! Help yourself, you can come round any time and play with them, if you want,’ Neil replies. ‘Honestly, it’d be no trouble.’ When she’s out of earshot he murmurs, ‘Lovely girl, your daughter.’
‘Thanks, I’m very proud of her.’
‘I see she inherited her mother’s good looks.’
Viv sighs inwardly but manages to keep smiling. ‘Cleo tells me you have a son?’
The expression in Neil’s eyes alters a fraction. ‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘Mark.’
Glancing around the room she notices there are no photographs on display and in the following silence she asks politely, ‘Have you and his mother been apart long?’
But it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it and he answers almost curtly, ‘Ten years, yes. But tell me about you,’ he says, grinning once more. ‘How’s that little coffee shop of yours doing? I must drop by one day, sample your wares!’
For the following half hour Neil proudly shows her around his home, and while doing so, barely stops talking. He tells her about the holiday he’s going on next year, the golf he likes to play, the car he’s got his eye on. On the few occasions he does ask Viv about herself, it seems clear that he is merely waiting for her to finish so that he can turn the subject back to himself. The strange thing is that, despite this, Viv is left with very little sense of who he really is. There are no plants or pets or music, no books, no art on the walls. Everything is neat, expensive and bland. Forty minutes later, Viv is finally able to make their excuses and leave, by which time she can feel a tension headache forming between her eyes.
‘He’s a bit of a wally, isn’t he?’ Cleo mutters as Viv unlocks their own front door.
‘Oh don’t, he’s harmless enough,’ admonishes Vivienne, ‘I’m sure he means well,’ and then they catch each other’s eye and smile.
The next Thursday, Viv calls into Sainsbury’s and spies the doctor from her café wandering the vegetable aisle, basket in hand. She hesitates, wondering whether to approach him, but hearing again Samar’s voice saying, ‘Ask him out, for God’s sake!’ she mutters, ‘Bugger it,’ and, going over to him, loudly exclaims, ‘Oh, hi!’
He looks up, his preoccupied frown turning into a smile of recognition. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks. Listen, um, Aleksander, right?’ At his look of surprise she says, ‘I, erm, saw your name on your ID card the other day.’
He nods. ‘Please, call me Alek.’
‘I’m Viv.’
He smiles. ‘Yes, I know. You told me at the café. How your name’s not Ruby, but Vivienne.’
‘Sorry, yes. Of course I did.’
They both stare down at Alek’s shopping basket. A tin of artichoke hearts, some asparagus, a haddock and a punnet of mushrooms, and she wonders what he might be making, if it’s some sort of Kosovan speciality, perhaps, and whether he’s a good cook. She looks up and realizes that he’s gazing at her quizzically.
She clears her throat, feeling the heat creep up her neck. ‘Look, I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but I’m going to anyway,’ she blusters. She takes a breath then says, ‘Would you like to go out for a drink one night? With me, I mean? Would you like to go to a pub or, well, yes, in fact, just a pub, and have a drink?’ She can’t remember the last time she asked a man out – it must be decades – and she listens to herself speak in shocked fascination.
He stares at her, then his eyes shift from left to right, as if seeking help from one of the passing shoppers, and she can tell with absolute certainty that the idea of going on a date with her has caught him completely off guard, that he’d never considered it before, and she feels herself die a little inside.
Almost immediately the polite smile is back in place and he says, ‘Well, yes. OK. That would be nice. Perhaps I can take your number and we can work something out … I’m sorry but I don’t know my shift pattern this week so …’
Awkwardly they do the getting their phones out thing and the confusion about who should give their number first and then it’s done and Viv decides she can live without the courgettes and teabags she’d gone in there for and goes back out into the night and keeps walking until she’s out of sight and exhales loudly and says, ‘Shit!’
As she approaches her road she phones Samar. ‘You’ll never, in a million years, guess what I’ve just done,’ she says.
They’re still chatting while she lets herself into her house and she doesn’t think much of the envelope lying on her doormat, barely noticing it as she picks it up and carries it to the kitchen. It’s only when she’s said goodbye to Samar and hung up that she gives it her full attention. Frowning, because the envelope has no address or stamp, she opens it. And when she pulls out the neatly folded piece of A4 paper she can only stare down at it dumbly. In her hand is a photocopy of a news story, dated 9 November 1984, from the Essex Enquirer. Its headline reads: ‘TEEN MUM-TO-BE SLAIN IN BEDROOM’. Alongside is a black-and-white photograph of her sister. Across the accompanying article someone has written in thick red pen, ‘Who killed Ruby?’
Icy fingers close around her heart. Jack. She looks wildly around as though he might be somewhere near, might somehow be watching her even now. Jack has come to her house, has invaded her and Cleo’s home with his threat and his madness and in that instant the last three decades melt away, she is eight years old again, shivering in her bed as she waits for the letter box to rattle. But this time it’s not Jack’s brothers or uncle who have come for her; it’s Jack himself, she knows it is.
Dazedly she checks the time: three o’clock. Cleo will be going straight to football practice after school, so won’t be back until five. Scarcely breathing, still holding the piece of paper, she picks up her keys and hurries from the house.
8
When Viv arrives at Peckham police station and explains the reason for her visit she’s taken to a small interview room where a Detective Sergeant Christopher Bennet listens to her story with polite attention.
‘I think Jack Delaney’s behind this,’ she says after she’s shown him the newspaper cutting and described the circumstances of her sister’s murder.
Bennet has grey, very deep-set eyes, which he turns on her now. ‘Because …?’
‘Because this is exactly the sort of thing sent to us by his family after he was found guilty. It was my evidence that put him in prison in the first place. They couldn’t accept his conviction.’
There’s a short silence while Bennet considers this. ‘You said he moved to Canada after his release?’ he asks.
‘Apparently. But he must be back in the country. I don’t know why he’s started doing this. The flowers, then this …’
‘And there’s no one else you can think of who might want to upset you? No one you’ve fallen out with recently, or …’
Briefly a picture of Shaun’s sullen face flashes into her mind, but she dismisses it at once. ‘No, and even if I did, nobody apart from my mum knows about the flowers, the date Ruby died and so on.’
‘Nobody?’ he asks. ‘No one else came to the funeral, or knew about her death?’
She sighs. ‘Well, I mean, of course lots of people from the village did but—’
‘So there could in fact be a number of people who would have known the relevance of the day’s date, the type of flowers at your sister’s funeral and so on.’
‘But why would they want to, after all this time? Surely you can at least consider that this is Jack Delaney’s doing? Look, he spent thirty years in prison, it was my evidence that put him there. I feel like he’s … I don’t know, trying to punish me or something …’
The officer’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘He got thirty years?’
‘His original sentence was extended after he attacked his cellmate – who he half blinded and left in a coma, by the way. Look, this isn’t some petty criminal we’re talking about. He killed my sister and their unborn child, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes, I understand your concern.’ Bennet ge
ts to his feet and looks at Viv expectantly until reluctantly she does the same. ‘Leave it with me,’ he says as he shows her out of the room.
‘But what if something else happens?’ Viv asks anxiously. ‘I have a child. I’m terrified that he’s going to do something worse, maybe even turn up in person.’
‘If anything at all happens to concern you then do phone us immediately,’ Bennet says. ‘As things stand, we have no clear indication that it is Jack Delaney who’s behind this. Nor have you received any actual threat of violence either to yourself or your child.’ He smiles at her then, blandly reassuring. ‘However, whoever did send that article to you clearly did so maliciously, and I can assure you that’s something we take very seriously. I’ll make some enquiries and see if I can ascertain Delaney’s whereabouts to put your mind at rest. I’ll be in touch.’
Once back in the street, Vivienne slowly makes her way towards her car. She has a sudden, desperate longing for her mother. Stella will know what to do, she always does. She glances at her watch: 4 p.m. An hour until Cleo gets home. Quickly she unlocks her car and gets in.
It had been Stella who first saw through Margo, of course. Vivienne was ten when the trouble began. It was a beautiful day in the long summer holidays before she started secondary school, and she and Margo were in the garden, picking runner beans for dinner. They knelt, side by side, a red colander between them, their arms occasionally brushing as they worked in companionable silence. She liked the way Margo smelled in this heat, her sun-soaked skin giving off a salty warmth, her long dreadlocks, bound up with a mustard-coloured scarf, emanating a sweet, earthy scent with a hint of rosemary.
‘I heard you, last night,’ Margo said quietly, her eyes on the vine she was stripping. ‘I heard you shouting in your sleep.’
Viv stopped, and not looking at her said, ‘I have nightmares sometimes.’
And Margo nodded.
There was a silence, as Viv looked down at the bean in her hand. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
Margo shook her head. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’ After a pause she said, ‘You have them often?’
‘Yeah.’ She wanted to tell her that she had them almost every night, had done ever since Ruby died, that they were too dreadful and frightening to bear, but without a word she carried on picking the beans and dropping them into the colander, not even looking in Margo’s direction.
‘You know you can always talk to me, Vivienne, about anything at all,’ Margo said after a while. ‘We’re friends, right?’
She nodded. ‘I know.’
And Margo had reached over then and put her arm around her, and Viv had breathed in her warm sweet scent and felt comforted.
Later that day she’d been helping her mother make the evening meal when Stella said carefully, thoughtfully, ‘You get on well with Margo, don’t you? She’s kind to spend so much time with you.’
Viv had smiled. ‘Yeah, I do, she’s ace.’
‘Good,’ Stella said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘That’s good.’
But Vivienne, always highly attuned to her mother’s moods, had sensed something disconcerting in her voice. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘don’t you like her?’
Stella sighed. ‘Oh, yes. I mean, she’s clearly a remarkable woman to have set up all this,’ she gestured at their surroundings. ‘I just … I don’t know … It’s probably nothing. Something about her bothers me … I don’t know why. I can’t put it into words. I don’t think she likes me very much.’
Viv had stared at her in surprise. Margo seemed so nice; surely Stella was mistaken? They’d continued preparing dinner together, but her mother’s words had stayed with her, a troubling itch she couldn’t quite reach.
Sure enough, at the next Sunday house meeting, she saw the first hint of what her mother meant. They’d been talking about the possibility of selling produce from their garden and Stella had been putting forward her idea to make jam from their plum tree when Margo had sighed deeply and said, ‘Shall we give the others a chance to speak now, Stella?’ The coolness in her tone had been unmistakable and Stella had dropped her head and fallen silent, but not before she’d met Viv’s gaze with a look that said, ‘You see?’
A week later, while they cleaned the bathroom together, Stella had spoken to her again about Margo. Vivienne liked how her mother had begun to talk to her recently as though she were another adult, whose opinion she respected. ‘She always singles you out, always calling you away to spend time with her alone. Have you noticed that?’ She frowned, ‘Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t have children of her own.’ She’d sighed, then, staring into space. ‘I can’t help feeling there’s something a bit odd about it, though.’ And right at that moment Margo had walked in.
‘Vivienne,’ she’d said, after giving a brief nod to her mother, ‘I managed to get that book from the library we were discussing. Would you like to come and take a look?’
Viv had hesitated, feeling intensely awkward, and in the silence Stella had smiled and said quietly, nicely, ‘I think she’s happy here, Margo, for the time being.’
The two women stared at each other for a beat or two, until Margo nodded and said quietly, ‘Another time then, Viv.’
‘See how angry she is?’ Stella had murmured when she’d gone. ‘It’s so strange, don’t you think? I wonder what happened in her life to make her so angry.’
Viv stands on her mother’s doorstep, wrestling with her panic. She needs to compose herself so as not to alarm her, and she takes long deep breaths before she knocks on the door. But when Stella opens it she takes one look at her daughter and pulls her quickly inside, her eyes scanning her face, immediately alert to her daughter’s mood. ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What’s happened?’
She should have known she could hide nothing from Stella. Any resolve Viv had tried to muster on the way over – to hide the true extent of her fear, to shield her from the memories Jack’s name would dredge up – melts instantly away, and within minutes she’s told her everything. Her mother’s face is pale as she gazes back at her. ‘But … it can’t be him. It can’t be Jack! Why would he do this? Why now?’ She gets to her feet, her hands trembling as she grips the back of her chair.
‘I don’t know. I’m really scared, Mum. He came to my house and put it through my door, exactly like Jack’s family did after Ruby died.’
‘Do you think it might be one of them? One of his brothers, maybe?’ Stella stares at Vivienne with frightened eyes. ‘He was sentenced according to the law! He was found guilty!’
‘I know.’ Viv nods. ‘I know he was.’ For the first time, her mother looks older than her sixty-five years; frailer and more fearful than Viv’s ever seen her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she says miserably. ‘I’m so sorry for upsetting you like this.’
At that moment Shaun appears in the doorway and he glances in at them sullenly before sloping away, looking so much like a sulky teenager that Viv almost laughs.
The two of them sit in silence for a while before Stella sighs. ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ she says.
‘No,’ Viv tells her, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll do it.’ When she’s brought their mugs to the table she sits down again and glances at her mother’s anxious face. Trying to lighten the mood, she forces a smile. ‘God, I was actually feeling pretty good before I found that bloody envelope. Typical, isn’t it?’ She passes Stella her mug and says, ‘I asked someone out on a date, believe it or not. And he said yes.’
Stella looks at her. ‘Did you? Who?’
‘A guy called Alek. He comes to my café sometimes. We’re going out for a drink.’ When her mother doesn’t respond she adds, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Stella stirs her tea. ‘Hmmm.’
Viv frowns. ‘Well, what does that mean?’
‘Oh … nothing, darling. Just … you know, be careful, that’s all. Remember how men have treated you in the past, how fragile you can be. You don’t want to become ill again.’
‘Mum, that was a long time ago.�
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‘I’m only saying it because I care. I don’t want you to be hurt.’
Viv sighs. She should have known better than to broach the subject of her love life with her mother. Stella has always been odd about her having boyfriends. An overprotectiveness born of what happened to Ruby, no doubt, but aggravating nonetheless. ‘I know, Mum,’ she says. ‘I know you do.’
That evening, Viv is at home with Cleo making their evening meal when DS Bennet calls her. She hurriedly closes the kitchen door, anxious that Cleo shouldn’t overhear their conversation.
‘You were right in thinking that Jack Delaney went to Canada,’ Bennet tells her. ‘He arrived there with an electronic travel visa, ostensibly as a tourist, and he didn’t apply for residency.’
She holds the phone more tightly. ‘And …?’
There’s a pause. ‘We haven’t been able to trace his whereabouts since then.’
‘So he could have come back to Britain?’
‘There’s no record of a Jack Delaney re-entering the country.’
‘I’m sure someone who’s been in prison for thirty years would know how to get a false passport!’ she says.
Bennet’s reply is guarded. ‘Look, it’s possible, but we have no way of telling whether Delaney’s responsible for the newspaper article and flowers.’
Viv exhales in disbelief. ‘So what now? I’m supposed to wait until he does something else? What if he – I don’t know – breaks in, attacks me or my daughter? What then? He’s a convicted murderer, for Christ’s sake!’
There’s a short silence. ‘I’m sorry, Vivienne, I can only advise you that, if anything happens, or if anything else concerns you, you should call us straight away.’
‘Is that it?’ Vivienne cuts in. ‘Seriously?’
‘I understand your frustration. But—’
She doesn’t let him finish. ‘OK. Thanks for your time,’ she mutters, before hanging up.
For the next few days Viv exists in a state of tense watchfulness. She begins driving Cleo to the bus stop each morning, parking across the road so she can see her safely on her way. Even so, she worries. ‘Cleo, darling,’ she says cautiously over breakfast one morning. ‘You know never, ever, to talk to strangers, don’t you? Or accept lifts, or anything like that. Even if they tell you they’re … I don’t know, a friend’s dad or something … You never would, would you?’
