by Eleanor Ray
Amy took her set in her hand and squeezed it, feeling the reassuring sharpness of the keys’ edges against her skin. She stroked the key ring, a gray fluff-ball that reminded her of a curled-up mouse. “Thanks, Chantel,” she said.
“Thanks, Amy,” replied Chantel, her voice serious. “And you, Tim. I needed this.” She reached out and gathered them both in a large hug. Amy hugged them back. Living with the two people she loved most in the world. She knew she was going to be very happy in this house.
Chapter Nine
When Spike had suggested that they meet in his “office,” Amy couldn’t help but picture the word in quotation marks. Probably used ironically to describe a squat that doubled as an opium den. She’d counter-proposed a café nearby, but Spike was insistent. She settled by suggesting a meeting in the morning, when she imagined there to be fewer of whatever “clients” (also in quotation marks) Spike had around. He’d agreed, and surprised her by proposing 8 a.m. The “office” was in town, and looking at a map, Amy discovered that if she kept the meeting short and to the point, she wouldn’t even be late for work.
And she wanted to keep it as short as possible. She’d stopped by the Boots at the station again on the way and Joanna had obliged with a generous four sprays of perfume that left Amy with a slight headache. Still, it would be better than Spike’s fragrant alternative, and she couldn’t risk the scent of cannabis lingering on her clothes in her office.
So Amy was rather surprised when she found herself standing in front of a large corporate building, rather smarter than the offices of Trapper, Lemon, and Hughes. She double-checked the address and then stepped inside, wondering if she’d somehow contacted the wrong Spike.
There were lots of companies in this building, and she filled in her details on a large book of lined paper. She hesitated at the name of the person she was visiting, feeling that to write “Spike” was somehow inappropriate. There was no alternative, so she scribbled it in a messy, hopefully indecipherable way. Apparently she was expected, and the receptionist solemnly handed her a lanyard and instructed her to take the B lift to the seventeenth floor. Amy obliged. She stepped out of the lift to a maze of offices with glass partitions and myriad logos and stood there, feeling lost.
“Amy Ashton?” A tall man with short gray hair and a smart suit was looking at her.
“I’m looking for Spike,” she said, feeling like a little girl. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a surname.”
“You haven’t changed a bit!” he exclaimed. Amy found herself encased in a hug. The man released her and held her back from him a little so they could better see each other. “You don’t recognize me without the dreadlocks, do you?” he asked.
“Spike?” Amy peered into the face. Sure enough, he was starting to look familiar. His eyes were less sleepy, his skin was cleaner, and he was missing his trademark smell. But it was him.
“Gosh, that takes me back,” he said with a laugh. “Michael Spikerton,” he added. “No one has called me Spike in years. Come, come, we’ll go to my office. I’ve ordered breakfast.”
Amy followed him, feeling dizzy with his transformation. He led her into a small room with a desk, table and chairs, and a dazzling view of the city. “Mini Danish?” he asked her, gesturing to a very corporate-looking breakfast platter. “Or fruit skewers? Help yourself and I’ll pour the coffee.”
“What happened to you?” exclaimed Amy, unable to contain herself.
“I grew up,” replied Spike. “A while ago now. Milk?”
“Yes,” said Amy. She took a cinnamon swirl from the platter and sat down, staring at him. “When…?”
“I’d always planned to become an adult when I hit forty. Have fun in my twenties and thirties, and, man, I did.” He smiled at Amy, memories filling his eyes. “By then I’d built up enough of a nest egg”—he winked at her—“so I quit the drugs, invested the money, and cut off my dreads. They were starting to stink.”
“What do you do now?” Amy gestured around the room.
“This and that,” said Spike mysteriously. “Import-export. Bit of property development. Investments. All pretty legal.” He grinned at her again. “It’s actually much easier work. More sociable hours. How’s the art?”
Amy picked up the pastry, then put it down again. “I don’t paint anymore,” she told him.
“That’s a shame,” he said.
She looked at the mug in front of her—white, bland, and corporate. “I don’t remember you looking at my work back then,” said Amy, suddenly feeling angry at this new Spike. Michael. “You were too busy getting high and getting Chantel in trouble with the police.”
Spike looked nervous for the first time. “I hope we’re not going to have a problem,” he said. “I’ve changed.” He looked at her, his face hardening. “But if it’s trouble you want…?”
“No,” said Amy, alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking. Spike had seemed harmless enough when she first met him, but she remembered now that he had a temper.
“Sorry,” said Spike, taking a bite of a miniature croissant. “Uncalled-for.”
“That’s okay,” said Amy.
“So how are you?” asked Spike, his voice friendly again. “Are you still in that same house?”
“Yes,” replied Amy, surprised.
“I’ve got a few properties in the area now,” said Spike, the salesman in him coming out. “I’d be happy to arrange for mates’ rates. For old times’ sake.”
“I’m happy where I am.” Amy paused. “I’ve come about Tim,” she said. “And Chantel.”
“Have you seen her?” Spike dropped the croissant back to his plate.
“No,” replied Amy. “Not since she disappeared.”
She took the photo from her bag and passed it across the table. Spike inspected it. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Do you recognize the photo?”
Spike frowned at it. “Sorry,” he said, passing it back. Amy swallowed disappointment and stared at the picture. It was a beautiful sunset, but why couldn’t it have a landmark? A clock tower. A church. Instead it was just anonymous trees, the ubiquitous sun, and the corner of some kind of vehicle. If only she could find out where it was.
“I blame Jack,” said Spike, out of nowhere. “I never liked him. You know he’s a DCI now?”
Amy ignored him. Of course Spike would be jealous of Jack. “Jack told me that Tim borrowed money. From a friend of Chantel’s. I thought you might know something about that.”
“Not a thing,” said Spike quickly. “Tim wasn’t my biggest fan.”
Amy felt disappointment rise up her throat and mingle with the cinnamon pastry. “You’re sure?” she said. “You had quite a lot of cash around. Perhaps—”
“I certainly didn’t lend him money,” replied Spike. “I’d never trust a musician to pay me back. Definitely not Tim.”
“And you don’t have any idea who might have—”
“None,” replied Spike. He picked up his croissant again. He looked into the air, as if his memories were floating there. “I never thought Chantel would have done that to you,” he said, his voice hushed, as if someone might be listening. “You guys were so close. I think if she’d have run off with anyone, it would have been you.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” said Amy.
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Spike. He paused. “When Chantel and I were together, she still loved you the most. Not in that way,” he added hurriedly. “But it was hard, that’s all I’m saying. Always being second fiddle to her best friend.”
“I didn’t see much of her once she was with Jack,” said Amy.
Spike shrugged. “Maybe it was different with those two,” he said. “But I don’t see her leaving you for a man. Not any man. Certainly not Tim. It just doesn’t feel right. You must know that.”
* * *
AMY SAT IN her house looking at Scarlett. The bird looked back. Leopards can’t change their spots, thought Amy, and robins can’t change their red breasts. But d
rug dealers? It was like the opposite of Samson; perhaps cutting off his hair had given him strength.
What he’d said about Chantel had made her think. Perhaps it wasn’t just Tim she should be looking for.
She stood up and went to find her handbag. Inside was the piece of paper with Toyah’s number. The country code made it feel long and complicated.
Dubai.
It seemed an unlikely place for Toyah to end up, but perhaps her dislike of the sunshine was overshadowed by her desire to be around family. And perhaps her brother-in-law had mellowed. People changed. Amy knew that.
She’d searched for Toyah on social media, hoping to be able to message her. But nothing. Amy was surprised. She also searched for Tim’s father. He came up on Facebook instantly, and Amy fired off a quick message to him before she could change her mind.
Amy held the paper again, running her finger across the lettering. It had been years since she’d spoken to Toyah. Once she’d been like a second mother to Amy; she’d certainly felt closer to Toyah than she had to her own. But after the initial flurry of contact and panic when Chantel and Tim disappeared, Amy had stopped calling. Toyah had tried to get in touch several times, but Amy hadn’t answered. If her daughter could betray Amy like that, she’d decided, she had no reason to trust Chantel’s mother.
Unless she’d been wrong all these years.
Amy picked up her phone and dialed. She realized she hadn’t even checked what time it would be in Dubai now, and decided to hang up and work that out first.
But before she could, a voice answered.
Not Toyah’s.
“Is that Laura?” she asked.
“Yes,” said a suspicious voice. “Is this a sales call? Because I’m busy.”
“No,” said Amy. She hesitated. She’d met Laura once or twice, and pictured her in her mind’s eye. Dark-blond hair always partnered with a tan. An elegant array of white trousers and tailored jackets. A no-nonsense approach to life that Amy had found intimidating. “I don’t know if you remember me,” she mumbled. “It’s Amy Ashton. I was friends with Chantel.”
This was greeted by silence. “How did you get this number?” Laura asked eventually.
“Jack Hooper gave it to me,” said Amy. “He was Chantel’s boyfriend—”
“I know who Jack Hooper is,” said Laura, her voice careful. “What were you doing talking to him?”
“Is Toyah there?” asked Amy, not feeling up to dealing with Chantel’s rather aggressive aunt after all.
“She’s out right now,” replied Laura. “But I can take a message.”
Amy hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to share. “Can you tell her that I found something, please? Something that I want to discuss with her?”
“That’s rather cryptic,” said Laura. “Care to be more specific?”
“It’s a letter,” said Amy. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I found it five days ago, but I think it’s been there for a long time. From Chantel.”
Silence greeted her again.
“I couldn’t read it,” continued Amy. “Not much of it. It’s been outside awhile and it’s all smudged by the rain. There was a picture there too. A photo.”
“What was in the photo?” asked Laura.
“I don’t know,” said Amy. “A park maybe. Trees. A sunset. Some kind of car in the corner. But I can’t tell where it was taken. I thought that Toyah might recognize it. She could help me understand what Chantel was trying to tell me.”
“And did you show the letter to Jack?” asked Laura.
“Yes,” said Amy. “And the photo. He didn’t recognize it.”
“There was no address on the letter, for you to contact Chantel?”
“Nothing legible,” replied Amy.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” snapped Amy. Then she felt bad. Laura must want to know where her niece was too. “Sorry,” she said. “But the letter was in quite a state.”
“Did you show it to anyone else? The photo or the letter?”
“Spike,” replied Amy.
“Spike? How’s that little scumbag?”
“Surprisingly well,” said Amy. For a moment she felt an overwhelming urge to gossip about Spike’s change in appearance with Chantel. But this woman on the phone was not her friend. Not even close.
“He didn’t recognize the picture,” said Laura.
“No,” said Amy, feeling impatience rise up again. “When will Toyah be back?”
“Not for a while,” replied Laura. “But I’ll tell you what to do. Scan in the picture and the letter and e-mail it to me. I’ll show Toyah, and she can get back to you if she recognizes anything. She’s very busy though, so it might take her a while.”
“Okay,” agreed Amy, writing down the e-mail address Laura gave her.
“Amy?” said Laura, her voice a little softer. “It’s been a long time since Toyah has heard from you.”
Amy nodded agreement, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t be seen.
“I think that she’ll be pleased that you’ve been in touch. Very pleased.”
“I just want to find out the truth,” said Amy.
“Of course,” replied Laura.
“I can’t imagine Toyah in Dubai,” said Amy, her voice thoughtful. “It just doesn’t feel right.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Laura. “She’s here with me. Her sister.”
“But…” Amy paused. She knew Toyah didn’t get on with her sister or her sister’s husband. But she couldn’t say that. “It’s so hot,” she finished lamely.
“We’re not camped out in the middle of the desert here, you know,” said Laura. “There’s air-conditioning and skyscrapers and sunscreen.”
“Okay,” said Amy, unconvinced.
“Listen, Amy. Toyah is fine here. But keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“What?”
“You can’t trust everyone.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Amy. Belongings were what she could trust. People were not.
“Take care, Amy.” She hung up.
The phone call reminded Amy how abrupt Laura could be. She remembered now that Toyah used to complain about her sister and was rather pleased when she moved abroad. She’d said that Laura was an easier person to love when there was a continent between them. Add in her dislike of sunshine and the fact she couldn’t stand her snobbish brother-in-law, and Amy found it more and more unlikely that Dubai would be where she chose to move. Something didn’t add up.
She’d lost her daughter, Amy reminded herself. Grief made people behave in odd ways.
Still, it left Amy feeling uneasy. She wished she’d had the chance to speak to Toyah herself after all. The unease mixed with another emotion. Sadness. She realized that it wasn’t just Chantel she’d missed from that family.
It was Toyah too.
* * *
AMY PAUSED. SHE could hear a noise coming from outside her house. People talking. She made her way carefully through her little ravine to the window.
It was six o’clock, but still light in the middle of the summer. Three women and a man were standing just outside the gate to her garden. Amy peered at them. Rachel and Nina, loitering there as usual. The man she didn’t know. He looked bored and was glancing at his watch. The third woman she recognized. Floral trousers again. It was the woman from the council.
The woman looked over and Amy tried to duck, but there was a box in the way. They locked eyes.
“She is home,” said Leah loudly.
“I told you she would be,” said Nina. “She’s always in, of an evening.”
There was nothing for it. Amy made her way to the door. She opened it. “This is a surprise,” she said.
“It shouldn’t be,” said Leah, sounding cross. “We sent you a letter.”
Amy found herself rather pleased that she’d cleared out her hallway, and left the door a little ajar. “Must have got lost in the post,” she said, thinking of all the mail
she’d dumped into Richard’s recycling.
“I hope now is a good time,” said Leah. “We know you are in full-time employment so we scheduled an out-of-hours visit.”
“What for?” asked Amy.
“To look at your house,” said Nina. “All that stuff, the pots, the mice. It’s for your own good, Amy. I think I saw a rat the other day.”
“A rat?” said Leah, making a note. “That’s not good.”
“Come on, Nina,” said Rachel. “There was no rat. And just one very small mouse, and that could have come from anywhere.” She smiled at Amy. “I have a cat,” she explained to Leah. “He fetches them from all over.”
Amy gave Rachel a grateful smile, but Nina was scowling at her friend. “It’s a menace to the children, her being here,” she said.
“Really?” said Rachel. “I thought the children were rather taken with her.”
“That’s not the point,” said Nina.
“Quite right,” added Leah. “This is about your house, Amy, not about your character.” She paused. “Have you had a chance to clean up at all?”
“The hallway,” said Amy. She opened the door a little more, and all three women peered in. The man stayed back, leaning on his van, his fingers twitching. He looked very much like someone who wanted a cigarette.
“That’s quite a lot of stuff I can see on the staircase,” said Leah. “Can I come in and take a better look?”
“No,” said Amy, feeling panicky again. “There’s no point. I’m going to clear the rest of the house,” she lied. “But I’ve only done the hallway so far.”
“Okay,” said Leah, making a note. “That’s a shame.”
“But we’ve got a schedule, don’t we, Amy?” interjected Rachel. “The hallway was this week’s target, then next week we’re going to do the living room, then the kitchen before we move upstairs in August. We’ve hired a skip.”
Amy’s heart sank at the thought of her beautiful belongings higgledy-piggledy in a horrible dumpster.
