Jane Corry 5 страница

But their bus went on, gathering speed. On the other side of the street, she could see Ed, waiting for a different bus. He went another way to work, he’d said yesterday. Carla knocked hard on the window and waved. Yes! He was waving back. And although Carla was sad that Lily had missed her bus, she also felt warm and happy because now they had friends. Proper friends. It was one more step away from being different.

‘I think you were wrong, Mamma, ’ she said.

Her mother, who was examining her face in the little mirror which she always carried in her bag, stared sideways at her. ‘Wrong about what, Carla? ’

‘You said that women who don’t look after themselves don’t get handsome husbands. You also said that Lily is fat. But Ed is like a film star. ’

Her mother let out a little trill. It made the man on the other side of the bus glance at her admiringly. ‘That is true, my clever little bird. ’ Then she pinched her cheek. ‘But what I didn’t say was that women like Lily might get a husband, but they need to be careful. Or else they might lose them. ’

How could they lose them? Carla wondered as she prepared to get off (this was her stop now). Did they drop them in the street? Or mislay them on the bus like she had mislaid a pink hair slide the other week? Besides, Lily might be big but she was kind. She had kept her secret about the caterpillar. And she had let her make a cake. Was this enough for her to keep Ed? Carla didn’t want her to have to find another husband.

She was about to ask, but Mamma was calling out. Giving her instructions for this afternoon when school finished. ‘Wait for me, my little one. Do you hear me? Right there by the gate, even if I am late. ’

Nodding happily, Carla jumped off the bus, waved, scuttled across the playground and made her way into the classroom. After the ball incident the other week, she’d been disappointed to find that the children in her class had still not been very friendly. But now she had Charlie, they would soon come round. She was sure of it.

At break-time, she wrapped Charlie up carefully in her jumper so he wouldn’t get cold, and left him in her locker. Then she went out to play. ‘May I join in? ’ she asked the girls who were playing hopscotch. No one answered. It was as if she had not spoken.

She tried a group of girls who were throwing a tennis ball against a wall. ‘Can I play too? ’ she asked. But they just looked the other way.

Carla’s stomach felt like it did when it was empty, even though it wasn’t.

Slowly, she returned to her classroom. No one was there. Not even the teaching assistant who had taken her home when Kevin had hurt her eye. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her since that day, although she had heard one of the other teachers saying she had been ‘let go’, whatever that meant.

Excitedly, Carla went to her locker and began to unwrap her jumper. Charlie would understand about the children who wouldn’t talk to her. Charlie would make her feel better…

No. NO!

Charlie was dead. Slit from top to toe in a jagged line, his lovely green fur ripped. And on top of him, a note. In big red capital letters.

THEEF.

9 Lily

I need to run faster. Or I’ll miss the bus. If I were thinner, it might be easier to run. Lollop, lollop, go my breasts against my chest. The same breasts that Ed had fondled when he’d rolled on top of me unexpectedly last night. Yet afterwards, when his eyes finally opened, they expressed surprise at the person beneath him.

Me.

I too had been surprised. In my half-awake state, I had imagined someone else. His soft hands on my breasts. His mouth on mine. His hardness against my body…

‘Got to wash, ’ I mumbled before staggering to the tiny bathroom and drying my eyes. When I returned, Ed was fast asleep.

Where had that come from? Why had I imagined Joe in bed with me? A man whom I disliked…

And who was Ed imagining? I can guess. There might not be anything concrete apart from that overfamiliar gesture the other night. But I can smell it. Just as I smelled Joe. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to listen to my intuition.

While all these thoughts churned endlessly through my mind, Ed slept. He looked so peaceful. Snoring lightly, a growth of fine fair hair on his chin. Quietly, so as not to wake him, I eased myself out of bed, tiptoed into the kitchen and got out the mop.

I got so distracted that I didn’t sense Ed coming in until I heard his voice. ‘Why are you cleaning the floor at this time? ’ He was fastening his tie as he spoke. It bore, though he didn’t seem to have noticed it, a drop of blood from the shaving nick on his neck.

I looked up from my kneeling position. ‘It’s grubby. ’

‘Won’t you be late for work? ’

So what? I needed to make the lino gleam. If I couldn’t make it all right with my marriage, I had to make it all right with the kitchen floor.

And that’s why I’m running now. If I hadn’t gone mad with the cleaning, I wouldn’t have left the flat fifteen minutes later than normal. Wouldn’t be watching the bus disappear up the street. Wouldn’t be dreading the excuses I’d have to make to my boss.

As I come panting to a halt, I see Carla, nose pressed against the glass, waving madly at me. ‘Come on, ’ she mouths. Then she appears to add something else.

Fatty? Surely not. Carla’s a sweet child. Although I’ve seen the way Francesca looks at me pityingly. And I’ve also seen how the daughter copies everything the mother does.

Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time someone had called me fat.

As I sit waiting for the next bus, I can’t help thinking about Carla. Carla and her green caterpillar.

‘You stole him, didn’t you? ’ I’d said when we looked after her yesterday. ‘Why? ’

There was a shy yet defiant turn of the head. A discomfortingly mature pose which suggested it was practised. ‘Everyone else has one. I didn’t want to be different. ’

I don’t want to be different. Just what Daniel used to say.

My instinct’s right. I’ve got to help this child.

My boss is waiting in his office. He’s about thirty years older than me and has a wife who gave up her job when she got married. I get the distinct feeling he disapproves of me.

Soon after I’d joined the firm, I was foolish enough to tell one of my colleagues that I wanted to go into law ‘to do some good’.

My boss overheard. ‘Good? ’ he scoffed. ‘You’re in the wrong job for that, I can tell you. ’

I flushed (if only there was a cure! ) and kept my head down after that. Yet at times, especially when he’s barking at me, I want to tell him what happened with Daniel.

Of course I wouldn’t really. Even Ed wouldn’t understand if I told him the full story. It would be madness to tell my boss. He’s sitting across from me now, a pile of papers between us, and a frosty smile on his lips. ‘So how are you getting on with Joe Thomas? ’

I cross my legs under the table and uncross them again. I’m aware of Ed’s imprint from last night, still inside me. Etched on my body like the surprise on his face.

‘The client is still playing games with me. ’

My boss laughs. It’s not a friendly laugh. ‘He’s in a prison with a high proportion of psychopaths, Lily. What do you expect? ’

‘I expect a better briefing. ’ The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back. Fear gives me courage – rightly or wrongly – to stand up for myself. ‘I don’t think I have enough background, ’ I carry on, trying to recover the situation. ‘Why has he launched an appeal after being inside for two years? And why won’t he talk to me properly instead of speaking in riddles? ’

I pull out the paper Joe gave me with the strange numbers and letters.

‘What do you think these figures mean? ’ I ask, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘The client gave them to me. ’

My boss barely glances at the creased sheet. ‘No idea. This is your case, Lily. New evidence, perhaps, that he’s only just got hold of? That might explain the delay in the appeal. ’ His eyes narrow. ‘I’m throwing you in at the deep end, just as they did to me at your age. It’s your chance to prove yourself. Don’t let either of us down. ’

I spend the rest of the week doing what I can. But there are other cases too in my workload. They pile up with intentional regularity, or so it seems. Clearly, my boss is testing me. Just as Ed is doing, with his blow-hot, blow-cold approach to me.

‘I’m struggling with that client still, ’ I start to say one evening over dinner: an undercooked steak and kidney pie which doesn’t look quite like the picture in the well-worn Fanny Craddock book that Ed’s mother passed on to me. Ed is chewing slowly, as well he might. My meal is a challenge. Davina, by the way, went to one of those cookery schools in Switzerland.

‘The one who… Ed? Are you all right? ’

I jump up from the table. Ed’s gasping for breath and his face has gone all red. Something’s stuck in his throat. Shocked into action, my hand whacks down on Ed’s back. A piece of meat shoots out across the room. He splutters and then reaches for a glass of water.

‘Sorry, ’ I say. ‘Perhaps it was a bit underdone. ’

‘No. ’ He’s still spluttering, but his hand comes up to reach mine. ‘Thank you. You saved me. ’

For a minute, there’s a connection between us. But then it goes. Neither of us feels like eating any more. I scrape the offending meat into the bin, realizing, too late, that it should have been braised before I put on the pastry top. But there’s something else too.

How easy it would have been to let Ed choke to death. To pretend it was an accident.

I’m shocked – no, appalled – at myself. Where did that thought come from?

But it’s then that I have my idea.

Ross. The actuary I met at that awful party when Ed and Davina had disappeared. Hadn’t he discussed this very issue with me? I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they’re sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it’s important, you see, for insurance.

So I got his number from Ed. And yes, Ross was free the following day. How about lunch at his club?

‘These figures, ’ I say, handing the sheet of paper over to Ross as we sit at a table with a stiff white tablecloth and hovering waiter, ‘were compiled by a client of mine. He’s… well, he’s in prison for murder. ’

Ross shot me a surprised look. ‘And you think he’s innocent? ’

‘Actually, you might be surprised if you met him. ’

‘Really? ’

We fall silent as the waiter pours out our wine. Just one glass, I tell myself. Nowadays, I appear to be drinking more than I used to, which isn’t good for concentration or my calorie intake. But Ed likes a couple of glasses every evening and it seems wrong not to keep him company.

‘I need to know what these figures refer to, ’ I say, rather desperately. ‘Joe’s good with numbers. ’

‘Joe? ’ His eyebrows rise.

‘We’re often on first-name terms with our clients. ’ I hurry on, reminding myself that, actually, Joe had told me to call him ‘Mr Thomas’ until I’d solved his riddle. ‘This man has some kind of condition. He’s very methodical in some areas and yet finds it difficult to speak to people. He prefers to speak in puzzles, and this… well, this is one of them. ’

I detect a gleam of interest in Ross’s eyes. ‘I’ll look into it. ’ His tone is so reassuring that I almost want to hug him. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll come back to you. ’

And he did. ‘A mixture of water temperatures and models of boilers, including their age, ’ he says now, beaming. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the implications are pretty big. I showed them to an engineer friend – don’t worry, I didn’t give him the background. But he said that there’s a definite pattern. So I had a hunch and did a bit of rooting around in our resource department. ’

He hands me a newspaper cutting. It’s from The Times back in August when I was preparing for my wedding. An exciting time, when I hadn’t, perhaps, read the paper as carefully as I normally did.

SCANDAL OVER FAULTY BOILERS

I scan the piece with increasing excitement. ‘So, ’ I say, summarizing the article in front of me, ‘a number of boilers, made over the last ten years, are suspected of being faulty. To date, seven customers have made complaints involving irregular temperatures leading to injury. Investigations are currently being carried out, but so far there are no plans to recall the models in question. ’

Ross nods. ‘That’s seven who have come forward, but there are sure to be more. ’

‘But it’s been going on for years. Why didn’t anyone realize before now? ’

‘These things can take time. It takes a while for people to spot a pattern. ’

Of course it would. Lawyers can miss things too. But I can’t be one of them.

‘I’ve worked out the figures, ’ I say as I enter the visitors’ room the following day.

Funny how this is becoming more natural now. Even the double doors and gates seem quite familiar. The same goes for the seemingly casual pose of my client, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair, those dark eyes fixed on mine. This man is thirty. Ed’s age – my husband had his birthday a few weeks ago. Yet I feel as though I’m dealing with a truculent teenager.

One thing’s for certain. I’m not going to allow those ridiculous fantasies into my head again.

‘Worked out the figures? ’ He seems slightly annoyed. ‘Really? ’

‘I know about the boilers. The lawsuit. You’re going to tell me that the boiler company is responsible for Sarah’s death. You said the water was hotter than you’d expect after thirty minutes. Your boiler was faulty. It’s your defence – or rather your self-defence. ’

He’s tilting his head quizzically to one side, as if considering this. ‘But I told you before. Self-defence can’t get you off. ’

‘It can if you have the right lawyer, ’ I shoot back.

‘Congratulations. ’ He’s gone from disappointed to smiling in just a few seconds. Holding out his hand as if to shake mine.

I ignore it. I’m cross. Unnerved too.

‘Why couldn’t you just have told me about the boiler figures at the start? It would have saved a lot of time. ’

‘I told you before. I had to set you the clues to see if you were bright enough to handle my case. I must have someone who’s on my level for this. Someone on the ball. ’

Thank you, Ross, I think silently. Thank you.

Then he leans back, slaps himself on the thighs and lets out another laugh. ‘And you did it, Lily. Well done! You’re hired. ’

Hired? I thought I was already.

‘You still haven’t told me exactly what happened. ’ My voice is cool, laying down a boundary between him and me. ‘I’ve had enough of messing around now, ’ I add. ‘If you want me to represent you, I need to know everything about you. No more clues. No more games. Straight facts. Why, for example, did you always cook dinner? Why did you usually run Sarah’s bath? ’ I take a deep breath. ‘Was Sarah right when she told her family you were controlling? ’

His face is rigid. ‘Why do you need to know? ’

‘Because I think it might help us. ’

For a while, he says nothing. I let the silence hang between us. It’s so sharp that I can almost cut myself on it.

I suspect Joe Thomas feels it too. He is looking out of the window. There’s no one in sight, even though it’s another beautiful crisp autumn day. Maybe the other men are at work; they all have jobs in the prison. I see the list in the hall when I walk in. Chalked-up surnames next to a task.

Smith – Pod. (Apparently that’s prison jargon for ‘kitchen’. )

White – Toilets.

Essex – Fish tank.

Thomas – Library. (Why does that not surprise me? )

Next to each name is also the word ‘Education’. I wonder what they learn in prison. Simple reading perhaps, if literacy statistics are to be believed. Or something more advanced? (Later, I was to discover, many men take OU degrees. )

‘The bath, Joe, ’ I repeat. ‘Why did you usually run it for her? ’

My client’s voice is quieter than usual. I can barely hear it. ‘So I can make sure that the cold goes in first. It’s what I’ve always done. Means you don’t burn yourself. ’ The thump of his fist on the table makes me jump. ‘Stupid girl. She should have listened to me. ’

‘Fine. The bath was too hot. But that doesn’t matter. They proved you pushed her in. ’

His face hardens. ‘Didn’t prove. Just argued successfully. I’ve already told you. I didn’t touch her. She must’ve fallen in. The bruises must be from that. ’

‘So why didn’t she get out again if the bath was so hot? ’

‘Because… she… was… too… drunk. ’

He says each word slowly, with a long space in between, as though I need it spelling out.

‘If she’d let me run the bath for her, it wouldn’t have happened, ’ he says again. He seems obsessed with this point. And something about his obsession makes me believe him. About this part anyway.

‘And don’t think I don’t feel guilty, because I do. ’

My skin begins to prickle.

‘I shouldn’t have left her there for so long. I should have checked on Sarah earlier. I was always so careful with her. But this one time…’

Joe Thomas is clearly a control freak. But that doesn’t make him a murderer any more than the rest of us. Don’t I have to wash the floor every morning now before work, as part of my daily ritual? Daniel had to fold his bed sheets in at the corners, just so. My boss always hangs his coat in a certain way by the door of his office. Joe Thomas likes to position his scrap of paper dead centre on the desk between us. (He would like a proper pad, he’s already told me. But supplies are short in prison. )

‘You need to do things your way, ’ I say softly, ‘because then things won’t go wrong. ’

He glares. ‘So? ’

‘It’s OK. I understand. ’

He stares at me as if willing me to look away. If I do, he will think I’ve just said this to make him confide in me.

But something’s still niggling.

‘If the boiler was faulty, why didn’t you find out the next time you turned it on? ’

‘I’d been arrested by then, hadn’t I? ’

Stupid me.

‘And the people who moved in after you? Didn’t they realize the water was boiling? ’

He shrugs. ‘They re-kitted the bathroom – boiler and all, apparently. You would, wouldn’t you, if someone had died there? ’

‘So when did you realize there may have been a manufacturing problem? ’

‘A few weeks ago, someone sent me these figures in the post, along with a single word – “boiler”. ’

‘Who sent them? ’

‘I don’t know. But I’m not bad at figures. I did my research in the prison library and reckoned this was the answer. ’ His eyes shine. ‘They’ve got to believe me this time. I’m not the one who’s responsible for Sarah’s death. ’ His voice shakes as he looks at me.

I consider this. Anonymous tip-offs, we were told in law school, were sometimes given to both lawyers and criminals. Usually by people who had a grudge against someone else or who wanted to push a particular issue. Is it feasible that someone in the boiler industry wants justice?

I stand up.

‘Where are you going? ’ His plea is almost childlike; vulnerable. It reminds me of the Italian child with her thick black curls and eyebrows that belong, surely, to a teenager rather than a nine-year-old.

‘I need to find a brief. A barrister who will take on our case. ’

A slow smile breaks out over Joe Thomas’s face. ‘So you think we have one, do you? ’

I have my hand on the handle. A prison officer is waiting outside, staring through the glass pane set in the middle of the door. His narrowing eyes indicate extreme disapproval at my plan to relieve the prison of one more inmate.

‘We might, ’ I say cautiously, ‘providing what you’re saying checks out. But no more games. We need to work on this together. Promise? ’

Promise, said Daniel, towards the end.

Promise? I said to Carla, when I asked her not to steal again.

‘Promise, ’ Joe Thomas now says.

We go out of the room. The officer looks at his watch. ‘Can you sign yourself out, ’ he says curtly. ‘I need to be somewhere else. ’

I find myself walking down the corridor towards the office, side by side with my client.

We pass a large man in an orange tracksuit. ‘Still on for this afternoon? ’ he says to Joe.

‘Three p. m. on the dot, ’ he says. ‘In the community lounge. Looking forward to it. ’ Then Joe turns to me. ‘Table football. ’

When I first came here, the officer had described Joe as arrogant, but that exchange had sounded quite friendly. It gives me the courage to bring up something that’s been worrying me.

‘How did you know on my first visit that I’d just got married? ’

He shrugs. ‘I always read The Times every day from cover to cover. I have a photographic memory, Lily. Macdonald is an army name. It comes up every now and then. ’

Even though I’d first introduced myself to Joe (according to my boss’s instructions) as Lily Macdonald, I feel the urgent need to put some distance between us here. Tell him to refer to me from now on as Mrs Macdonald in a bid to stop him getting personal. Despite the thoughts that are coming into my head.

Luckily, unlike sugar, Sellotape, crisps and sharp implements, I can hide them all.

I have to.

10 Carla

THEEF.

They had spelled it wrong. Carla knew that because she had skipped ahead to the ‘T’s in the Children’s Dictionary.

If she screamed loud enough, Carla told herself, Charlie would be made whole again. Just like Jesus was, even after they’d put the nails in. The priest had told them about it at Mass last Easter. (She and Mamma didn’t go to church very often, although Mamma prayed all the time. Mamma said there were some things that even God couldn’t understand. )

THEEF.

If she continued to scream, those horrid red letters would disappear and Charlie’s poor ripped body would suddenly become whole like our blessed Lord’s. That missing black eye would be back where it belonged, and he would wink at her. Did you think I would leave you? he would say.

And then she’d hold him to her and his soft green fur would make her feel good again.

But the screaming wasn’t working. Not like it did in the flat when she wanted something and Mamma would give in because the walls were thin or because the man with the shiny car was coming round any minute.

‘What on earth is going on? ’

A tall, thin, wiry woman marched into the classroom. Carla didn’t like this teacher. She had a habit of pulling off her spectacles and looking at you as if she knew – really knew – what you were thinking. ‘Is that what you’re crying about? ’ The teacher – who had a thin bony nose – pointed to Charlie’s remains. ‘This old thing? ’

Carla’s gulps spilled out over each other. ‘It’s not an old thing. It’s Charlie. My caterpillar. Someone’s stabbed him. Look. ’

‘Stabbed? What a melodramatic word! ’ The glasses were coming off. They stared at her from the teacher’s hand. Two pairs of glass eyes made of blue metal.

‘Now stop crying. ’

‘Charlie. CHARLIE! ’

Too late. The horrible teacher had yanked him out of her hands and walked away. Then the school bell sounded and a tide of children poured into the classroom, including a girl who’d been friendly with Kevin, the boy who used to own Charlie.

‘It was you, wasn’t it? ’ Carla hissed, waving the felt-tip note in front of her.

The girl looked at it briefly. ‘Thief, ’ she said loudly. ‘That’s what you are. We know what you did. ’

‘Thief, thief, ’ said someone else.

Then they were all doing it. ‘Thief, thief. Carla Spagoletti is a thief! ’

The chanting made her head scream inside.

‘What’s all that noise? ’ The bony-nosed teacher was back.

‘What have you done with my Charlie? ’ sobbed Carla.

‘If you’re talking about that broken old pencil case, it’s in the dustbins outside. I’m sure your mother will buy you another. Now behave yourself, young lady, or I will give you detention. ’

Charlie wasn’t really dead. Instead, he was mixed up with eggshells and Brussels sprout peelings and teabags. Carla had to dig deep into the bin to find him, and by the time she did, her uniform was stained and smelly.

‘Don’t worry, ’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right. ’ Then carefully, very carefully, she held him in her arms while waiting around the corner for Mamma. (If she’d stayed at the school gates, someone would have wanted to know what she was doing there. )

It didn’t matter that Charlie wasn’t speaking. She only had to wait for three days and then he would be all right again. It would be the same for all of them. The priest had said so.

But now, the more she shifted from one foot to another, the more Carla began to wonder if she and Mamma had missed each other. All the other children had gone home. Even the teachers.

The sky was dark. It would nearly be winter in the valley at home. The cold months there, Mamma often said wistfully, were wonderful! There was always a fire with loved ones sitting round it. Their sing-songs and their arms warmed you up, sent fire through your belly. Not like here where the greedy electric meter gobbled up coins.

Start walking. At first, Charlie’s voice was so soft that she hardly heard it. Then it got louder.

‘I knew you’d get better, ’ she said, gently stroking his poor torn, stained fur.

But which way should she go? Maybe right at the crossroads. Now where was she? Perhaps she ought to go left now. Usually, when Mamma met her, they danced along the pavements so fast that it was hard to keep track of the lefts and the rights and the lefts again. They would chatter too about their day. (‘There is this new perfume, my little one. My manageress, she has lent me a brand-new bottle to try it out. Smell it! What do you think? ’)

And she would tell Mamma about hers while crossing her fingers. (‘I got top marks in maths again. ’)

They’d passed a park now. Was it a different one from the park near their home? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe if they went on, she might spot the shop where she and Mamma sometimes stopped to look at the magazines. ‘You must buy if you want to look, ’ the man at the counter would tell them. But so far, there was no sign of the man or his shop. Carla felt her chest tighten and her palms sweat. Where were they?

Look, whispered Charlie weakly. Over there.

A shiny car! The same blue shiny car that sometimes parked outside their flat on a Tuesday or Thursday evening and sometimes on a Sunday.

⇐ Предыдущая 1 2 3 456 7 8 9 10 Следующая ⇒