Текст книги "Lost Girls"

Автор книги: Celina Grace

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Chapter Nineteen

It was in the village shop that I first noticed the glances. Little fluttering sideways glances, from the two girls standing near me with their mothers. Their mothers were looking too, less obviously. I looked back over my shoulder, wondering what was drawing their attention. There was nothing more interesting there than a shelf full of sweets and chocolate bars and newspapers. Then I realised they were looking at me.

I heard the word 'Jessica' and then I knew for certain. The air in the shop seemed to darken and grow thick. I could feel my face burning and this made it worse because I was sure that they would see and think I was ashamed. I forgot why I'd come into the shop, what I'd planned to buy. My only thought was to get out of there. I managed to get my legs to move, to walk me across the endless acres of floor and out the shop door, all of the time feeling their gazes boring into my back, shearing through the flimsy protection of my cotton t-shirt and burning into the vulnerable flesh of my spine.

I dried my eyes before I reached home. I didn’t want Angus asking me what was the matter. What had happened was my fault, I knew that, but I didn't want him to think that everyone thought it was his fault, too. I walked slowly towards the driveway. I didn't feel safe here anymore; I felt watched. The wind carried an undertone of whispers.

I stopped going into the village after that. I knew that, after the holidays ended, I would still have to go to school, but it would be big school, a senior school. Not junior school, where everyone would whisper about me and stare, and refuse to play with me. In so much as I was capable of looking forward to anything, I was looking forward to senior school – I'd assumed it would be the one in the nearest town. I was wrong. Angus sat me down one day in the study, and asked me whether I'd thought about going to boarding school.

I stared at him. Although it was the end of August, it was a cold, white-skied day; I looked at the empty fireplace and felt the goosebumps rise up on my arms.

"Why?" was the only thing I could think to say.

"Well," he said, "I just thought you might like to consider it. Perhaps you might feel happier amongst some new friends?"

Jessica's name hung in the silence between us. I blinked and looked again at the blackened space of the fireplace.

"I don't mind," I said, in a small voice. In a blinding flash it had occurred to me; my father wanted me to go, because he was ashamed of me. He didn't want to be around me anymore.

"If you don't like it, you can always come home again," said Angus. He smiled one of his rare smiles. "I'm sure you'll have a great time. Better than being here."

I nodded, unable to speak.

After that, things moved quickly. Perhaps Angus pulled some strings to get me into the new school in time for the start of term. I drifted through my few remaining days at Caernaven in a daze, staring out of windows at the distant mountains, watching the clouds blow in over the fields, listening to the distant, mournful cries of the sheep. I thought of all the people in the village and at my old school who would be talking about me and about Jessica. Her parents were still in Cornwall, still searching, still hoping. I wondered whether they would ever come back.

The morning of my departure came. I ate breakfast silently, sitting by Angus’s side in the dining room. My toast was cold by the time I reached for the last piece; it felt as if I were swallowing cardboard. I said goodbye to Mrs. Green and then we walked out to the Land Rover, Angus carrying my suitcases in both hands. Mrs. Green had packed away my clothes but she hadn’t seen Jessica slipping in beside them, wisp thin, visible only to me. Angus didn’t know he carried her in my suitcase, which rode in the back, sliding from one side of the car to the other as we drove around corners. Only I knew she was there. I carried her away with me as I stood waving goodbye to my father on the steps on my new school. I carried her up the steps with me to the room that would be my bedroom for the next eight years. Only I saw her accompanying me that night to the dining room, to the study hall, squeezing in beside me as I lay in that strange bed. I carried her with me from then on.

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty

The music thudded about us. I stood for a minute, frozen, looking at Jessica’s eyes, this woman’s eyes, this woman who called herself Jessica, searching her face for confirmation. I stared so hard it felt as if my eyes would fall out of my face. She had Jessica’s blue eyes, cobalt blue, edged with a fan of brown lashes.

The music was a wall of sound, a thick pulsating force in itself. I could feel it in every part of my body; a tiny beat pulsing through every cell.

"What are you saying?" I said. I think I shrieked it. Dimly, I was aware of people around me looking at me oddly.

Jessica – if it was Jessica – put her hand on my arm. I flinched. I don't know why but I was expecting her to feel cold. Because I'd been thinking of her as dead for so long, I couldn't grasp the fact that she was standing her before me. Real. Alive. Her hand was warm. How could it be her? I put my hands up to my head again and closed my eyes. To anyone watching I must have looked crazed but I was far, far beyond caring about that by now.

"Maudie-"

Still with my eyes closed, I shook my head. I think a small part of me was thinking, hoping, that when I opened my eyes again, she'd be gone. I opened them and she was still standing in front of me. I felt the world begin to recede slowly, my vision narrowing until there was just the woman who called herself Jessica standing in front of me. There was a rushing noise in my ears, even over the thud of the music from the dance floor.

"Maudie-"

She was pulling me. Supporting me. I felt my legs bow beneath me and the floor suddenly got much closer. For one horrible second, I believed again that she was dead; dead and intent on dragging me to wherever the dead go. The rushing noise got louder and for a long, confused moment, I wasn't able to see or think anything.

Then the air became clearer and the noise lessened. I blinked, aware of the cold. We'd come outside to the back alley Becca and I had visited earlier. I wondered briefly where Becca was and whether she was looking for me.

Jessica let go of my arm and stepped back. She was smiling in a strained sort of way.

"Are you alright?" Jessica asked. I realised I was calling her that now, without the caveat I'd used before. Somewhere inside me, it was starting to sink in.

"I'm alright," I said. I wasn't; it was meaningless gabble, just a way of filling up the silence between us.

There was a flurry of movement and noise as a group of smokers came out into the street. I saw Jessica look over at them and shrink, moving back against the wall. Then she saw me looking and her frown became a smile, of sorts.

"Well..." she said.

Her blonde hair glimmered in the light from the open doorway. She was as tall as I was, almost as thin. I dredged up my memories of ten year old Jessica's face and tried to compare them with the face before me now. It struck me that she looked exhausted. There were plum coloured rings beneath her eyes and the flesh fell away beneath her cheekbones. She looked older than her thirty-three years.

The group of smokers finished their cigarettes and stampeded back indoors. For the first time, we had the area to ourselves.

I took a deep breath. "Is it really you?" I said.

She smiled again. "It's really me."

"I can't believe it." My voice slipped and I looked away, blinking. There weren't enough words in my vocabulary to start asking her all the questions I wanted to. I put a hand out to her and then drew it back. That odd, light-headed feeling threatened to swamp me again; I wanted to touch her, to see if she was real. Would she feel warm or cold? Was she really there?

She took my hand and I flinched. She kept hold of my fingers, looking at me steadily. Her hand was cold but it felt solid, the flesh of her fingers like something unnatural, plastic or rubber, against mine.

"Maudie-"

"Where do we start?" I said. My voice was ragged. "What can you possibly say? What can I say?"

"You don't have to think about it now," she said, gently. "We don't have to say anything."

The tears were threatening in earnest now. I felt one escape and make its slow way down my cheek.

"Oh Maudie-"

I held up a hand again. I couldn't have any sympathy, any softness; I wouldn’t be able to stand it, I would dissolve. I think she realised this. She stepped back against the wall again, hugging her elbows.

I took a deep breath and then another. I felt removed from myself; as if most of me was off somewhere nearby, watching what was happening from afar.

"Don't worry," she said. "It was stupid of me to – to contact you here. I might have known it would be too much."

I felt cold again. This sounded like a dismissal. "What do you mean?"

"Maudie, it was too much of a shock for you, I know that. I should have realised. I just thought – I knew you'd seen me and when you followed me the other night, I panicked. And then I thought how upset you must have been and so I knew I had to do something. So, when I saw you here, I just – I just – well, you know-"

I stared at her. I was only taking in about one word in four, but something struck a chord with me. "How did you know I was going to be here?"

She laughed, a little harsh, gasping laugh. "I didn't. It was pure coincidence, believe it or not. I admit that I've been, well, following you around a bit lately, but I was here myself, anyway. I just about dropped when I saw you on the dance floor."

I felt the first beginnings of a smile struggle onto my face. "You weren't the only one."

"No, well-” she sighed. "I've been so stupid. This hasn't gone exactly as I planned it."

There was a short silence between us.

She sighed again. "I'm going to go now. I think you need some time to let this sink in."

"Go?"

"Yes, go. I'll let you – calm down a bit."

I felt a jab of panic hit me in the stomach. As much of a shock as it had been, I didn't want to lose her. What if I never saw her again?

"You will come back again?" My voice squeaked higher. "You won't go away again?"

She looked me right in the eyes. "I promise, Maudie. I won't leave you again. I'm not going anywhere."

I was clutching my arms to my body. I was beginning to get very cold; my teeth were almost chattering.

"Do you promise?" I said, feebly.

“I do. I do promise. But-” she hesitated for a moment. ”I want you to promise me something, too."

"What?"

She moved her head a little and her eyes caught the light from the doorway. Her pupils were huge. "Don't – tell anyone about me. Don't mention me to anyone. Not yet. I don't – it's just that I have to be sure – I mean – look, Maudie, just don't tell anyone about me, okay? Not Angus. And for God's sake, don't tell my parents."

I felt a brief spasm of pain. Now was obviously not the time to tell her that her parents were dead. And Angus, too. She's got no one to come back to, I thought. Except me. I thought of everything we had to catch up on, two and half decades of life lived, of happenings and incident and memories. I felt suddenly very tired.

"I promise," I said. What else could I say?

She touched my hand for a brief moment. "I'm going now," she said. "Stay here. Shut your eyes for a moment."

I did as I was told, standing there in the night air. I felt a brief movement of air beside me, stirring my hair, and when I opened my eyes, she was gone.

Chapter Twenty One

"Where the hell did you go?"

I'd had Becca bleating in my ear for five minutes now. I was on the arm of the living room sofa, staring out of the window at the grey day beyond. I took the phone away from my ear for a moment. I could still hear Becca.

"I came back from the bar and you'd just gone-"

"Alright," I snapped. "I said I'm sorry."

“I was worried.”

I was silent.

"Oh well," she said, after a moment. "Doesn't really matter. It actually turned out okay, you know. I met a man."

There was an exultant kind of giggle in her voice. At any other time, I would have shrieked enthusiastically and pressed for details. Now, I struggled to sound interested.

"Oh yes?"

"Yes, he's lovely. His name's Martin and he's a whole seven years younger than me. A proper toy boy! It's very exciting-"

She went on talking but I'd tuned out. I watched a pigeon flap its slow way across a sky that looked like curdled milk. I was thinking about Jessica.

 After she'd left me at the party, I'd left the venue myself five minutes later. I could barely walk to the taxis massed outside, my legs were shaking so much. I'd let myself into a cold and empty flat – Matt was staying at his cousin's house that night – and lay in bed, hugging my knees to my chest and listening to my teeth chatter.

In the morning it seemed even more unlikely. I kept checking the street outside, nervily, expecting to see her standing there in her black coat. All the time I was showering, forcing down some breakfast, flicking listlessly through television channels, I kept asking myself the same questions. I went back over our conversation, our meeting, until I couldn't remember what had really happened and what I'd imagined happening.

"Are you alright?" Matt asked me over the dinner table.

It was the first time either of us had said a word since we'd sat down. I came to with a start, realising I'd been staring off into space, my fork held aloft.

"Sorry," I said, blushing a little. "I was miles away."

"So I can see." He poured himself another glass of wine and took a long sip. "You were so far away you almost disappeared from view."

I hesitated, wondering whether to tell him. But I couldn't – I'd promised...

Later, I lay beside him in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and listening to his breathing. After a while, I got up and went through to the living room and straight to the window.  A plastic bag fluttered along the pavement in the wind like a small, ragged ghost. No Jessica. I walked away from the window, rested my hand on the back of one of the armchairs and walked back. Surely this time – but there was nothing, just the orange tint of the streetlight and the massed ranks of the parked cars jammed against the pavements.

Becca invited us over for dinner the following night. She owned the basement flat in a terraced house in Hackney; being sensible, fiscally prudent and all the other things that I was not, she’d bought it for tuppenny-happenny, or thereabouts, back in the early nineties. She’d lived there for so long the flat seemed to have grown around her – it was now the very essence of Becca; warm, chaotic and loud. The rooms were painted in unexpected colours, her bedroom hung with swaying Chinese lanterns, the walls bedecked with sari silks. Once in a while you came across something truly startling, like the fake skull she’d stolen from a client’s Halloween party on the mantlepiece in the sitting room.

As Matt and I arrived, Becca’s equally Amazonian sister Lauren and her positively gigantic brother Sam were just leaving. There was a confused scrum in the tiny hallway as we all attempted to greet and say goodbye to everyone else at once.

“Don’t worry about this lot,” said Becca, as if there were hundreds of relatives cluttering up the place. “They’re leaving. They were just dropping off the vino for tonight.”

“Haven’t seen you two for ages,” said Lauren, kissing both Matt and I. “Married life treating you well?”

Matt and I both laughed and I made some sort of noise indicating agreement. Sam patted my shoulder as I squeezed past him.

“Phew,” said Becca, waving them off and then ushering us into the kitchen. “Sorry about that. This place isn’t really big enough for more than one of my family to visit at any one time but Sam just kind of turned up after the football and stayed on... anyway, vino? Lauren's got us some fantastic champagne. Matt, would you do the honours?”

Matt popped the cork of the bottle she proffered while I sat down at the table. The kitchen was at the front of the house and, from one side of the table, you could see up to the street and watch people’s feet walk past the railings, rather like being in the burrow of a voyeuristic mole. I sat down and looked up, clutching my wine glass. I had a feeling that soon a pair of feet would come into view, feet framed by the edge of a long black coat. I was sure she would appear.

Matt raised his glass to Becca. “To our gracious hostess,” he said. “How’s things? Who’s this new man Maudie was telling me about?”

Becca laughed. “That would be Martin. Has Maudie told you he’s a whole seven years younger than I am? How about that?”

“A youngster?” cried Matt in mock anguish. “What for? You don’t want one of those, you want a sugar daddy, just like Maudie.”

Becca grinned. “So you say. Perhaps all the good ones are taken. Hey, Maudie?”

“What?” I said, pulling my gaze away from the dark street.

Becca enumerated Martin’s good qualities for the next half an hour, clattering about with pots and pans as she talked. She only drew breath to drag on her cigarette, finally grinding it out with a decisive jab before she bought the plates to the table.

“Disgusting habit, smoking while cooking,” she said. “Sorry. Anyway, Martin wants to take me to Paris for the weekend. It’s so nice to have a bit of romance in a relationship for a change. Don’t you think, Maudie?”

“Yes, right,” I said. Despite the steaming plate of food in front of me, I suddenly had to get up and walk about, I felt so jittery. I walked over to the window again and looked up. Nothing; just the railings and the trailing fronds of a dusty ivy plant in view. I turned back to find both Matt and Becca watching me with concern.

“Is there a problem, Maudie?” said Becca.

I tried to laugh. “No. It’s just–” I couldn’t think of an adequate explanation for my nerves, not one that would suffice. I forced myself to walk back to the table and sit down. I poured myself some more wine, spilling a little over the side of the glass. I could see Matt watching me. He was frowning very slightly and I saw his eyes meet Becca’s, just for a moment, a split second of unspoken communication.

“I’m alright,” I said, with more emphasis. “I didn’t sleep so well last night. I’m just a bit tired. For Christ’s sake, everyone stop treating me like I’m a baby.”

My voice went up sharply at the end of the sentence. There was a moment of silence.

“Okay,” said Becca, rather brightly. “Matt, tell me about you. What’s been happening?”

Matt put his knife and fork down.

“Rebecca, sorry, would you excuse me a moment?”

“Sure,” she said, eyebrows raised.

He turned to me. “Maudie, could I have a word? In private?”

I nodded. He led me into the hallway and closed the kitchen door gently. I stared at him, my chin up.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What do you–” I began, hotly.

He took me by the shoulders, not quite shaking me. “Don’t ask me what I bloody mean. What is wrong with you? You’re jumping at shadows, you keep looking for something or someone. You’ve got bags the size of suitcases under your eyes.”

I took a step back, shaking off his hands. “I’m fine. I’m sick of people asking me.”

“For Christ’s sake,” he said. He had that look on his face that was worse than anger, that helpless, lost look, the one that turned his face into the face of someone much younger and more vulnerable. It turned something in me, digging deep.

“I feel like I should know what’s wrong,” he said. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, you know that, don’t you? How can I help you if you won’t tell me?”

I spoke above the blood rushing in my ears. “There’s nothing to tell.”

He stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Is it–” he said and then stopped.

“What?”

“Are you?” he said, and then stopped again.

I could feel the wine churning in my stomach and swallowed hard. “Are you having an affair?”

I was so surprised and so relieved at his mistake that a shout of laughter escaped me. He looked bewildered. I kept laughing, I couldn’t help it.

“Oh Matt,” I said. I went up to him and put my arms round his neck, brushing my face against his bristly cheek. “I’m not having an affair. I promise you.”

He stepped back and looked at me. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. Relief was making me feel weak and tired. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just tired and I’m – I’m grieving.”

“I know,” said Matt. He put a hand up to his face, pushing his fingers underneath his glasses to rub between his eyes. He looked as tired as I felt. “We’d better get back to Becca,” Matt sighed. “Just – look, please don’t embarrass me again tonight. Or yourself. Please don’t have any more to drink.”

I clenched my jaw but I made myself nod. We walked back into the kitchen and I pinned a smile on my face. Rebecca sat with the elaborately casual air of someone pretending they hadn’t heard a word of an argument.

I sat down, keeping my back to the window so as not to have to look out. I forced myself to listen to Becca and Matt, smile at appropriate places in their conversation and all the while, I ran over my strange meeting with my lost best friend, again and again and again.