I Found You (26 page)

Russ pauses, then breathes out. ‘I do need to go,’ he says.

‘I know you do. So go.’

He softens and relaxes. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I am sure.’

He smiles and steps towards her. ‘Please, please call me tomorrow morning, so I know you’ve made it through the night.’

‘Oh, yes, of course I will.’

‘And if you’re scared in the night. Call me. I’ll keep my phone by my bed. Any strange noises. Anything. Please.’

She laughs. He looks so earnest. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I promise.’

She steps towards his open arms and they share a long and heartfelt embrace.

‘Did you leave anything in my car?’

She shakes her head.

‘Fine then, I’ll say goodbye.’

He hugs her once more and then he turns and leaves the room, clicking it quietly shut behind him.

Lily sits down again on the swivel chair and lets it spin 360 degrees. It stops, slowly, and she finds herself facing her own reflection in a full-length mirror built into the wall. Here she is, she thinks, staring blankly
at herself, here she is: already hundreds of miles from home, and now hundreds more. She thinks of the empty flat in Surrey. She thinks of the building site next door with its flapping sheets of plastic, its strangely flashing light. She thinks of tomorrow, of exploring the streets of this odd little town, of the answers she might finally find to all her questions.

But mainly she thinks of just maybe waking here in the night, the moon shining down on her through the high-set windows, and feeling the gentle touch of her husband, his hand against her cheek, his face above hers, smiling down at her and saying, ‘You found me. You came all this way and you found me.’

Alice rests the little postcard against the base of her bedside lamp and gazes at it. It is exquisite. A tiny pencil sketch of her and Romaine standing side by side with their arms around each other. They’d posed for him in the kitchen; it had taken him all of ten minutes, and he’d captured them exactly. Romaine’s extraordinary curls, the pudge of her wrists, the crooked ends of her smile. And Alice’s long legs, the way her hair springs back off her hairline, the tired glamour of her face. But mostly what he’d captured was the love between the two of them. The matiness. Because Romaine was very much her buddy. They lived life at the same rhythm; they danced to the same beat. If Romaine were thirty years older and not her kid, they’d probably be best friends. And that was
what poured out of Frank’s lovely drawing. Alice and Romaine. BFFs.

He’d spent the evening with them, wedged between Romaine and Kai on the sofa watching fifty greatest something or others on Channel Five. But by the time Alice had come downstairs from putting Romaine to bed (far too late, as always), Frank had gone to bed. The little postcard was all that had remained of him, and a small scrawled note that said: ‘Off to bed. School night! See you in the morning.’

She’d felt both deflated and relieved. Of course he must sleep in his own bed tonight. Had she not just this morning made up her bed with man-repelling Monsoon Home cushions? But equally she’s aching for him. She picks up the card and traces her fingertip over the pencil markings. He’s made her look beautiful. Willowy and hollow-cheeked with a piercing gaze. Is that how he sees her? she wonders. Not a badger-haired housewife with a spare tyre and dark circles around her eyes? But a woman who could give Catherine Deneuve a run for her money?

She sighs and looks behind her, imagining Frank in her shed, on his bed. Possibly naked. Then she imagines that same bed tomorrow night, empty, the shed cold and locked. Life returning to normal. Who knew how long it would be before she would hold a man’s body again? What were the chances of a single mum of three living in a small seaside town miles
from anywhere, who left the house only to chase dogs around a beach and stand outside schools, meeting a half-decent man who wanted to have sex with her ever again?

She makes it as far as the back door before sanity reclaims her. She lets her hand drop from the door handle and takes a deep breath.

Kai appears behind her as she turns round.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she says.

‘What you doing?’

‘Just locking up,’ she says. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing. Just getting some water.’

He pours himself a glass from the tap.

‘You all right?’ he says, turning to appraise her.

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

‘You seem . . .’ His eyes trace a thoughtful arc across the room, then zoom back to her. ‘A bit mad.’

She laughs. ‘Mad?’

‘Yeah. I mean, not, like, crazy mad. Just a bit distracted.’ He looks towards the courtyard. ‘Is it him?’

‘Him?’

‘Yes. You know. All this lost-memory stuff. Having to deal with it?’

‘Well, yeah. I suppose, a bit. It’s been strange, hasn’t it? Having him around. But’ – she steps towards her son and wraps her hand around the back of his neck – ‘this time tomorrow it will be over. He’ll be gone. Life will go back to normal.’

‘Do you want that?’

She looks at him sharply.

‘Do you want things to go back to normal?’

‘I suppose. I mean—’

‘I like him,’ he cuts in. ‘If it turned out that he wasn’t a murderer. You know. Or even if he was.’ He laughs.

‘Oh,’ says Alice. ‘Good.’

‘Night, Mum.’ He gives her a bear hug. ‘Love you.’

‘I love you, too, baby.’ She kisses his cheek and he smiles at her and then he’s gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with the buzzing fridge and the darkness and the dogs.

1993

The cord was now loose enough for Gray to remove his hands. He resisted the temptation to free himself, and gave himself a moment to plan his next move.

‘I’m using the knife to slice through the front of your sister’s T-shirt, Graham. Don’t worry. I’m being very careful. Because I don’t want to hurt her. At least, not yet.’

Gray flinched again at the sound of fabric rending, his sister’s intake of breath.

Then: ‘Wow. I mean really – wow. Those are about the most incredible tits I have ever seen. Truly. Have you ever seen your sister’s tits, Graham?’ Mark asked this conversationally, as you might ask someone if they’ve seen a certain movie. ‘Such a shame you can’t see what I’m seeing. You’re really missing out.’

Gray breathed in deeply, holding down the flames of fury. He slipped his good hand gently from the cord and then used his fingers to locate one of the wire coat-hanger hooks Kirsty had put in the back pocket of her jeans earlier. She adjusted her position slightly to let him ease it out, which Mark misread as an indication that she was enjoying herself. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘your sister seems to be getting into things now, Graham. Right, let’s let these beauties free, shall we?’

Gray felt Mark’s hands reach behind his sister’s back and begin to fiddle with the fastening of her bra. He stilled his hands and stopped breathing. It seemed to take for ever.

‘Have you never undone a bra before, Mark?’ he asked.

‘Shut up, you fucking dweeb.’

‘No, seriously. You appear to be a bit of an amateur. And actually, I’m starting to wonder, given the way you’re behaving like a total fucking
freak
, if maybe you’re a virgin.’

He felt Mark’s hands loosen from behind Kirsty. Then Mark was in front of him, his face twisted with disgust. He brought his arm back and slapped Gray hard across the cheek. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

And there it was, the moment. Swiftly Gray pulled his bad hand from the cord and then leaped to his feet and brought the wire hanger hook down on to the crown of Mark’s head. He felt it puncture the flesh, felt
it rip the flesh, saw Mark’s hands reach up and meet together over his scalp, saw the blood ooze through his fingers, saw the heavy-based lamp on the floor at his feet, brought it up with his good arm, brought it down again, saw Mark’s hands leave his skull and grab it midway, felt it come away from his one good hand like a flower plucked from a meadow.

‘Oh my God,’ Mark was saying, the lamp in his hand, blood dripping down his face in three separate rivulets, ‘you’ve done it now. You’ve really, really done it now.’ His voice had changed, the high-pitched whine lowered to a bass rumble.

‘The door!’ Gray shouted at his sister. ‘Get out! Go!’

He caught a glimpse of her tear-stained face as she hurled herself towards the door, one hand holding the shredded flaps of her T-shirt together across her breasts, the other tucking something into her pocket.

‘Go!’ he shouted again.

Dropping the lamp, Mark stumbled across the room, almost grabbing hold of Kirsty’s arm as she slipped through the door which she slammed hard in her wake, right on to his arm. Mark stopped, grabbed his arm, howled; then he flung the door open, setting off after her like a wounded animal. Gray followed in pursuit; he saw Kirsty hurtling down the staircase two steps at a time, stumbling, sliding down three steps on her backside before regaining her feet, but leaving a vital beat for Mark to catch up with her. Then Mark
brought her down on to the stairs, landed with his full weight on top of her, began tugging at her bra, tugging at her jeans, blood dripping from his wound on to her chest. Gray grabbed the back of his collar and tried to yank him off her but he didn’t have enough strength in his one arm and Mark easily pushed him away. But while he was distracted by Gray’s lame efforts to manhandle him, Kirsty launched her left foot right between his legs, throwing him back into a foetal ball of pain.

‘You fucking bitch,’ Mark wailed, clutching his crotch. ‘You disgusting, ugly bitch.’

Gray grabbed Kirsty’s hand and they ran, shouting out for help as they went, in case there was still someone in the house.

‘No!’ Gray said, pulling Kirsty away from the front door. ‘It’ll be locked.’

They ran across the tiled floor of the hallway and towards the back door. Gray turned once, to see how much of a lead they had, just in time to see Mark’s blood-smeared face inches from his, to feel his hot, angry breath, and then he was down, hard, his jaw cracking against the hard tiles, momentarily winded, Mark on top of him. He felt Mark’s hands meet tightly across the crown of his head, pick it up and then smash it against the hard floor, felt his brain bounce against the walls of his skull, his hearing fade to a drowsy buzz.

His sister was screaming, and then there was a strange and terrifying moment of silence. Mark suddenly rose away from him, then slumped again. His sister had stopped screaming and stood over them both breathing loudly, hyperventilating.

She was clutching a bloodied knife. Mark’s knife. Blood dripped on to the pure white floor. Then they were both running, through the door at the back of the house, across the glorious, moonlit lawn, hand in hand.

Lily hadn’t fully lowered the Roman blinds last night and a blush of dawn light is now breaking through the gloom of the room. It’s five fifty-one. She’s only been asleep for a few hours – three, maybe four. So many strange noises here by the sea. Seagulls cawing like haunted children, foxes wailing as though they are being slowly disembowelled. And the distant tide, like a mob of people, hushing and whispering, ooh and aahing, throwing itself against invisible rocks.

She peels back the thin blanket she’d covered herself with last night and swings herself to a sitting position. She feels numb with tiredness and strangeness, with the echoes of the dreams that had chased each other about in her head last night while she lay suspended just out of reach of deep sleep. She folds the blanket
into a neat square and tucks it back into the cupboard from where she’d taken it. Then she smooths down the duvet cover and the pillowcase, restoring them to the state of perfection in which she’d found them. She pulls a single dark hair from the pillow and drops it on to the floor. She doesn’t want this elegant woman to think of her, a scruffy stranger, lying on her beautiful white bed.

She pulls a can of Coke from the carrier bag she brought with her from home and drinks it down in a few short gulps. Then she swallows down the remains of one of yesterday’s doughnuts. She sits for a moment, feeling herself re-form.

Her phone pings and she picks it up.

Good morning. Please text me when you get this. Russ.

She texts him back:
Hello. I am here. Everything is OK.

He texts her back a smiley face and she smiles. He is a nice man. She almost texts him back with her own smiley face but stops herself. It is too much.

She goes to the window and winds up the blind. Then she gasps. Everything is pink. The sky, the sea, the grass, the trees. Even the undersides of the seagulls circling overhead are pink. She holds her hand to her throat and surveys the undulating, glittering lawns that fall in terraces down towards the sea, the peach-hued statues that dot the gardens, the ancient walls grown over with ivy and creepers, the small ponds and sundials.

She is truly in heaven now. She wishes her mother could be here to see this place. Her friends from home. She brings her phone to the window and takes some photos but not one of them captures the true majesty of this place.

Last night she’d gone through the woman’s possessions but had found nothing to link her to Carl. Just clothes, jewellery, menus for local restaurants, a camera with no charge, a pile of local business cards, receipts from shops. She would take these into the town today, talk to local shopkeepers, ask them about the woman who lives in the big white house on the cliff. Ask them about Carl.

But first she wants to look around this house again. She waits until the sun is fully up, until the pink has turned to gold, then brightened to a stringent blue, and then she lets herself slowly out of the attic bedroom and tiptoes across the landing, a small paring knife held tight inside her hand.

Is this where Carl grew up? she wonders. Did he play in these magnificent rooms, run across those rolling green lawns? Did he kick off sandy boots in the small boot room by the back door and hurtle into the kitchen to beg for snacks? She finds dogs’ leads hanging from coat hooks and imagines a small Carl and a large dog, jogging towards the beach together.