Shatter (26 page)

The shrink is here; he’s like one of those B-grade celebrities who would turn up for the opening of an envelope. This time he’s brought along his wife who is far too hot for the likes of
him. Perhaps his shake makes foreplay interesting.

Who else is here? The dyke detective and her keystone cops. Darcy, the ballet dancer, is being stoic and brave. We passed briefly at the gates and she gave me the briefest look of
recognition, as though she couldn’t remember if she knew me. Then she noticed the wheelbarrow and my overalls and discounted the possibility.

The minister is telling the mourners that death is just the beginning of a journey. It’s a fairytale echoed down the ages. Chests are shaking. Tears are falling. The ground is soggy
enough. Why does death come as such a shock to people? Surely it’s the most fundamental truth. We live. We die. You take this egg. If it had been fertilised and kept warm it might
have been a baby chick. Instead it was dropped in boiling water and became a snack.

Heads are lowered in silent prayer. Coats flap against knees as a breeze picks up. The branches groan above my head like the stomachs of dead souls.

I have to go now. I have places to be… locks to pick… minds to open.

The service is over. We walk across the lawn and find the path. A warm wet smel rises from the flowerbeds and overhead, etched against a pearl grey sky, migratory birds fly in formation, heading south.

Bruno Kaufman takes my arm. I introduce him to Julianne. He bows theatrical y.

‘Where has Joseph been hiding you?’ he asks.

‘Nowhere in particular,’ she replies, happy to let Bruno flirt with her.

Mourners are stepping round us. Darcy is with some of her mother’s friends, who seem to want to squeeze her hand and stroke her hair. Her aunt is wheeling her grandfather along the path, complaining about the slope.

‘The police are everywhere, old boy,’ says Bruno, glancing at Monk and Safari Roy. ‘They stand out like purple cows.’

‘I’ve never seen a purple cow.’

‘Madison, Wisconsin, has lots of colourful cows,’ he says. ‘Not real ones. Statues. They’re a tourist attraction.’

He begins tel ing a story about his tenure at the University of Wisconsin. A wind lifts his fringe and makes it hover, defying gravity. Bruno is directing the story to Julianne. I glance past him and notice Maureen.

‘We haven’t met,’ I tel her. ‘I’m very sorry about Christine and Sylvia. I know they were friends of yours.’

‘Old friends and good ones,’ she says, her breath condensing as she exhales.

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine.’ She blows her nose on a tissue. ‘I’m scared.’

‘What are you scared of?’

‘My two best friends are dead. That scares me. The police have come to my house, interviewed me; that scares me. I jump at loud noises, I deadlock the doors, I look in the rear mirror when I’m driving… that scares me, too.’

The soggy tissue is slipped into the pocket of her coat. A new one is retrieved from a smal plastic packet. Her hands are shaking.

‘When did you see them last?’

‘A fortnight ago. We had a reunion.’

‘What sort of reunion?’

‘It was just the four of us— the old gang from Oldfield. We were at school together.’

‘Bruno mentioned it.’

‘We arranged to meet at our favourite pub. Helen organised it.’

‘Helen?’

‘Another friend: Helen Chambers.’ She casts her eye around the cemetery. ‘I thought she would be here. It’s odd. Helen organised the reunion; she was the reason we were getting together. None of us had seen her in years, but she didn’t show up.’

‘Why?’

‘I stil don’t know. She didn’t cal or email.’

‘You haven’t heard from her at al ?’

She shakes her head and sniffles. ‘It’s pretty typical of Helen. She is famous for being late and for getting lost in her own back-yard.’ She glances past me. ‘I mean it seriously. They had to send out search parties.’

‘Where did she live?’

‘Her father has a country house with a big back yard, so perhaps I shouldn’t tease her.’

‘You haven’t seen her in how long?’

‘Seven years. Nearly eight.’

‘Where has she been?’

‘She married and moved to Northern Ireland and then to Germany. Chris and Sylvie were her bridesmaids. I was supposed to be the maid of honour but Bruno and I were living in America and couldn’t get back for the wedding. I videoed a good luck message.’

Maureen’s eyes seem to shimmer. ‘We al promised to stay in touch, but Helen just seemed to drift away. I sent her cards every birthday and Christmas. The odd letter came back out of the blue but didn’t say much. Weeks turned to months and then to years. We lost touch. It was sad.’

‘And then she contacted you?’

‘Six months ago she sent us al an email— Christine, Sylvie and me— saying that she’d left her husband. She was going on a holiday with her daughter— “to clear her head”— and then she was coming home.

‘Then about a month ago she sent another email saying she was back and we should get together. She chose the place: the Garrick’s Head in Bath. Do you know it?’

I nod.

‘We used to go there al the time— before we al married and had kids. We’d have a few drinks and a laugh; and sometimes kick on to a nightclub. Sylvie loved to dance.’

Maureen’s hands have stopped shaking, but the calm never comes. She talks as though some rejected life has come back to claim her. A lost friend. A voice from the past.

‘When I heard about Christine committing suicide I didn’t believe it, not for a minute. She’d never kil herself like that. Never leave Darcy.’

‘Tel me about Sylvia?’

Maureen gives me a sad smile. ‘She was a wild one, but not in a bad way. She worried me sometimes. She was a crash or crash-through sort of girl, who took so many risks. Thankful y, she married someone like Richard who was very forgiving.’

Her eyes are liquid, but her mascara is stil in place.

‘You know what I loved most about Sylvie?’

I shake my head.

‘Her voice. I miss hearing her laugh.’ She glances across the cemetery. The sun shines on a glitter of green grass. ‘I miss both of them. I miss knowing I’l see them again. I keep thinking they’re going to phone or text me or turn up for a coffee…’

Another silence, longer this time. She lifts her head, frowning. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bruno says you’re helping the police.’

‘As much as I can.’

She looks towards Bruno, who is explaining to Julianne that the first fossil records of the rose date back 35 mil ion years and Sapho wrote ‘Ode to a Rose’ in 600 B.C. cal ing it the queen of flowers.

‘How does he know stuff like that?’ I ask.

‘He says the same about you.’

She looks at him fondly. ‘I used to love him, then I hated him, and now I’m caught between the two. He’s not a bad man, you know.’

‘I know.’

33

Cars are parked in the driveway and on the footpath outside the Wheeler house. Darcy is welcoming the mourners, taking coats and handbags. She looks at me as if I’m coming to rescue her.

‘When can we leave?’ she whispers.

‘You’re doing great.’

‘I don’t think I can handle much more of this.’ More guests are arriving. The sitting room and dining rooms are crowded. Julianne takes hold of my left hand as we skirt the clusters of mourners, weaving between outstretched cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.

Ruiz has found a beer.

‘So you want to hear about Darcy’s father?’ he asks.

‘Have you found him?’

‘Getting closer. His name wasn’t on her birth certificate, but I got confirmation of the marriage. Parish records. Wonderful things.’

Julianne gives him a hug. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ ‘You mean like pensions,’ Ruiz says playful y, ‘or maybe mergers and acquisitions.’

‘Very funny.’

She punches him playful y. Ruiz takes another swig of beer, enjoying himself. I leave them talking and go looking for Darcy’s aunt. She’s directing traffic in the kitchen, waving plates of sandwiches through one door and col ecting empty dishes through another. The benches are covered with food and the air is thick with the smel of cakes and tea.

Kerry Wheeler is a big woman with a Spanish suntan and heavy jewel ery. The expanse of skin below her neck is mottled and lipstick has smeared in the corners of her mouth.

‘Cal me Kerry,’ she says, pouring boiling water into a teapot. The steam has flattened her perm and she tries to make it bounce again by flicking it with her fingers.

‘Can we talk?’ I ask.

‘Sure. I’m dying for a fag.’

She pul s a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and a large glass of white wine from a hiding place behind the biscuit jars. She takes them outside, down three steps, to the garden.

‘You want one?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

She lights up.

‘I hear you’re famous.’

‘No.’

She exhales and watches the smoke dissipate. I notice the purple veins on the back of her ankles and raw skin where her high heels have been rubbing.

‘Couldn’t wait for that funeral to end,’ she says. ‘Felt cold enough to snow. Crazy weather. I’m not used to it any more. Too long in the sun.’

‘About Darcy.’

‘Yeah. I meant to say, thanks for looking after her. It won’t be necessary any more.’

‘You’re going back to Spain.’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Have you told Darcy?’

‘Going to.’

‘When?’

‘I just buried my sister. That was my first priority.’

She pul s her jacket closer around her chest; sucks on the cigarette. ‘I didn’t ask for this, you know.’

‘Ask for what?’

‘Darcy.’ The wine glass clinks against her teeth. ‘Kids are difficult. Selfish. That’s why I don’t have any.’ She looks at me. ‘You got children?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you know what I mean.’

‘Not real y.’ I speak softly. ‘Darcy wants to go to bal et school in London.’

‘And who’s going to pay for that?’

‘I think she plans to sel this place.’

‘This place!’ The big woman laughs. Her teeth are yel ow and dotted with fil ings. ‘Bank owns “this place”. Just like the bank owns the car. Bank owns the furniture. Bank owns the friggin’

lot.’

She belches into her fist and flicks the cigarette butt into the garden where it bounces and sparks. ‘My sister— the big shot businesswoman— writes a wil when there’s nothing to bloody give away. And even if there is something left when I sel this place, young missy is too young to inherit. I’m her legal guardian. Says so in the wil .’

‘I think you should talk to Darcy about Spain. She won’t want to go.’

‘Not her decision.’

She rubs her heels as if trying to restore blood flow to her feet.

‘I stil think you should talk to her.’

A ravel ed silence and a sigh. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr O’Loughlin.’

‘Cal me Joe.’

‘Wel , Joe, we al have to make compromises. Darcy needs someone to look after her. I’m the only family she’s got.’

I can feel myself getting annoyed. Angry. I shake my head and press my hands tighter into my jacket pockets.

‘You think I’m wrong,’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s another advantage of being my age— I don’t have to give a shit.’

As soon as I enter the house Julianne senses something is wrong. She looks at me questioningly. My left arm is trembling.

‘You ready to go?’ she asks.

‘Let me talk to Darcy first.’

‘To say goodbye.’

It’s a statement, not a question.

I look in the lounge and the dining room, the front hal way and then upstairs. Darcy is in her bedroom, sitting at the window, staring at the garden.

‘You hiding?’

‘Yep,’ she says.

The room is ful of music posters and stuffed toys. It’s a time capsule from Darcy’s childhood, which seems incredibly distant. I notice scraps of torn paper on the floor and a pile of condolence cards stacked haphazardly on the bed. Someone has opened them quickly, without care.

‘You’ve been reading cards.’

‘No. I found them like this.’

‘When?’

‘Just now— when I got home.’

‘Who opened them?’

She shrugs but senses the edge in my voice. I ask if the house was locked, who had keys, where did she find the cards and envelopes…

‘They were on the bed.’

‘Are any of them missing?’

‘I can’t tel .’

I glance out the window at a line of poplar saplings that ends on the corner. I see a silver van moving slowly along the street, searching for a house number.

‘Can we go now?’

‘Not this time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re going to stay here with your aunt.’

‘But she’s going back to Spain.’

‘She wants you to go with her.’

‘No! No!’ Darcy looks at me accusingly.

‘I can’t. I won’t. What about my bal et scholarship? I won a place.’

‘Spain can be like a holiday.’

‘A holiday! I can’t suddenly stop dancing and take it up again. I’ve never been to Spain. I don’t know anyone there.’

‘You have your aunt.’

‘Who hates me.’

‘No she doesn’t.’

‘Talk to her.’

‘I have.’

‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘Of course not.’

Her bottom lip is trembling. Suddenly, she throws herself against me, wrapping her arms around my chest.

‘Let me come home with you.’

‘I can’t do that, Darcy.’

‘Please. Please.’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

What happens next is not so much unplanned as unimagined. Some leaps can only be made in the space between the head and the heart. Darcy raises her face and presses her lips to mine. Her breath. Her tongue. Inexperienced, exploring, she tastes of potato chips and cola. I try to pul back. Her hand grips my hair. She pushes her hips against mine, offering her body.

My head is fil ed with seven visions of crazy. Taking hold of her hands, I gently ease her away and hold her there. She blinks at me desperately.

Her coat is unbuttoned. One side of her blouse has fal en off her shoulder, exposing a bra strap.