Skin (22 page)

There was a moment’s hiatus while the two cars rolled along the road almost bumper to bumper, Mandy taking time to register what was happening. Then the entrance to a cemetery came up and the Escort jerked left into it and stopped just inside the gates. Flea slammed the Clio in behind, jumped out and went fast to the driver’s side, making a circular motion with her fingers telling Mandy to roll down the window.

But for a moment, her white face just stared back through the glass. On the passenger side Thom had slid down until his chin was almost on his chest. His face was canted over, resting on his splayed hand so no one could see his expression.

‘Open the window.’

Mandy did. ‘You frightened the life out of me. What’s going on?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘I’m on my way to work.’

‘Now, Mandy. Now.’

‘Riiiiight,’ she said cautiously. ‘You’re upset.’

‘Get out of the car.’

She did as she was told: slowly, hands raised, as if Flea had a gun to her head.

Thom unbuckled and got out, too, his face appearing on the other side of the car roof. He was flustered. ‘Flea, there’s no need for this. I’m going to tell her.’

‘Going to tell me what?’

‘Mandy, don’t listen to her. Please. I swear I was just about to tell you.’

Flea held up her hand. ‘Get back in the car, Thom.’

‘Let me tell her.’

‘
Get in the car.
’

He stared at his sister, his hands on the roof, his face drained of colour now. A vein in the side of his neck pulsed blue.

‘Do what she’s telling you,’ Mandy said. ‘Go on – sit down.’

Thom might have been able to ignore his sister, but he didn’t know how to defy his girlfriend. He got into the car and sat, slouched in the seat. Mandy turned to Flea, her arms folded under her huge breasts. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

‘There’s been an accident. Thom’s had . . . an accident.’

Mandy bent very slowly to look across the driver’s seat at Thom. His face was in his hands again. ‘He doesn’t look as if he’s had an accident.’

‘It wasn’t him who got hurt.’

‘Then who?’

‘It was a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Mandy raised her eyebrows questioningly, as if the idea of Thom having anything to do with a woman was preposterous. Even through an accident.

‘He was driving. The other night. He was drunk and she stepped out in front of him. He didn’t have a chance to stop.’

‘What happened to her?’

Flea shook her head. No way of sugar-coating it. ‘I’m sorry.’

Mandy closed her eyes very slowly. ‘Killed?’ She opened them, looked at Flea, unblinking. ‘You mean he
killed
her?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Last Monday.’

‘The night he came over to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘He can’t have had an accident. He stayed at yours all evening. The car’s fine.’

‘He didn’t stay at mine. He was lying to you. He didn’t want you to know he was going to a business meeting because he didn’t want you thinking he was getting into another cock-up deal, so he came to mine and used my car – he left his outside in case you drove by to check up on him.’

Mandy turned away and gazed distantly at the graves, at the plastic containers under the standpipe, the silk flowers made grey by the car fumes from the road. Seeing them but not absorbing them. ‘I can’t believe this. No one told me anything about it.’

‘Because no one knew. It wasn’t reported.’

‘Not
reported
? Then what happened to . . .’ This new dimension hit home with a bang. She put her elbows on the car roof and dropped her face into her hands. ‘My God. My God. My God.’

‘There’s something we can do.’

‘This will be the end of everything.’

‘Mandy, calm down. Thom and I have talked about it and there
is
something we can do. We’ve got to get him into hospital. We’ve got to build a case. There isn’t much time.’

‘Build a case? You mean you’re going to lie?
Why?
Why would you do that?’

‘Because he’s my brother. Because I’m totally fucking furious with him and I’d like to pull his eyes out right now. But he’s still my brother and I love him.’

Mandy rested her finger against her throat as if there was a small lump there. Then she pulled back her sleeve and checked her watch – as if knowing the time would somehow keep everything in place and stop the world tilting. In the distance thunder rolled. A bird – a rook, maybe – took off from the line of pencil cypresses edging the cemetery. ‘We need some time to think about this,’ she said eventually.

‘OK.’

‘Alone, I mean.’

‘I’ll go and sit in the car.’

‘No. Longer than that. We need to go home and think about it. Sleep on it. I’ll call you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Maybe in the afternoon. I’ve got to work in the morning.’

‘It can’t wait that long. Things are . . . changing. Things with the body are changing.’

‘Things with the . . . ? Christ.’ Mandy shook her head. ‘Oh, Christ.’

‘Call me first thing in the morning.’

‘Some time in the morning.’

‘If I haven’t heard by midday I’ll be at your front door. And if we don’t start doing something about it then, I’m going to have to—’

‘Going to have to what?’

‘Midday. I’ll see you at midday.’

32

Four o’clock in the afternoon, and Ruth feels good. A drink in her hand and the music’s on loud. She’d like to open all the windows so the neighbours know she’s here. Because their little trick today – sending that slag to spy on her – hasn’t got to her. Not at all. In fact, it’s made things even clearer. If before she wasn’t sure of the changes she’s decided to make, she’s a thousand per cent now. It’s time to get out of here. Time to go back to where she belongs. To the sun. Her and the cats and maybe Stevie, somewhere better than this shit-hole.

She carries the drink up to her room and rests it on the bedside table. Slops some of it, so she takes off her T-shirt to blot up the mess. When she’s straightening she catches her reflection in the mirror on the big old wardrobe. She gives herself a long, hard look, unbuttons her shorts, slides them off and steps out of them. Now she’s in underwear, her bra and knickers, and her high heels. She stands straight and appraises her reflection.

She’s got good legs. Always has had. Short, a bit muscular, but shaped well with good knees and ankles. Legs that look good in heels. Good knockers, too. She pushes her breasts together and bends towards the mirror. Makes a kissy face. A bit of help with the boobies: East European help. But a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse, and she’s always had a way with certain types of men. A little promise, a little excitement. It’s a two way-street. They get what they want . . . and she gets what she wants. Which, right now, is a ticket out of here. Away from the snoops and the rain and all the people who want to hurt the cats with their poisons and fast cars.

There’s a new shopping centre going up between the hamlet and Trowbridge. It brings all sorts of lonely men down, a project like that – architects, engineers, investors. One or two of them have already started appearing at the pubs in Rode. One bought her a drink the other night, and that’s a move in the right direction. Not that she’s naïve: it’s not going to be bleeding Pierce Brosnan, for the love of God. There’ll be compromises.

She takes a gulp of the rum and Coke. Puts it down and turns back to the mirror. She gathers up the spare flesh that pushes over the top of her knickers. Squishes it together and watches it pucker. Folds of tanned flesh all indented and lumpy. Stevie. He did that. Not that she resents it, but that’s Stevie’s belly right there. She jiggles it around, then flattens it back against her hipbones and turns half in profile. Turns to the other side. Admires the change in her shape with it pulled tight like that.

It’s only a tiny bit of work. A tiny scar. From all the reading she’s done she’ll be able to pass it off as a hysterectomy. A movie star or a jet-setter wouldn’t think twice about it. They’d call it maintenance. They wouldn’t worry like this, or spend time thinking about it. They’d just crap or get off the pot.

Ruth drains her drink. She goes downstairs and stands at the bar in her underwear and high heels, a little unsteady, scoops ice into the glass and fills it. She carries it over to the computer table and begins pulling things out of drawers. There are stacks and stacks of photographs, and she has to rummage through them to find the folders of bank and credit-card statements. She dumps them on the table and sits down, sorting them into piles.

After a while she realizes there’s a problem. She lays them out in date order and starts again, making notes this time, adding things up. It’s not good. Two glasses of rum and Coke go by and she still can’t work out how it got so bad. She pours another and sits, head propped up on one finger, trying to work it out.

She’s got an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Little Sue made it. A good girl, Sue, stays in touch despite the divorce. Weird face, though: pushed in. Like there’s a touch of the manta ray in Lindermilk genes. Basically she’s a good girl, though, and she’s spoken to the clinic about getting a staff discount for Aunty Ruth’s tummy tuck. Twenty-five per cent apparently.

But even with the discount there isn’t going to be enough. Ruth can see that now.

What’s she supposed to do? Get another mortgage on the house? That would take for ever, and with the way things are going in this country no one can get a mortgage, not even the doctors and lawyers. She looks up and catches sight of herself in the mirror. Thinks about the money. Thinks about her bank account. And, suddenly, it’s all wrong. Suddenly it doesn’t matter how she looks at it, everything looks awful. She looks awful. Her stomach looks awful. Her face looks awful. And there’s that chipped tooth at the front. Christ only knows how much that’ll cost to fix. Needs an implant probably.

‘Fuck,’ she tells the little black cat curled up at her feet. ‘Fuck.’

She goes back to the bar. Opens the rum again and pours another couple of fingers. Spills a bit on the bar top. She looks at it. Wonders whether to lick it up. Changes her mind and puts down a paper napkin. One from the Puente Romano hotel in Marbella. They’d moored in the Cabopino marina once and had a drink in the bar. Stevie stole about a hundred napkins that night. She’s still using them. A good boy, Stevie.

She picks up her mobile and flicks through the numbers. Stops at Stevie’s and stares at it for a long time. He’s got a good little business in Swindon, selling white goods. Built it up from nothing. He wouldn’t like to see his mum want for anything. Her thumb hovers over the call button.

‘No,’ she tells the cat, putting the phone down. ‘I won’t take the bread out of my baby’s mouth. I won’t do it. I’m not that sort of mother.’

She pours in the Coke and drops in a swizzle stick for fun. There was something in a magazine the other day, talking about how a woman had gone to her doctor and said her flat chest was making her depressed.
Depressed
. The doctor referred her and she got a new set done on the National Health. Cost her nothing. What is the world coming to?

She looks at the phone again. At Stevie’s number, then the clock. It’s almost five. He’ll be on his way to the pub. She dials and gets his voicemail. ‘Stevie, darling, it’s Mum. Sweetheart, give Mummy a call, will you, darling? Come and see me, will you? There’s a little something I need to discuss with you.’

33

Caffery hung out of the window of the MCIU offices at Kingswood and smoked a guilty roll-up. He watched the guy in the halal butcher’s close up shop. The story one of the DCs in the office liked to tell was how, a year or so ago, the dumbfucks in the Chinese supermarket two doors down had got jealous of the trade the butcher was doing. They’d decided it was all to do with that word: halal. They’d copied it down really carefully and stuck it on a sign in the window. Halal beef for sale. Halal chicken for sale. Halal pork for sale. Halal
pork
. The butcher had lost it at the pork insult and really dropped the hammer on the Chinese for that. For a while it was like gang warfare out there. At the window now Caffery smoked slowly, looking at the butcher’s. He was a Londoner. He didn’t see why the DC had thought it was worth mentioning. That sort of thing happened all the time in Lewisham.

He dropped the butt out of the window and went to his desk. He had to speak to Powers but the superintendent wasn’t there. He was in Glyndebourne, of all places, with his phone switched off. He’d been working sixteen-hour days since the Misty Kitson case had come to them, but today his wife had tickets for the opening performance of
La Cenerentola
, and considering what she’d put up with over the years he wasn’t stupid. After the morning press conference he’d got straight into his car, driven home and got the DJ and picnic hamper out of mothballs. He’d left Caffery a little message, though: pictures of the actress who’d played Misty Kitson at the reconstruction had been carefully taped over the PM photos of Ben Jakes and Jonah Dundas.