The Hollow Places (14 page)

Clare took a
deep breath.

She reached
into her pocket.

“Hi, Ellen,”
she said.

“Bea.”

“How are
you?”

“Well, I'm
fine. How are you? That's more important.”

“I'm ok,
Ellen. I'm ok. I’m so sorry that I couldn't be there today.”

“I didn't
expect you to come, Bea, but ... I had hoped for a card.”

“I'm
sorry.”

“I’m only 80
once, you know. Good thing too, if you ask me.”

“I know.”
Clare wanted to call her Granny, but she didn't dare. Ellen had
always insisted that they treat each other as equals; she only
happened to be older. Clare didn't feel the equal to her now. She
never had. As a teenager, she had lived with Ellen, her maternal
grandmother, when things had been unbearable at home. Over the
years, Clare had found that she was someone she could trust. The
only person she could trust. Ellen had taught her how to listen,
how to wait and how to keep going despite her fear. These skills
had served her well, but she couldn't tell Ellen how or why. She
had to bear her life alone.

“How are
things down in London?” Ellen asked.

“Fine,” Clare
replied. “Everything's fine.”

They pretended
to chat in this manner, much as they had pretended to be close over
the last year and a half, but Clare knew that she alone had broken
the connection they used to have. That was another thing that she
had to live with.

“Are you
there?” Ellen asked.

“I'm here,
Ellen. I can't talk right now.”

“Of course you
can't.”

She yearned to
confess the things she had done to people and why, but how could
she? At it's best it would sound crazy; at its worst it was
despicable and criminal.

According to
Firdy, it was almost over. A few more lies, though the biggest
ever, and she would be free.

“Your mother’s
here,” Ellen said. “I hope that’s not the reason you didn’t
come.”

“No, of course
not.”

“Shall I
believe you?”

Clare could
hear the smile in her voice, but could tell that she was upset. The
fact that she had called told her that she was upset. Normally, she
would have waited for her to get in touch, by which time she would
already have forgiven her, ready for her to do it again.

But not this
time. Not anymore.

“I'd better
leave you to it then,” Ellen said. “I have gifts to open. Your
mother sends her love.”

“No, she
doesn’t.”

“No. She
doesn’t. But I could tell that she was disappointed when I told her
you weren’t here. When did you two last see each other?”

“I’ll make it
up to you,” Clare said. “I promise.”

“No, Bea, you
won’t. Bye honey.”

“Ellen?
Granny?”

She drew away
when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the Greek woman,
Androula, looking alarmed.

“Are you
okay?” Androula asked. Clare bowed her head, letting her forehead
touch the surface of the table. It was cool. A moment of peace.
“Come on,” the woman said, “Don't do this to yourself. Sit up. Tell
me what's wrong.”

“You're very
kind,” Clare said. “You've always been kind to me, but you don't
understand. I should go.”

“You're
right,” Androula said. “I don't understand, but I think that you
should talk to someone; I'm a good listener, Sharonne ...”

She was
normally Sharonne when she was here, but sometimes she had to be
Bea. Today she had played Clare for the first time. She snorted at
the strangeness of the thing that she had become. The name on her
birth certificate was Bernadette. Her life as Bernadette seemed far
away. A dead thing. A mile underground.

She pushed her
chair back, but Androula urged her to stay.

“Look at the
state of you,” she said. “You can't go out like that. I’ll get you
some water. Please. Wait. Just a minute.”

*

By the time he reached
the Olive Tree, he was out of breath and the pain in his leg was
sending flares up into his hip. He'd had to drive past the
restaurant and double back on foot, abandoning the car on the
pavement fifty yards up the road.

As he ran, he
worked through his options. They were few. The best involved taking
Sarah by the hand and returning to the car with her. The worst … he
felt for the knife in his jacket, freed it from its leather
scabbard and let it rest naked in his pocket.

When he
entered the cafe, a kindly-looking woman behind the counter looked
up from polishing a glass display cabinet. Simon saw a man in an
apron sitting on a wooden chair in the kitchen beyond and a second
woman at a table near the window finishing up a glass of water.

The cafe was
clean and smelled of fresh bread. A radio played Heart FM quietly.
There was no cloak room and no toilet. No Sarah.

He returned
his attention to the woman sitting at the table. She was pale and
very thin, with dark blonde hair. She was staring into her glass
and hadn't so much as glanced at him as he burst in to the cafe.
Now he stood beside the table and stared down at her, forcing her
to acknowledge him. Her movements were subtle, but he could see
that she was taking a breath, drawing herself up to full strength.
Finally, when their eyes met, her face slackened. It only lasted a
moment, but Simon saw enough to pull out a chair and sit opposite
her. He turned the seat at an angle, so his back wasn't entirely to
the window.

“How do you
know who I am?” he asked.

“I don’t know
who you are.“

“You know that
I don't have time to argue with you.”

She thought it
over.

“You've made a
mistake,” she said and stood up.

Simon grabbed
her by the wrist. With her free hand, she snatched up the glass she
had been drinking from. She restrained herself, for the time being,
from smashing it in his face.

“I only want
to talk,” he said.

She flicked
her eyes to the right, indicating the owners of the cafe. Simon
didn't make the mistake of looking. He had heard the man join the
woman at the counter, but he wasn't concerned about them. He wanted
answers.

“Talk,” Simon
said.

She glanced at
the door.

“Here,” Simon
said.

Finally, she
sat down. Simon let go of her arm and she let go of the glass.

“Now talk,”
Simon said.

She sighed and
said: “He took her.”

“When?”

“Ten, fifteen
minutes.”

“Which?”

“Ten.”

“You helped
him.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Who are
you?”

Her eyes
flicked towards the old couple over her shoulder again.

“Answer,”
Simon said.

“This isn't
going to help you get her back.”

“Quickly.”

She pushed her
fingers through her hair and grabbed a handful. “I’m like you,” she
said. “I do as I’m told. I don’t get hurt. The people I care about
don’t get hurt. You’d have done the same as me. As far as I knew,
you already had.”

“Why does he
want her?”

She was
staring at him very steadily and intensely. Her eyes had both the
colour and texture of a frozen lake. She swallowed hard.

“The same
thing is going to happen to her as happens to all the people you
deliver.”

Simon’s hand
tightened into a fist. “And what is that?”

Surprise swept
over her face so quickly that she hadn’t a chance to hide it. When
the tremor was over, her mouth curled into a contemptuous smile.
She rested her hands in her lap and slouched. The contempt
travelled up to her eyes.

“Just tell me
what happens,” Simon said.

“You don't
know much, do you?” she said. “It learns from them. It takes them
apart to see if it can put them together again. Usually the
answer's 'no' ... You asked me.”

“Sarah’s his
insurance to keep me ... delivering. Why does it want her now?”

“I'd like to
help you,” she said, “but I can't. We're very similar, so you'll
understand why I can't say any more.” Before Simon could speak, she
continued: “Firdy will tell you everything you want to know. I’ve
got no stake in this. Nothing to gain and everything to lose. It’s
not that I don’t sympathise. I can’t.” She stood up.

Simon told her
to sit down, but she straightened her coat and put up her hood.

“I can’t say
it was nice to meet you,” she said. “Don’t follow me. And one other
piece of advice: when he realises that you’re not where he left
you, he’ll be very upset. He has a terrible temper.”

The woman
raised a hand to the couple behind the counter and strolled out of
the cafe.

Simon looked
at the empty doorway, flicking through his options. He was so
absorbed in thought that he didn't notice that the man had emerged
from behind the counter and was now standing beside him, looking
upset.

“You going to
order or what?” the man asked, his arms hanging at his sides as if
he was a gunslinger.

Simon pushed
past him.

In the street,
there was no sign of the woman in the white coat. He thought about
what she had said. She was right. Firdy told him that he would
return to the house with Sarah. Having failed to reach his sister
in time, all he could do now was get home and limit the damage. And
once again, time was against him.

“Do you want the radio? You can have the radio if you
want. Although I can’t stand pop music. I’m more of a jazz man.
What kind of music are you into? You look like an intellectual,
despite the jacket. You like Radio Four, I suppose. People bashing
their heads against walls. Yeah, that’s you, but sitting on the
sidelines, watching the world go by, because it can't really touch
you, can it? Keep your hands clean. I’ve never had that luxury, but
of course I wouldn’t have it any other way. It's made me what I am,
right? You've got to try. You've got to get involved. Or you may as
well be dead. Don't you see? Only, it's difficult when you look
like me. It's difficult to get involved.

“But that's
life. You've got to play with the cards you've been dealt. Your
brother would say the same thing. Take him back three years and
he’d take the exact same path and it would lead him to me and me to
him.

“He’s done a
good job of protecting you, but that’s no longer necessary. I’m
going to take care of everything.

“It’s cold;
I’m going to put the heater on again. Do you mind the heat? I’ve
never liked the cold. Tell me if it’s too hot. I don’t have any
water left, but we’ll be back at yours soon. You can have a wash;
rest, sleep, dream ... Everything’s going to be okay.

“I want you to
understand now, in case anything happens, that I’m not going to
kill Simon, unless he makes me. He’s a smart man. I don't think
he’s going to do that. There’s a chance that he's going to see us
together and feel upset about that, but I don't think he'll do
anything stupid. If he does, well, let’s not think about that.
Sometimes you can think about something and it happens. Know what I
mean? No. Perhaps not.

“Smile. This
could have been much worse, you know. If Sharonne hadn’t found you,
I would have got to you first. That might not have been pretty. I
was quite upset. I think I've just killed someone. I was getting
kind of fed up of chasing you. You might not have been sitting
here, comfortable, in the front with me. I might have put you in
the back. You don't want that.

“You’ll be
back with your brother in under an hour. That’s what you wanted,
isn’t it? It’s on my terms, but at least it’s going to happen,
right? In return for that, I expect you to co-operate. I don’t
expect much. You follow where I lead; that’s all I ask. If I say
move, you move. That’s all. Like Simon. Ultimately, he does as his
told.

“We all
do.

“You don’t
talk much, do you? Gives me room to think. You don’t need to talk.
Rest. We’ve got a lot to do.

“Are you sure
you don’t want the radio on? When you hire a van like this, it
seems a shame not to try the radio.”

She was
staring out of the passenger window.

“Fuck it.” He
pushed the 'on' button. It was national radio; too loud, too jolly.
“Good,” he said. “That's better.”

Firdy held the door and nodded for Sarah to enter
before him. Doing so would cause her to brush against him. She’d
have to be nearer to him than they had been during the entire
journey in the van.

“I won’t
bite,” he said and smiled, on the brink of losing his patience. She
had no choice but to do as he said so she bit her lip and forced
her right foot in front of left and her left foot in front of
right. She held her breath as she passed between him and the door
frame. The smell of him invaded her nostrils and she gagged.

He’s in my
lungs, she thought. He's inside me.

When he
crossed the threshold after her, everything in the world lost its
balance. His presence – his stench, his skin, his lopsided gait –
was vile and terrifying in their private space. They had been safe
here once and he was ruining it. It seemed impossible that this was
happening. She wanted to scream at him and tell him so; she wanted
to throw plates.

He locked them
in.

“Now give me
your keys,” he said and paused for only a moment before adding:
“Give them to me or I’ll take them from you.”

She reached
into her jeans and tossed the keys to him. He attempted to catch
them with his right hand, but missed by a good way and they
clattered at his feet. As he knelt down to retrieve them he didn’t
take his eyes from her, as if willing her to take the opportunity
to run, knowing that there was nowhere to go now.

She maintained
his gaze, although she felt violated.

Crouched on
the floor like an imp, the folds of his long black coat gathered
like a crushed flower and when he picked up her keys it was with a
hiss of leather against the tiles. Rising, he was insect-like, all
knees and elbows and thin limbs. She couldn’t help averting her
eyes then. She heard him snigger and then he was limping his way
towards the living area, pocketing her keys as he went.