The Redeemed (13 page)

Jenny pulled up on her ex-husband's spotless driveway and
parked her scruffy Golf next to a brand-new Mercedes Coupe. It was the house
she had lived in for the best part of fifteen years, but crossing the
immaculate paving she felt like a ragged trespasser. David demanded the same
spotlessness in his garden as he did in his operating theatre. Since Jenny had
left, she had noticed this tendency becoming even more acute. No imperfection
was permitted. A weed between the manicured shrubs was as unthinkable as a
casual slip of the scalpel: a matter of life and death.

It was his young girlfriend, Debbie, who answered the door.
Not yet thirty, she was pretty, pink-cheeked and blonde, and now happily
pregnant.

'Oh hi, Jenny,' Debbie said sweetly. 'Come in.' She called up
the stairs: 'Ross, it's your mum.'

Jenny followed her into the large, open-plan kitchen, which
shone in a way it had never done when it had belonged to her.

'Can I get you anything?'

'No thanks,' Jenny said. Drinks were too risky when she was
this nervous. She'd fumble it and make a mess on Debbie's gleaming floor. 'Is
David around?'

'He's late back. It was a long list today. He's getting
things clear for the weekend.'

'Are you doing something special?'

'It's my birthday. He's booked a couple of nights away. Don't
ask me where, it's a surprise.'

'Great,' Jenny said, remembering several such trips, David
booking the big suite and expecting non-stop sex while her idea had been to
catch up on some sleep. She glanced at Debbie's pert little pregnancy bump.
'How are you feeling? It can't be long now.'

'You know, I hardly notice it, except when it kicks.' She
patted her stomach. 'According to the scan it's going to be big, though. David
says Ross was a big baby.'

'Yes,' Jenny said. 'But a word of advice - it's better to
have the cut before it comes out than risk what happened to me.'

Debbie winced.

'Two hours stitching up. Probably why I didn't do it again.'

Ross's footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Jenny said, 'Good luck. I'm sure you'll be fine.'

The sinful pleasure of seeing Debbie's smile replaced by a
look of horror stayed with her all the way to the restaurant. Hopefully it
would put a damper on her weekend too.

Ross chose the little French bistro in Clifton they used to
visit when David still indulged Jenny in her occasional attempts to reconnect
with her brief bohemian youth. She was glad it had good associations for Ross
and hadn't been tainted by his father's scathing remarks about the streaky
cutlery and bad wine. She guessed he almost felt part of the university crowd
that gathered here. She had to remind herself constantly that he was very
nearly eighteen, a young adult, old enough to fight in a war. He had changed
again in the month since they'd spent an evening together. The mid-teen
gawkiness was almost gone, along with the semi-permanent sneer and ever-ready
put-downs. She recognized aspects of his father in him: hints of fastidiousness
in the careful way he held his cutlery, a sense that his intellect was
asserting control over his emotions. And as the evening wore on, he started to
ask her questions, which was another new departure. He enquired after her
recent cases, whether she had plans for a holiday, and whether she seeing much
of Steve. Jenny was touched.

'So you're not actually together, then?' Ross said.

'We're good friends—'

It could have been David looking sceptically back at her.

'What?' she asked.

'I thought you liked him. He likes you.'

'When did he say that?'

'He didn't have to. It's obvious.'

Jenny sensed she wasn't getting the whole truth. 'Have you
been speaking to him?'

Ross shrugged. 'He's called me a couple of times, that's all,
to see how you are.'

'What's wrong with calling me?'

'He says he's been trying to . . . He worries about you, you
know.'

'Oh, does he?'

'In a good way. Why wouldn't he? We all do.'
'All?

'I didn't mean . . . sorry. That came out wrong.'

'Who exactly sits on this committee of the concerned?'

'It's only Dad. He thinks you're working too hard, that's
all.'

'Really? When exactly has he been making these pronouncements
- around the dinner table with Debbie there?'

Ross squirmed in his seat. 'Look, I didn't mean to start
something.'

'No, I want to know,' Jenny insisted. 'I'm your mother. If
you're worried about me, ask me. I might be able to reassure you.'

Ross looked at her guiltily. She hated herself for hurting
him, but she couldn't bear not to know what David was saying about her.

'He thinks you seem a bit—'

'What?'

'Shaky. He thinks you could do with a rest.'

'From a man who works fourteen-hour days, that's a bit rich.'

There was a spark of anger in Ross's eyes. 'Just because
you're divorced doesn't mean he's stopped caring about you. He's worried you're
going to push yourself too hard and go under again.'

'If being appointed coroner is his idea of going under, I
can't imagine what he thinks success would be. You know, Ross, perhaps your
father is just a little bit jealous of me. I won't deny he's a great surgeon,
well respected and all that, but it's uncanny how he always seems to notice
when I've had my name in the paper.' She poured more mineral water into her
glass, wishing it were wine. 'Shall we change the subject?'

'Is it something that happened to you?'

'What?'

'Dad says it sounds like post-traumatic stress disorder.
Apparently sometimes it can be some tiny thing that sets up a reaction in the
brain, like being frightened by a dog. Something can trigger it years later.'

'He's a psychiatrist as well as a heart surgeon now, is he?'

'Was there something?'

'Ross, please. We've talked about this before. I've been
through a tough time and now I'm getting better.' She forced a smile.

'Mum, you've started not looking at people when you're
talking to them. Your hands shake. You don't get better by taking more pills.
Someone's got to be honest enough to tell you that.'

Neither of them spoke as she drove him home. It was meant to
have been a relaxing evening but instead it had ended with Jenny feeling
betrayed. David had primed Ross to confront her and suggested the bistro as the
place most likely to take the sting out of her own son telling her she was a
basket case. She pulled up on the road outside her sterile former home,
fighting a losing battle against anger she could no longer contain.

'How dare your father do this to me?'

Ross sat silently in the passenger seat.

'You know what his problem is? He feels guilty. He wants me
off his conscience so he can pretend everything's wonderful in his bourgeois
bloody life. Well, it isn't. He's making a fool of himself with that girl.
She's young enough to be his daughter, for Christ's sake.'

'Mum, that's not fair.'

'I know. I should be a bloody saint who never gets angry,
never criticizes anyone, never shows any emotion.'

'There's no danger of that.'

Ross slammed out of the car and ran towards the house. Jenny
wound down the window and called after him, but her apology came too late. He
was already through the door. Lost to her.

She shed angry tears as she gunned home along empty roads,
throwing the Golf around the steep corners on the valley road, grinding through
the gears and stamping on the brakes. Her anger with David spilled over into
fury at the world at large. Everyone wanted something from her, she was
surrounded by people passing judgement. It was as if, resenting her authority,
they had to do all in their power to diminish her. Even her father had managed
to lash out from his senility to land a sickening blow.

No more. She was Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner,
a woman who had every right to demand respect.

She pulled onto the old cart track at the side of the house
as the last of the late evening light bled away. She couldn't care less if her
insecure ex-husband disapproved of the way she lived or had convinced himself
she was a breakdown waiting to happen. That was his problem. When Debbie was
cooing over a baby he'd be desperate for an intelligent woman to talk to.
There'd be no more dirty weekends for a long time, just a lot of dirty nappies.
There was some justice in the world.

The creak of the gate's rusty hinge echoed off the front of
the cottage. The air was dead still and humid, not a hint of breeze to stir the
leaves. She stopped halfway up the path and groped in her handbag for her keys.
Where the hell were they? She delved beneath the jumble of make-up, pills,
purses and assorted hair brushes. She checked the zip compartments. Nothing.
She shook the bag to hear the rattle that would tell her they were in there,
but somehow she lost her grip and dropped it, scattering the contents over the
ground.

Damn! Damn! Stooping down to snatch them up something caught
her eye: flashes of colour on the flagstones. In the dim light she made out a
pattern of pink and yellow chalk lines: hopscotch squares and numbers drawn in
a childish hand.

Her head spun and her heart exploded. She grabbed her car
keys and ran.

Untroubled by his brush with death, Alfie rested his head on
her lap as she sat on the corner of the dusty old sofa, gazing at her with
needy eyes. The boarded-out barn loft was more of a den than a flat. There was
a bed, a draughtsman's drawing board, a few items of ancient furniture and a
makeshift kitchen. A solar panel rigged up on the roof provided an occasional
trickle of tepid water to the sink. It smelled of straw, dog and tobacco smoke.

Steve brought her some camomile tea and sat next to her. At
least his cups were clean.

'How are you feeling?' he said.

'I don't know,' Jenny whispered.

'Are you going to tell me what's going on?'

Alfie nuzzled her, demanding a stroke. She put a hand on his
soft head and scratched gently behind his ears. He closed his eyes in bliss.

'I'm not sure I can explain. You'll think I'm stupid.'

'Try me.'

Jenny struggled against a feeling of unreality. She felt
foolish, humiliated.

Steve put a hand on her knee. 'What's frightened you, Jenny?
It's not work this time, is it?'

She shook her head. 'How can you tell?'

He shrugged. 'I guess I must know you.'

'Those people you saw waiting outside my house the other day,
what did they look like?'

'The guy was a bit older than me, the girl was very little.
Blonde hair, two little pigtails at the back.'

'I know this is going to sound strange —’

'Go on.'

'The man . . .' Jenny faltered, scarcely believing she was
asking the question. 'Did he look to you like he belonged in the past?'

'What do you mean? I only saw him for a moment.'

'What about the girl? What was she wearing?'

'Something pale blue, as far as I remember. A sort of knitted
cardigan thing. Why? Who are they? Hey, careful—'

He grabbed the cup from Jenny's shaking hand, slopping tea
onto the floor.

'Come on,' Steve said. 'Let's have it.'

'You won't think I'm crazy? I need to trust you.'

'You know you can. I keep telling you.'

She nodded, and edged a little closer to the precipice. Once
over she knew there was no going back. She stepped out.

'You know my psychiatrist is convinced I've got some buried
memory, some trauma —’

'Uh huh.' He took her hand and stroked it, gently urging her
on.

'I'd been having dreams about this little girl. In one of our
sessions a name came up, Katy. Just the name. No memory, but it was connected
to my childhood. I was about five or six. He kept pestering me to research my
past, family records, anything that might stir up memories. I don't have much
of that sort of stuff. I couldn't find anything except a few old pictures. My
mother's dead, I've no brothers or sisters. The only person left is my father.
Physically he's OK, mentally he's completely shot.'

'I remember. You went to see him.'

Jenny drew in a long breath. It was too late to stop now.

'I was showing him some old pictures. I had no idea whether
he recognized them or not, and I slipped in the name, Katy, and asked him if he
remembered who she was . . .'

Jenny's fingers tightened around Steve's hand.

'What did he say?'

She screwed up her eyes. 'What does it matter? He's got
Alzheimer's.'

'Tell me what he said,' Steve demanded, a sudden and
unexpected hardness in his voice that shocked her. 'Please, Jenny,' he said,
more softly.

'He said she was my Uncle Jim and Aunty Penny's little girl.
Jim was his older brother. I said, they didn't have a daughter. He said,
"You remember, Smiler -", that's what he used to call me.' Jenny
swallowed. ' "You remember, Smiler. You killed her." That was it.
That's all he said. Then he was gone again.'

Jenny looked at Steve for his reaction and saw that he was
trying hard not to appear shocked.

'I don't expect you to say anything. I don't even know what
to think myself.'

'Do you remember this girl?'

'No, only their son, Chris. He must be ten years younger than
me. We lived in the same part of town but didn't see much of each other.'

'There's an easy way to find out. I can look it up on the
internet right now.'

'You think he might be telling the truth?'

'No. I just thought—'

'Go on. Do it.'

'Really, I didn't mean to—'

'Do it.'

Steve stood up from the sofa and fetched a laptop from a
battered canvas briefcase.

'Don't you want to know what happened tonight - before you
get all wrapped up in your computer?' Jenny asked.

'Of course.' He set the laptop aside as it booted up.

'I know you and Ross and my ex-husband and God knows who else
think I'm mad, but I don't hallucinate. I don't see things. Imagine them, yes,
but not actually
see
them.'

'What was it?'

'On the front path. There were chalk marks. Pink and yellow
chalk. Hopscotch squares like we used to mark out as kids. Someone had drawn
them today. And you know when you see something and it takes you back? I was
standing in the street outside my house when I was a child. I could see the
little buckled shoes on my feet, the white socks, everything.'

Steve looked puzzled. 'You think someone's trying to tell you
something?'

'The girl you saw outside my house . . . what if it was
her
? The man could have been my uncle . . .'

'Right. You're telling me I've been seeing ghosts?'

'My grandmother used to. She'd hear a knock at the window
when anyone in the family was about to die. We used to joke about it, but she
was never wrong.'

'She sounds quite a character.'

He picked up the laptop and brought up a selection of
websites that would trace your family history for a fee. Five pounds bought him
access to the government register of births, deaths and marriages. Jenny gave
him the details of her aunt and uncle. He typed in their names and hit the key
that would bring up details of their offspring.

'What is it?' Jenny said.

He was staring intently at the screen. 'It looks as if they
did have two children.'

He angled the laptop so she could read with him. The first
entry read:
Katherine Anne Chilcott. Date of birth: 16 June
1967. The second
recorded Christopher's birth in 1976.

For the second time that evening the world spun around her.

'Do you want me to click on her name?' Steve said.

Jenny nodded and looked away.

'Died 19 October 1972.'