The Sacrificial Man (13 page)

“Why are you here, Frank?” He’s saner than the staff. Nothing mad about him.

“No reason,” he says.

I linger with him in the corridor, watching the obsessive man attempt to open the doors with elbows alone, and avoid the eyes of the sloppy slippered woman with blackcurrant-stained teeth. She brushes against me as she skims by.

Shane pokes his head from the patient’s lounge, where the staff go to smoke their fags. “Don’t go in the television room until the cleaners have been in,” he announces, as if it is of little interest. “Pete’s done a crap behind the sofa.”

“Jesus.” I say, disgusted, but Frank just shrugs and crumples his cigarette under his slipper.

“Worse things than shit.”

Cate lifted the large plant pot in the back garden, just as Alice had instructed her, and found the back door key settled in the soil among woodlice and worms. She opened the lock with a twist and a pull, wondering why Alice had no friends she could have called on for this errand. It was strange being in the house alone. She imagined Alice’s eyes upon her and had no urge to linger. The door opened into a utility area with a washing machine and freezer. She walked through, thinking how tidy it was, how white the walls, not a grubby mark anywhere; so clearly a house without children. Cate thought grimly of the sticky prints on her own walls, the unwashed cereal bowls on the kitchen worktop. The utility room led into the large kitchen area, where she had first interviewed Alice. But it was different from before.

The kitchen table was stained with water and as she approached her heels crunched on glass. There was water on the floor, sprigs of green with orange and red. Snapdragons, in full bloom when she first saw them, now wilted and dead. The glass was mostly in large pieces, but smaller slithers crunched under her feet. That beautiful vase! The stunning blue and white glass vase of snapdragons that had been here on her first visit. It’s very valuable, Alice had said, irreplaceable. Dr Gregg had told her that Alice had been hysterical, holding a piece of glass to her own neck. Had she broken her lovely vase? Carefully, she bent, lifting a large broken piece from the floor. But the glass was not thin or fine. It was not Alice’s beautiful blue and white vase, but a chunky yellow vase. Oddly, the vase was different but the flowers were the same.

She climbed upstairs, holding onto the mahogany banister. The noise of her shoes on the wood jarred, and Cate thought of Alice’s Moroccan slippers, barely making a sound as she moved around, and she wished she’d taken her shoes off downstairs. She didn’t want to mark the grain.

Alice had told her what to collect, and Cate had made a list. Now she took it from her pocket, a sheet of jotter paper that looked like a packing list for a weekend away. As the bathroom was across the hall facing her, its door open, she went in.

It was beautiful, straight out of a boutique hotel, with black and white tiles underfoot and a massive bathtub set on silver balls. Georgian, Cate guessed, and original, not some reproduction number, it had probably been here since the house was built, or Alice had made it look that way. The sink too, looked antique, with its square bowl and large gleaming taps. She must have a cleaner to keep it this perfect, Cate thought, as she noted the Chanel bath oil and body lotion, also black and white, lined up on the windowsill. She wondered if Alice had chosen them for their contents or for the packaging. It all looked so artificial, like a show home rather than a place someone actually lived in. Cate thought briefly of her own bathroom with the grainy tub and sticky shower gels from Superdrug, the mismatched face care products and splayed toothbrushes that needed replacing.

In a mirrored cupboard was an electrical toothbrush with a plug-in stand. Did they have shaver sockets at St Therese’s? Also in the cupboard was a toiletries bag, which she filled with the toothbrush and toothpaste, skin cleanser and moisturiser, a Clarins deodorant and some paracetamol, before she thought better of it, and returned it to the shelf alongside an extravagance of other products: Crème de la Mer, La Prairie, names she knew from magazine adverts but could never afford. How Alice bought them on a lecturer’s salary Cate couldn’t guess. Maybe they were gifts.

Curious, she dabbed some of the Chanel No.5 on her wrist and threw that in the bag too. Closing the toiletries bag she struggled with the zip. She couldn’t fit anything else in, so she went to collect the weekend bag that Alice had told her was in the bedroom.

The bedroom was neat and light, a bland canvas of white walls and chalk-coloured bedding. The bed was made, scatter cushions in contrasting shades of pale were placed at contrived angles against the headboard. An image came to her, unbidden, of David Jenkins naked and bloody. Dead. Poor PC Flynn. She would have been sick too, if she’d seen what he did. But the body was long gone, the splatter of blood from the walls whitewashed away.

The only vivid colour was the mahogany chest of drawers, with a makeup bag on top, which Alice had been emphatic she shouldn’t forget. She picked it up. Through the fabric she could feel the bulk of lipsticks and brushes, the sharp corner of a compact mirror. On the dressing table was a grey eye shadow, open, with a brush next to it. A purple eye shadow was also out, as was a yellowish face powder. Cate wondered why they’d not been put away, when every other surface was so neat. It looked like Alice had left off doing her makeup in a hurry. And the colours were so dark, so unlike anything she could imagine Alice wearing. She felt there was something she was missing.

Trying to organise her thoughts, Cate went to the large bay window to look out. It was a picture postcard view, across the road to a striking church on a slope, an ornate iron gate at the start of a yellow brick path. Craning her neck, she saw further down the street a butcher’s, an old-fashioned teashop, a delicatessen. No doubt about it, this was a pretty place. What the neighbours must think about what had happened in this house, heaven only knew.

Bringing her gaze back to the churchyard, she suddenly became aware of someone sitting on a bench by the side wall of the church, looking up at the window, watching her. Cate could just make out dark, spiky hair and a leather coat, an upturned face, eyes fixed on the very window where Cate stood. When she looked straight down, the person quickly got up from the bench, hands in pockets, and sauntered away.

Turning back to the room, Cate spied the weekend bag on top of the wardrobe and managed to lift it down with the aid of a chair. She began to pack another woman’s clothes for another kind of life. Alice could never have imagined she would one day be staying at St Therese’s when she bought her Chanel toiletries and face creams.

The wardrobe, built into the wall in painted white pine, was closed. She opened it with both hands and saw things that most women would covet, an ordered selection of smart trousers and dresses, some clothes with labels still attached, all designer brands. They were hung in a regimented pattern: tops first, then skirts, trousers, finally dresses. Colours were put together, revealing a large number of white or beige clothes with fewer items in black or red. The effect was striking but formal. Like Alice’s bookshelves, the clothes were aesthetically correct rather than inviting. The most casual item was a new-looking pair of dark jeans, which Cate lifted out, along with a pale blue jumper. Alice could hardly wear linen suits or silk shirts in a psychiatric hospital.

On the floor of the wardrobe, perspex boxes were stacked in neat rows, each holding a pair of shoes. My God, thought Cate, how the other half live. It’s all I can do to find a pair of socks to match and this woman has her whole boudoir in order. Imagine having control of your surroundings like that. Remembering that Alice would need underwear she went to the mahogany chest, and opened the top drawer. It held just one item: a child’s cardigan.

Curious, Cate lifted it out.

It was woollen, and knitted by someone who wasn’t very adept. The wool was the colour of lavender, with pearly white buttons. There was a hole where a stitch had been dropped, and the wool was bobbled as if from much wash and wear, but was soft and well loved. The cardigan was old and Cate guessed that it must have been Alice’s when she was a child. Folding it back carefully, she closed the drawer, still troubled that something was not as it should be.

1981

It was the most beautiful thing Alice had seen, ever. And Mummy had made it for her. “I’ve been knitting it at night while you were asleep,” she told Alice, “it’s taken me ages.”

Alice touched the beautiful lilac wool, fingers the smooth pearly button. She snuggled it with her face, feeling the softness on her cheek, and closed her eyes. It was perfect.

“Try it on, then!” said her Mummy, “it might be a bit big.” But it wasn’t. It was perfect. “You can wear that when you start nursery next week. I’ll put a name tag in it so it doesn’t get lost.”

“I’ll never lose it,” said Alice, throwing her arms around her Mummy’s neck and kissing her. “I’ll wear it forever.”

“Wear it now, Alice. It’s going to be chilly outside.”

It was cold, too cold to be playing outside, but they went to the park anyway. There was a swing, a roundabout, a red slide and it was theirs alone. The rest of the world was at home, in the warm. Alice wore her lilac cardigan, and over it a navy coat. On each arm she had a reflective orange band to warn traffic, to keep her safe as she walked, hand clasped to her mother’s.

Mummy wanted to go home. She had chapped lips, which she ran her tongue over, only making them worse, and cold hands from pushing the swing. But Alice was determined. “Again, Mummy! Push me again!” Her mother’s hands cradled her back, over her shoulder blades like wings, pushing her higher, higher. Alice stretched out her legs, pulled them back, tried to propel herself into the air. She wanted to fly. What if the swing went all the way up and over the bar, would that be flying?

The swing stopped abruptly, mid-air, as her mother grasped the rubber seat, stopped it dead. “Enough now. Let’s go home.” She lowered it, reaching into the swing to lift Alice, who jumped up. In the confusion mother and daughter were knocked against each other and Alice’s head hit Mummy’s chin. There was blood. Alice was dropped, and the mother crouched on the ground, hand cupped over her mouth. Red spots on the black tarmac.

“Mummy?” Alice was scared and confused. Was Mummy angry?

“My tongue,” her mother said. “You just whacked my jaw up and I’ve bitten my tongue.” She stuck it out. It was pink with red blood blooming around the edge, like a swollen tulip. There were several marks where her teeth cut the muscle. Then Mummy started to cry. Noisy, so very noisy, and the girl wanted it to stop, but the sound and the tears carried on, until she was crying too.

Alice knew it was her fault. She silently prayed Mummy would still love her. Then she remembered that she was wearing her special lilac cardigan, which Mummy knitted, and knew that she did.

Alice was on the bed, curled around a pillow, watching her favourite lunchtime programme. She’d been up all morning, and was starting to feel sleepy. There was jam on her top and her hair was tangled. On the screen a man dressed as a giant dolphin danced with a boy and they sang about life in the ocean.

The front door rapped with the noise it made when the post arrived. Nothing had arrived for them in the morning post, and her mother had said they must stay in, to wait for the lunchtime delivery. She was waiting for something important.

Mummy opened the door, walked to the end of the hall, and Alice followed her. Downstairs was a snare of paper stuck out of door’s mouth like teeth. She watched her mother’s rapid feet on the stairs, rushing to grab the paper.

Mummy sifted through the pile, discarding white and brown envelopes on the floor, the post for the other people in the house. Finally, she held one in her hands. She walked back upstairs with it, her feet heavy, and returned to the cramped room. She sat on the bed. Alice wondered if it was the special money called a ‘Giro’ that arrived by post. The Giro meant food in the cupboard, maybe even crisps. Mummy put an arm around her but still stared at the envelope. It was long and thin like a shark’s tooth, and her mother held it, as if afraid it would bite. On the TV the giant dolphin told the boy about all the fish that live under water, and what they eat. In blue letters on the screen was the word FOODCHAIN. Mummy began to tear the envelope.

Alice held her breath without knowing why, perhaps to make amends for her mother’s over-rapid breathing. The only noise was the singing of the dolphin and the boy. Mummy pulled the paper, and unfolded it slowly. Then she made a sound in her throat, like there was too much water and the girl thought of when she washed her hair in the bath and the water got up her nose. But Mummy’s face was dry and sad, like when Alice started at the toddler group and clung to her, not wanting her to leave.