The Shape of Snakes (43 page)

Nothing more was said until Alan stopped his car in front of Jock's house. Derek and Wendy were content to appreciate the silence, while Alan kept darting me worried glances in the rearview mirror, his mouth working to frame a form of words that would be acceptable to me.

But it was only when he drew to a halt in Alveston Road that he found the courage to take a chance. He turned 'round. "It's probably a bit late"-he faltered-"and I wouldn't blame you if said no-but I wish I'd never-Did Danny tell you I've been straight these fifteen years?"

I stared him down. "If you want to say sorry, Alan, then say it. Don't spoil it by making excuses."

He ducked his head in a scared nod, an echo of the schoolboy I had caught thieving from my purse. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." I held out my hand to him. "I didn't help you when I had the chance and I've always regretted it."

His hand was warm and sweaty in mine-and I can't say my flesh didn't crawl at the contact-but it felt like closure. For both of us. I toyed with warning him against interpreting it as a reason not to be honest with Beth, but Derek's presence was an optimistic sign and I held my peace. In the event I was glad I did.

"Just so you know," he said, as I assisted Wendy out of the car, "it wasn't us who put cats under your floorboards."

I frowned. "Does that mean there were no cats? Or someone else put them there?"

He jerked his head at Jock's front door. "There was nothing Mr. Williams didn't know ... He used to watch everything us kids did from Sharon's window ... and the only reason he kept quiet was because the nigger called him a 'faggot.' He hated her for it 'bout as much as we did for being called 'trash.' "

I closed my eyes for a moment. "I
will
be going to the police, Alan," I said sadly. "You do understand that, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Then do yourself a favor," I said with a heartfelt sigh, "and drop 'nigger' from your vocabulary because I will take you apart piece by piece if you ever refer to Annie in that way again."

He nodded obediently as he engaged his gears. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Ranelagh."

Wendy rapped sharply on Derek's window. "What about you?" she asked. "Are you going to apologize, too?"

But he looked at her as if at an irrelevance before gesturing to his son to drive on.

We stood on the pavement, looking after them until they turned on to the main road. "I think you've just been suckered," said Wendy with a small laugh. "What's the betting they head straight for the nearest cash-point so that Alan can drop Derek a hundred quid to vanish off the face of the earth?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," I said, escorting her between our car and a mud-splattered Renault Espace that was parked beside it in Jock's drive. I wondered briefly where the elderly Mercedes was before it occurred to me that Jock, forever a prisoner to truth, would have hidden it away in order to continue his pretense that he had an XK8 in a lockup garage.
 

E-mail correspondence with Libby Garth, formerly
Libby Williams of 21 Graham Road-dated 1999

M. R.

From: Libby Garth ([email protected])
Sent: 17 August 1999 20:17
To: M. Ranelagh
Subject: Re Meeting on Friday at Jock's house

Dear M-written in haste before I rush out to collect Amy from her friend's house. You say it's water under the bridge and that none of us needs be embarrassed after so long, but I am MORTIFIED! How can I look any of you in the face, particularly you and Jock? I know you've asked me not to explain or apologize, but I do feel badly about it. AND I AM SORRY. Please believe me, whatever Sam and I had going all those years ago-it was dead as a dodo before you left England.

I know you say this meeting on Friday is important, but I truly can't face it. You and Jock must feel very raw to have Sam confess after twenty years-you, in particular, must hate me for my hypocrisy. You probably think I was only pretending friendship by helping you over Annie, but it honestly wasn't like that. I was pleased to help, even more pleased that we went on being friends in spite of everything. The truth is I let myself believe that Sam would never tell-more because he remained so close to Jock, I think, than because he thought you wouldn't be able to take it-and it wasn't as if it was terribly important where he was that night, just so long as he and Jock admitted they didn't see Annie at 7:45. In all these years, the only lies I have ever told you were to do with that wretched alibi-God knows, I wish we'd been honest at the time-but it seemed so unimportant compared with the hurt you'd feel to learn about the affair. Of course, it was wrong, but I couldn't see any harm in it. Sam and Jock obviously had nothing to do with Annie's death-as I kept telling you-and I didn't want you thinking badly of me.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I have written out a statement, with precise times and details of all movements in and out of number 21 that night-insofar as I remember them-which I am sending as an attachment. I think you'll find they agree with what Jock and Sam say. I will, of course, do it formally when the time comes. Meanwhile, I will end with love, and pray you can still accept it.

Love,
L

PS: Apart from anything else, I can't just abandon the girls to their own devices for the day, and poor old Jim would be deeply alarmed if I told him I was about to have a reunion with my ex-husband! He'd want to know why ... and then I'd have to tell him about Sam ... and how I'd wronged my best friend. I'm sorry, m'dear. I hope you understand.
 

LIBBY GARTH

From: M.R. ([email protected])
Sent: 18 August 1999 12:42
To: Libby Garth
Subject: Re Friday

My dear Libby, attachment received and understood and love accepted in the spirit it was given! Believe me, I've always valued the help you've given me re Annie's "cause"-I wouldn't have known half as much as I do about her hateful neighbors if it hadn't been for you! Unfortunately, there are one or two discrepancies between your statement and Sam's-i.e., he says you were doing the laundry when he arrived, while you say you were watching TV. Also, he says you'd had a bath before he arrived, and you say you'd been cooking. I know they're only small things-but I really do need the accounts to match before I hand them to the police. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. And there really is nothing to worry about. Jock and Sam are reconciled-if a little cool-while Sam and I are like Darby and Joan. We've been together so long we're tied at the hip and can only walk in step these days. However, if you can't manage to come down here because of leaving the girls and worrying about Jim, the three of us can-and will- come to Leicester.

Love,
M

*28*

I had asked Jock to leave his front door ajar so that Wendy and I could let ourselves in when we arrived, and as we walked through the hall toward the kitchen I saw Libby before she saw me. She was sitting on a hard-backed chair, her face in profile, and I had a second or two to take stock before the sound of our footsteps alerted her to our presence.
Oh, sweet revenge!
Gone was the startling brunette in her mid-twenties who had flaunted her looks and figure to good advantage, and in her place was a scrawny, beak-nosed woman with a sagging chin and newly dyed hair that was too dark for her complexion.

My strongest memories of her were the impatient gestures and petulant expression that had spoken volumes about her frustration with her life in 1978, and I was amused to see she still had them. Indeed, the impression she gave was that all the water that should have passed beneath her bridge had merely piled behind a fragile dam ... which was on the point of burst ing.

"I've had enough of this," she was saying, stabbing angrily at her watch as Wendy and I approached. "She told me 12:30, and if she doesn't come in the next five minutes-"

She broke off as Sam and Jock looked up in relief to see us in the doorway.

"Hello, Libby," I said with a bright smile. "You're looking well."

She took similar stock of me but there was no answering smile. "You're late," she snapped.

Perhaps I should have been surprised by her lack of cordiality after the numerous letters, faxes and e-mails she'd sent over the years professing support, friendship and ...
love
... but I wasn't. Her saccharine sweetness had been conditional on my continued ignorance of her affair with Sam because that made me a fool. But Sam and Jock had obviously told her, as I had asked them to do, that I'd known about it since before my first letter to her-which made
her
the fool. And that was the one thing she had never been able to tolerate ... being a laughingstock.

"I know and I'm sorry," I said cheerfully. "It took longer than I thought. Do you remember Wendy Stanhope, the vicar's wife? Wendy ... Libby ... Jock ... Sam." I raised inquiring eyebrows at the men as they stood up to shake Wendy's hand. "Did you get the sandwiches? Because
we- are-starving!
"

Jock pulled open his fridge door with a flourish. "All here," he said, removing plates to the table, and handing a bottle of chilled Chardonnay to Sam.

"We were reliably informed this was your favorite," said Sam, filling a glass and handing it to Wendy. "I should think you've earned it, haven't you?"

She chuckled happily as she took a huge swig. "Goodness me, no! I was just the chorus to your wife's dazzling
coloratura
. You must be very proud of her, Sam."

"Oh, I am," he said, handing me a glass before shepherding Wendy to a chair. "She's a bit of a cracker, too, don't you think?" He dropped me a sly wink. "Just as beautiful as the day we married."

I watched Libby's mouth turn down as she rejected the glass Sam tried to offer her and wondered how much of this she would be able to take before she sunk her talons into my cheeks. "I'm driving," she said curtly.

"What do you think of Jock's beard?" I asked, stationing my back against a worktop from where I could look at her. "It's him, don't you think?"

"She hates it," said Jock, giving it a stroke. "Says it makes me look seedy."

Libby gave an irritated smile. "We've been there, done it. Also Sam's baldness ... Dorchester ... Leicester ... the weather..." She drummed her fingers impatiently on the table. "You
promised
me 12:30 so that I could be back on the motor-way before the Friday rush hour begins," she said sharply. "You
knew
I wanted to be home before Jim."

"Call him and tell him you're going to be late," I said reasonably.

"That's what we've been suggesting," murmured Jock.

"I can't. I don't want him knowing I've left the girls on their own."

"Couldn't they have gone to friends?"

"Not without questions being asked," she snapped, "and I really didn't want to go into long explanations about why this ridiculous meeting was necessary. Can we just get on with it?"

I ignored the request. "You should have let us come to Leicester," I said disingenuously.
Ah, me! If looks could kill...

"It's not as though Jock's about to stake a prior claim or anything," I went on, reaching for his hand and swinging it lightly at my side, cementing alliances, ranging my troops. "He prefers them younger and blonder these days."

Jock gave a snort of laughter. "Too bloody right," he agreed unkindly. "And
never
with marriage in mind. That's one mistake I don't plan to repeat."

It was cruel but I have no conscience about it. If I'd known of the affair at the time, I'd have slapped the smile off her face before nailing my husband's bollocks to the wall. But a slow revenge is just as satisfying. I was sure it would drive her to distraction if she was forced to make banal small talk with her ex-lovers-her nature was too impatient and too self-centered for anything else-and neither Sam nor Jock was equipped to deal with a frustrated woman. They had failed dismally in the past, and I couldn't believe much had changed in the meantime.

Her lips thinned. "It's got nothing to do with Jock," she said tightly. "Jim thinks Amy's too young to look after her sisters. But she's not. She's almost fourteen."

"It's only natural," said Wendy idly, protruding long fingers like forceps to select a tuna and cucumber sandwich. "An untended nest and a hungry brood suggests to the male that his partner has flown." She smiled at Libby. "I suppose he's found it empty before, has he?"

There was a minor hiatus while Libby looked daggers at her and Wendy bit into her sandwich. The rest of us buried our noses in our wineglasses. To be honest, I wasn't remotely surprised that she was still a player but it was a shock to the men who both assumed, naively, that her passionate nature could be tamed by motherhood and a career. They lowered their heads to stare at their feet, and it was so perfect an example of the double standards that operate between men and women that I couldn't help smiling to myself.

Of course Libby saw it. I was her only real enemy so I was bound to be the focus of her attention. She bridled immediately. "You think you know it all, don't you?" she flashed.

"No," I murmured. "I was completely wrong about you. I thought you had more dignity than to go sniffing after other people's husbands."

"Oh,
please!
" she said scathingly. "Any sniffing that was done was done by Sam. He couldn't get unzipped quick enough when the opportunity arose. Or is that forgiven and forgotten because he's served twenty years of your downcast looks and injured pride?"