I Found You (25 page)

‘So,’ he says thoughtfully, ‘where do I fit into this litany of idiocy?’

‘Oh, pretty high, I’d say.
Pretty
high. Yeah, imagine how this would play with the social services, with the mums at the school. A man who remembers nothing other than that he thinks he might have killed someone. Living in my back garden. Oh, yes, and in my bed also.’ She shakes her head despairingly. Then she smiles drily and says, ‘At least you’re not married though, eh? That really would have put the cherry on top of the turd.’

Frank puts his hands on her shoulders and looks hard into her eyes. She feels like an open wound. There’s more she could have told him: all the one-night stands, the lost weekends, the cutting of the corners of parenting. She’s still a work in progress. But that’s enough for now. She’s given him almost the bottom line about herself. She doesn’t want to say goodbye to him tomorrow and leave him with
some golden, idealised fantasy of who she is. Taking in stray dogs doesn’t make you a saint. Neither does taking in lost strangers. If it turns out that he’s done nothing wrong – that he really is just a slightly vague maths teacher with a cat called Brenda and is free to leave and get on with his life – and if he chooses to come back here, she wants it to be in the light of full disclosure. He can’t come back here expecting a saint and angel, expecting to be rescued. Because she’s not capable of rescuing anyone.

His hand caresses the side of her face, his thumb finding the dip under her cheekbone. She waits for him to say something but he doesn’t. He brings his hands to the nape of her neck and his lips to her forehead and he kisses her hard. The kiss feels like redemption, as though he’s taking away all her sins, sucking them out of her. She feels weak with it and soft and she takes his hands in hers and holds them against his face.

And then there is a scuffle at the kitchen door. A dog, followed by another dog, followed by a child. ‘Is it teatime yet?’ says Romaine. ‘I’m hungry.’

Alice lets Frank’s hands drop and takes a step away from him, her eyes still on his. Then she turns to Romaine and she says, ‘Well, yes, that’ll be because you only had potatoes for your lunch.’

‘Shall I make you a bagel?’ Frank asks and Romaine looks at him with wide eyes and says:

‘Yes! Please! But don’t forget to slice it first, Frank.’

‘I will never forget to slice a bagel again, thanks to you.’

‘I can do that,’ says Alice, opening the bread bin. ‘Seriously. You sit down.’

‘No,’ says Frank, cutting in front of her. ‘No. I want to. Honestly. More than anything.

Romaine picks up the postcard and says, ‘Wow, did you draw that, Frank?’

‘He certainly did, angel,’ says Alice.

‘Wow. It’s really good. Will you draw me something? Will you draw me? And Mummy?’

‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘Let me make you this bagel and then I’ll come back and draw you.’

Alice stands, her hips against the kitchen counter, her arms folded across her stomach, and she watches this man in her kitchen, making food for her baby, the dogs sitting at his feet, looking at him hopefully for possible scraps of ham or chicken. He belongs here, she thinks, suddenly, dreadfully. Whoever he is. Whatever he’s done.
He belongs here.

And then she remembers that tomorrow she is taking him to the police and that chances are she’ll never ever see him again. She turns to the fridge behind her and pulls out a bottle of wine.

1993

It had all gone horribly wrong.

Kirsty had managed to get the blanket over Mark’s head but because Gray could not actually see the crown of Mark’s head, the base of the lamp had landed somewhere innocuous around the side of his head instead. Within seconds Mark had scrabbled his way out of the blanket and bundled Kirsty on to the bed. Gray had launched himself at him, grabbed him around the middle with his one good arm and attempted to wrench him away, but Mark was twice as strong as Gray even without the broken wrist and batted him off with very little effort.

Gray staggered backwards against the door. It was unlocked. His hand found the handle and he began to turn it.

‘You leave this room and I’ll kill her,’ said Mark.

Gray stopped.

‘You really don’t seem to have got the message,’ Mark continued, ‘either of you. You’re not going anywhere. The party downstairs is over. There’s no one else here.’

‘Our dad will be here soon,’ said Kirsty breathlessly.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Mark. ‘Your dad. Been and gone. Told him you left an hour ago.’

‘He’ll call the police,’ said Gray, ‘when he can’t find us. They’ll come straight here. They’ll find your drugs. You’ll be arrested.’

Mark shrugged. ‘I doubt it. I told him you’d gone to the beach. With some new friends. That you were both wired. Off your faces.’

He pulled Kirsty up to a sitting position by her arms and then turned to Gray. ‘Sit down,’ he said, patting the bed next to him. ‘Now.’

The knife was back at Kirsty’s neck. Gray sighed and moved towards the bed. Mark dragged him down and then jumped to his feet. He found the cord that Gray had ripped from the lamp and used it to tie their hands together so that they were joined together back to back.

‘My wrist,’ Gray called out, ‘please be careful with my wrist!’

Mark looked at Gray’s wrist thoughtfully and said, ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t know my own strength
sometimes,’ before slowly pulling the cord tight around it, his eyes never leaving Gray’s as he did so.

Gray screamed. It felt like nails being driven into the marrow of his bones. It felt like every moment of pain he’d ever experienced blended together into one shocking, unthinkable sensation.

‘Scream as much as you like,’ said Mark, adjusting the cord fussily. ‘No one will hear you.’

Then he stood back to appraise his handiwork. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that should stop you both arsing about.’

‘Mark,’ said Gray, his voice desperate and hollow, ‘what are you doing? I mean, what is your plan?’

Mark adjusted his posture to that of someone giving something some very deep thought. ‘Gosh, good question. I really haven’t decided yet. Let me get back to you on that one.’

Sweat dripped into Gray’s eyebrows and down the sides of his face as he struggled to deal with the pain of the cord digging into his broken bone. Kirsty wriggled slightly and he howled in pain.

‘Sorry,’ he heard her whisper.

Meanwhile, Mark paced backwards and forwards, still maintaining his ridiculous ‘thinking’ charade. Then suddenly he sat down next to Kirsty and Gray felt her breath catch and her back straighten. Gray couldn’t see what was happening but he heard Kirsty say, ‘Don’t.’

‘Get off her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Don’t fucking touch her.’

He felt Kirsty’s whole body twitch and buckle.

‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

‘What’s he doing, Kirst?’ he asked.

‘I’m touching her, Graham,’ came Mark’s voice, calm and measured. ‘I’m touching her body.’

Gray flinched; his stomach felt liquid. ‘Fucking
get off her
,’ he said. ‘Get your hands off her or I will
kill you
.’

Mark laughed in that girlish, revolting way of his. ‘Will you now, Graham? Will you? I’m caressing her throat now, Graham.
Very
gently. With my fingertips. I think she quite likes it. Yes, she really does. She’s virtually purring.’

A dark red fire was building inside Gray. It was licking up the walls of his consciousness, melting his reason. He wanted to kill this man. Murder him. Stab him, batter him, stamp on his skull until it smashed, shoot him in the head and then in the heart, kick him, stone him, decapitate him, maim him and maul him until he was nothing but a lump of flesh and bone.

‘Tell me, Kirsty, why did you come here tonight? Just out of interest.’

‘Because it sounded like fun.’ Her voice was tight and low.

‘And is that why you told me you loved me? On the beach. Because it was fun?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I said it because I didn’t know what else to say. Because I’ve never had a boyfriend and I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.’

‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘you’re certainly learning a life lesson tonight. You really, really can’t go around telling people you love them, Kirsty. Not when you don’t mean it. You could give someone the wrong impression. Oh’ – he peered round at Gray – ‘by the way, I’m currently massaging your sister’s breasts. They’re absolutely lovely. Even better than I’d imagined. Two proper handfuls.’

Gray felt Kirsty wriggling against him. He was blinded by impotent rage but breathed in and out until his mind cleared. Rage wasn’t going to help anything. He rearranged his hands a fraction, ignoring the blast of pain in his wrist, and began to fiddle with the electric cord. It was tied tightly, as he’d known it would be, but if he could find the frayed end, there might be just enough slack in it to manipulate it somehow.

‘Men are sensitive, Kirsty, that’s what people don’t realise. Easily hurt. And you really hurt me. The minute I saw you I fell in love with you. I told you that. It was like a thunderbolt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And for you to behave the way you have behaved, to have so little respect for another person’s feelings, it makes you less than human, somehow. Do you see what I mean?’

Kirsty’s entire body jerked then.

‘What did he do?’ Gray shouted.

‘I’ve got my hand between her legs, Graham.’ His tone was jaunty. ‘Right . . . between . . . her . . . legs. Oh yes. Yes, she likes that, big brother. She really, really does. And you see, this is the sort of thing that happens to people who don’t have basic respect for other people.’ This was addressed to both of them, like useful advice for the future. Then, horribly, he groaned. ‘Mmmmm. Yes.’

Gray’s fingers fiddled harder and faster with the electric cord. The Anglepoise lamp was still there, where he’d left it. He could still do something. If only he could get this cord untied. Kirsty had worked out what he was trying to do and he felt her fingers start to work at the cord too.

Mark groaned again; Kirsty flinched. This was not going to happen. He was not going to let it happen. If it did their lives would be ruined. For ever.

He looked at the lamp. He licked his lips. He felt the cord. It was loosening. It was definitely loosening. Mark was talking to him. Telling him how good his sister felt, how wet she was getting, but he blanked it all out. He could not listen to it. He needed to focus. Forget the pain. Forget Mark’s hand between his sister’s legs. Just get this cord loose. Slip his hands out. Get that lamp. Bash it over Mark’s head. Make this stop. Make this stop. Make this stop.

Lily looks around the room. It is a large rectangle with a sloped ceiling and two dormer windows. There is a four-poster bed to their left, nicely dressed with white cotton bedding and satin cushions. It is freshly made, the duvet smoothed to a glacial sheen. It smells fresh in this room and the walls are papered with something quite modern: duck-egg blue with a pattern of chrysanthemums. The carpet is new and plush and there are smart fitted wardrobes. At the other end of the room is a door to an en-suite bathroom, a small modern kitchenette, two cream armchairs and a desk with a standard lamp. It looks like a room in an upmarket B & B. It looks nothing like any other room in this house.

‘Well,’ says Russ. ‘This is interesting. It looks like we’ve found the lair of your mysterious phone-answering woman.’

‘I don’t understand,’ says Lily. ‘In a house so big, why would you live in a room so small?’

‘Saves on heating bills, I guess.’

She steps into the room and begins to explore. Whoever lives in this room is a nice, clean person. The woman she spoke to on the phone sounded like a nice, clean person. She pulls open a wardrobe and there is the scent of jasmine, of clean clothes. The wardrobe is full of expensive-looking things: tailored trousers clipped neatly to wooden hangers, soft woollen jumpers folded into neat squares, handbags with golden chains, neat loafers with tassels, shiny court shoes with buckles.

‘This woman is very elegant,’ she says to Russ, who is picking up and examining the objects on the desk. ‘She is classy. Like Carl. And also very tidy. She is definitely his mother. It is obvious.’ She closes the wardrobe door and joins Russ. ‘What have you found?’

‘I reckon’, he says, ‘that the occupant of this room left very recently and took a lot of personal effects with them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It just looks like a couple of drawers have been emptied, and there’s an empty jewellery box, an empty filing tray. Look.’

The roman blinds over the two dormer windows are open and the daylight is just starting to fade. She sees Russ sneak a quick peak at the time on his mobile phone. Their mission has been unsuccessful. Lily must have scared the lady away with her phone call this morning. She is gone. The house is empty. Russ needs to leave. He needs to see his baby and his wife and sleep for eight hours before he goes to work tomorrow.

‘You go,’ she says, sitting on the desk chair and swivelling round to face him. ‘It is late.’

‘But where will you stay?’

‘I will stay here. In this lovely room.’

‘But, Lily, I wouldn’t feel . . . I mean, this is a big house. You’d be all on your own. And what about getting home? You know I can’t come back and collect you.’

‘I have money,’ she says. ‘Plenty of money. I can find my own way home.’

‘But you don’t even know where we are!’

‘I do know where we are. We are in Ridinghouse Bay. I have my phone. I have money. Please, Russ. I want you to go home. To your baby. And your wife.’

‘But if something happened to you . . .’

‘Nothing will happen to me. This house is safe. The only person who can get into this house is the woman who answered the phone. And look’ – she gestures around the room – ‘does this look like the room of a dangerous woman?’

Russ smiles and shakes his head. ‘No. I guess not. But still, I’d feel happier if you were in a hotel.’

‘I want to stay here,’ she says firmly.