No Cherubs for Melanie (20 page)

He put the memory aside and turned to Margaret. “Why did you come here?”

Her answer, when it came, was not what he'd expected, not what he'd hoped for.

“I always wanted to be Robinson Crusoe,” she said, confiding in him her childhood fantasy. “Nobody else, not Barbie or a Bond bimbo.” She gazed dreamily into her memory. “I've read that book a thousand times…
alone on a desert island, surrounded by wild animals, surviving off the land.”

Bliss glanced around, as if searching. “What about Man Friday?”

“You can be Man Friday,” she said with a certain lightness of tone.

“I came on Sunday.”

Her lips experimented with “Man Sunday” but she shook her head. “It doesn't sound right. You'll have to stick with Friday.”

“I suppose Bo is your Man Friday, really,” Bliss said, wondering where the dog was.

Margaret's face instantly scrunched into a fiercely probing glare. “What are you suggesting?”

He caught her meaning and unspeakable images invaded his mind. “Nothing. Just wondered where he was,” he added innocently, with a disarming smile, quickly moving on.

Her face relaxed. “He's just behind you.”

Bliss swivelled, but saw nothing, only trees and rocks.

“Bo,” Margaret called, laughing, and the huge animal bounced out of the brush not six feet away, giving Bliss a heart-stopping jolt. The dog, all black apart from a grubby white bib, dropped by her side yet was still shoulder height.

“What kind is he?” enquired Bliss, barely bringing his voice under control.

“A misfit,” she replied, as if it were a recognized breed, then she laughed as she gave the huge animal a friendly ruffle. “He was my first patient. Somebody in the town kept him chained up 'cos he got too big and frightened the neighbours. I took him in when no one else wanted him.”

I can see why, thought Bliss, warily eyeing the giant's teeth as he yawned with a gape as wide as a rabbit hole.
“Nice dog,” he said, still none the wiser as to its pedigree but intimidated by the venomous look in the dog's eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about your father,” he carried on, in a serious tone, but she quickly waved him off.

“Not now,” she said, rising. “I'm going for a dip. I swim every morning.”

He started to get up, “I wouldn't mind joining you.”

A troubled, flustered look took over her face. “The thing is, I don't need a bathing suit here. I don't even have a bathing suit.”

“Oh, I see.”

Then she cautioned him sharply as she started down the steep path toward the lake: “Now I've told you, I'd appreciate if you didn't watch. You'll be more embarrassed than me if I catch you.” There was no hint of a tease, no suggestion she was egging him on, no flirtatious “I bet you can't catch me.” Bliss knew exactly where he stood.

The massive dog went with Margaret and together they slipped almost silently into the woodland like a couple of stealthy tigers off to hunt, leaving Bliss to catch his breath. Wow, he thought. She's some tough cookie. Then he carefully reconsidered. Tough or vulnerable? Maybe she's more like a wounded animal, putting up a brave fight, refusing to lick her wounds in public in case a predator might take advantage.

He sat back on the rock, feeling the sun's early blush, listening to the crackle of brittle twigs, deliberating the point at which he might be able to broach the subject that had drawn him there. He would have to proceed warily, he decided; offer tidbits, gain her confidence, encourage her to discuss her past. But when to tell, and what to tell, that's the problem. I can't just come out with it, he realized. I can't just say, was your Dad screwing you as well as Melanie? How
did he drown her? Did you see it? Did you hear her cries for help, her pleas for mercy? And, while we're on the topic, how did he kill your mother exactly? Oh, and by the way, did I mention your father was murdered? She must have some idea, he thought, some clue. She's not stupid, clearly. She seems to have survived very well.

The sound of rhythmic splashes from the lake below told him she had reached the water. Why
did
she come here, he wondered. To escape from her father? More likely he packed her off, fearing she might let something slip. Then a chill ran through him. What if I'm completely wrong? What if she knows nothing? Suspects nothing? An image flashed through his mind, of Margaret, completely unknowing, standing in front of him like a wide-eyed kid. “Are you saying my Dad killed Melanie and Mum? Are you suggesting my Dad sexually abused me? Are you trying to tell me that somebody murdered my Dad?”

He brushed the notions aside with a shake of his head. She must know, he thought, at the very least she must have some suspicions. But would she say anything, particularly now he's dead?

The splashes faded gradually as she swam further out into the lake and Bliss found himself tempted to stand and peer through the trees to glimpse the naked young woman, but her parting admonition still rang in his ears. Remaining glued to the rock he wondered why he expected her to tell him the truth about her father when she had never said anything before. Perhaps Samantha was right. Margaret had plenty of opportunities over the years to spill the beans yet had chosen not to do so. Why should she admit it now if not before? In any case, it would be easier for her to deny the truth, even to herself. If false memories of sex assault are possible
then, he reasoned, so are false memories that nothing happened.

He was still lost in his deliberations when she swept passed him on her return. Wearing only ripped jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, her hardened dark nipples strained visibly against the flimsy damp fabric. “C'mon,” she called. “We'd better get started.”

“Right now?” he enquired, hoping they would have an opportunity to talk first.

“I start at sunrise, finish at sunset,” she called over her shoulder, as she headed into the house in search of tools. “There's no power, only oil lamps and candles. We have to work when the sun shines.”

“I noticed,” he admitted, slipping into her wake, intrigued by the pert, self-confident way she held herself — intrigued but not stimulated, feeling that her feminine sexuality was somehow lost in her deep tan. Her skin, weathered brown and prematurely wrinkled with fine but deep creases, encompassed and shielded her like a suit of armour. With a smile to himself, he guessed that, even totally naked, she could walk unconcernedly through a rugby team's change room and, if anyone whistled, kick him in the balls.

He tried again. “I need to talk to you.”

She fobbed him off. “We've got to make a start on the dock. We can talk while we're working.”

He wanted to stop her, grab hold of her, make her stand still and listen, but there was nothing to catch on to. The bare flesh of her shoulders and arms was well protected with their bronze armour-plate, and the parts barely covered with the T-shirt were clearly off limits.

“Breakfast,” he asked hopefully.

She laughed. “It's almost lunchtime.”

“It's only nine o'clock,” he protested, carefully checking his watch, concerned that he'd miscalculated the time difference.

“Like I said, nearly lunchtime. Anyway, you haven't earned anything yet.”

The dock, a jetty of roughly hewn logs set on tree stumps, had disintegrated during a recent storm, she said. Most of the pieces were still there and the reconstruction was as simple as Lego — she said.

“So what did you want to ask me?” she queried, effortlessly dragging a heavy baulk out of the water, swinging it into place, and directing him to hold it. He hesitated, balancing the lump while she hefted a hammer. He didn't want it to be like this, beyond his control. She had dictated the territory and timing and left him off balance. He knew what was happening. Timing is everything, he thought to himself, wanting to set her down somewhere comfortable and prime her to expect the worst. Then he thought, how do I do that? Is anyone ever really prepared for the worst? But now did not seem right at all. He wasn't ready.

“Well?” The hammer hovered.

He stalled. “I'd like to know a bit more about you first. How do you survive here?”

“My needs are few…” she began, smacking a nail squarely on the head, sending a shiver through the log. Pausing, she looked up. “Oh Christ, that sounds like a literary line. What I mean is: I'm happy enough here.”

Bliss caught the qualified nature of her response. Not, “I'm happy here.” Only, “Happy enough.” Then questioned aloud, “I wonder if anybody is truly happy?”

“I quite like being on my own,” she added, interrupting his musing.

There it was again. Not, “I like being on my own,” but, “I quite like…”

“What about the animals?” he queried.

“Animals?” she asked, vaguely.

“The animals you take care of,” he reminded her. “Where are they anyway?”

“Oh,” she gave an expansive wave. “All over the island. They're wild.”

“You don't keep them in cages?”

She shuddered. “I don't believe in cages.”

Showing impatience, she put down the hammer, sat on her haunches and adopted a no-nonsense tone, “Come on Detective, just why did you come here?”

He made it as straightforward as he could. “We think your Dad might have been murdered.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. He had a lot of enemies.”

“You're not upset,” he continued, hoping she would make his job simpler. Anticipating that she might spill everything, expecting her to say something like, “He deserved it after what he did to Melanie, Mum and me.” But he was disappointed. She sloughed off his intimation and carried on attacking the nail.

“Don't you want to know how?” he queried.

“Shot,” she suggested.

“Poisoned.”

“That figures.”

“Why?”

“Poetic justice, I suppose. He was a poisonous man. He poisoned people.” She smashed the nail with unnecessary force, bending it double, then spat, “He poisoned everything he touched.”

Bliss stared at her, alarmed by the violence of her outburst; alarmed but heartened.

Thinking she had read his mind, that he expected her to be devastated, she continued. “If you think I'm going to start blubbering, you'll have a long wait. I did all the crying I was going to do a long time ago.”

Hanging precariously over the edge of the damaged dock, he turned away and looked down into the dark lake, digesting her words, considering a response. Then he caught her reflection in the water and Melanie's image swam into view: her long dark hair billowing like strands of weed in a stream. “Melanie,” he blurted out. “What happened to Melanie?”

Margaret's face pinched into a puzzled frown. “She drowned. It was an accident. Don't you remember?”

Of course he remembered, how could he ever forget? “What… What I meant was,” he stumbled, “What I'm asking…” He paused mid-sentence and thought, what I should have asked you twenty years ago… Then he began again, looking her squarely in the eyes. “What I'm trying to say is… Are you sure it was an accident?”

“Of course I am,” she answered without deliberation. “Why?”

Now what? he thought.

They worked most of the day, stopping only long enough to eat the bread and cheese she had taken with her, to drink from a clear spring spouting out of the rocks, and to disappear self-consciously into the bushes from time to time. By mid-afternoon Bliss's hands were screaming for him to stop. Already sore from paddling the canoe the previous day, his palms seared with each baulk of rough timber. Margaret seemed unaware of his suffering and, studying her hands he realized why. Her muscled, sinewy hands, with calloused fingers and ragged nails, were femininely sized but masculine in appearance. They could be the hands of a Peruvian child miner, or a ten-year-old Indian rock breaker, he thought, watching her deftly swing an adze.

Although his city hands, usually wedded to a pen or keyboard, took the brunt of the torture, his back, shoulders, and neck were not unscathed. Eventually he had to admit defeat.

“No problem,” she said. “I've got other things to do.”

“The animals?” he enquired.

“Yeah. I'd better see how Eddie's getting on.”

Intrigued, he was about to ask if he could go with her, but she quickly quashed his unspoken request. “You can cook us some dinner,” she said, leaving no room for dissention.

He was asleep by the time she returned. He'd eaten — beef stew with peas and beans. So much for living off the land, he thought, disappointed to find her cupboard stashed with cans, packets, and jars looking remarkably similar to those in Safeway or Sainsbury's, many of them bearing best-before dates that would light up a health inspector's eyes.

Leaving Margaret a note, he slipped exhausted into her bed, feeling a sense of fulfillment, of satisfaction, that he'd not experienced for a long time. But sleep, which should have come instantly, struggled to find a foothold as his conscience continued to nag him. “When are you going to question her? You've put it off for twenty years and you're still doing it.” Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow.

He woke early, refreshed, raring to go, and slipped into the main room. Margaret, asleep on the couch, didn't stir. But Bo, on the other couch, growled a warning and she woke with a start, fighting off the bedclothes, giving him a tantalizing peek at the firm hillocks of her bare breasts. “Sorry,” he mumbled, diving into the kitchen. He checked his pulse and was annoyed to find it normal.

A few minutes later, freshly brewed tea in hand, he walked out of the back door straight into the forest. The morning light filtering through the canopy dappled the rocks with a blush as the sun reflected off the crimson leaves. No one would believe it back home, he thought, staring up into the canopy where the colours had gone wild. They would think a photograph had been retouched or taken with a vermilion filter. Mindful of Margaret's warning not to disturb her animals he cautiously scouted around, exploring just the forest's fringe, half expecting to come upon cages or compounds. There were none, But hadn't she said that she didn't approve of cages?