Telling Lies to Alice (24 page)

Lee’s scream, piercing, high and desperate, cut into mine—a split second of silence, followed by another huge bang as Jack fired again—“NO!” I flung myself at the door, screaming, blubbering, trying to beat my way through the wood with my bare hands. “He’s a child, he was trying to help me, only trying to help . . . oh my God . . . Jack . . .
No
. . .” I collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the door.

I don’t know how long I was there, what I did . . . any of it. Just . . . clutching my head in my hands, rocking and wailing and moaning and . . . Oh, God. I don’t want to remember it, because you can’t imagine, you just
can’t
. . . Realising. That was the worst. More, even, than the first shock. The enormity of it. Being part of it. I kept thinking, over and over, if I’d just phoned the police—if I’d told Ted—if I’d tried to warn Trudy and Lee—if I hadn’t tried to get the bloody gun—it wouldn’t have happened, Lee wouldn’t be dead. . . . And then I thought, it can’t be true, it’s all a mistake, it’s not possible, nobody could shoot a little boy like that, nobody. . . . I lay down on my side and tried to see under the door. Nothing. Just the gutter. “Lee? Answer me! Lee! Please, answer me . . . please . . . oh, please, tell me you’re all right, you’re not dead . . .
please
. . .”

There was a noise at the door and for a second I had a wild hope that it was Lee, but it was the dog, whining and scratching to come in. “Eustace, I can’t let you in, baby, I can’t. . . . Where’s Lee, Eustace, is he all right? Tell me he’s all right . . . I’m coming out of here, I’ll be out in a minute, I will . . .”

I clambered back on top of the bucket and tore at the bale, ripping out sections of hay and throwing them down on the floor. The bale in front of the open half-door was wedged horizontally, but if I could just get up into the space I’d made, I’d be able to push it down into the yard, and then . . . I grabbed hold of the base of the nearest upright with both hands and put one foot as high up the partition as I could, then kicked off with my other foot. I couldn’t get a grip—wasn’t prepared for the pain and I couldn’t hold it, I
couldn’t
. I hung there for a moment and slid back down the wall and onto the floor. The bucket broke my fall but my lower back hit the floor first and the impact was indescribable. I felt as if someone had whacked the base of my spine with a mallet and driven it straight up through the top of my head. I writhed in agony, stupefied and howling wordlessly, like an animal.

I lifted my head and looked at the partition again. It seemed enormous. . . . Impossible to get off the floor, never mind climb . . . “I can’t, Eustace, I just
can’t
.”

Why had I let Jack stay? Why hadn’t I kicked him out, that first night, told him he wasn’t welcome? Because—because—he was a contact with the past, with Lenny,
and I was so tired of being alone
—just to have someone
there,
even if it meant Jack drunk . . . and then I was sorry for him, and . . . oh,
God.
I shook my head violently from side to side. This can’t be happening, it can’t be,
I can’t bear it.
Stupid, so stupid, wanting that excitement, that buzz Lenny’d given me, that feeling of being on top of a great big shout of life . . . How could I have been so
weak
? I should have told him to go but I didn’t, not till it was too late, far too late. . . . And now Lee was dead in the yard and Jack . . .
Jack
. . .

What have I done? My God, what have I done?

I reached out and pulled the scattered sections of hay towards me, teasing them out to make a bed, then rolled myself onto it and curled up, my hands over my ears to block out Eustace’s whimpering. “Stop, please stop . . . stop
everything
.”

I don’t know how much time passed. I remember being thirsty and crawling over to where I’d tipped the water out to see if there was any left on the floor. There was a little in a dip by the base of the wall, not enough to scoop with my palm, so I stuck my fingertips in it and sucked them, and it helped a bit but then at the bottom it was gritty and coated my mouth . . . and sometime after that I started shaking, and I remember being surprised that I was shaking and couldn’t stop, and feeling as if it wasn’t me at all, but I’d stepped outside myself. My back kept on aching, and I was aware of the pain being there but somehow I wasn’t really connected with it, or with anything else, really. I’m not here, I thought. I’ve gone away somewhere. Cut myself off. Disappeared.

I heard the padlock being undone and the creak of the door opening. I didn’t open my eyes.

“Alice.” Jack’s voice from the doorway.

I kept my eyes closed and curled up tighter. I had no will to move, to shout, to fight or do anything. I felt completely empty. I waited for Jack to come in, but he didn’t. He said my name again. “Alice. Look at me.” His voice was flat.

Slowly, very slowly, I raised my head and stared at him. He was standing on the threshold with a blanket in his hand. The gun must be underneath, I thought dully. The blanket’s to silence it.

I pulled myself off the floor into a sitting position. It took so much effort.

“Can you get up?”

“I . . .” The words wouldn’t come.

“Let me help you.”

I stared at the blanket. “It’s all right . . . I’m not going to . . .” He started towards me.

“For you,” he said, holding it out as if he’d brought me a present. “I brought it for you.”

No gun. He’s not holding the gun. In his pocket—the gun’s in his pocket. He isn’t going to kill me. Not now. But later, later . . . I’ve got to talk to him. Make a connection. Make him remember who I am. Say to him . . . what? Say thank you. Thank you for bringing me a blanket.

“Thank you.”

“Here.” He stood over me and draped the blanket over my shoulders. I could smell brandy. He made an odd noise in his throat. Choking. “I don’t . . .” I could barely hear him. “I don’t . . . want to hurt you.”

“You killed Lee. I heard it.”

Jack didn’t answer. I looked past him, into the yard. It was dusk. There was a spill of light from the kitchen doorway and halfway across the cobbles, a dark, flat shape. Something draped over the top . . . cloth . . . sacks. Lee. Jack had covered him with sacks.

Eustace came round the corner at the far side of the house, saw me, started to trot towards me, tail wagging, then broke off suddenly and swerved towards—“No! Eustace!” I meant to shout, but it came out as a croak. The dog looked at me for a moment, then put his head down again, snuffing at the cloth, getting his nose underneath, and . . . “No!” I lurched to my feet, pushed past Jack, and stumbled into the yard. Eustace had uncovered the top of Lee’s head, and I could see his black hair and something—a lump? At the side, near his ear. Yellowish. Dense. Fluid on the cobbles, where Eustace was licking . . . Blood? Yes, but . . . the stuff . . . the stuff was . . . My God, it was . . .

“No! Stop! Stop it!” I wanted to grab the dog but my body refused to obey me. “Jack, help me! For God’s sake, do something!” Then he was beside me, yanking on Eustace’s collar while the dog growled and twisted his head round, trying to bite. “Get him inside, just get him inside . . .” Eustace snarled as Jack dragged him backwards to the kitchen and dumped him inside, slamming the door.

I couldn’t move. “How could you?”

“Alice.” Jack was beside me again. “Come on. In the house.”

“Twice. You did it twice . . .”

He didn’t speak. I wrenched my eyes away from Lee’s head and turned to look at him. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Jack turned his head away. “I’m sorry.”

“He was only a
child
. Why, Jack? Why did you kill him?”

“I’m sorry . . . I . . . I’m lost, Alice.”

I suddenly felt completely calm. Shock, probably. “Jack, we have to call the police.”

He stared at me.

“The police. We’ve got to tell them about Lee.”

He shook his head. I tried again. “I know the phone isn’t working here, but there’s one on the green, and—”

“No.”

“Jack, we’ve got to.”

“I said no, and I mean it.” His hand moved towards his pocket.

I took a step back. “Okay, okay. No police. But at least take him somewhere . . . in the stable. On the hay. Please, Jack. I’ll . . . I’ll help you.”

He shook his head. “Go into the house.”

“Wait.” I pulled the blanket off my shoulders. “Use this. Wrap him. Wrap his head.”

“All right.”

“Will you leave the light on? In the stable. Don’t leave him in the dark.”

“If that’s what you want. Now go.”

I didn’t look back. Eustace greeted me enthusiastically, as if nothing had happened, and I sat on the sofa and stared at the rug and waited for Jack.

He didn’t look at me when he came in, but went straight to the sink and washed his hands. When he turned round I saw a dark stain on his jacket and shirt.

“That’s tea. You threw it at me, remember?”

“Did I?” I stood up. “I have to feed the animals.”

“I’ll come with you.”

I made my way to the barn, Jack beside me, and went through the evening routine in silence, like a robot, and all the time, this other part of me was standing back, watching, marvelling, almost. As if I’d split into two people. That’s the only way I can describe it. The strangest feeling . . . It must have been exhaustion, because by the time we got back to the kitchen to feed Eustace I was lightheaded and swaying, barely able to keep upright.

I refilled the dog’s water bowl and sat down at the kitchen table. Jack closed the curtains and sat down opposite me. We stared at each other. I felt as if I would never get up again.

“I’m sorry. About the kid.”

“Lee. His name’s Lee. Why didn’t you leave, Jack? When you . . . when I was in the stable? Why didn’t you just
go
?”

“Nowhere
to
go,” he said flatly. “It’s the end. Coming here . . . it wasn’t just about the film. I really did want to see you.”

“Why?”

“Last night—you think I don’t remember—but when I said I loved you, I meant it.”

I shook my head.

“I’m sorry. It’s all . . . out of control. Everything. When Susie died, it was like . . . she was paying for it. Everything I’d done—she was the price . . .” He stopped, ducked his head, and held out his hand. “Please, Alice . . . I feel so guilty.”

I didn’t move.

“Me and Lenny, we had the lot: money, success, birds, you name it. We’d have made it in America, too, if Lenny hadn’t lost his nerve.”

“The film was no good. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah. But if Lenny’d been a hundred percent we’d have been all right. He was always fucked up, insecure, but he could handle it. Even when we did that run at the Fortune and he was all over the place, we were doing all right. . . . Then sitting there on television telling everyone he was an alcoholic—I did my best but I couldn’t stop him, he wouldn’t shut up. . . .
Jesus
. . .”

He fell silent, and I thought back . . . “That was after . . . after Kitty, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Couple of months. You’d buggered off and he was falling apart. . . . All hell broke loose afterwards. They asked me for a comment—what the fuck was I supposed to say? ‘It’s a good job we’re going to the States because no one in this country’s going to give us a pot to piss in’? I told him he’d ruined us. . . . You know why he blamed you? Because he couldn’t live with it.”

“I want to know what happened, Jack. With Kitty.”

“Lenny wouldn’t take her seriously. The threats, I mean. He thought she was trying it on, that if he bought her a few presents, introduced her to a couple of people who could help her”—Jack rolled his eyes—“she wanted to be an actress. Lenny thought that would do the trick. I kept telling him it wouldn’t work but I had no idea he was going to bring her along to that party. I didn’t know you’d be there either, come to that. There were people all over the house—you remember—and Lenny and Kitty were in his car, down by the lake.”

“But why didn’t anybody see? From the house? There were people swimming, cars everywhere—”

“They were on the other side, down the hill. There were trees . . . Anyway, this was much later, when I went down there. I didn’t know where they were. I was in the house and Lenny came and found me. He was in a terrible state. He said . . . he and Kitty, they’d been fooling around in the car and she’d hit her head and he couldn’t get her to wake up. He kept babbling away about how he thought she was dead and what was he going to do—for Christ’s sake, that was all I could get out of him. . . . I kept telling him not to panic, saying she must have knocked herself out, but when we went down there, to the car, even I could see she’d gone. . . . I couldn’t think what to do, so we let the handbrake off, and then . . . that was it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“For Christ’s sake, you asked and I told you. That’s all there was to it.”

“Why were you so sure she was dead?”

“Alice, she wasn’t breathing. I swear it.”

“Why didn’t you get a doctor?”

“Just think about it for a minute, will you? Think about that party. The police would have had a field day—more drugs than you’ve had hot dinners. We’d never have got the place cleaned up, and everyone would have known . . . the woman was
blackmailing
us, remember?”

“But you said you’d already given her some money.”

“Lenny hadn’t. I told you, Alice, he thought she was trying it on. I kept telling him she wasn’t like that, but he wouldn’t listen. He was all over the place, Alice, you can’t imagine . . .”

“So you’re telling me it was some kind of weird accident?”

“Yes.”

“And then you got hold of Kitty’s keys and sent Val round to her flat to look for copies of the film?”

“Yeah, like I said.”

“So what about Danny Watts?”

Jack was absolutely still.
“What?”

“His name was on Lenny’s list.”

Jack shrugged. “So was half the entertainment business.”

“You mentioned him. Last night.”