Telling Lies to Alice (28 page)

“He’s off his head! He’s been drinking—taking pills. When Jeff came in here—”

“You mean your husband? The photographer?”

“Ex-husband. He didn’t even get through the door. Jack just—”

“Why would Jack want to shoot
him
? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I told you, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And he didn’t know it was Jeff. He had no idea, not when he . . . I told him afterwards. I think Jack . . . It was an impulse. Like . . . When Jeff arrived, he saw it as . . . sort of . . . another problem, and he just . . .
did it.
” It was coming out all wrong and I could tell she didn’t believe a word of it. “Jeff came because I rang him. He wasn’t there but you can leave messages. . . . I was frightened, Val. Jack broke my phone so I went to the one on the village green. That’s when I rang you. From the call box. I didn’t know what to do. And when I told him this morning—yesterday—that I’d phoned you, he went mad. Threatened me, said he’d shoot the dog, and then he locked me in the stable, and when Lee came back—”

“Who’s Lee?”

“A kid from the village. Ten years old. I’d asked him to go for help, and Jack came out, and he . . . shot him.”

“You’re telling me he killed a
child
?” Val stared at me incredulously. “You’ll say anything, won’t you? You’re the one who’s mad. I’m calling Jack.” She took a step forward and I put out my hand to stop her. “Don’t you dare touch me!” She beat me away with her hands. “You’ve ruined my life, my family, you get my husband down here and you . . . you . . .” She twisted away from me and ran towards the hall door.

“No!” I grabbed hold of her wrist and she turned on me, slapping, spitting, clawing at my face, while I clung on, desperate not to let her go. “You can’t go out there, you don’t know what he’s doing, you don’t understand—he’ll kill us—”

“Let go of me, you mad bitch! Nobody’s killed anybody. You’re making it all up. Let
go
!”

“It’s true!” I caught her other arm, pulled her towards me, and held on for dear life.

“You have to believe me. There are two people dead. Lee’s in the stable, and Jeff . . . I don’t know. He was here, right in this room, when I left. I know how it sounds, but I’m not making it up, I am telling you the truth. Jack has got a gun, and you know what he’s capable of, because you know he killed Danny Watts.”

She stopped struggling and glared at me. “You know that,” I said. “You sent the newspaper cuttings.”

“Yes,” she said. “I did. I wanted you to know what your precious Lenny’d been up to.”

“All right,” I said. “But Lenny didn’t kill Danny Watts. That doesn’t matter. Not now. What matters is Jack. He’s off his head, upset about Susie. He said—”

Val jerked her head up. “He talked to
you
about Susie?”

“Yes.” I let go of her hands and took a step back. “He said . . . He said it was his fault she got ill, and he couldn’t cope with it, the guilt, seeing her like that—and that was why he went away, in spite of . . . Kitty . . . and everything you’d done for him, he couldn’t—”

“He didn’t say that to me. Any of it. He wouldn’t talk about it. She was our daughter, and she was
dying,
and he wouldn’t bloody talk to me!” She was shouting. Jack would hear, I thought desperately, he’d come in before I’d had the chance to explain to her.

I kept my voice as calm as I could. “I know,” I said.

“How can you
know
? You’re just . . . just . . .”

“You can call me anything you want, but we have to get the police. We’ve got to, Val. If we’re quick, we can go—”

“But why would he talk to you and not to me?”

“Sometimes,” I said slowly, “it’s easier, talking to someone who’s not . . . well, who’s not close to you. Someone you don’t . . . care about.”

“Jack told
you,
” she repeated, as if she was trying to get it to sink in. Her eyes widened and she put a hand up to her mouth. “
My God.
You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you? Don’t tell me he just came down here to see you, out of the blue, some half-forgotten fuck, don’t tell me he just came down here and talked to you about us. You’ve been seeing him all the time, haven’t you?”

“No. He just turned up here. Two—three—nights ago. I wasn’t expecting him. I hadn’t seen him since Lenny’s funeral.”

“Then why did he come
here
? Why didn’t he come home?”

“He was frightened. When they found Lenny’s car—”

“But I wouldn’t have gone to the police. He knew that! He knew I wouldn’t . . . I’d never . . . surely he knew that?”

“I think he just panicked,” I said helplessly. How could I explain something when I didn’t understand it myself? “He’s in a terrible mess, and sometimes people just
run
, don’t they? They feel trapped and they can’t deal with it, and . . . That’s what’s happening now. That’s why we have to—”

“But why would he come to you, unless—”

“No! I told you. You know that isn’t true,” I said. “Look. How did you find out about Danny Watts? Jack didn’t tell you, did he?”

She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she was weighing something up, then shook her head.

“So how . . .”

“I got someone to follow him. They read the name on the doorbell when Jack went in to see him.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, suddenly puzzled. “How did you know who he was? I mean, that it was connected to Kitty? If Jack didn’t tell you . . . Danny Watts could have been anyone.”

“I recognised his name . . . he’d phoned the house. Left messages. Then I saw in the paper that he’d been killed, and it said that he was a cameraman, and he’d worked on those films, those . . . smutty things. After . . . what happened with Kitty, I asked Jack—both of them—if there was anyone else involved, because I thought, how could she do all that on her own, set it up . . . but they kept saying no and I had to believe them—believe Jack—because . . .” She looked at me bleakly. “Because I had no choice.”

“Listen,” I said. “If you got someone to follow Jack, and he’d been seeing me, this . . . investigator, or whoever he was . . . he’d have told you, wouldn’t he?”

Val looked at the floor. It flashed through my mind that there was something she wasn’t telling me. Not now, I thought. Later. “So you know Jack wasn’t seeing me,” I said. “You know that.”

Val looked up. “But you’ve slept with him. While he’s been here.” It was a statement, not a question.

It threw me, and I hesitated a second, a fraction of a second, too long.

“Don’t bother,” she said wearily. The hurt on her face was unbearable. There was nothing I could say. I was responsible, that was the truth. I could have said no to Jack, but I didn’t. It was pretty ironic that we hadn’t because he couldn’t, but I could hardly say that to Val. . . .

“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” she said.

“No, it’s not that,” I said, appalled. “I didn’t mean—”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Leopards don’t change their spots. My family’s destroyed because of women like you. My daughter’s dead. So don’t stand there, wearing that . . .
thing
. . . and tell me it isn’t true.”

“Jack made me put it on,” I said.

“Oh, and he raped you, as well, did he?”

“No. I went to bed with him. Not my idea, but . . . I did. That makes it just as much my fault as his, I know that. And I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for you. About Susie, and . . . all of it, I really am, but I didn’t ask Jack to come here, and I’m not responsible for his . . . his
behaviour,
or for what Kitty did, or Danny, or for the fact that he left you when Susie was ill. I didn’t do any of that. I am not a threat to you, Val. But Jack
is,
and that’s why we’ve got to get out of here.”

She crossed her arms. “Why should I believe you?”

I looked round the room. Proof. I thought, I need proof. “Let me show you something,” I said, and went back to the sofa to fetch the green cushion. “Look,” I said, holding it out to show her. “Blood.”

“Could be anything. Red wine. You said he’d been drinking.”

“No. I put this under Jeff’s head. When he was dying.”

She turned towards the window and drew back the curtain. It was almost light. “Take it away.”

I put the cushion back on the sofa. “Look,” I said desperately. “Even if you don’t believe a word I’ve said, you know Jack’s in trouble. You know the police want to talk to him about the car, but they don’t know about Danny Watts—I mean, they know he’s dead, but there’s nothing to connect him to Jack, is there? All right, they worked on the same films, yes, but there must be hundreds of people like that, and it’s not as if they were friends or anything, so . . . Why don’t you just give me the key to the back door, and I’ll go down to the green and call the police. They’re bound to catch up with him sooner or later, and it’ll be better if . . . if it’s
now,
than . . . He needs help, Val. He really does. Running away from everything isn’t going to do any good.”

I went over to the back door and tried it. It was locked, like she’d said. “I can’t give you the key,” Val said. “Jack’s got it.” Her voice was expressionless. I had no idea what she was thinking.

“The window,” I said. It was just about big enough for me to squeeze through. “Will you come?”

She shook her head, but she didn’t move to stop me. I hesitated for a moment, then leant across the draining board to undo the latch.

The hall door burst open and crashed against the wall. I whirled round. Jack was standing on the threshold. He had the gun in one hand and the urn—Susie’s ashes—in the other.

“My God . . .” I heard Val whisper behind me. “Oh, my God . . .”

“Close the curtain.”

Neither of us moved.

“Close it!”

I reached over and tugged it shut. We watched in silence while Jack went to the table and positioned the urn very carefully in the middle. He stood back for a moment and looked at it, then lifted it up and slid one of the napkins underneath. “Good. Now we’re all here. Except Lenny.” He lifted the empty brandy glass and mimed drinking.

“Absent friends. And Rosie.” He looked at Val. “Why didn’t you bring Rosie? She ought to be here.”

Val stood petrified, staring at him with enormous, terrified eyes. “She . . . she was . . .”

“What? What was she?”

“She was going off somewhere with Nick. I didn’t think . . .”

“No,” said Jack, “you didn’t think, did you? You just charged down here and left
my daughter
with that evil-minded thug. I want her
here
!” he shouted, banging the table with his fist. Val was shaking. She looked as if she was about to pass out. “Anything could happen! She could get pregnant, for Christ’s sake!”

“She won’t, Jack . . . she’s grown up, she knows what she’s doing . . .”

“
You
didn’t.”

Val’s whole body seemed to shrink, and she half turned towards me, her face in her hands.

“You bloody didn’t, did you?” Jack shouted. I put my arms round Val. She didn’t resist me, just stood there sobbing like a child, her shoulders heaving.

“It’s all right,” I whispered, “it’s all right . . .”

Jack turned his back on us. I watched him over Val’s shoulder. He was looking round the room as if he was trying to work something out. Then he spun round and pointed at the chest of drawers beside the back door. “Move that,” he said. “I want it in front of the door.”

That’s what the thumping was about, I realised. The noise I’d heard when I came round. He’d been moving furniture. Barricading us in.

The chest was wooden. Solid. “I can’t,” I said. “Not by myself.”

“She can help.” The smell of his sweat, strong and stale, like onions left in a frying pan, hit me as he came towards us, and I recoiled as he grabbed Val round the waist, wrenching her from me and pinning her against his body. “That’s what you came for, isn’t it?” he shouted. “To help. And you’re going to. Go on, help Alice.” He pushed her away.
“Go on!”

I did my best, but it took a long time to move the chest. It was too heavy, impossible to lift, and Val wasn’t much use. She was still shaking, too shocked to do much more than go through the motions. Jack stood a few feet away from us, fiddling with the gun.

When we’d finished, he jerked his head towards the middle of the room. I limped over to the table, head down, clutching my side. Val followed, and then Jack. We each pulled out a chair and sat down. No one spoke. Jack’s leg jigged up and down as he fidgeted with the gun, opening and closing it, pulling out bullets and looking at them, then putting them back again. His pungent, unhealthy smell hung in the air over the table. Val sat with her head bowed, not looking at either of us. I was numb—my brain, anyway. My body was aching so much and felt so weak that after about five minutes the sheer effort of keeping myself upright on the hard chair was all I could think about. The costume dug into me, and my lower back and legs felt as if they were about to dissolve. I held on to the edges of the chair seat and braced my arms to try to take the pressure off them. A minute at a time, I thought. Just one more minute, I can do that. Someone will come, something will happen, if you hang on for
one more minute
.

Then another minute, then another, and another . . . I don’t know how much time passed. I wasn’t wearing my watch, and I couldn’t see anyone else’s. Val was sitting with her hands in her lap, and Jack’s was covered by his sleeve. His other hand, the one holding the gun, was down by his side.

I heard Pablo whinny from the field. I glanced at Jack. He seemed to be staring at the urn. Val was rocking backwards and forwards, her head down. After a while, she began to make a moaning noise, a thin, pitiful sound like a wounded animal. I could feel the anguish of it right inside my heart, and it went on and on until I couldn’t bear it any longer. I slithered sideways off my chair and went to her. Jack’s eyes followed me, but he said nothing.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t.” She didn’t turn round, but she fell silent, and after a moment she lifted her arm and put her hand on top of mine.