The White Room (37 page)

Sharon.

His stomach flipped over. Why? He wasn't scared of meeting her again.

He tried to turn in the opposite direction, but she had seen him. She had tried to turn away too. But it was too late. Politeness dictated that acknowledgement was needed. He walked up to her, smiled experimentally.

‘Hello,' he said.

‘Hello.' She smiled at him. Brightly.

They both stood there, uncomfortable, unsure of what to say next.

‘You look well,' he said.

She was dressed expensively, but Jack noticed that she had put on weight. Her face was bloated, her make-up heavy, and she hadn't been able to cover up the lines around her face or the black rings beneath her eyes. Or the broken veins in her cheeks.

‘Thank you,' she said. Her bright smile wavered slightly. It creased her face up but didn't touch her eyes. ‘So do you.'

Jack had on a new suede jacket and jeans and had allowed his hair to grow. It was still dyed black.

Jack shuffled from foot to foot. Sharon sighed and smiled brightly again.

‘How's Isaac?' said Sharon.

‘He's doing well. Good at school. Good at home.'

Sharon flinched slightly at the word ‘home'. She nodded.

‘You all right?' said Jack.

‘Me? Oh, I'm fine,' she said. ‘I'm fine.'

She smiled again. Again, it failed to reach her eyes.

‘Well,' he said, ‘I'd best get on.'

‘Me too.'

They looked at each other. Straight into each other's eyes. The moment was naked, unguarded. Jack saw through Sharon's make-up and false smile. Saw the eyes of someone who had made a mistake. Who couldn't work out how she had got to where she was. Jack wanted to get away.

‘Nice to see you again,' he said.

‘You too.'

He turned and hurried away.

Didn't once look back.

Monica was scared.

She could feel them on her. Everywhere she went, everything she did.

Eyes.

Staring, unblinking.

From cars. From street corners. Through windows.

Eyes.

Everywhere.

She knew when they first appeared. After Ralph Bell disappeared. When Ben Marshall appeared.

When she started to put things together.

Bert wouldn't answer the door to her. She had heard from neighbours that something had happened to him. He'd been taken into hospital. He had trouble doing his round. He was a changed man, more solitary, introspective. He wanted to leave the area, go and live somewhere else. Anywhere else, he had apparently said.

Monica thought it a sudden, strange way to behave. Then she started thinking. Bert's behaviour had begun to change after he told her he wouldn't be trying to find out any more about Ben Marshall.

Had something happened to him, then? As a direct result?

What?

Hammering on his door, shouting through the letterbox. Ignoring the stares and looks from passers-by.

No reply. Nothing.

Around the corner to try the yard door. Chained up. No sound of a horse inside.

She had tried waiting for him in the street but if he saw her he either shut himself up or ran away.

Eventually she gave up with him. Left him alone.

She settled back into her routine. Tried to forget about Ben Marshall. So what if he was Brian Mooney? What was it to her? So no more standing drunk in the Shovel, shouting out to anyone who'd listen that she had found Mae's father and was going to make him pay. No more spending his money in her head before she had it in her hand. Because that's all it was. Money. She didn't want him back or anything.

So she forgot about it. Let it go. Which was easier than she expected. Her memory seemed to be getting worse; things didn't stay in her head for as long these days.

And then she started to notice the eyes.

She would see cars parked on the street, the driver staring at her. At first she thought nothing of it. Men often parked by her house, summoning up courage to put their desires into practice. Sometimes she would smile at them, give them a bit of encouragement. Usually that made their minds up: they either came to see her or sped off. But this one just sat there, staring. No amount of smiling could move him. One way or the other.

He was a big man with short-cropped blond hair. Wearing a sheepskin coat. He would usually wait until she was inside the house then drive off. But sometimes he would sit there all night.

He unnerved her with his dead-eyed stare. She began to see him even when he wasn't there. She imagined him standing at the window staring in. Or in the room beside her. Every noise that Mae made in the house, she imagined it was him. In relief, she would take her fear out on her daughter. Beat her. But it didn't shift the terror out of Monica.

She didn't know where to turn, whom to talk to. She needed an ally. Or even someone who could get a message to Ben Marshall, tell him that she didn't care if he was Brian Mooney. She would leave him alone. Just leave her alone.

She thought of asking her father for help but rejected the idea. He would want her to go for the money.

No. She needed someone else.

Then she thought of someone.

The Prince of Wales pub, Westgate Road, Newcastle. A working man's pub, just next to the General Hospital. Not somewhere Monica usually frequented, which was why she was there.

She ordered herself a gin and orange, took a seat, sipped it, listening to the Monkees on the jukebox telling all and sundry that they were believers. Other drinkers in the pub had sized her up. They way she wore her belted black PVC coat and blonde wig gave it away. Not to mention the sunglasses despite its being cloudy outside. She settled back against the maroon padded seat, ignored them. Wondered idly whether she would meet any of her doctor clients in this pub. Wave and give a knowing smile. She decided it was unlikely. Not their sort of place.

She didn't have long to wait.

He walked in: tall, with longish dark hair. Wearing jeans, a suede jacket and an expression saying he would rather be somewhere else.

Jack Smeaton.

Good-looking, she thought, and hoped again that some of her doctor clients might see her in here with him. Get jealous.

She had remembered his name from the cutting in the paper on Ralph's disappearance. She didn't know whether he would be ally or go-between. She would have to tread carefully.

She waved to him, he walked over to her. There was a look of recognition in his eyes. She didn't know him.

‘I'm Jack Smeaton.'

‘Monica. Monica Blacklock. Thanks for comin'.'

She took her sunglasses off. He sat down opposite her, not bothering to order a drink. He didn't look as if he wanted to stay long.

‘I didn't have much choice, really,' he said. ‘You phoned me that many times saying you wanted to talk to me about Ralph Bell. How did you get my number, by the way?'

‘The phone book. I tried all the Smeatons till I found you.'

‘Then you kept phoning me over and over.'

‘Sorry. But I needed to talk to someone. And you were the only person I could think of.'

Jack Smeaton sat back, folded his arms.

‘Well, I'm here. What did you want to tell me?'

She swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. She took a large mouthful of gin and orange, started to speak.

She told him everything. From Ralph Bell to Bert. From Ben Marshall to the dead man following her. She finished, needed another swing of gin.

‘So what's he look like?' said Jack Smeaton. ‘This man?'

She described his close-cropped blond hair. His sheepskin coat.

‘And his eyes,' she said. ‘Horrible. Like a dead man's.'

‘Are they blue?' said Jack.

Monica looked shocked. ‘D'you know him?'

‘I think I do,' said Jack.

‘Is he dangerous?'

‘He's …' Jack searched for the right words. ‘You don't want to get him angry.'

Monica looked shaken.

‘But don't worry.' Jack's voice searched for a reassuring tone. ‘He'll go away if you're not threatening him.'

‘Well, that's why I wanted you.'

‘Me? Why?'

‘To get a message to Ben Marshall. Tell 'im I don't want anythin' off him. I'm leavin' 'im alone. To leave me alone.'

Jack sighed. ‘Well, I don't mean to sound callous, but there's not a lot I can do for you. I don't work for the company any longer. I have nothing to do with Ben Marshall any more.'

He shrugged.

‘Sorry.'

Monica looked at him. It hadn't been the answer she had wanted to hear. She had wanted Jack Smeaton to take the problem away from her. Make it disappear. And he wouldn't. She stared at the table, suddenly depressed.

Jack sighed. ‘I'm really sorry. But there's nothing I can do. As I said, I have nothing to do with these people any more.'

Monica nodded mutely.

‘What was his name, anyway?'

Monica looked up. ‘Who? Whose name?'

‘This ex-boyfriend of yours.'

‘Oh. Brian Mooney. Same initials, see?'

She looked up again. Jack Smeaton was staring at her as if he'd seen a ghost. Or heard a ghost's name.

‘What's the matter?' said Monica. ‘D'you know him.'

Jack Smeaton screwed his eyes up, rubbed his head, like he had a headache.

‘I thought … I knew the name.' He sighed. ‘Must have been mistaken.'

Monica had heard liars before. And Jack Smeaton was lying.

He quickly looked at his watch, stood up.

‘Sorry,' he said again. ‘Have to be somewhere. Another appointment. Good luck. Just write him a letter. That should do it.'

And he was out of the door and away.

Monica stepped into her house, closed the door. Sighing, she made her way to the living room and flopped into an armchair. She shook her head, sighed again.

Jack Smeaton had been a dead loss. She was so pissed off with him she had stayed in the pub. Flirted with the regulars. Told them he was a TV star and she knew all his secrets. They had indulged her, kept her in gin. But she had left them all, came home alone.

She stood up. Time for another.

She walked into the kitchen searching for a glass. She flicked on the light switch. No light. She tried it again. Nothing.

‘Oh, bugger,' she said. A blown bulb. And she didn't have a replacement.

She walked over to the draining board, feeling around in the shadow-darkened state. She picked up a glass and was about to move when she heard a noise behind her.

‘Mae? What you doin' creepin' about in the—'

It wasn't Mae.

The figure grabbed her from behind, held her immobile in his powerful arms. She knew in a terrified instant who it was. She had only glimpsed him before he grabbed her, but she knew.

Blond close-cropped hair. Sheepskin coat. Dead man's eyes. And up close, a smell of old meat and stale blood.

‘Mae's not here,' he said with a voice that matched his eyes. ‘No one is. Just you and me.'

Monica heard a whimpering sound, realized it was her. She was aware of a dampness about her legs. She had wet herself.

‘You've been talkin' too much,' the dead voice said. ‘Talk, talk, talk. And writin' letters.'

Monica was puzzled. ‘Letters?'

‘Don't pretend you don't know. You've been writin' to Ben Marshall. Sayin' things. And even talkin' to Jack Smeaton. We can't have that.'

‘Please … let me go. I won't say any more. I promise.'

Behind her, she felt the dead man smile.

‘Oh, I know. When I'm finished with you, you won't talk.'

She heard herself whimpering again.

The intruder reached forward to the kitchen table, picked up a plastic bottle he had placed there earlier. Even in the gloom Monica knew what it was. Recognized it as one of hers.

Bleach.

The top was off. The intruder's gloved hand held the bottle.

‘About time you got your mouth washed out,' he said.

She struggled, kicked and clawed, but to no avail. He was stronger than her. He punched her in the head. She fell to the floor.

She saw lights, stars. She blacked out for a few seconds. Dazed, she looked up.

And saw the dead man's face right in front of her. Ice-chip eyes staring into hers. She felt the bottle kiss her lips. She started to struggle again.

He punched her again.

She slowly opened her eyes.

Felt the liquid being tipped down her throat.

Felt burning agony.

Then felt nothing.

It made the papers.

Page two of Thursday's
Evening Chronicle:

LOCAL CALL GIRL IN HORROR ATTACK

Jack nearly missed it. Ordinarily it would have been the kind of article he would have ignored, skimmed over at most. And he would have done with this, had not the name of the victim and the estimated date and time of the attack jumped out at him.

Monica Blacklock. Tuesday evening, some time after nine thirty p.m.

Monica Blacklock. He had left her in the pub at around six.

He read the article again, fingers trembling as he held the paper, picked at various key words and phrases:

Vicious attack. Household bleach. Facial injuries.

Intensive care. Critical. No witnesses.

Tragic daughter. Stay with grandparents.

Police: no leads at this time. Perhaps disgruntled customer.

His stomach lurched; his mind flipped back. Horror newsreels again:

The abattoir, that night nearly two years previously.

Blood on his hands, cement dust in his eyes.

Two psychopaths looking at him, laughing.

His head was hurting, the tumour starting up again. Like the last two years never happened.

Jack threw the paper down, began to pace the room. His heart was pumping, blood speeding around his body, breath coming in ragged gasps. He knew why she had been attacked. He could guess who had done it. But he didn't know what to do next.