Breaking and Entering (59 page)

Daniel squeezed her hand sympathetically, though he couldn't really understand her venom. She seemed more distressed about the media-hacks than about the actual drowning. Was it because they'd used deception to infiltrate the camp, or more to do with the unpalatable fact that they'd knocked her idol from his pedestal? She had put such trust in Stephen – her all-wise, all-powerful father-figure – but now he'd been revealed as highly irresponsible, if not an out and out fraud. He had also failed to do anything for Pippa, who would be leaving here more disturbed than when she'd arrived.

He slipped out of the tent and looked warily around. The group outside the tepee had disappeared, thank God. He had no wish to be grilled by journalists, or approached by rival factions in the camp and asked to give his verdict pro or anti JB.

He slunk the long way round the field, keeping in the shelter of the bushes, then sprinted up the hill, only slowing down when he was safely out of sight. He stopped to inspect the stream, which looked as clear and sparkling as ever. Could it really be polluted? He drank a mouthful from his hands, as if defying it to poison him. It tasted fresh and clean. He splashed some on his face, hoping it would clear his head, wash the dark stains from his mind. The images were harrowing: Rick's gangling body too long for its stretcher; Dave's camera nosing into close-up; Claire's magenta glasses, their glittery glamour subverted by her tears. And Pippa, shaking uncontrollably. What in God's name could he
say
to Pippa, to ensure he wasn't dismissed, like all the rest?

He trudged on up the hill, resenting the beauty of the countryside as it basked in the evening sun; the sky a boastful gold, the clouds haloed and luxurious. All nature was affirming life: a whirr of swifts swooping across the stream; the usual sheep still munching placidly; the grass itself a vibrant green. As he approached the ruined cottage he was aware how apprehensive he felt, not only on account of Pippa, but because of his own memories of the place. He steeled himself to walk up to it; peered in through the empty window-frame. He could see nothing but a stretch of stony floor, bleak and uninviting. Perhaps she'd gone, but where?

‘Pippa,' he called softly. ‘It's Daniel. I'm back.'

He was answered only by the noises all around him: the rapturous stream tumbling down the hillside, two hoarse-voiced crows flapping from a thorn-tree, the orchestra of insects in the grass.

He stepped softly through the doorless door, relieved to see Pippa's blaze of hair – the only splash of colour in the gloom of the interior. She was standing with her back to him, leaning against the wall; face pressed against the stone, arms hanging limply by her sides. Her total stillness so unnerved him, his words faltered into nothing, and all he managed was to stutter out her name. She made not the slightest response; stood motionless, unhearing, as if she were part of the wall itself.

He took another step towards her, the stones scrunching under his feet. ‘Listen, darling … Penny told me how upset you are. The whole thing's just so awful, I still can't take it in.' Tentatively he reached out his hand, let it brush her shoulder.

‘Don't
touch
me!'

He recoiled as if he'd been scalded. He had never heard such fury in her voice. Penny was right – pointless trying to talk to her when she was in such a hostile mood. He retreated through the doorway, shading his eyes against the brilliance of the sunset. The sun was already sinking, birds flying home to roost. It would be dark in another hour or so – terrifying for her to stay out here alone, with the eerie shadows, that chilling sense of isolation he remembered all too well.

He turned back, cleared his throat, uncertain what to say. Even if he simply warned her about the dark, it might provoke another violent reaction, and any attempt at dialogue seemed guaranteed to fail. If Penny couldn't get through to her, what chance had he, for heaven's sake? Emotional encounters had never been his strong point, and his own grief on this occasion made him still more inept. But maybe he could build on that, admit how shocked he felt.

‘I … I think I do know how you feel, darling. It's hit me really hard as well – especially the fact that Rick was …'

She suddenly exploded into life, wheeling round to face him, both fists clenched. ‘Don't
say
his name! I don't want to hear it, ever!'

‘But surely … I mean, wouldn't it be better …?' He was so appalled by her appearance, he hardly knew what he was saying. Her clothes were bedraggled, her eyes puffy and inflamed; her whole face distorted from crying; red marks on her forehead from the imprint of the stones. Instinctively, he moved towards her, put his arms around her.

‘Get off, get off! I
hate
you! And it's all your fault anyway.'

She blundered past him and through the door, stumbling over the tussocky grass, running headlong down the hill. He dashed in pursuit, frightened for her safety. She wasn't looking where she was going and might fall and hurt herself. He managed to catch up with her, grabbed her by the arm, steered her to a low and crumbling wall – another relic of the mine.

‘Okay, you hate me, Pippa, and everything's my fault.' He was out of breath, his voice laboured and staccato. ‘But you've got to tell me
why
, and what I've done. We can't go on like this. We've just got to sort it out. So let's sit down here, the two of us, and have a proper talk.'

She began to sob hysterically; her head pressed right down on her knees, so that he couldn't see her face. The few sheep grazing near them shied away in fear. The wild noise she was making seemed to startle the whole countryside; her outburst like a hand-grenade flung into the tranquil evening and blitzing it apart. He let her cry, one arm around her shoulders, as if to stop her breaking up, as these walls had broken up, these once-sturdy cottages. Bit by bit she quietened, if only through exhaustion and the sheer effort of such grief. Then he realized she was trying to speak, and strained to hear the words through her painful, strangled gasps. He was relieved when she sat up, at last, though her face was so blotched and swollen it alarmed him just to look at it.

‘I … I
killed
him, don't you see?'

‘Killed who?' he asked, confused.

‘Rick, of course.' She punched the wall in frustration, as if maddened by his stupidity.

‘What d'you mean, killed Rick?' He had a sudden horrific image of her pushing the boy under, holding him down until he … No. Unthinkable. And anyway Andrew would have seen her do it, or Penny known that she was there. He wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, as he had done when she was small. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Pippa? I thought Rick went swimming with Andrew.'

‘He did.'

‘But you were there as well, you mean?'

She didn't answer, just grabbed his handkerchief and scoured her face with it.

‘Pippa, I've got to get this straight. Were you anywhere near that lake when the accident happened?' He kept his tone deliberately calm. One of them must retain control.

She tried to pull away from him, but he kept hold of her arm. ‘You haven't answered my question.'

‘You don't understand! No one understands.'

‘But how
can
we understand, when you won't explain or talk to us?'

She struggled against his restraining hand, then sat back on the wall, weary and defeated. There was silence for a while. The evening, too, seemed tired; its former verve now flagging; the gold and scarlet in the sky fading into a duller pinkish-grey. Daniel shut his eyes. He hadn't slept at all last night. Memories of Juliet began to seep back into his mind: erotic, traitorous images threatening to engulf him. Then, suddenly, he was aware of Pippa tensing, and became instantly alert. She was about to speak again.

‘There's this … boy at school,' she began, her voice so low he could barely make it out.

‘Yes?' he said encouragingly. She seemed to have changed the subject, but he must persuade her to continue, whatever she was saying.

‘He's called … Rick.'

‘Rick?'

‘Yes.'

Another silence.

‘Don't you think that's odd?'

‘How d' you mean?'

‘Well, most Richards aren't called Rick.'

‘Aren't they?' He tried to keep the impatience from his voice. They were going even further off the subject. If Pippa
was
involved in some way in the drowning, perhaps she couldn't cope with the guilt, and was simply trying to divert him.

‘No,' she insisted, ‘they're not. In fact there are only two Richards in the whole of our year, and they're both called Richard, never Rick or Rich. There
is
a Rich in year seven, and a Ricky who's just left, but the only Rick is the one I'm talking about – and
your
Rick, here. Well, I think that's sort of … weird. Don't you?'

‘Frankly, darling, no.' He was still wincing from the impact of ‘his' Rick. ‘I mean, Rick's a pretty ordinary name – not like Zachary or Silas or something. Anyway,' he prompted, shading his eyes to watch the last glints of the sun, ‘what about him?'

She swallowed. ‘He … he said he'd kill me if I …'

‘He said
what
?' His grip tightened on her arm. Perhaps he hadn't heard right.

‘Don't interrupt. Please. This is very … difficult. You see, I promised I'd never tell. He made me swear this oath. And he said he'd kill me if I broke it – push me on to the railway line just as a train was coming. And I knew he really meant it.' She peered nervously over her shoulder, as if expecting retribution even here. ‘It got harder and harder, having to be so careful about what I said – you know, in case I let out something by mistake. I had to stop and think before I said anything to anyone, which was an awful sort of strain. So, in the end, it seemed safest not to speak at all. But that was hard as well. Especially as he just wouldn't leave me alone. I began to really hate him – so much, I wanted to kill
him
.' She put both hands across her mouth, appalled by the admission; continued speaking through her fingers, indistinctly.

‘Then when we got here, this
other
Rick was … waiting for me. It was like the Rick at school had sent him to spy on me, or prove I'd never get away from him. Oh, I know they're nothing like each other. Rick's sixteen and he's
huge
– not just tall, but fat. He's got a sort of flabby face and these great big hands and feet. And he writes stuff on his arm in biro – you know, swearwords and threats of what he plans to do. And he rolls up his sleeve and flashes it at me, laughing in this horrid sneery way – though not if any teachers are around. He's all smarmy with the teachers, especially Miss O'Donovan. Anyway, he made me do these … these awful things. Like steal money from your wallet so he could buy cigarettes. And he kept asking me if you and Mum had any drink at home. And when I finally said yes, he told me to bring it in my school-bag and meet him outside Smith's. So I smuggled a bottle of whisky from the sideboard, but I was terrified you'd notice it had gone.'

She glanced at him, still fearing disapproval, but went rushing on again in an urgent panicked voice, not even pausing for breath. ‘And he always took my dinner-money, so I couldn't have any lunch. He'd just say “
mine
“, and hold his hand out. And he took my watch – the one you gave me for Christmas. You can't have forgotten that. You were ever so cross because I said I'd lost it. And then I lost my trainers, and you told me off for being careless. Well, that was Rick as well. And if ever I stood up to him, or tried to stop him taking things, he'd remind me of the railway line – describe what it would feel like to be electrocuted on the rails, then be run over by a train going at ninety miles an hour.'

‘But Pippa, this … this is monstrous!' Daniel's cry of outrage was submerged in her next words. She was still reeling off her story, too fast for him to interrupt. The dam had finally burst, and all the things she had kept locked away inside were pouring, flooding out.

‘Emma was the only one who knew. Well, she didn't know exactly, but she kept seeing Rick sneak up to me, so she asked me what was going on. At first she thought I fancied him.' Pippa screwed up her face in disgust. ‘And because she was my best friend, Rick threatened her as well. He said he knew this Brixton gang and they'd beat her up on her way home from school, if she dared to open her mouth. Emma was so scared, she wouldn't go round with me any more. So I was always on my own. And then he started following me home. That was really frightening because he …'

‘I'll
kill
the boy!' Daniel exploded. He gripped the wall, struggling to regain control. He would be no help to Pippa if he diverted his own guilty conscience into wild attacks on Rick. ‘But we
asked
if you were being bullied,' he said, voice brusque from rage and shame. ‘You must remember, surely. And we asked the Head the same thing.
And
Miss O'Donovan. Why ever didn't you
tell
someone?'

‘How could I?' she yelled, her own fury surging up again. ‘You haven't heard a single thing I've said! I've just
told
you, haven't I? Rick threatened to kill me if I said a word to anyone. But now your Rick has died instead. And it was me who killed him, because I wanted to kill the other Rick – Rick Scarth, he's called.' She shuddered at the name. ‘I've never hated anyone before, but I hated
him
. I actually prayed for him to die. And he did die. But he was the wrong one, wasn't he? Except I hated your Rick, too, just because of his name. And because I couldn't get away from him – not even here, not even in the holidays. It brought it all back again – the awful things he'd made me do – other things I haven't even dared tell you yet. And the hate itself. Hate's horrible. It changes you. And I hated
you
, as well, because you sent me to the school. And because you hadn't the faintest idea of what was going on. I felt you
ought
to see. That if you cared about me, you
would
see. But you were always so busy with your work and stuff. And when we came here to the camp, I hated you even more. You kept sucking up to Rick and trying to get me to like him too. And the way you collected all those revolting bones. That was almost the worst thing of all. Rick said if I told on him,
I'd
end up as bones. And then he drew a coffin, and wrote my name on it.'