Dead Bad Things (11 page)

  "How long has she been in this Stoneville place?" Benson stared straight ahead as he spoke. She glanced at the side of his face, at the scars, and wished again that she could bring herself to love him. "Before your dad died, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. She's been in the home for over ten years. He drove her there, with his unreasonable behaviour. But she would never have left him. She wouldn't jump, so her pushed her." She looked back out of the window and saw a small girl standing at the side of the road. They were travelling through a grotty suburb to the south-east of Leeds – a cluster of grimy housing estates bordering the M621 – and heading towards the motorway. The girl stared at the car, a strange smile on her pale face. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, with battered running shoes on her feet. No socks. Her long, tatty hair was soaking wet.

  Sarah smiled back at the girl, wondering what she was doing out there in the cold and the wet. The girl raised a tiny hand and waggled her fingers, and then she ran along the street and vanished around a corner into a gloomy looking alleyway.

  "I'm starting to realise just how badly my father treated her," Sarah turned back to Benson. He was frowning. "I found some photographs…" But she could say no more, not yet. She did not want to describe to Benson what she had seen in the photographs.

  "What kind of photos?" He turned his head. His eyes were shining; his teeth were pressed together beneath the thin covering of his lips. She saw a momentary flash of his skull, like an image of death superimposed over his scarred features.

  "Oh, nothing. Just some of his old shit, that's all. Nothing important, anyway." Lies, all lies. Why was she unable to tell him about her suspicions, her fears? Why could she not just tell the truth?

  They remained silent for a while, listening to the thrum of the wheels on the wet tarmac as they briefly joined the M1 motorway, gaining speed. Traffic was light: there were a few trucks clogging the slow lane, with bored drivers leaning across oversized steering wheels. Benson stayed in the middle lane – something she hated – and undertook the cars to his right.

  "How do you pay for the home? I mean, it must be expensive to keep her there, in such a good place. How do you fund it?"

  Sarah closed her eyes and tried to focus. Her vision was swimming. She felt queasy. "My father was well insured, and his police pension helps. There's also, well, the slush fund."

  Benson flicked the indicator with his middle finger and moved the car over into the slow lane in preparation to leave the motorway at the A650 Wakefield exit. "The slush fund? What's that, then?"

  "He was a heavy gambler, and he used to win a lot of the time. I'm sure you've heard the rumours. He used to treat gambling like another job, a secondary career, and any money he made went into what he always called the slush fund. There was a lot of cash in there by the time he died. More than I had ever thought possible."

  For a moment she thought that Benson had not heard her, then she realised that he was ignoring what she had said, probably because he was unsure how to react to the information.

  "Where exactly is this place? I'm not sure where I'm heading." He slowed down the car and his hands flexed on the steering wheel. Sarah was unsure if he was tactfully changing the subject or simply distracted by the unfamiliar geography.

  "Just head for Pinderfields Hospital and I'll tell you when to turn."

  "So you're loaded, then? A little rich girl?" He smiled, the scars making tiny white replicas of the forced expression across his rough cheeks. "Does that make me some kind of gold digger?"

  "Turn right, then keep going and you'll see the sign for Stoneville."

  They fell again into an uneasy silence. She thought that Benson might assume he'd offended her, but couldn't bring herself to care. She craved a drink – more of that whisky from earlier in the day. Her throat itched and her stomach was churning. She was beginning to sober up. Maybe they could go for a pub lunch after they'd seen her mother. And Benson could pick up the tab, just because she knew she could make him.

  Before long the Stoneville residential home came into view, rising above the road as if it were reaching out towards her, drawing her into its skewed orbit. Sarah swallowed but her throat was dry; she coughed, attempting to produce at least some moisture, but failed. Her teeth ached. She felt utterly forlorn – yes that was the word. There was no other that could do justice to her feelings at this precise moment in time.

  Forlorn. For some reason the word held a strange resonance, as if it were a place on the map and not an emotion.

  "You look pale. Are you OK?" Benson reached out a big hand and grasped her leg, squeezing lightly to reassure her. It hurt, just a little, but he left his hand where it was, just above her knee. Sarah fought back the urge to scream. She didn't want this, not any of it: her pain was her own, and she would suffer it alone, just as she had always done. It was not something to be shared, like a fucking takeaway pizza.

  "I'm fine," she said, tersely. "Don't worry about it. Just drive."

  He took away his hand.

  Benson slowed the car and turned into the large parking area at the front of the building. There were a lot of vehicles there already, and Benson's beat-up Ford Focus looked out of place amid the Porsches and the Mercs and the shiny 4x4s owned by middle-class housewives visiting their fucked-up mother-in-laws.

  "There's a lot of money here. Loads of new wealth."

  Sarah nodded. "Don't I fucking know it? They charge a fortune just to feed and keep the residents clean – that's what they call them: 'residents.' Like it's some kind of holiday camp." She stared at the hulking Victorian structure, hating it in a way that she could barely explain, even to herself. Her mother was well looked after here – no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise – and the money used to pay the bills wasn't even hers anyway.

  No, it wasn't about the money. She just loathed the fact that her father had sent the senile old bitch here, and then practically forgotten about her – or at least pretended to. Just left her to rot.

  "So this is it?" Benson turned off the engine. They were parked next to a large black four-wheel-drive with tinted windows and a private number plate. Someone had scratched the side of the vehicle; to Sarah's trained eyes it looked deliberate, as if they'd used a key or a penknife blade. She smiled.

  "How about you wait here in the car? I'm not sure I can handle you coming in there after all." She turned to face him, feeling sorry that she'd let him drive her all the way here only to be told to wait outside like the hired help.

  "Well… I was kind of hoping I could meet your mum. You know, at least it would mean that I knew a little more about you." His dark eyes glimmered and his mouth twitched. He didn't know whether to smile or to grimace. She actually admired his self-restraint – if their positions were reversed and it was Benson telling her to wait here while he conducted business, she'd be screaming at him.

  It was another reason why she should have feelings for him, and another reason why she didn't. How could such a strong man be so weak?

  She softened: "You're right. It's cold of me to even ask you to wait outside. Sorry. I'm just, well, you know. It's tough." She reached out and placed her fingers against his forearm, allowing herself to enjoy the contact. The skin of his arm prickled, as if he had gooseflesh. That was the moment she realised that he truly loved her. She was certain; there was no mistake. Benson was in love with her, and she didn't give a shit,
couldn'
t give a shit, even though she wanted nothing more than to love him back. Just a little.

  "Come on," she said, nodding. "Let's get this over with." If she had a heart, it would be breaking right now. If her bastard father had left her with even a scrap of human emotion, she would be fighting back tears.

  Instead she winked at him and opened the door.

  They got out of the car and crossed the gravelled car park, heading towards the domineering main entrance: huge wingshaped doors situated at the top of a set of wide stone steps flanked by tall fern bushes in expensive-looking pots. Sarah linked her arm through the crook of Benson's elbow, and he responded by sliding his hand over hers. For a moment there, she felt as if they were a real couple, perhaps visiting some estranged family member.

  It was a pleasant sensation, so she tried to hang on to it for as long as she could, feeling deflated as it began to fade.

  If only such fantasies could be made real. Maybe then her nightmares would recede and the darkness of her world would lighten a shade, promising daylight.

  "You OK?"

  She didn't realise that she'd stopped walking until he spoke. She looked up at him, the weak sunlight glimmering at his back, and felt that all of a sudden he represented some other world – a distant place where she could be normal. She squeezed his hand; he squeezed her back. Neither of them uttered a word. Many miles yawned between them, an unbridgeable gulf, and Sarah experienced the sensation of falling – but not into him, or towards him: she was falling down, away from everything Benson stood for.

  Benson's silhouette became something grand, a sort of representation of a strength she could never know. His buzz-cut hair, the slope of his broad shoulders, the line of his neck; he assumed in her imagination the ideal of an ancient warrior, a man more fiction that fact.

  Just for a moment: and then it was gone. He was a man again, just another man who wanted to fuck her.

  They resumed their journey, climbing the stone steps and pushing through the double doors to enter a large, airy reception area. A long wooden desk was situated along the foot of the staircase, and a rather large Chinese lady sat behind it, speaking quietly on a telephone. There were leaflets scattered artfully across the polished surface of the desk and fresh flowers stood oddly erect in a vase. A huge leather-bound guest book lay open beside the computer terminal into which the Chinese lady was staring, examining data on the small, gently flickering screen.

  "Yes, that's fine." Her voice was pure Yorkshire, which seemed incongruous when coupled with her strong Oriental features. "We'll see you then, Mr Jones. Thanks, bye." She hung up the phone, flicked her painted nails at the computer keyboard, and turned to face Sarah and Benson. Her hair was short and black. Her ears were tiny. "Good afternoon. Can I help?" The woman's smile was almost a challenge; it set fire to rather than lit up her small, round face.

  "I'm here to see my mother. My name is Sarah Doherty."

  "Ah, yes, Miss Doherty. We spoke earlier on the phone." She smiled again, this time conspiratorially.

  "Oh, that was you. OK. Yes. Well, I'm here as promised. Can I see her, or is she still having lunch? We don't mind waiting." Sarah pressed up against the desk, dropping her shoulders and placing her hands on the shiny wood. She felt tense but for some reason did not want this woman to witness it, as if to reveal that tension would be construed as a weakness.

  "I'll just check for you. One moment, please. Take a seat if you wish." She motioned with a hand towards some leather sofas by the doors, and then whisked out from behind the desk and moved swiftly and quietly towards another set of double doors, behind which she vanished from sight. Her smile seemed to remain behind, hanging in the air like that of the Cheshire cat from
Alice in Wonderland.

  Snap out of it, thought Sarah. Focus!

  "Odd woman," said Benson.

  Sarah nodded. "A real fucking weirdo, if you ask me. They all are: like little plastic dolls, afraid to show any real emotion in case the shell cracks and all the bile leaks out." She was surprised by the venom in her tone, and raised a hand to her mouth as if to block the words that were spilling from between her lips.

  Benson did not reply, but she could tell that she'd unnerved him. It seemed like she was always doing that, even when she wasn't trying –
especially
when she wasn't trying.

  "This was a bad idea. I'm sorry." She turned away from the reception desk, looking towards the main entrance. "Maybe we should go… before she comes back."

  Benson laid a hand on her arm. She looked down at it, peering as if it were an alien object that might burn her flesh. "Come on, Sarah. You wanted to ask her something, didn't you? About your father?" His grip was strong, grounding her, tethering her body to the earth in a way that she could not possibly deny. He was like a part of the landscape, and all she needed to do was bind herself to him.

  Sarah nodded. "Yes. But she probably won't be able to answer. She barely even remembers who I am. It's taken her. The Alzheimer's. There isn't that much of her left." Her eyes prickled but she refused to cry. She would not allow Benson to see her like that, not now, not ever.

  "Just try, eh? What have you got to lose, really? Ask her what you came here to ask and then we can go home and have a drink."

  Sarah sucked in a breath, held it, and then let it go. Her head felt light, as if the skull were as thin as an eggshell and held nothing within it but air. "Yeah, yeah. Fuck it. It's pointless anyway, but I might as well try."

  Footsteps sounded loudly on the polished floors, but when Sarah looked around there was nobody there; the reception area was empty. She heard movement upstairs, and in other rooms on the ground floor, but there was not a single person in view. Benson stood rigid at her side, a statue, a cold presence that had slipped between the cracks of her life.

  She felt as if the world had suddenly backed away from her, like a bystander retreating from an armed drunkard. Tiny steps, a smile, a nod: open hands raised in an attempt to calm the gibbering psycho.