I Found You (17 page)

He’s still staring into the distance. ‘That house,’ he says, ‘there.’ He points at the grand house on the
furthest tip of the cliff, the one with the yew trees and the flat roof. ‘Whose house is that?’

He’s heavy against her side; she’s supporting a lot of his weight. ‘The big one? At the end?’

‘That one.’ He points again.

‘I don’t know who lives there now, but Derry said a famous novelist used to. A long time ago.’

He shakes his head, as though he thinks she’s wrong.

‘There’s a peacock,’ he says.

Alice smiles. ‘Well, yes, there might well be, I suppose.’

He turns and looks at her. His skin is clammy and the milky moon casts a ghostly light over him. ‘No. There is. I remember it. And I think . . .’ He brings both hands up to his mouth, begins vaguely gnawing at his knuckles. When he looks at her again his eyes are full of tears. ‘When we were eating dinner – I think I hurt someone, Alice. I think I might even have killed someone.’

She can feel his entire body trembling against hers.

‘I can’t take this any more, Alice. I really can’t. And that house.’ He glances up again, fearfully. ‘I know that house. I know that house more than I know anything. I think I used to live there.’

1993

They didn’t see Mark for three days after his angry exit from their cottage on Thursday morning. Gray’s family remained slightly on edge as they carried on about their lives. Mark had proved he had a knack for knowing where they’d be and when and for appearing silently from the wings. The house on the cliff stood white and alert, the eerie call of peacocks occasionally being blown down the coast to the beach. But there was no sign of him.

‘Maybe he went back to Harrogate?’ suggested Tony as they sat in their usual spot on the beach on Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t quite beach weather; the sand was still damp from the rain that had fallen that morning, but the sun was drying it out fast and the beach was slowly filling up.

‘I reckon,’ said Mum. ‘No reason for him to stay here really if the girl he liked isn’t interested.’

‘He was probably embarrassed, too,’ said Tony.

Gray gazed up at the house and shook his head slightly. ‘I reckon he’s there,’ he said. ‘Planning his next move.’

‘Don’t,’ said Kirsty. ‘You’re scaring me.’ She turned to glance at the beach café behind them. She’d been doing that every few minutes.

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Gray said to her. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘I feel bad,’ she said.

‘Bad?’

‘Yeah. I feel like I led him on.’

‘Oh, come on, you did not lead him on. He virtually stalked you!’

‘I know.’ She plucked at the frayed tassel on her handbag. ‘But, you know, he paid for me to go to the cinema. And . . .’ She shrugged.

‘And what?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe I let him think I was really into him.’

‘Did you?’

‘I don’t know. A bit, I guess. And I was, at first.’

‘Kirsty, that’s what happens,’ said Mum. ‘You meet someone, you feel an attraction, then you spend some time with them and sometimes you realise that the attraction is only skin-deep. So you move on.’

Kirsty looked up at them with wide eyes. ‘He told me he loved me,’ she said.

Gray groaned. ‘What a loser.’

‘And . . . I told him I loved him, too.’

Gray groaned again. ‘Oh my God, Kirst. Tell me you didn’t.’

She nodded miserably. ‘I didn’t know what to do. He said it and then he looked at me like he wanted me to say it back. So I did.’

‘Jesus. When was this?’

‘On the beach,’ she said. ‘After the fairground.’

‘You total moron,’ said Gray.

Kirsty whacked him. ‘It was my first kiss,’ she said angrily. ‘How was I supposed to know what to do?’

‘I would say that
not lying
is something you’ve known how to do for most of your life.’

She dropped her gaze to the ground. ‘I didn’t want to hurt his feelings,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed.’

‘Well,’ said Mum, drawing things to a close. ‘It’s over now. He’s got the message. He’s gone. And Kirsty’s learned a valuable lesson. Let’s all just try and relax and enjoy the last few days of our holiday. OK?’

Kirsty threw Gray a tragic look and Gray shook his head disappointedly.

From the end of the bay came another plaintive call of a peacock.

That evening they went to the pub for dinner. It was an old smugglers’ inn, just around the bay where colourful fishing boats lay upturned on the shingles and narrow lamp-lit alleyways twisted uphill between the houses. On Sunday nights they always had live music: not the slightly shabby tribute acts in shiny shirts that played in the pubs in town, but quality stuff – a flamenco guitarist, a jazz pianist or a light-opera singer. Tonight’s performer was a young girl called Izzy, singing her own songs, while another young girl accompanied her on the piano.

Their table was right by the stage, and Gray was close enough to see the pins holding Izzy’s blonde hair in a bun, the slight smudge of eyeliner beneath her right eye, the scuff on the toe of her ballet pump. Close enough for it to feel as though Izzy was singing for him alone. Gray was mesmerised by her. She couldn’t have been much older than him, yet she was so poised and so talented. He’d left his steak virtually untouched, too embarrassed to chew food in front of this goddess.

‘Thank you all so much,’ Izzy said into her microphone. ‘Harrie and I are going to take a little break now. But we’ll be back with some more music soon. In the meantime . . .’ She leaned down briefly to pick up a small jar, affording Gray a quick glimpse down her evening dress at her virtually flat chest. ‘. . . if you’ve enjoyed our music, we’d be so grateful for any spare change. Or
even some not-so-spare change.’ The audience laughed and Izzy and Harrie stepped off the podium.

‘Here,’ Gray called her over.

He pointed at the jar and she smiled and said, ‘Thank you so much,’ as he posted a five-pound note into the jar.

‘You’re brilliant,’ he said.

‘Gosh. Wow!
Thank
you,’ and then she was gone and Gray’s family were all staring at him in astonishment.

‘Five pounds?’ said his dad.

Gray’s face flushed scarlet. ‘Yeah. Well, she’s really talented. You know.’

‘Yeah,’ said Dad, rubbing his chin. ‘Very talented.’ He chuckled. ‘Now eat your dinner.’

Gray worked his way through his steak without really tasting it. He was exquisitely aware of Izzy’s presence in the small room, her husky, chalet-girl voice somewhere behind him saying, ‘Thank you so much. You’re so kind. Thank you.’

After a few moments he dared to turn round and saw her standing at the bar drinking a half-pint of lager with her pianist friend and two young men. One of whom, he realised with a sickening jolt, was Mark.

‘Oh Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t actually believe it.’

His family turned and looked and then all snapped their heads back to the front.

‘He’s like a bloody virus, that boy,’ said Tony.

Kirsty’s face was bright pink.

‘You OK, love?’ said Mum, squeezing her arm. ‘Want me to take you home?’

‘You know what,’ said Tony, ‘it’s getting on. Why don’t we all go home?’

‘No!’ said Gray. ‘I haven’t finished my dinner!’

His dad looked at him in surprise. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘surely it’s stone cold by now?’

‘It’s fine,’ he mumbled. ‘You go. I’ll stay and finish it. Honestly. I’ll meet you back at the house.’

‘You’re not going to do anything, are you?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Do anything?’

‘You know, say anything. To Mark.’

‘You’re kidding, right? I just want to finish my dinner. Maybe listen to some more music. Have another drink.’

‘Promise?’

He rolled his eyes at her and sighed. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be home soon.’

He watched his father at the bar, settling their bill. He saw him make brief eye contact with Mark, a subtle raised brow, nod of the head. Then they left, Mark’s eyes following Kirsty across the room and out of the door before turning back to his friends and laughing loudly, aggravatingly.

Gray slowly finished his meal. He could feel Mark’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. He reached
across the table for the dregs of the lager his father had left behind. He drank it fast. Then he drank the dregs of his mum’s gin and tonic. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Nothing left in there after giving five pounds to the singer. He felt his pockets for coins and wondered what he could get for £1.20.

Slowly, he stood and headed for the bar. There was a sea of heads between him and Mark, but he could hear him from here: the shrill self-consciousness of him; the girls laughing loudly at his every utterance. This was a scenario that made sense to Gray. A posh, handsome guy hooting and snorting in a bohemian pub with his posh, pretty friends. This made more sense than Mark stalking his gauche baby sister.

‘I’ve got one pound twenty,’ he said to the barmaid. ‘What can I get for that?’

She frowned and shrugged. ‘Pint of bitter is one nineteen. Pint of lager is one twenty-nine.’

He searched his pockets again for any loose change. He pulled out three pence and sighed. ‘Pint of bitter please.’

As he spoke something skimmed past him and landed on the bar. He looked down at it. A ten-pence piece. He turned to his right. Mark smirked at him.

He ignored the coin and shook his head at the barmaid who was looking at it questioningly. ‘Bitter. Please.’ He smiled tightly.

He glanced back at Mark as he waited for the pint to be poured. Mark gestured at him. He toyed with the idea of ignoring the overture, but the prospect of having a legitimate excuse to talk to Izzy was too strong to resist. He took his pint and the ten-pence piece and walked towards them, his heart pounding.

‘Here,’ he said, passing the coin over. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Graham,’ said Mark, clasping a hand on to his shoulder and squeezing it a little too hard. ‘Good to see you.’

‘It’s Gray. Not Graham.’

‘Yes. I keep forgetting. Let me introduce you.’ He finally let go of Gray’s shoulder, leaving an imprint of his fingers in his flesh. ‘This is Alex, a friend of mine from Harrogate, and this is Harrie, his sister. And this, as you know, is the remarkably talented Isabel McAlpine. Also from Harrogate. And Alex and Harrie’s cousin. This is Gray. He’s a guy I met on the beach last week.’

They all laughed, revealing banks of perfect teeth. ‘Oh, Mark,’ said Izzy, ‘you are such an eccentric. Nice to meet you, Gray.’ She gave him a warm, limp hand to shake. ‘Listen, we’re due back on stage. But Mark’s having some people back to his aunt’s place later – you should come.’

‘Yeah!’ said Mark, over-brightly. ‘You should. And bring your sister.’

‘She’s only fifteen,’ Gray said.

‘That’s OK.’ Izzy laughed. ‘We won’t eat her!’

It’s not you I’m worried about
, Gray wanted to say.

He looked at Izzy, who was regarding him encouragingly from under her eyelashes, and he said, ‘What time?’

‘We’ll go straight from here,’ said Mark. ‘Ten-ish? Why don’t you stay? We can all walk up together.’

‘I’ll need to let my parents know.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Mark. ‘We can knock on your door on the way past, see if Kirsty wants to join us, too.’

‘She won’t want to,’ he said, ‘I can assure you of that.’

Then he looked at Izzy, who was smiling at him. She winked and Gray’s pulse quickened. She was pretty much the best-looking girl he’d ever spoken to. Not only that but she was talented and sexy, too. And she was winking at him. The party he’d really wanted to go to at home had been and gone. His little sister had kissed someone before he had. And the bitter was clouding his judgement because he found himself nodding and saying, ‘Yeah, all right then.’

‘Oh,
great
.’ Izzy touched his arm lightly with her delicate fingers. ‘I’ll see you after.’ She turned to head back to the stage but then stopped and turned. ‘Oh, and thank you so much for being so kind earlier. I saw what happened at the bar just now. I really appreciate your generosity.’ She smiled and he knew that it was a smile of promise and of hope.

‘You earned it,’ he said, and then flushed as he realised how crass that sounded. ‘I mean . . .’ But she’d gone.

‘Right,’ said Mark, clapping his hands together. ‘Tequila?’

His friend Alex made a strange braying sound and they high-fived each other.

Gray turned to face the stage, his eyes fixed on the cool blonde singing her beautiful songs, trying not to think too much about what he was about to do.

Sunday is here. Lily wants Sunday gone so that it can be Monday, so that she can talk to the policewoman and the key-cutter and the people at Carl’s office. All she can do today is try this number. The phone belonging to Carl’s mother rings and rings and rings. There is no answerphone to break up the agonising incessancy of it. It just keeps on ringing until it runs out of rings and then the line clicks off scornfully, as if it’s saying:
For Christ’s sake, there’s no one here, can’t you take a hint?

As Lily sits with the phone cradled beneath her chin pressing redial, redial, redial, she builds up a mental image of the woman who is not answering her phone. She has dark hair, like Carl, and his sharp cheekbones; she looks young for her age, is wearing
maybe a silky blouse and tailored trousers. Again, she wonders, why does she not know what her husband’s mother looks like? Why did she never ask? Why are there no photographs in this flat? Who is this man she married? What is she doing here?

After an hour of sitting cross-legged on the bed calling Carl’s mother, Lily begins to feel a rage building deep within her. It comes from the same place that her tears come from: the soft pit of her belly. She hurls the phone across the room and watches as it hits the wall and splits in two, expelling a piece of plastic that rolls deep under the divan bed. She growls in frustration and gets to her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the narrow gap between the thick new carpet and the underside of the bed. She can’t locate it so she pushes the divan across the carpet until it reveals itself. There’s the piece of plastic. And there’s something else. It’s one of Carl’s smart little silk knot cufflinks, bottle-green and claret. She holds it in the palm of her hand and stares at it. She sees him standing there, as he does every morning, pulling down the cuffs of his immaculate business shirts, popping the knots through the buttonholes, smiling down at her. And she remembers how she used to feel: so proud of this handsome, grown-up man with his serious shirts.