Shatter (22 page)

‘Very funny,’ says Ruiz.

Alice narrows her eyes, unsure of whether to trust him.

‘Tel me about Monday afternoon,’ I say.

‘I came home and Mum wasn’t here. She didn’t leave a note. I waited for a while, but then I got hungry.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I cal ed Auntie Gloria.’

‘Who had a key to the flat?’

‘Mum and me.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No.’

Ruiz is fidgeting. ‘Did your mother ever invite men home?’

She giggles. ‘You mean boyfriends?’

‘I mean male friends.’

‘Wel , she liked Mr Pelicos, my English teacher. We cal him “the Pelican” because he has a big nose. And Eddie from the video shop comes round after work sometimes. He brings DVDs. I’m not al owed to watch them. He and Mum use the TV in her bedroom.’

Denise tries to shush her. ‘My sister was happily married. I don’t think you should be asking Alice questions like that.’

She produces another tissue from her sleeve.

The rabbit has crawled up Alice’s front and tries to burrow beneath her chin. She giggles. The smile transforms her.

‘Does he have a name?’ I ask.

‘Not yet.’

‘He must be new.’

‘Yes. I found him.’

‘Where?’

‘In a box outside our flat.’

‘When was that?’

‘On Monday.’

‘When you came home from your riding lesson?’

She nods.

‘Tel me exactly what you found.’

She sighs. ‘The door was unlocked. There was a box on the mat. Mum wasn’t home.’

‘Was there a note with the box?’

‘Just my name written on the side.’

‘Do you know who left it for you?’

Alice shakes her head.

‘Did you ever talk to anyone about wanting a rabbit?’

‘No. I thought it was from my dad. He always talks about white rabbits and Alice in Wonderland.’

‘But it wasn’t from your dad.’

A shake of the head— her ponytail sways.

‘Who else might send you a rabbit?’

She shrugs.

‘It’s real y important, Alice. Have you talked to anyone about your mum or about rabbits or Alice in Wonderland? It could be someone your mum knew or a stranger. Someone who found a reason to talk to you.’

She grows defensive. ‘How am I supposed to remember? I talk to people al the time.’

‘This is someone you
will
remember. Think hard.’

Her tea is getting cold. She strokes the rabbit’s ears, trying to make them stand upright.

‘Maybe there was somebody.’

‘Who?’

‘A man. He said he was incognito. I didn’t know what that meant.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘I was out with Mum.’

Alice talks about going to a party with Sylvia to celebrate one of her mother’s friends getting married. She was standing next to the jukebox when a man came up to her. He was wearing sunglasses. They talked about music and horses and he offered to buy her another lemonade. He quoted from Alice in Wonderland.

‘How did he know your name?’

‘I told him.’

‘Had you ever seen him before?’

‘No.’

‘Did he know your mother’s name?’

‘I don’t know. He knew where we lived.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t tel him, he just knew.’

Taking her over the story again and again, I build up layers of detail, putting sinew and flesh on the bones. I don’t want her paraphrasing or skipping sections. I need her to remember his exact words.

He was my height with thin fair hair, older than her mother, younger than me. Alice can’t remember what he was wearing and didn’t notice any tattoos or rings or distinguishing features apart from his sunglasses.

She yawns. The conversation has begun to bore her.

‘Did he talk to your mother?’ asks Ruiz.

‘No. That was the other one.’

‘The other one?’

‘The man who drove us home.’

Ruiz elicits another description, this one of a younger man, early thirties, curly hair and an earring. He was dancing with her mother and offered to take them home.

Her aunt interrupts again. ‘Is this real y necessary? Poor Alice has told the police everything.’

Alice suddenly holds her rabbit at arm’s length. There’s a wet patch on her jeans.

‘Oooh, he peed on me! How gross!’

‘You squeezed him too hard,’ says her aunt.

‘No I didn’t.’

‘You shouldn’t handle him so much.’

‘He’s
my
rabbit.’

The animal is dumped on the kitchen table. Alice wants to change her clothes. I’ve failed to instil any sense of urgency into her and she’s sick of talking. Staring at me reproachful y, she gives the impression that it’s somehow my fault— her mother’s death, the stain on her jeans, the general upheaval in her life.

Everyone deals with grief differently and Alice is hurting in places I can’t even imagine. I have spent more than twenty years studying human behaviour, treating patients and listening to their doubts and fears, but no amount of experience or knowledge of psychology wil ever al ow me to feel what someone else feels. I can witness the same tragedy or survive the same disaster, but my feelings, like hers, wil be unique and forever private.

It’s cold but not painful y so. Bare trees, savagely pruned around the power lines, are etched against a lavender sky. Ruiz shoves his hands deep in his pockets and walks away from the house. He rocks slightly on his right leg, which has never ful y recovered from an old gunshot wound.

I fal into step alongside him, struggling to keep up. Somebody sent bal et shoes to Darcy after her mother died— with no note or return address. The same person is likely to have left the rabbit for Alice. Are they cal ing cards or condolence gifts?

‘You got a fix on this guy yet?’ asks Ruiz.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’l bet you twenty quid it’s an ex-boyfriend or a lover.’

‘Of both women?’

‘Maybe he blames one of them for breaking up the relationship with the other.’

‘And you base this theory upon?’

‘My gut.’

‘Are you sure it’s not wind?’

‘We could make a wager.’

‘I’m not a betting man.’

We’ve reached the car. Ruiz leans on the door. ‘Let’s say you’re right and he targets the daughters— how does he do it? Darcy was at school. Alice was riding her horse. They weren’t in any danger.’

I don’t have an easy explanation. It requires a leap of the imagination: a tumble into darkness.

‘How does he
prove
a lie like that?’ asks Ruiz.

‘He has to know things about the daughters— not just their names and ages, but intimate details. He could have been in their houses, found reasons to meet them, watched them.’

‘Surely a mother would phone the school or the riding centre. You don’t just
believe
someone who claims to have your daughter.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. You
never
hang up. Yes, you want to check. You want to phone the police. You want to scream for help. But what you never, ever do is hang up the phone.

You
can’t
take the risk that he’s right. You don’t
want
to take that risk.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘You keep talking. You do exactly what he says. You stay on the phone and you keep asking for proof and you pray, over and over, that you’re wrong.’

Ruiz rocks back on his heels and looks at me with a kind of repulsive wonderment.

Passers-by are stepping round us on the footpath, glancing with disapproval and curiosity.

‘And this is your theory?’

‘It fits the details.’

I expected him to argue with me. I thought it would be too great a leap to contemplate someone stepping off a bridge or chaining herself to a tree on the basis of any sort of belief or rational fear.

Instead he clears his throat.

‘I once knew a man in Northern Ireland who drove a truck ful of explosives into an army barracks because the IRA was holding his wife and two children hostage. They kil ed his youngest by slitting her throat in front of him.’

‘What happened?’

‘Twelve soldiers died in the blast… so did the husband.’

‘And what about his family?’

‘The IRA let them go.’

Both of us fal silent. Some conversations don’t need a final word.

28

Charlie is in the front garden, kicking a footbal against the fence. She’s wearing her footbal boots and her old strip from the Camden Tigers.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’

The bal cannons harder off the wal . Thump. Thump. Thump.

‘You practicing for the big trial?’ I ask.

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’

She catches the bal in two hands and looks at me now, giving me her mother’s stare.

‘Because the trial was today and you were supposed to take me, so I’ve missed it. Thanks a lot, Dad. Special effort.’

She drops the bal and vol eys it so hard it almost takes off my head as it ricochets past me.

‘I’l make it up to you,’ I say, trying to apologise. ‘I’l talk to the coach. They’l give you another trial.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want any favours,’ she says. Could she be any more like her mother?

Julianne is in the kitchen. A towel is wrapped like a turban over her freshly washed hair. It makes her walk with rol ing hips like an African woman carrying a clay pot on her head.

‘I’ve upset Charlie.’

‘Yes.’

‘You should have cal ed.’

‘I tried. Your phone was turned off.’

‘Why couldn’t you take her?’

She snaps: ‘Because I had to interview nannies— because you didn’t find one.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise to
me
.’ She glances out the window to Charlie. ‘And by the way— I don’t think it’s just about the footbal trial.’

‘What do you mean?’

She chooses her words careful y. ‘You and Charlie are always doing things together, running errands, going for walks, but ever since Darcy arrived you’ve been too busy. I think she may be a little jealous.’

‘Of Darcy?’

‘She thinks you’ve forgotten her.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘She’s also having a few problems at school. There’s a boy who keeps picking on her.’

‘She’s being bul ied?’

‘I don’t know if it’s that serious.’

‘We should talk to the school.’

‘She wants to try to sort it out herself.’

‘How?’

‘In her own way.’

I can stil hear the footbal being kicked against the wal . I hate the idea that Charlie feels neglected. And I hate even more that Julianne has learned these things while I missed them. I’m at home al the time. I’m the go-to parent, the primary carer, and I haven’t been paying attention.

Julianne unwraps the towel, letting wet curls tumble over her face. She pats them dry between her palms and the soft weave of the fabric.

‘I had a phone cal from Darcy’s aunt,’ she says. ‘She’s flying from Spain for the funeral.’

‘That’s good.’

‘She wants to take Darcy back to Spain with her.’

‘What does Darcy say?’

‘She doesn’t know. Her aunt wants to tel her face-to-face.’

‘She won’t be happy.’

Julianne arches an eyebrow tel ingly. ‘That’s not our responsibility.’

‘You treat Darcy like she’s done something wrong,’ I say.

‘And you treat her like she’s your daughter.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Explain fairness to Charlie.’

‘You can be a real bitch sometimes.’

The statement is laden with more anger and import than either of us expect. A hurt helplessness floods Julianne’s eyes but she refuses to let me witness her unhappiness. She takes her towel and her tenderness, carrying both upstairs. I listen to her footsteps on the stairs and tel myself she’s being unreasonable. She’l understand eventual y.

Raising a knuckle, I tap gently on the door of the guestroom.

After what seems an age the door opens. Darcy is barefoot in three-quarter length leggings and a T-shirt. Her hair is out and over her shoulders.

Without looking at me, she goes back to the bed and sits on the mussed sheets with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. The curtains are closed and shadows gather in the corners of the room.

For the first time I notice her feet. Her toes are misshapen and covered in cal uses, blisters and raw skin. The littlest toe is curled under the others as if hiding and the biggest is bloated with a discoloured nail.

‘They’re ugly,’ she says, covering her feet with a pil ow.

‘What happened to them?’

‘I’m a dancer, remember? One of my old bal et teachers used to say that pointe shoes were the last instruments of torture that were stil legal.’

Moving a magazine, I take a seat on a corner of the bed. There’s nowhere else to sit.

‘I wanted to talk about pointe shoes,’ I say.

She laughs. ‘You’re a bit old for bal et.’

‘The package that was left for you at school— tel me about it.’ She describes a shoebox wrapped in brown paper with no note, just her name written in capital letters.

‘Other than your mum, is there anyone else who would have sent you a gift like that?’

She shakes her head.

‘This is very important, Darcy. I need you to think back over the past few weeks. Did you talk to or meet anyone new? Was there anyone who asked questions about your mother?’

‘I was at school.’

‘OK, but you must have had weekends. Did you go shopping? Did you leave the school for anything?’

‘I went to London for the auditions.’

‘Did you talk to anyone?’

‘The teachers and other dancers…’

‘What about on the train?’

Her mouth opens and closes. Her forehead creases.

‘There was this one guy… he sat down opposite me.’

‘And you talked to him?’

‘Not right away.’ She pushes her fringe back behind her ears. ‘He seemed to fal asleep. I went to the buffet car and when I came back he asked me if I was a dancer. He said he could tel from the way I walked— splayfooted, you know. It seemed weird that he knew so much about bal et.’

‘What did he look like?’

She shrugs. ‘Ordinary.’

‘How old?’

‘Not as old as you. He wore sunglasses, like Bono. I think he was a bit of a try-hard.’