The Casual Vacancy (54 page)

“About you,” said Shirley.

They did very little plain speaking, she and Howard. She had always liked that. But today she was driven to it.

“About you,” she repeated, “and Maureen. It says you’ve been — having an affair.”

His big hand slid up over his face and he rubbed his eyes. He rubbed them longer, she was convinced, than he needed.

“What?” he said, his face shielded.

“You and Maureen, having an affair.”

“Where’s he get that from?”

No denial, no outrage, no scathing laughter. Merely a cautious request for a source.

Ever afterwards, Shirley would remember this moment as a death; a life truly ended.

VII

“Fuckin’ shurrup, Robbie! Shurrup!”

Krystal had dragged Robbie to a bus stop several streets away, so that neither Obbo nor Terri could find them. She was not sure she had enough money for the fare, but she was determined to get to Pagford. Nana Cath was gone, Mr. Fairbrother was gone, but Fats Wall was there, and she needed to make a baby.

“Why wuz ’e in the room with yeh?” Krystal shouted at Robbie, who grizzled and did not answer.

There was only a tiny amount of battery power left on Terri’s mobile phone. Krystal called Fats’ number, but it went to voice mail.

In Church Row, Fats was busy eating toast and listening to his parents having one of their familiar, bizarre conversations in the study across the hall. It was a welcome distraction from his own thoughts. The mobile in his pocket vibrated but he did not answer it. There was nobody he wanted to talk to. It would not be Andrew. Not after last night.

“Colin, you know what you’re supposed to do,” his mother was saying. She sounded exhausted. “Please, Colin —”

“We had dinner with them on Saturday night. The night before he died. I cooked. What if —”

“Colin,
you didn’t put anything in the food —
for God’s sake, now I’m doing it — I’m not supposed to do this, Colin, you know I’m not supposed to get into it. This is your OCD talking.”

“But I might’ve, Tess, I suddenly thought, what if I put something —”

“Then why are we alive, you, me and Mary? They did a post-mortem, Colin!”

“Nobody told us the details. Mary never told us. I think that’s why she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. She suspects.”

“Colin, for Christ’s sake —”

Tessa’s voice became an urgent whisper, too quiet to hear. Fats’ mobile vibrated again. He pulled it out of his pocket. Krystal’s number. He answered.

“Hiya,” said Krystal, over what sounded like a kid shouting. “D’you wanna meet up?”

“Dunno,” yawned Fats. He had been intending to go to bed.

“I’m comin’ into Pagford on the bus. We could hook up.”

Last night he had pressed Gaia Bawden into the railings outside the town hall, until she had pulled away from him and thrown up. Then she had started to berate him again, so he had left her there and walked home.

“I dunno,” he said. He felt so tired, so miserable.

“Go on,” she said.

From the study, he heard Colin. “You say that, but would it show up? What if I —”

“Colin, we shouldn’t be going into this — you’re not supposed to take these ideas seriously.”

“How can you say that to me? How can I not take it seriously? If I’m responsible —”

“Yeah, all right,” said Fats to Krystal. “I’ll meet you in twenty, front of the pub in the Square.”

VIII

Samantha was driven from the spare room at last by her urgent need to pee. She drank cold water from the tap in the bathroom until she felt sick, gulped down two paracetamol from the cabinet over the sink, then took a shower.

She dressed without looking at herself in the mirror. Through everything she did, she was alert for some noise that would indicate the whereabouts of Miles, but the house seemed to be silent. Perhaps, she thought, he had taken Lexie out somewhere, away from her drunken, lecherous, cradle-snatching mother…

(“He was in Lexie’s class at school!” Miles had spat at her, once they were alone in their bedroom. She had waited for him to move away from the door, then wrenched it back open and run to the spare room.)

Nausea and mortification came over her in waves. She wished she could forget, that she had blacked out, but she could still see the boy’s face as she launched herself at him…she could remember the feel of his body pressed against her, so skinny, so young…

If it had been Vikram Jawanda, there might have been some dignity in it…She had to get coffee. She could not stay in the bathroom forever. But as she turned to open the door, she saw herself in the mirror, and her courage almost failed. Her face was puffy, her eyes hooded, the lines in her face etched more deeply by pressure and dehydration.

Oh God, what must he have thought of me…

Miles was sitting in the kitchen when she entered. She did not look at him, but crossed straight to the cupboard where the coffee was. Before she had touched the handle, he said, “I’ve got some here.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, and poured herself out a mug, avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve sent Lexie over to Mum and Dad’s,” said Miles. “We need to talk.”

Samantha sat down at the kitchen table.

“Go on, then,” she said.

“Go on — is that all you can say?”

“You’re the one who wants to talk.”

“Last night,” said Miles, “at my father’s birthday party, I came to look for you, and I found you snogging a sixteen-year —”

“Sixteen-year-old, yes,” said Samantha. “Legal. One good thing.”

He stared at her, appalled.

“You think this is funny? If you’d found me so drunk that I didn’t even realize —”

“I did realize,” said Samantha.

She refused to be Shirley, to cover everything up with a frilly little tablecloth of polite fiction. She wanted to be honest, and she wanted to penetrate that thick coating of complacency through which she no longer recognized a young man she had loved.

“You did realize — what?” said Miles.

He had so plainly expected embarrassment and contrition that she almost laughed.

“I did realize that I was kissing him,” she said.

He stared at her, and her courage seeped away, because she knew what he was going to say next.

“And if Lexie had walked in?”

Samantha had no answer to that. The thought of Lexie knowing what had happened made her want to run away and not come back — and what if the boy told her? They had been at school together. She had forgotten what Pagford was like…

“What the hell’s going on with you?” asked Miles.

“I’m…unhappy,” said Samantha.

“Why?” asked Miles, but then he added quickly, “Is it the shop? Is it that?”

“A bit,” said Samantha. “But I hate living in Pagford. I hate living on top of your parents. And sometimes,” she said slowly, “I hate waking up next to you.”

She thought he might get angry, but instead he asked, quite calmly, “Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?”

“I don’t know,” said Samantha.

He seemed thinner in his open-necked shirt. For the first time in a long while, she thought she glimpsed somebody familiar and vulnerable inside the aging body across the table.
And he still wants me,
she thought, with wonder, recalling the crumpled face in the mirror upstairs.

“But I was glad,” she added, “The night that Barry Fairbrother died, that you were still alive. I think I dreamed you weren’t, and I woke up, and I know I was happy when I heard you breathing.”

“And that’s — that’s all you’ve got to say to me, is it? You’re glad I’m not dead?”

She had been wrong to think that he was not angry. He had simply been in shock.

“
That’s all you’ve got to say to me?
You get absolutely ratted at my father’s birthday —”

“Would it have been better if it hadn’t been your bloody father’s party?” she shouted, his anger igniting hers. “Was that the real problem, that I showed you up in front of Mummy and Daddy?”

“You were kissing a
sixteen-year-old boy
—”

“Maybe he’ll be the first of many!” yelled Samantha, getting up from the table and slamming her mug down in the sink; the handle came off in her hand. “Don’t you get it, Miles? I’ve had enough! I hate our fucking life and I hate your fucking parents —”

“— you don’t mind them paying for the girls’ education —”

“— I hate you turning into your father in front of me —”

“— absolute bollocks, you just don’t like me being happy when you’re not —”

“— whereas my darling husband doesn’t give a shit how I feel —”

“— plenty for you to do round here, but you’d rather sit at home and sulk —”

“— I don’t intend to sit at home anymore, Miles —”

“— not going to apologize for getting involved with the community —”

“— well, I meant what I said —
you’re not fit to fill his shoes!
”

“What?” he said, and his chair fell over as he jumped to his feet, while Samantha strode to the kitchen door.

“You heard me,” she shouted. “Like my letter said, Miles, you’re not fit to fill Barry Fairbrother’s shoes. He was sincere.”

“
Your
letter?” he said.

“Yep,” she said breathlessly, with her hand on the doorknob. “
I
sent that letter. Too much to drink one evening, while you were on the phone to your mother. And,” she pulled the door open, “I didn’t vote for you either.”

The look on his face unnerved her. Out in the hall, she slipped on clogs, the first pair of shoes she could find, and was through the front door before he could catch up.

IX

The journey took Krystal back to her childhood. She had made this trip daily to St. Thomas’s, all on her own, on the bus. She knew when the abbey would come into sight, and she pointed it out to Robbie.

“See the big ruin’ castle?”

Robbie was hungry, but slightly distracted by the excitement of being on a bus. Krystal held his hand tightly. She had promised him food when they got off at the other end, but she did not know where she would get it. Perhaps she could borrow money from Fats for a bag of crisps, not to mention the return bus fare.

“I wen’ ter school ’ere,” she told Robbie, while he wiped his fingers on the dirty windows, making abstract patterns. “An’ you’ll go to school ’ere too.”

When they rehoused her, because of her pregnancy, they were almost certain to give her another Fields house; nobody wanted to buy them, they were so run down. But Krystal saw this as a good thing, because in spite of their dilapidation it would put Robbie and the baby in the catchment area for St. Thomas’s. Anyway, Fats’ parents would almost certainly give her enough money for a washing machine once she had their grandchild. They might even get a television.

The bus rolled down a slope toward Pagford, and Krystal caught a glimpse of the glittering river, briefly visible before the road sank too low. She had been disappointed, when she joined the rowing team, that they did not train on the Orr, but on the dirty old canal in Yarvil.

“’Ere we are,” Krystal told Robbie, as the bus turned slowly into the flower-decked square.

Fats had forgotten that waiting in front of the Black Canon meant standing opposite Mollison and Lowe’s and the Copper Kettle. There was more than an hour to go until midday, when the café opened on Sundays, but Fats did not know how early Andrew had to arrive for work. He had no desire to see his oldest friend this morning, so he skulked down the side of the pub out of sight, and only emerged when the bus arrived.

It pulled away, revealing Krystal and a small dirty-looking boy.

Nonplussed, Fats loped towards them.

“’E’s my brother,” said Krystal aggressively, in response to something she had seen in Fats’ face.

Fats made another mental adjustment to what gritty and authentic life meant. He had been fleetingly taken with the idea of knocking Krystal up (and showing Cubby what real men were able to achieve casually, without effort) but this little boy clinging to his sister’s hand and leg disconcerted him.

Fats wished that he had not agreed to meet her. She was making him ridiculous. He would rather have gone back to that stinking, squalid house of hers, now that he saw her in the Square.

“’Ave yeh got any money?” Krystal demanded.

“What?” said Fats. His wits were slow with tiredness. He could not remember now why he had wanted to sit up all night; his tongue was throbbing with all the cigarettes he had smoked.

“Money,” repeated Krystal. “’E’s ’ungry an’ I’ve lost a fiver. Pay yeh back.”

Fats stuck a hand in his jeans pocket and touched a crumpled banknote. Somehow he did not want to look too flush in front of Krystal, so he ferreted deeper for change, and finally came up with a small amount of silver and coppers.

They went to the tiny newsagent’s two streets from the Square, and Fats hung around outside while Krystal bought Robbie crisps and a packet of Rolos. None of them said a word, not even Robbie, who seemed fearful of Fats. At last, when Krystal had handed her brother the crisps, she said to Fats, “Where’ll we go?”

Surely, he thought, she could not mean that they were going to shag. Not with the boy there. He had had some idea of taking her to the Cubby Hole: it was private, and it would be a final desecration of his and Andrew’s friendship; he owed nothing to anyone, anymore. But he balked at the idea of fucking in front of a three-year-old.

“’E’ll be all right,” said Krystal. “’E’s got chocolates now. No, later,” she said to Robbie, who was whining for the Rolos still in her hand. “When you’ve ’ad the crisps.”

They walked off down the road in the direction of the old stone bridge.

“’E’ll be all right,” Krystal repeated. “’E does as ’e’s told. Dontcha?” she said loudly to Robbie.

“Wan’ chocolates,” he said.

“Yeah, in a minute.”

She could tell that Fats needed cajoling today. She had known, on the bus, that bringing Robbie, however necessary, would be difficult.

“Whatcha bin up ter?” she asked.

“Party last night,” said Fats.

“Yeah? Who wuz there?”

He yawned widely, and she had to wait for an answer.

“Arf Price. Sukhvinder Jawanda. Gaia Bawden.”

“Does she live in Pagford?” asked Krystal sharply.