The Immaculate (41 page)

Jack wasn't sure he'd heard right. “Did you say Sydney? Sydney, Australia?”

“Yes. She and her boyfriend have emigrated there.”

“You're joking!”

“No. He got offered a really good job, so she went with him.”

“Bloody hell, I don't believe this.”

“I know,” said Liz cheerfully. “Jammy what-not. All that lovely sunshine. Listen, Jack, we're a bit upside down just now with Tamsin redistributing her workload, but if there's anything I can help you with . . .”

“Er . . . no. It's Tamsin I have to speak to. Could you give me her address and phone number?”

“I can give you an address, but I don't have a phone number for her. Hang on a minute.”

Jack wrote down the address and thanked her. That afternoon he wrote Tamsin a letter, and then, over the course of the next few months, three more.

She never wrote back.

These things have a way of sealing themselves, he thought, of covering their tracks, of blocking every available exit. He supposed that was the way it had to be, the only way that equilibrium could be maintained. And yet that didn't stop him from trying to find answers, hunting for the keys to unlock the succession of doors that had been slammed in his face. As soon as he felt well enough, he got on the tube and travelled from Archway to Seven Sisters. He felt exhausted when he reached the building where Gail had had her flat, as if he'd run a marathon, but the sight of the building excited him. It looked exactly as he remembered it. He trudged up the stairs, heart crashing with fatigue and expectation, and knocked on the so-familiar door. He waited, and at the sound of approaching footsteps a pulse began to thump quickly at the base of his throat, his tongue seemed to shrivel and curl like old leather.

The door opened.

A girl stood there—young, dark-haired, attractive.

But it wasn't Gail.

She smiled at Jack, though there was caution in her eyes. She kept the door three-quarters closed, shielding her body, prepared to slam it in his face if need be.

“Hello?” she said.

“Oh . . . er . . . hi. I was looking for Gail Reeves.” (Jack had found out from his Aunt Georgina that Reeves had been his great grandmother's maiden name.) “I thought she lived here.”

The girl shrugged and smiled apologetically. She still looked cautious. She pushed the door a little further closed. “ 'Fraid not. Sorry.”

Jack had to resist an urge to thrust out an arm to stop the door from closing fully. Hoping he didn't sound and look as desperate as he felt, he said, “Do you know if she
used
to live here?”

The girl shrugged again, evidently eager to end this conversation. “I've no idea. I don't think so. As far as I know, I'm the first owner.”

“How long have
you
lived here?” Jack asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The girl frowned. Caution was turning rapidly to suspicion. “I don't really think that's any business of yours.”

“Is it longer than four months?”

“I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you. Good-bye.”

The door closed in his face. Jack raised a furious fist, intending to pound on it until the girl opened up again. His hand hovered for a moment, knuckles turning white, and then fell limply, defeatedly, to his side. His stomach roiled, his chest felt tight, frustration squeezed his throat with cruel fingers. He turned and stumbled downstairs, sure he was about to be sick. However, as soon as he was out of the building and felt the air on his face, the feeling subsided.

He wondered whether to write the girl in the flat a letter, explain everything, but he never did. For a long time afterwards he felt a frequent urge to return to the flat, to stand on the opposite side of the road and look up at the lighted window in the desperate hope of seeing Gail pass across it. He knew what the implications of such an urge could lead to and so managed, not without a struggle, to resist. Soon after this he had a nervous breakdown, the effects of which lasted for almost four months, and returned to the hospital.

It was because of this that the release of
Splinter Kiss
in paperback was postponed from the spring to the summer.

He had returned to Beckford only once, in March, vowing it would be the last visit he would ever make there. Frank Dawson had driven him down, unannounced. He had paid a call on his Aunt Georgina, who had been so astonished and delighted to see him that she had uncharacteristically burst into tears. Knowing that his aunt had kept things ticking over with David Rookham, Jack had been to fetch his car and then had told Frank that he would be okay from there, that his friend should return to London. Frank had been reluctant, but Jack had insisted. “Okay,” Frank said at last, “but you take care. Don't do anything daft.” Jack assured him he wouldn't. He watched Frank drive away, then got into his Mini Cooper and drove to the church, parking outside its black iron gates.

It had been a cold windy day, the sky alternating between dark clouds and pale sunshine. Jack had pushed open the creaking black gate and turned left to walk along the path between the tombstones. The earliest of the stones, now so weathered and discoloured that they seemed a natural part of the landscape, dated from the 1860s. In contrast to this were black marble monuments, meticulously maintained, or grey-white stones so clean and new they seemed unreal.

Jack halted by his father's grave and looked down at it, suddenly wishing he'd thought to bring flowers. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “I just came to say good-bye properly. I won't be coming back again.”

He looked round as if to ensure no one had heard him. Tall grasses waved in the breeze; a tree rustled its leaves and Jack shivered, tugging the collar of his jacket up around his face. He strolled on along a path falling prey to weeds, allowing his instincts to lead him. It was an eerie sensation, like unearthing a route revealed in a dream, or a sustained and acute feeling of deja vu. He was almost surprised when he came to a halt before a stone half-concealed by undergrowth. He parted the damp grass and the dandelions to reveal carved letters clogged with moss and dirt. He stamped on the grass around the stone to flatten it, then crouched down and began gouging out the moss, revealing the message.

It was as he had expected, though he nevertheless began to shudder even more violently, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped like a stone. He heard whispering behind him, then he actually felt a shadow pass over his back like a blanket before it crawled up the stone, darkening its message. Startled, he spun round . . . but the shadow was simply a dark cloud bruising the sky, the whispering merely the sound of wind in the thin dry grass. He turned back to the stone, heart hammering. Where the moss had been, the stone was pale, like flesh. He murmured the inscribed words to himself, giving voice to the epitaph.

“In loving memory of Alice Stone. Born fifteenth July nineteen thirty-eight. Died tenth October nineteen seventy. And . . . and Gail Stone. Born and died tenth October nineteen seventy.” His voice faltered, became a fractured whisper. “Mother and daughter, at peace together. Loved and missed forever, never forgotten.”

His eyes blurred with tears. He swiped them away with his sleeve, sniffed, cleared his throat. He reached out with both hands to touch the stone, as if to ensure it was solid. He remained in that position for perhaps a minute, then he expelled a huge sigh and stood up, brushing grass seeds from the legs of his jeans. Abruptly, he turned and walked away, resisting the urge—even at the gate—to look back. He got into his car, started the engine and drove off. Less than four hours later he was back in London.

As the train slowed on its approach to Leicester Square, Jack stuffed the letter back into his pocket and stood up. He eased himself through the crush of hot damp bodies to get to the doors, grimacing at the reek of stale flesh comingled with various aftershaves and perfumes. Staring out at the rushing walls of the tunnel, he surreptitiously slipped two fingers between the buttons of his shirt and fingered the tender spot on his stomach, which was an angry crisscrossing mass of scar tissue. Touching his healing wounds reassured him in an odd way, for it seemed to parallel his inner wounds, to indicate that they too were healing.

The train hurtled into brightness and clamour, its brakes screeching. A sea of faces, most of them blurs, impressions, flowed by, becoming more distinct as the train dwindled to a halt. The doors opened and Jack tumbled out onto the platform, barely managing to keep his balance. Somewhere, underlying the din of the busy station, he heard the haunting primal sound of a didgeridoo. He began to walk, passing a large poster on the wall advertising the paperback release of
Splinter Kiss
with barely a glance. Raising his head to sniff the faint draught of cool air from above, he headed toward the light.