The Pull of the Moon (26 page)

As they disappeared out of the gate, Simon came out of the drawing room.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘They’ve gone.’

We stared at one another – for a moment I thought Simon was going to say something, but then he hesitated as if he had thought better of it.

‘What were they talking about?’ I asked.

Simon shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. ‘They’ve found a screwdriver – a small one that belonged to me – in Rachel Hewitt’s
room in Halls. You’d think they’d have found it straight away – they must have searched her room when they first found her – but apparently one of the contractors found it,
when they moved her desk to paint behind it – they’re redoing her room during the long vac. They moved the desk and the screwdriver had dropped behind it. It might not have been hidden
– it may just have fallen down there by accident and be nothing to do with the murder at all.’

‘But how did they know it was yours?’

‘They didn’t – until today. I’d put my initials on it in marker pen – I did it with a lot of my stuff, to try and stop people pinching things.’ He gave an
ironic laugh. ‘They’ve been working their way through all the students whose initials are SW and MS – they didn’t know which way up to read it.’

‘You could have said it wasn’t yours.’

‘What for?’ Simon stared at me. ‘It is mine, and it would only have made things far worse if I denied it, then someone else told them who it belonged to.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘But how did they know to find you here?’

‘They went to my parents and my parents gave them the address.’

I could tell from his tone that Simon was joining Sergeant Mathieson in the growing band of people who recognized me for a halfwit. I had forgotten that Simon’s parents knew where he was.
Lucky they hadn’t wanted me. My parents would have sent them on a fine old wild-goose chase.

I tried to restore my reputation by exhibiting my practical side. ‘We’ve run out of milk, and all sorts of things,’ I said. ‘We’re going to have to go into
Kington.’ Simon scarcely appeared to hear me. He was looking beyond me towards the kitchen door, almost as if he could penetrate its solid surface and see far beyond it, into the garden.
‘It would be better to get the shopping done now,’ I persisted. ‘You can carry on working into the evening if you need to, but the shops all close at half five.’

He appeared to consider this. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll go and tell Danny.’

TWENTY-FIVE

They say it’s grim up north, and whoever they are they’ve undoubtedly got it right this afternoon. Although barely three o’clock, it’s so dark that I
need to use my headlights. The first spots of rain hit the windscreen just as I am turning into the gates of Broadoaks. Today there is no one in the grounds, which look windswept and unwelcoming
under the steely sky.

On my previous visit I came empty-handed, but this time I have brought a box of chocolates – an assortment of milk and plain, because I have no idea which she prefers. I considered
flowers, but there were already some in her room last time: probably fresh flowers are all part of the Broadoaks package.

As I make a dash from my parked car, holding my umbrella tilted like a shield to ward off the worst of the weather, I wonder if I ought to let someone know I am here – or just knock and
enter her room. I can’t see a way of alerting anyone’s attention – there doesn’t appear to be a bell to ring – but I am rescued by the appearance of the same minion as
before. Different necklace this time – some sort of pink rock chippings, strung together any old how – hideous. She takes my dripping umbrella and goes through the same routine as last
time. While she’s doing this, I suddenly get it. There must be closed-circuit television cameras which enable them to intercept everyone at the door. To make the old ladies feel secure. No
expense spared.

She eyes my box of chocolates doubtfully. ‘I’m afraid you’ll see a big change,’ she says. She hesitates with a hand on the knob of Mrs Ivanisovic’s door, perhaps
trying to prepare me but unable to hit on the right thing to say, before she finally steps aside and holds the door open for me, as she did on my first visit.

Mrs Ivanisovic is in bed – under the covers this time. The bedclothes are up to her chest, the pastel bedspread disappearing under a broad fold of white cotton sheet which is so pristine
that I assume Mrs Ivanisovic has scarcely moved since it was made up around her. She looks like a little skeleton clad in borrowed flesh, around which someone has draped clothes belonging to some
other third party. Her oxygen mask has become a fixture, held in place by slim bands of pale elastic. It emits the only sound in the room – the shallow wheeze and whisper of her breathing.
Her eyes are closed.

I sit in the chair beside the bed, careful not to disturb her. I am still holding the chocolates and I look around for somewhere to put them down, but the top of her bedside cabinet is cluttered
with things: a jug, a water glass, a pair of spectacles, a little dispenser of sweeteners (as if she needs to worry about her weight) – all the detritus of her vanishing life.

When my own mother died it was in hospital, in an impersonal bed with metal sides that clanged when moved and an officious-looking chart clipped at its foot. The bed was separated from the rest
of the ward by thin cotton curtains, a green and grey fabric which someone employed by the NHS had once mistaken for tasteful – or maybe there had been a job lot of fabric which was going
very cheap. It is clear that Mrs Ivanisovic will not be subjected to these indignities. She will be permitted to expire quietly and discreetly at Broadoaks, in a room full of her own things, with a
view of the garden (albeit presently obscured by torrential rain).

I sit for about ten minutes while Mrs Ivanisovic remains oblivious to my presence, listening to her breathing, which I gradually realize is mingled with the soft, slow tick of her clock. The two
sounds are complementary, if always out of sync.

Eventually I stand up and pad across the room to where I can put the chocolates down on the sideboard, alongside her collection of framed photographs. The majority of the pictures are of Danny
and his parents. There is one of Danny’s father as a young man and I note the strong resemblance. They have the same eyes. Dark and deep, full of laughter . . .

Mrs Ivanisovic stirs behind me. Only the slightest of movements, but I am aware of it and turn to find her eyes are open. I return to the bedside, but I don’t sit down. She is looking up
at me, but in such a way that I’m not sure if she sees me.

‘It’s Katy,’ I say, quietly. ‘I’ve come to see you – like I promised.’

She nods – well, hardly that really, just a tiny movement to show she understands, recognizes who I am.

I don’t mention the chocolates. Uncertain what to say, I resume my seat and take hold of her hand. I hardly know the woman, but it doesn’t seem presumptuous. In fact it feels like
the right thing to do. She welcomes this gesture with a gentle squeezing of my fingers. Her flesh feels clammy. She tries to say something, but the oxygen mask defeats her.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Don’t try to talk.’

Irritation flickers in her eyes. There is evidently something she wants to convey to me. She gestures with her free hand, which hovers like a butterfly above the bed covers.

‘You want me to bring you something? Press your buzzer for the nurse?’

Her head rolls from side to side – so a definite negative on the nurse then.

I turn to see where she seems to be pointing. ‘The photographs?’ I ask, wondering if she wants me to bring one or two across for her to see – although Lord knows, she must know
every detail of them by heart. It is not the photographs however. I track my way steadily round the room, suggesting one thing after another while she shakes her head. Eventually we end up at one
of the drawers in the little sideboard. She wants me to open it. I relinquish her hand reluctantly, fearing more newspaper cuttings – but what she’s after is a photo album. It is, after
all, my interest in the family pictures which has inspired her. She thinks to entertain me by showing me some more.

I carry the album over to her, resting it on the bed propped up in such a way that we can both see it. I can think of worse ways of passing the afternoon. She doesn’t seem interested in
the earlier pages (Danny’s primary school mug shots, interspersed with summer holiday snaps). There is evidently something further on in the album that she particularly wants me to see. When
we get to the right page her hand flaps against the bedclothes. It is obvious which picture she thinks I will be interested in. It’s a shot of Danny and me holding hands, looking at each
other rather than the camera. Was he really so much taller than me? I had all but forgotten. It’s a romantic kind of shot – captured spontaneously just before we turned away from one
another to smile for the camera.

She starts to gesture urgently. Makes sounds I can’t understand.

‘It’s Danny and me,’ I say, trying to sound pleased.

She makes more noises. Jerks her head. I think I understand.

‘Do you want me to take the picture?’

She nods, relaxes. Closes her eyes. The whole thing has been too much effort.

I don’t want the photograph, so I make no attempt to remove it. In fact I turn the page, finding myself among some completely different subjects: cliffs and wild flowers, still in those
washed-out colours which now define our world of thirty years ago.

Her eyes have opened again. She looks down at the new set of pictures, then back at me. I hurriedly turn back to the page of her choice.

‘I don’t want to spoil your album,’ I say. ‘And besides—’ an inspirational lie occurs to me – ‘I already have a copy of this picture.’

She understands now. Sinks back as if relieved. Closes her eyes again. Poor deluded woman, she doesn’t want me to lose my chance of acquiring this sentimental relic of a long-ago love. She
imagines that I cherish these memories as she does. She has forgotten her question about my finding someone else – forgotten my answer. She thinks I still carry that same old torch –
the beacon of love which was going to transform me into the next Mrs Ivanisovic.

I continue my perusal of the family album. There is little else to occupy me. The rain has stopped, but dense grey clouds are still chasing one another beyond the bare branches of the trees.

After a while Mrs Ivanisovic opens her eyes and gestures that she would like to begin our game of Hunt the Thimble again. She makes tiny birdlike gestures while I do the guessing. ‘The
sideboard?’ ‘The window sill?’ Until we eventually settle on the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

Unlike the rest of the room, the interior of this drawer has not been kept tidy. It is a tumble of small personal items, including a crumpled tissue, a lipstick, a fat brown envelope with what
look like utility bills inside it. I unpack these various items into my lap; none of them is what she seeks. I delve into the prehistoric layer. It is evidently a repository for mementos she wants
to keep close. There is an ancient champagne cork and an old theatre programme. In the back corner I find a small jeweller’s box – the sort which might contain cuff links, or a pair of
smart earrings. The box is covered in a dark brown fabric, worn thin at the corners. She nods at me.

I balance this box on the corner of the bedside cabinet while I carefully replace the lapful of objects I have accumulated during the search, trying to remember their order of extraction as best
I can. She closes her eyes again – whether too weary to keep them open or in resignation at my pedantry I cannot tell. As I finally slide the drawer shut her breathing changes. She is taking
longer-drawn-out breaths with a shudder at the end of them. She is definitely sleeping.

I pick up the little brown box – holding it in one hand, while opening it with the other. On top of a cushion of dark blue padding sits Danny’s crucifix. It catches the light –
gives me an impudent wink. From far away I hear familiar laughter – see his face and hear him call my name.

TWENTY-SIX

While Simon went out to fetch Danny I took the opportunity to run up to the bathroom and remove the towel turban from around my head. I normally combed out my hair straight
away, so I had not appreciated what half an hour or so of neglect could achieve. My hair had become a tangle of half-dried frizz, kinked in the places where it had been folded under the towel, as
effectively as if I’d used curl papers. The only thing for it was to wet it thoroughly again. I was about to fill the wash basin, when I heard Simon bawling my name from downstairs.

‘I’m up here,’ I shouted, advancing to the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to wash my hair again.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Simon yelled. ‘You wanted to go to Kington – we’re going
now.
’

‘I can’t,’ I protested. ‘Look at my hair.’

Simon was standing in the hall with Danny just behind him. Both appeared to be on the edge of losing their tempers.

‘Can’t you wait a minute or two, while I at least wet it? Just look at it.’

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Come on. If we’re going, we go now.’

I considered ignoring him – but something in his face told me not to push it. I stamped down the stairs, then marched through the hall to the front of the house. Simon stood beside the
front door, waiting to lock it behind me. I clambered into the back of the car as usual and the others took their places in the front. As Simon started the car I said, ‘We should have told
the police.’

Neither of them responded. Simon revved the engine fiercely then slammed it into gear so violently that the car emitted a groan of pain. We swerved on to the lane sharply enough to send me
sliding halfway across the seat and back.

‘Jesus,’ Danny objected. ‘Let’s get there in one piece, shall we?’

‘We should have told them,’ I said. ‘Sergeant Wotsit and the other one. We should have told them about Trudie.’

‘Of course we should,’ shouted Simon. ‘That was the whole idea of hiding her body – so we could tell the Staffordshire Constabulary all about it at the first
opportunity.’