The Pull of the Moon (31 page)

While I was still hesitating Danny spoke again. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that maybe we should bring our wedding plans forward a bit.’

With the light turned out he was no more than a series of shapes in the darkness. He spoke so casually that without seeing his face I couldn’t be sure whether or not this was a joke. I
decided it must be.

‘What wedding plans?’ I gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘We don’t have any wedding plans.’

‘Then let’s make some.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘But we’ve never even talked about getting married. I mean . . .’ I was still uncertain whether he was kidding or not, so I carried on playing it for laughs. ‘I
haven’t picked out a dress or anything.’

‘That’s just a detail,’ he said and in that moment I knew from his voice that it wasn’t a joke. ‘You can do that once we’ve set a date. Let’s make it
soon, Katy. There’s nothing to stand in our way.’ His voice had taken on an urgency which unnerved me.

‘My parents,’ I said quickly – for once thinking how useful they were. ‘My parents will say I’m too young.’ And it’s true, I thought frantically, I am
too young. I had hardly begun to shake off the shackles they had imposed and now somewhere not very far in the distance I could hear the clang of the matrimonial prison gates.

‘Who cares? You’re over eighteen. You’re mine, Katy. There’s nothing to stand in our way – nothing to come between us. Let’s seal it – make it official.
We’ll get married in church, the full works. How about it?’

Somehow I knew it was the church wedding he was soliciting my agreement for – not the marriage itself, which was apparently all decided. This wasn’t the moment to decline a proposal,
any more than it was the time to make one. It was altogether too bizarre, too unbelievable, lying there in the dark unable to see each other’s faces. Besides which I didn’t want to
instigate any kind of row with Danny just then. Simon’s behaviour was becoming dangerously weird: I needed to keep Danny onside as an ally.

‘We can’t talk about this now.’ I tried to keep my voice from betraying all that was going on in my mind. ‘We’re both far too tired. Let’s just sleep on it.
Come on, kiss me goodnight.’

TWENTY-NINE

I slept late the next morning and when I awoke it was with a gradual realization that I had sole occupancy of the bed. It was the first decent sleep I’d had for several
days and I celebrated with a luxuriant stretch encompassing every limb of my body. This blissful moment was cut short as I turned my head and caught sight of an alien object on the pillow, just
inches from my face. I jerked into a sitting position, but my panic subsided as abruptly as it had begun. It was a white rose from the garden. The tribute had been laid on a sheet torn from a
shorthand notepad, on which Danny had scrawled
For my one True Love
. There was a trio of kisses underneath the writing.

I sat up in bed with my knees hunched up to my chin: what would once have seemed the ultimate romantic gesture was now a scary demonstration of obsessive intensity. Our conversation the night
before had brought back the memory of Mrs Ivanisovic’s visit – all but forgotten in what had taken place soon afterwards. This business about us getting married was no mere whim of the
moment, hatched as an antidote to the nightmare in which we currently found ourselves. It was a long-term plan, which he had already discussed with his parents. And the longer I let the fantasy
engagement go on, the harder it would be to break it off.

Then again I was reliant on Danny as my only ally against Simon. Although I was reluctant to concede it, Simon’s increasingly erratic behaviour was starting to really scare me. Maybe I
didn’t have to disabuse Danny of the marriage thing just yet. It surely wouldn’t take him too long to see for himself that our relationship had been blighted for ever by what had
happened in the past few days. Given time he would view things in a more rational light. Time and distance would help put everything into its true perspective. None of us could possibly think
straight while we were trapped in a pressure cooker.

As I waded through my fog of anxieties a dual imperative emerged: I had to get away from this house with all its terrible associations and I had to escape from the frightening certainty of
Danny’s love. If the solution was to get away as soon as possible, there remained an obvious problem – where could I go? Not back home, because my parents thought I was with
Cecile’s family – there were far too many awkward questions to answer there – and the situation would be compounded by the continuing arrival of cheery letters, telling them how
much I was enjoying myself in France. One possible option was to actually go to France. I had the address. I spoke the language – well enough to buy a train ticket at least – and Cecile
had assured me of a welcome. The flaw in this plan was financial. I had started the summer with very little money and I’d already spent most of it. This wouldn’t be a problem once I got
to Cecile’s grandfather’s farm, where I could earn some cash picking fruit. I could get my fare home without any trouble, if only I could get out there in the first place.

Then I remembered Trudie’s money. Trudie had at least one hundred pounds stashed somewhere in the house. Easily enough to cover my escape to France. It felt uncomfortably like stealing,
but on the other hand the money was no use to Trudie any more. Strictly speaking it belonged to her next of kin, but they weren’t ever going to see it, so why shouldn’t I put it to good
use? I decided that if any one of us was to have the money, Trudie would prefer it to be me. However, as this was not a point I cared to debate with the others, I also decided it would be best not
to remind them of its existence.

In the quiet of my bedroom, I began to work out a possible route. I could get Simon to run me to the station in Leominster from where I knew I could get a train to Newport. London-bound trains
ran through Newport, and once I got to London it ought to be easy enough to get a connection to the Channel ports. Outside the window a blackbird began to sing loudly – he seemed to be
cheering me on.

Before I left I would have to make sure that everything which might incriminate us had been properly taken care of. Danny could be awfully cavalier at times and Simon’s reliability was
definitely questionable. Rather than trust them to look after things, I would offer to sort out Trudie’s bedroom myself – an undertaking which would afford me the opportunity to locate
the hundred pounds. I would make a bonfire of her things, wash the bedding and thoroughly clean the room. I knew I could not safely leave until every vestige of her presence was gone.

I found the prospect of positive action comforting. I went into the bathroom and ran the bath tap, holding my hand under the flow to test the temperature. It was icy. No one had thought to
switch on the immersion heater. I decided that if they could handle cold baths at public school, then so could I. I ran a few inches of water into the bath and stepped in. Hell’s teeth, the
upper classes must be tough! I knelt down cautiously – sitting seemed out of the question – and began to soap my goosey flesh, while my nipples stood out in horrified protest. Perhaps
cold baths were only used as a punishment. If so then it was appropriate that I should take one, in penance for the wrongs I had already shared in and the additional sins I was about to commit.

Vigorous rubbing with my towel restored the circulation. I dressed swiftly, not forgetting to fill the tooth glass with water and stand Danny’s rose in it on the dressing table. No point
in provocatively leaving it to die.

When I got downstairs they were both sitting at the kitchen table. One look at Simon was enough to suggest that he had barely slept at all. His jaw was covered in a line of pale stubble and he
was wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before. When I walked behind his chair I caught the stale odour of the unwashed.

Danny was opposite him, eating toast and jam. I pecked my lips against the top of his head in passing. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the flower.’

‘Do you happen to know what the date is?’ asked Danny.

I didn’t. We hadn’t got a calendar and hardly ever bought a newspaper. It was difficult enough to keep track of what
day
it was, never mind the date. Puzzled by the question,
I racked my brains for any significant date that I had forgotten – a birthday, or anniversary of some kind. ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just this letter came for Simon.’ Danny waved an explanatory hand towards the table, where an envelope lay among a clutter of used crocks, garden twine and the shorthand
notepad which Danny had used for his love letter. The envelope had been slit across the top, its contents removed, read, then roughly restored. Its arrival was a singular event. Simon’s
uncle’s post had been diverted and none of us ever received any letters. It was the first time the postman had called since our arrival.

‘It’s from Uncle Arthur,’ said Simon. ‘He’s coming back earlier than planned. On the ninth, according to this letter.’

I took this in for a moment before saying, ‘That can’t be very far off.’

‘It’s ages,’ said Danny. ‘That yoghurt we threw out the other day was dated something in July.’

‘Which doesn’t mean a whole lot,’ said Simon.

‘Does that mean we’re going to have to leave here?’ I asked, a plan fomenting in my mind.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘You can stay at mine. Your parents needn’t find out.’

‘They might,’ I said. ‘I might bump into them.’

‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘We live right on the other side of the city.’

I decided not to pursue the point just yet.

‘I’m going to turn the water on,’ said Simon. ‘It’s going to take hours to fill the pond.’

I decided it was time to seize my opportunity. ‘I know no one likes to think about this,’ I said carefully, ‘but if Simon’s uncle is coming back, it’s even more
important to get rid of all Trudie’s things.’ When neither of them replied, I continued: ‘I’m willing to collect them all together – make sure we don’t miss
anything. Then I think we ought to burn it all.’

‘That seems like the best thing,’ said Danny.

Simon was silent.

‘There’s the room where we had the seance as well. I could tidy that up too if you like – but I’d need some help, moving the furniture back.’

‘No problem,’ said Danny. ‘We can do that, can’t we, Si?’

Simon came out of his trance to make a grudging assent. Danny regarded me anxiously. ‘Are you sure you can handle doing Trudie’s things on your own?’

‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘It’s better if I do it – girls’ stuff and everything.’

Danny gave me a hug – a physical seal of approval on my assumed bravery and selflessness.

‘I’ll go up now,’ I said. ‘I may as well get started.’

I all but ran up the stairs, only hesitating when I stood at the bedroom door. I took a deep breath before I opened it. Considering Trudie brought so little luggage with her, she had managed to
spread her belongings pretty comprehensively around the room. I stood just inside the door, with my hand on the knob. On the one hand I cavilled at actually shutting myself in the room, but on the
other I didn’t want to be observed in the act of pocketing Trudie’s nest egg – the boys were safely occupied at the moment, but there was no saying how long they would stay
outside. I compromised by leaving the door open a crack – not enough for anyone to see what I was doing if they happened to pass by.

The sooner I got it over with, the sooner I could get away. I started by collecting up clothes from the floor. I found the tapestry bag and shovelled them in any old how. The handles were made
of fabric as were the loop and toggle fastenings, so I figured it was combustible. The halter neck top which had been Trudie’s favourite garden attire was draped from one corner of the open
wardrobe door – there was only one garment actually hanging up inside the wardrobe – a white dress which I’d never seen her wear. It went into the bag with the rest.

The book about local mysteries was lying face down on the floor. When I picked it up, I could see that Trudie had been reading about the Agnes Payne case. I closed the book and put it on the
window sill; it would have to be returned to the library, next time someone went into Kington. I noticed the sill was very dusty: there were marks on it where things had been put down and
subsequently removed – one a perfect set of fingermarks where her hand must have rested, perhaps when she opened or closed the window.

From my vantage point at the window I could see that the boys had already unreeled yards of hose pipe, which Danny was guiding until the open end dangled over the side of the pond. Vic’s
handiwork had already dried to a much paler shade of orange. Danny’s shout of ‘Turn it on’ reached me faintly through the glass. The awful connotations of the pond’s
construction did not preclude this from being a big moment. Forgetting my haste I stood like Danny, watching and waiting for the water to arrive. Just when I had become convinced it was never going
to, it streamed forth in a confident gush, making a dark wet stain down one side of the concrete as it raced into the lowest level. Here it formed a spreading puddle which had almost covered the
bottom by the time Simon joined him. The puddle became an inch of water across the bottom, after which its visible volume increased too slowly to monitor. Simon was right – it was going to
take hours to fill.

Suddenly conscious of wasted time, I turned to the assortment of toiletries which stood on the dressing table. Bottles of shampoo and cans of deodorant were unsuitable for burning, so I gathered
them together in a stray carrier bag, ready for the dustbin – there was nothing traceable about discarded cans of Us or part-used Biba lip gloss, after all.

I found myself continually drawn back to the window with its view down to the wood and its telltale set of fingerprints in the dust. I tried to concentrate on the task in hand, but it was only a
couple of minutes before the marks on the window sill caught my eye again. I swept my hand across to obliterate them. It came away coated in a thin film of dust, which I cleaned off on the
counterpane, as assiduously as if it had been someone else’s blood.