Twenties Girl (9 page)

Oh God. I really cannot face it today.

“No.” I smile weakly. “Just a coincidence.”

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure to meet Sadie’s great-niece.” As we reach the front door, she gives me a friendly hug. “You know,
Lara, I think you have a little of her in you. You both have the same spirit. And I can sense the same kindness.”

The nicer this nurse is to me, the crappier I feel. I’m not kind. I mean,
look
at me. I never even visited my great-aunt. I don’t do cycle rides for charity. OK, I do buy
The Big Issue
sometimes, but not if I’m holding a cappuccino and it’s too much hassle to reach for my purse….

“Ginny.” A red-haired nurse beckons her. “Can I have a quick word?” She draws her to one side and murmurs under her breath. I just catch the odd word
… strange … police
.

“… police?”
Ginny’s eyes have widened in surprise.

“… don’t know … number …”

Ginny takes the slip of paper, then turns to smile at me again. I manage a rictus grin, totally paralyzed with horror.

The police. I’d forgotten about the police.

I told them Sadie was murdered by the staff at the home. These lovely saintly nurses. Why did I say that? What was I
thinking?

This is all Sadie’s fault. No, it’s not. It’s my fault. I should have kept my big trap
shut
.

“Lara?” Ginny peers at me in alarm. “Are you all right?”

She’s going to be accused of homicide, and she has no idea. And it’s all my fault. I’m going to ruin everyone’s career and the home will be shut and boarded up and all the old people will have nowhere to go….

“Lara?”

“I’m fine,” I manage at last, in a grainy voice. “Fine. But I have to go.” I start backing out of the front door on wobbly legs. “Thanks so much. Bye.”

I wait until I’m down the path and safely back on the pavement, then whip out my phone and speed-dial DI James’s number, almost hyperventilating in panic. I should never have accused
anyone of murder. I am never, ever, ever doing that again. I’m going to confess everything, tear up my statement—

“DI James’s office.” A woman’s crisp voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Oh, hello.” I try to sound calm. “This is Lara Lington speaking. Could I speak to DI James or DC Davies?”

“I’m afraid they’re both out on calls. Can I take a message? If it’s urgent—”

“Yes, it’s very, very urgent. It’s to do with a murder case. Could you please tell DI James I’ve had a … a … a realization.”

“A realization,” she echoes, obviously writing it down.

“Yes. About my statement. Quite a crucial one.”

“I think perhaps you should talk to DI James personally—”

“No! This can’t wait! You have to tell him it wasn’t the nurses who murdered my great-aunt. They didn’t do a thing. They’re wonderful, and it was all a terrible mistake, and … well… the thing is…”

I’m psyching myself up to bite the bullet and admit I invented the whole thing—when suddenly I’m brought up short by a horrible thought. I
can’t
confess everything. I can’t admit I made the whole thing up. They’ll instantly resume the funeral. I have a flashback to Sadie’s anguished cry at the funeral service, and feel a shiver of anxiety. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.

“Yes?” says the woman patiently.

“I… um … the thing is…”

My mind is doing double backflips trying to work out a solution that involves both being honest and buying time for Sadie. But I can’t find one. There isn’t one. And the woman’s going to give up waiting in a minute and put the phone down. I have to say
something
.

I need a red herring. Just to distract them for a while. Just while I find the necklace.

“It was someone else,” I blurt out. “A … man. It was
him
I overheard in the pub. I got confused before. He had a plaited
goatee beard,” I add randomly. “And a scar on his cheek. I remember it really clearly now.”

They’ll never find a man with a plaited goatee and a scar on his cheek. We’re safe. For now.

“A man with a plaited beard…” The woman sounds as if she’s trying to keep up.

“And a scar.”

“And, I’m sorry, what is this man supposed to have done?”

“Murdered my great-aunt! I gave a statement, but it was wrong. So if you could just cancel it out …”

There’s a rather long pause—then the woman says, “Dear, we don’t just cancel out statements. I think DI James will probably want to talk to you himself.”

Oh God. The thing is, I really,
really
don’t want to talk to DI James.

“Fine.” I try to sound cheery. “No problem. As long as he knows the nurses definitely didn’t do it. If you could write that message on a Post-it or something?
The nurses didn’t do it.”

“The nurses didn’t do it,” she repeats dubiously.

“Exactly. In big capitals. And put it on his desk.”

There’s another, even longer pause. Then the woman says, “Can I take your name again?”

“Lara Lington. He’ll know who I am.”

“I’m sure he will. Well, as I say, Miss Lington, I’m sure DI James will be in touch.”

I ring off and head down the road, my legs weak. I think I just about got away with it. But, honestly, I’m a nervous wreck.

Two hours later, I’m not just a nervous wreck. I’m exhausted.

In fact, I’m taking a whole new jaded view of the British populace. It might seem like an easy project, phoning a few people on a list and asking if they’d bought a necklace. It might seem simple and straightforward, until you actually tried it yourself.

I feel like I could write a whole book on human nature, and it would be called:
People Are Really Unhelpful
. First of all, they want to know how you got their name and phone number. Then, when you mention the word
raffle
, they want to know what they won and even call out to their husband, “Darren, we won that raffle!” When you hastily tell them, “You didn’t win anything,” the mood instantly turns suspicious.

Then, when you broach the subject of what they bought at the jumble sale, they get even more suspicious. They get convinced you’re trying to sell them something or steal their credit card details by telepathy. At the third number I tried, there was some guy in the background saying, “I’ve heard about this. They phone you up and keep you talking. It’s an Internet scam. Put the phone down, Tina.”

“How can it be an Internet scam?” I wanted to yell. “We’re not
on
the Internet!”

I’ve only had one woman so far who seemed keen to help: Eileen Roberts. And actually she was a total pain because she kept me on the line for ten minutes, telling me about everything she bought at the jumble sale and saying what a shame it was and had I thought of making a replacement necklace as there was a wonderful bead shop in Bromley?

Argh.

I rub my ear, which is glowing from being pressed against the phone, and count the scribbled-out names on my list. Twenty-three. Forty-four to go. This was a crap idea. I’m never going to find this stupid necklace. I stretch out my back, then fold the list up and put it in my bag. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Maybe.

I head into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and am putting a lasagna in the oven when her voice says, “Did you find my necklace?” I start, crashing my forehead against the oven door, and look up. Sadie’s sitting on the sill of the open window.

“Give me some
warning
when you’re going to appear!” I exclaim. “And, anyway, where were you? Why did you suddenly abandon me?”

“That place is deathly.” She tosses her chin. “Full of old people. I had to get away.”

She’s speaking lightly, but I can tell she was freaked out by going back there. That must be why she disappeared for so long.

“You
were old,” I remind her. “You were the oldest one there. Look, that’s you!” I reach in my jacket pocket and produce the picture of her, all wrinkled and white-haired. I see the briefest of flinches on Sadie’s face before she brushes a scornful glance across the image.

“That’s not me.”

“It is! A nurse at the home gave it to me, she said it was you on your hundred and fifth birthday! You should be proud! You got telegrams from the queen and everything—”

“I mean, it’s not
me
. I never felt like that. No one feels like that inside. This is how I felt.” She stretches out her arms. “Like this. A girl in my twenties. All my life. The outside is just … cladding.”

“Well, anyway, you could have warned me you were leaving. You left me all alone!”

“So did you get the necklace? Do you have it?” Sadie’s face lights up with hope, and I can’t help wincing.

“Sorry. They had a box of your stuff, but the dragonfly necklace wasn’t in there. Nobody knows where it’s gone. I’m really sorry, Sadie.”

I brace myself for the tantrum, the banshee screaming … but it doesn’t come. She just flickers slightly, as though someone turned the voltage down.

“But I’m on the case,” I add. “I’m calling everyone who came to the jumble sale, in case they bought it. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon. It’s been quite hard work, actually,” I add. “Quite exhausting.”

I’m expecting some gratitude from Sadie at this point. Some nice little speech about how brilliant I am and how appreciative she is of all my effort. But she sighs impatiently and wanders off, through the wall.

“You’re welcome,” I mouth after her.

I head into the sitting room and am flicking through the TV channels when she appears again. She seems to have cheered up immensely.

“You live with some very peculiar people! There’s a man upstairs lying on a machine, grunting.”

“What?” I stare at her. “Sadie, you can’t spy on my neighbors!”

“What does ‘shake your booty’ mean?” she says, ignoring me. “The girl on the wireless was singing it. It sounds like nonsense.”

“It means … dance. Let it all out.”

“But why your booty?” She still looks puzzled. “Does it mean wave your shoe?”

“Of course not! Your booty is your …” I get up and pat my bum. “You dance like this.” I do a few “street” dance moves, then look up to see Sadie in fits of giggles.

“You look as though you’ve got convulsions! That’s not dancing!”

“It’s modern dancing.” I glare at her and sit down. I’m a bit sensitive about my dancing, as it happens. I take a gulp of wine and look critically at her. She’s peering at the TV now, watching
EastEnders
with wide eyes.

“What’s this?”

“EastEnders
. It’s a TV show.”

“Why are they all so angry with one another?”

“Dunno. They always are.” I take another gulp of wine. I can’t believe I’m explaining
EastEnders and
“shake your booty” to my dead great-aunt. Surely we should be talking about something more meaningful?

“Look, Sadie … what
are
you?” I say on impulse, zapping the TV off.

“What do you mean, what am I?” She sounds affronted. “I’m a girl. Just like you.”

“A dead girl,” I point out. “So, not
exactly
like me.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” she says frostily.

I watch as she arranges herself on the edge of the sofa, obviously trying to look natural despite having zero gravity.

“Do you have any special superhero powers?” I try another tack. “Can you make fire? Or stretch yourself really thin?”

“No.” She seems offended. “Anyway, I
am
thin.”

“Do you have an enemy to vanquish? Like Buffy?”

“Who’s Buffy?”

“The Vampire Slayer,” I explain. “She’s on TV; she fights demons and vampires—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cuts me off tartly. “Vampires don’t exist.”

“Well, nor do ghosts!” I retort. “And it’s not ridiculous! Don’t you know anything? Most ghosts come back to fight the dark forces of evil or lead people to the light or something. They do something
positive
. Not just sit around watching TV.”

Sadie shrugs, as though to say, “What do I care?”

I sip my wine, thinking hard. She’s obviously not here to save the world from dark forces. Maybe she’s going to shed light on mankind’s plight or the meaning of life or something like that. Maybe I’m supposed to learn from her.

“So, you lived through the whole twentieth century,” I venture. “That’s pretty amazing. What was … er … Winston Churchill like? Or JFK! Do you think he really was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald?”

Sadie stares at me as though I’m a moron. “How would I know?”

“Because!” I say defensively. “Because you’re from history! What was it like living through World War Two?” To my surprise, Sadie looks quite blank.

“Don’t you
remember
it?” I say incredulously.

“Of course I remember it.” She regains her composure. “It was cold and dreary and one’s friends got killed, and I’d rather not think about it.”

She speaks crisply—but that little hesitation has pricked my curiosity.

“Do you remember your whole life?” I ask cautiously.

She must have memories spanning more than a hundred years. How on earth can she keep hold of them all?

“It seems like … a dream,” murmurs Sadie, almost to herself. “Some parts are hazy.” She’s twirling her skirt around one finger, her expression distant. “I remember everything I need to remember,” she says at last.

“You choose what to remember,” I offer.

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes flash with some unfathomable emotion and she wheels away from my gaze. She comes to rest in front of the mantelpiece and peers at a photo of me. It’s a tourist gimmick from Madame Tussauds and shows me grinning next to the waxwork of Brad Pitt.

“Is
this
your lover?” She turns around.

“I wish,” I say sardonically.

“Don’t you have any lovers?” She sounds so pitying, I feel a bit piqued.

“I had a boyfriend called Josh until a couple of months ago. But it’s over. So … I’m single at the moment.”

Sadie looks at me expectantly. “Why don’t you take another lover?”

“Because I don’t want to just take another lover!” I say, nettled. “I’m not ready!”

“Why not?” She seems perplexed.

“Because I loved him! And it’s been really traumatic! He was my soul mate; we completely chimed—”