Abigale Hall (24 page)

‘Okay. I believe you. But Pollard could have lied to or even bribed the doctor to take Rebecca along with the others.'

‘Or it was an outright lie and Rebecca's not at any hospital. Whatever this . . . illness is, I think Mrs Pollard has it, too. At first I thought it strange that if all women go missing from Thornecroft, why hasn't she? But I think she is succumbing to it, finally. Perhaps she made a deal with Victoria to last this long, but her time has run out. She barely eats, is pale, I think her stomach often bothers––'

Ruth shook her head. ‘You're talking about the curse again. Mrs Pollard is no ghost's victim, Eliza. You wouldn't believe all this nonsense if you were in London.'

‘I wouldn't have to.'

‘Fine. If you're so set on believing that, fine. But can you do one thing for me?' She placed her hands on Eliza's, stopping her from itching. ‘I need you to search Mr Brownawell's rooms for any tablets. Any medications. And bring a sample of each to me.'

‘She's not poisoning anyone with Mr Brownawell's medication or anything else. I've prepared my own food, and Rebecca's, for the past few weeks.'

‘This is about more than poisoning. I would do it myself, but she'll be keeping too close an eye on me. It's you she's used to now. Thinks she knows you. She underestimates you, Eliza.'

Eliza dabbed the sweat from her face. Whatever it was hanging from those hooks, she would not be eating it.

‘I promise I'll tell you more. But for now . . . are you alright?' Ruth asked. ‘Eliza, you're shaking.'

‘It's nothing. It's the smell, that's all.'

‘Of potatoes?'

‘No, the . . .' Eliza lifted the candle. The meat hooks were empty. ‘Excuse me.'

She abandoned Ruth in the larder and hurried down the hall to the bathroom, trying not to let the candle blow out. She balanced it on the edge of the sink and turned the water on as far as it would go. She scrubbed her fingers and underneath her nails. She rubbed water over her face and neck then grabbed the hard bar of soap and ran it over her hands like a cheese grater. She rinsed her hands once, but it wasn't enough. She scrubbed them again, getting in between every finger, into every crack and crevice, and rinsed once more. Her hands were red now, but still the dirt remained. She washed again, another three, four, five times, until she felt she had removed an entire layer of skin and exposed a clean, fresh surface to the air. Only then, when the feel and the smell of the nightmare had been cleansed, was she able to return to her bedroom and a restless night.

Smoke rose from the Vickers-Armstrongs aircraft factory in nearby Brooklands. The grey tendrils gathered into clouds which marred an otherwise pale blue sky. How many times had German bombers nearly hit his house trying to destroy that building? Peter looked away from the smoke to his mother's blooming garden. The horrible cold of the past winter was finally retreating. Tree buds were flowering into leaves, the grasses turning brown to green, the garden now fragrant with the expectation of the coming summer.

He wrapped the old wool blanket tighter round his shoulders and thought of the four people who died in his fire as smoke continued to fill the sky. He reached for the tea Mother had made him but pulled back inside the blanket when he noticed his hand shaking. Nothing could keep out the chill. Withdrawing the address book, he thumbed through pages now stained with his fingerprints. P for Pollard. There was only one. Number 5 Adelaide Street, Swansea. There were telegram offices in Swansea. Post offices. If Eliza wanted to write to him, she could have done so weeks ago. Unless she hadn't been allowed.

A truck lumbered down the road, the heavy engine sputtering as it stopped near their house. Moments later, there was a faint knock on the front door. The smoke rose ever higher. Mother would handle it. Some minutes later, she appeared next to him in the garden. He felt her watching.

‘How was your tea?' she asked. Peter glanced at his full cup.

‘Fine, thank you.' He waited for her to leave. Instead, she sat in the wicker chair beside him.

‘That was the recovery company. They've delivered your things that survived.'

‘Small box, is it?'

‘Go take a look.'

‘Throw it in the bin. I don't care.'

‘Well, that's quite careless. When all of us are hurting from want, I'm sure there's something we could salvage.'

‘You do it then.' He felt so cold, as if something had been extinguished within him.

‘Peter, God knows what happened was a terrible, terrible thing. But we must be grateful that you survived and move on. Your brothers saw much worse during the war and none of us are strangers to tragedy at home . . .'

‘Stop comparing this to the war. This is nothing like the war.'

‘I agree. This is much less severe.'

Peter threw off the blanket, knocking over the teacup. It fell onto the grass, the brown water seeping into the ground, staining the fresh green sprouts.

Mother sighed and gathered the cup. ‘Peter, you've had a very stressful time of it of late, but we must put things in perspective. You should be grateful you're alive.'

‘And what of the others who aren't? What should they be grateful for? What do their families have to be happy about?' He thought of Mrs Rolston. What would happen to her now her greatest fear had been realised? He pictured her wandering the streets, begging strangers to help find her daughter's killer – to find him. And here he was, safe in Shepperton. Both hands were shaking now. Without the blanket, he could not hide them. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his sides. A look crossed his mother's face, the same she had when Michael first came home. It was the look he saw every time he glanced in the mirror.

‘I'll go and get my things,' he said and hurried into the house.

The small wooden crate sat on the centre of the kitchen table, his name and parents' address stamped on the top. Peter carried it up to his bedroom and used a screwdriver to lever off the lid. He was right. There wasn't much – a few items of clothing Mother could salvage with a good washing; one Glenn Miller record, warped by smoke and water damage; the biro Father bought him when he joined the accounting firm; his frying pan, the only thing he knew how to cook with. Eliza's book was gone, the one he had promised to return to her. Another promise he couldn't keep.

Peter tossed everything back in the crate. A smoke-stained shirt unfolded as he grabbed it, spilling a separate item to the floor – a black jewellery box. Eliza's ring. The ring he lost in Blackfriars. He opened the lid. The ring was gone. In its place sat a folded piece of paper. He set the box aside and read the message.

Jessie begged. Will Eliza?

Peter reread the words, memorising them against his will, and tore the note into scraps. He threw them into the crate, but he could still see them. He covered them with the salvaged shirt and, using the screwdriver, hammered the lid back on. Yet, even with the box closed, he felt no peace. He hoisted up his window and breathed in the clean, country air. The smoke from the factory wasn't visible here. The sky remained calm and peaceful. He grabbed the crate and pushed it out of the window.

It crashed into Mother's rose bushes. His clothes hung like bunting from the stems. The corner of the record peeked out from the thorns. He wanted to throw the address book down there as well, but his hands couldn't manage to pull it from his pocket. He shut the window and went down to join his parents for dinner.

‘What was that noise?' Mother asked.

‘No idea.' He sat patiently while she served the hot food. All he could smell was smoke.

‘Peter,' Father began, ‘I know we've been discussing it, but housing in London simply isn't an option. Every place is full and those that are being restored have quite the list. We were lucky to have that flat. Such a loss. You'll simply have to commute like your uncle and I, until something affordable becomes available. Lord knows you've had enough time off now. Uncle Marvin says you're falling behind in . . .'

Peter wasn't listening to his father, to these incessant ramblings about housing and commutes and all those things that didn't matter. His mother made some sort of response, but he paid her no attention, either. It was claustrophobic sitting here between these two people talking about him but not to him. If he did anything but agree with them, they wouldn't hear what he said.

Be reasonable, Peter. Be agreeable, Peter. Do as we
say, Peter.
Yet all he heard was Stephen's warning, Angelo's offer, the old captain's acceptance of death. Was he dead now, like Jessie? Had Stephen completed the job of which Peter was incapable? Were Jessie and the fire the final consequence of his disobedience or the first?

‘. . . think, Peter?' Father was addressing him. Peter hadn't heard.

‘Think what?'

‘The seven thirty-seven train tomorrow. That should get you to the accounting office in plenty of time, wouldn't you say?'

Peter stared at his dinner plate. The untouched sausages were overcooked, burnt. Two stubby legs protruding from lumpy gravy-covered mash the colour of fire-scarred furniture. The colour of her legs stained in gravy browning, the same colour, the same smell . . .

Fingers snapped in front of his face.

‘Pay attention, son.'

Peter flipped over his plate, smashing his meal into the tablecloth and spilling his water glass. He wanted to shout at Father, at both of them, but his anger paralysed him. He knew they were waiting for him, waiting for him to scream and curse so they could speak and appease him, but he couldn't. The anger choked him.

His muscles relaxed as the quiet descended, and he regained control of his body. He fixed his plate and began scraping the food off the table as best he could. The rhythmic scrape and tap of his fork fell in line with the ticking from the grandfather clock.

‘Jenny rang today,' Mother said, her soft voice sharply interrupting his rhythm. ‘She thought it would be nice if you came to visit Michael while you're home, the other boys being so far away.'

Peter felt Father's disapproval before it was spoken.

‘Darling, I don't think that's the best . . .'

‘I'll do it,' Peter said. ‘I'll go see him tomorrow.'

‘You have responsibilities to . . .'

‘To my brother. I have responsibilities to my brother.' His fingers clenched the fork so tight, he thought his knuckles might break.

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you do.' His father dabbed his mouth with his napkin then excused himself from the table. Peter released the fork and flexed his fingers, the relief in his joints the only joy he felt.

‘Well,' Mother said, ‘what would you like for pudding?'

*

‘Want to go outside?' Peter asked. They stood in the shadowed kitchen watching Michael's wife and daughter play. Little Grace ran about in the back garden with Jenny and the spaniel pup. Peter couldn't remember its name. He doubted Michael knew it, either.

‘No,' Michael replied after a time. ‘It's better here, in the dark.' He sat at the table and lit a cigarette with steady hands. The tray before him was spilling over. Michael wouldn't allow Jenny to empty it.

‘How is Mother?' he asked, drawing circles in the ash.

‘Fine.'

‘And Father? Has he found you a new flat yet?'

‘He wants me to commute.'

‘Poor Peter. Will he ever stand on his own two feet?'

Peter took one of Michael's cigarettes without asking. ‘There's a housing shortage.'

‘We have a house.'

‘Aren't you lucky?'

‘Lucky that Jenny's parents died. Funny. You survive a war and decide you're invincible then BAM!' Michael slammed his fist on the table. ‘Here comes a lorry. Right through the crossing. Funny old world.'

Peter held the cigarette smoke inside his lungs, letting it burn before releasing it.

‘She won't let me in her bed,' Michael said. ‘Her parents slept in separate beds and she's inherited their foolish little habits.' Michael poured water from his glass into the ashtray, dampening the powder, and began building sandcastles. ‘We're in modern times. A man should be able to sleep with his wife, in his house, in their bed. We did it often enough in hotels before the wedding. What about that girlfriend of yours? Rumour is she took off. Not that we expected any different.'

Peter stubbed out his cigarette in the centre of Michael's ash castle. Michael smiled. He wore the expression poorly.

‘What are you going to do about it then?' Michael asked, moving Peter's butt and beginning again.

‘I've already tried.'

‘And?'

‘And I had my flat burnt down.'

Michael's fingers were covered in ash. He brushed a hair from his eye, leaving a grey streak across his brow. He sighed.

‘You always gave up so easily. Even when you were a child. Mother and Father always ended up helping you, didn't they? It's why Father got you the job with Uncle Marvin. He knew you'd never be able to do it on your own.'

‘They killed a girl because of me! Killed her in my flat because I . . .' Peter rose from his chair and pushed it in hard, shaking the table. He still didn't know why Jessie had been in his building. Had she been waiting for him, thinking it would be safe? Had Stephen killed her and left her body there as a warning? Would he really go after Eliza next?

Outside, the pup barked as little Grace chased after its tail.
Yap, yap, yap.

‘I never said you were weak,' Michael continued. ‘Don't think that. Don't ever let anyone think that of you.'

The pup continued to bark, each shrill noise like a cigarette burn on his skin.

‘Then what do I do?'

Yap, yap, yap.
Michael opened his palm and flattened it on top of his house of cinders.
Yap, yap, yap
.

‘You fight.'

Yap––

‘Shut that dog up!' Michael shouted. Unsatisfied, he wrenched the glass door open, leaving ash on the handle. ‘Shut that mangy dog up before I get my gun and shut it up for you!'

The pup cowered behind Jenny's feet. Little Grace began to cry. Michael calmly closed the door, leaving more ash on the floor.

‘Stay for dinner, if you like,' Michael said, wiping his hands on his trousers and lighting another cigarette. ‘Jenny would like it if you stayed.'

That night they ate in silence, offal sausages and carrot and potato pie, but it was the smell of wet ash that lingered in Peter's nose as he felt the corner of the address book digging into his thigh.