Apple of My Eye (38 page)

Her mother nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Leave the washing up. I’ll do it when I get back.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll do it. You have a nice time.’

‘Thanks.’

She rose to her feet and made for the door.

Five minutes later she entered Market Court.

There were not many people about. A dozen at most. But some she knew, and all were an audience. Fighting the urge to run, she kept her stride measured.

Ronnie was leaning against the Norman cross, his head buried in a book. When she called his name he looked up, waved then continued reading until she reached him.

‘
Sons and Lovers
,’ he told her. ‘We have to read it for English.’

‘We did too. It’s awful, isn’t it?’

‘You’re telling me. And I thought
Silas Marner
was bad. Come back, little Eppie, all is forgiven.’

She laughed. A woman passer-by overheard the exchange and looked amused.

‘Shall we go for a shake?’ she suggested.

‘Later. I had a huge lunch. Let’s have a walk first.’

‘OK.’

They set off, arm in arm, complaining about school just like any other pair of teenagers.

Ten minutes later they entered the woods and left the town behind. Her urge to run increased. His grip tightened on her arm. ‘Slow down.’

‘What if you miss him?’

‘There’s no chance of that. I didn’t give an exact time. Between half past two and three, assuming I was even going for a walk at all.’

An elderly couple ambled towards them, arm in arm just as they were, with a small dog at their heels. Instantly Ronnie began to ask questions about the wildlife, playing the ignorant town dweller while she flaunted her rural expertise. The couple gave them friendly nods. Both smiled back while the dog chased a squirrel up a tree.

They continued through the woods, on to where it became overgrown and wild and people rarely came. Frightened, perhaps, of meeting a ghost mother searching for her lost child.

Until at last they came to the forgotten path that led to the river bank.

He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty to three exactly. Check yours says the same.’

It did.

‘Be there at half past. No earlier. I need time to make sure he’s ready.’

‘He will be. He was hardly abstemious at lunch.’

‘Good.’ He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and put them on.

Then they stared at each other.

‘This is it,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘You don’t have to come. I can do it on my own.’

‘We do it together, Ronnie. That’s how it must be.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘For luck.’

‘We don’t need luck.’ He kissed her back. ‘We have each other.’

He vanished down the path. She remained where she was, arms wrapped around her body, feeling herself tremble while the first leaves drifted to the ground and the birds sang oblivious overhead.

There was an old hut near the path.

Once it had been used by a long-dead woodsman. Now it was abandoned and almost derelict. She had played in it as a child with her father, just as he had once played there with his. Now she sat inside it, staring down at her watch as the minute hand moved ever forward.

Until she couldn’t wait any longer.

She crept outside, listening for voices and footsteps that would signal another human presence, hearing nothing but the sighing of the trees and the thundering of her own heart.

She made her way down the path, hemmed in by trees and bushes that often blocked out the sky, moving on legs that felt as if they could collapse beneath her while breathing air that was heavy with the smell of earth.

Until, up ahead, she heard voices.

They were there. Together.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, calm descended.

A few more yards and the path opened up. She stood on the edge of a clearing with a pond and a tree by its edge. The tree under which her father had once told her
stories. The tree under which she and Paul had made love on that fateful summer’s day the previous year.

And under which Ronnie now sat with Uncle Andrew.

They were sitting very close, their heads almost touching. A strategy of Ronnie’s to ensure their voices remained soft. Uncle Andrew sipped from the almost empty whisky bottle then passed it to Ronnie, who suffered from poor circulation and wore gloves to protect his hands from the cold. Tilting his head, Ronnie pretended to swallow, fooling his companion, who was far too drunk to notice the deception.

She looked across the clearing to the trees that acted as a barrier from the river. Again she listened for sounds of life but heard nothing. Just as she had expected. Few people ever came to this stretch of the river, especially outside the months of summer. Her father had loved such places for that reason and taught her to love them too, while never dreaming of the use to which such knowledge would one day be put.

Ronnie handed the bottle back, checked his watch and looked up. Their eyes locked.

For a moment he did not react. Then he nodded.

She walked into the clearing. Ronnie rose to his feet. Uncle Andrew followed his cue, staring at her with drink-befuddled eyes. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m here for Jennifer.’

‘Jennifer?’ He took a step towards her, wobbling unsteadily. Ronnie put an arm around him. Supporting. Guiding. Manoeuvring him towards the designated
spot by the water’s edge. Close to where the tree roots broke the surface. The ones her father had called the troll’s fingers.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘That I’m here to watch you die.’

‘Die?’ He turned to Ronnie and began to giggle. ‘She’s mad.’

Ronnie nodded. He was smiling but then his expression became one of surprise. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to a spot over Uncle Andrew’s shoulder.

Uncle Andrew began to turn, still holding the whisky bottle. Ronnie dropped down, put his hands around Uncle Andrew’s ankles and gave a gentle tug. In Uncle Andrew’s unsteady state that was all that was needed. He fell forward, too disoriented to cry or put out his hands before his head slammed against the troll’s fingers.

He lay with his head in the water, the dropped whisky bottle by his side. She watched him, her throat dry. Was he unconscious? Or would they have to hold him down and risk leaving telltale bruises. Ronnie had assured her that they wouldn’t. That he would be too incapacitated by the blow and by drink to struggle. But she didn’t want to take the chance.

Twenty seconds passed. Thirty. Forty. He remained motionless. Ronnie could hold his breath for a minute and a half. She for nearly two.

But they were younger and fitter than he was.

Ronnie came to stand beside her, treading gingerly, careful to avoid the one spot in the clearing where the
ground was damp enough to register footprints. He took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

One minute. Two. She waited for him to start moving. But he just lay there.

Three minutes. Four. Five.

It had worked.

‘It’s done, Susie.’

‘But …’

‘He’s dead. We have to go. Now. Before someone comes.’

They made their way up the path, still hand in hand. Leaving the river and returning to the woods. She was running, feeling as if her feet were made of air. Wanting to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time. Terrified and exhilarated. Dizzy with adrenalin.

Back in the woods, he led her to the hut. ‘We have to stay here for a few minutes,’ he told her. ‘You musn’t appear excited when we go back. You have to be calm.’

‘How can I? We did it.’ Laughter erupted from her throat. ‘We did it!’

He began to laugh too, while trying to cover her mouth with his hand. She pulled away, opening her mouth to laugh some more. Again he covered it, only this time with his own.

Desire exploded through her like dynamite. She kissed him back, savagely, greedily, wanting to devour him completely. His eyes were shining and she knew he felt it too. That sense of union. Of oneness. I am yours and you are mine and not even death can break this bond we have between us.

So their union became physical, there in the hut, while outside the ghost mother cried for her child and kept other watchful eyes away.

Half past six. She stood in the hallway of her house, breathing in the smell of supper.

For the last two hours she had been sitting in Cobhams Milk Bar with Ronnie, forcing herself to drink a strawberry shake and talk about school, Scotland, films, music. Anything except what had taken place by the river.

‘Is that you, Andrew?’

‘No, Mum. It’s me.’

Her mother appeared from the kitchen, looking anxious. ‘Your stepfather’s not back yet. You don’t think he’s gone to the pub, do you?’

‘It won’t be open yet. He’s probably just lost track of time. Last weekend he went for a walk and was gone for hours.’

‘I suppose so.’ Her mother sighed. ‘I’m making a casserole. He likes that, doesn’t he?’

‘Very much.’ She forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. He’ll be back soon …’

Twenty to seven. From the kitchen window Anna saw Ronnie coming up the drive.

She walked out to meet him. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asked.

He nodded, looking sad. Overhead the evening star climbed into the night sky.

‘She hasn’t left yet, Ronnie.’

The sadness remained. ‘It’s just the thought of someone I like going away. It reminds me of what it was like in Hepton, always watching you go away.’

‘And is this as bad?’

‘No. Nothing could ever be as bad as that.’

She felt a warmth in her stomach. ‘It’s only until Christmas. That’s not long.’

But by then you won’t care. I’ll see to it that you don’t.

Another nod.

‘What did you do?’

‘Had a walk in the woods, then went to Cobhams.’ His expression became guilty. ‘Where I ruined my supper with a chocolate milk shake.’

‘That’s a pity. I’m making your favourite lamb chops with mint sauce.’

‘Really?’ His face lit up into a perfect Ronnie Sunshine smile. ‘Thanks, Mum. You always know how to cheer me up.’

‘Of course. It’s my job. Who knows you better than me?’

‘No one.’

Together they walked back into the house.

A quarter to nine the next morning. Susan stood in the hallway with her mother, both of them staring at the telephone.

‘You have to call them, Mum.’

Her mother reached for the receiver, then pulled her hand back again. There were bags under her eyes from
lack of sleep. Neither of them had slept the previous night.

‘He’s probably just stayed with a friend. If I call the police and they come round he’ll be angry. You know what he’s like.’

‘And you know he’s never stayed out all night before. What’s he going to do? Wake the mayor at midnight and say sorry but I’m too drunk to find my way home?’

‘We don’t know he was drinking.’

‘He was out all evening. What else will he have been doing? Anyway, it doesn’t matter what he was doing last night. The question is where is he now?’

Again her mother reached for the receiver then pulled back her hand.

‘Mum, he’s got an important meeting this morning. Don’t you remember him talking about it? He should have left for the office an hour ago but he’s still not here. That’s got to tell you something.’

Her mother was looking frightened. Susan ached to put her out of her misery and tell her that he would never be coming back. But of course she couldn’t.

‘He drinks at the Crown. Why not call them first. Ask if he was there.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Or ask Ben Logan. If Uncle Andrew did go to the Crown he’ll have had to walk along the river bank and Ben will have seen him. Ben sees everybody.’

‘You should go to school. You’re late already.’

‘I’m not leaving you.’

If he comes back and finds you here he’ll be angry with me. Please, Susie.’

She didn’t want to go. But she didn’t want to stay either. Even the best actresses needed the occasional break from the stage.

‘OK. But I’m coming home at lunchtime, and if you haven’t heard from him by then we’re calling the police …’

The following afternoon. She walked home from school with Ronnie.

Neither spoke. She knew what he was thinking. What she was thinking herself. When would they find him? When would the real performance begin?

Her mother had phoned the police the previous lunchtime. Two officers had come to take a statement. She had stayed home all afternoon, sitting by her mother’s side, looking anxious, saying nothing.

Except that if he had gone to the Crown then Ben Logan should have seen him.

Everyone who knew Uncle Andrew had been called. Uncle George, who had spent the previous evening at their house. The mayor. Other friends. The landlord of the Crown. Nobody knew anything.

Though Ben Logan had seen him walking by the river the previous afternoon, looking a little unsteady on his feet. And not for the first time either.

They reached the corner of Market Court. A police car was parked outside her house. Were they there to ask more questions? Or to break the news?

‘This could be it,’ she said.

‘It was an accident. That’s how it looks and that’s what they’ll think.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Let me come too.’

‘No. It might seem strange. I have to do this on my own.’

‘Are you ready?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

He kissed her cheek. ‘Lights.’

She kissed him back. ‘Camera.’

‘Action.’

As she walked towards the house the light around her seemed to fade, like the darkness that fell over an auditorium at the start of a film. In her head she was seven years old again, sitting in the cinema with her father, holding his hand and watching the girl on the screen who looked like an older version of herself. The girl who was in danger and needed all her wits about her to survive. The girl who felt sick with fear, just as she did.

But her father wasn’t frightened. He was smiling, keeping her hand safe and warm in his. ‘Don’t be scared, Susie,’ he whispered. ‘She can do this. She can do anything because she’s my daughter and she makes me proud. I wish she were here so I could tell her that but she’s not so you’ll have to tell her for me. Keep the knowledge safe in your heart so that one day years from now when she really needs to know it she will.’