Little Face (27 page)

`Here's what I think happened,' he said. `Your brief advised you to
cut a deal. After the DNA match, you were stuffed. He told you
you'd get life if you pleaded not guilty. No jury'd believe a turd like
you.' Simon saw a flicker of discomfort in Beer's eyes. He pressed on.
`Most innocent people would have been furious, insisted on a chance
to prove their innocence. But that's the middle classes, isn't it? The
sort that society treats well. I know your background. I've been
reading up on you, Beer. Deprivation, truancy, broken home, sexual
abuse-if you've had that sort of life and then a lawyer tells you
you're about to get framed for something you didn't do, you believe
them, don't you? Because it's exactly the sort of shit that happens to
filth like you every day.'

`It's filth like you that makes life what it is for me and mine,' said
Beer, roused from his complacency at last. An odd phrase to use,
thought Simon, wondering who the `mine' were. Beer was unmarried
and childless. Was he referring to a criminal underclass, as if it were a
group identity one might take pride in? A more general underclass?

Simon pulled his chair forward. `Listen to me,' he said. `If you didn't kill Laura Cryer, I think I know who did. He's a spoilt rich boy who
lives in a big house with his rich mum. He's the one you're helping to
get away with murder.'

`I'm not helping anyone.' The sullen mask again.

`You were seen in the garden of The Elms twice in the weeks leading up to Laura Cryer's death. What were you doing there?'

`The what?'

`The Elms. Where you stabbed Cryer.'

`Dr Cryer, if you don't mind. She's just a fucking body to you,
isn't she?'

`What were you doing at The Elms?'

A shrug. `I don't remember.'

`If you're worried about getting more jail time for entering a false
guilty plea, don't,' said Simon. `You'd probably be charged, but with
time already served taken into account ... Or is it the prospect of
getting out too soon that's bothering you? You made a fair few enemies when you turned Queen's and shopped a load of your old
mates, didn't you? Worried you might not last too long outside this
place?'

`You're the one who looks worried, piggy.' Beer lit another cigarette
from the packet on the table. `Not me.'

Simon could glean nothing from his expression. `Who ever's gunning
for you will still be around in five, six or seven years' time,' he said.
`You're going to need our protection, whenever you get out. So if I
were you . . . '-Simon picked up the Marlboros and put them back
in his pocket-'I'd start thinking about the best way to make us want
to help you.'

Behind a cloud of exhaled smoke, Beer's eyes narrowed. `Next time
you come here, make sure you know who Laura Cryer was, what she
achieved. You want me to talk because it'll help you with another case,
nothing to do with Laura. Or me.'

Laura. Yet he hadn't known her. How long had it been since Simon
had thought of Alice as `Mrs Fancourt'? Significance and familiarity
were not the same thing.

`You don't give a fuck about the truth, do you? You just want me to
tell you what you want to hear.'

`What are you talking about?'

`All the little piggies lived happily ever after. The end.' And it was.
No matter how hard Simon tried, he could not persuade Darryl Beer
to say another word.

Wednesday, October 1, 2003

I OPEN MY EYES with a strangled moan. Waking up is the worst part,
plunging headlong into the nightmare all over again. David is not in
bed. Vivienne stands in the doorway, fully dressed in a smart black
trouser suit and grey polo neck. Her face is covered in its usual mask
of subtle make-up. I smell her perfume, Madame Rochas. I feel dirty,
disgusting. I haven't bathed, or even washed, since Monday. My
mouth is thick and dry, my hair matted.

`Do you feel better, after a good night's sleep?' she asks.

I do not reply. I feel groggy. I cannot lift my eyelids, they are too
heavy. It is misery. It must be; I stopped taking the Co-codamol tablets
after I spoke to Dr Allen.

`Why don't you have a nice bath?' Vivienne suggests, smiling
determinedly.

I shake my head. I can't get out of bed with her standing there.

`Alice, this is a struggle for all of us, not just you. Nevertheless, we
must behave like civilised people.'

I hear David in the nursery, talking to Little Face in an animated
voice. She gurgles in response. I feel exiled, as if I am a million miles
away from any possibility of happiness. `I want to look after the
baby,' I say, tears escaping despite my best efforts. `Why won't David
let me? He won't let me go anywhere near her.'

Vivienne sighs. `The baby is fine. And David's just worried about you, that's all. Alice, don't you think you ought to concentrate on looking after yourself? You've been through a terrible ordeal.' Her sympathy confuses me. `That long labour, and then an emergency
Caesarian. I think you're putting far too much pressure on yourself.'

She said the same thing when I told her about the trouble I was having coming to terms with the death of my parents. `Don't fight your
grief,' she said. `Embrace it. Make friends with it. Welcome it into your
life. Invite it to stay for as long as it wants to. Eventually it will
become manageable.' It was the best advice anyone gave me. It
worked, exactly as Vivienne said it would.

`I'm going to take the baby with me today,' she says. `We'll drop
Felix off at school, then go shopping.'

`You don't want to leave her alone with me and David, do you? You
don't trust either of us.'

`Babies like a bit of fresh air,' says Vivienne firmly. `It's good for
them. And a bath will be good for you. It really will make a difference,
you know, to clean yourself up, put on some nice clothes. It won't
make your problems disappear, but it'll make you feel more human. If
you feel strong enough, that is. I don't want you to over-exert yourself
if you're not ready.'

I believe that Vivienne wants me to love her. More than that, she sees
it as her right to be loved by me. At the forefront of her mind is not that
she locked me in the nursery or that she is undermining my sense of
reality by treating me like an invalid, but all the kind and helpful things
she's done for me over the years.

I turn on to my side, away from her. Now that I understand this new
sympathy, I feel like a fool. Vivienne wants me to be ill. Of course she
does. Her preferred outcome would be for Florence not to be missing,
for my mind, rather, to be severely disturbed. I think about wellmeaning Dr Allen, who believed I wanted Little Face to be sick.

`Well, you get some rest then.' Vivienne is determined not to let my
unresponsive behaviour get to her. She bends down, kisses my cheek.
`Goodbye, dear. I'll see you later.'

I close my eyes, begin to count in my head. Vivienne is taking Little Face out on a shopping trip. Everyone can come and go as they
please apart from me. What would happen if I said, as Vivienne just
has, `I'm taking the baby out today'? I would be stopped, of course.

When I hear the front door thud, and, a few seconds later, Vivienne's car engine, I open my eyes and look at the clock. It is quarter to eight. She has gone. I climb out of bed and stumble towards
the landing, feeling as if I haven't walked for years. I rub my bare
toes against the velvety wool of the stone-coloured carpet and stare
down the long corridor, at the rows of white doors on either side. I
feel like a person in a dream, the kind in which each door will lead
to a room that has a clear purpose, distinct from all the others, and
to a radically different outcome. Why is the house so silent? Where
is David?

The door to Florence's nursery is open. I weigh my need to go to the
toilet against the chance to go into my daughter's room without being
watched or monitored. No contest.

I enter cautiously, as if trespassing on forbidden territory, and walk
over to the empty cot. I lower my face and inhale the scent of new
baby, that lovely, fresh smell. I pull the cord that dangles from the smiling sun on the wall above the cot, and `Somewhere Over the Rainbow'
begins to play. My heart twists. All I can do is hope that Florence is not
suffering anywhere near as intensely as I am.

I open the doors of the fitted wardrobe and stroke the piles of her
freshly laundered clothes, the ridges of pink and yellow and white, the
layers of bobbly wool and fleeces as soft as I imagine clouds would be.
Such an optimistic, joyful sight should make me happy, but in the
absence of Florence it has the opposite effect.

I close the wardrobe doors, stiff with misery. I should go. Being in
here only makes me feel worse, but somehow, despite my growing need
to use the bathroom, I cannot bring myself to leave. This room is evidence that I have a precious daughter. It links me to Florence. I sit in
the rocking chair in the corner, where I once foolishly imagined I would spend many hours feeding her, holding and stroking Monty, Florence's cuddly rabbit with long, floppy ears. My yearning for my
baby tingles in every nerve ending in my skin.

Eventually, physical discomfort forces me to move. I make sure I
leave the door ajar at the right angle, exactly as I found it. Then it
occurs to me that no-one has explicitly said I am not allowed in here.
Am I becoming paranoid? `Hello!' I call out from the landing. `David?'
There is no reply. Panic grips me. They have all gone for good. I am
alone. I have always been alone.

`David?' I call again, louder this time. He is not in the bathroom. I
am about to lift the lid of the toilet when I notice that the bath tub is
already full. No bubbles or oil, only water. Both Vivienne and I add
scented things from bottles to our bathwater, though her additions are
considerably more expensive than mine. This bath used to be my
favourite in the world. It's a big, old enamel one, a creamy off-white,
like the colour of healthy teeth. Two people can fit into it easily.
David and I do occasionally, when Vivienne is guaranteed to be out for
at least an hour. Did, I correct myself.

I frown, puzzled. I have never known David to have a bath and then
fail to empty it and rinse out the tub. Vivienne would regard that as the
epitome of bad manners. I touch the water with my hand. It is cold.
Then I notice that it is also completely clear. No soap has touched it,
I am sure of that. Why would David have a bath, not use soap, then
leave the water in?

I hear a loud bang behind me. I gasp and spin round. David grins at
me. He has slammed the door and is leaning against it with his hands
in his jeans pockets. I see from the expression on his face that I have
walked straight into his trap. He must have been waiting behind the
door to ambush me for some time. `Morning, dear,' he says sarcastically. `I've run you a bath. Nice of me, I think, under the circumstances.'

I am frightened. There is a comic casualness about his cruelty that
has replaced the driven bitterness of previous days. Whatever this means, it has to be bad. Either he cares less about me than ever, or he
has found, quite by accident, that the desperate sadism born out of his
misery and confusion is something he has a taste for.

`Leave me alone,' I say. `Don't hurt me.'

`Don't hurt me.' He mimics me. `Charming! All I've done is run you
a bath, so that you can have a nice, long, relaxing soak.'

`It's freezing cold.'

`Get into the bath, Alice.' His voice is laced with menace.

`No! I need to go to the toilet.' I realise, as I speak, how urgent this
need is.

`I'm not stopping you.'

`I'm not going while you're here. Just get out, leave me alone.'

David stays where he is. We stare at one another. My eyes are
totally dry, my mind numb and empty.

`Well?' says David. `Go on, then.'

`Fuck you!' It is all I can think of.

`Oh, very ladylike.'

I have no choice, since I am not strong enough to eject him from the
room physically. The contents of my bowels have turned to water. I
start to walk towards the lavatory. David moves unexpectedly fast. He
leaps in front of me, stopping my progress. `Sorry,' he says. `You had
your chance.'

`What?' I cannot believe that his behaviour is spontaneous. He
must have planned every stage of this horror, every word. No-one
could improvise such abuse.

`You swore at me. So you can get straight into the bath.'

`No.' I dig my fingernails into my palms. `I won't! Move out of the
way and let me go to the toilet.'

`You know, I could take steps to ensure that you never see Florence
again,' he says calmly. `It wouldn't be hard. Not hard at all.'

`No! Please, you can't. Promise you won't do that!' Dread courses
through my veins, spreading to every cell in my body. He sounds as if
he means it.

`I can and will do you more harm than you can do me, Alice. A lot
more. Remember that. I can and I will.'