Never Close Your Eyes (67 page)

She felt sick. ‘What?' she commanded. She had to hear it. ‘Finish what you were about to say.'

He stared at her for the first time, looking deeply into her eyes. His own eyes were sad but she couldn't reach out to him.

He spoke very quietly. ‘I feel disgusted.' He looked away quickly, shaking his head. ‘I'm sorry.'

Becca staggered slightly, as if she'd been struck, but she managed to steady herself. ‘We're the same person, Tom,' she whispered urgently. ‘Dawn and Becca, Becca and Dawn. And I wouldn't be the woman you fell in love with if I hadn't—'

‘It doesn't matter,' he interrupted. ‘I can't explain.'

She thought about how different her life had looked just ten minutes before when she was stumbling over the boxes in the hall. Spain, the sunshine, the four of them together, a whole new adventure. So it had all been an illusion.

Had she ever truly believed that she'd get away with it – that she and Tom could start again? Maybe, like him, she'd just
wanted
to believe it. Real life wasn't like that.

She thought about kind Mr Carr at the correctional institute who'd tried so hard to convince her that she could put the past behind her. She pictured Jude on the day she died, straddling Dawn, thumping up and down on her stomach as hard as she could, her long nails scraping down her cheek, making her eyes water.

She remembered Jude's words: ‘I hate ye, I'll always hate ye. Ye think ye're so fuckin' clever but ye're not.'

‘Please, Jude,' Becca muttered.

‘What?' said Tom.

Becca shook her head, raised a hand to hush him. ‘Please, Jude, can't we make up now?'

But there was no reply.

Jude had got her revenge after all.

Zelda lit another fag and inhaled deeply. It was well after midnight and she'd been on the phone all evening. She was exhausted. It had been a bad night. She hadn't been able to find anyone, not even her usual suspects. Probably off somewhere having a knees-up, the buggers.

But she couldn't say that to her clients, now could she? The woman whose daughter had died in a car crash had been particularly wearing; she'd gone on and on, blubbing away, asking so many questions. It was tiring having to make it up. Still, she shouldn't complain. Business was booming. She'd picked up several new clients thanks to them leaflets she'd had printed.

She got up slowly and went to fill the kettle. A nice cup of tea, that'd be the ticket. She wouldn't go to bed just yet, not when her mind was still racing. She needed to unwind first, unclog her brains. She opened the tin of teabags and peered in. Nearly empty. Tch. She'd have to go to the shops tomorrow. She looked at the picture on the side of the gold tin. It was of a little girl in old-fashioned clothes, Victorian or something. She had curly hair and a big, red parcel in her arms. She was smiling.

Zelda frowned. Another of Carol's stupid Christmas presents. It had come full up with lots of fancy teabags with weird names. Well, Zelda had got rid of them quick and put normal ones in instead. What was Carol thinking of, giving her smelly tea like that? She should have known she wouldn't like it.

That funny, gnawing feeling in her belly again, like a rat nibbling away at her insides.

She filled her cup with boiling water, dunked the teabag a few times before chucking it in the sink. Then she sniffed the milk – force of habit – and added just a little, not too much, and two sugars.

It had been an effort to get on the tube and go all the way across London to deliver them leaflets, she thought, sitting back down. She didn't like the tube, the way people stared at her and made snide comments. But Carol would never find out what she was up to. At least now there were possibilities. You never knew who might bite. After all, it wasn't such a big place. Coincidences happened.

The phone rang. Blast. She could always leave it, but there again . . .

She picked up the receiver: ‘Zelda speakin'.'

‘I hope I'm not calling too late?' It was a woman's voice, anxious, quavery. She sounded posh, middle class, but there was a slight lilt in there too, a hint of something that Zelda couldn't quite place. She knitted her brows. She was good at accents. You could always hear them better on the phone. It wasn't Welsh, for sure. Or Scottish.

‘No, darlin', I'm always up late,' she said. ‘How can I help?'

‘I got your leaflet through my letterbox.'

Zelda sat up. The woman lived in or around Richmond, then.

‘I've never done this before,' she went on.

‘That's all right.' Zelda put on her most reassuring voice. ‘I won't bite.'

‘There's someone – two people actually – that I really need to speak to,' the woman explained.

Zelda reached for her cigarettes and lit one. ‘Yes, darlin'?'

‘It's my mother, you see,' she said. ‘And my sister. They're both dead.'

‘I'm sorry, sweet'art,' said Zelda. ‘You must miss them somethin' terrible.'

‘I do,' the woman answered. It sounded as if she was blowing her nose. ‘They died a long time ago.'

Zelda paused. The woman's voice had a very faint, sing-songy quality. Geordie? That was it. There was a hint of Geordie in there. She must have lived in London for years, though, or had elocution lessons or something.

‘Can you find them for me?' the woman went on. ‘It's really urgent.'

‘I can't promise it but I'll try,' Zelda replied. ‘What's your name, darlin'?'

‘Becca. Becca Goodall.'

Zelda hesitated. That name rang a bell. Her mind started to race.

‘Have you got kiddies, darlin'?' she asked. She was playing for time while she racked her brain.

‘Yes, two. Ten and seven.'

‘I thought so.'

Ten, the same age as that Michael, Evie's boy. She was sure she'd heard Carol mention some Becca woman in relation to Evie. She'd always listened carefully to what Carol said about that girl of hers, stored it away for possible future use.

‘And you're married, yes?' Zelda asked.

The woman hesitated. ‘It's difficult . . .'

Marital problems, then.

‘Best friend's name begins with an F – or an E,' Zelda went on. ‘That's it, an E.'

The woman gasped. ‘Evie? How did you know?'

Zelda chuckled. She was enjoying herself now. ‘I know lots of things, darlin',' she said. ‘You'd be surprised.'

She put out her fag and lit another immediately. Funny, she wasn't a bit tired any more.

‘But can you really . . . talk to the dead? I never used to believe in that sort of thing—'

‘But now you're willin' to give it a go?' Zelda interrupted. ‘Don't worry darlin', I have a lot of clients like you. They start off all unbelievin', then when they see what I can do they change their minds. It's all right, I'm used to dealin' with unbelievers like you.'

The woman paused. ‘So do you think you can really help? I wouldn't ask, only I'm desperate to get in touch.'

Zelda listened carefully. She was hiding something, for certain. Interesting.

‘There's something I need to talk to them about,' Becca went on. ‘It's really important. My husband says he's going to leave me . . .' There was a catch in her throat. ‘I need their help to win him back. I know I can do it, if only they'll let me. I have to speak to them, to explain.'

Zelda inhaled and exhaled deeply. ‘Trust me, darlin',' she said softly. ‘You're in good hands. Now close your eyes, sit back and focus on your mum's face. That's right . . . good . . . I can feel somethin' comin' through . . . I'm seein' somethin' more clearly now. What's your mum's name?'

‘Maureen,' Becca whispered.

‘Good evening, Maureen,' Zelda said. ‘I've got someone here who's bin wantin' to speak to you for a very long time.'