Scar Tissue (8 page)

But even amongst all these dear friends I remained
resolutely
silent. And I didn’t know why.

I soon set off for the easy part of the campaign – the transformation of Caffy. Paula’s mum, a tall, broad lady called Stell, was so delighted with the prospect of a customer that she agreed to open the shop specially, an added bonus as only she would see how I looked as I went in and how I looked as I went out. You couldn’t miss the gleam in her eye as I walked in: she’d wanted to get her hands on my blonde bob ever since she’d first seen me. Well, anyone’s bob, really. True, she wasn’t at all happy about turning me brunette, any more than at bottom I was, but she remembered dimly, she said, my stomach sinking, how she could tint my eyebrows and eyelashes to match, provided I wasn’t allergic. There wasn’t time to do patch tests now, so I’d just have to hope and pray.

‘You shouldn’t really colour and perm in the same day,’ Stell fussed, ‘not with hair this fine. And it’s ever so dry – you girls really ought to use more conditioner and moisturising serum. Now, while all the hair colour takes, why don’t I slap on this suntan stuff for you – it’s ever so hard to do it yourself.’

Well, I have spent better half hours than the one in her loo, stripped to bra and pants, a polythene bag on my head to help the colour take and tanning mousse everywhere my underwear wasn’t. I just hoped I wouldn’t turn out like
well-cooked
streaky bacon. I couldn’t look, of course, because I had to keep my eyes shut while the lash colour took.

In fact I was so pleased – or so appalled – with the result, I
hadn’t the heart to turn her down when she offered me a pedicure and manicure on the house, though I loathed nail varnish wherever it was painted. ‘Then you’ll be really transformed,’ she said kindly.

And I was. Of course, I could only see the top half of myself, and I saw a much older woman, with a harder face than I could have imagined. Scary stuff – was this me ten years down the road? I’d have to make damn sure it wasn’t. I paid her with my last remaining cash and scuttled out – I’d plenty of time before Paula came to collect me and needed to buy a few things.

Folkestone may house a lot of people, but it isn’t your actual metropolis, so my shopping options would have been pretty limited even if I’d had the sort of plastic I suspected Jan flexed. But there was a sale at Debenhams and I managed to get a couple of towels at a reasonable price. I fingered them: though they weren’t anything like the cuddly monsters that had engulfed me this morning, they were respectably fluffy. And although I had all Jan’s library at my disposal, and went into the Oxfam shop for a shirt, I came out with a couple more books. You’d think I’d have got used to other people’s cast-offs by now, but it had to be something I really needed or quite special to make me buy. Often I ended up with raggy stuff from a market, which lost its shape and colour as soon as you looked at it, and it wasn’t any comfort at all knowing it had probably been made by poor bastards in India on slave labour rates.

Still with time to spare, I wandered over to the cliff path that leads steeply down to a defunct hotel and some rather sad amusement rides. If I looked farther afield, across a dazzling blue sea not yet dimmed by heat-haze, I could just
make out the coast of France. Now that was tempting. As was the thought of simply nipping over the railings and jumping. That’d solve everyone’s problems. The trouble was, even as I contemplated the act, I knew I’d never carry it off, not because of me, but because of the people I’d leave behind. One of my mates in the bad old days had topped herself without warning. It turned out she was HIV positive and couldn’t face the future, but we were so hurt and angry with her for not trusting us to help. I couldn’t inflict that on Paula and Co, or on the Daweses.

As I peered, I realised I wasn’t alone. This bloke in a virtually fluorescent shirt and orange Bermuda shorts was sidling up to me. Forty-odd, weighing far more than he ought, with a beer-gut almost guaranteeing an early grave. And the ugliest legs I’d ever seen. I moved.

He sidled some more. And then, leaning closer, asked, ‘Are you workin’, darlin’?’

So that was what my transformation had done! I took a deep breath, smiled, and stepped towards him. ‘As a matter of fact I am. Undercover. For the Vice Squad.’

That one never failed, did it? As I reached for my bag, apparently to produce ID or something, he spluttered, blushed and scarpered. In whichever order.

To my dismay, there was no sign of Paula’s car when I got back to Stell’s shop. But a young man was there. Stell didn’t seem pleased to see him. Perhaps it was because he was spotty and smelt of sweat. ‘This is Dean. He says our Derek’s busy, but he’ll take you back.’

‘Derek and the others need a good run today while the weather lasts,’ he said, flapping a not very respectful hand at
Stell as he opened the door and walked out. As I caught up, he added, ‘So he asked me to do the business. I’ve got to go and look at a motor in Hastings, see.’

We didn’t talk much on the way back; the encounter with the would-be punter had ruffled me and in any case he was so busy showing off his driving skills I wouldn’t have wanted to disturb his concentration. I might not like my face much this new way, but it was better than it being reorganised by a trip through his windscreen.

At last he slowed, took a turn off the A-road, and started to weave through country lanes, much as I’d have done, if that been the most direct route. But it struck me that he was actually taking us away from our target. When he pulled into a gateway overhung by a heavy tree and cut the engine, I suspected why. When he unzipped his flies, I knew.

‘How about a French job?’

Reeling at my betrayal I was out of the car, shopping and all, before you could say ‘condom’.

The bugger followed me. It wasn’t easy for me to stride out in strappy sandals, but it was temporarily harder for him, since he was trying to adjust his dress, you might say, at the time. At last, as he got close, I turned. ‘Look here, Sunshine,’ I said, ‘I know plenty of ways of stopping men like you in their tracks. If you want me to bring tears to your eyes, I will. But if I were you I’d get back in that lustmobile of yours fast. And count yourself lucky if I don’t tell the police.’

‘What about – what about Paula? And Derek? He’d kill me.’ He sounded like a three-year-old.

I smiled, not kindly. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you? Now – get lost.’

He didn’t argue.

Striding out of the question, I might as well stroll through the lanes back to Fullers, which, irritatingly, I could see but not see a road to. Take to the fields in these shoes? Not bloody likely. So I teetered on, reminding myself horribly of that busty woman from those
Carry On
films, whose wiggle was supposed to provide innocent male amusement. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of the bitter irony of the situation. I was. I seethed with pain and anger. After my past, here I was, a decent qualified painter and decorator, changing my appearance and ending up looking and being treated like a hooker. I felt cheap – not just because of the sexual advances those bastards had made to me, but because I’d always thought myself as somehow different. I’d survived, not quite by thinking of myself as a foundling dropped into the wrong family. I looked too much like the few photos of my father and my voice was the same as my mother’s. I was genetically theirs, all right. But something had always driven me. Even when I was at rock bottom, hooked and, to put it bluntly and in terms the
News of the World
would relish, Granville’s sex slave, I believed I could do better. And if you sneer and think that earning your living slapping paint on other people’s walls isn’t much cop, then you should have seen what I started from. I’d never paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling, but I’d sure as hell paint Joe Public’s ceilings better than anyone else. And the chance of working on Fullers had made another goal a possibility – what if I could become a specialist restorer, working on lovely National Trust or English Heritage properties?

There, I felt better already. Don’t allow negative thoughts,
the therapist had said. She’d even given us each a rubber band to slip round our wrists. Every time we had a negative thought we were supposed to ping it. I know some didn’t bother, but my wrist was blue with tiny bruises for a few days. And even now I was with the Pots, there were some days I’d slip one on, just to remind myself. Actually, I needed a quick ping right this minute: I hadn’t yet told Todd and Jan the full details of my past. They knew I’d been a drug addict and in thrall to my supplier, who’d carved his initials on my stomach, but they didn’t know quite what I’d been doing when I said I’d worked in a hotel. I’d let them assume I was a chambermaid.

It wasn’t that I wanted to deceive them, not actively. There just hadn’t been the right moment. Actually, none of us had talked much about our pasts. I guessed that they didn’t want to embarrass me by talking about artistic and professional achievements – not to mention the financial results – reaching heights beyond my imagination. I didn’t want to embarrass them by talking about the depths I’d crawled from, worse than anything they could dream. Soon. Very soon. I owed them that. Come to think of it I owed them everything. And it galled me that the only thing I could do to even things up was to apply exceptionally smooth top coats.

I pressed on, constantly orientating myself by the hill Fullers topped. I couldn’t be all that far from where the removal lorry had waited for its human cargo. I started looking carefully at the verge. If I’d known what I was looking for it would have helped. I know a bit from the wrong side about criminal law but not a lot about forensic evidence. Tyre tracks? In weather as hot and dry as this? Nonetheless, I
walked very slowly, my eyes scanning the verge. A couple of hundred yards further on, it was clear even to my
inexperienced
eye that a large and heavy lorry had parked for some time – the grass was flattened and it had dripped some oil of some sort. Better still, one of the poor devils must have had a hole in his pockets: there was a scattering of French Euros. I picked some up, but left the rest, marking the place with a little heap of stones, as if starring in some children’s
adventure
.

So I was hot but triumphant when I finally reach the top of Fuller’s hill. Todd and Jan were reading the
Guardian
and
Times
respectively, over a mug of what smelt like excellent coffee. I braced myself – if I didn’t like what I’d seen of myself, I didn’t think they would, either. Though their eyes spoke volumes, neither said a word about my appearance, not until I too had a cup of coffee and a seat in the sun.

At last Jan spoke. She sounded just like my mate’s mother when she had her first tattoo: primly approving in her words, but inwardly howling. ‘You certainly look very different.’

I yelled with laughter. ‘Oh, call a spade a bloody shovel, Jan! I may not have been your actual Gainsborough portrait before, but now I reckon I’ve been done by Lucien Freud!’

Todd looked up. ‘There’s a lot more to you than you let on, isn’t there, Caffy?’

Why not tell them now? Like I’d just promised myself? Because I couldn’t, any more than I could phone Taz. ‘When this is over, I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Meanwhile, I’ll go and put my gear on and finish off that doorframe, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘It would be to us. But there’s been a call from the police.
I’m so sorry, Caffy,’ Todd added, putting a kind hand on mine, ‘but that old postie didn’t make it through the night. And now they want to interview you again.’

I was on my feet and ready to run.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK. Jan’ll be with you all the time – she’s your legal representative, remember. And she’s already spoken to some of her colleagues who are still practising.’

‘You’ve been well-briefed?’ I risked, winning a pair of answering grimaces.

‘And the other thing is we’ve told them you’re no longer in the Ashford area. They’ll have to arrange to interview you in London,’ Jan said.

‘So I’ll run you both up as far as the suburbs, where you can catch a local train. My feeling is that it wouldn’t be friend Marsh who’ll be talking to you.’

‘So it could be someone quite straight?’

‘Could be. But it could equally well be one of his chums. It’s anyone’s guess.’

I mustn’t cry. As if it mattered, I asked. ‘Which station?’

‘Streatham.’

I felt very sick. Jan had fixed the interview for late afternoon, giving us enough time to get a wig almost the same as my original crop. Why hadn’t I thought of simply buying a brunette wig? Because inside it was hot and itchy, not the sort of thing you want to wear when you’re at the top of a fully-extended ladder, that was why. With a long-sleeved shirt and lightweight jeans, I didn’t have to show too much of the new me. Jan had clearly enjoyed using her card – not gold, as I’d expected, but platinum,
which I should have – and had come to a halt outside an optician’s.

She pointed. ‘That’s what you need.’

‘Varifocals?’ I teased.

‘No – Todd’ll need them soon, though. No. Over there. Those coloured lenses. See – you can turn your blue eyes green or brown or whatever.’

‘Ugh – putting things right in your eyes!’

‘Doesn’t hurt, honest. I do it myself every day. I wonder if my optician –’

‘Your forking out for nail varnish remover’s one thing,’ I said, a bit more sharply than was necessary. ‘And even for this wig.’ Despite myself I had a little scratch. ‘But the idea of your wasting hundreds of quid for something that’d turn my insides out – no thanks.’

‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘And you don’t need Harley Street, as you can see.’ She peered more closely. ‘Forty pounds for two months’ supply. There must be somewhere in Ashford that sells them. All right, a bit close to home. Hastings or even Canterbury.’

I had a feeling than Jan didn’t recognise the word ‘no’ when it applied to anything she wanted to do. She and Paula were sisters under the skin.

They kept us waiting at the cop shop, as I’d expected. They had the same posters as in Ashford.

‘When did you and Todd get together?’ I asked, not just to pass the time. To verify a theory I had.