The Betrayal (33 page)

I
’d spent
the afternoon and evening in the Bonnard library and gone directly to Dee Street.
Now I’m standing on Aurora’s walkway, glittering with rage.
A light is on in her window.
She claims she only needs four hours sleep and her light, always the last to go off at night, is like the beacon in Wharf Alley.
As usual, she doesn’t look surprised to see me, even though it’s after midnight.

‘Bless you, duck, come in,’ she says.
‘Sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa.
Not a good night, then?’

‘Not a good night,’ I agree.
Aurora doesn’t need psychic intelligence to gauge my mood.

She clears a choir of angels from an armchair.
These hand-carved angels take up all available space.
The other kind, the metaphysical ones that hover in the ether are easier to manage, space-wise, that is.

I ask if she saw anyone on my walkway today.
It’s visible from her angel shop.
Blonde and petite, an elfin haircut – the quiff has disappeared.
Did anyone answering that description call into her shop to seek the power of an angel?
One of the fallen ones, the damned?

Did the letter I found in my post box when I returned arrive by courier or was she here in person, peering through my porthole windows?
Same white envelope, no address, no postage stamp.
Just my name printed large on the front.
Aurora shakes her head.
She only had a handful of customers all day and none answer my description.

I bid her goodnight and return home.
My container is warm and enclosed but it no longer feels safe.
I should tear this letter and scatter it into the fast-flowing Thames.
That would be a victory but, instead, I slip it under my pillow.
Tomorrow, when I’m calmer I’ll read it.

I can’t sleep.
I’m heading off with my fellow students in the morning.
We’re leaving before London stirs.
Not that the city ever sleeps but before the surge begins.
‘Time’ is the theme of our latest project and Big Ben is our starting off point.
Cameras will click and pencils scrape across sketch pads as the notes of a new day ring out.
We’ve been told that a stack of old coins are balanced on Big Ben’s pendulum to keep the minutes ticking.
If only it was so simple to balance those moments from our yesterdays?
The decisive ones that become weighted down by desire and change everything.

I take the letter from its envelope.
I make a pot of tea and wrap myself in a rug.
Outside, the wind from the Thames rattles the walkways.
Jake rings.
I switch off my phone and begin to read.

Dear Max

Today was awful and wonderful.
I can’t decide if it was more wonderful than awful or the other way round.
The awful bit was fighting with Karin.
She’s still annoyed over Jake.
She’s a mean, sulky bitch.
Like today on the beach when she said I looked like a big red beetroot.
When she says things like that I hate her.
I’m sorry Max but I do.
I hate her because saying it makes it real and that’s how I felt until Jake lay down on the rug beside me and asked if I’d go for a walk with him.

I didn’t want to go.
But I went so you’d see how grown up I am.
We walked to the rocks.
He brought me into this little cave.
It smelled disgusting from all the seaweed but the sand was dry and hard under us.
I know that’s where he brought Polka Dot Bum and maybe others too.
His kisses were rough but not so bad.
My face was flushed when we came back.
Did you notice?
Karin certainly did.
She called me a prostitute.
That’s one of her worst insults but not as bad as being told I look like a big red beetroot.

I was going to ring my mum and ask her to collect me but Joan started fighting with you about the nomads and going away to the desert.
She gets mad for no reason and there’s all this tension when we’re eating dinner and pretending not to notice how much she’s drinking.
I was still determined to ring my mum first thing tomorrow and then tonight happened.

I’m glad I woke up when I did.
The night was so hot I couldn’t go back to sleep.
It was midnight and I thought everyone was in bed.
I went outside in my pj’s and sat on the bench.
It was so quiet, no kittiwakes shrieking and only the waves splashing off the rocks.
The stars were bright like diamonds.
I never see them like that at home.

I heard the garden gate open and slap closed.
I figured it was you.
Who else would be walking all alone on the beach in the moonlight?
You were like a ghost coming out of the dark in your white T-shirt and khaki shorts.
I should have run back into the house but I didn’t.
The bench creaked when you sat beside me.

‘It’s warm tonight,’ you said.
‘Not even a breath of air on the waves.’

My arm felt tingly against yours.
Only two people can sit on the bench and we were sooo close.
I was glad it was dark and you couldn’t see my face.
It was as red as anything.
Red as a beetroot!
You asked if I’d been going out with Jake for long.
Only since the holidays, I said.
But we’re not going out.
Not really.

I told you Karin likes him better and that she thinks I’m trying to take him from her.

You said I mustn’t pay attention when she gets angry.
She’s upset because you’re going away again.

She really misses you when you’re gone.
Loads.
She’s going to travel with you when she’s eighteen and help with your books.

You gave me a hug.
I thought my heart would leap out of my chest.
You let me go but you kept your arm along the back of the seat.
I could have put my head on it if I leaned back.
Did you want me to do that?
Karin said men send signals.
I don’t know what they are.

Goodnight Max.
I can’t wait to see you in the morning.
I love you so much.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

T
he solid construction
of shipping containers amazed him.
Wharf Alley was a community of homes, a café and diner, some shops, craft studios, a theatre and an art gallery.
A network of steel steps and walkways led to the various doorways and a lift, also constructed from a shipping container, gave access to the higher levels.
He rang Nadine’s bell.
No one answered.
He peered in though one of the portholes and saw the corner of a sink, an easel, shelves stacked with paints and bottles of spirits.

‘You should have phoned Mum first,’ Ali said when he rang.
She sounded terse, anxious to end the call.

‘She’s not picking up.
Have you any idea where she might be?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Did you have a row with your boyfriend?’

‘
Dad.
I stopped answering those questions ten years ago.
Goodbye.’

Jake shoved his phone into his pocket and stood, undecided.
He checked his watch.
Where could Nadine be at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning?
Could anything have happened to her on her way home last night?
He gripped the balcony rail.
Madness.
Karin Moylan was malicious but to imagine her stepping from the shadows with a knife was ludicrous.
But she had used one on his van… and also on Nadine’s paintings.

A heavily-built women emerged from one of the containers.
She had an unfortunate face, her eyes, nose and mouth too closely aligned, an ample chin and forehead.
Her long skirt brushed the walkway as she came towards him.

‘Can I help you?’
she asked.

‘I’m looking for Nadine Saunders.’

‘Do you mean Nadine Keogh?’

‘I guess I do.’
His startled laugh rang hollow.
‘Any idea where she is?’

‘She went out early.’

‘On her own?’

The woman pulled the edges of her cardigan over her breasts and narrowed her eyes.
‘Is that an appropriate question to ask?’

‘I’m her husband.’

‘Her husband…’ She seemed taken aback.
‘I didn’t realise…’

‘I just want to know if she’s okay.’

‘She on a project with a group from her college.
A mini-bus picked her up.
I’m Aurora Kent, a friend of hers.’

‘Any idea when she’ll be home?’
Jake loosened his grip on the railing.

‘She left very early so it could be soon.
Would you like a cuppa while you’re waiting?’

He was surprised by the spaciousness of her container with its insulated walls and wooden floor.
Angels stood, lay or stretched on shelves, pensive, meditative expressions, gossamer wings shimmering.
The real ones were surrounding him, Aurora claimed, and working hard to heal his troubled aura.
He asked if his aura was blue.

‘Light brown.’
She peered intently at him.
‘Are you confused about anything?
Discouraged?’

‘Isn’t everyone?’

Aurora Kent was the kind of woman he would normally avoid like the plague but, two cups of tea later, he almost believed in the existence of her angels.

His phone rang.

‘Where the hell are you?’
Feral sounded querulous.
Morning sickness again.
‘We’re ready to hit the road.’

‘It’s not goodbye,’ Aurora said when he was leaving.
Her handshake was hard, her eyes bright with a hawkish concentration.
Despite his protests she insisted on presenting him with an angel.

‘Archangel Michael,’ she said.
‘The Great Protector.’

‘I’m afraid I’m a sceptic when it comes to angels,’ he admitted.

‘That’s not an issue for Michael,’ she said.
‘He doesn’t discriminate.’

The little figurine had such a belligerent expression that Jake longed to fling it into the nearest bin.
But Aurora’s kindness stalled the temptation and he placed it on the dashboard of his van.

Reedy drove them to the ferry.
Archangel Michael, sword and shield at the ready, swayed on the dashboard and lulled Jake to sleep.
Would Karin be on the ferry, watching from the deck as the coastline receded?
Or had she already flown back to Dublin to plan her next tactic to drive him mad?

S
amantha skyped the following night
, hesitant, tearful, her expression doleful enough to suggest she was falling behind on her personal best.

‘How did the tour go, Dad?’

‘Good… good.
What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve done something
really
stupid.’
She twirled a hank of hair around her finger.
He thought of Nadine, the same nervous habit.
Genetic impulses.

‘Promise you won’t get mad when you hear,’ she begged.

‘Spit it out, Samantha.’

‘
Promise
.’

‘Okay, I promise.’
He prepared himself for the worst.
Banned substance.
She had tested positive and was about to be expelled from Silver Ridge.
Either that or she was pregnant.
She had mentioned a shot putter she was seeing.
Jake winced as he imagined a muscle-bound baby with a penchant for spinning in circles.

‘I’ve… em… actually… I’ve been emailing your girlfriend… only now I find out she’s not your girlfriend.
Ali says she’s a psycho stalker and you hate her guts.’
Samantha rushed the final words together and stretched her lips, braced for his reaction.

He drew back from the screen, as if distance could deaden his daughter’s voice.

‘What were the emails about?’

‘Just stuff about Silver Ridge.
She wanted information about the athletic scholarship because her friend’s son is thinking of coming here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me she’d been in touch?’

‘Well, it’s a bit complicated.’
Samantha paused and drew a deep breath.
‘The first email she sent to me was a mistake.
It was meant for you.
She realised what she’d done immediately and sent another asking me to delete it without reading it.’

‘And did you?’

‘I didn’t have time.
Not that I would have,’ she hurriedly added.
‘But I’d seen the photo by then.’

‘What photo?’

‘The one attached to the email.
You and her in a bar.
She told me you wanted to keep her a secret until you and Mum were properly divorced.
She asked me not to mention anything about it.’

‘What personal information did she want?’

‘I didn’t realise it was personal, Dad.
It didn’t seem important.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Stuff about the gigs you were playing and Mum’s new place and your new phone number because she said she’d lost it and needed to get in touch with you when you were on tour.’
Samantha twisted her hair even more furiously.
‘God!
I’m so stupid.
I’d no idea she was lying but Ali says…
Dad
– you look like you’re going to strangle me.’

‘Samantha, leave your hair alone and listen carefully.
I’m not angry with you but I will be if you don’t send any further email you get from her into spam.’
He leaned closer to the screen.
‘
Spam
… do you understand.
And delete her from your address book
immediately
.’

His heart was pounding.
Was this how a heart attack started?
The feeling of suffocation, the heat across his forehead?
The belief that his life was totally outside his control?

‘I’ve done so already.’
Samantha was on the verge of tears.
‘Dad.
I’m
really
sorry.
Are you going to be okay?
She’s not a bunny boiler…
is
she?’

‘Nothing as dramatic as that, Samantha.
She likes playing games, that’s all.
She won’t bother you again but if, by chance, she does contact you, let me know at once, no matter what time it is.
Is that clear?
Let me talk to Sam.’

He repeated the same warnings to his monosyllabic son, whose vocabulary gene, Jake suspected, had been hijacked in the womb by his twin.

He switched off Skype and rang Karin.
As he expected, her answering machine came on.

‘I know what you’ve been doing to Samantha,’ he said.
‘Your emails prove you’re a dangerous liar who’s stalking my family.
If you contact her or any one of my children again I’m taking out an injunction against you.
This is a warning, not an idle threat.’

She was probably listening, immune to his fury.
Her emails to Samantha would have been as innocuously bland as the many texts she had sent to him.