The Child Garden (23 page)

“Couldn't she find her?”

Scarlet shook her head. “If only she'd been as hard to get in touch with when we were twelve as she was when we were seventeen,” she said. “Just think. Scar was from London. If it wasn't for Eden, she would have stayed in London, and she'd still be alive.”

“But Rosie wouldn't exist.”

“There's no pain in not existing,” Scarlet said. “I've lost her anyway.”

“And where would you be?” I said. “If there'd been no Eden.”

“Well, not working in a shoe shop and a pub in this tinpot town.”

“Why do you stay?”

“I stayed until Rosie's eighteenth birthday in case she came looking for her mum. I thought it was better to be near. And then the last few years … I've got a girlfriend here and her kids are settled in their schools.” She gave me another smile. “I'm okay. I'm a damn sight better off than Mrs. Best.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Sure, Alan Best killed himself, but he wasn't the only one. Why did you pick
his
mother?”

“Don't you know?” said Scarlet. “He's Rosie's biological father. He's on the birth certificate. You should see your face!” She was laughing at me, but it was so good to see laughter in her eyes that I didn't care. I couldn't believe Lynne, with her love of gossip, had missed it.

“Alan Best,” I said. “How did that happen?”

“Party,” said Scarlet. “We were young and daft. It could have been either one of us that got knocked up, actually.” She laughed even harder, and I couldn't blame her; goodness knows what my face looked like as I took
that
in.

“You know what happened to him, right? The rumours?”

“Yes. It was one of the few times I've been glad Scar was dead.”

“It wasn't true,” I told her. “No one who knew him believes it.”

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“The only person who even half believes it is his mum, and that's only because she's so miserable. I don't think she knows about Rosie. I'm sure she doesn't. I don't suppose you've got pictures, have you?”

“Only baby pictures,” said Scarlet. “Better than nothing, though, eh?”

I said goodbye soon after that and walked away. I hardly knew where I was going, dizzied by the thoughts whirling around in me. They had made up stories, hidden the truth—hidden a lot of what the police needed to know to find out what really happened that night. And then what?

Did one of them finally realise the power they held? If one of them threatened to change their story, they could have blackmailed everyone else into—

I brought myself up short. One of them
had
started changing her story. April had finally told Stig she'd heard the car. When everyone else had been hurt beyond the reach of more pain—when Jo-jo and Alan and Nathan and Edmund and Scar were gone, when Sun and Rain had lost their beloved sister, and Scarlet had lost her first love and their baby—April had turned to Stig to back her up before she confronted … I had to face it.

Before she confronted Duggie.

Duggie, who knew what the other kids thought of him. Duggie, who masterminded the story of poor frightened children out in the dark and put all the focus on the teacher and the school. Duggie, who had managed to make the others say he was in his sleeping bag, when in fact he was somewhere in the woods when Moped died (and he knew about that first too, with plenty of time to make up a story). Duggie, my husband, who had fooled me into thinking I was lucky. Duggie, who was so far from the great guy he pretended to be that a son like Nicky was just a dent in his pride, not a blessing.

I was back at my car. I got in and sat staring out through the windscreen.

But Duggie had an alibi for Tuesday night when April Cowan was moved. He had been with Zöe.
Could I trust that?
I asked myself, and decided that I could. A wife might lie for her husband, but a new girlfriend wouldn't tell a lie like that for a man she'd just met and hardly knew. Only she did seem to have fallen for him. And it hadn't taken him long to get his hooks into me all those years ago. I lowered my head and rested it against the steering wheel. It pounded right behind my eyes when I leaned forward and deep in towards the back when I sat up again. I couldn't do this on my own. I needed Stig to help me.

Twenty-Nine

How I got home
without driving off the road I'll never know. It was dark before I was bumping down the track to Rough House, and when I tried to get out of the car and stand up, I found myself bent over like a crone, my arms set stiff from gripping the wheel so hard and my clutch foot cramping. I hobbled towards the back door as Stig opened it.

He took a step back, his eyes flaring with fear.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“Gloria?” he said, stepping forward again. “I didn't recognise you.”

I put my hand up and brushed my hair away from where it was hanging over my face. I was so exhausted I'd forgotten.

“What else is wrong?” I said.

“Oh, Glo,” he said. “I don't know how to tell you … it's Walter.”

I shouldered past him into the kitchen, dropped my bag at my feet, and rushed over. Walter was lying stretched out in his basket in front of the stove. In the low light I couldn't tell if he was breathing.

“Is he gone?” I said.

“No,” said Stig. “But he's been really bad since lunchtime. He was having fits, but the vet came and gave him a jag to stop them.”

“You phoned the
vet
?” I said. “Stig, you're supposed to be hiding!”

“But if you'd seen him,” said Stig. “Nobody could have sat and watched. And anyway, it's nearly over, isn't it? We're getting to the end now.”

I got down onto my knees, still stiff, beside Walter and laid my hand on his side. Now I could tell that he was breathing, shallow but laboured, and his fur felt hot.

“Didn't the vet ask who you were?” I said. “Was it Mandeep?”

“I said I was a friend,” said Stig. “He was only worried about Walter, really.”

“I've got to talk to you,” I said. There was silence for a minute and then Stig spoke up, almost laughing.

“Me?” he said. “I thought you were talking to him. I think he's dying, Glo.”

And yet I managed to turn my back on him and look at Stig. This was the thing I had been dreading, the second worst thing that could happen: Walter going before Miss Drumm.

“He's had a good life,” I said. “And this is a pretty good death too. When my time comes it'll do me. Listen, Stig, I really need to lay this all out in front of you because I think I know who's behind it. And I think you know too. I think you've known all along.”

“Yeah,” said Stig. “But I couldn't face knowing, so I just … unknew. Does that make any sense?”

It makes more sense to me than it possibly could to anyone
, I thought. I spent my life doing just that, just way he described it, all day every day. What didn't make any sense was why Stig would have any trouble facing the truth about Duggie. Unless because the shock of it or maybe the shame of it would floor me.

I made him tea, put a tot of whisky in it, and told him everything. How Moped followed Duggie that night, how Cloud Irving died, how Scar McFarlane died, how Duggie had tried the gate lock, how Miss Naismith
had
checked on the kids and Duggie had made up a story. He listened in silence until the end, but then he shook his head.

“She didn't check,” he said. “I know she didn't. I don't know why Scarlet said she did.”

“Stig, Scarlet had no reason to lie to me about it,” I said. “I trust her. Look, maybe Miss Naismith didn't come and bang on the latrine door, maybe she fell short by that much, but she did go out to check on the other kids. You wouldn't know. You weren't there.”

He waited a while before he spoke again.

“I wasn't in the bog either,” he said. “I'm sorry, Gloria. I lied to you.”

“Why?” I said. Then all of a sudden I thought I knew. “Oh my God.” The words fell out of me like clods of mud. “It was you, wasn't it? It's you.” I scrambled to my feet and backed towards the door. “You got close to me to kill me, thinking you'd hurt Duggie that way, didn't you? You killed all of them, didn't you? Picked them all off one by one and now it's my turn.”

“Gloria, you're disturbing Walter,” he said.

“And you killed my dog!” I shouted. “What did you give him? What did you do?”

He stood up very slowly and snapped on the light above the stove. Keeping eye contact with me all the time, he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He reached forward and held it out to me. I reached forward too and snatched it, but I couldn't take my eyes away from his face to look and see what it was. He put his hands on his head and backed away to the far wall.

“You're safe,” he said. “Read it.”

I dropped my eyes and scanned the sheet as quickly as I could. Then I let all my breath go. It was a vet's bill, Mandeep Bhullar's signature along the bottom, with a note.
Looks like the end of the road, Gloria. You did well. Love, M.

“So,” said Stig. “Let's sit down, stop freaking out Walter, and face the facts. I've never wanted to be wrong about something more than I want to be wrong about this, but no more denial, eh? It's time to tell the true story.”

“Once I'm changed,” I said. “My feet are killing me and my head feels weird.”

When we were settled and I was plaiting my hair, grips in my mouth and brush in my lap, he spoke again.

“I know Naismith didn't go out to check on the kids at eleven o'clock,” he said, “because I was at her cabin hiding outside, trying to decide whether to go and talk to her. I got there about ten o'clock and sat there until I woke up at four. And she was inside, Glo. She was playing music and she had a bath. I heard her.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why were you there? What did you want to talk to her about?”

“I really don't want to tell you,” Stig said. “I can't tell you how much I don't want to tell you.”

“Stig, if we're ever going to straighten this out, we're going to have to come clean about everything.” I was amazed to see his eyes flash with anger.

“We?” he said. “
We've
got to come clean? What have you got to come clean about, Glo? You're golden, aren't you? You live here like a fucking saint. Looking after your son and your old lady, doing everyone's weddings and funerals. You're so bloody perfect your shit must smell like gravy.”

“That's not fair!” I said. “And what happened to not disturbing Walter, by the way? That is
so
unfair. I've come back here and told you that my ex-husband, my son's father, is probably a murderer. Think I'll be ‘golden' round here once that comes out? There's always someone ready to say, ‘she must have known.' Another wife lying for her husband.” As I said it, I knew my face changed, Stig's too.

“Duggie?” said Stig. “You thought I meant
Duggie
?”

“Are you talking about your dad?”

“You don't sound surprised.”

“Look, I admit I don't know why your Dad opened a school,” I began, “but it was Duggie who—”

And then the phone rang.

I answered, expecting a cold call, and almost dropped the receiver when I heard Duggie's voice on the end of the line.

“Gloria,” he whispered. “I'm in trouble. You've got to help me.”

“Where are you?” I asked him, mouthing
Duggie
to Stig.

“I'm at home,” he whispered, “but Zöe's downstairs, and I don't want her to know I'm calling. I don't want her to see this.”

“See what?”

“Please come,” Duggie said, his voice taut enough to crack. “I don't know what to do. It's something to do with … ”

“Eden,” I said. “Duggie—”

But he had hung up.

“It's not your dad, Stig,” I said, mumbling through lips that felt as cold and useless as when the dentist numbs them. “Duggie's trying to lure me to his house. He's pretending his girlfriend's there.”

“That can't be right,” said Stig. “I
know
it's BJ. I knew it was him right from the start.”

“Unless it's both of them,” I said. “Should I go?” I glanced down at Walter. He was breathing easily, hadn't even stirred when the phone rang.

“We'll both go.” He held up a hand as I started to protest. “Duggie and my dad against you and me? And us with the element of surprise? I'll take those odds.”

“He's clever,” I said. “Look what he's done already. You think he can't outwit the two of us and get you in jail? Or worse?”

“I'm past caring,” said Stig. “I've got to get out of here before I go mad. I can't spend another day waiting for you to come back and tell me who's dead. Jesus! Cloud? She was so beautiful! And Scarlet McFarlet? Dead before she was twenty. I can't take any more. If I don't go with you, I'll go and stand by a bridge and wait for him to come and shove me over.”

“Wait for who?” I said. “Duggie? Your dad? The devil?”

I hadn't been there since the day I moved out. I had packed up Nicky's room and put my clothes in suitcases, my books in boxes, then I had driven away, leaving behind every pot plant, every cushion cover, every wedding present, anything that he had touched. I had put Nicky's posters and toys in his new room at the home and bought cheap shelves for Rough House to get my books out again. They looked mean and wrong beside the heavy old furniture and if Miss Drumm could have seen them she'd be disgusted, but the thing about bookshelves is that, once they're filled, all you notice are the books and what's holding them doesn't matter.

Still it felt strange to be knocking at the door instead of using a key.

We heard footsteps inside immediately and saw a shadow through the tinted glass. Stig put me slightly behind him and I could see him squaring up, saw him clench his fists. The door opened and there was Zöe, looking startled, but smiling.

“Gloria!” she said and turned to smile at Stig. “Plus one.”

“You must be Zöe,” said Stig, frowning at her.

“Can we talk to Duggie?” I asked. “Is he in?”

“He's in his ‘lair',” she said, rolling her eyes and laughing. “His man-cave. I'll shout up to him.”

In our living room, the shelves we'd had made by a joiner were still there, full of golf trophies and silver-framed photographs of tournaments and nights out. There were some books here and there. Three on a shelf with a book-end made in the shape of a miniature whisky barrel. I looked at the spines. Andy McNab, Brad Thor. Good God in heaven, Dan Brown.

But she came back into the living room with a puzzled look on her face, a minute after we'd sat down.

“He says you have to go up,” she told me. “Listen, you've obviously got some talking to do. I think I'll take off and leave you to it. Tell Duggie I'll be at home with wet nails so if he phones me, let it ring and I'll answer eventually.” She gave me a smile and squeezed my arm; then, with a quick glance flicked at Stig, she made for the door.

“Zöe?” I said. “Before you go. Last Tuesday night, Duggie was with you, you said. That's right enough, is it?”

She stopped and looked from one of us to the other.

“Last Tuesday?” she said. “Why? I mean yes, he was.”

“How about Monday?”

She nodded. “We went to the pub on Monday and then we had a quiet night in on the Tuesday, but why? Is everything okay?”

I gave her the best smile I could muster.

Duggie had had the smallest of the three bedrooms for a study since the day we moved in. We slept in the big front room, the second double was for the guests we never got, and the third—the one we called the nursery, smiling shyly at each other—was his until it was needed.

“Because I won't have time to use a study when I'm teaching my boys to ride their bikes and dodge an off-side trap, will I?”

But when Nicky moved out of our room, he needed the big double for his wheelchair, and by then Duggie wouldn't have wanted guests anyway.

I knocked on the door, wondering how he would look to me now that Rain Irving and Scarlet McInnes had opened my eyes. And Stig too. Surely Stig had something to do with me seeing so much so suddenly.

“Gloria, thank God,” said Duggie when I went in. He looked different, right enough, but it wasn't my eyes. His face was painted with terror, eyes stark, cheeks pale, mouth trembling. He was sitting at his computer desk, and the blue light from his screen picked out every line on his face—some lines that surely hadn't been there when I'd last seen him two days ago. “Help me,” he said.

“Van?” said Stig. “What's going on?”

Duggie turned to see who had spoken, but his face showed no recognition. He just repeated the words, even more desperate this time. “Help me, Gloria. This isn't right. This is nothing to do with me.” He turned back to his computer and pointed a shaking finger. “I didn't—I don't understand—Help me.”

I took a step towards him to see what he was pointing at, but Stig brought his arm down in front of me like a barrier.

“Don't, Glo,” he said. “Van, shut it down.”

“It's not mine,” said Duggie.

“I know,” said Stig. “Just close it down.”

“How do you know? What are you doing here?” Recognition was slowly spreading over Duggie's face. “Stig?” he said and then glanced at me. “How do you know each other? And what do you know about this?”

“Close your computer down,” Stig said. “Don't look at any more of it.”

“Are you behind this?” Duggie said. He swung his monitor sharply towards me, showing me the screen. In the seconds before I squeezed my eyes shut, I took in a tree and a lawn and children. Three of them, chubby and rosy, rolling in the long grass with the sunlight dappling their skin. Then he clicked to the next screen, and I saw just a flash of it before I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away.
Happy hearts and happy faces, happy play in grassy places,
I found myself thinking, and I couldn't help a small moan escaping me.