The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (2 page)

‘I’m so sorry,’ the lady says again. ‘Oh, you poor, poor baby!’ She stretches out her hand towards Helen. It’s covered in the same bright red stuff. When Helen finally realises what it is, she screams in horror, a loud piercing sound like a seagull. As she flails her arms, kicking her feet spasmodically against the seat in front of her, her brain scrambles and short-circuits, and everything goes black
 …

Chapter One

Goa, India – Present Day

This is the first day of the rest of your life.

The thought struck Helen as she watched the sun setting over Arambol Beach, the Goan resort area where she’d lived and worked for the past two years. It hung like a fiery orb from a breathtaking rosy sky, the sea below an expanse of weathered gold, broken only by lazy white-tipped waves.

Sunsets sometimes did that. They made you take stock of your life, think about all the times you’d been at a crossroads and chosen one way over another, even if that way turned out to be a mistake.

She’d lost count of how many times she’d had that exact thought. She never welcomed the realisation that the rest of her life lay in front of her. It meant making plans, and she’d grown used to thinking only of one day at a time. The only responsibilities she had were her shift at The Sundowner bar and paying her rent. Sometimes she went to the market in Anjuna but not much else.

And every second of every day she pretended she wasn’t unhappy.

Sighing, she rose from the palm leaf she’d been sitting on and put out her cigarette in the wet sand. For a moment the sweet cloying scent of cannabis lingered, then it dissipated in the crisp evening air. Goa was a liberal place compared to the rest of India but not like it had been at the height of the hippie era, and she didn’t want to provoke anyone.

On her way back along the beach to the bar she met some local boys playing cricket. When the ball rolled along the sand, she picked it up and bowled with them a few times, to their delight. The boys, about eight or nine, timed their batting well, and when one of them hit a particularly fast ball she ruffled his black hair in encouragement.

Then she left them to their game and waved to Mamaji Madhu and her daughter-in-law, who were standing in the sea in their saris. Together they ran a convenience store on the high street, which sold food, toys, shoes and more, all in one big jumble, and everyone knew they loathed each other. There was no sign of that now, as they splashed and giggled and cooled themselves down after yet another humid day.

‘
Namastē
,’ called Mamaji as Helen passed them.

Smiling, Helen returned the greeting. ‘Hello.’

Outside the beach bar she glanced over her shoulder at the fading light. A haze was quickly settling over the sea with threatening clouds blowing in from the south, and it wouldn’t be long before it started raining again. Late May and the start of the monsoon was characterised by sudden downpours and thunderstorms, but between the rainfalls you got the true flavour of Goa as a lush and fertile land. Helen loved the monsoon. With fewer tourists to cater for she had time to read and meditate, to steer her thoughts in the direction she wanted them to go.

Although not to where they’d taken her earlier.

A sudden gust of wind lifted and tossed her hair across her face and made the loose cotton shirt she wore billow around her like a tent. Shivering, she hugged herself and ducked inside the shack.

The Sundowner was a typical palm thatch and bamboo shack with solid wood floor and a raised verandah facing the sea. Three of the walls were fashioned from bamboo wattle whereas the fourth wall was made from an old advertising hoarding, proclaiming the delights of Kingfisher beer. In stark contrast to the clapped-together exterior, the interior was cooled by ceiling fans and lit by colourful electric lanterns. A row of downlighters reflected against the gleaming hardwood bar.

Behind it Joe, the owner, was drying glasses. ‘Been out for a tea break?’ His lilting Australian accent made her wonder if he was being sarcastic, although she knew it often just sounded like that.

She searched his face for signs she’d annoyed him. ‘I haven’t been too long, have I?’

Joe simply tossed her an apron. ‘Here, give us a hand.’ He knew it wasn’t a tea break, but by tacit agreement neither of them ever talked about Helen’s epilepsy and her use of cannabis to prevent seizures. She wound the strings of the oversized cook’s apron twice around her slim waist and tied them at the front.

They worked in silence broken only by the gentle tinkling of the wind chime. Through the front of the shack where the doors had been pushed open to the verandah, Helen saw a flash of lightning followed by a low roll of thunder, but the storm was still far away over the sea.

The bar was deserted apart from a small group of local fishermen discussing the day’s meagre catch over
chai
, a sweet tea stewed with milk and sugar. A young Indian couple entered, hand in hand, and chose a table in the corner. Helen put the tea towel down, picked up a pad and went to take their order.

Approaching the holidaymakers, she mentally pigeon-holed them as she did with all the customers at the shack. Newly-weds, with eyes only for each other. When the weather cleared, they’d probably write their names in the wet sand and enclose them in a heart, and maybe later they would take that obligatory post-nuptial trip to the sacred Darbar Sahib in Amritsar.

She envied them their obvious happiness but flicked on the charm in the hope they might leave her a decent tip. Their order taken, she lit the tea light on their table and returned to the bar.

Joe lit a cigarette and stared out across the sea. ‘Rain’s coming.’

As if on cue the wind chime jerked violently, and the heavens opened. Soon water poured from the edges of the roof, and although partly covered, the raised verandah was instantly awash with torrents of water, making the boards slippery and treacherous. The beach had emptied as quickly as it had filled earlier during the lull in the weather. No one in their right mind would be outside in a downpour like this.

And yet …

A lonely figure was making his way across the sand pockmarked by heavy raindrops. As the rain increased, he made a run for it, thumping clumsily up the steps and under the palm-leaf roof. He was a short, rotund man with a shock of white hair and a white beard, and his polo shirt and chinos were soaked. Shaking off the worst of the rain, he stumbled into the shack and chose a high chair by the bar.

‘Horrible weather we’re having,’ he said.

Joe wiped the counter with his tea towel. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

The stranger’s eyes met Helen’s, and she had a curious feeling that she ought to know who he was, but she couldn’t place him.

‘I’d like to try some of your fire water.’ The stranger grinned at Joe, but his eyes slid back to Helen. She turned away and loaded a tray.

‘One
feni
coming up,’ said Joe.

He took down a shot glass from a shelf behind the bar and poured a generous measure from a colourful terracotta bottle, then placed the glass in front of the customer with an utterly neutral expression on his face. Despite herself, Helen stopped what she was doing and watched surreptitiously as the man downed the drink in one.

Predictably he gasped for breath.
Feni
was double-distilled and fearfully potent, and the uninitiated were well-advised to try it with cola first. The fishermen jeered and roared with laughter, and even Joe had trouble concealing a smirk. Yet all the time the stranger’s eyes had been on Helen, giving her the impression this was nothing but a show, entirely for her benefit.

What did he want from her?

She thought of herself as a good judge of character. In the two years she’d been here, she had learned to spot the different types of holidaymakers. She recognised the middle-class, middle-aged English divorcees seeking spiritual healing through meditation and Ayurvedic treatments after their husbands had done the clichéd bunk with a younger woman. Then there were the honeymooners, like the couple in the corner, and the old hippies drifting north from Anjuna, one time a hippie haven but now a ravers’ paradise, seeking the quieter beaches where they could chill out for a while. Sometimes there were families who wanted to experience a holiday away from the exclusive resorts further south, but mostly it was people like herself, whose faces spoke of a recent pain and a need to find themselves. Helen avoided that type more than any other.

The man at the bar didn’t seem to fit into any of these categories. He appeared normal enough, although more conservatively dressed than most beach tourists, but behind the Father Christmas beard and the apple cheeks, redder now after the
feni
, lay a certain hawk-like awareness that made her feel uncomfortable. Involuntarily, she clasped the silver elephant pendant she’d inherited from her mother, which hung from a chain around her neck.

The movement didn’t pass him by, and a small smile creased his lips. Pulling a photograph out of his pocket, he turned his attention to Joe. ‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for one Yelena Dmitriyeva Stephanov. I was given to believe she’d be here.’

‘We don’t have a Yelena – what was it? – Stefanov,’ Joe replied without looking at the picture.

Helen felt her stomach muscles tighten at his next words. ‘She probably goes under the name of Helen Stephens. Honey-coloured hair, hazel eyes, five foot seven. No?’

Joe crossed his arms and said nothing. He’d never give her away, but this stranger already knew who she was. Why keep up the pretence?

‘Who’s asking?’ She clenched her fist around the pendant to stop herself from grabbing him by the collar and yelling at him to just leave her the hell alone.

Grinning widely, he stuck out his hand. ‘Ronald Sweetman, solicitor. I represent your grandmother, Agnes Ransome.’

She shook his hand but only because it would be rude not to, and wasn’t surprised by the strength of his grip. As she’d suspected, the whole teddy bear demeanour was a front. ‘I don’t have a grandmother.’

‘You seem to have a grandmother when you withdraw your allowance every month.’ He sent her a sharp look from under bushy brows. ‘I should know, I deal with the paperwork.’

Helen glared at him. ‘For your information, Aggie has threatened to cut that off many times. I don’t know why she doesn’t just do it. I couldn’t care less.’

It was pure bravado. The money was useful. Besides, she knew Aggie would never stop sending it, because Aggie had abandoned Helen to the ‘care’ of social services and a children’s home at the age of five and was still atoning for it. As she would for the rest of her life if Helen had anything to do with it.

Probably Mr Sweetman was aware of this too, for his expression softened a little. ‘Step-grandmother, then,’ he said mildly. ‘She wants you to come home.’

‘She does, huh? Fat chance.’ Joe touched her briefly on the shoulder. Mr Sweetman noticed and probably made his own assumptions about their relationship.
Let him
. He’d be wrong. ‘This is … where I’ve chosen to live. There’s nothing for me in England. Nothing.’

‘Mrs Ransome needs you.’

‘Needs me?’ Helen scoffed. ‘Aggie’s never needed anyone in her entire life, and she certainly doesn’t need
me
. That’s just bullshit.’ Her voice rose, and the few customers in the shack turned to look at her. She sometimes wondered what drove her to keep fuelling this inextinguishable rage she carried around inside her, but it had become as natural to her as breathing. She could never stop feeling that way. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.
Ever
.

Mr Sweetman eyed her for a moment the same way a lazy, fat cat might look at a mouse, deciding whether it was worth the bother, then he shrugged and got down from the bar stool. ‘Well, if that’s your final word …’

The rest, if there was more, was drowned out by a flash of lightning and a tremendous boom. A vicious gust of wind sent needle-sharp drops of rain up under the awning and in through the open door where they bounced off the wooden floor. The few lighted tea candles extinguished, and the electricity fizzed and cut out, then returned unsteadily.

In the flickering light the solicitor’s eyes were bright and hard like polished granite. Shivering, Helen felt her nerve failing. ‘It is,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Please just tell her I’m not coming back.’

‘I see,’ he said and returned the photograph to his pocket. ‘It looks like I’ve had a wasted journey, then. Sorry to have troubled you.’ He left a few coins on the bar for Joe, nodded to Helen, and turned towards the door.

His comment was probably designed to make her feel guilty, and it might have worked if it wasn’t for an overwhelming sense of relief. This was another person she’d never see again, and all the painful memories could go back in the box where they belonged. Memories of her mother and of Aggie’s betrayal.

One day when she had the strength, she might take them out again.

As Mr Sweetman paused in the doorway for the rain to ease up, it suddenly seemed odd to Helen that Aggie had chosen to send her minion all this way when she must have known what Helen would say. A pointless wasted journey indeed. Aggie could be accused of many things, but doing something on a whim wasn’t one of them.

The solicitor turned around as if he sensed her thoughts.

‘There was one other thing Mrs Ransome asked me to tell you,’ he said. ‘Fay is out of prison.’

Chapter Two

Looking around his father’s London office, Jason Moody stretched his long legs out in front of him and regretted wearing a T-shirt and jeans. This was the kind of place where deals were made, and who you were and how you presented yourself counted for everything. Appearing too casual made him feel inferior when he’d prefer to be the one in charge of the situation.

The converted warehouse was a very familiar environment to him, with its sanded oak floor, raw bricks painted white, and a large floor-to-ceiling window giving him an expensive view of Tower Bridge. The furniture complemented the décor: a sleek Scandinavian oak desk, minimalist floating shelves, and two brown leather sofas forming an
L
around a coffee table made from smoke-coloured glass. In the far corner stood a life-sized bronze statue of a naked Adonis with, incongruously, an owl in the place where the head should have been.