The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (7 page)

Jason saw the girl long before she became aware of him. She was moving from stall to stall aimlessly, as if drifting was second nature to her.

She was pretty, in a slightly unusual way. Slim and athletic with a deep tan and hair the colour of honey. Her eyes he couldn’t see, but he imagined they were either green or hazel. She had a nice shape too, with just the right amount of curves.

He thought about calling out to attract her attention, but something about the way she moved held him back. Like a puma waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

Then he saw where she was looking – an unattended wallet on a table.

Don’t do it, Jason wanted to say to her.
It’s not worth it.

Suddenly she stiffened as if she’d heard him. When she turned, slowly, and met his gaze, a virtual truck slammed into him. Her eyes
were
hazel, and they were blazing with fury.

Bad call, Jase, he thought, and shook his head at himself.

Actually, no, it wasn’t. He’d prevented a theft by letting the girl know he was keeping an eye on her, and had saved the young mum from the pain of losing her wallet.

More importantly, he’d stopped this pretty girl from getting herself into trouble.

‘Antipodean, I reckon,’ said Neil, the stall-holder selling net curtains next to him.

‘Who?’ Jason heard his own voice coming from far away.

‘The girl you can’t take your eyes off. Not that I blame you.’

Another Australian. Bitter-sweet memories welled up in Jason, taking him by surprise, although it had happened a lot lately.

‘Yeah, maybe she is. Although it’s hard to tell these days.’

‘All I’m saying,’ the man went on, ‘is you don’t get that kind of tan in this country.’

‘True.’ Jason looked towards the girl again, but she’d turned away. For some reason he felt he owed her an apology, but was stumped for ideas on how to communicate with her. Then it came to him, and he put on a different record.

His choice of track had the opposite effect. The girl flounced off in a huff, and disappointment washed over him.

It would have been nice to see her smile.

Helen tried to forget about the annoying stall-holder. Ahead of her, Fay was chatting to the fishmonger. Although she wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, it was obvious from the way the vendor gesticulated that they were talking about preparing fish.

The anger she hadn’t quite managed to quell rose again. It wasn’t right that Fay could stand there and talk about something so trivial when the crime she’d committed was anything other than mundane.

‘Are you buying or just fingering my goods?’ said a lilting Caribbean voice behind her.

In her attempt to stop Fay from noticing her, she’d used a strip of fabric from a nearby stall as a makeshift curtain to hide behind.

The owner, a Rastafarian with greying dreadlocks and a cap in the colours of the Jamaican flag, was frowning. ‘It’s silk, you know.’

Viscose more like, she thought and smoothed down the fabric to get rid of any creases. ‘Sorry, I was just—’

‘Following old Fay, yes, I saw. What might you be doing that for?’

‘I’m not following anyone. Why do you think that?’

He tapped his nose. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I seen you ducking and diving like you up to no good. You’ll make a lousy spy.’

‘I’m gutted.’

He laughed and revealed a stunning set of even teeth. ‘What you want with her?’

Helen gave up pretending. There was obviously no getting around this guy, and she didn’t want Fay alerted. ‘Information,’ she said.

‘Don’t we all, my love, don’t we all? If you want information, Winston’s the person to see.’

‘Who’s Winston?’

‘That’ll be me.’

‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’ She turned around, but Fay was gone. Without being too obvious, she glanced down both sides of the narrow market. Fay had either finished her shopping or realised she was being followed and given Helen the slip. She muttered a curse. She knew where Fay lived but people were safer in their own houses. She wanted Fay exposed and vulnerable, as her mother had been, when she confronted her.

The Jamaican trader was watching her with wry amusement. Helen drove her fists deep in her pockets before frustration got the better of her.

‘You sure I can’t help you with something today?’

‘No thanks.’ Swallowing her frustration, Helen headed in the direction of the main road. She figured Fay would have to go home at some point.

When she reached the market gate, she nearly collided with her prey and had to duck aside again to avoid being seen. Fay didn’t seem to notice, and Helen managed to stay behind her, stopping when Fay stopped to look at a shop window. Away from the buzz of the market Fay had somehow returned to what she’d been like before, just another hunched over, poor London pensioner. Helen almost felt sorry for her.

Almost, but not quite.

Turning into her own road, Fay was stopped by a beggar. Over the din of the traffic Helen could just about make out their exchange.

‘I don’t have much,’ said Fay, ‘but you can have a bag of apples.’

She handed him a brown paper bag from her shopping trolley and he smiled deliriously, like a small child who’d just been given a huge treat.

Fay left and Helen followed her again but was also stopped by the beggar. He was surprisingly young, perhaps about her own age, although life hadn’t been kind to him. His head bobbed up and down continuously and so did his right arm, which he was holding up like a dog begging at the table. Under the other he clutched the bag of apples, and he reeked of old dirt and urine. Helen drew back in disgust.

‘Spare some change, please?’

India had desensitised her to beggars because there were so many of them, and she’d developed an ability to see right through them as if they weren’t there, weren’t talking to her, weren’t suffering, but she wasn’t prepared for this guy.

How was it possible that someone could live like that in an affluent society? There was no dignity in begging wherever you were in the world. In a moment of kinship she realised that she too had swallowed her pride many times and accepted what others could offer. It didn’t matter whether it was food, shelter, or simply words of encouragement.

‘Sure,’ she said and found a pound coin in her purse. ‘Here, go get yourself a cup of tea.’

She watched him wobble along the pavement. Did giving him money make her a good person? And if it did, did it mean that Fay, who’d given him a bag of apples, was a good person too? Her mind couldn’t allow that. It simply wasn’t right.

Absent-mindedly she played with the knife in her pocket, unable to accept that Fay might be nice. That Fay might have been pushed into doing what she did by some desperate circumstance, just like this beggar had thrown himself at the feet of a stranger, shoving all integrity and self-respect aside, because
he
was desperate.

Her mind was conspiring against her with all these doubts.

Fay seemed to enjoy being outside on this mild spring morning. She stopped to stroke a cat sunning itself on a garden wall, picked up a stray crisp packet and put it in a plastic bag which hung from the handle of her shopping trolley.

She’s picking up litter now.
Helen bit back an angry outburst. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Fay was doing it on purpose. To wind Helen up.

Suddenly, eyes narrowed, Fay swung around and manoeuvred the shopping trolley to create a shield between them. ‘What do you want?’

Adrenaline surged through Helen, and she took a step back. Fay might be old, but she was a killer. Dangerous.

‘You look familiar. Do I know you?’

Helen shook her head.

‘Then why are you following me?’

The way Fay was standing took Helen right back to the old nightmare. Crazy-haired and wild-eyed this woman had stuck a knife into her mother’s throat. Blood – sweet, dark, and life-giving – had ebbed away, splashing the inside of the car. Helen’s life plunged into darkness.

The terror of the memory almost paralysed her, but her rage was as fresh as ever, and her hand closed over the knife.

Bitch.

Murderer.

Something shifted in Fay’s eyes, and the demon who’d killed Helen’s mother was gone, replaced by an unremarkable middle-aged woman who just looked sad.

Helen eased her hand out of her pocket. Reality hit her with a thump. Even in a moment of rage, did she have what it took to kill another person? Did Fay, who gave apples to beggars?

What
really
happened that day?

For years she’d been so certain of what she’d seen, but she’d been five years old at the time and had suffered an epileptic fit. It occurred to her now this didn’t exactly make her a reliable witness.

‘Well?’ said Fay. ‘I’m waiting. Are you going to tell me what you want or do I call the police?’ She produced a mobile phone from her coat and held it like a weapon while directing her challenge at Helen.

Helen supposed that prison made you expect the worst of others, but she had no pity for the time Fay had spent inside. Her mind blank, she was struck dumb. All the things she’d wanted to say for such a long time floated around her, unformed like mist. After all, what
did
you say to the woman who murdered your mother?

Hello?

Long time no see?

No way.

She needed an excuse for being in the area, and heard herself say, in a chirpy, happy voice she didn’t recognise as her own, ‘I’ve heard that there’s a room to let in this road.’

‘Who told you?’ Eyes narrowed again.

Think, Helen, think.
‘Winston.’

Fay relaxed. ‘Oh, yeah, Winston knows everything that goes on around here. Don’t tell him anything you don’t want other people to know.’

‘I followed you down the road because I thought you might know where it is,’ said Helen, encouraged.

‘You did, huh?’

The challenge was still there, and Helen backed down. There was time for revenge another day. She’d find a way to make Fay’s life miserable, and
then
she’d make sure Fay knew why.

Suddenly Fay smiled, losing ten years in an instant. ‘Trust Winston to only give you half the picture. You’re standing right in front of it. For what it’s worth.’

Chapter Five

Taken aback, Helen blinked. Was Fay having her on? Was it possible for a fabricated excuse to turn to gold like this?

Fay didn’t seem to notice her surprise. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘See if you like the room. Jason will be back soon. He deals with the official stuff. He’ll fill you in.’

She began to hoist the shopping bag up the steps to the front door, pausing on every step, with the strain showing in her face after each heave.

Without rationalising it, Helen put her hand on the trolley handle. ‘Here, let me help.’

‘No!’

Helen withdrew as if she’d been slapped.

‘Sorry,’ said Fay. ‘It’s not you. It’s a matter of principle. As long as I can haul this thing up the steps every day, I can persuade myself I’m not getting old. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘No, not really,’ Helen murmured, surprised she was chatting with this murderess.

Fay unlocked the door and beckoned Helen inside a spacious hallway. Despite the cracked floor tiles and yellowed and stained wallpaper, you could see the house had once been a grand family home, but two world wars and economic decline had reduced it to a humble state.

Running her hand over the wall, Helen didn’t see the neglect. Instead she saw the house as a gentle giant, patiently waiting until someone lavished tender loving care on it.

‘I like it,’ she said.

‘Wait until you see the kitchen. It’s ancient. This way.’

The back of the house opened up into a large kitchen which doubled as a communal living room. Mismatched kitchen units on the walls provided a frame for a large scuffed dining table in the centre with a collection of odd chairs around it. A pepper grinder stood between two old wine bottles which served as candle holders. Years of use had created a multicoloured-wax drip pattern, red, green, white, blue and even black. A stack of unwashed dishes stood on the kitchen counter next to a chipped ceramic sink with some antiquated plumbing which might possibly be original. At the end of the room a set of double doors led into an untended garden with a dilapidated shed leaning against the fence at the back.

From a battered sofa a young woman was watching TV with a black cat on her chest and a ginger one by her feet, but she put the cats down when she saw them come in, switched off the TV, and began to help Fay with the shopping.

She had blonde dreadlocks, tattoos on her arms and silver rings through her nose, eyebrow and bottom lip, and she stared unashamedly at Helen.

‘Another one of your strays, Fay?’

‘No, this is …’ Fay frowned at Helen. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘I didn’t give it.’

The girl with the dreadlocks snorted with laughter.

‘It’s Helen. Helen … Stephens.’ She’d almost lied about her name before remembering that Fay would never have heard it before. Yelena Stephanov had died with her mother. Helen Stephens had been born at age five, when Aggie put her in foster care.

Opening the fridge, Fay sent her a sideways glance. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘There’s something very familiar about you. You weren’t at New Hall, by any chance?’

‘No.’

‘Holloway?’

Helen shook her head, puzzled by this line of questioning. ‘I get that a lot. Apparently I look like Sheryl Crow.’

‘Perhaps. Anyway, this is Charlie. Helen’s interested in the room,’ she added for Charlie’s benefit.

‘Lucky you,’ said Charlie. ‘So where
did
they bang you up, then?’

She was saved from answering as the door opened and a man came in. Her eyes wandered from his trainers and jeans to his brown hair and blue eyes, and instantly she felt her cheeks go hot.

It was the annoying stall-holder with the fancy goatee.

‘Jason,’ said Fay, ‘this is Helen. Potential new house mate.’