The Faceless (23 page)

She’d had a glass already, drunk it too fast; she wasn’t used to drinking alone anymore. She’d have to make this one last longer. Too much, too quick
. She’s just being friendly; she doesn’t know anyone here
.
Doesn’t mean she’s a dyke. Don’t make a fool of yourself
.

Anna blinked and looked down. When she looked up, Vera was coming over.

V
ERA DIDN’T GET
out much on the gay scene. It was acceptable now, but hadn’t been back then, not with Alan to take care of. Oh it had been legal, but she’d felt herself on thin ice as it were, a girl her age looking after Alan. If they’d known she was a lesbian, Social Services would have taken him off her in nothing flat. Put him in a home.

Alan then; Allen now. Allen; always Allen.

Or maybe not. Maybe she’d been paranoid about it. Old habits died hard. They still did: she rarely went out cruising for it. There was an escort agency she used; she couldn’t get into a relationship. Daren’t. Because of Allen. No-one else could know what went on between them. Keep everything separate. Strict little compartments. No-one getting too close.

Alan then; Allen now. Allen; always Allen.

Anyway, she had pretty good gaydar, knew another dyke when she saw one. Anna Mason hid it well, but Vera hadn’t had to see her eyeing up the two girls in the corner to know, although it had provided the final confirmation. They couldn’t go back to her room, of course, but they could to Anna’s. Well... see how things went.

And if Allen woke alone in the dark tonight?

Then just this once, sod him.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Anna asked. A weak smile. She looked better now. A little makeup, not much, just enough to make the difference. Her hair was loose and had a shaggy look – she’d let it dry naturally.

“Pretty much,” Vera said. Better than the truth.

They sat in silence for a while. The two girls in the corner went out, holding hands. The butch tilted her chin up, looking round as if asking
yes, and do you have a problem?
; the femme looked down, shy, uncomfortable. Anna watched them go.

“Something you didn’t used to see round here,” Vera said.

Anna giggled, nervous. “Still don’t, much.”

Vera smiled and studied her. Anna coloured, looked down.

“Have you always lived here?”

“Pretty much. Well, most of... actually, no.”

“Make your mind up, woman.”

A shy smile. “No. Just feels like forever sometimes. I grew up here.” Didn’t sound like it. The brother, though –
he’d
sounded Northern. Maybe this one had done better for herself. “Lived away when I was at University. And when I was married.”

“You were married?”

“Hard to believe?”

“No. Not at all.” Vera looked very directly at her. A few long seconds of silence where Anna seemed to be nothing but two rather pretty, very wide hazel eyes.
Rabbit in the headlights
. Vera broke eye contact to put her out of her misery, picked up her wine glass.

“I was at college with him.”

“Studying what?”

“History.”

“Should’ve guessed.”

“Sorry?”

“Before. All the work you’d done on Ash Fell.”

“Well, it’s, you know, very interesting.”

Vera smiled, ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “Sorry, I interrupted you.”

“Mm? Oh, Peter. My husband. Ex. Nice guy, really. We just... weren’t suited.”

“So you came back here?”

“About... God, about eight years now. Wasn’t supposed to last this long.”

“What happened?” Let her talk; better discussing her past than Vera’s. Everyone had skeletons in the closet, but hers was more of an ossuary.

“Well, after the divorce... Peter got a job overseas he’d been after for a while. Sold the house, split the money. All very amicable, really.”

“Unusual, these days.”

“Like I said, he was a good guy. We just weren’t–”

“Right for each other.” Vera kept up eye contact. “You said.”

Anna cleared her throat. “Afterwards I... moved back here. Stayed with Dad for a bit, then I got a little flat.”

She’d missed something out, there. What?

“It was just supposed to be for a few months, till I got back on my feet, decided what I’d do next. But – well – got stuck in a rut, I suppose. I’d hardly seen Martyn in years, he’d got married. And then there was Mary, my niece. She was about a year old when I turned up. She’s lovely.”

“None of your own, then?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Anyway, I was planning to move. Back to Manchester. I’d studied there.”

“Good gay scene there as well.”

Another long silence, her eyes never leaving Anna’s.

“Yes.” More silence. “My dad died.”

“Oh.”

“Heart attack. And suddenly there were all these things to deal with. The will, the probate. It hit Martyn hard. Mary too. And there was Nan to look after.”

“Your Nan?”

“Mm.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. She’s still going. Hundred and two this year. But it was very hard on her, losing Dad. We were all very worried about her when that happened. There was lots to sort out, generally.”

“So you stayed.”

“Yes. And then... Martyn lost his job, and then Eva...”

“So you’ve never quite run out of reasons to stay then?” Vera sipped her wine, looking at Anna over the glass.

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“No?” And was Vera any better? Really? “You should move,” she said. “When this is over. Get out of here, while you still can.”

Too much said there, and she’d not even finished her first glass. They were on the cusp, here. It could go either way.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

The wide hazel eyes; the thin, parted mouth. She’d be fierce, passionate, if all those years of pent-up longing were released. But a one-night stand wouldn’t be enough; she’d want more. And then it could get messy.

Of course, Vera would be down south again soon. There’d be hundreds of miles between them. She could just gratify herself and walk away. But being a hard bitch was one thing; a brand of cruelty so like Walsh’s was another.

She sighed, looked down, rubbed her eyes. “Think I’ll turn in.”

“Yes,” said Anna. Was that relief in her voice? “Me too.”

Vera went out, headed for the lift. If Anna followed... but she didn’t. Another opportunity passed over, because it never seemed to be the right time. Now and then she met someone like Anna; someone who’d be worth getting serious about under different circumstances. But there was Allen; always Allen. Perhaps soon she’d be able to consider herself before him. But not today.

“W
HAT’S THE COMMS
situation?”

“Phones are sort of working again, boss.”

“Define ‘sort of’, Mike.”

“They’re fine long as you don’t want to ring anyone outside Kempforth.”

“What the hell’s been wrong with them?”

“To be honest with you, ma’am, I don’t think any bugger’s quite sure.”

“Internet?”

“Nothing. Server malfunction, looks like.”

“Radios?”

“Interference is the worst I’ve ever heard. Some communication within the town, but even that’s touch and go.”

“So we’re best sticking to our original plan of sending a couple of officers out in one of the Land Rovers to get a report to someone outside Kempforth.”

“Yes, ma’am. Any thoughts on who?”

“Funnily enough, I do believe two of our detectives aren’t AFO qualified.”

“Aye. Tranter’s not been in the job long enough. And Janson–”

“No-one in their right mind would trust her with a gun.”

“You said it, boss, not me.”

“OK. Get them on the road first thing.”

“Is DS Ashraf a qualified AFO?”

“I believe so.”

“Let’s bring him in, then. It’s his case too.”

“As you wish.”

“Fancy a brew, Sarge?”

“Sounds good.”

“You know where the kettle is.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Mike?”

“Ma’am?”

“Thanks.”

W
HEN
V
ERA HAD
gone, Anna put her wine down. Had there really been a moment when something almost happened? She didn’t know; she might be getting better at telling what was real from what wasn’t, but some things were harder to be sure of.

Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. And perhaps it was for the best nothing had happened. Not with so much going on. There was always Manchester; there was always moving away. But the mist was thick outside and there was no knowing what might lurk in it. And beyond the mist, in the hills, was Ash Fell. Maybe she should have made a pass; there mightn’t be another chance. She raised the wineglass to her lips, drained it in a single gulp.

THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONCLUDED like a lamb to the slaughter my only regret being i was no longer fit to lead dared not have men depend on me for their lives but there was no escape only the firing squad or another trip to dr yealland with his cold eyes an electrodes so when the bullet found my throat it was a relief as i fell back into the trench mud an saw the great red parabola of my life leave me rise up into the air an fall back into my face like a bitter rain an it was for this i gave my life this shitten worthless land where they have learnt nothing forgotten everything an lie like fat bloated maggots being fed so-called news blatant lies a wean could see through findin distraction watchin their fellow men and women debasin themselves masturbatin over obscene pornography buyin worthless trash and trinkets to maintain industries that would otherwise collapse on an on like dogs like pigs devourin their own filth an i judge i judge an i hate an i despise an i call them unworthy unworthy unworthy of our sacrifice unworthy of life

WE ARE THE DEAD

‘D’ BLOCK

A room with a rusted bedframe and its barred window overlooking the lawn; for a moment a figure can – almost – be seen sat on the restored bed, its corrupted profile limned in silhouette, light shining through the gap where nose, cheeks, eyes, jawbone should be. Slowly it turns to face us. It is impossible to tell if it weeps, or has anything to weep with.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sunday 22
^nd
December.

A
NNA WOKE IN
darkness and lay for nearly half an hour staring at the ceiling, wanting sleep again and not getting it, stomach clenching at the thought of what she’d committed herself to. Her eyes stung and felt damp; each breath sounded like a sob.

Couldn’t go. Had to go. They were counting on
her
? Relying on
her
? They must be madder than she’d ever thought she was. Couldn’t go. Had to go. Oh god.

Her mobile’s alarm shrilled. She turned on the light.

5.00 am.

She dressed, checked out, walked home. The mist had thinned; the streetlights turned it a sodden orange.

At 5.30 am. she let herself quietly into her house, went upstairs. In the main bedroom, Martyn snored. She eased the spare room door open. Mary lay curled up on her side, stuffed toy clutched to her chest. Anna tiptoed over.

Couldn’t go. Had to go. Had to, for her.

Anna bent; her lips brushed the soft hair, the smooth forehead. Mary mumbled, shifted in her sleep. Anna went still, but the child didn’t wake.

She wasn’t mummy, or daddy, but that didn’t matter. She shouldn’t have stayed in the hotel last night, all that really mattered was here.

She tiptoed out again, closed the bedroom door. The pole and hook were propped on the landing, as always. She hooked open the trapdoor, pulled down the folding steps, climbed up into the loft.

She changed into walking boots, combat trousers, a thick sweater. She looked in the bedroom mirror; she looked pale and sick. A little makeup hid the worst of the damage.

She turned off the light, climbed down, pushed the steps back up, pulled the trapdoor into place, looked at the door of Mary’s room. The urge to go in again; hold the child, breathe the sweet soft smell of her hair–

No. Let her sleep.

Downstairs was a thick waterproof jacket with a tuck-away hood, gloves stuffed in one pocket, a woollen cap in the other. There was a backpack, too. She packed quickly; her files on Ash Fell, a pair of wind-up torches, a half-dozen items from the medicine cabinet, two bars of chocolate-coated Kendal Mint Cake, a Thermos of sweetened coffee. It would be cold there.

She let herself out, easing the door shut behind her. It was 6.00 am.

THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES for with pluck hes brimming full hes old john bull and hes happy when you let him have his head for its a feather in his cap when hes helped to paint the map with another little patch of red for its melvyn stokes i am and i am an englishman and on this earth there walks no prouder race for i fought for land and king nought in return asking till a german shell blew off my fucking face i fought not for a girl women are soft easy and inconstant creatures fit only to be despised for all that they breed the next generation of englishmen sing hosanna god save the king no i fought for my country for england for my race for it is as simple as that

6.15
AM.

At Stangrove Wood, there was a light in Nan’s window. She always woke early; Anna had banked on it.

Nan picked up on the third ring, as if she’d been waiting. A faint, indrawn breath, then: “Hello?”

“Nan, it’s me.”

“Anna? Thought so.”

A buzz; the door opened.

6.18
AM.
T
HE
briefing room at Mafeking Road. In front of Renwick were Stakowski, McAdams, Wayland, Crosbie, Ashraf, a Police Sergeant called Skelton and twelve uniformed constables. This was it; all she had. It’d suffice. It’d have to.

“Any questions?” Skelton – wiry and weathered, with black, grey-flecked hair and beard – raised his hand. “Frank.”