The Moon Spun Round (32 page)

‘I’ll let her in.’ Sally runs downstairs and unlocks the door. ‘Thank goodness you’re back. She might listen to you. We told her—’

But then she sees that Naomi is holding a black feather and her face is wet with tears. She walks straight past without looking at Sally and goes up to where Abbie is still trying to comfort her patient. She places the feather carefully on the bedside table. ‘Claire, stop that.’ Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through everything else.

Claire holds her breath and stares at Naomi, whose presence seems to fill the room.

‘There’s no time for this. There’s work to be done.’ She sits on the side of the bed and grasps Claire by the shoulders, bringing her face close to hers. ‘You must look for Ruth.’

‘But I don’t know where—’

‘You know what I mean. Look for her.’

Claire nods, almost imperceptibly, and quietens her sobbing. Somehow she gains control of herself. Still looking into Naomi’s eyes, she leans back into the pillows. Naomi stands back now with Sally and Abbie. Sally looks at the other two for an explanation, but all she gets is a silent shush. They all look to Claire, who has now closed her eyes and is breathing deeply. She has gone inside herself, listening as Naomi did, only she hears a different voice. It’s a voice she’s heard many times, one of the many, and for many years. These voices are as familiar to her as her own thoughts. And they have shown her things, places and people, as they do now. A deep breath, a gasp, and she’s back, like a diver surfacing from the ocean bed.

‘Well?’ asks Naomi. ‘What have you got?’

‘It’s too late to help her,’ Claire murmurs. ‘Our Ruth has gone.’

Fran has arrived. They try to tell her everything that has happened, but are too shocked and bewildered to be coherent. Even Sally has taken Claire’s vision as a statement of fact.

Fran seems to have no reason to doubt her either. ‘Oh, those poor girls.’ Her face is tight with pain. ‘They adore their mother. And the grandchildren. The whole family exists around her—she’s the centre of their lives.’

‘You’ve been with them, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I drove over to Isleham this morning. They live almost next door to each other. But as time went on…Well, they needed to be with their father, so I arranged for some neighbours to look after the children and took them back to the shop. Your George was still with Jack when I got there. Poor man’s a wreck. This will destroy him.’

‘A policeman came this morning,’ says Sally.

‘Yes, I’ve spoken with him, too. He was at the shop with Jack. And we’re keeping to the same story?’

‘We have till now,’ Abbie shakes her head, ‘but this could change everything.’

‘What time is it?’ asks Fran. ‘There’s usually an on-the-hour news update on Radio Cambridge.’

Sally switches on the kitchen portable and turns the dial in search of the local station. The kitchen is suddenly pounding with the beat of country music. They block their minds to the inane words of the singer and wait for the announcer to come on. A woman’s voice, unnaturally calm, her words clear and measured as she speaks of terrible things. Something about the American
president and a ceasefire, and then it’s as if she’s talking only to them.

‘Reports are coming in of the body of a woman found in Exning Woods this afternoon. Police have not yet issued an official statement, but there are fears that there may be a connection with the disappearance of a middle-aged Suffolk woman in the early hours of this morning.…There were protests today at the meeting of—’

Sally presses the off-switch. Silence binds itself around the room, then unfolds to cover the world outside. There may be a bird singing in the garden, but none of the women hear it.

Claire has insisted on coming downstairs. Naomi and Sally have wrapped her in a dressing gown and helped her into the rocking chair by the Aga. Abbie should have protested, but she has not moved from the kitchen table where she has been quietly weeping for nearly an hour. Fran is making yet another cup of tea.

‘But it’s obvious what happened,’ Claire is saying. ‘Ruth went off with some idea of confronting Ayden. He was still at home when I…’

‘When you managed to escape.’ Naomi is standing next to her, stroking her hair. ‘It could have been you.’

‘Perhaps it would have been better if it
had
been me. Ruth would still be—’

‘Now you can just stop that, girl,’ Fran cuts in. ‘There’s only one person responsible for all this, and that’s Ayden. Though God only knows what Ruth thought she was doing.’

‘But what do we do now?’ says Sally. ‘This hole we’re digging’s getting deeper. Shouldn’t we tell the police everything before we make things worse than they already are?’

‘What difference will it make if we tell them about Claire?’ asks Naomi.

‘Look, she went out into the night and disappeared.’ Fran rearranges the mugs as if it helps her to think. ‘There’s nothing to link her with Ayden unless we tell them what happened.’

‘But we don’t know what happened,’ says Sally.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Abbie speaks for the first time. ‘We all witnessed the way he behaved last night, and the state Claire was in when you found her. And what about that phone message?’

‘Very generous of him to let her go like that.’ Unlike Abbie, Naomi is no longer crying. There’s a hard look about her eyes. ‘I wonder what brought about that change of heart. Sudden attack of homophobia, do you think? Guilty
conscience about beating up his wife? I don’t think so. No, that had something to do with Ruth.’

‘You’re right. Ruth went to have it out with him, and we’ve all seen what he’s capable of doing. And by now he’s figured out that if Claire has one friend, there may be others. He knows someone is onto him, that’s why he left a warning.’

‘Look, the police are bound to catch up with him eventually.’ Fran hands around the mugs. ‘There’ll be forensic evidence and stuff. Perhaps we should sit tight a while longer and see what happens.’

And so it goes on. But they all know they won’t give anything away, that they’ll close ranks, hold together. And even though common sense tells them that what they’re doing is wrong, their instincts tell them to shutter the windows and bolt the doors. Men in authority bring nothing but fear. They’re at the door now, and they’re carrying torches…

‘There’s still Claire’s safety to think of.’ Abbie reaches for yet another tissue. ‘The quicker they uncover evidence against him, the quicker they’ll have him under arrest.’

‘That won’t make any difference,’ whispers Claire. ‘Nothing can stop him.’

Sally goes over to her and takes her hand. ‘He can’t hurt you from prison, and that’s where he’ll be.’

‘It won’t make any difference where he is. If he thinks I betrayed him, then he’ll have me put away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s always said that’s what would happen if I didn’t do exactly as he said. If I ever told anyone about…about his rages and how he loses control and…and what he does…He said he’ll have me committed.’

‘He said he’d do
what?
’

‘Is that what this is all about, Claire?’ Fran’s voice is shaking. ‘Is that the hold he’s got over you? But you can’t seriously believe that?’

‘He’ll tell them I hear voices and see things, hallucinations. He’ll tell them I’m psychotic.’

‘What? You mean your being a medium?’ Abbie struggles for words. ‘He thinks it’s an illness?’

‘No, not really. But he won’t acknowledge it, either. He says it’s my nerves, that it’s something I should keep under control. And when he’s angry he says it’s all my fault, that I provoke him, make him do it. He says that I’m unstable and that I can’t be trusted, because of what I might say or do. That’s why he doesn’t like me seeing people. He says if I make trouble for him, he’ll have me put in an asylum.’

‘Oh, come on now, that’s ridiculous,’ says Naomi. ‘It sounds like something
out of a Victorian novel. Things like that don’t happen any more.’

But they do, thinks Sally. People hear voices and see things that other people can’t see, and they get labelled mentally ill. She tries to think about the procedures, the legal restrictions, appeals and tribunals. ‘Nobody gets committed on one person’s say-so anymore. There has to be some evidence of abnormal behaviour. Proof that they’re a risk to themselves or others.’

‘Like talking to people who aren’t there, you mean?’ Claire’s voice is loaded with irony. ‘Like self-mutilation, cigarette burns? He’ll say I did it myself, the cuts, bruises and everything—that it’s all part of my illness.’ ‘There would have to be some history of mental disturbance.’ ‘The voices started when I was a child. There are doctors’ records.’ ‘Look, any claim he makes has to be supported. It can’t just be his word against yours.’

‘It’s not just his word. He has a witness who’ll agree with everything he says.’

‘What witness?’ ‘My mother.’

I
GREW UP IN A HOUSE OF SILENCE
.’ Claire looks straight ahead, her eyes seeing only the past. She grips Naomi’s hand tightly and speaks slowly, laying each word in place. ‘It was an old, sombre building, full of heavy furniture and those stiff-backed wooden chairs. The windows were covered by dark curtains. The walls had once been papered with delicate pink roses, but they’d long ago faded into the plaster. There were some pictures on the walls, sepia prints of stories from the Old Testament. They were strategically positioned as a lesson to anyone who dared to look up. I was taught to keep my eyes lowered as a sign of modesty. The paintwork was the colour of curdled cream and even the porcelain of the handbasin was cracked. Cleanliness was next to godliness—I was taught to scrub my hands and face often, and to keep my clothes spotless. I was also told that it was unseemly to run, so I trod softly in my slippers and tried not to make the floor boards creak.’

‘It sounds awful.’ Sally is the only one to speak. The others hold their breath, waiting for the next words.

‘I didn’t know any different. Children don’t, do they?’ Claire smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘I thought everyone lived like that. At least, I did before I started school. That was quite scary, at first, the other children running and shouting and laughing. I would never have dared do that at home. Oh, my parents had warned me about it, of course. How I would have to be with those heathen children full of wickedness. How I would be led into their ways. But they prepared me to resist temptation and prayed with me to be strong and turn away from sin.’

‘Had you never played with other children before?’

‘Oh, yes. Most of the time I was alone, but sometimes we would visit other members of the church, and some of them had young families. Their houses weren’t as quiet as ours, and I would watch the children play. They did things
I was never allowed to do at home. Sometimes I would pluck up courage and try to join in. But then I’d become aware that my father was watching. A little line would show between his eyes and I’d know I was doing wrong. Still, I did look forward to those visits. The other children had wonderful toys—shapes made of bright, coloured plastic that you could build into things, or things with batteries that moved and made noises. I wished I could have toys like those, but when I told my mother she said that was coveting and that it was a sin. I knew the word, but I hadn’t realized that it meant toys. But I wanted God to love me, so I tried not to think about it.’

‘Every child needs love,’ says Sally.

‘Oh, I was loved. They were always telling me how much I was loved. God loved me and my father loved me. God was my Father-in-Heaven, of course; then there was Jesus, who was also my father. It was all a bit confusing, these different fathers. I knew when I was being good, because my own father would smile and put his big hand on my head. And even when I was bad, he still said he loved me, only then that line would appear between his eyes and he would talk in a loud voice with words like he was reading out of the big book.

‘With my mother, it was easier. Often there was just her and me. When we were alone, she would sit me on her lap and brush my hair. Sometimes she would sing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”…Her voice was soft, as if she were almost afraid to sing out loud. She was always trying to be good, too, and not make that line appear between my father’s eyes. I wondered if my mother had a Father-in-Heaven, too. I thought he would be my grandfather. Some of the children at the prayer meetings had grandparents. They had grey hair and walked slowly, and they looked more like my own father and mother. The people at the church called my father an elder, and I thought that had something to do with being old.