The Wicked Girls (4 page)

‘We thought it would be more fun than staying in your room all day,’ says Kirsty.

‘Mum used to keep us company in the holidays,’ Sophie says. ‘I don’t see why
you
can’t. It’s not like you’ve got—’

She catches her mother’s eye, sees the warning in it and stops her sentence. Gets up from the table and scuffs her way over
to her trainers in her navy-blue socks with her big toes sticking out. Socks, thinks Kirsty. They grow out of everything.
I’ll need to stop in at Primark. And maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t like summer camp, because if things don’t improve,
it’ll be the last one she goes to. We’ll be farming her out to a sweatshop this time next year.

She glances at Jim and sees, to her relief, that he’s brushed Sophie’s tactlessness off. She can never be sure, these days.
Sometimes a careless word, some assumption that he’ll be available, that he has nothing better to do, will send him into a
spiral of self-doubt that will kibosh the job hunt for days. He’s being so good about it, she thinks, but it’s hard for all
of us, and sometimes he forgets that. It scares me to death, being the only one bringing in money, but I can’t talk to him
about it. Every time I do, it sounds like a reproach.

Jim tucks his folder into his briefcase and comes over to kiss her goodbye. He’s still treating job-hunting like a job, thank
the
Lord. It’s when he takes to his pyjamas that she feels she’ll really need to worry.

‘Sorry,’ he says, gesturing at the uncleared table. ‘I’ll do it when I get in.’

She feels herself quail at the humbleness. They’re both uncomfortable with the way he’s taken over the bulk of the domestic
duties, even though it’s the reasonable thing to do. ‘It’s OK,’ she replies. ‘I don’t have to leave till eleven anyway.’

He shrugs the bag up on to his shoulder. ‘What’s on the list today?’

‘Press conference. Some new political movement. Authoritarian UKIP or something.’

‘Sounds like a laugh.’

‘Fish in a barrel,’ she says.

Jim laughs. ‘When in doubt, be facetious, eh?’

‘First law of journalism.’

Another tiny, awkward pause. She avoids enquiring as to his plans for the day. Since his redundancy, the fact that all his
days follow a similar pattern of poring over the job ads, drinking coffee and doing afternoon housework is a subject that
makes them both wince. Kirsty knows how she would feel herself if she were in his position. She loves work, defines herself
by it. Just the thought of no longer doing it fills her with a deep, aching melancholy.

‘What are they called?’

‘The New Moral Army.’

He laughs. Picks up his tea and drains it. ‘Oh, good Lord. Kids, come
on
!’

‘It’s going to be a short day today, I reckon,’ she says. ‘I won’t have to reach for a joke at all. Just type up the speech.’

‘I’ve never heard of them.’

‘No. They’re new. That bloke Dara Gibson making his move.’

‘What? The charity bloke?’

Kirsty nods. Dara Gibson, a self-made billionaire, has made a
splash lately with a series of high-profile contributions to cancer, animals, ecology and miserable kids. All the emotive
causes, none of the donations anonymous.

‘Hunh,’ he says. ‘Might have guessed he had an agenda.’

‘Everybody’s got an agenda of one sort or another.’

A nice young constable gives Amber a lift home in a squad car, drops her off shortly before eleven. She feels wiped out, dirty
and dry; but the sight of her own front door raises her spirits, as it always does. The door itself makes her happy. Just
looking at it. It was the first thing they bought after they moved up to ownership: a proper, solid-wood, panelled front door
to replace the wired-glass horror of council days. It represents so much, for her, this door: solidity, independence, her
gradual rise in the world. Every day – even a day like today – she finds herself stroking its royal-blue gloss paint with
affection before she puts the key in the lock.

Amber hopes Vic’ll be awake and is disappointed to find the house silent as she opens the door and breathes in the scent of
the pot-pourri on the hall table. She glances into the living room, runs an automatic eye around it. Quiet and dark and neat:
the sofa throws in place, the glass-and-wicker coffee table empty save for the couple of coasters that have their home there,
papers put neatly away in the magazine rack. Rug hoovered, pictures straight, TV off at the wall, not just on standby. Everything
is as it should be. All that’s missing is Vic. ‘Hello?’ she calls.

From the back of the house, faintly, a chorus of yips. The dogs are still out in the garden. They’ve probably been out there
all night again. It’s not that he does it deliberately; it’s just that the dogs aren’t figures in his emotional landscape.
They’re
her
dogs,
not his, and Vic has a talent for simply editing out things that don’t engage him.

Amber is bone-weary. She plants her bag on the hall floor and walks through the kitchen – hard-saved-for IKEA cabinets, a
vase of flowers on the gateleg table, yellow walls that fetch the sun inside even when it’s overcast – to open the back door.

The day is already warm, but Mary-Kate and Ashley shiver among the pelargoniums like the pedigree princesses they are. She
bends and scoops them up in her arms: surprised again, as she is every time she does it, by the fact that they really don’t
seem to weigh any more than the butterflies their breed is named after. Delicate, curious noses, fur soft as thistledown.
She squeezes them close to her cheeks and is rewarded by great bursting wriggles of love.

She feeds them, makes a mug of tea and goes up to give it to Vic. She needs him. Needs to know the world is still the same.

He’s still asleep. Vic’s working day on the rides at Funnland starts at three, ends at eleven, and he often goes out to wind
down afterwards – just like an office worker, only six hours later. Their lives are turned upside down from the rest of the
world’s, and from each other’s. Occasionally they’ll see each other as her shift begins, but sometimes the only words they’ll
exchange in a week will be on the phone, or as she gets into bed. It’s the price they pay for the life they’ve made. And it’s
a good life, she assures herself. I would never have dared to think I’d have a life like this.

Mary-Kate and Ashley follow on her heels, shuffle about the carpet, sniff Vic’s discarded clothes in the half-light through
the thin curtains. Amber stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, the mug warming her fingers, and studies the familiar
features. Wonders, again, what a man like that is doing with her. At forty-three he’s still handsome, his dark hair still
full, the fine lines that are beginning to creep across his weather-tanned skin just making him look wiser, not more tired
as her own are doing to her. You’d never tell we were seven years
apart, she thinks. What’s he doing with me, when he could have anyone?

She puts the mug down on his bedside table. Steps out of her sensible work shoes, sheds her jacket on to the chair. Catches
the musky scent of her own armpits. Feeling another rush of weariness, she remembers the girl’s purple face, the burst capillaries,
and wants to weep.

Vic stirs and opens his eyes. Takes a moment to focus. ‘Oh, hi,’ he says. ‘What time is it?’

She checks her watch. ‘Ten past eleven.’

‘Oh.’ He disentangles a weight-toned arm – an arm that filled her with lust back when they were getting together; that made
her weak as he wrapped her into it – from the bedclothes and runs his fingers through his hair. The sleep-tangles fall instantly
away. That’s Vic: a single grooming gesture and he’s ready to face the world.

‘You’re late,’ he says, and there’s an edge of reproof to the statement.

‘There’s a mug of tea.’ She waves her hand at it, sits down on the bed and rubs at her tired calves. ‘Didn’t you get my texts?’

‘Texts?’

‘I’ve been texting you all night. I tried calling too.’

‘Yeah? Oh.’ He picks his phone up from the bedside chest of drawers, holds it out so she can see the blank display. ‘Sorry.
I switched it off. I was tired.’

She feels a twinge of resentment, squashes it down. He doesn’t suspect that anything is wrong. You can’t blame him for that.

‘Christ,’ he says, ‘you smell a bit ripe.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, and bursts into tears.

Vic lurches forward and pinches the back of her neck between thumb and palm, like a masseur. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey, I was just
saying, Amber. It’s OK. It’s no big deal.’

Her tears dry as suddenly as they’ve come on. She finds that this is often the way with her emotions and that, though she’s
good at controlling them, tears are rarely far from the surface.
She loosens his grip, stands up and eases herself out of her trousers, rubs the place where his hand’s just been. Feels guilty.
Stop it. Stop it, Amber. It’s not his fault. Be nice.

Suddenly, she doesn’t want to tell him. Doesn’t want to tell him because she doesn’t know how she wants him to react. Doesn’t
know if she could bear sympathy, doesn’t know if she could bear not to get it. The last time Amber saw a murdered body, there
were days of pretending, of hugging it close to herself, of hiding. A bit of her wants to try it again with Vic: to see if
the outcome will be different this time. Stupid thought. The police are swarming all over Funnland, the park is closed. She
could keep it to herself for no longer than it took him to go in for his shift.

‘Something happened,’ she tells him; keeps her voice even, controlled, as though she’s discussing a surprise electric bill.
She keeps her back turned, doesn’t trust her face.

Vic sits forward. ‘What?’

Amber folds up the trousers, lays them on the chair. ‘At work. Tonight. I … oh God, Vic, there’s been another girl killed.
At work.’

‘What?’ he says again. ‘Where?’

‘Innfinnity.’

‘Innfinnity?’ She hears him hear the word, take in the implication of what she’s just said. Amber’s the only one who ever
goes to the mirrors at night. It doesn’t take long for him to understand that she’s the one who found her.

‘Babe,’ he says. ‘Oh, babe. You must have been so afraid. You should have called me. You should have let me know.’

She’s annoyed. Turns and glares. ‘I did. I called and texted. I already told you. All night. Turn it on. You’ll see.’ They
don’t have a house phone, just pay-as-you-go mobiles.

He picks the phone up again, switches it on. ‘Amber. I’m so sorry.’

She sits on the edge of the bed as the phone lets out a series of incoming-message beeps. Rubs her neck again. Vic kneels
up
behind her and bats her hand away. Starts to knead the muscles: powerful, working-man’s hands squeezing, pressing; strong
fingers straying upwards, brushing the line of her jaw. She has another brief flash of the swollen face, the bruised lips
parted to show young white teeth. Shivers and closes her eyes. He presses the heel of his hand to her spine, pulls back on
her shoulder. She feels a tiny skeletal clunk somewhere deep down and sighs with relief. When I was young, I had no one to
do this for me. I thought back pain was just part of the human condition. Thank God for Vic. Thank God for him.

‘What was it like?’ he asks. ‘Who was she?’

‘Some poor little girl. Can’t have been more than twenty. All dressed up for a night out. Oh God, Vic, it was awful.’

‘But how? What happened?’

Amber sighs. ‘I don’t know. If I knew that, I’d either be psychic or a policewoman, wouldn’t I?’

The hands fall abruptly still. ‘You know what I mean, Amber.’ He sounds offended.

‘Sorry,’ she says, hastily. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just been … a long night …’

He forgives her, thank God, and the hands start their work again. It’s only a day since their last disagreement, and she can’t
bear to start again. Vic has so many good qualities, but he can hold a grudge for weeks, the chill of his vexation filling
the house with silence. She had been half afraid throughout her shift that their stupid spat might have kicked another episode
off, until her discovery drove it from her head. It’s probably, she reflects, why he had the phone off. But I’m not going
to push things by asking. Not when he’s being so nice.

‘So what was it like?’ he asks again, abruptly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything like that, have you?’

She turns and looks at him. She doesn’t know what she had been expecting, but his look of sharp enjoyment surprises her. He
covers it quickly with concern, but she’s seen it now, and it feels ugly. It’s not a real thing to you, she thinks, any of
it. Not
the girl under the pier, not the one they found in among the bins in Mare Street Mews, not this. In fact, now there’ve been
three of them, and only a fool wouldn’t be asking if it’s the same person doing it, you’re probably just feeling a bit more
excited – like Whitmouth’s finally on the map. It’s the same thing that keeps people reading the papers every day: if it’s
not
your
family, if it’s not one of
your
friends, a murder is little more than a night out at the cinema; something to discuss gleefully at the pub.

The girl’s face flashes through her mind again, pop-eyed and black-tongued, cobweb veins on livid cheeks. Death, so abnormal
yet so familiar: the shock, the cavernous emptiness behind those reddened eyes; it’s what it always looks like. Nobody dies
and looks like they’d been expecting it.

‘It was …’ She has to think about her words. Strives to recall her emotions, to separate her response to the scene in front
of her from her panic on her own behalf. ‘I don’t know. It’s weird. It was like I was in a bubble. Watching myself. In a weird
way, I felt like I wasn’t really there.’

Vic leans back and opens the drawer in his bedside table. He fishes out his Ventolin inhaler. Takes a puff. ‘Bet you were
scared, though,’ he says, his voice small from holding his breath. ‘Was there a moment when you thought they’d think you’d
done it?’

‘Vic!’ She’s scandalised. ‘My God!’

‘Sorry,’ he says. Breathes out.