The Yeare's Midnight (23 page)

‘I know it. It’s from a poem about the original Elizabeth Drury. The girl I told you about.’

‘OK. I’ll send a car in an hour or so.’

Underwood hung up and looked at Dexter. She looked very small and embarrassed. It was strange to see her bleed: it was almost like seeing her naked.

‘Our man called Stussman a few minutes ago,’ he said after a pause.

‘He’s a creature of habit,’ Dexter mused.

‘And that’s why we’ll catch him.’

He had meant the words to be a fillip. In fact, they sounded hollow. Underwood had stopped believing in most things now – even in his own bullshit.

‘Are you all right, guv? You’ve not been yourself for a while,’ asked Dexter.

‘Julia’s gone,’ he said suddenly. ‘Pissed off with another bloke. Keep it to yourself.’ It sounded like an admission of failure and insecurity. It was. Dexter nodded silently and tried to think of something helpful to say. Underwood didn’t give her a chance. He stood up and walked wearily into the house where Leach and his scene-of-crime officers were waiting.

Suzie Hunt loathed stacking. Working the till was boring enough but at least you were sitting down. Stacking tins of beans and pork mini-sausages was hard work and Suzie’s hangovers were unforgiving. She was sweating beneath her unflattering work
apron and her headache seemed to be sharpening with every can she put in position.

Suzie wasn’t one for philosophy but on mornings like this she did begin to wonder whether there was any point to anything at all. How had she ended up here? The sequence of events was unclear. Time had mugged her.

She was single, thirty-six, screwing pub landlords by night, arranging tinned mini-sausages all day. Perhaps it was Fate. Maybe this was her punishment for enjoying herself too much, too early. Screwing up her O levels had been the beginning of it all: her endless helter-skelter slide of bad luck. Why have life-determining exams at sixteen? Sixteen is precisely the age when you are least able to cope with it. Sixteen is when pubs and boys sparkle before you like presents round a Christmas tree. How can Physics and History and Economics compete? Suzie had been an early developer – like Katie – and she had always been popular with the boys. Education was boring: those endless afternoons in stuffy classrooms staring out of dirty glass windows. She regretted it now, though. Schoolwork had been tedious but stacking shelves was soul-destroying.

‘All right, Sooz?’ her friend Mo was standing behind her, next to a trolley laden with packets of toilet rolls. ‘The beast of burden has arrived.’

‘You on bog rolls, then?’ said Suzie.

‘That’s right, love. It’s a shit job …’

‘But someone’s gotta do it!’ It was their running joke. They both laughed.

‘On earlies again, then, Sooz?’ Mo wiped a film of sweat from her brow. There was a gap between her teeth that seemed to flare open when she smiled. Suzie had seen Mo wedge a baked bean in there once: Mo was funny like that.

‘Bloody nightmare, darlin’. I’m hanging today.’ Suzie stepped down off her foot ladder.

‘Ooh! Late night?’ Mo folded her arms in mock disapproval.

‘Stayed late at the pub, didn’t I?’ Suzie winked at Mo: Mo knew all about Fat Pete.

‘Old Mr Sausage been up to his tricks again?’

‘It’s a shitty job …’

‘But someone’s gotta do him!’ They both laughed again.

‘Beats sitting at home by meself.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, darlin’. I’m only jealous.’

‘Don’t be, Mo. I’ve had better. A lot better.’

‘Ain’t we all? Still when you get to our age any fuck’s better than fuck-all. That’s what I always say.’ Mo shrieked with laughter. Suzie giggled too but felt a tinge of sadness: Mo looked ancient to her.

‘My head’s killing me,’ said Suzie.

‘Vodka?’

‘Suzie’s ruin.’

‘Think yourself lucky. My cystitis is playing up like a right bugger,’ said Mo reflectively. Suzie smiled. Mo was a good sort, really: not many people could make her smile on a Thursday.

‘My Katie stayed out all night. Little cow.’

‘You should put you foot down wiv her. It’s a dodgy age. Give ’em an inch and they take the piss.’

‘Kids grow up fast these days.’

‘No faster than we did, girl. There’s no excuse for disrespect.’

‘I s’pose.’

‘Be thankful she’s not shoving pills down her throat.’

‘She better bloody not be.’

‘Oh well. I better get going. That little shit Harrap has been on my case already. Bums need a-wiping, darlin’.’

‘Someone’s gotta do it, Mo.’

Mo pushed her trolley slowly to the end of the aisle and disappeared out of sight. Suzie watched her with affection. Good old Mo: always friendly, always the same, game for a laugh, ready for a chat. Wanker of a husband, twat of a supervisor. But it all seemed to wash off her. Like the millions of other Moes who put up and shut up.

Suzie returned to her stacking. Tins on the shelf, tins on the shelf. So many tins: vacuum-packed; mindless, pointless. On the shelf: like her. Tins that hide and never see the light; tins in the darkness, rotting on the inside; tins that have passed their sell-by date. Opened up once and ruined for ever: just like her. Sometimes the light flickered inside her on Wednesday nights but apart from that it was darkness: behind, around and ahead.

Suzie looked up and down the aisle. There was no one about. She withdrew her mobile phone from her apron pocket and called Katie’s number. It rang and rang for an age before the voicemail came on. She switched the phone off in frustration and looked at her watch: six long hours to go. She would brain that little madam when she got home.

Julia Underwood bagged up the charred remains of her clothes and threw them into the rubbish bin at the end of Paul Heyer’s driveway. She checked the road but there was no sign of John or his car. Relieved, she hurried back inside.

She
hadn’t
slept
at
all.
The
previous
night’s
events
had
scared
her.
She
was
scared
for
John,
for
what
he
had
done
and
for
what
he
might
do.
She
felt
ashamed
that
she
had
left
him
a
note
and
had
not
stayed
to
rough
it
out
face
to
face.
But
what
choice
had
he
given
her?
He
had
deliberately
avoided
her
calls
and
had
refused
to
come
home.
It
was
pathetic.
How
had
he
found
out
about
Paul?
The
thought
troubled
her.
They
had
no
mutual
friends.
Had
John
seen
them
out
together?
Had
someone
else
tipped
him
off?
Riddled
with
anxiety,
self-doubt
and
shame,
Julia
had
lain
perfectly
still
for
four
hours
–
watching
each
digital
minute
snap
past.
She
had
sensed
that
Paul
was
awake
too,
which
hadn’t
helped
her.
Julia
wasn’t
used
to
sleeping
with
him
yet:
you
get
used
to
one
person’s
movements
and
stillness,
noises
and
silences.
It
had
been
a
long,
anxious
night.

As she walked back through the front door, she could hear Paul on the phone in the living room. She decided to make them both a cup of tea and went into the kitchen. To her shame, she realized that she didn’t know how Paul took his tea.

‘Good news,’ he called out after putting the phone down.

‘What’s that?’ Julia replied, loading sugar and a jug of milk onto a tea tray.

‘We’re going away,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve booked it.’

Julia walked through to the living room, carrying her tray.

‘Booked what?’ she asked, sitting down next to him.

‘A week away. In Norfolk.’

‘Norfolk?’

‘It’s not Barbados, I know, but it’ll do us good to get out of here for a few days. Sitting around fretting with your mother isn’t going to achieve very much.’

‘What about John?’

‘I wasn’t planning on inviting him.’

‘I’ll have to speak to him eventually.’

‘Bugger John. He’s had the opportunity to speak sensibly and he’s decided to play silly beggars. Harassing me, setting fire to suitcases: it’s pathetic, Julia. Frankly, he’s bloody lucky I haven’t reported him to the Police Complaints Commission: my lawyer is recommending that I should. You should feel no guilt about him at all. It’s his choice to act like an arse. And his loss, too.’ He kissed her furrowed forehead.

‘OK.’ She was coming round to the idea of some peace and sea air. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Blakeney. North Norfolk. It’s only an hour and a half’s drive. There’s a cottage by the water. A friend of mine owns it. It’s ours for a week. No charge. I’ve been there before. It’s great.’

‘It’s very sweet of you, Paul. I think it’s a brilliant idea. Thank you.’ She kissed him hard, gratefully, on the lips.

‘I need to go into the office for an hour to tie up a few loose ends and tell them what I’m up to. Will you be OK?’

‘I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll try and get some sleep.’

‘Good idea. This will be great, Julia. It will remind us of why we’re tolerating all the bad things. This is what it’s all about. You may not feel like it, but you deserve a chance to get away: to clear your head.’

‘I know. You’re right.’

He stood up. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. Pack your bag.’

‘I didn’t unpack it.’ She looked out of the vast living-room window across the front lawn. ‘The rest of my stuff is ash.’

‘We’ll buy you more clothes. Clothes are easy.’

Paul left about five minutes later and Julia suddenly felt very alone, dependent. She told herself those feelings were natural;
she was bound to feel vulnerable. She was paddling in uncharted waters. It was a big house, still unfamiliar to her. The rooms were airy and uncluttered. They were vestigial traces of Paul’s ex-wife here and there: a pot-pourri, a curtain tie, cookbooks. Silly things that made her feel like an intruder.

‘Keep busy,’ she told herself, ‘keep moving.’

She unpacked some of her clothes and then, not knowing how Paul would react to her commandeering a drawer or some wardrobe space, she repacked them all again.
Find
something
to
do.
She decided to have a shower. The warm water began to stir her brain into action and wash the tiredness down the plughole. A phone was ringing. Julia jumped in surprise: the noise had startled her. It was Paul’s house phone. She let it ring and continued her shower. A minute after the ringing had stopped, it started again. Maybe it was Paul. Had he forgotten something? Had he forgotten her mobile number? She climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. Her mobile was turned off: perhaps it
was
Paul. She sat on the edge of the bed, cold air goose-pimpling her exposed skin, and the phone fell silent. When it started ringing for the third time, she picked it up.

‘Hello.’ She tried to sound like a guest rather than the lady of the house.

‘So how’s your mother?’ asked John Underwood, his voice tart with sarcasm, ‘Did she sleep well?’

Julia’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘I called Wife-Fuckers Anonymous. They gave it to me.’

‘I’ll hang up.’

‘I’ll call back. Or maybe I’ll come round. I don’t get out much these days.’

‘What do you want, John?’ Julia was tired of playing games. ‘What was last night’s little escapade in aid of?’

‘Eighteen years of marriage blown to shit. That’s what.’

‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty, John. It’s as much your fault as it is mine.’

‘Is it really?’ He was aggressive, frightening. ‘So you humping this flowery ponce is my fault, is it?’

‘Don’t talk like that, John. It doesn’t achieve anything.’

‘Oh, it does. It makes me feel a lot fucking better.’ He read aloud from her note: ‘“I will be staying with my mother for a couple of weeks … blah … blah … blah, oh, by the way, in case you are interested, I have met someone else.” Thanks for letting me know, Jules, I’d never have guessed. I’d never have figured out that you creeping in at three in the morning reeking of come was anything unusual. Those Haydn recitals must be pretty fucking spectacular. I’d hate to see you after the 1812 Overture.’

She paused before replying. ‘Have you finished? I met someone else because you were never “fucking” there emotionally. I left you because you were never “fucking” there mentally. And I left you a note because you’re never “fucking” there to speak to. Is it sinking in yet, John? Are you getting the “fucking” picture?’

Silence.

She continued. ‘You are different, John. Different from when we got married. You resent me for what I am. You resent me for what you’re not. You blame me for things I don’t understand. You can destroy yourself but I won’t let you ruin me too. I refuse to be an inmate in the private hell that you have created for yourself for another twenty years.’ She was shaking. She couldn’t believe what she had just said. Her heart was smashing at her ribcage. She had said it! Finally had the courage to say it after all these years.