Untouchable (14 page)

‘No one who met Amanda could have failed to appreciate her many outstanding qualities – her warmth, her humour, her intelligence. And, indeed, her beauty.’

Every head turns to study the photograph. The luminous Amanda smiles back at us, demure and virtuous. The vicar looks faintly embarrassed, as if conscious of having strayed on to shifting sands. He embarks on a résumé of her childhood, the muscles in his face relaxing as he finds himself on firmer ground. Amanda emerges as sweet and diligent. Something of a star at school. Top grades and an accomplished violinist, a scholarship to a music conservatory overthrown in favour of studying politics at university.

He describes her first job with a management consultancy, her promotion within a year. Her subsequent engagement to another of the firm’s high-flyers.

Then nothing. A discreet veil is drawn over what followed, like her life ended seven years not several weeks ago. It’s as if what Amanda did next – and did so consummately well – simply never happened. Where’s Elisa in all this, I wonder. Playful, wicked, irreverent Elisa.

Someone coughs. I start to crave a cigarette. Fucking churches, I think, glancing around at the plain wooden cross hung discreetly at the back. Weddings, funerals – why does no one ever tell the truth in these places?

The vicar invites us to stand and sing, and I grasp the order of service, trying to focus on the words of the hymn.

I am waiting for the dawning of the bright and blessed day,

When the darksome night of sorrow shall have vanished far away.

Is this what it will be like at my funeral, I ask myself. Everybody ashamed, everybody playing dumb?

Those, that is, who bother to go.

I swallow. It’s impossibly warm in here. Much too hot for the black wool dress and coat I chose, mindful of the cold at Jane’s wedding. Sweat prickles my skin. My throat feels raspy and dry, but I nearly smile at the irony – the chill of a wedding, the warmth of death.

Far beyond this vale of tears
…

My voice breaks mid-verse, and I know I’m going to cry. Not in here, I think, desperately, knowing that’s ridiculous. Where better?

I don’t care. I get up and head for the exit. See Kristen’s head turning towards me, the question mark on her face.

‘You OK, miss?’ asks a young male usher as I charge through the foyer and out the main entrance. Hurrying round the side of the building, I lean back on the red brick, closing my eyes against the sunlight, against the tears. If I start now I’ll never stop.

I open my eyes again, blinking. Grope for a tissue in my pocket.

It’s then I notice the man. Standing near the car park, gazing right at me. Not that I can be entirely certain. He’s wearing sunglasses, the shiny, reflective kind, despite a sky both soggy and overcast.

Something in the angles of his face, his stance, his sense of aloofness, reminds me of Alex and I feel an involuntary rush of anticipation. Then he turns his head and the resemblance ends. But the way he looked straight at me was odd somehow. Blatant. Evaluating.

I glance towards the chapel. Still the faint hum of music inside. I should go back, I think, remembering Kristen, remembering that, however difficult this is for me, it must be a thousand times worse for her. What will she make of me rushing out like that?

But I can’t. I just can’t face it.

I look back towards the man, but he’s gone. Vanished. I scan the car park, the little flower garden, down the drive – but there’s no trace of him.

What the fuck?

He must have got into a car, I tell myself, but it still creeps me out. I only turned away for a second.

I examine the line of cars. All appear empty, except a black BMW with tinted windows I can’t see into. I consider walking up and peering inside, then come to my senses. What would I say, even if he were there? Loitering in the car park of a crematorium is hardly a crime.

Christ, Grace, just pull yourself together.

‘Enough’, I decide out loud, taking a deep breath. I’m going home. I’ll call Kristen in a day or two to apologize for bolting, then put this right behind me.

After all, I’ve done my bit. What I could. No need for me to do any more.

21

Thursday, 12 March

My sense of disquiet starts the moment I open the door. Nothing I can put my finger on, simply a feeling that something isn’t quite right.

My client, however, looks relaxed enough. Mid-fifties, buzz-cut hair, the air of someone at ease in his own skin. Gives a brief smile before he walks into my flat, shedding his coat before I can even ask to take it.

He offers little in the way of small talk. I’m guessing this man is an experienced punter, doesn’t like to waste a minute of his booking with preliminaries. So I lead him straight into the bedroom, trying to pull myself together as we undress. Why do I feel so edgy? Was it just yesterday’s funeral?

The man lays belly-down on the bed. I take the hint and straddle him. Squatting over his buttocks, I work his shoulders with my fingers. My hands are trembling, I realize, and make a conscious effort to relax, pressing my thumbs into his muscles. They’re taut, resisting, surprisingly firm for his age; I have to squeeze hard to make any impression.

The body beneath me settles into the duvet as I use the heel of my palm to knead each shoulder blade, bending in to apply the right amount of pressure.

And that’s when it hits me. An aroma so subtle it’s taken my conscious mind several minutes to catch up.

His aftershave.

I pull back, swallowing back a wave of revulsion. My client rolls over, interpreting my withdrawal as a signal to move on.

It’s not him, I repeat silently to myself.
He’s not Michael.

I smile briefly, then force myself to stroke his chest and belly, my eyes following my hands as they’re drawn inexorably to a thick line of scar tissue, running diagonally from his left hip to the tip of his pubic hair.

My client reads the question in my fingers. ‘Argentina,’ he says, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘Stanley. Up near Two Sisters.’

I trace the history on his stomach, silver-toned and shinier than the surrounding skin. A souvenir from the Malvinas.

‘Bayonet,’ he adds.

I look right at him. Try not to inhale too deeply.

‘Does it bother you?’ he asks.

‘What?’ I say, thinking he means his aftershave.

‘That I killed somebody.’ There’s no challenge in his voice, merely enquiry.

‘I’ve met others,’ I evade.

‘Soldiers?’

I shake my head. His gaze lingers, gauging my response, but he doesn’t pursue it. Knows it’s none of his business. I glance back down at his belly. ‘Must have hurt.’

He considers this. ‘Yes … no. It’s difficult to remember. The fear’s always there, but when the adrenaline kicks in, you don’t notice. Or the pain.’

‘So you saw him?’ I ask, curiosity overcoming my growing sense of unease. ‘The man that did this?’

‘Barely.’ His voice slows, deepens, as his mind sinks back to the past. ‘It was very dark. But I heard him. “Forgive me,” he said, in English. Right before he stuck it in.’

A pause where neither of us speaks.

‘And then?’

His mouth twitches. ‘And then I put my gun to his head and blew it off.’

I flinch despite myself. They must have been closer than we are now, I realize, imagining that visceral contact, that thrust. Like sex.

I picture that foreign soldier shivering in the dark on that bleak, windswept island, suddenly face-to-face with the man beneath me. That fleeting, bewildering moment where his whole life shrank to a choice that was no choice at all – to kill or be killed.

‘What’s it like?’

My client looks at me enquiringly.

‘Killing someone.’

He smiles at my question, lifts his eyes to the ceiling. ‘It shakes you up the first time, but you get used to it.’

Could I do it, I wonder. Could I hold a gun to somebody’s head and pull the trigger? It would be so easy, I suspect, crossing that line. One small step and there you are, on the other side.

A hand on my breast breaks into my thoughts. My client sits up and kisses me, tentatively at first, then with undisguised enthusiasm. I close my eyes but find Michael waiting for me in the darkness and snap them open again.

‘You OK?’ He pulls away to look at my face. ‘You seem kind of edgy.’

‘I’m fine,’ I swallow. ‘Just a slight headache. It’ll pass in a minute.’

He smiles and touches my hair, then rolls me on to my back. Turns to get a condom and ease it over himself. Then looms back in again, smothering me in another embrace as he slides himself on top of me, a hand between my legs to guide himself inside.

The scent is unbearably strong. The same Michael wore – sweet and musky, mixed with the waxy, slightly sweaty smell of male skin. And as he enters me I’m back there. Back in that flat on that bare lumpy mattress. I’m back in my nightmares and it’s him fucking me and I push him away, out of my mind, but I’m spiralling down and it’s Amanda’s face I see now, Amanda in that hotel room, that man screwing her, his hands around her neck and that dreadful, excruciating moment where I can’t breathe …

I can’t fucking breathe
…

I shove aside the body above me and sit up with a gasp. A pain in my chest, suddenly desperately tight. Grab my inhaler from the bedside table, firing a stream of salbutamol into the back of my mouth as I’m seized by a jagged fit of coughing.

Oh God.

The world spins. I’m bent double in the effort to breathe. Long seconds before the ache in my lungs begins to ease.

‘Can I do anything?’ My client’s voice, concerned.

I shake my head again. ‘Sorry,’ I manage to say, but it comes out more as a whisper. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do this today.’

He doesn’t reply. I look away so I don’t have to see his pissed-off expression, forcing myself to inhale and exhale, slowly, carefully, waiting for the tightness in my chest to subside. I hear sounds of dressing, the slight rasp of fabric on skin. A moment later a brief jangle of car keys as he pulls on his jacket in the lounge, then the clunk of the door as he shuts it behind him.

Lines from that Yeats poem rise up from the backwaters of my mind.
Things fall apart
…
the centre cannot hold.

I force my eyes open, inhaling deeply. I should have taken the day off, I think. I hadn’t realized all this was getting to me so much. Tears prick at me again, as I remember that gruesome, untruthful service.

This time I let myself cry.

22

Friday, 13 March

‘Hello?’ Kristen picks up after a couple of rings, her tone tentative, anxious.

‘Hi, it’s Grace,’ I say. ‘I’m just calling to apologize for leaving so suddenly the other day. I—’

‘Oh, Grace,’ Kristen cuts in with a loud sigh. Almost a groan. A pause where I wonder if she’s angry with me, then she clears her throat. ‘Sorry. I assumed you were the police.’

‘The police? Why?’

‘I called them nearly an hour ago. I’m still waiting for them to get back to me.’

‘About Amanda?’

‘No … it’s the flat.’ I hear Kristen hesitate. ‘I’ve been staying with Ruth since the funeral. I just got in and found the place has been broken into. Completely trashed.’

‘You’ve been
burgled
?’

Don’t get involved, Grace
.

‘I’ve no idea what they’ve taken. It’s all such a mess.’

Her voice cracks with emotion.

Oh fuck.
I mentally scan my agenda. Nothing else till six this evening. ‘Would you like me to come over?’

Kristen sounds hesitant. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t want to put you to any …’

‘It’s no trouble, really. I’d be glad to help.’

Silence for a moment, then relief in her tone. ‘Would you mind, Grace? I’m scared …’ She breaks off, as if too confused to even finish the thought. ‘Ruth has to go to work, and there’s no one …’

Don’t do it, Grace.

‘I’ll jump in a taxi. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

I’m so taken aback I can’t speak. Even from the corridor I can see the chaos. The swathe of coats and scarves scattered around the hallway; beyond, a further tide of debris strewn across the living-room floor.

‘Jesus …’ I gasp, as I pick my way inside.

Kristen looks exhausted. The shadows under her eyes have deepened to hollows, the lids scalded from crying.

I stand in the middle of the flat and survey the damage.

What the hell?

The once neat little lounge now looks like the aftermath of a battle. Everything has been pulled off the shelves and thrown over the floor. Ornaments lie smashed, books and DVDs litter the rugs, some lying on their spines, words, pictures, shiny disks exposed like guts. A box of photographs has spilled its contents in an arc across the left side of the room. Images of Kristen and Amanda smile up at me, eerily, an ironic commentary on the surrounding devastation.

I spin round. The beautiful sofa is upended, its cushions slashed and the material peeled away, gaping wounds revealing white foamy entrails. Underneath, the backing fabric has been ripped right off, exposing the wood and metal skeleton within.

To the left of the ruined sofa, in the corner where Kristen kept her desk, bank statements and utility bills lie sprinkled like giant confetti, every file opened and emptied, the beige carpet almost entirely obscured.

Christ. This looks more like an act of terrorism than a burglary.
Why did they have to make such a bloody mess?

‘The bedroom?’ I ask.

Kristen nods. ‘The same. They didn’t spare a thing. Not even the clothes.’

‘Have the police been?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not yet. The detective handling Amanda’s case wants to see it, but she can’t come before three.’

‘Why a detective? I thought they sent in the uniforms to deal with burglaries.’

Kristen shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I guess they have to check it isn’t connected to the murder.’