Cut Short (13 page)

  Geraldine caught a whiff of perfume as Celia kissed her on both cheeks. Celia leaned her head back, her hands resting on her sister's shoulders, and studied Geraldine's face before delivering judgement. 'You look awful.'

  'I'm fine. A bit tired, that's all.'

  'Well, take it easy. You're not going to be any good to anyone if you make yourself ill. Difficult case?' Geraldine nodded.

  Celia knew better than to ask more questions. She turned and led Geraldine into a room packed with children all screaming at once. A woman in a bright red and yellow jumpsuit was clapping her hands and screeching into a microphone above the beat of loud music.

  'No!' she yelled and a roomful of histrionic voices answered, 'Yes!' Geraldine felt a headache starting at the top of her skull.

  'Chloe! Look who's here!' Celia shouted. Her voice was swallowed up in the din. 'Chloe! Aunty Gerry's here!' Chloe didn't turn round. Celia guided Geraldine out and closed the door. 'You won't get any sense out of Chloe while Party Pantomima's here,' she apologised. 'She's horrendous, as you saw, but the kids love her. Or think they do. They follow the herd at that age. We only managed to get her because she had a cancellation. Honestly, Gerry, it's a nightmare arranging these bloody parties. And it costs an absolute bloody fortune too.' Geraldine nodded, trying to look interested. 'Come on, let's join the girls.'

  Geraldine was about to remonstrate, but Celia led her away from the screaming children to the dining room where a dozen women were sitting round the table drinking red wine.

  The woman beside her smiled politely at Geraldine. 'Is your daughter at the Maltings?'

  'No, I'm Chloe's aunt.'

  'So where do yours go to school?'

  Geraldine bridled at the assumption. 'I haven't got any children. I'm not married,' she replied, vexed by the defiance in her own voice.

  The other woman gave her an encouraging smile. 'Plenty of time. So what
do
you do?'

  'I'm a police officer.'

  'A police officer? Really? I've never met a police officer before. Not socially. I don't suppose you dealt with a break-in in Rowley Grove last month, by any chance?'

  'I don't work around here, I'm afraid, but I do work in crime detection, yes.'

  'I've always thought that must be really interesting.' She turned to the woman sitting on her other side. 'This is Chloe's aunt. She's a police woman.'

  'DI,' Geraldine corrected her pettily. 'I'm a detective inspector.'

  'Cool,' the other woman replied, her smile too sudden to be genuine. There were a few jokes about minding their Ps and Qs and not making off with the silver, before the conversation reverted to husbands, children and school. As long as the police kept a lid on things, most people preferred not to think about them. Geraldine sat dumbly, torn between wanting to see Celia, and hoping the DCI would summon her urgently back to the station.

  The afternoon dragged on. When the visitors finally left, clutching party bags, Celia turned to Geraldine. 'You're staying for supper, aren't you?' With uncanny timing, Sebastian arrived home just as Celia announced the lasagne was ready. Geraldine smelt fresh rain on wool as her brother-in-law embraced her. She smiled into the warmth of his familiar features before he turned and kissed Celia lightly on the lips and swung Chloe in the air. His daughter screamed in delight, his wife in protest.

  'Put her down. There's no room in here,' Celia remonstrated, laughing.

  Driving away from the warmth of her sister's house, Geraldine felt lonelier than ever. Her mood didn't improve when she arrived home to see that someone had sprayed graffiti on the fence at the end of her close.
FILTH
was written in red paint that had streaked so that the huge letters seemed to be weeping blood. Geraldine was faintly troubled. One of the main attractions of her block of flats was its security, but vandals had gained access to the premises and amused themselves defacing the fence. It was raining so she scurried from the car to the back entrance of her block and fell into bed exhausted.

  Preoccupied with Angela Waters, she closed her eyes. Instead of the small pale figure that haunted her, the graffiti flashed across her mind. With a shock she realised it must have been put there just for her.

23

Newspaper

Jim didn't recognise the picture at first. It was above an article about Angela Waters in one of the national papers. The police had found her. That made him angry because he'd left her in a very secret hiding place. The police had no business sticking their noses in there. He barely glanced at the headline: 'DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?' When he'd finished reading the description of Angela Waters' death, he looked at the picture again and the truth dawned on him. It was meant to be his face.

  He choked on his sandwich. Tiny wet crumbs spattered on the page. Someone must have seen him in the park and told the police about his scar. That was how he knew it was a picture of his face. With confusion came a gathering rage that had to be controlled. He needed to think clearly. It wasn't a good likeness, but he knew it was supposed to be his face. The scar was the clue. Someone else might recognise it and go to the police. He licked his lips nervously and his fingers wandered to his face, feeling their way around the familiar crease on his lip.

  He knew he should leave Woolsmarsh and go far far away so he'd be safe. But Miss Elsie lived in Woolsmarsh. Ever since he'd seen her picture in the newspaper he'd made Woolsmarsh his home. Once he'd seen her drive past very fast in a black car. Every day he went out looking for her and sometimes she came and stood right beside him. If he went away, he might never see her again.

  He stared at the picture and his fingers explored his face. He'd have to hide his scar. It was a pity, but he'd have to stop shaving.

  'Long hair is dirty,' Miss Elsie said, but she understood it wasn't his fault. He didn't have a choice. He licked his top lip and felt himself quiver. No space in his brain for anger. Not yet. He thought about what to do until his head hurt. He'd seen different pairs of glasses in the chemist's. A beard, a moustache and glasses. That would be a good disguise. His thoughts kept drifting, getting jumbled and angry.

  Calm down, he told himself. He read the article again, mouthing the words to make sure he didn't miss anything. They hadn't discovered his hiding place. They would have come poking around asking questions if they knew where he was. Maybe they were looking for him. It was lucky he'd hidden himself so cleverly. But someone had linked him to the woman in the park. He stared at the grey image in the newspaper.

  'Calm down,' he told himself out loud, 'it's alright. Miss Elsie won't let them hurt me.'

  He sat down on the floor to think. He was used to managing. He'd got used to it early on, trapped in a grimy flat when he was too small to open the front door to the dubious freedom of the streets. Life was full of menace when you were small and your face didn't fit. There were always bigger kids jeering and spitting, slapping and kicking. And his mother would be at home, waiting for him, violent in her affections, and her rage. He never knew which was worse.

  Now it was his turn to be strong. No one would ever hurt him again. His memories made him tremble but he knew his rage would have to wait until it was safe to go back to the park. He knew what he had to do. He was going to make it safe to walk around without women putting dirty thoughts in his head all the time.

  'It's bad to be dirty,' Miss Elsie said. When he had dirty thoughts he had to be punished. God didn't want him to be dirty. But they were everywhere, giving him dirty thoughts. He had to stop them, all of them, one by one. He was going to be very busy doing God's work and Miss Elsie would be pleased with him. He smiled and then he remembered he was supposed to be thinking. He had to be very clever.

  Now they knew what he looked like, they'd be looking for him. It was lucky he hadn't gone back to his room. No, not lucky. He'd been clever. They were probably there now, waiting for him. They were going to be disappointed. He smiled to think how cross they'd be when he never went back there. It made him sad too, because he'd liked his room. The lady there was nice. She'd give him his picture if he went and asked her, but he wouldn't go back for it now. That was what they were expecting him to do. Miss Elsie warned him they'd be there, waiting for him, but he was too clever for them.

  He was very clever. He knew lots of places to hide. He'd found a shed in a garden where no one would find him because all the houses along the road were empty. Someone had put wooden boards across the windows. He could peep between the cracks and see the street. No one could see him looking out. He never saw anyone and no one saw him creep along the side passage across the overgrown garden. The path was hidden under grass but he'd found it.

  'God leads us in the path of righteousness,' Miss Elsie had said when he found it and he knew God had brought him safely to the shed. It was his shed now. No one would find him there, but he could go out and find them. That was very clever of him. He giggled to himself at his cleverness. He clapped his hands softly so no one would hear.

  Someone had told the newspaper about his scar to get him in trouble but he was too clever to be caught. He was like David who beat a giant even though he had his arm in a sling. He had a sling once but it never made him strong. And it never helped him fight anyone.

  'Don't pick on him. He's got his arm in a sling,' Miss Elsie said, and the other children ran off laughing.

  He sat in his shed and made a plan. First he had to find out who had told the newspapers about him. Then he'd make sure they never told on him again. It wasn't nice to tell on people. God would give him the strength to defeat his enemy. He sang to himself under his breath:

'Make, then, our task to match our strength,
Our strength to match our task,
And make us unafraid to do
Whatever Thou wilt ask.'

Miss Elsie taught him the words. He could hear her voice now which was funny because he couldn't see her although he looked everywhere for her. But he knew it was her voice, singing. He loved Miss Elsie because she had golden hair and she never shouted at him, even when he was dirty. She said he couldn't help it.

  'Are you an angel?' he asked her. She was as beautiful as an angel. All the children said so. They made him angry. She was his angel, not theirs. The teacher told him he had a garden angel and he chose Miss Elsie.

  His shed was in a garden. It reminded him of the park. Thinking about the park, he realised who'd told the news paper about him. It must have been the stranger who spoke to him even though he didn't know her. She'd asked him about a music shop. He wasn't allowed to talk to strangers. It wasn't his fault she spoke to him. Now he had to find her and shut her up. He could do that. She was a problem but he knew what to do because he was clever.

  His moustache grew quickly. It made him look like someone else and that made him chuckle, even though he hated the feel of it, itchy and dirty on his face. He was going to buy some glasses to hide his face. He wouldn't go back to his usual chemist for them because the woman there was trying to poison him. She thought he didn't notice when she gave him the wrong pills, but he wasn't stupid. He was wise to her tricks. He was too clever for her. He never swallowed her pills. He didn't even want to touch them. He threw them down the drain and serve her right.

  Jim sprinted past the chemist's window. No one saw him. He raced round the corner and slowed down. There were other shops he could go in. Along a narrow turning on the outskirts of town he found what he was looking for. He glanced up and down the deserted street before he slipped into the chemist. The shelves were packed with plastic bottles and jars, packets and boxes, brushes, hairpins and combs, a bewildering array of containers displayed in neat rows.

  He was afraid the woman in there would see through his disguise. Women could do that.

  'Didn't I see your picture in the paper?' she might ask, worry plastered across her face.

  'Can I help you?' Jim turned with a guilty start. She had a nice voice, but she was old. Her grey hair was cropped in short tight curls all over her head. As he looked round in alarm, he caught sight of what he wanted.

  'Those,' he said hoarsely, pointing at the stand of glasses. Lenses winked horribly at him like empty eye sockets.

  'The reading glasses?' she asked. 'What strength?' Jim fought to control the panic rising in his throat like sick. The woman was staring at him. Her smile vanished. She turned and shuffled along the aisle to the counter where a fat woman in a brown coat was waiting to be served. Jim watched her hurry away from him. She knew what he was thinking. He dashed over to the stand, grabbed a pair of glasses, and thrust them across the counter.

  'Excuse me,' the fat woman said loudly. Jim turned to face her and she backed away with a hurried mutter. 'It's all right, you can go first.'

  Jim didn't know what to say. He shook his head and held out the glasses.

  'Don't you want to try them first?' the woman behind the counter asked. She pretended to smile at him. He shook his head again and held out his money. He had to get out of there quickly. She knew what he was thinking. Two more women came in, chattering loudly. Their voices dropped to a whisper and he knew they were talking about him. If he ran away they'd know he was scared and they'd run after him.

  'Cowardy cowardy custard,' the children shrieked when they chased him. He looked at the floor and waited for his glasses.

  'You mustn't let them upset you,' Miss Elsie said.

  The woman handed him his glasses in a little brown bag. 'Would you like …' she began to ask, but he turned and darted away without waiting for his change. A woman was standing in front of the door. He had to push past her to get out of there. They were all staring at him. The woman behind the counter was shouting at him. He ran along the pavement without looking back. He was shaking and sweating by the time he reached his shed.