Telling Lies to Alice (27 page)

Something was pressing against my face. The car . . . the window . . . No, not glass, but softer. I opened my eyes. The thumping carried on. My face was pressed against something red. The sofa. I was lying on a sofa, wrapped in a blanket. . . . I was in the kitchen. My kitchen. The curtains were drawn, so it must be night . . . why wasn’t I in bed?

I was meant to be somewhere . . . The Andersons’. Why hadn’t I got there? I turned my head. There was a woman sitting at the table, watching me. Not Mrs. Anderson. Wrong feet—the gypsy, from the car . . . There was something tight around my waist, digging into me, and the blanket was making my skin itch. I shrugged it off and saw that my shoulders were bare and the inside of my wrist and my palm were raw. The other wrist looked all right, except that there was something grey round it, with a cuff link. Kissing, I thought vaguely. Your cuff links should be kissing, the Bunny Mother always checked, didn’t she? But there was nothing for it to kiss. The other arm was bare. I had to find the other cuff before I went on the floor, or she wouldn’t let me . . . but I wasn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . I looked down at the flayed skin and suddenly remembered falling on the gravel, trying to get away from the car—not the club, the Andersons’—but why had I been going there? The question was too difficult. I pushed it away.

The noise stopped, but my head was hurting. Everything was hurting. I wanted to sleep . . . I stirred groggily, wondering why I couldn’t get comfortable, why the gypsy was there, why Kitty wouldn’t look at me, why . . .

“Wake up.” The gypsy was leaning over me, shaking my shoulder.

“You’re hurting . . . Leave me alone.”

“Wake up!”

“No . . . go away . . .”

“Come on . . . sit up.”

I twisted my head round to look at her. “What time is it?”

“Half-past six.”

I closed my eyes again.

“Wake
up
.” She wasn’t going to go away.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you know? You must be even more stupid than you look.”

More stupid than you look.
She’d said that before, hadn’t she? Said I was stupid. When she’d shone the torch at me . . . said I’d done something stupid. Telephoned her, that was it. I’d phoned her.

Val.
It was Val. Of course it was. And Jack, he’d been here, and he . . . he . . . what? Where was he? Val stepped back as I swung my legs off the sofa, started to stand up, felt a sudden, dizzying whoosh of blood from my head, and sat down again. Hold on, I told myself. Don’t panic. You’ll get there in a minute.

I stared hard at a pair of legs—mine, apparently—in sheer black tights, spiderwebbed in a mess of ladders down both sides. Then I examined the backs of my hands. Dirty knuckles. Mud under the fingernails.

“Having a little game, were you?” I looked up. The room—and Val—came back into focus. “Or was it a lovers’ tiff?”

“I was wearing jeans,” I said, confused.

“Not now, you’re not.”

“No,” I agreed. “I’m not. How did I get here?”

“Jack carried you.”

“I don’t remember. Where is he?”

Val shrugged. “No idea.”

I looked round the room. The empty brandy bottle was on the table, the glass, the napkins, candles in saucers . . . Cautiously, I put a hand on the top of my head. Bunny ears. I pulled out the grips, took them off, and sat fingering the torn, muddy black satin. They were mine, weren’t they? I’d kept them, put them away . . .
The gun.
Jack had had a gun. Everything came back in a rush: the newspaper cuttings, the film, Jack threatening to kill Eustace, locking me in the stable, and Lee . . . and then . . . then Jack made me dress up in all this stuff, and then . . .
Jeff had arrived.
He’d been here. His body. Lying on the ground by the door. I’d tried to wipe the blood off, kissed him . . . Put a cushion under his head . . . I turned to look at the sofa. Something was different . . . The throw had gone. But five cushions. That was the right number. I would have used a plain one, not one with embroidery and bits of mirror. I picked up the brown one and turned it over. Nothing. The green one had a dark patch in one corner. Blood, I thought. From Jeff’s mouth. But where
was
he? I knew he was dead. I’d seen him—
heard
him—die. Jack must have moved him, but there weren’t any marks on the lino. Easy to wipe off. Perhaps Val had helped.

I sat with the cushion on my lap. If Val knows Jeff is dead, I thought, she must know that Jack has a gun and he’s dangerous, so . . . but she might not know any of it. Jack might have moved him before she arrived. I watched her cross the room, turn on the tap, and pour a glass of water. She’s bringing it to me, I thought. If I can just keep her calm, perhaps I can talk to her, explain, persuade her to go to the police. . . .

Val stopped a couple of feet away from me. “Here,” she said, and with a flick of her wrist chucked it straight in my face. I was too surprised to duck and the water hit me full on, making me gasp.

I groped for the edge of the blanket and wiped my eyes, blinking, too stunned to speak. It wasn’t going to work. The woman had crashed her car trying to run me over—whatever she’d seen in the headlights, I thought, it wasn’t just me, it was all the women Jack had ever slept with, including Kitty. No wonder she’d put her foot down. What had Jack said to me?
Val’s always had a thing about you.
I’d belonged to the other bit of Jack and Lenny’s lives, hadn’t I? And she’d been shut out, excluded . . . Sending the newspaper cuttings, what was that about? To frighten me, hurt me? To get even? She probably didn’t know herself. But the business with Kitty, and then Jack just . . . disintegrating in front of her and leaving her to cope with Susie, and Susie’s death . . . her world had fallen apart, too.

Still, she’d got me where she wanted me, hadn’t she? Sitting here in this stupid costume, looking like something the cat dragged in . . . She wasn’t going to listen to me now.

I measured the distance to the back door with my eyes and wondered if I could get past her. She was shorter than me—smaller—but I felt so weak and achy. She saw where I was looking. “It’s locked,” she said scornfully. “So’s the front. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but I’ve got a few things to say to you, and you’re going to hear them whether you like it or not.”

Okay, I thought, willing myself not to panic. There’s no choice. Listen to her, then get her on your side. Make her give you the key. I looked up at her, standing in front of me, the empty glass in her hand, and tried to read her face. She seemed calm, controlled, even. I won’t mention Jeff yet, I thought. Don’t panic. Don’t say anything. Wait for her to speak.

“Your dog stinks.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“I shut him in the dining room.”

“Is he all right?”

“Far as I could see.” She shrugged and played with the glass for a moment, rolling it between her palms. “Do you know what my daughter said to me? She said she was so ugly it didn’t matter what sort of person she was inside because no one was ever going to bother finding out. She really believed it. She said, ‘Dad doesn’t know what you’re like. He doesn’t know what any of us are like.’ And do you know why that was? It was because he was never at home. Because there was always some . . . slut—like you—making herself
available
to him.”

“It . . .” I wanted to say, “It takes two,” but I stopped myself. “It wasn’t like that. I know you don’t believe it, but . . . I loved Lenny.”

“ ‘I loved Lenny,’ ” she repeated mockingly. “But of course you didn’t let a little thing like that stop you sleeping with my husband, did you?”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say, except . . . I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” she said evenly. “You couldn’t care less. I don’t imagine anything much matters to you unless you can get something out of it, but then the world’s your oyster, isn’t it? You just take anything you want.”

I shook my head. “That isn’t true.”

“But he didn’t come to you, did he? He didn’t come to you and say, ‘I’m in a mess, help me.’ No, he didn’t. Him and Jack—they came to me.” She stabbed a finger at her chest. “
Me.
They knew who’d help them. Who they could trust. And it wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t me.”

“That’s why I’m here. To help Jack. Like I’ve always helped him. That’s what love is, you stupid little tart. I knew you wouldn’t be any use—a fuck, that’s all you are to him. Nothing more than that. You and all the others.”

“Val,
don’t
. . .”

“Not very nice, is it, the truth?”

She gave me a contemptuous look, then went over to the sink and stood with her back to me, smoking. I stood up, keeping hold of the arm of the sofa. “Val?” She didn’t turn round. Shakily, using the furniture for help, I went and stood next to her. She carried on looking at the curtain as if she could see through it into the yard.

“I’d like to rinse my arm,” I said. “It’s bleeding.”

She stood aside.

I held my arm under the tap and tried to sluice out the dirt. The tea towels—the ones I’d used on Jeff and put in the sink—were gone. Had Jack moved them, or had Val? I kept my head down and looked at her sideways, through my hair.

She stared at the cigarette in her hand. “I’d given up. Three years ago. I started again after Susie died.”

“I don’t . . .” I said, “I can’t imagine . . .”

“Don’t try,” she said. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“Can I get you something?” I asked. “A cup of tea?”

She looked at me in surprise. “Yes. If you want.”

“I could do with one,” I said, filling the kettle. We stood in silence, waiting for it to boil. I looked out of the window. It seemed to be taking forever.

“I found a diary Susie’d written,” said Val suddenly. “It was from one of the places she went to—they had to do it as part of the therapy. There was a photograph stuck in the back. You and a lot of others, standing on a staircase. It was glamorous . . . bright colours, everyone smiling . . . I suppose she must have thought that was the way to be. I told her she was beautiful, but she didn’t believe me. All the stuff she’d written in the diary was about how ugly she thought she was . . . how much she hated herself . . . the things we’d said to her—trying to make her feel better—she’d put them down but they’d be . . . twisted round . . . Hideous. That was the word she used.
I am hideous.
Over and over again.
Pages
of it. It just . . .” Val faltered, and then said, “It broke my heart.” We looked at each other, tears in her eyes, tears in mine.

I heard the hall door open and turned round. Jack was standing in the doorway. No gun—it must be in his pocket, I thought. “Come here,” he said. He was speaking to Val, not to me.

“Don’t . . .” I started, but she looked straight through me and went to him. I looked away as he kissed her—stared at the back door. Val had said it was locked, but . . . there was no way to tell. Even if it wasn’t, there were two of them now, I thought. I wouldn’t get past both of them. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone in my life—so helpless—as I did then. I looked down at my ridiculous, filthy clothes, and sank to the floor, my back against the sink unit.

I heard Jack say to Val, “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“Where’s Jeff?” I shouted. “What have you done with him?”

“Who’s Jeff?” Val asked.

“It’s all right,” Jack said softly. “Don’t listen to her. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“How can you say that?” I screamed. “You killed him!”

“What’s she talking about?” asked Val.

“Nothing. She’s mad. Ignore it.”

“No! You shot him! And Lee—and—” I couldn’t get any more words out. “Let me go,” I whispered. “Just—let—me—go.”

Jack looked at me for the first time. “No,” he said. The top of the kettle started rattling. “What’s that?”

“She was making tea,” said Val.

“Would you like some?” he asked.

“Yes,” Val said. “That would be . . . I’d like some.”

“You heard,” Jack said to me. “Make her some tea. I’ll be back in a minute.” He disengaged himself from Val. “You’ll be okay, darling. I’m coming right back.” He patted her on the bottom and disappeared into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

Do what he says, I thought. Don’t think about it, just do it. You don’t have a choice.

Val came back and leant against the dresser, arms crossed, and watched as I got to my feet and reached over to turn off the gas. Boiling water was slopping down the sides onto the hob.

I could feel her eyes on me as I assembled the teapot and mugs and got the milk out of the fridge, and willed her to say something, anything, just to let me make contact. It has to come from her, I thought. I’ve got to let her be in charge. I mustn’t panic her, or she’ll call Jack.

I noticed her cigarettes by the sink. “Do you mind if I have one?” I asked.

She shrugged again, then fumbled in her skirt pocket for a lighter and handed it to me. “Thanks.” I passed it back to her. She motioned with her hand for me to give her the packet, and she then lit one, too. She smoked it in silence, then said, “Susie thought you were beautiful. I remember, a few years ago, she must have been eighteen, nineteen, she was looking at some snaps Jack had taken of you and Lenny, and she said, ‘I’d give anything to be like that, but I never will.’ You don’t look so great now, do you?”

I shook my head.

“I wish Susie could see what you look like now. I wish I could tell her.”

There’s no answer to that, I thought. I handed her a mug of tea. “Do you take sugar?”

“No. Did Jack do that?” She gestured at my face.

“Yes.”

“He’s never laid a finger on me,” she said, “
ever
. What happened?”

“He thought I’d phoned the police. I told him I hadn’t, but he didn’t believe me. Then some kids came to the door, and he thought that’s who it was, and he just . . . lost it.”

“I see. Who’s Jeff?”

“Jack shot him.”

“
Shot
him?” Val shook her head.

“Killed him. He’s dangerous, Val.”

“Rubbish. He’s fine.”