What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (25 page)

Mrs Patterson has four children and twelve grandchildren and I catch up with all of their lives while we have afternoon tea in the front room. It’s a surprisingly good spread for a lady who lives on her own and I would thoroughly enjoy it were the circumstances different. There are finger sandwiches with three fillings, scones with a perfect rise and blackberry jam made from the fruit from her garden. I manage to eat my share despite the fact that I’m itching to get next door.

Before too long her mind drifts back to Maybanks. ‘There’s something not right about that Leila. And I’ve seen a
man
hanging about, you know. Leila thinks it was him who took the box.’

‘She said that?’

‘Not exactly but she did say, “It’s not Katarina. It’s him! I know it’s him!” But then she wouldn’t explain herself any further and that made Tom angry. You know he had the oak tree chopped down?’

‘Was it Tom who wanted it down?’ I frown. ‘I thought it might have been her.’

‘He told me he wanted it down.’ She thinks for a second. ‘Perhaps he was just saying that, though?’

‘Most of the cacti are gone too.’

‘I noticed that. When we were upstairs – because Tom has his study in Chloe’s room now, you know? – well, yes, I saw into the glasshouse and it was practically empty. So sad.’ She shakes her head. ‘So very sad. I asked Katarina about it and she said they took most of the cacti to the dump. I mean, why didn’t they offer them to the neighbours?’

‘Took me fifteen years to collect them all.’

‘You won’t be found out,’ she says, her tone very definite. Her eyes meet mine. ‘Katarina said she’d seen a woman but they took no notice of her. They were too busy arguing with each other.’

I nod my head, knowing there’s no point pretending – or at least not with Mrs Patterson. ‘You’re right, I was here on Friday and I did take the box.’

‘Ah …’ Mrs Patterson gives a sigh of acknowledgement.

‘I still have the back-door key and because the house isn’t Tom’s yet, I’m as entitled to be in there as he is.’

‘Oh?’ Mrs Patterson’s face is a picture of interest.

‘The problem is that she had put some jewellery in the box – I don’t know why. You’d think she would have had something of her own to store it in.’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Patterson is gripped.

‘It was probably her grandmother’s or mother’s or something,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But regardless of who it used to belong to, it’s clearly worth a lot of money and I will put it back.’

Mrs Patterson’s face brightens. ‘I can be your lookout!’ She catches her breath and then her expression clouds. ‘Wait! Wait, Ellen. I’ve just remembered the important bit.’ She thumps her thigh with a shaky fist. ‘Silly old coot that I am.’

‘Take your time,’ I say. I have no idea what she’s about to say. I feel like it could be anything from an important insight into Leila and Tom’s relationship to an observation on myself – perhaps she’s seen me sneak into therapy? If she has, I’ve a feeling I’ve no need to worry. In the parlance of buddy movies, Mrs Patterson has my back.

‘Tom left first this morning, at about seven. Leila left next, just as I was having my constitutional. She stopped the car to pick up a man at the end of the street. And it was the very same man who has been hanging around.’ She claps her hands. ‘Very odd, I thought to myself. Very odd. And so what I did next was I tended to the front garden for a bit and out came Katarina. A sweet girl from the Czech Republic – Leila doesn’t make it easy for her.’ She shakes her head. ‘There was some bruising on her face and I wouldn’t be surprised if … well, I wouldn’t be surprised if Leila has a temper.’

‘You think she hit her?’

‘I’m not sure, but anyway, I said to Katarina, I see that man’s back. “What one?” she said and I said, the man who you let into the house the other night. Your boyfriend is he? “No!” she said. “He’s Leila’s brother David.” And then she covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m not to say,” she said, looking very guilty.’ Mrs Patterson stops talking and leans back in her seat. ‘What can it mean? Tom didn’t know about this man. I know this because I’ve spoken to Tom about the man and he was adamant he didn’t know who he was.’

‘I don’t know what it means, Mrs Patterson. I really don’t.’ I stand up. ‘But I do need to get going now.’ I pat my bag. ‘I need to put these pieces back.’

‘Lead on, MacDuff!’ She rises to her feet, rubbing her right hip. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

I’m opening Mrs Patterson’s gate, about to step onto the pavement, when I see Francis coming along the street. I automatically smile at the sight of him. He isn’t looking in my direction; his eyes are following the BMW that is pulling into Maybanks’ driveway. Leila is home. I want to shout hello to Francis but I can’t because Leila will see me.

Mrs Patterson is at my elbow and she pulls me back a few steps so that we are obscured by the honeysuckle. ‘It’s him,’ Mrs Patterson whispers. ‘The brother.’

‘Where?’ Leila climbs out of the car but there is no one with her. ‘I can’t see him.’

‘That man
there
,’ Mrs Patterson says, pointing at Francis.

‘He’s not Leila’s brother. He’s called Francis.’ Even as I’m saying this I’m faltering because Francis goes straight up to Leila and speaks to her. I strain my ears but his voice is too quiet for me to hear. Leila pushes him hard in the chest and I hear Mrs Patterson gasp as Francis reels backwards into the lupins.

‘No love lost there,’ Mrs Patterson whispers.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. I watch Francis pull himself upright and follow Leila to the front door. She slams it in his face and he holds his finger on the bell. He lets it ring and ring and ring until she opens the door and he goes inside.

‘This isn’t going to end well,’ Mrs Patterson murmurs.

‘I have to go.’

‘Wait a second. Ellen! What about the jewellery?’

I take off at a run and don’t stop until my face is so wet with tears that the water is running down inside my T-shirt. If Francis is Leila’s brother then I’ve lost my heart and my head to a liar. I’ve been played for a fool. By him. By her?

An intense anxiety starts up in my chest and my vision blurs. I lean on the garden wall next to me and try to think my way through this but I can’t. I’m overbreathing, the rhythm builds and builds and I’m dragged along with it.

‘Are you okay?’ It’s a woman’s voice and I try to focus on her face but no amount of blinking makes the blurring recede. I’m lucky, because at the moment I feel myself pass out, she catches me, and the last thing I remember is her hand shielding my head before it hits the pavement.

I’ve had three drunken days. Three days of remembering. Three days of grabbing hold of what I need to keep and letting go of the rest. I’m dimly aware of answering the door at some point and Mary McNeil standing there, her expression as open and hopeful as a child arriving at a birthday party. I don’t know what I say to her but her expression as I close the door stays with me. Angry. She was angry with me. Should I care? … Probably. But I don’t.

On Wednesday, I reenter my life because today we visit Gareth. I collect David at the end of my road as arranged. I don’t drive off immediately. I turn to face him but I don’t speak; I simply stare at him. He is whistling through his teeth, pleased with himself. Gradually, as the silence grows, he becomes self-conscious and says to me, ‘Everything okay?’

‘Do you have anything to tell me?’

‘Okay … so, I shouldn’t have followed you on Saturday but it’s not as if I spoke to Alex.’

‘No, you shouldn’t have followed me.’ I look in my rearview mirror and see Mrs Patterson endlessly wandering the streets as she searches for her decomposing cat. I really must put her out of her misery. ‘Do you have anything else to tell me?’

He shrugs. ‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Mum’s jewellery?’

‘What about it?’

‘You took it.’

His eyes widen with exaggerated surprise. ‘How could I do
that
?’

‘I know you’ve taken it. I don’t know how you got it but I will find out.’

‘I haven’t got it.’ He frowns at me. ‘Why do you always think the worst of me?’

‘Because whatever we’d all like to believe, past behaviour is the best predictor of future behaviour.’

‘People change!’

‘People make small adjustments to their behaviour. And, over time, small adjustments can lead to substantial changes, but childhood patterns are hard to beat, especially when they are as ingrained as yours.’
And mine.

‘Harsh.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t that be ours? I don’t believe you’ve escaped your childhood patterns.’

‘Why don’t you just forget the petty mind games, the clothes, the shoes, the taking Mum’s jewellery and tell me what you’re planning?’

‘What I’m planning?’ His expression is reflective as he stares straight ahead. ‘I’m tired, Leila. I’m tired of being a loser and I’m tired of being an outsider. Sure I can play the game. I can pretend to be someone else. I can pretend to be the good guy, the guy who’s well-adjusted, well-rounded, a modern man. But inside I’m fucked up because I’m never allowed to be honest and acknowledge my past.’

‘And you blame me?’

‘You’re part of it.’

‘Don’t push me, David.’ My tone is silky smooth. ‘I mean it.’

‘I know you, Leila.’

‘Do you?’ We’re fully facing one another. ‘Look at me closely and tell me what you see.’

‘I see you, I see …’ He trails off and I watch the confidence in his eyes flicker and then die. ‘I see Leila Mae.’ He drums his fists on his knees. ‘Let’s go, for fuck’s sake.’

The care home Gareth is living in is situated close to a busy road on the outskirts of Dunfermline. The building is a modern design, built to the cheapest specifications, a long rectangular box with small, Lego-like windows placed halfway up the brickwork at regular intervals. The garden is small but neat, with one wooden bench cast adrift on a small hillock that faces the roaring traffic on the road.

‘As a place to end your days this is about as uninspiring as it gets,’ David says, climbing out of the car. ‘But it’s still more than Gareth deserves.’

I go round to the passenger side and take hold of his arm. I’m still angry with him but, if I can help it, I’d rather prevent him getting hurt and risk him spinning further out of my control. He’s been agitated for the whole journey, humming, fiddling with the radio, the air conditioning and the knobs on his seat, like the nine-year-old boy he was. ‘David, this isn’t a good idea. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Always so negative!’ He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt us now.’

‘He can’t hurt me, but I think he can still hurt you.’ He begins to walk away from me and I grab his sleeve. ‘Don’t be imagining that you can goad him and get the better of him. It won’t work.’

‘Give over, Leila!’ He shrugs me off. ‘You’re such a fucking killjoy. No wonder Alex takes drugs.’

‘On your own head be it,’ I say quietly and follow him into the building, where we’re greeted by a nurse wearing a purple paper hat.

‘We’re celebrating a birthday,’ she says, pointing to her head. ‘We love a birthday here, don’t we Agnes?’ she shouts towards an old lady who’s shuffling along the corridor close by. ‘And who are you here to see?’ she says to us.

‘Gareth Thatcher,’ I say.

‘Oh … okay.’ Her smile only wavers for a second.

‘Does Gareth love a birthday?’ David says.

‘He didn’t join us today,’ the nurse admits. ‘But we’re always hopeful. We like to give our residents the option to take part but we don’t force them.’

‘Does he take part in many activities?’ David asks.

‘Well …’ She smiles and rubs her right hand on the front of her tunic. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Brenda.’ She holds out her hand and we take turns to shake it.

‘David.’

‘Leila.’

‘Lovely to meet you both. Are you related to Gareth?’

‘His children,’ David says.

‘
Step
children,’ I emphasise. ‘He married our mother.’

‘Has he never spoken of us?’ David says.

‘Not to my knowledge. He tends to keep himself to himself but perhaps your visit will be just what he needs.’ She gives us an optimistic smile and we walk behind her along the corridor. Her frame is two sizes too large for her tunic and it rides up on her hips so that she has to pull it down every couple of steps. But what she loses in the body beautiful she clearly makes up for in kindness. She tells us about Gareth and the recovery he’s made from the stroke he had a couple of years ago. ‘His speech came back really quite quickly but he has a dense left-sided weakness that we’re helping him with.’

‘He won’t be escaping any time soon then,’ David says.

‘We don’t like to see ourselves as a prison,’ Brenda says, gently censorious of his flippant tone.

‘It certainly doesn’t feel like a prison,’ I say, glancing to my left where a group of old people are having a sing-song in the day room. ‘It’s obvious you deliver excellent care here.’

‘We do our best.’ She stops in front of a door and depresses the handle. ‘Now, your stepfather can be a wee bit tetchy sometimes but we don’t judge. It’s not easy being dependent on others.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say.

‘Here we are!’ She breezes into the room. ‘Gareth! Look who’s here to see you!’

The smell in the room is a slap in the face, as if decay has already set in. Brenda must be smelling it too because the first thing she does is open the window. ‘Aren’t you lucky to have your children visiting?’

‘
Stepchildren
,’ I murmur. ‘We’re not linked by biology, only by my mother’s poor choices.’

There’s an old man sitting in a chair, his left side propped up with cushions. He’s wearing navy trousers and a once-white shirt that has been washed grey. His slippers are brown moccasins and the left one is sliding off his foot. Brenda bends down to realign the slipper, then straightens both his feet. ‘David and Leila,’ she enunciates, smiling up into his face.

His head moves slowly as he turns his face our way. Mean, grey eyes focus on first David and then me. Gareth’s eyes. It’s him all right, and he observes us both with no surprise on his face, just a cool, blank stare. I sense David tense next to me and despite my anger with him I want to take his hand as a mark of solidarity, but he has moved away from me to pull up a chair.