The Four Last Things Page 7

  Still staring, Alison said, ‘It’s smaller than Simon’s. And he’s a roundhead.’

  To his relief, Eddie understood the reference: Simon was circumcised. ‘I’m a cavalier.’

  ‘I think I like cavaliers better. They’re prettier.’ She scooped up the tin. ‘Go on – pee.’

  She held out the tin. Eddie gripped his penis between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, shut his eyes and prayed. Nothing happened. In normal circumstances he would have had no trouble in going because his bladder was full.

  ‘If you’re going to take all day, I might as well go first.’ Alison glared at him. ‘Honestly. Simon never has any trouble.’

  She placed the tin on the floor, pulled down her knickers and squatted. A steady stream of urine squirted into the can. She raised the hem of her dress and examined it, as though inspecting the quality of the stitching. So that was what girls looked like down there, Eddie thought, still holding his penis; he had often wondered. He craned his neck, hoping for a better view, but Alison smiled demurely and rearranged her dress.

  ‘If you keep on rubbing your willy, it goes all funny. Did you know?’ Alison raised herself from the tin and pulled up her knickers. ‘At least, Simon’s does. Look – I’ve done gallons.’

  Eddie looked. The tin was about a quarter full of liquid the colour of pale gold. Until now he had assumed that he was shamefully unique in having a penis which sometimes altered shape, size and consistency when he touched it; he had hoped that he might grow out of it.

  ‘It’s nearly half-full. I bet you can’t do as much.’

  As Eddie glanced towards Alison, he thought he caught a movement at the window. When he looked there was no one there, just a branch waving in the breeze.

  ‘What did I tell you? It’s going stiff.’

  Eddie was still holding his penis – indeed, his fingers had been absent-mindedly massaging it.

  ‘Empty my pee outside the shed,’ Alison commanded. ‘Then you can try again.’

  Eddie realized suddenly how absurd he must seem with his shorts and pants around his knees. He pulled them up quickly, buttoned his flies and fastened his belt.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to do yourself up. You’ll only have to undo it all again.’

  He went outside the shed and emptied the can under a bush. The tin was warm. The liquid ran away into the parched earth. It didn’t look or smell like urine. He wondered what it would taste like. He pushed the thought away – disgusting – and straightened up to return to the shed, his mind full of the ordeal before him. For an instant he thought he smelled freshly burned tobacco in the air.

  Eddie and Alison played the Peeing Game on many occasions, and each time they explored a little further.

  Fear of discovery heightened the pleasure. When they went into Carver’s, there was often a woman on the balcony of one of the council flats. The balcony overlooked both Carver’s and the garden of 29 Rosington Road. Sometimes the woman was occupied – hanging washing, watering plants; but on other occasions she simply stood there, very still, and watched the sky. Alison said the woman was mad. Eddie worried that she might see them and tell their parents that they were trespassing in Carver’s. But she never did.

  Eddie’s memories of the period were patchy. (He did not like to think too hard about the possibility that he had willed this to be so.) He must have been six, almost seven, which meant that the year was 1971. It had been summertime, the long school holidays. He remembered the smell of a faded green short-sleeved shirt he often wore, and the touch of Alison’s hand, plump and dimpled, on his bare forearm.

  The end came in September, and with shocking suddenness. One day Alison and her family were living at number 27, the next day they were gone. On the afternoon before they left, she told Eddie that they were moving to Ealing.

  ‘But where’s Ealing?’ he wailed.

  ‘How do I know? Somewhere in London. You can write me letters.’

  Eddie cried when they parted. Alison forgot to leave her address. She slipped away from him like a handful of sand trickling through the fingers.

  3

  ‘I feel sometimes a Hell within my self; Lucifer keeps his Court in my breast, Legion is revived in me.’

  Religio Medici, I, 51

  Sleep caught Sally in mid-sentence, as sudden as a drawn curtain or nightfall in the Tropics. One moment she was lying in bed, holding the hand of a policewoman she had never met before; the policewoman’s lips were moving but Sally wasn’t listening because she was too busy wondering why she was holding the hand of a total stranger. Then the sleeping tablets cut in, blending with whatever the hypodermic had contained, probably a tranquillizer.

  Michael had not been there. She hadn’t seen him for hours.

  Her mind went down and down into a black fog. Smothered by chemicals, she slept for hours, so deeply asleep that she was hardly a person any more. In the early hours of Saturday morning, the fog began gradually to clear. She slept on but now there were dreams, at first wispy and insubstantial – a suspicion of raised voices, a hint of bright lights, a sense of overwhelming sadness.

  Later still, the images coalesced into a whole that was neither a picture nor a story. Afterwards, when Sally woke bathed in sweat on a cold morning, she remembered a bell tolling, its sound dulled by the winter air. She saw dirty snow on cobbles, mixed with fragments of straw and what looked like urine and human excrement. A spire built of raw, yellow stone and surmounted by a distant cross rose towards the grey sky.

  In the dream a man was speaking, or rather declaiming slowly in a harsh, deep voice which Sally instinctively disliked. She could not make out the words, or even the language they were spoken in, partly because she was too far away and partly because they were distorted by hissing and cracking and popping in the background. Still in the dream, Sally was reminded of the 78-r.p.m. records she played as a child on the wind-up gramophone in her grandparents’ attic; the scratches had overwhelmed the ghostly frivolities of the Savoy Orpheans and Fats Waller.

  When Sally woke up, her mouth was dry and her mind clouded. The dream receded as she neared consciousness, details slipping away, drifting downwards beyond retrieval.

  ‘Come back,’ she called silently. Her eyes, still closed, were wet with tears. Something terrible was happening in the dream, which at all costs had to be put right. But at least it was only a dream. For a split second relief touched her: only a dream, thank God, only a dream. Then she opened her eyes and saw a woman she had never seen before sitting by her bed. Simultaneously the truth hit her. No, it’s not true, NOT true, NOT TRUE.

  ‘You all right, love?’ the woman asked, bending forward.

  Sally levered herself up on one elbow. Not true, please God, NOT TRUE. ‘Have they found Lucy?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘They’ll be in touch as soon as there’s any news.’

  Sally stared at her. It didn’t matter who the woman was. Who cared? She was younger than Sally, her face carefully made up, her brown eyes wary, the teeth projecting slightly, pushing out the lips and giving the impression that the mouth was the most important feature in this face. The Daily Telegraph was open on her lap, folded to one of the inside pages. She did not wear a wedding ring. Sally clung to these details as though they formed a rope strung across an abyss; and if she let go, she would fall.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ she heard a voice saying, her voice. ‘All true?’

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’

  Sally let her head fall back on the pillow. She closed her eyes. Her mind filled with a procession of images that made her want to scream and scream until everything was all right again: Lucy crying for her mother and no one answering; Lucy naked and bleeding in a narrow bedroom smelling of male sweat; Lucy lying dead on a railway embankment with her clothes strewn around her. How could anyone be so cruel, so cruel, so cruel?

  ‘She might have just wandered off,’ Sally said, trying to reassure herself. ‘Got tired out – fallen asleep in a
shed or something. She’ll wake up soon and knock on someone’s door.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Possible, Sally thought, but highly improbable.

  The woman stirred. ‘They say no news is good news.’

  Sally opened her eyes again. ‘Has there been no news? Truly?’

  ‘If there had been news, any news at all, they’d have told you and your husband straightaway. I promise. I’m D C Yvonne Saunders, by the way. I took over from Judith.’ The woman hesitated. ‘You remember Judith? Last night?’

  Sally’s head twitched on the pillow. More memories flooded back. A plain-clothes policewoman, Judith, holding her arm while a doctor with ginger curls pushed a hypodermic into the skin. Herself saying – shouting – that she wasn’t going to stay with friends or go to hospital: she was going to stay here, at home in Hercules Road because that was where Lucy would expect to find her; she and Michael had made Lucy memorize both the address and the phone number.

  ‘They’ll find her, Sally. We’re pulling out all the stops.’ Again a hesitation, a hint of calculation. ‘Doctor left some medicine. Something to help you not to worry. Shall I give you some?’

  ‘No.’ The refusal was instinctive, but the reasons rushed after it: if they tranquillized her she would be no use to Lucy when – if – they found her; if they turned her into a zombie, she wouldn’t be able to find out what was happening, they wouldn’t tell her anything; she needed to be as clear-headed as possible, for Lucy’s sake. Sally leant back against her pillows. ‘Where’s Michael? My husband?’

  The eyes wavered. ‘He’s out. He’ll be back soon, I should think. I expect you’d like to freshen up, wouldn’t you? Shall I make some tea?’

  Sally nodded, largely in order to get the woman out of her bedroom. Michael – she needed to think about him but she couldn’t concentrate.

  Yvonne stood up, her face creasing into an unconvincing smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She added slowly, as if talking to a person of low intelligence, ‘I shall be in the kitchen, if you need me. All right, love?’

  No, Sally wanted to say, it’s not all right; it may never be all right again; and I’m not your love, either. Instead, she returned the smile and said thank you.

  When she was alone, she pushed the duvet away from her and got out of bed. The sweat cooled rapidly on her skin and she began to shiver. They had given her clean pyjamas, she realized, clinging to the security of domestic details. She was ashamed to see that the pyjamas were an old pair: the material was faded, a button was missing from the jacket, and there were undesirable stains on the trousers. The shivering worsened and once more the impact of what had happened hit her. Her knees gave way. She sat down suddenly on the bed. My baby. Where are you? The tears streamed down her cheeks.

  She dared not make a noise in case Yvonne came back. This is all my fault. I should have kept her with me. She fell sideways and curled up on the bed. Her body shook with silent sobs.

  Water rustled through the pipes. Sally, familiar with the vocabulary of the plumbing, knew that Yvonne was filling the kettle. The thought galvanized her into changing her position. At any moment the policewoman might return. With her hand over her mouth, trying to prevent the terror from spurting out like vomit, Sally scrambled off the bed and pulled open the wardrobe. She avoided looking at the accusing faces in the photographs on the chest of drawers. She selected clothes at random and, with a bundle in her arms, sneaked into the bathroom and bolted the door.

  Boats, ducks and teddies had colonized the side of the bath. One of Lucy’s socks was lying under the basin. Automatically Sally picked it up, intending to drop it in the basket for dirty clothes. Instead she sat on the lavatory. She held the sock to her face, breathing its essence, hoping to smell Lucy, to recreate her by sheer force of will. Did Lucy at least have Jimmy, her little cloth doll? Or was she entirely without comfort?

  Tears spilled down Sally’s cheeks. When the fit of crying passed, she sat motionless, her fingers clenched round the sock, and sank into depths she had not known existed.

  There was a tap on the door. ‘How are you doing, love? Tea’s ready.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment. I might have a shower.’

  Sally brushed her teeth, trying to scour the taste of that long, drugged sleep from her mouth. She dropped the pyjamas on the floor, stepped into the bath and stood under the shower. Making no move to wash herself, she let the water stream down her body for several minutes. Last night, she remembered dimly, she had given way. She remembered shouting and crying in Carla’s house and later at the flat. She remembered Michael’s face, white and accusing, and police officers whom she did not know, their expressions concerned but somehow detached from what was happening to her and to Lucy. The ginger-haired doctor had been tiny, so small that he came to below her shoulder. She must not let them give her drugs again.

  She turned off the shower and began to dry herself. There was another tap on the door.

  ‘How about a nice slice of toast, love?’

  Seeing if I’m still alive. ‘Yes, please. There’s a loaf in the fridge.’

  The thought of food disgusted her but she would be no use to anyone if she starved herself. She dressed quickly in jeans, T-shirt and jersey. In her haste, she had provided herself with two odd socks, one with a hole in the heel. She ran a comb through her hair. As an afterthought she pushed Lucy’s sock into the pocket of the jeans. The routine of showering and dressing had had a calming effect. But as she unbolted the door the fact of Lucy’s disappearance hit her like a flail, making her gasp for air.

  She could not face Yvonne. She staggered back to the bedroom. Directly opposite the doorway was the crucifix on the wall above the mantelpiece. She looked at the little brass figure on the cross and realized as if for the first time how terribly pain had contorted the miniature face and twisted the muscles of the legs, the arms and the stomach. How could you forgive God for inflicting such suffering? But God hadn’t forgiven God. He had crucified him. And if he had done that to his own child, what would he do to Lucy?

  The unmade bed distracted her. She pulled up the duvet and plumped the pillows. After making the bed, she reminded herself, she normally tidied the room. But it looked tidy already. Usually there would have been Michael’s dirty clothes flung over the chair, a magazine or a book on the floor by his side of the bed, a glass of water and his personal stereo on the table: he was a man who left a trail of domestic chaos behind him.

  A pile of books on the chest of drawers caught her eye. They were small, shabby and unfamiliar. She picked up the first of them, a prayer book, and as she did so she remembered where they had come from. She turned to the flyleaf. ‘To Audrey, on the occasion of her First Communion, 20th March 1937, with love from Mother.’

  Audrey Oliphant’s suicide seemed no more real than a story read long ago and half-forgotten. Sally could hardly believe that she had seen the woman dead on a hospital bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. She remembered the cheerless bedsitter, a shrine to lost beliefs. Most of all she remembered the woman standing up in St George’s as Sally began to preach her first sermon.

  She-devil. Blasphemer against Christ. Apostate. Impious bitch. Whore of Babylon. Daughter of Satan. May God damn you and yours.

  She dropped the Prayer Book as if it were contaminated. May God damn you and yours. She almost ran from the room, shutting the door behind her. Yvonne was no longer someone to be avoided but a potential refuge.

  This feeling vanished as soon as Sally reached the living room. Yvonne had laid the table in the window; usually Sally and Michael ate breakfast in the kitchen, often on the move. She had managed to find the wrong plates, the wrong mugs and the wrong teapot. There were paper napkins, a choice of both jam and marmalade, and a tablecloth which the Appleyards had last used on Christmas Day. Sally thought of little girls playing house and tried to suppress her exasperation. She also wished that she had remembered to wash the cloth.

  ‘Perhaps you pr
efer honey?’ Yvonne was poised to dash into the kitchen. ‘And is there any butter? I can only find margarine. That’s what I have, but perhaps –’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sally lied. ‘Margarine’s fine. Everything’s fine.’

  She drank a glass of fruit juice and then sipped a mug of sweetened tea. The first mouthful of toast almost made her gag. She allowed Yvonne to pour her a second mug of tea and used it to moisten her throat between mouthfuls. Yvonne made her feel a guest in her own home, confronted by an overanxious hostess.

  Parish reflexes came to Sally’s rescue: automatically she asked questions. Yvonne told her that she worked at Paddington, that her boyfriend, also a policeman, was a sergeant in traffic control, and that they had a small flat in Wembley, but were hoping to move to somewhere larger soon. The illusion of intimacy lasted until Yvonne used the phrase ‘living in sin’ to describe what she and her boyfriend did.

  ‘Sorry.’ A blush crept up underneath her make-up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be talking like this. What with you being a vicar and all.’

  ‘Before I decided to become ordained, I lived with two men.’ Sally inserted a practised pause and then slipped in her usual punchline: ‘Not at the same time, of course.’

  Yvonne tittered, and the mask slipped, revealing the youth and vulnerability behind. Usually, Sally thought, she would not have talked so readily to a stranger. But Michael was a police officer, which made Sally an honorary insider, at least on a temporary basis. And Yvonne was nervous – perhaps she had not done this job before. The flail of memory slapped her again: baby-sitting, they might call it, or child minding. For the next few seconds Sally fought the urge to bring up her breakfast over Great Aunt Mary’s linen tablecloth.