Shatter

33

Cars are parked in the driveway and on the footpath outside the Wheeler house. Darcy is welcoming the mourners, taking coats and handbags. She looks at me as if I’m coming to rescue her.

‘When can we leave?’ she whispers.

‘You’re doing great.’

‘I don’t think I can handle much more of this.’ More guests are arriving. The sitting room and dining rooms are crowded. Julianne takes hold of my left hand as we skirt the clusters of mourners, weaving between outstretched cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.

Ruiz has found a beer.

‘So you want to hear about Darcy’s father?’ he asks.

‘Have you found him?’

‘Getting closer. His name wasn’t on her birth certificate, but I got confirmation of the marriage. Parish records. Wonderful things.’

Julianne gives him a hug. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ ‘You mean like pensions,’ Ruiz says playfully, ‘or maybe mergers and acquisitions.’

‘Very funny.’

She punches him playfully. Ruiz takes another swig of beer, enjoying himself. I leave them talking and go looking for Darcy’s aunt. She’s directing traffic in the kitchen, waving plates of sandwiches through one door and collecting empty dishes through another. The benches are covered with food and the air is thick with the smell of cakes and tea.

Kerry Wheeler is a big woman with a Spanish suntan and heavy jewellery. The expanse of skin below her neck is mottled and lipstick has smeared in the corners of her mouth.

‘Call me Kerry,’ she says, pouring boiling water into a teapot. The steam has flattened her perm and she tries to make it bounce again by flicking it with her fingers.

‘Can we talk?’ I ask.

‘Sure. I’m dying for a fag.’

She pulls a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and a large glass of white wine from a hiding place behind the biscuit jars. She takes them outside, down three steps, to the garden.

‘You want one?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

She lights up.

‘I hear you’re famous.’

‘No.’

She exhales and watches the smoke dissipate. I notice the purple veins on the back of her ankles and raw skin where her high heels have been rubbing.

‘Couldn’t wait for that funeral to end,’ she says. ‘Felt cold enough to snow. Crazy weather. I’m not used to it any more. Too long in the sun.’

‘About Darcy.’

‘Yeah. I meant to say, thanks for looking after her. It won’t be necessary any more.’

‘You’re going back to Spain.’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Have you told Darcy?’

‘Going to.’

‘When?’

‘I just buried my sister. That was my first priority.’

She pulls her jacket closer around her chest; sucks on the cigarette. ‘I didn’t ask for this, you know.’

‘Ask for what?’

‘Darcy.’ The wine glass clinks against her teeth. ‘Kids are difficult. Selfish. That’s why I don’t have any.’ She looks at me. ‘You got children?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you know what I mean.’

‘Not really.’ I speak softly. ‘Darcy wants to go to ballet school in London.’

‘And who’s going to pay for that?’

‘I think she plans to sell this place.’

‘This place!’ The big woman laughs. Her teeth are yellow and dotted with fillings. ‘Bank owns “this place”. Just like the bank owns the car. Bank owns the furniture. Bank owns the friggin’ lot.’

She belches into her fist and flicks the cigarette butt into the garden where it bounces and sparks. ‘My sister- the big shot businesswoman- writes a will when there’s nothing to bloody give away. And even if there is something left when I sell this place, young missy is too young to inherit. I’m her legal guardian. Says so in the will.’

‘I think you should talk to Darcy about Spain. She won’t want to go.’

‘Not her decision.’

She rubs her heels as if trying to restore blood flow to her feet.

‘I still think you should talk to her.’

A ravelled silence and a sigh. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr O’Loughlin.’

‘Call me Joe.’

‘Well, Joe, we all have to make compromises. Darcy needs someone to look after her. I’m the only family she’s got.’

I can feel myself getting annoyed. Angry. I shake my head and press my hands tighter into my jacket pockets.

‘You think I’m wrong,’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s another advantage of being my age- I don’t have to give a shit.’

As soon as I enter the house Julianne senses something is wrong. She looks at me questioningly. My left arm is trembling.

‘You ready to go?’ she asks.

‘Let me talk to Darcy first.’

‘To say goodbye.’

It’s a statement, not a question.

I look in the lounge and the dining room, the front hallway and then upstairs. Darcy is in her bedroom, sitting at the window, staring at the garden.

‘You hiding?’

‘Yep,’ she says.

The room is full of music posters and stuffed toys. It’s a time capsule from Darcy’s childhood, which seems incredibly distant. I notice scraps of torn paper on the floor and a pile of condolence cards stacked haphazardly on the bed. Someone has opened them quickly, without care.

‘You’ve been reading cards.’

‘No. I found them like this.’

‘When?’

‘Just now- when I got home.’

‘Who opened them?’

She shrugs but senses the edge in my voice. I ask if the house was locked, who had keys, where did she find the cards and envelopes…

‘They were on the bed.’

‘Are any of them missing?’

‘I can’t tell.’

I glance out the window at a line of poplar saplings that ends on the corner. I see a silver van moving slowly along the street, searching for a house number.

‘Can we go now?’

‘Not this time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re going to stay here with your aunt.’

‘But she’s going back to Spain.’

‘She wants you to go with her.’

‘No! No!’ Darcy looks at me accusingly.

‘I can’t. I won’t. What about my ballet scholarship? I won a place.’

‘Spain can be like a holiday.’

‘A holiday! I can’t suddenly stop dancing and take it up again. I’ve never been to Spain. I don’t know anyone there.’

‘You have your aunt.’

‘Who hates me.’

‘No she doesn’t.’

‘Talk to her.’

‘I have.’

‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘Of course not.’

Her bottom lip is trembling. Suddenly, she throws herself against me, wrapping her arms around my chest.

‘Let me come home with you.’

‘I can’t do that, Darcy.’

‘Please. Please.’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

What happens next is not so much unplanned as unimagined. Some leaps can only be made in the space between the head and the heart. Darcy raises her face and presses her lips to mine. Her breath. Her tongue. Inexperienced, exploring, she tastes of potato chips and cola. I try to pull back. Her hand grips my hair. She pushes her hips against mine, offering her body.

My head is filled with seven visions of crazy. Taking hold of her hands, I gently ease her away and hold her there. She blinks at me desperately.

Her coat is unbuttoned. One side of her blouse has fallen off her shoulder, exposing a bra strap.

‘I love you.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘But I do. I love you more than she does.’

She steps away, freeing her hands, letting her coat fall from her shoulders, pulling her top down, exposing her bra.

‘Don’t you want me? I’m not a child!’ Her voice sounds different.

‘Please, Darcy.’

‘Let me stay with you.’

‘I can’t.’

She shakes her head, bites her lip, trying not to cry. She understands everything. The stakes have changed completely. I can never take her into my home- not now- not after what she has offered me. Her tears are not meant to blackmail me emotionally or to make me change my mind. They’re just tears.

‘Please leave,’ she says. ‘I want to be alone.’

I close the door, lean against it. I can still taste her in my mouth and feel her trembling. The sensation is one of fear: fear of discovery, fear of what she did and how much I am to blame. My area of supposed expertise is in human behaviour but sometimes I am astonished by how profoundly ignorant I am. How can someone be a psychologist yet know so little about the subject? The mind is too complex, too unpredictable, an ocean of uncertainty. And I have no option but to tread water or to swim for a distant shore.

Julianne is at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks. Can she see something in my eyes?

‘There’s been a break-in. I have to call the police.’

‘Now?’

‘You go home. I should stay.’

‘How will you get home?’

‘Ruiz is still here.’

She stands on tiptoes and gently kisses my lips. Then she leans back and looks into my eyes.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

An hour later and police have replaced mourners. The cards and envelopes have been bagged and taken to the lab. The doors and windows checked for any signs of forced entry. Nothing has been taken.

There is no reason for me to be here and every reason for me to leave. I keep thinking of Darcy’s kiss and her awkwardness. It embarrassed us both but she is of an age where rejection can crush. I live with discomfit every day, in the tremble of a hand or a sudden frozen fall.

I keep thinking about what Maureen said about the reunion and losing two of her best friends. Perhaps the murders had nothing to do with a business failing or Christine Wheeler owing money to loan sharks. It was more personal than that. Why would someone open condolence cards? What were they looking for?

Darcy is still upstairs. Her aunt is talking to police in the kitchen. Outside I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Ruiz is waiting in his car. The heater blasts warm air onto the windscreen.

‘I need another favour.’

‘You got any of those left?’

‘One.’

‘I must have lost count.’

‘I need you to look for someone. Her name is Helen Chambers.’

‘Haven’t you got enough women in your life?’

‘She went to school with Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. They were supposed to meet up a fortnight ago. She didn’t show.’

‘Last known address?’

‘Her folks live somewhere near Frome. A big country house.’

‘Shouldn’t be hard to find.’

The car swings from the parking space and the glare of approaching headlights stings my eyes. Ruiz turns up the music. Sinatra is crooning about a lady who never flirts with strangers or blows on another guy’s dice.

It is after midnight when I get home. The cottage is dark. Above and behind it, a church steeple is black against a purple sky. I close the door gently and take my shoes off. Climb the stairs.

Emma is spread-eagled on top of her duvet. I fold her legs beneath it and tuck it beneath her chin. She doesn’t stir. Charlie’s door is open a few inches. Her lava lamp casts a pink glow over the room. I can see her lying on her side with her hand close to her mouth.

Julianne is asleep. I undress in the bathroom and brush my teeth before sliding alongside her. She turns and wraps her arms and legs around me, pressing her breasts against my back.

‘It’s late,’ she whispers.

‘Sorry.’

‘How is Darcy?’

‘She’s with her aunt.’

Her hand seeks me out, with resolute determination; making a ring with her thumb and finger. She bends and takes me in her mouth. And when I’m ready she rolls on top, straddling my waist, trapping me beneath her.

Her thighs are open. She slides backwards, taking me inside her, inhaling sharply. She guides my hands to her breasts. Her nipples are hard. I don’t have to move. I watch her rise and descend, inch-by-inch, accepting my surrender, seeking her own release and summoning mine.

It doesn’t feel like make-up sex or new-beginning sex. It’s like a quiet sigh drawing colour from the embers. Afterwards Julianne rests her head on my chest and I listen to her fall asleep.

An hour passes. I slide her head onto her pillow and slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the study. Closing the door before turning on the light, I look for the hotel receipt from Rome. Taking it from between the pages of a notebook, I rip it into small pieces that flutter into the wastepaper bin.