He’d chosen badly once, but not the second time. Because Helen, the daughter of a colleague, quiet and plain and hard-working, was his choice. He saw at once that she would be steady and loving and faithful. Sean had to be persuaded. He had fallen in love with a woman he’d met as a trainee, but Patrick knew that wouldn’t last, and when it went on longer than it should have, he put an end to it. Now he watched Helen and knew that he had chosen well for his son: Helen was straightforward, modest, intelligent – wholly uninterested in the kind of celebrity trivia and gossip that seemed to consume most women. She didn’t waste time with television or novels, she worked hard and didn’t complain. She was easy company, quick to smile.
‘Here you go.’ She was smiling at him now as she handed him his tea. ‘Oh,’ she inhaled sharply through her teeth, ‘that doesn’t look good.’ She was looking at his arm, where he’d scratched it and torn away the bandage. The skin underneath was red and swollen, the wound dark. She fetched warm water, soap, antiseptic, fresh bandages. She cleaned the wound and bound his arm again, and when she was finished he leaned forward and kissed her mouth.
‘Dad,’ she said, and pushed him gently away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ And the shame returned, overwhelming now, and the anger, too.
Women brought him low. Lauren first and then Jeannie, and on and on. But not Helen. Surely not Helen? And yet she’d lied to him that morning. He’d seen it in her face, her candid face, unused to deception, and he’d shuddered. He thought again of the dream, Lauren turning in the water, history repeating itself, only the women getting worse.
Nickie
JEANNIE SAID IT was about time someone did something about all this.
‘Easy for you to say,’ Nickie retorted. ‘And you’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? Used to be that I was supposed to keep my mouth shut, for my own protection. Now you’re telling me to throw caution to the wind?’ Jeannie was silent on that point. ‘Well, in any case, I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried. I’ve been pointing in the right direction. I left the sister a message, didn’t I? Not my fault if no one listens to me. Oh, too subtle, am I? Too subtle! You want me to go around shooting my mouth off? Look where talking got you!’ They’d been arguing about it all night. ‘It isn’t my fault! You can’t say it’s my fault. I never meant to get Nel Abbott into any trouble. I told her what I knew, that’s all. Like you’d been telling me to. I can’t win with you, I really can’t. I don’t know why I even bother.’
Jeannie was getting on her nerves. She just would not shut up. And the worst of it, well, not the worst of it, the worst of it was getting no bloody sleep at all, but the second worst of it was that she was probably right. Nickie had known it all along, from that first morning, sitting at her window, when she felt it. Another one. Another swimmer. She’d thought it then; she’d even thought about talking to Sean Townsend. But she’d done well to hold her tongue there: she’d seen how he reacted when she mentioned his mother, that snarl of anger, the kindly mask slipping. He was his father’s son, after all.
‘So who, then? Who, old girl? Who am I supposed to talk to? Not the policewoman. Don’t even suggest it. They’re all the same! She’ll go straight to her boss, won’t she?’ Not the policewoman, so who? Nel’s sister? Nothing about the sister inspired Nickie with confidence. The girl, though, she was different. She’s just a child, Jeannie said, but Nickie replied, ‘So what? She’s got more get-up-and-go in her little finger than half the people in this town.’
Yes, she would talk to the girl. She just wasn’t sure what she was going to say yet.
Nickie still had Nel’s pages. The ones they’d worked on together. She could show the girl that. They were typed, not handwritten, but surely Lena would recognize her mother’s words, her tone? Of course, they didn’t spell things out the way Nickie had thought they ought to. It was part of the reason they’d fallen out. Artistic differences. Nel had gone off in a huff and said that if Nickie couldn’t tell the truth then they were wasting their time, but really what did she know about the truth? They were all just telling stories.
Are you still here? Jeannie asked. I thought you were going to talk to the girl, and Nickie replied, ‘All right. Keep your hair on. I will. I’ll do it later. I’ll do it when I’m ready.’
Sometimes she wished Jeannie would shut up and sometimes she wished more than anything that she were here, in the room, sitting by the window with her, watching. They should have grown old together, getting on each other’s nerves properly, instead of bickering over the airwaves like they had to now.
Nickie wished that when she pictured Jeannie, she didn’t see her the way she was the last time she came to this flat. It had been just a couple of days before Jeannie had left Beckford for good, and she was pale with shock and shaking with fear. She had come to tell Nickie that Patrick Townsend had been to see her. He’d told her that if she kept on talking like she had been, if she kept on asking questions, if she continued to try to ruin his reputation, he would see to it that she was hurt. ‘Not by me,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t bloody touch you. I’ll get someone else to do the dirty work. And not just the one fella either. I’ll make sure there’s a few, and that each of them takes his turn. You know I know people, don’t you, Jean? You don’t doubt that I know people who would do things like that, do you, girl?’
Jeannie had stood right there in that room and made Nickie promise, made her swear she’d leave it alone. ‘There isn’t anything we can do now. I should never have said anything to you.’
‘But … the boy,’ Nickie said. ‘What about the boy?’
Jeannie wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘I know. I know. It makes me sick to think of it, but we’ll just have to leave him there. You have to be quiet, say nothing. Because Patrick will do for me, Nicks, and he’ll do for you, too. He’s not messing around.’
Jeannie left a couple of days later; she never came back.
Jules
TELL ME HONESTLY. Wasn’t there some part of you that liked it?
I woke with your voice in my head. It was mid afternoon. I can’t sleep at night, this house rocks like a boat and the sound of the water is deafening. In the day, it’s not so bad somehow. At any rate, I must have fallen asleep because I woke with your voice in my head, asking:
Wasn’t there some part of you that liked it? Liked or enjoyed? Or was it wanted? I can’t remember now. I only remember taking my hand from yours and raising it to hit you, and the look on your face, uncomprehending.
I dragged myself across the hall to the bathroom and turned on the shower. I was too exhausted to undress, so I just sat there, while the room got steamier and steamier. Then I turned off the water and went to the sink and splashed my face. When I looked up I saw, appearing in the condensation, two letters traced on the surface of the mirror, an ‘L’ and an ‘S’. I got such a fright that I cried out.
I heard Lena’s door open and then she was pounding on the bathroom door. ‘What? What’s happening? Julia?’
I opened the door to her, furious. ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘What are you trying to do to me?’ I pointed back at the mirror.
‘What?’ She looked annoyed. ‘What?’
‘You know very well, Lena. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but—’
She turned her back on me and started to walk away. ‘Christ, you’re such a freak.’
I stood there staring at the letters for a while. I wasn’t imagining things, they were definitely there: LS. It was the sort of thing you used to do all the time: leave me ghostly messages on the mirror or draw tiny pentagrams in red nail polish on the back of my door. You left things to scare me. You loved to freak me out and you must have told her that. You must have, and now she was doing it, too.
Why LS? Why Libby Seeton? Why fixate on her? Libby was an innocent, a young woman dragged to the water by men who hated women, who heaped blame on them for things that they themselves had done. But Lena thought you went there of your own volition, so why Libby? Why LS?