I won’t be able to come home at Easter unfortunately. I have been invited to stay with some friends in Anglesey, so if it’s all right, I think I will do that.
I am still working hard. There is a lot of work, more than I thought there would be. But I am keeping my head above water. Thank you for the cheque.
Love,
Christopher
The letter was clearly dishonest, but there was a lie of omission here too. Nowhere in it did he admit that he would be away only for the last week of the Easter break, which left plenty of time free for him to visit, time he had chosen not to spend with them.
* * *
Easter came, and with it the news that the police had uncovered another victim: the woman, Yvonne Pearson, another prostitute, had been found under a discarded sofa. She had been there for months.
‘God, that’s terrible,’ said David, closing the Mirror in disgust and throwing it on the coffee table of the rental cottage in Aberffraw. It was mid-morning and he had just returned from the paper shop. ‘That man is pure evil. Who could do that to a woman? Why would anybody do that?’
But it was the thought of the sofa that plagued Christopher. He found himself wondering what kind of fabric covered it, floral or plain, whether it was traditional in style or modern, whether the Ripper had had sexual intercourse with his victim on it prior to putting her body under it. He did not share these thoughts, but once David had finished with the paper, Christopher put it in his bag to take back to Leeds for his scrapbook.
‘Let’s get out,’ said David. ‘How about a walk along the beach at Llanfaelog?’
‘You go, love,’ said Phyllis. ‘I fancy a read.’
‘Well I need to clean that monster out of my head,’ David replied. ‘Come on, Christopher, finish your coffee and let’s give your mother a break, shall we? Boys! Get your coats!’
Christopher would rather have stayed and talked to Phyllis, but something in David’s manner told him he had to go along. David took the cricket bat and ball, and once on the beach, they stopped to play French cricket. The clear air, the crashing of the waves and the game itself raised their spirits. Soon Christopher found himself laughing at almost nothing – the tennis ball falling through his hands, David and the twins crying out butterfingers, the way David managed to block every ball, with a cry of Did you see that? Boycott’s got nothing on me! performing a silly victory dance in full view of the other holidaymakers. The cold, damp shaggy tennis ball in his hand, Christopher pitched it towards David’s legs but missed.
‘Suffer,’ Darren shouted. ‘You’re rubbish!’
‘He’s too tall to throw all the way down there,’ said David, laughing. ‘And his flares get in the way!’
‘And his hair,’ Darren countered, overexcited as ever, winding his arm like a professional bowler. ‘And his beard. He looks like the Ripper!’
Darren pitched the ball. It hit David on the back of the leg. But only because David had already thrown the cricket bat to the ground.
‘Don’t you ever say that again.’ He was striding towards his son, shouting as he went. His face had darkened, the veins on his neck like cables. Darren shrank away from him, a blush deepening. ‘I don’t want to hear anyone in this family mention that sick bastard, not to me, not to anyone, have I made myself clear?’ David’s chest subsided, giving him a crestfallen look in the aftermath of his rage. ‘Let’s head back,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s getting cold.’
‘I think Christopher looks like Jesus,’ Craig said, his voice full of apology and hope.
When they got back to the cottage, Christopher went straight to the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. He had seen the artists’ sketches of the Ripper on the news, sketches that his mind now overlaid onto his reflection. Darren had a point. With his black beard and hair, he did look a little like those pictures – that is, like him. He leaned into the mirror and met his own dark eyes. The hint of blood in the whites, the flecked and deepening brown of the irises, the pupils, dilating now a little, black and unending as an abyss. Were they the eyes of a man? Or a monster?
* * *
Later, Christopher helped Phyllis to prepare a cottage pie while David and the twins watched the football. She told him about her work, about the other teachers at the comprehensive school; he spoke mainly about Adam, who was now onto his third girlfriend.
‘This one’s called Lorraine,’ he said, peeling the last strip of skin from a potato and plunging it into cold water. ‘But she’s not the only one he has on the go. There’s Alison, who finished with him but I think he still sees her from time to time. And Sophie, who…’ He stopped. Sophie, Adam had said, was just a sex thing, whatever that meant. ‘I don’t know how… well actually I do. He’s not bad looking but he’s not a film star or anything. It’s more that he always seems to know what to say.’ He picked up another potato and began to peel it. ‘He calls it chutzpah. It seems to mean not taking no for an answer – at least he doesn’t. He simply goes up and talks to them, and then if he gets no response or the wrong response he has this ability to brush it off and move on. It doesn’t bother him. Rejection doesn’t bother him.’ His voice carried an edge. He fell silent.
When after a moment his mother didn’t reply, he looked up, worried for a moment that he’d said the wrong thing. She was looking at him very directly, her expression sad.
He set down the potato and the peeler. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. What have I said?’
She shook her head and smiled, but even her smile was sad. ‘You sound jealous, my love. I know you’re not, not really, and you mustn’t be. You’re worth ten of Adam. Honestly, I wish you could see how handsome you are, Chris. Look at you. You’re perfect.’
Christopher felt himself blush but said nothing.
‘Now you listen to me,’ she went on, quite, quite serious. ‘Any girl would be lucky to have you, don’t you forget that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Well I do. And I’m a girl, aren’t I? And I can tell you with some authority that lots of women like quiet men. God knows there are enough gasbags in this world. There’ll be someone out there, someone who really, really, truly gets who you are and who loves you for it. I wonder if Adam will ever have that. You maybe need to realise that it’s better to have one person you truly connect with than a thousand girlfriends.’
He thought of Angie. He didn’t think what had happened between them could be called connection exactly. More like a short circuit.
‘I did have a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘But it didn’t work out. What I mean is, I didn’t know what to do.’
‘It’s like anything else, love. Takes practice. And that person, that girl I’m telling you about, she will understand that because she will understand you.’
‘You understand me.’ It felt like he needed all his courage to look at her.
‘I do.’ She took his hands in hers. ‘I love you, and so will she.’