Gareth nods. ‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘Your dad would be proud of you too, for what you did the
other week and for looking after your mum all these years. You did them both proud.’
Tears shine in Gareth’s eyes but he blinks them away before
they can fall. ‘Thank you. That means a lot.’
‘Your cousins are over there.’ Tony points across the gardens
to where a middle-aged woman and two men are sitting on a
wooden bench. ‘They’d love to see you.’
‘Of course. Mum would have been touched that they came.’
‘We’re family, we stick together. Well, we do now.’ Tony smiles tightly, his lips pressed together, then squeezes Gareth’s arm. ‘I’ll see you in the pub.’
As he wanders away, Ursula says, ‘Want us to meet you in
the pub too, Gareth, so you can chat to your cousins alone?’
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‘No, no.’ He holds out his elbows for Alice and Ursula to
take. ‘You can meet them. I’ve only met Maureen before and
she’s great.’
Alice shoots Ursula a smile as they both take Gareth’s arms
again. She’s seen a lot of the tall, warm-hearted woman since
that terrible night in Mirage Fashions. After the emergency
services arrived they both sat in the back of an ambulance as
paramedics looked them over. A cheery man called Steve tended
to Alice’s shoulder wound while Ursula removed her sweatshirt
and T-shirt, exposing violent bruises on her shoulders, ribs and on either side of her neck. Alice was so horrified she gasped.
Ursula must have been in unbearable pain after Paul Wilson
attacked her, but instead of taking herself off to hospital, she’d driven to the Meads to warn her about Ed.
Later, after they’d spoken to the police and been discharged
from hospital following a series of X-rays and scans revealed
that neither of them had sustained any lasting damage, it was
into Ursula’s arms that she fell. Alice had walked up to the
automatic glass doors of the hospital, phone in hand, asking
Emily where she was parked outside, then found she wasn’t able to breathe. It came from nowhere, the panic attack that made
her heart beat so violently she felt certain she was going to die.
When her legs turned to jelly, Ursula caught her and half-dragged, half-carried her back inside to the nearest empty chair. She stayed with her, talking her out of her panic attack, telling her to name five things she could see, four things she could feel, until Alice’s pulse gradually slowed and she no longer felt like she was
drowning. Eventually a doctor checked her over, confirmed it
was a panic attack, and Emily drove her, and Ursula, back to
their flat.
Ursula stayed with them that night, sitting round the kitchen
table with Alice, Emily and Lynne as they drank wine to numb
the shock of what had happened, trying to make sense of it all.
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At one point in the evening, when Emily went to the corner
shop to get more to drink and Lynne popped out for a smoke,
Ursula apologised to Alice for stealing from her shop. She told her about Nathan, the funeral and the brooch, the first thing
she’d ever stolen. She cried as she explained how dead she’d
felt inside after Nathan’s death, how invisible, and how shop-
lifting made her feel more alive. It became a habit she couldn’t stop, she’d even stolen from a friend, and she hated herself for doing it. When she finally stopped speaking, Alice was crying
too.
At some point Emily must have put Alice to bed – she can’t
remember – but when she got up the next day she was relieved
to find Ursula asleep on the sofa, her long limbs hanging over the arms. That first day was like nothing she’d ever known. The phone didn’t stop ringing. What had happened in the Meads
had made the national news and every journalist in town – and
beyond – wanted to speak to them both. In the midst of all the furore there was one phone call that knocked Ursula sideways.
A softly spoken woman rang Alice’s landline and asked ‘to speak to Ursula Andrews please’. Ursula took the phone into the
bathroom with her and when she emerged half an hour later
‘That was Nathan’s mum,’ she said. ‘She heard on the news
that I’m staying with you and looked you up in the phone book.
She wanted to check I’m okay.’
There were more calls, for both of them, and when they logged
onto Alice’s laptop to check social media they stared at the
screen open-mouthed. It was as though everyone they’d ever
met in their lives wanted to check that they were okay. When
Ursula checked her Facebook messages there was one from
someone called Charlotte saying how sorry she was for being
such a terrible friend and how responsible she felt for what had happened to Ursula afterwards.
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‘How’s it going living with two blokes?’ Alice asks Ursula
now.
‘Good.’ She beams across at her. One of the messages they
read together was from two of Nathan’s friends telling Ursula
to ring them. They had a spare room in their shared house and
it was hers if she wanted it. ‘Last night I forced them to watch Mamma Mia 2.’
‘And have you heard from Nicki?’
‘Yep.’ Ursula nods. ‘She and Bess are back with her family in
Gloucester. I’m going to visit them next week after I’ve . . .
um . . . after I’ve seen my counsellor. We’re going to talk about the possibility of me returning to teaching. She said we’ve got a lot to work through but she . . .’ she smiles cautiously ‘ . . .
she seems hopeful.’
‘That’s good. Really good news.’
‘Have you . . .’ Ursula pauses. ‘Have you heard from Simon?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice sees Gareth shake his head.
He’s got no time for the bloke. Like Ursula he thinks Simon put her in danger by playing up to Ed.
‘No,’ Alice says. ‘Not for a while.’ She glances back at Gareth.
‘And I’m happy for it to stay that way.’
And she is. She doesn’t hate Simon. She doesn’t bear him any
kind of ill will. In fact she almost understands why he did the things he did, but he’s not the man she thought he was. One
thing she’s learned recently is that she shouldn’t make snap
judgements about people. She never would have guessed that
she’d become so fond of a short, goateed security guard and a
tall, sweaty shoplifter.
Gareth swears under his breath and she follows his line of
sight, expecting to see a tall, blonde man lolloping their way.
But it’s not Simon strolling across the garden towards them in a smart black suit and tie. It’s someone she’s never seen before, an older man with a comb-over and walnut-coloured skin.
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‘Gareth!’ The man draws closer and holds out his hand.
‘William.’ Gareth unloops his
arm from Alice’s to give his
hand a perfunctory shake.
‘I’m so sorry I missed the service. I would have got here earlier but there was a bit of a situation at home.’
‘Spirits was it? Causing trouble?’ One side of Gareth’s mouth
twitches into a smile.
‘The only spirits involved were in Sheila’s lunchtime gin.’
There’s a fake ring to the older man’s laugh. ‘No, seriously, your mother was a wonderful woman and I’m so very sorry for your
loss.’
‘Thank you. If you’d excuse me,’ Gareth points across at his
cousins, chatting on a bench nearby. ‘There are a few people I still need to say hello to.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
Alice links her arm back through Gareth’s as he sets off
towards them. ‘Who was that?’
‘William Mackesy. Calls himself a spiritual leader when really he’s a cold-reader masquerading as a psychic. My mum was
sucked in by it, though. She made a donation to his church.’
Alice grimaces. ‘Ouch.’
‘It gets better. You know those three men who went missing
on the Harbourside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘My uncle Tony told me Mackesy went to the police about
them. Apparently their spirits told him they were buried in Leigh Woods.’
‘I thought their bodies had washed up under the floating
harbour?’ Ursula says.
‘Exactly. By all accounts they were drunk and fell into the
river. All of the Harbourside Murderer stuff was people scare-
mongering.’ Gareth pauses. ‘I knew one of the men who died.
Did I tell you? Liam Dunford.’
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‘God.’ Alice looks across at him in alarm. ‘I’m so sorry. I
didn’t know.’
‘It’s fine. We weren’t friends, but he didn’t deserve to die.’
They lapse into silence and Alice finds herself thinking about Lynne. She was such a terrible friend to her while all the Simon stuff was going on and she’s been trying to compensate. They
went to the cinema last night and she’s joining Alice, Ursula and Gareth for a curry at hers tonight.
‘Albi . . . or Abi!’
Alice turns to see who’s shouting. Gareth and Ursula do the
same. William Mackesy is walking towards them, his brow
furrowed and one hand pressed to the side of his head.
‘Oh God, here we go,’ Gareth mutters under his breath. ‘He’s
probably going to tell me that an older woman is talking to him and her name begins with J.’
‘I’ve got . . .’ William Mackesy screws his eyes tightly shut.
‘I’ve got a man here . . . a young man. His name . . . I’m struggling to catch it but he’s trying to tell me something.’
‘William,’ Gareth says. ‘This really isn’t appropriate.’
‘He’s telling me . . . he’s saying . . . he’s saying, “I love you, Abi.” Is one of you Abi? No? Annie maybe? It definitely begins with A. He’s very insistent that I talk to you. He says I have to tell you that it wasn’t your fault.’
Alice glances at Ursula. All the colour has drained from her
cheeks. Gareth notices too. He pulls on her arm and turns her
in the other direction. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
As they march across the lawn towards the three figures on
the bench, Ursula looks over Gareth’s head to Alice. ‘What was the first name he said? Albi or Abi?’
‘Albi,’ Alice says. ‘What does that even mean?’
‘It’s short for Albatross.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to be unlucky?’
‘Only if you kill them,’ Ursula says and raises an eyebrow.
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As they continue on down the path, past dozens of low granite
memorials, Alice sees something twinkling out of the corner of her eye. It’s a tiny metal windmill ornament that someone has
placed on one of the graves and surrounded with blue, white
and green pieces of sea glass. Ursula spots it too. She drifts away from Alice and gently runs her fingers over the glass, then pauses as she touches the windmill.
‘It’s lovely,’ Ursula says, her empty hand falling back to her side. She turns to look at Alice and Gareth and she smiles.
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Chapter 55
Larry
Three months later
Larry thinks the river Avon is at its most beautiful at night, with tethered boats rocking gently and the lights of the dockside
reflecting on the inky black water. At 3 a.m. most of the city is asleep with just a few stragglers making their way home from
nightclubs and bars. A few months ago, Larry would have been
tucked up in bed too. He always used to be a good sleeper – a
hard day’s work, a good meal and then he’d be out the moment
his head hit the pillow – but something strange has happened
to his brain. It doesn’t turn off the way it used to. It waits until dark, then bombards him with questions. Who will he be when
he’s not a security guard any more? Is his cough bronchitis or lung cancer? Why didn’t he ask out Linda Bailey in 1973? That’s why he walks, so late at night, to drive the questions out of his head.
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He’s pretty sure it’s his impending retirement that’s stealing his sleep. As a young man he dreamed of empty days with
nothing to do, telling himself that his last day at work was his first day of freedom. Now that date is within touching distance he feels unsettled and unbalanced, as though the ground is
shaking beneath his feet. He doesn’t want to be one of those
old blokes who spend every day in the bookies or the pub. He’s got no interest in travelling and the thought of joining a club makes him feel sick. For all its faults, at least people know who he is at work. He’s Larry Woolley, security guard, and he’s treated with respect.
He screwed up letting that lunatic Edward Bennett into the
shop, but how was he to know that he wasn’t the new area
manager? He said he was, although he hadn’t given his real
name. Alice never told Larry anything about staff changes, and besides, with his smart suit, briefcase and nerdy glasses Edward was certainly dressed the part. It still rankles Larry that he left before it all kicked off. He’d have sorted it quick sharp. Although fair play to Gareth for stabbing the bloke. Lunatics like that have to be stopped. Another wrong ’un was on the radio news
that morning. Some bloke called Paul Wilson jailed for seven
and a half years for beating up his wife and kid. A shocking
sentence. They should have strung him up by his neck. But the
country hadn’t completely gone to the dogs. At least the murder charge against Gareth had been dropped. Good thing too.
Larry turns his head sharply as a swaying figure emerges from
a side street about twenty metres away. Pissed. Lost. Stumbling around, trying to find his way home. Larry grinds his teeth as the man starts to sing. It’s a tuneless rendition of Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’. As the man stumbles towards the river,
Larry maintains his gentle, ambling pace but his breathing begins to quicken and his hands twitch at his sides. Larry doesn’t like singers, especially young, drunk ones. The last bloke
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him was so drunk he couldn’t walk in a straight line. He was
shouting lyrics at the top of his voice and as Larry passed him he told him to keep it down because people were trying to sleep.
‘Fuck off, granddad,’ the bloke slurred.
Larry turned. ‘What did you just say?’
‘Something wrong with your hearing?’ He rolled his eyes,
then took a sudden, unbalanced step to his left, straying towards the edge of the path and the sharp drop to the river below. ‘I told you to fuck off. Mind your own business you miserable—’
‘Have some respect.’
‘Respect?’ His face twisted into a sneer. ‘For you? I could
fucking flatten you. Piss off back to the old folks’ home you
waste of space.’
Larry’s pulse quickened. ‘Come here and say that.’
‘Nah.’ The young bloke waved a dismissive hand through the
air and turned to go. ‘I don’t fight old men.’
Larry ran at him and pushed him hard in the chest, the force
enough to knock him clean off his feet. His arms windmilled
desperately as he fell and then splash; the river swallowed him whole. Larry rushed to the edge of the path and watched him
flailing around in the dark water, gasping and spluttering as his coat billowed around him, pressing up round his head. There
was a moment – a good two or three seconds – when Larry
considered diving in after him. Nah. He shook his head decisively.
Fuck him. If he was such a big man he could get himself out.
That night he slept better than he had in months.
His second victim didn’t see the shove coming. Larry had
trailed him for a while after spotting him arguing with a girl on the steps of the amphitheatre where he’d called her all sorts of horrible names. She’d run off crying and the bloke – a miserable excuse for a man – had set off for a wander, a bottle of
vodka in his hand. After he disappeared under the water, Larry didn’t stick around.
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He decided not to do it again. To get away with it once was
lucky, twice was a fluke, but then he heard that little weasel, Liam Dunford, blackmailing Gareth and the injustice of it all