Just between us, p.15
Just Between Us, page 15
‘This is her first time outside our village since lockdown began. She took the stay-local thing to heart. Scowled at other people’s kids if they were out longer than the hour of permitted exercise. Daft bitch. Some say she’s a paragon of virtue, the best mum in Williton Cross. I let my Violet play outside all day if she wants. Fresh air is good for them.’
‘I’m from Williton Cross,’ I interrupt excitedly. ‘Well, close by. I went to primary school there. My dad lives by the sea.’ I am surprised and delighted at the connection. ‘Stacie Jones.’ I pull off my mask and beam.
For a moment, this woman stares at me blankly; then her entire face shifts into a wide-eyed expression of astonishment.
‘Oh my God, Stacie! I haven’t seen you for years. It’s me, Tanya. Tanya Vaughan. Well, Tanya Cundliff now. Has been for eight years. Name lasted longer than the marriage. How are you? Didn’t you go abroad?’
‘Yes. Paris.’
‘Oh my God, yes, you jilted Giles Hughes, didn’t you? Talk of the town, that was!’ She laughs as though this is the funniest thing she has ever heard. I feel a small flare of irritation reverberate through my body, but I let it go. I’m just so thrilled to be with someone who knows me. I chase her name around my head, hoping it will spark something, as Tanya starts to give me a potted history of her life since we last met. She met an ‘out-of-towner’, got pregnant, got married, got divorced. ‘There’s been a few fellas since, but they all turn out to be bastards in the end, don’t they?’
Like everyone, Tanya must have been short of company over the past few months and has forgotten the art of conversation, where not only is one person supposed to enquire after the other, but they’re also meant to wait for a response. Instead, she rambles on about herself. I don’t mind. It’s great to be inside someone else’s head for a while.
After about ten minutes straight of Tanya speaking, an elderly woman leaves the library and it’s Tanya’s turn to go inside.
‘Bloody Naomi is still in there. No doubt picking out the classics and pushing them at her kids. For all her hopes for Mother of the Decade award, she’s oblivious to the fact that her eldest smokes weed in the bus shelter.’
Tanya winks at me and then disappears into the building. I want to keep talking to her, and hope to take her phone number, but she’s in and out before Naomi Thomas and her brood emerge. The strict one-way system means we can only wave at one another. I have to go inside or lose my place. I look forward to the opportunity to connect with Naomi, but I’m disappointed that once inside, we’re kept at a distance from one another by an officious school-age volunteer librarian.
It takes a bit of negotiating to be allowed to use the library computer. One librarian says it’s simply not possible, not hygienic. A second suggests plastic gloves would be the answer and says she has a pair in her handbag. ‘What on earth are you doing with a pair of plastic gloves in your bag?’ asks the first.
‘They come with the kit for dyeing your hair, but I never bother with wearing them, I thought they might come in useful. Proper boy scout I am.’
I gratefully don the gloves and excitedly turn on the computer. My optimism is immediately tested when I google my name. There are over four hundred Stacie Jones profiles on LinkedIn, seventy registered in the UK People Directory – 192.com, and countless Instagram and Facebook members with my name. I take some consolation in the fact that it’s a name for winners, clearly, because there are pages of articles about Stacie Joneses throughout the world. The various incarnations include (although are not limited to) women in the film industry with IMBD entries, a famous basketball player, a professor of paediatrics at the University of Arkansas, a VP of exploration at Golden Planet Mining Corp, and the star of the second season of NBC’s The Apprentice. This Stacie Jones has a jewellery and accessories range; apparently it’s doing very well.
My own achievements have of course been significantly more modest. I’m not expecting to feature in news articles; the searches on social media are going to be most fruitful for me. It’s a blow, therefore, when I can’t access the Stacie Jones profiles on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram because I’m not registered on any social media; or rather, I’m sure I am, but I don’t recall my passwords. I go through a frustrating process – if I had any hair, I would most certainly be pulling it out – as I try to guess at the passwords that will give me access to my accounts. I eventually admit defeat and so try to re-register. This is an equally confusing and complicated process, because every time I try to make a new account, I’m reliably informed that I already have one and am asked for my password – the passwords I can’t remember. I go around in a Dante’s hell of ever-decreasing vicious circles, clicking on pictures of bridges and traffic lights to prove I’m not a robot. I finally set up my new Instagram account just as the sweet librarian who gave me her plastic gloves says she’s very sorry but the library must close. ‘We do a half-day on Saturday.’
‘But I’m just getting somewhere,’ I groan.
‘You can come back on Monday, dear. Can I suggest you write down your passwords somewhere? I know they advise us not to, but I’ve watched you struggle. I’ve a terrible memory, so I sympathise.’
I nod and write down the password for the Instagram account I’ve just managed to open, without bothering to go into details as to exactly how terrible my memory is and why. I also don’t confide my belief that my dad will veto any more trips to the town until they’ve discovered a cure, or at least a vaccine, for this virus. Of course I’m exaggerating, but I do believe he might be a bit non-compliant. I’m itching to start searching all the Stacie Joneses and find my old account. The idea that relatively recent photos of my friends and possibly lovers are just a few clicks away is so infuriating. I know I’m close to discovering who I truly am, getting my memories back. I feel it.
Just as I’m leaving, I impulsively check. ‘Can I take a book out?’ At least with a loaned book, and the threat of a fine if it’s not returned hanging over my head, I might have an excuse to come back into town.
‘Are you a member of the library, dear?’
‘I was, a long time ago. I think my membership will have lapsed.’
‘Well, let’s have a look, shall we. What’s your name?’
I tell her my name and address and she types it into the computer behind the desk. ‘Yes, here you are, we have you.’ I feel a surprising sense of delight, and relief too. ‘Oh, you’re Kenneth’s girl, aren’t you?’ I can see the wheels turning in her head. She beams at me. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so happy to see you doing well.’ I realise Dad must be friends with this woman and she is aware I’ve had cancer. ‘Of course you must take a book. You can have up to four. You go and pick and I’ll start wiping down the tables and chairs. It’s just so wonderful to see you well.’ She pauses, her face flooded with sympathy. I wonder what my chances of recovery were, whether my father ever sadly speculated with his friends about whether I would survive the big C. The librarian reaches out and squeezes my gloved fingers.
Moved by this intimacy, I blurt, ‘Did we know each other before? You know, when I was a child.’ She looks confused. I point to my head. ‘I can’t remember everything clearly,’ I explain.
‘No, love, I only moved to Lyme four years ago. We’ve never met before.’ I nod. ‘Do give my best to your dad, won’t you. I’m so glad you came home eventually. He’s missed you so much. Dreadful circumstances, obviously, but so nice to have you back in the community, Stacie.’
22
Seb
It has been sort of a good day. They are at least doing something. After months of doing nothing, Seb feels the relief of this. Oli keeps saying he isn’t looking for their mum, but obviously he is, because why else are they here, in the town centre where living people are? If she was dead, her body wouldn’t just be lying around Lyme Regis. That’s just stupid, someone would have found her by now. So they’re not looking for a dead body.
Anyway, if she was dead, Seb would know. He’s sure of it.
He misses his mum so much that he feels a hole inside his body. He aches from the inside out. It feels like he’s a Halloween pumpkin and he’s been hollowed out. His innards are probably lying in a big gloopy mess somewhere. That’s stupid. He knows it. He’s just saying, it’s how it feels. He can’t tell anyone that. Can’t explain it without sounding like a pathetic kid. He could have told his mum, if she was here. She understood him when he tried to explain complicated things like that, and she never laughed at him. It’s embarrassing that he misses her so much. He knows she lied to them all and liars are bad people. She was always telling him not to tell lies. Yet she was a liar. He knows that but he misses her anyway. Oli says he doesn’t miss her but that just makes Oli a liar too, because he has to miss her. Maybe he’s lying to Seb or to himself, but he’s definitely lying. People do.
Oli keeps talking about going to Fi’s house.
‘Do you think Mum will be there?’ Seb asks.
Oli sighs. ‘No, because she’s dead.’
Seb turns away from his brother, looks out at the sea. He hates it when Oli does that. He doesn’t think his mum is at Fi’s house, because the police have been there already and she’d know it was being watched. If she is hiding, that would be the last place to go, so he isn’t in any rush to get there either. He doesn’t want to leave the town yet. He feels close to his mum here; the memory of her and the possibility of her.
‘We could walk there; it’s a few miles up the coast,’ says Oli. He looks doubtful, though, as neither of them are big fans of walking. They both used to hate their mum and dad’s enthusiasm for a Sunday afternoon walk to ‘settle lunch’.
‘Yeah, but there’s the really steep bit at the end,’ points out Seb. It is a sticky, hot day. At the end of the route, they’d have to do a basic rock climb. He can’t imagine how they’re going to do that. To discourage Oli from that plan, he adds, ‘Probably, if we go there, Dad and Fiona will be waiting for us.’
Oli considers this. ‘Maybe we’ll just stay in town tonight. Get a room somewhere.’
‘How would we pay for that?’ asks Seb.
‘I’ve got money.’
‘Where from?’
‘A friend gave me it.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Shut up, Seb.’ Seb tries not to appear hurt by the curt dismissal, but he probably doesn’t do a good job, because Oli looks impatient and regretful at the same time, then offers, ‘You hungry? Shall we get some fish and chips?’
They sit on the pebbles, facing out to sea, and gobble down the hot, greasy, vinegary food; they don’t bother using the little wooden forks that have been provided. Then they agree that an ice cream is needed. There is a shop that sells about a million flavours; over the years they have tried them all and established that cookies and cream is Oli’s favourite, mint choc chip is Seb’s. Today, though, they can’t be bothered with the queue that snakes right around the corner, so they buy 99s from the van, which has a slightly shorter queue. They also have a cream scone each and buy some sweets. Oli pays for everything with a quick tap of his bank card.
Most of the afternoon they spend on the beach. Everyone around them has brought beach towels. Oli remembered suncream but not towels. The pebbles are uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter; neither of them tries to lie back and sleep or read, the way the people around them are. Both of them sit bolt upright, alert. Oli is staring out at the horizon. Seb is more interested in who is on the packed beach. His eyes scurry across the tangles of families, the clusters of people tightly crammed together as he looks for her.
When the heat of the afternoon starts to slacken and the first whisper of evening approaches, they move on to a café where they can buy Cokes and then sit at a table outside. The table wobbles, but Seb likes the view. The café is on Broad Street, perched above the Marine Parade. He glances about. The streets are as busy as the beach, even now. People walk up and down, dragging their flip-flopped feet, directionless but just glad to be out. It might be better if it hadn’t been quite so hot today. Fewer people would mean she would have been easier to spot. Seb feels sweat under his baseball cap, but he keeps it on, because the peak allows him to look around better.
‘Who gave you the money?’ he asks for the second time that day. He has been thinking about it and can’t imagine any of Oli’s friends handing over cash, let alone transferring funds into his account. Grandparents do that and his dad and mum. No one else just gives you money. Why would they?
‘None of your business.’
Usually, if Oli says something like this, Seb accepts the close-down, doesn’t dare fight him, but things aren’t usual between them. They are more like partners now – partners in crime, as they’ve run away together – so he persists. ‘Tell me.’ The condensation on his Coke glass glints in the amber glow of the sinking sun, but his throat feels dry and scratchy.
Oli sighs. ‘Daan Janssen.’
It takes Seb a moment to place the name. ‘Her other husband? That knob?’
‘Yeah.’
Seb feels his skin prickle as though he’s been stung. ‘How do you know him? How has he given you money? Isn’t he in prison?’
‘He’s still in the Netherlands. He’s on bail, so he’s allowed to live at home.’ Oli pauses and then adds, ‘You know him too. You’re talking to him.’
‘I am not.’ Seb is furious to be accused of this. He’d never talk to that man. He hates him. That man stole their mother.
‘He’s Golden_Warlord.’
‘What?’ But the outraged one-word question is hardly out of his mouth before he comprehends. People are never who they say they are, least of all online. Teachers are always going on about stranger danger on the internet. He is stunned that he hasn’t made the connection before. ‘Why did he give you money? Do you know something, has he paid you to keep quiet?’ Seb’s eyes widen in panic. ‘Oli, if you know something you have to tell the police. No matter how much he’s paying you.’
‘No, I don’t know anything. Least, I don’t know know anything.’
‘So why did he give you money?’
‘He wants me to find things out. He says he didn’t do it.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘No, not really, but I don’t not believe him.’ This is where the boys sit a lot of the time now, in a quagmire of uncertainty. ‘Anyway, what does it matter if I believe him or not? He’s a rich twat, right? Free money. He owes us a holiday, wouldn’t you say?’ Oli shrugs. ‘When he asked me to help prove his innocence, I told him I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything as I’m just a kid and can’t afford it. He got the hint. He asked for my Monzo number and sent money.’
‘When? When did all this happen?’
‘Last night … well, this morning. I texted him at about four a.m.’ No one is getting much sleep.
‘What does he want you to look for? How are you supposed to prove his innocence?’
Oli shrugs again. ‘Dunno.’
‘So why did you come here?’
‘Dunno.’
‘There must be a reason,’ Seb insists, infuriated with his brother for not letting him in, not quite. Oli is scared. It doesn’t help Seb knowing this, but he’s his brother, he knows everything about him. Like different branches of the same tree or something. He did that in French at school, had to draw a family tree. It was just a stupid way to remember grand-mère, but also it wasn’t totally stupid, because it made Seb think how he and Oli are connected and always will be, even when Oli says things like he wishes Seb hadn’t been born or had been born without a tongue, something he says fairly often. Seb knows Oli is scared because of the way he holds himself. Sort of stiff, as tall as possible. He juts out his chin purposefully and repeatedly brushes his hair off his face, and he glowers as though he wants to see more, stare extra hard, spot anything that might be heading their way. As if. They never saw any of this coming.
Oli is definitely hiding something. ‘Nope, just a holiday really. Something to do.’ He stands up abruptly, reaches for his mask. ‘I’m going inside for a pee. Don’t move.’ What a stupid thing to say, thinks Seb, where would he go?
He recognises her instantly. It is so weirdly perfect and stupidly unexpected at the same time that he finds himself acting like someone off a comedy TV show; he literally jumps up from his seat. He jolts the table, and one of the empty glasses that held Coke wobbles over.
‘Mum! Mum!’ he screams, really loudly. Loads of people look his way. They probably think he is just some overdramatic kid saving a table for his mother and trying to get her attention. The glass rolls to the edge of the table and then falls to the ground; it smashes, and the slivers of glass skitter across the cobbles. There is a dog under the table next to them; its owners look really pissed off. Seb doesn’t care. ‘Mum, Mum, it’s me, Mum!’ he yells again. He waves his hands in the air. She doesn’t turn towards his voice, even though everyone else is staring quite openly now. She is on the road beneath him. Just about ten metres away, but down the steps, and there are about a million people between them. Stupid people, just standing around eating ice cream, drinking beer, chatting and laughing and stuff. Seb hates them. They need to move. They need to get out of his way. He starts to push towards her.
She is arguing with an old man. Well, not arguing exactly. She isn’t saying much, but she is giving him filthy looks and doing that heavy exasperated sigh thing that she sometimes used to do to Dad; her shoulders would go up to her ears and then basically slump to about her waist. It is such a well-known gesture to Seb. He wants to laugh out loud at its familiarity, even though, in the past, it used to make him feel a bit uncomfortable and sad when his mum did it to his dad. Now he celebrates how known, noticed and particular it is. Although his father never seemed to notice it; was that a problem? Should his dad have spotted when she was pissed off?
He has all these thoughts as he runs down the steps towards her, as he shoves through the bodies of people who smell of sweat and sea and suncream. He pushes against their backs and elbows, stands on his tiptoes to get glimpses of her. It is unbearable, losing sight of her even for a second.
