Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (16 page)

Then the phone rang. It blared across the garden. Daddy didn't look anxious. He looked pleased and excited. I think he was expecting a call from a lady friend. He lit a firework and called to Luke to look after me while he ran across the frosted grass and shot inside.

Luke's hand was hot and sticky in mine. We glanced back but Daddy was gone and so we fixed our eyes on the firework. It was a big rocket, yellow and red stripes, with a finned tail like a shark's. It stuck, argumentative, into the ground. A teasing tendril of smoke curled from its base. We waited and stamped our feet on the frozen earth, but nothing happened.

“It needs relighting,” Guy said, patting his pockets. “Got any matches?”

“We should leave it,” Luke pointed out. “You know what Dad said. Never go up to a firework that hasn't ignited.”

“Yeah, but this one's gone out.” His voice sounded like a cracked plate. Half boy, half man.

“You don't know that.”

“Duh, stupid, yes I do.”

“Just leave it.”

“You're scared.” Guy's thin face, all edges and angles, looked mean in the moonlight.

Luke jutted out his chin and squared up to my other brother. “Not.”

“You are so.”

Luke let go of my hand and took a swing. Guy, quicker and more agile, punched him in the face.

I screamed and told them to stop. Blood pouring from his nose, Luke launched himself at Guy and brought him down. Dismayed, I watched the tangle of bodies, a seething mass of kicks, grunts, and shouts. I tried to haul them off each other but I wasn't strong enough. A stray fist glanced off the side of my head and knocked me flying. Sprawled on the frozen ground, drumming my feet, how I cried, but the boys didn't notice. And it seemed to me then like nobody ever did. I was Little Miss Invisible.

Luke had Guy pinned down. His hand raised, his fist balled, I sensed, little as I was, that one of them was about to be badly hurt.

“I'm not scared,” I yelled, scrabbling to my feet. “Look, you two, it's easy.” I ran towards the rocket as fast as my stout legs would carry me. The rest was jumbled. A whoosh. Flames. A shrill scream. A killing sensation of hot and indescribable pain. Yelling.

Drum roll of boys running.

More shouts.

A sour smell of burnt flesh, burnt clothing.

Panting.

Stop the pain.

Nerve endings stripped and minced.

Someone picked me up and rolled me in the frozen grass. A man's voice, loud and unnatural. My small hands peeled from my face. Searing, screaming, shattering,
breath-stopping
pain. There was black stuff and blood in my hands—my molten skin, my flesh and blood.

thirty-six

I didn't believe Stannard's
patter about
simply
wanting to talk. A talk would lead to more conversation. One meeting followed by another. Before I knew where I was, Stannard would think he was in a full-blown relationship with me. He'd be planning visits home to his mummy and wedding bells. Given time, he believed that his feelings would be returned. This was the make-up of Stannard's interior world. Delusional.

Over a second cup of tea, I continued to pool information. What was he really planning to talk to me about? His
self-pity
, his inability to come to terms with his disfigurement? His lack of courage? Something he didn't appear to be short of from where I stood. I scowled. It was no use trying to view him as I would a client. Stannard was driven by another agenda. Me.

My mobile rang. I snatched it up. Knowing that I was in no fit state to help anyone, I took the call anyway. It was Alexa with a litany of “he said that” and “I said this.” At one point I almost cackled with hysteria. Twenty minutes later, I extricated myself with platitudes and a promise to talk again soon.

I showered and dressed, phoned Chris, and left another message. As Andy had still not returned my call, I caught him at home. He answered after three rings and sounded half asleep. Irrationally, it made me testy.

“Didn't you get my message?”

“What message?”

“The message I left at school for you to ring me.”

I heard him yawn. “Must have disappeared in the general swamp of administration.”

I stifled a curse. “Never mind, have you seen Chris?”

“I've been working my bollocks off putting the finishing touches to a programme for a local company. Had a bit of a time frame.” Andy's moonlighting was a lucrative, if
time-consuming
, sideline. He made no secret of it and often talked about chucking in teaching and going into it
full-time
.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last time I saw you—Sunday morning.”

“You know he hasn't been at school this week.”

“
Uh-huh
.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

Uncomfortable silence.

“Andy, is there something you're not telling me, something I should know?”

“No.” He sounded flat.

“I can't get a reply. I'm worried something's happened.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” I bluffed. “It's so odd that he hasn't returned my calls. Could you go over to the cottage? Give me a ring back?”

“Sure, but it's probably nothing.”

I replaced the receiver and wondered why the sense of dread was so compelling. What was Chris trying to tell me that very last time? I visualised the scene,
re-visualised
the look of apology in his eyes. Was it connected to those damn messages on his phone? Impulsively, I dialled Claire's number but cut the call before it connected; she'd be
knee-deep
in children and the
school-run
. There was nothing else to be done, I told myself and, if I didn't leave soon, I'd be late for work.

On the way out, Lizzie popped out of her flat, a look of simmering excitement on her face. “
Ta-dah
! We've had an offer.”

“And you've accepted?”

“You bet. We couldn't refuse.”

Grant's words whistled through my brain:
Came up with some
cock-and
-bull story about viewing the flat below.

“Time to crack open the champagne,” Lizzie hugged me.

I threw her a bright, congratulatory smile. “So what are my new neighbours like?”

“
Neighbour.
Single guy. I didn't get to meet him. Pete showed him around. Actually, he felt a bit sorry for him. Apparently the guy has some sort of facial disability, but he seems pleasant enough.” The excitement fizzled out of her voice in response to my crumpled expression.

Suddenly
light-headed
, I clapped a hand over my mouth. Breakfast worked its way up from my stomach to the back of my throat. I tried to swallow.

“What is it?” Lizzie asked in consternation.

Devastated, I tore outside and threw up on the steps. Lizzie followed me. “What's the matter? I didn't mean …”

I rummaged for a tissue, wiped my mouth. Vomit spattered my shoes. “Kyle Stannard's going to buy your flat, isn't he?” My voice came out thinner and squeakier than I'd intended.

“You know him?” Lizzie's body stiffened.

“He's stalking me,” I blurted out. I must have looked stricken. Lizzie grabbed hold of my arm as if to steady me and led me into her flat, sat me down, and gave me a glass of water. Five rambling minutes later, I watched Lizzie's expression change from shock to disbelief to anxiety.

“Are you asking us not to sell?” Lizzie's face was tight and uncompromising.

“I don't know what I'm asking.”

“Oh God, Kim, we've waited so long to get out of here.” Lizzie ran her fingers distractedly through her hair.

“I know.”

“Are you sure? Pete's a good judge of character. He said he was charming and polite.”

What was the point in arguing? Lizzie and Pete wanted to move. This wasn't their problem, and it wasn't in their interests to take my side; I'd only complicated the issue.

Lizzie stood up and looked at her watch. “Leave it with me. I'll have a word with Pete.” Her expression lightened. “There is an alternative.”

I arched an eyebrow, weak and hopeful.

“You could always move instead.”

Slow-burning chaos. My world was in anarchy.

I arrived late for work. Feeling
third-rate
and empty of insight, I winged it by sheer luck. At the first opportunity I phoned Claire, who knew nothing about Chris's movements. Sounding exhausted, Claire sweetly offered to go and check up on him.

“Andy's already taking care of it.”

“Oh good,” Claire said with obvious relief.

“It's out of character for him not to contact me,” I said, unable to play down my grating unease.

“I'm sure there's a simple reason. Maybe he's not well.” It was good to hear the calm in Claire's voice. I so wanted to believe that everything would be fine, nothing more than a case of
over-reaction
on my part. When under pressure it's the simplest thing in the world to see sinister intent behind innocent actions. That's the way humans ticked. With shame, I recalled my anger towards Simon. Claire was still talking.

“Although we didn't think he seemed quite himself last weekend.”

“Didn't you?” Simon's accusation did a double flip in my brain and landed with an awkward bump, like a gymnast fluffing a routine.

“Probably the strain of that bloke bothering you.”

I agreed but wondered if I was wrong about the reason. In the past twelve hours, I felt as if all my judgements were flawed.

“Everything else all right?”

“Yes,” I said hastily, not wishing to add to Claire's fatigue. “I'll see you at the weekend.” With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, I remembered my
thirty-sixth
birthday.

I spent the lunch hour poring over books, trying to make a stab at what type of personality disorder Stannard suffered from. The more I read, the more questions arose. Was he fuelled by a desire to be loved, or was rejection the key to his behaviour? Was he driven by envy, viewing me as someone who had more than her fair share of happiness, or fury, or something entirely other? Had he done it before and, in spite of his modest claim to drink only in moderation, did he use drugs to crank himself up? Was his mother a sound influence or a colluding, cloying partnership? Without talking to him, I'd never be able to discover the answers and yet contact was out of the question. I'd already strayed across the boundaries and done the verbal equivalent of throwing a Jumping Jack in his face. Ironic.

At almost two in the afternoon, I stumbled across a fact that chilled. When it came to stalking, the victim wasn't the only person in danger. Those closest were also in peril. Partners and relatives ranked top of the list. My God, Chris, I realised. My instinct was to drive straight to Devon. Fortunately, Jim was easily persuaded.

“We can handle your workload for the rest of the day, and the week, if you like.”

“I hope that won't be necessary.”

“Of course, but the offer is there. Kim,” he said as I gathered up my things, “before you leave, phone the police. Tell them what's happened.”

I blanched. “I don't know if anything's happened.”

Jim flicked a tense smile. “Keep them in the loop is all I'm suggesting.”

thirty-seven

I didn't. I drove
at lunatic speed. Angered by the volume of traffic, I wove in and out and switched lanes with naked aggression. Chris was the one barrier to Stannard's ambition and, if what I'd read contained a grain of truth, he was in real and imminent danger.

I was off the motorway and travelling along the A38 towards Kingsbridge when my mobile phone rang. Breaking the law, I picked up.

“He's not there,” Andy said.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I guess he could be hiding under the bed.”

“This isn't funny.”

“Sorry, you're right.”

“What about the car?”

“Gone.”

“Bike?”

“Still there.”

“Right,” I said, mouth drying. I didn't know if that made things better or worse. “Andy?”

“What?”

“Is Chris seeing someone?”

I heard a noise, the scuffling of dozens of pairs of feet, scraping of chair legs, chatter.

“I've got year ten pouring in,” he shouted above the din. “I'll have to go. Catch you later, yeah?”

I slowed down. I crashed
gear-changes
and misjudged distances. I didn't remember any part of the journey to the cottage.

Cormorants Reach emerged swathed in sunshine, its thick, squat chimney poking up into an expanse of cloudless sky. It seemed exactly the same—cared for, attractive, and welcoming. A lie.

On the mat were several envelopes, greetings cards, I supposed, to celebrate my forthcoming birthday. I scooped them up and scanned each one, relieved to match the handwriting to the sender, then entered the living room with its low ceiling and the chair near the window in which my father used to sit. A
long-forgotten
image of me in my short white socks assailed me. I sat next to my dad, my shoes not touching the floor. We had plates of congealed food on our laps, loneliness in our hearts.

In the early days, not long after my mother left us, a cleaner used to cook our meals at lunchtime and leave them on the boiler for when my dad finished work and picked me up from school. I hated those dinners. My adult aversion to gravy was a direct legacy of terrible meals eaten in silence.

Stifling the memory, I called out Chris's name, heard the shake in my voice, the sound sucked into empty space. Elsewhere, the room was neat and orderly, as Chris liked it. No mugs on the coffee table. No newspapers on the floor. The hearth cleared. Aggressively clean. I peered into the study, my private lair dark and womblike; papers on the desk where I'd left them days before. Everywhere an eerie silence blunted my senses.

I walked down the two steps to the kitchen with its honey-
coloured tiled floor, Belfast sink, the
cross-paned
windows that looked out over the terrace and creek below. My heart briefly lifted at the sight of the spare keys to the motorbike hanging up where they should be. Worktops and the cherry wood kitchen table with its four chairs neatly arranged, fastidiously uncluttered. Only the phone in the corner, the messaging light winking at me, disturbed the picture of calm. Against the beat of my heart, I heard the slow tick of the kitchen clock, the gentle purr of the freezer. Then I saw the envelope propped against the kettle, my name written on it, Chris's unmistakable handwriting. Proof that he was safe, my heart gave a small lift of relief.
Short-lived
. The bunch of house keys next to it winded me.

I touched the envelope, which was white and narrow, and picked it up between thumb and forefinger. The flap had been folded inside and, as I pulled it out with trembling fingers, the paper felt cheap and flimsy.

I drew up a chair, sat down, and read. A concession to his illegible handwriting, it was typed.

Dear Kim,

I know this will come as a shock but I'm leaving. I wanted to do this some time ago but then with the other business I didn't feel it right to abandon you when you so clearly needed me. The truth is there's someone else in my life and has been for a while. We've decided to go away together and start a new life. I wish you well, Kim. I hope, with time, you can forgive me. What we had together was good and special. I will always remember you.

Chris