Cold Light (20 page)

‘Don’t tell me,’ Carl said quickly and he shook his head at my not understanding. He laughed. ‘I’m not worried about that,’ he said loudly.

There was a chip in one of Carl’s teeth and he tapped his fingernail against it. It made a hollow sound and he blew the air out of his cheeks and changed the shape of his mouth to adjust the sound like his whole head was a drum he wanted to tune up and play. That’s why he’d be good at the magic tricks. I put my finger on it then, even though the feeling about him was one that I’d had all along. He fidgeted all the time. He was constantly tapping or drumming or folding up train tickets or picking at the plastic trim on the inside of his car. When people like that are given a coin or a pack of cards or even a pencil and paper, they start to work out ways to do magic – even if they do have clumsy hands, like Carl did.

I was thinking all this when Carl leaned over and kissed the side of my neck. It gave me a shock, and my arms flew out as if I was falling, or defending myself. I was embarrassed about that. He laughed softly and I felt his teeth against my skin. I hunched my shoulders and moved my head back and the triangle shapes of the whites of his eyes were grinning at me and then he did it again.

I wasn’t prepared for the feel of his tongue to come out and start poking at my teeth, up along my gum line and swirling around like I was a room he was trying to break into – my mouth the lock. While all this was going on, he’d started pressing his hands under my coat and against my jumper. He was tugging the material upwards and I felt how rough his hands were when the jumper gave way suddenly and he put his hands against my stomach and started to slide them upwards.

This is not something I like doing
, I thought, and was pushed back into the seat. He was still kissing me. I could smell his saliva on the side of my neck and feel it drying on my face. I thought of the tiny bruises on Chloe’s neck and shot out my arm behind me for the car door handle.

When it clunked open the river-smelling wind forced it closed again right away but the noise was enough to get Carl to stop. He took his hands out of the front of my jumper and leaned back.

I was worried he might have been offended or embarrassed.

‘I’m – I should . . .’ I said, sounding even to myself like a tenyear-old.

‘Not into it then,’ he said, and laughed. His mouth was shiny. ‘You’re more interested in Chloe?’

I could feel how hot my face was and I was glad it was dark.

‘I’m going,’ I said, but didn’t sound as outraged as I felt. Carl didn’t try to stop me and he didn’t start the car engine and follow as I ran away under the bridge and through the park towards home.

Chapter 17

The next day, I turned up at Chloe’s house after school. Nathan let me in and I was glad it was him answering the door and not her mother. Amanda would have made me hot chocolate and asked me to tell her more about Carl. She’d have hung around with me and Chloe, reading our magazines and sniffing our perfume samples and trying to join in with what we were talking about. Nathan only nodded and pointed with his thumb to the conservatory.

‘Heartbreak Hotel’s that way,’ he said. ‘Tell her to turn it down, will you?’

I could hear the tinny noise of
TOTP
on the colour portable and I walked towards it. The mantelpiece in the front room was decked with get well soon cards from the other girls and before I had the chance to wonder who had brought them round, I heard Emma’s voice.

‘Shanks’ll get you out of PE for a bit when you come back, you lucky bitch,’ she said, and they were laughing as I went through.

‘Who let
you
in?’ Chloe said venomously.

She and Emma were sitting on the small wicker love-seat, with their feet in matching pink slipper socks up on the wicker coffee table. She’d opened up her Christmas selection boxes and the floor around them was scattered with screwed-up funsize Crunchie wrappers.

I smiled and sat down on the leather pouffe.

‘You’re in the way of the telly.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ I said meekly. ‘I just wanted to see if you were all right. They let you out of hospital?’

‘Obviously.’

Emma was keeping quiet. To show willing, I caught her eye and smiled at her, feeling vile and small and creeping. So the plan to get Chloe and Carl apart had backfired. Fine. But I needed friends now more than ever, and if that meant learning to like Emma, well then, so be it.

‘What are you watching?’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Chloe said lightly, and leaned back into the love-seat. ‘Pass me that jug, will you?’

I handed her the jug of juice from the coffee table and Emma held up her beaker while she poured herself a glass of it.

‘I can’t believe what you did to me. I can’t believe it. You shouldn’t even be here.’

Her teeth were brown with chocolate.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ I said. ‘I was upset. I was stressed.’ I glanced at Emma. Did she know about Wilson and what had happened on Boxing Day? Did she know the whole thing was my fault? It was so hard to know what to say, what not to say.

‘Shut up,’ Chloe said. ‘We’re in here trying to work out how I can get in touch with Carl when I can’t leave the house and they’ve put a block on the house phone and you’re fucking me off whining about how stressed you are. What have you got to be stressed about?’ I opened my mouth but she went on, ‘Nothing, that’s what. It’s my life that’s been ruined, not yours.’

‘The house phone is blocked off. You need a pin number to make outgoing calls. Her dad set it up,’ Emma explained. ‘And they’ve not told her what else – how long she’s grounded for. They’re waiting until she feels better and they’ve discussed it,’ she added darkly.

It was obvious she had been helping Chloe with her plan of action when it came to evading whatever punishment Chloe’s parents decided on. And that wasn’t fair. It had always been me who’d had to cover for her, stand guard and take messages to Carl when she couldn’t get out. It was me and not Emma who understood the intricacies of the way they were with each other – the games, the ignored phone calls, the crocodile tears and the romantic moments they shared in the back of his car. As someone outside the situation looking in, I probably understood more about what was going on between them than they did themselves. Emma didn’t know anything.

‘There’s always your mobile,’ I said.

Chloe screwed up her face and mimicked me. ‘
There’s always your mobile!
As if I didn’t think of that. No credit on it, and I can’t get credit if I can’t get out of the house, can’t get any money, can’t get hold of Carl to tell him to get some for me. Genius.’

‘I said I’d get some for you,’ Emma said, ‘or I’ll ring him from my house, tell him what’s happened.’ Chloe put her head on Emma’s shoulder and squeezed her arm.

‘I want to talk to him myself,’ she said and she didn’t sound angry anymore. It was the same tone of voice she used with Shanks when he was going to mark her up for being late or not turning up for registration at all. (
It’s private women’s problems, sir – not my fault I was late
.)

‘You shouldn’t be spending your money on me.
You
didn’t do anything wrong,’ Chloe said, and tucked a strand of Emma’s dark hair behind her ear affectionately. I gritted my teeth – the two of them pawing at each other like that. It was disgusting. Chloe looked at me, her plucked bald eyebrows raised, and finally I caught on.

‘I’ve got a bit of money on me,’ I said. The change from the tenner Donald had given me the night before. ‘It isn’t much, but it’d go towards. I can give you that, if you want?’

Chloe blinked slowly, her mouth screwed up. She was marking a tally in her head. How much would I need to do to make it up to her?

‘How much?’

I counted out the coins from my pocket onto the table in front of them. Six pounds.

‘Is that all?’ Chloe scowled at me. ‘You know they’re probably going to ground me for months?’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘my Christmas money is at home. I can go and get it for you. Or give you my phone, if you want.’

‘Never mind,’ she said, and slid the money off the table into her cupped palm. She tucked it away into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Have you got any fags?’

I shook my head.

Emma unwrapped a small square bar of Turkish Delight and let the shiny pink wrapper fall onto the tiles. She broke it in two and handed the bigger half to Chloe. She spoke and chewed at the same time.

‘You can have my fags,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll nick a packet off my brother. He went to Ibiza last month and he’s got a massive carton of duty-free under his bed. He’ll never know.’

Chloe brightened.

‘And relax about Carl. You don’t need to phone him. He’ll ring you himself before too long. Just keep your phone on you. Put it on vibrate and keep it in your knickers or something.’ Chloe laughed and I could see that it was working – that Emma was doing my job for me and getting Chloe to be reasonable. It wasn’t fair.

‘He doesn’t know your parents know – doesn’t even know you’ve been in hospital. Give him a few days. He’ll ring, and then you can update him and he’ll get you some money. I’ll go and get it off him, or you can send Lola if you want.’

Chloe sighed. ‘He better had,’ she said irritably, and kicked her foot at the selection box. It toppled and fell onto the floor. ‘Pick that up, will you?’

I knew she was talking to me and not Emma so I picked it up and slotted it back onto the table between their feet and tried to think of something to say. Even I could work out that telling her I’d seen Carl the night before would be a bad idea.

‘At least you’re not pregnant,’ I said. ‘Carl will be glad about that, won’t he?’

Chloe shook her head and pursed her lips at me. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said, under her breath, ‘can’t you keep your mouth shut about anything? Tell you something, and I might as well broadcast it on the news.’

I glanced at Emma, who was frowning.

‘Forget it,’ Chloe said, ‘just sod off home, will you? I never asked you to come round. I’m supposed to be resting. I’ll see you when I get back to school.’

I stood up and turned round, making my way slowly through the arch into the living room and towards the front door – walking as slowly as I could to give Chloe a chance to change her mind, to laugh and say it was a joke. I hadn’t even had the chance to take my coat off. She could have called me back in then and there and I’d have laughed along with her and Emma and pretended to find it funny. The only noise I could hear as I went out into the street and clicked the front door shut behind me was the noise of their voices, low and murmuring, talking about something I wasn’t allowed to hear.

Chapter 18

Donald and I had been watching videos. Piles of matches and cards from an abandoned game of Crazy Eights littered the coffee table. Barbara was somewhere else – out in her coat and headscarf hacking at the garden, or upstairs beating bed linen into submission. My heart wasn’t in the game that night.

Donald and me had a routine, after school. Watch his
Blockbusters
videos in the afternoons, play cards. Drink Lemsips in front of the news and wait for our tea to be ready. I was late because I’d stopped at Chloe’s house first, and then had to wash my face in cold water so he wouldn’t see that I’d been crying on the way home. Even Crazy Eights, which was a card game I enjoyed and regularly beat Donald at, hadn’t held my attention for long.

‘Turn it off now, Lola, the news will be on.’

‘Dad? Why don’t we just carry on with this?’

‘Lola, come on.’ He poked at the remote control before giving up and tossing it into my lap, ‘you know I can’t figure these things out.’

I didn’t want to watch the news – knowing that it would probably be about Wilson. But Donald wouldn’t hear of it. The news was routine for him – when it was finished he knew that it was time for us to decamp into the kitchen for our tea. He liked knowing the names of all the members of the cabinet and tested his memory by making lists of the countries which were at war. He often quizzed me and Barbara on current affairs, tutting when we always got the answers wrong. I knelt in front of the video player and pressed the eject button. The tape slid out into my hands and the news flashed onto the screen.

‘Dad?’ My voice sounded thin and trembly.

Donald shushed me. ‘He’s made the reconstruction,’ he said, appreciatively. ‘He said he was going to.’

‘Not the police?’

Donald shook his head. ‘Too slow,’ he said, ‘Terry wanted to take matters into his own hands. Get things sorted. Look.’

Terry introduced the latest, which was, as Donald had anticipated, a reconstruction of Wilson’s last movements. The posters had worked and the police had found two girls who’d spoken to Wilson on Boxing Day and they’d got together with a cameraman and a few extras and made a film with them in it.

Melanie and Dawn were the same age as me and Chloe but at a different school. They’d gone to the park in the morning and they’d seen Wilson. Perhaps Terry had found an outlet for his frustration over not getting any of the flasher’s victims on his programme. Melanie and Dawn weren’t real victims of anything, but they were girls, and fairly photogenic so they’d do until he could get hold of the real thing. He had them in the studio with him, watching themselves star in the short film. They were in their school uniforms: cherry-coloured pullovers, navy blue skirts and solemn, made-up faces. Terry praised them lavishly, Fiona scowled and the two girls squirmed.

It should have been a relief. According to Terry and from then on everyone else, these two girls were the last to see Wilson and not us. They’d been drunk on a bottle of stolen Advocaat they’d smuggled out to drink on one of the wooden benches near the fountain.

But it wasn’t a relief because it wasn’t true. They’d seen Wilson in the late morning, when they’d been in Avenham Park. We hadn’t seen him until the afternoon and across the town in the car park of Cuerden Valley nature reserve.

‘I’ve seen the posters about him,’ Donald said, ‘they’ve got them pasted up in the shopping centre.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they’re everywhere. The council takes them down at night and his mum and dad put them back up in the morning.’

‘That must be a full-time job.’

‘They want him to come home.’

I recognised the man who they’d hired to be Wilson as the owner of the video shop near our school. He had the same fine brown hair thinning into wisps at the temples and he was the same height as Wilson. I watched as the man shambled around the park and walked aimlessly around the fountain throwing twigs and dried out conker cases onto the frozen cap on the water.

It wasn’t working. It should have worked. The details were right. The North Face jacket was ostentatiously identical to the one Wilson had worn: the camera’s eye hovered over the cuffs and collar while Terry provided a voiceover that called our attention to the distinctive white stitching of the design. The video man was doing his best to look like Wilson by letting the skin around his eyes and jowls go slack and pretending to be baffled by a litter bin. He tried to limp, as if this would be shorthand or code for Wilson’s disability. He was all wrong. He wasn’t Wilson and he wasn’t a professional actor, so he was still himself and carrying with him the associations everyone who knew about him would have.

He was a leering, lecherous, nasty little man. He was oily and his whole shop smelled like Dettol and curry and when we walked home from school we’d see him through the window, sitting behind the counter on a ripped and taped-up and ripped again bar-stool, the stuffing coming out behind him and dangling like droppings. He’d perch, and drink hundreds of tins of pop, and spend all day reading the plot summaries on the back of the porn videos and looking up the names of the actresses in a film encyclopaedia.

There were rumours. He had a ball missing from a childhood accident, couldn’t get a girlfriend, and lived with a blow-up doll he’d speak to and eat with, as well as everything else. He had snuff films in his back room of cows getting shot in abattoirs and swans being stolen from the canal and tortured. You had to have a fiver and you had to put the fiver on the counter in a certain way, something to do with the Queen’s head, and he’d give one of them to you.

It was probably rubbish. All of it. He never did anything to us but we thought, all of us, that he was weird and bad and sinister. The police knew that too. They knew his reputation. Knew that he scared us. I watched him leer as he caught sight of Melanie and Dawn and I realised that while Terry had chosen him because he had a passing physical resemblance to Wilson, the greatest similarity between them was in how they made us feel.

‘While the police continue to go through the motions of investigating the missing man’s sudden disappearance,’ Terry said solemnly, ‘they’ve also been tasked with countering rumours that there’s a connection between Daniel Wilson and the several recent incidents of indecent exposure that have taken place in the City’s parks and green spaces. But while it is true that the police are looking for a man of medium height and build in connection with the offences and there is,
apparently
, no evidence to connect the missing man to them, the offences seem to have stopped abruptly around the time Wilson was last seen.’

Donald moved the mug around, warming his hands. I looked at him but his expression was unreadable. Barbara came into the room, a corner of a tea-towel tucked into each pocket of her trousers – a make-shift apron.

‘Anything new?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ Donald said. ‘Speculation and misdirection, as always.’

She clipped his shoulder gently, as if to say, ‘What are you like?’

But Donald was right.
This
, I thought, was what the world was really like. We weren’t supposed to forget. Terry wasn’t trying to help Wilson and his parents at all. If he had been, he wouldn’t have chosen Video Man, who was bound to make us feel bad and remind us of why we really didn’t want Wilson to be found.

‘What kind of man approaches young girls in the park anyway, that’s what I want to know,’ Barbara said. ‘I hope they catch him soon. No wonder he’s left home and gone into hiding.’

We carried on watching. The camera-work was rough. In more than a few shots, you could see the sound-boom at the top of the frame. They’d not bothered too much with costumes – when Wilson/Video Man walked, his jacket flapped open to reveal, quite clearly, the blue and white short-sleeved tee-shirt everyone who worked at the video shop wore as part of their uniform.

Video Man staggered, half stumbling as if he was drunk, towards the two girls. They pretended not to see him at first. Dawn whispered something in Melanie’s ear, and Melanie let her hair fall over her face and laughed. I instantly wondered what it was she’d said – whether they’d been asked to pretend to whisper and giggle for the reconstruction, or if they were really whispering something about Video Man and his balls and his doll or something else, between themselves.

The yellow bottle of Advocaat was on the bench too, but away from them, and although the camera zoomed in on the label and Terry pointed out the windmill and the brand name as if it was an advert and not the news, neither of the girls touched it for the duration of the reconstruction. It was as if it was someone else’s bottle, and Melanie and Dawn had just happened to sit down next to it.

‘Who is that strange man over there?’ Dawn said woodenly, and pointed past the camera.

‘I don’t know. I have never seen him before,’ Melanie replied. ‘Maybe we’d better head on home now.’ She sounded bored. Dawn was smiling at someone off screen.

Cut then, back to Video Man who was still ambling, still tossing twigs, and making his way gradually, in an uneven zigzag, towards the bench the two girls were sitting on. Terry, shrunk to the BSL interpreter’s station in the bottom corner of the screen, gesticulated sympathetically and provided a helpful commentary.

‘The girls were in high spirits on Boxing Day morning and had left their homes and families for a breath of fresh air.’

I knew what that meant. They were pissed. They’d snuck out to drink more, to smoke, to look for boys.

‘They were laughing, and talking about the Christmas gifts they’d each received from their families when an older man neither of them had seen before approached them and tried to tempt them deeper into the park by offering them cigarettes.’

‘Listen to that!’ Barbara said, ‘
smoking!
’ as if girls who smoked deserved everything they got. I thought of the tab-ends in the shed and bit my lip. ‘I’m away to dish up now. Don’t be too long.’ She disappeared into the kitchen.

‘What is it?’ I whispered to Donald.

He screwed up his face. ‘Corn beef hash.’

‘Sensibly,’ Terry said, ‘the girls accepted the gifts so as not to anger their interlocutor, and after a brief conversation, the man left them and walked in the direction of the town centre. Police are still checking CCTV camera footage, but what we do know is that man – Daniel Wilson – never returned home.’

The film ended and the shot returned to the studio, where Melanie and Dawn were sitting between Terry and Fiona. Fiona leaned forward and opened her mouth but Terry leapt in before she could say anything.

‘The police refuse to be drawn on the matter and obviously there’s a limit to what I’m allowed to say on air until we’ve dug up more evidence. No such restrictions apply to you, viewers. Call us. Tell us. Do you want this man found?’

Fiona frowned and looked pleadingly at someone off screen but Terry went on: ‘These offences are not just the concern of the young girls who are at risk of becoming victims on the cusp of their womanhood,’ he swept a lavishly gesturing arm in the direction of Melanie and Dawn, who flinched out of its way. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, these offences disturb us all.
I
am offended.’ Terry stared hard at us out of the tiny screen and I shivered.

‘Of course,’ Fiona began, ‘there’s no actual—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Terry broke in. ‘A police spokesman reiterated that there was no evidence to implicate Wilson in any wrongdoing and that vigilante justice would not be tolerated,’ he said.

You could tell he didn’t mean it by the way he said it. You always got a good performance from Terry – he made the cold weather sound like a personal affront and something the City should be doing something about when he reported on it. It was his sense of drama. It got people stirred up. It got things done. And when he read out that part about the police saying Wilson had nothing to do with the flashings, his voice was flat and insincere. We knew what he thought, clear as anything. When Donald reached into my lap for my hand, I jumped.

‘You’re always careful at night, when you’re out with that Chloe, aren’t you?’ he said.

I nodded slowly, hardly hearing what Donald was saying because my eyes were fixed on the screen.

‘This afternoon, the missing man’s parents made an emotional appeal for any information,’ Fiona said.

Now they were showing footage of Wilson’s mum and dad. Donald noticed I wasn’t paying attention to him and used the remote to turn the sound down, but I watched the pair of them anyway – younger than I’d imagined, ordinary, red-eyed and trembling. They were sitting at a trestle table on a platform and there were photographers there. The woman jumped every time the flash went off and the man – Wilson’s dad (I thought about worms, fishing and the ban on smoking) – in a suit and tie, looking hot and uncomfortable, with big rough hands appearing on the table, being drawn away to his lap, and then appearing again. The camera flashes reflected off the lenses of his glasses.

‘We’re just asking, as parents, for anyone who knows what might have happened to come forward. He can’t work out the trains, and he’s not that good with buses. If he’s gone wandering, someone must have given him a lift. He’s chatty,’ the man smiled, ‘never shuts up.’ His voice broke and his wife touched his arm gently. He wiped a finger behind his glasses and drew himself up to his full height. ‘He’d stick out in the memory, if you took the time to think about it. He had a bit of money on him. Could have took a taxi. Maybe asked you for directions home.’ He shook his head, unable to continue. His wife spoke next, and her voice was clear and hard and cold.