Strangers (42 page)

“What you saw that night, it wasn’t what you thought,” her father said.
“Your mum was mentally ill, sweetheart.
She heard voices telling her to do things.
That was okay when they were good things, like bake cakes but not so good when it was stuff like digging up the lawn in the middle of the night.” He leaned forward.
“Do you remember?”

A hole had appeared overnight in the backyard.
Her mother said she wanted a flower bed.

“She loved you so much, I didn’t want to take her away from you.
Because I worked at home, I thought I could look after her.
If I’d ever had any idea she might become violent, I’d never have let her stay in the house.”

Kate wanted to put her fingers in her ears, babble nonsense so she couldn’t hear this.

“That night, I was in the kitchen drinking coffee, reading the paper.
Gina walked in, took a knife from the drawer and stabbed me.
No warning, no argument, nothing.
I tried to get the knife away from her.
When you came downstairs, that’s what I was trying to do, not kill her.
But you waded in and everything was chaotic.
Somehow everyone got hurt.”

Kate rocked, staring at the floor at a point between her father’s feet, wishing a wild-eyed demon would surge up through the crack between the boards and drag him back to hell.

“Don’t you remember what she was like, Kate?
We never knew if she’d get out of bed in the morning, if she’d remember to take you to school or collect you.
Sometimes, Gina behaved like the woman I’d married and was a good mother, but it was a lottery what we’d wake up to.
Your mum or a complete stranger.
Don’t you remember?”

She didn’t speak.

“If I could turn the clock back, I would.
Christ, if I had any idea she might hurt you, I’d have put her in hospital and looked after you myself.”

Kate knew he’d never have stopped painting.
It was all he did, all day, all night, shut up in his studio once inspiration grabbed him.
They weren’t allowed to disturb him.
Sometimes they had fun, but he thought trips to the Tate or the National Portrait Gallery were amusing for a five-year-old.
He had no idea.
Her mum was the one who made life fun.

“There was no way I could have known she’d go that far.
I love you, Kate.
You’re my child, my daughter.
I’ve missed too much of your life.
Can’t we start again?
Won’t you let me be your father?”

Kate curled up tighter.
Charlie tried to put his fingers over hers, and she pulled away, sliding to the far side of the couch.
He’d ruined everything.

“There’s something I need to tell you about that night,” her father said.
“But before I do, I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what you said at my trial.
I know what you think you saw, but you were wrong.
That’s why I pleaded not guilty, why I had to spend longer in prison.
But I didn’t stab you.
It was your mum.”

Kate’s fingers beat a tattoo on the side on the couch.

“I’m sorry, darling.
I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.
You burst into the kitchen and didn’t understand what was happening.
You thought I was attacking your mum and tried to save her.”

Kate closed her eyes.
Saw the blood, smelled it, felt it on her hands.
A warm, sticky mess that she wanted gone.
It pooled on the tiles, spread like a red tide of tipped up paint.

“In the confusion, your mum lashed out and you grabbed the knife.
Somehow, you must have caught the blade in your mum’s leg.
It severed her femoral artery.
By the time the ambulance arrived, she’d bled to death.”

Kate heard Charlie gasp beside her.
She’d never breathe again.

“You didn’t tell me that!” Charlie yelled.
“You fucking didn’t tell me that was why you wanted to speak to her!
To tell her
you
didn’t kill her mother,
she
did.
You fucking cruel bastard.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” her father said.

“Why did you have to tell her that?
She was a kid.
I mean, what the fuck is this?”

Her father got up and stepped toward her.
“Kate.”

Kate leaped to her feet and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Excuse me,” she muttered through her fingers.
She dashed out of the room, slammed the door and didn’t stop.
Out of the house, down the street, down another street, Kate didn’t stop until she climbed into a cab.

When Kate didn’t reappear, Charlie went to look for her.
The downstairs bathroom was empty.
He ran all over the house, checking every room before slamming back into the lounge.

“She’s run away.
You stupid fucker.
What were you trying to do?
Get your own back for her disowning you?
I was trying to help you make up with her.
How did you expect her to react to that?
How do you even know that’s what happened?”

“She refused to see me after I got out.
She even changed her name.”

“Jim, you are a complete and utter wanker.
If she does anything stupid, I’ll—”

“What sort of stupid?”

Charlie had snapped his mouth shut.

“She’s just upset.
You know how women are.
She’ll be back,” Jim said.

Charlie gaped at him.
“I can’t believe you thought you could tell her that she killed her own mother and expect to waltz back into her life.
I mean, what the fuck does it matter now who did what?
Her mother’s dead.
Kate’s spent almost all her life in care because of what happened.
She wasn’t to blame.
She was a seven-year-old child, for Christ’s sake.”

“But I didn’t kill anyone,” Jim said.
“I don’t want her thinking I killed her mum.
I spent fifteen years in prison for something I didn’t do.”

“And Kate’s spent fifteen years in a prison too.”

“She took the money I offered.”

Charlie stared at him.
“You’ve no fucking idea, have you?
You didn’t even ask her how she was.
You just wanted to push your own guilt onto her shoulders.
Did you write to her while you were inside?
Ever ask to see her?”

Charlie saw the answer was no.
He wanted to slam his fist into the guy’s face.

“Can I help you look for her?”

“How?
You don’t know anything about her—what she likes, what she hates, what scares her.
Just fuck off.
Get out of my house.”

After he’d gone, Charlie found Kate’s bag next to the couch.
He wrenched it open, saw her keys, purse and phone and knew he was in trouble.
He drove to her apartment, but she wasn’t there and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t been back.
Her car was outside.
Charlie returned home, hoping Kate would be there.
She wasn’t.
He sat and waited.
And waited.
The sun came up and there was still no sign of her.

* * * * *

Ethan heard the banging at his door and ignored it.
But whoever it was, didn’t intend to give up.
He got out of bed, and just in case, took off the underwear he’d worn overnight, before pulling on a white robe.
Ethan somehow wasn’t surprised to see Charlie stamping around outside.
He wondered which hat he needed this time—financial expert, personal shopper, real estate agent, ass wiper or ass kicker.

“This had better be good,” Ethan snapped.

“Kate’s gone.”

Ethan gave a mental whoop of joy and moved back to allow a pale-faced Charlie inside.
“What happened?”

Charlie let it pour out and the more he poured, the brighter the sun shone for Ethan.
So much easier to blend Jody Morton into Charlie’s life with Kate out of the way.

“I have to find her,” Charlie said.
“I need a private detective.”

“I know a good one,” Ethan said.
Finding which stone Kate had crawled under wasn’t a bad idea, if only to make sure the stone was heavy enough.
“It’s too early to call now.
I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You look terrible.”

“I haven’t been to bed,” Charlie said.

“Grab a couple of hours upstairs.”

“I ought to be at my place in case Kate comes back.” Charlie fidgeted from foot to foot.

“I’ll send Jake over.
He’s not busy today.
Give me your keys.”

Charlie handed them over and started upstairs.
Ethan went into his kitchen.
He’d make sure Jake knew who not to let into Charlie’s place.
Kate being top of the list.
Ethan got as far as holding the jug under the tap, before he slammed it down, splashing water everywhere.
He raced upstairs.

His bedroom door was open.
Ethan thought he was safe, that Charlie had gone into the right room.
He saw Charlie standing next to the bed, holding one of the bras Kate had made.
It was the one Ethan liked best—white satin with little pink roses.
Charlie had looked pale before, now his face was ghost-like.

“Where is she?” Charlie threw down the bra and stalked over to Ethan’s bathroom.
He flung open the door, then surged back, his fists clenched.

“She’s not here,” Ethan said, holding his hands in front of him.
He was frantic to find a scenario that would fit, one he could make fit.

“This is Kate’s fucking bra,” Charlie shouted, throwing it in Ethan’s face.

“She made it, yes,” Ethan answered.

“Her pants.”

Ethan tried to grab them before Charlie noticed how big they were, that they were warm and maybe a little wet, but Charlie yanked his hand away.

“Kate!” Charlie screamed.
“Where the fuck are you?”

“Charlie, she’s not here.
I asked her to make the underwear for a friend.”

Ethan was relieved when Charlie deflated like an old balloon, a look of wrinkled confusion on his face.
Then he straightened.
“So where’s your friend?”

“She’s gone home.”

“Leaving her underwear?” Charlie’s eyes were full of distrust.

“Charlie, my sex life has nothing to do with you.”

His shoulders slumped again.
“No, sorry.”

“The spare room’s across the landing,” Ethan said.
“Get some sleep.
By the time you wake up, I’ll have sorted things out.”

When the door closed, Ethan breathed out.
That had been close.

* * * * *

When Charlie emerged a few hours later, he still looked terrible.
Ethan wondered if he’d even slept.

“I need to go home in case she’s back,” Charlie said.
“Have you got a detective looking for her?”

“I’ve two guys working on it.
I’ve used them before.
They’re good.”

Ethan hadn’t hired detectives.
He’d decided it would be a waste of money and he didn’t waste money.
He’d wait a few days and tell Charlie that Kate appeared to have vanished without trace.
By the time she turned up, if she turned up, Charlie would have moved on to someone else and he had just the someone in mind.

Ethan poured Charlie a coffee and set it in front of him.

“So, what happened?” he asked.

Charlie ran his fingers through his hair.
“I fucked up.
I thought I was doing the right thing and I wasn’t.”

“What did you do?”

Ethan listened without speaking, thinking if he’d had to describe the worst case scenario, this would have been in there somewhere.
The woman was a walking disaster.
A tiny part of him thought it a pity Tiffany Samuels hadn’t stuck the knife in a little lower and deeper.
“
Lover killed by crazed fan”
had a certain ring.

He could see Charlie cared about Kate.
He wasn’t blind, but the guy was being led by his dick.
He needed to take someone else to bed and forget the waitress.
This was an ideal opportunity for Jody Morton to step in.

“Is there anything I can do to help these guys?” Charlie asked.

Ethan had to think for a minute to work out what he was talking about.

“No, they’ll get back to us if they need anything.”

“A photo?
They need a photograph.” His head dropped.
“I don’t have one.”

“There were plenty in the paper,” Ethan reminded him and Charlie shriveled up like an old man.

“I need to go back.” He jumped up.
“Can you organize a painter?
I need my ceiling done.”

Ethan stared at him.
Talk about a change in direction.
“Jake’s over there.
He’ll sort it out.
He can stay and look after you.”

Charlie gave a short laugh.
“Afraid I’m going to start drinking again?
Do a few lines of coke?”

“Are you?”

Charlie raised his eyes to his and Ethan met his stare.

“No.”

“Good.” So Kate had done him some good.
“Jake has a copy of your schedule.
He’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need a fucking nurse.
I want Kate.”

“You’ve commitments to honor.
There’s all sort of shit going on this week.
You’re on that BBC chat show for a start.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You’re paid to feel like it.
You’re a fucking actor, Charlie.
Fake it.”

* * * * *

Charlie spent the week in a daze.
Jake drove him everywhere, cooked for him and moved the booze.
Charlie couldn’t find it.
For the first few days, whatever Charlie was supposed to do, he did.
That included a joint interview with Jody Morton for a movie magazine.
Ethan had already told her Kate had walked out and why, and Jody was all over Charlie, trying to be kind.
She turned out to be more sympathetic than Charlie expected.
She listened while he talked and talked.

But as time went on and there was no word from Kate, Charlie fell apart.
When he was alone, he cried for what he’d lost.
He was glad Jake moved the alcohol.
He bought cigarettes but thought about Kate and what she’d say and never lit one.
Twice a day Jake drove him to Kate’s apartment.
While Jake sat in the car, Charlie lay on Kate’s bed, breathing in the faint scent of her that remained, pressing his face into her pillow, willing her to come back to him.
He wrote messages on Post-It notes, covered the walls in her bedroom with yellow squares.

“I love you.”

“Come back.”

“I need you.”

Then he got angry.
What the fuck did she think she was doing?
She had to know he hadn’t meant to hurt her.
She’d not given him a chance to explain, just run off into the night.
He’d arranged the party, gone to all that trouble.
Didn’t she think he’d be worried?
Didn’t she care?
No, she didn’t.
She didn’t care.