The Beauty of the End (3 page)

6

 

M
y thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Noah? Hello? You're in there, aren't you?”

Clara lives next door, a close friend of my late aunt. I've become used to her coming and going, once I got over the way she'd let herself in when it suited her and the way I'd turn round to find her standing there, just behind me, and then I'd be forced to listen while she regaled me with some screwy observation she'd made.

* * *

The first time it happened, I don't know how long she'd been watching me. Lost in my work, I hadn't noticed her until she spoke.

“So you're Noah. . . .”

Startled, I'd glanced up to see a woman standing there, with long, greying hair and sharp eyes that looked me up and down.

“So you've come to put Delilah's things in order then?” She'd broke off, scrutinizing me, as I felt myself shrink under her gaze.

“I suppose.” I'd frowned. I hadn't really thought about things being put in order. “She left me the cottage. I thought I'd stay. Well, for now, at least.”

She'd stared at me. “You don't sound so sure.” Her voice held a trace of an accent I couldn't identify, her words leaving me vaguely uncomfortable.

It happened a few times, before we slowly got to know each other. We'd never be friends. She was too disapproving, outspokenly critical of my solitary ways, but we rubbed along, Clara asking probing questions on subjects I didn't want to talk about, then sweeping aside my objections one by one, distaste written on her face, as though she was peeling the layers of an onion.

“You should get yourself out of here. Go to the pub. Meet people your own age.” By people she meant girls; I think Clara thought I should have been happily married off. I'd grunted something unintelligible, resisting the temptation to tell her that I'd come close—twice—but that was enough for anyone and I didn't plan on doing it again.

“It's better to be alone than with the wrong person,” I'd said with the defensiveness that comes from being badly hurt, knowing that wasn't what she was getting at, yet again aware of her unblinking gaze.

I didn't want to drag myself out to make small talk with strangers. Even when I found myself a part-time position in a local solicitor's office, it wasn't good enough for her. My reason for moving here was to write, I kept reminding myself. But Clara didn't approve of that, either.

“So whatever is it that keeps you in your books?” Her words laced with disapproval, as on yet another occasion, she'd caught me unawares.

Turning back to my work, I'd finished the sentence I was writing, then looked up. “I used to be a lawyer.”

Even I could hear how defensive I sounded, because it had been an identity I'd worn, like an expensive coat, that, in the blinkered mind-set of the society we live in, had set me apart as a recognizable someone who garnered respect. An identity I'd yet to replace.

“I know that,” she'd said impatiently. “Not now, though, are you?”

She wasn't intentionally unkind, as I found out later. It was just her way, in part cultural, and maybe also the legacy of a difficult life, which had left her direct, brusque, to the point.

I remember I'd hesitated, because most people didn't understand. I'd given up trying to explain, but then this was Clara. “If you really want to know, it's research. Into the psychological profiles—of murderers, mostly.”

I'd watched her as she drew back. “Sweet Jesus. Delilah didn't tell me that.”

“She didn't know. I don't really talk about it. But there are case studies, weighing up any number of possible causal factors. Like family background. Whether the father or mother is an offender, whether other lesser crimes are committed first. Even the structure of the brain. But there are other cases, less easily explained, where a solid pillar of society somehow undergoes a fundamental change and becomes a murderer. Like John Smith, who worked his whole life until one day he chucked in his job, then went home and shot his wife. . . .”

With my captive audience of one, I'd been getting into my stride, enjoying myself because John Smith was my classic example, until the look of horror on her face stopped me.

“Okay,” I'd said more soberly. “Let me ask you something. First impressions. What do you think of them?”

Clara loved to get a spark going and watch what followed. But that time she'd shaken her head. “That's the trouble with you young people.”

Saying
young
as though it was a bad thing.

“You're in too darn much of a hurry to notice.”

“Notice what, exactly?”

“The difference,” she'd replied slowly, as if I were particularly stupid, “between what people want you to see, and what's real.”

“Exactly!” I'd said triumphantly. “That's what I was saying.”

Clara had glared at me, then shaking her head, stared out the window. “You're talking about what you see with your eyes,” she'd muttered. “Eyes tell you nothing, don't you know that? You need to look with your heart.”

An awkward silence had fallen between us after that, heavy with irritation on my part at Clara's all-knowingness, because I didn't need her to tell me appearances could be deceptive; disgust on hers at my arrogance, as no doubt she perceived it.

Coming over, she'd picked up one of my books on the Jack the Ripper murders.

“And you . . .
enjoy
this?” Her face was unfathomable.

I'd thought about it before I answered. “Not enjoy, exactly. All murders are someone's tragedy. But think of the murderer for a moment.... Some people just don't have boundaries, I know that, and there are some who claim to enjoy it.” A look of distaste registered on her face. “But for me, it's the psychology that's so interesting, because if you knew what drove someone to such extremes, maybe you could do something to prevent it.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go getting your hopes up,” Clara had muttered darkly. “Some folks have it in them, no matter what.”

I'd put my book down. “Okay. Now you're talking about psychopaths.”

I'd caught her interest. Sitting down, she'd leaned toward me. “I should know. I was married to one. Thought the world of himself, but he didn't give a fig about no one—not even his own wife. Wasn't a killer, though. Tell you what I think. There's plenty of people don't think anything of it—raping and killing, for the sake of it.”

“Exactly.” I sat back and looked at her. “And there's a reason. Upbringing, a constant diet of violence around them, the TV every time they turn it on . . .”

Clara grunted. “Maybe. But folks like that don't change.”

“Do you really believe that? Isn't that a rather depressing view of humanity?”

“Yes, well, most likely you think it is. But you young people are all the same. Always looking for excuses, instead of facing the facts.”

“I don't believe that's true,” I'd started to argue. But she'd taken offense for some reason, stomping off, slamming the door behind her.

But I'd got used to her, and since I had no family to speak of, no friends, her inherent nosiness, her way of speaking her mind, were vaguely companionable, if somewhat abrasive. Even now, with a modestly successful, published novel to my name, if it had given me credibility in her eyes, she'd never said.

* * *

“Haven't eaten, have you?” she says tonight, a statement framed as a question to which she already knows the answer, looking disapprovingly around the kitchen, unwrapping the dish she's carrying before placing it on the table.

“Thanks. I was just looking for something.” Tins of beans I bought at the garage. Maybe a drink.

She shakes her head. “No point you even looking. You never have anything in them cupboards of yours. You need to get out, Noah. Find that new supermarket that's just opened. Go to the pub before you forget how to talk to people. Does you no good shutting yourself away.” She speaks with the familiarity of the years we've known each other, condensed into bluntness.

“It's not that bad. There's the vegetable garden, remember? The one you nagged me about looking after?” I point out, thinking of the plot in the garden that according to Clara had been so lovingly tended by my aunt, that now, however hard I worked on it, in my inexperienced hands, was only minimally productive. “I go to the office now and then. And I talk to you.”

“I mean young people,” she says sharply.

“Yeah. Well, it so happens, I am going away. . . .” I break off. “You eating with me?”

She pulls off her jacket and slides stiffly onto one of the wooden chairs. “If you've something to tell that's interesting, and not about them books of yours, I may as well.”

“Okay.” I rummage in a cupboard for two plates. “Drink?”

“Whisky, you mean,” she says drily. “Go on then. But a small one. With a drop of water.”

I've poured her enough of them over the last four years to know precisely how Clara likes her whisky. Pouring another for myself, I join her at the table.

“I had a call earlier. From someone who used to be a friend.” I take a mouthful of her casserole. “This is good.”

“Rabbit.” She continues eating, jerking her head just once. “You were telling me about some phone call.”

“Well, there's been a murder in the town where we grew up. He thought I'd want to know, because a girl we knew at school is the main suspect.”

I take another mouthful, still puzzled as to why Will is so convinced of April's guilt. Feeling Clara's eyes on me, unflinching.

“It's strange. We're not even friends. In fact, I hadn't spoken to him for years. He's sure she's guilty.” Frowning, I put my fork down. And as I knew only too well, he'd been in love with her, too. “Christ. How can he think that?”

Clara takes another mouthful. “You don't, then?”

I shake my head. “I can't see it. I'd even go so far as to say I utterly, absolutely know she isn't. She couldn't have done it.”

Clara frowns. “You could be wrong.”

Sitting back in my chair, I shrug. “I can see why you'd say that, but I'm not. I know I'm not. And you're forgetting something.”

She glances at me. “And what might that be?”

“Well, firstly, I knew her—really well.” I don't tell Clara I was in love with her. “But also, even if I didn't, I've spent years of my life trying to understand the criminal mind, as you know. I've profiled dozens of killers, male and female, from all kinds of backgrounds who committed all kinds of crimes. It's taught me something.”

“Ah. Those books of yours. It hasn't taught you one thing, though, has it?” She raises her lined face, her rheumy eyes staring into mine. “People act on impulse. Make mistakes. They're people, aren't they? And this isn't no scientific method you're on about. It's judgment, pure and simple.”

Meaning my judgment, and I feel myself grow irritated, because every time we discuss my work, it ends like this.

“You know what?” I look at Clara. “No disrespect, but you could just as equally be wrong, too.”

It's a good answer. She nods slowly; then her face crinkles into a rare smile, which just as abruptly vanishes.

“So, you're going to see her.” It's a statement rather than a question.

I hesitate, then nod.

But instead of the scathing retort I'm expecting, she surprises me. “Could be a good thing, couldn't it? I mean, could be good for you. Don't look like that! Writers need life experience to draw on.” She stares across the table at me. “Don't they?”

“You need imagination. And there's nothing wrong with my writing.” She's touched a nerve and I'm defensive again. “Anyway, I've had plenty of experience. And writers don't need people. They clutter your head, take up too much of your time. I'd never get anything done.”

Telling myself that it was true and that the odd pang of loneliness was a small price to pay for the simple life that made writing easier. Okay, so I'd kept up my occasional mornings at Jed Luxton's office, because being a part-time lawyer meant I was someone. But if I was honest, apart from the occasional intrusion from Clara, I preferred to be alone.

I decide to tell her. “I may end up staying for a while. If the police are going to charge her, she'll need a lawyer. I thought if there's no one else, it might as well be me.”

Clara snorts. “You?”

But instead of undermined, I feel my resolve strengthen as I sit back and look at her.

“Can you do that?” She stares at me.

“I still work,” I remind her, ignoring her derisive snort. “And I know, before you say anything, that Jed Luxton only deals with the most minor offenders. But you're forgetting, I only left my job four years ago. There's nothing really to stop me.” Pausing for a moment before adding, more heartfelt, the truth. “Anyway, I can't not.”

Clara's long, drawn-out sigh ends in silence as I wait, because there'll be more. Clara's never silent for long. But, to my surprise, she doesn't ask why.

“You even look in the mirror these days?”

Words that are candid rather than insulting, but still startle me, even though I know what she's saying.

“I'll get a haircut,” I tell her. “I'll even shave.”

But as she shakes her head, I know it's more than that. That physical neglect cuts deeper than just skin, that everything about me reeks of failure.