The Invisible Ones (32 page)

“I know things have been difficult, with Jen and the divorce . . .”

He won’t meet my eyes.

I push myself upright.

“You think I was trying to top myself ! For God’s sake, Hen!”

He looks at me, his eyes wounded and unwilling.

“You have seemed odd recently. Jen told me about bumping into you on Saturday and asking you to sign the divorce papers. Said you looked . . . well, poleaxed was the word she used.”

“Yeah, so? Things are better now than they have been for a long time. The case is cracking . . . and as for her, yes, I was finding it tough, but now it’s okay . . . I think I’ve met someone else.”

Hen nods, fidgets with his watch. He smiles again with that horrible, painful kindness.

“Is this Lulu Janko?”

I don’t want to say yes, and I don’t want to say no. I shrug.

“I spoke to her, too.”

He says this flatly.

“What? And?”

“She rang the office. She told me about your dinner the night before . . . all this happened. I got the impression that you’d taken a bit of a knock.”

He sounds embarrassed.

Really? I think. Fucking . . . really!

“Hen, for God’s sake, I did not do this to myself. If we are going to continue this conversation, you have to believe that.”

He looks at me and nods slowly.

“So if I didn’t do it, and I didn’t, the plants must have got into something at Ivo’s—either deliberately or, possibly, by accident.”

“But you don’t know that you told him about the remains at the Black Patch. He may not know even now.”

“Then you need to find out.”

He nods.

“There’s another thing. I went back to the Black Patch on Sunday, and it was underwater. All work suspended. But that was days ago.”

“Okay. I’ll go up there.”

I feel relief flooding into me.

“I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

Hen looks at me. He looks nervous.

“What?”

He shifts in the chair, which squeaks under him.

“A couple of days ago I got a phone call. In response to our ad.” “What ad?”

“The hooker—the ad about Rose.”

“And?”

“A man who wouldn’t give his name says he can give us information about where she is now.”

I stare at him. I wonder for a wild moment if he’s making it up, but he looks completely serious.

“A crank.”

“Could be, and maybe not. He’s not after a reward.”

“He says. So what’s he waiting for?”

“A face-to-face meeting.”

“I’ll be out tomorrow. We can . . .”

“No, you won’t. Anyway, he said he wanted to think about it some
more first—he asked lots of questions about who was looking for her, and why.”

“He is after money.”

“Anyway, I’ve got to wait for his phone call.”

“Sounds like crap.”

Hen shrugs, smiling.

When he finally gets up to go find Madeleine, Hen looks down at me with a small smile.

“Of course, Raymond, you know what your problem is?”

I can think of hundreds of problems that I lay claim to. I don’t know which particular one he is talking about.

“You’re a snob.”

“What? Me?”

I start laughing.

“My father was a Gypsy postman!”

“You treat Madeleine differently because her background is different from yours. She didn’t have to claw her way up from the gutter, so you think she’s had it easy.”

I gape at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I do. And he knows I know.

“She’s married to me, remember. And she stuck with me, through all my crap. She had to struggle.”

I blink several times.

“I put up with your offensive poshness.”

Hen grins.

“I’ll see you.”

“Don’t forget the Black Patch.”

“I won’t. It’s one lead, that’s all. Like the phone call. Might come to nothing.”

I know it. I do. But at the same time, you get hunches about things. You get them, and they don’t go away.

42.

JJ

Nurse Emma told me I could go and see him. I knock softly on the door, thinking maybe he didn’t recognize me because he doesn’t remember me—that would be embarrassing. But I’m here to find things out, so it doesn’t really matter.

He smiles as soon as he turns around.

“Hello, JJ. I thought I saw you before. Then I thought, maybe I was hallucinating.”

“Um, no. I was here. Nurse Emma said you were feeling better.”

“Yes, I am, thanks. Come in.”

He gestures to my left arm, which is still heavily bandaged.

“You’ve been in the wars. What happened to you?”

“Oh . . . I fell on a piece of glass. It got infected. Blood poisoning. ’S fine now, nearly.”

“Oh. Good.”

“How are you?”

“Getting better. I think they’ll let me out in a couple of days. Can’t wait. Drives you crazy being stuck in here, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Can you go for a walk?”

“Sounds like an excellent idea.”

We go outside, and I turn toward the lake on the edge of the gardens. It’s the nicest thing around here, although that isn’t saying that much. I have to slow my pace to match his.

“Funny us both being here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Quite a coincidence.”

“So . . . what happened to you?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Oh. You don’t normally end up in hospital with that, do you?”

“No. This was a . . . an unusual form of it.”

“What did you eat?”

“That’s the funny thing. I can’t remember.”

“So how long have you been here?”

“Oh, a few days.”

This is harder than I thought.

“I came in on Saturday night. Were you here then?”

“Um . . . no. They tell me I was brought in on Monday.” “Monday?”

I stare at him. He looks back, a bit surprised at my tone of voice. Monday. The day after he was with Ivo. I look at the water, glittering between the trees. There seems to be something stuck in my throat.

“Do you live round here, then?”

“No. I went to see your relatives, actually, on the Sunday. Had something to eat with them, too. Maybe they nobbled me!”

He gives a short laugh, to show it’s a joke. I try to laugh, too.

I can’t think of anything else to say.

The lake is actually more of a pond than a lake, and it doesn’t get prettier the nearer you get. It smells a bit, to tell the truth. The edges are hard and straight, bordered by a concrete path. Green-and-yellow scum is gathered at one end. It’s not like the lake in France, which was fresh and clean. It occurs to me that I’m not like the JJ who was in France, either. That person seemed happy and young and unsuspecting—a bit of an idiot, really. We amble up the path to where the boats are moored. There is a little hut where a man leans on the bottom half of a stable door, a fag
in his mouth, hatred in his eyes. Next to him is a sandwich board that says, “Boats £1 an hour.” He looks like he’s guarding them against anyone who might dare hire one. But today, there are no takers. The boats are nice old ones, made of wood planks covered with thick glossy varnish the color of honey. They barely move in the soft lapping water. They don’t seem to go with the straight-edged pond and the foamy scum. I wonder where they have come from; they belong somewhere more beautiful.

“They’ve all got girls’ names,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Ships always do,” he says, “I think.”

Here, at least, it’s true; painted on each stern in white capitals is a name and capacity: amy—to carry two. chrissie—to carry three. violet—to carry six. isobel—to carry four.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” I say.

“Yeah.”

The water gleams like dirty satin. It’s as clear as coffee—it could be six inches deep, or six feet, you can’t tell. I find a stick next to the path and poke it into the water. I don’t feel the bottom, but it’s not a very long stick. Strings of duckweed cling to it when I pull it out. I push the side of one of the boats (chrissie—to carry three) so that it rocks; the water slops and sucks underneath.

“Oy! You, there! You hiring?”

The man’s voice is aggressive. Mr. Lovell turns around.

“No.”

“Then don’t interfere with the boats!”

“Sorry!”

Mr. Lovell lifts his left hand in a friendly wave. I imagine punching the man, then think that might be a bit over the top. I give him a hard stare instead but drop my stick. He flicks his cigarette in my direction.

“Don’t think anyone’s going to be hiring, with him around!”

“No.”

“They’re nice, though, aren’t they?” I say again, and immediately feel like a spaz.

“Yeah. Why don’t we go for a row, anyway?”

I look at Mr. Lovell, worried. I haven’t got any money, and I’ve got only one arm that works.

“Er . . . I don’t think . . .”

I wave my bandaged arm.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Some other time, then.”

He gives an awkward little laugh, as though realizing that there isn’t ever going to be another time. Why would there be? Why would he ever want to see this stupid, spazzy kid again?

We start to walk around the water’s edge.

“How’s Christo? Is he back with you yet?”

“No. My uncle’s gone up to London to be with him. Maybe he’ll stay up there.” I clear my throat. It sounds really loud. “He went up there on Monday, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The day after you saw him.”

He stops and stares hard at me. I seem to have caught his attention at last.

“So what’s the news on Christo? Do they know what’s wrong with him yet?”

“I don’t think so. Apparently, they’re doing lots of tests. It takes a long time to get results.”

“I’m sure. You know, your uncle ran off when we were at the specialist’s. Just vanished—all because they asked him for a blood sample.”

“Oh.”

The image of red on white flickers into my mind. I feel myself blushing.

“Did you know he has a needle phobia?”

“No.”

“At least he’s with him now. In London.”

“Yeah.”

“Where does he stay—is it with your great-aunt?”

I look at him blankly.

“Who?”

“Your Aunt Lulu—she must be your great-aunt—Lulu . . . Luella.”

“Oh. I suppose, yeah. I don’t know, really.”

Mr. Lovell looks around—there’s a kiosk on the other side of the pond that sells ice cream and cups of tea.

“Should’ve brought some money with me. We could have had an ice cream.”

I’ve noticed that Mr. Lovell holds his right hand in a strange way—it just hangs at his side. I ask him about it.

“I couldn’t move at all when they found me, so this is an improvement.”

“That’s awful.”

“Not much fun. They say it will recover, like the rest of me. But it’s taking its time.”

This just gets worse. He might have died, from the sound of it.

“Mr. Lovell . . . Do you know what a
chovihano
is?”

“I’ve heard of them. Sort of a Gypsy healer, isn’t it? Herbs and stuff.” “Yeah. Well . . . I saw him once, doing an . . . an exorcism thing. On Christo. Trying to make him better.”

“Who did?”

“Uncle Ivo.”

There is a pause. He continues to walk, not looking at me.

“You’re saying Ivo is a . . .
chovihano
?”

“Yeah. Well, that’s what he said. And it’s all herbs and stuff. He knows about herbs and . . . poisonous plants and things.”

My heart thunders as the word “poisonous” blurts out of my mouth. My cheeks feel hot.

I definitely have his attention. I know he’s looking at me, although I don’t want to look at him.

“What makes you say this, JJ? Do you think there’s a reason why he would have wanted to hurt me?”

There must be loads of reasons—to do with Rose, and my mum, and secret women. Maybe . . . even—why didn’t I think of this before?— Rose is the secret woman. Which would mean that it’s not Mum . . . but I’m not sure this makes any kind of sense.

“I don’t know.”

“There must be something.”

“I think he’s . . . You won’t tell anyone—my mum or anyone?” I look up now—he shakes his head.

“I think he has secrets . . .”

“What sort of secrets?”

“Maybe . . . I dunno. I think he’s got a . . . a secret girlfriend.”

“Oh. Really?”

He walks for a while, as if he’s thinking.

“Do you know who it is?”

I shake my head. I feel really stupid now. I was going to tell him what I found in the cupboard in his trailer, but now I can’t. I can’t say the words. And how can I tell him it might be my mum? I scrape the toe of my shoe along the concrete path, dragging up moss.

“Do you think he had a secret girlfriend when he was married to Rose?”

Mr. Lovell doesn’t seem to be laughing at me. I think he’s serious. It’s never occurred to me, that possibility, although, now that I think of it, why not?

“I don’t know. Great-uncle’s the only one who might know.”

“Have you ever seen anyone like that visit him?”

“
N
. . . no.”

I think of that night, looking into my own trailer. Him and her. I take a breath. Then let it out. I can’t say it.

“Have you ever heard anyone in your family talk about a plant called henbane . . . or ergot?”

“No.”

My voice comes out in a stupid squeak, like an eight-year-old’s.

“Of course, they can’t say for definite how it happened. It could be that someone gathering herbs just made a mistake. It happens.”

“Yeah, course.”

“Ivo wasn’t ill on Monday? He went up to London?” “That’s what Mum said.”

“And no one else in your family has been ill?”

“No. They’re all fine. They’ve all been to see me. Except him.”

We’re almost back to where we started now, approaching the boat- hire hut from the other side. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I don’t know how to. All I can think is that Ivo poisoned him. He can’t have made a mistake, because if he had, he would have made himself ill, too, wouldn’t he? And if Ivo poisoned Mr. Lovell—if he could have done that, then maybe he killed Rose, too. Maybe that’s why he poisoned him, because he was afraid of being found out . . .

We both speak at the same time: