Her daughter was deeply asleep, mouth loose and drooping, saliva dribbling, just as it had when she was a child. Long fair hair fanned smoothly across the pillow, fine and pretty, so unlike Grace’s own hair, she thought, a thick mop that drove her to distraction with its wilfulness; very much like her other daughter, hair type and all. Primrose was so easy by comparison; her only fault – if it could be viewed that way – was her insecurity. ‘Does Ric seem okay to you?’ This had been her question.
Purposefully, Grace picked up the jacket. She slipped a hand in a pocket and pulled out Ric’s multi-tool. She turned the jacket and reached into the other pocket and found something wrapped in tissue, too big to be a lipstick, a pen, perhaps. She didn’t take it out. Replacing the jacket as she found it, Grace made to leave when she saw Ric’s bag beside the bed, unzipped and gaping, urging inspection. She was moving away, thinking that to look in his jacket pockets was bad enough but to look in his bag was taking things a step too far, when she saw it. Tucked inside a small inner pocket was the unmistakable bulge of a lipstick. She pushed in her fingers and pulled it out. It was not hers.
‘Hi there.’
Grace gasped with fright.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Primrose continued to sleep.
Ric stood close, far taller than Grace had realised.
‘Problem? Can I help?’
‘I didn’t hear you,’ she said, finding her breath and creating a smile. ‘And it’s me that should be apologising. I think Primrose borrowed some of my makeup. She does that from time to time and never gives it back. Nurse’s pay is a bit low. I shouldn’t have looked without asking. At least, not in your bag, and I can see now that it is … your bag … I mean ...’ She stepped back, allowing some space between them. Ric leaned forward, closing the gap once more.
‘Grace. Please feel free to look. What’s mine is yours.’
It was an oddly intimate phrase to use, she thought, as she handed him the lipstick. His fingers lingered as he took it, so that for the smallest of moments the lipstick was held by them both, as a small, silver, baton.
‘Primrose shoved it in my bag last night so she didn’t forget it this morning. Too wobbly to make it across the room to her own.’ He smiled, ‘I haven’t seen her that way before. She wasn’t fit for anything.’
Grace bit her tongue. She had been fit for something last night; that was for certain.
‘Anyway, I’ll make sure she doesn’t leave with any of your makeup, okay? Or the family silver! We wouldn’t want that, would we?’
He smiled widely and kindly as he spoke, but the tone made Grace uncomfortable. Again it was too intimate. She was suddenly reminded of the telephone call received whilst preparing for the meal the morning before, finishing with a short conversation that had left her feeling mildly condemned for knowing so little about the past of a man sharing her daughter’s life. But what was she meant to do, grill him? Surely they’d met enough times for her to know him. But then again, suddenly it didn’t feel that she had.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Grace, stepping around Ric. She sensed his smiling face turn to follow her and it reminded her of something or even someone, but she could not think what or who.
*
For sometime Grace remained seated on the closed lid of the toilet in her en-suite, thinking. Was it her? Was she feeling hormonal or becoming unwell? To have such unexpected and irrational doubts about a man whom, until that morning, she had sung the praises of to anyone that would listen seemed extraordinary. Ric had done nothing wrong. Was it simply tiredness making her irrational and paranoid? Something wasn’t right, and it was either to do with her, or with him. What if it was him? Then again, what if it was her? For whatever reason, menopause hadn’t yet struck. Maybe it was beginning. Maybe her husband had been right, before. Could it be this slow? Feel this way?
Sitting there she gradually understood what it was he put her in mind of: his openly adoring expression was similar to the face of a born again evangelical Christian. He had the exact manner of someone wanting to share love, at least, spread a version of it, although he was not devout, she was sure. But then again, perhaps he was and they simply hadn’t realised. No. If he were evangelical, then by definition he would be trying to change minds, not hide his beliefs. More significantly, the man she met in his first days of raw and perishing grief made no mention of God. Why then, that face?
Chapter 14
RIC
Grace remained upstairs for so long that by the time she came down the kitchen had been cleared of breakfast things, the table wiped down and the house generally put back in order. The only activity apparent came in the form of preparation to get on with the day ahead.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ Grace called after her husband, who was clearly searching for something. ‘Phone, money?’
‘Got it!’ he said, snatching up his phone. ‘Yes, I do now. Where’s Art?’
‘In the loo, washing his face again. Have you heard from Ted? Is he meeting you there?’
‘No. I think he and Jude are having a talk today, about things. I assume that’s what his text meant, anyway.’ Recently found phone in hand, Grace’s husband returned to the kitchen, pulled up the message and showed her.
‘Hmm. Not so good. She wasn’t right for him anyway.’
Ric leaned over to read it, trying to appear part of things but inside feeling entirely out of sorts. Life within Grace’s family fold was less satisfying than usual, although this was not her fault, of course. The reasons were many, not least the fact that he was tired from a late night and still cross with Primrose. He also felt deeply melancholic due to the anniversary of Moira’s death, and suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of her killer when he thought he was coping, in his own way. Worst of all, the devil on his shoulder – ordinarily a nocturnal fiend – was refusing to sleep. This was the first time since the nagging beast had first appeared that it wouldn’t.
*
It had arrived in his life when Ric turned twenty-five, a night he had been both stoned and drunk with an Angel he liked very much, despite her indulgent ways. She was remarkably pretty, and a nurse. Ric had a soft spot for those in the caring professions. He had first seen her at Accident and Emergency, after rushing there with a deeply cut hand, the result of carelessness with a glass. She’d attended him only briefly, but he’d made sure they talked. Then he followed his usual pattern of shadowing and information gathering, until he was able to make his move. Unusually, Ric did not manufacture multiple meetings; instead he contrived only one, and asked her on a date. She’d said yes immediately, seeming thrilled. The result was something close to the type of relationship other people enjoyed, people not thinking as Ric thought. In her, he had found a woman who had fought hard for an education, a beautiful Angel determined to make something of herself. She was diligent, caring and lonely. Ric believed she really needed him, because she’d said it to him often enough.
She caught him stealing her toothbrush. He wasn’t able to deny it, for the brush was in his pocket. What appeared to be some strange prank was soon revealed to be what it was, because whilst tearing at his pockets, laughing hard, she also found her best lacy knickers, used, and a tampon, also used, though lightly. A terrifying silence stamped out the laughter, and she’d punched him hard in the face, before shoving him out the door. But, as far as he knew, she had not called the police. He’d contented himself with the idea that she was in no state to handle the authorities without risking being charged herself. Plus, the tiny bedsit had grow-bags and lights in the bathroom, revealing only one thing.
The devil appeared in the early hours, while Ric was removing the nurse’s things from his shrine. The hair clasp; the soap, first ever taken; the fork she used to eat chocolate cake. The room was dark, a few tea lights offering only a faint glow. The devil whispered a suggestion: Ric should go back and return that punch. But Ric feared the devil might also want more than this one, violent a
ct, a step Ric had not thought of before. He refused to go through with it, because maybe, is she were to fall before him, naked, his devil might suggest a different idea. So, from that first meeting, Ric began learning how to ignore.
*
Grace’s husband stuffed his phone into his back pocket and went off in search of something else.
At last, after feeling he had been waiting for so long, the moment Ric had begun to think might never happen was with him. He and Grace were alone. He knew it was time to leave if he were to have the slightest chance of clearing the shrine ahead of the men. He would have to sweep it all into a black bag, tear the pictures from the walls; treat everything without the respect it deserved, if he were to save it. Time was of the essence. But this moment had been so long in coming that Ric could not resist it.
He put a hand on Grace’s arm, and squeezed softly. ‘Say goodbye to Primrose for me, Grace. I don’t want to disturb her.’ His fingers felt electric at the touch of her.
‘Of course. I hope you get everything done that you need to. I’ll have a cuppa ready for when you get back, and I’ll have Primrose packed up and ready, too. Why she brings so many things for just one night is a mystery.’ She looked at him kindly, her big brown eyes shiny with love, Ric thought, her smile wide and inviting.
Ric grinned back, spirits lifted. ‘Thanks. I am sure I can sort things fairly easily. Did you find your lipstick?’
Grace shook her head.
‘I’ll buy you another,’ he ventured. Something about making the offer was thrilling, releasing a cloud of yellow butterflies in his stomach. Soon he and Grace would find a way to be together and then he would buy her all the lipsticks in the world, if she wanted.
‘No need.’
‘No need of what?’ asked Grace’s husband, as he passed back through the kitchen.
Neither Grace nor Ric replied, and it seemed to Ric that the time had truly come to step out of the shadows and reveal their love. Grace, he thought, looked embarrassed by her husband’s question, as if his words were an intrusion into a private world in which he was not welcome. Ric’s mind cleared fractionally: the moment was not upon them, only near. Before anything else, the shrine must be sorted. Then, and only then, could they un-tether beautiful wings and fly.
Art shambled from the bathroom, grey faced. ‘We off then?’
‘In a minute. Lost my keys.’
Ric pulled on his helmet, partly because he was leaving and partly to hide the scowl that had without warning distorted his face. So this was the Art that killed Moira, he thought, not the fool of last night too drunk to go home, but this, this worthless idiot; a morning-after-pisshead too sick to cope, who, in the same unworthy state one year before, chose to sit behind the wheel of a car because his mum was expecting him. The devil – its manic whisperings normally obscured and hushed by the sounds of daily life, clutching fingers trodden down by lively hopes and dreams – today would not be quiet. Stood in the kitchen, the momentary chink in Ric’s defences, that involuntary visible scowl, caused wickedness to rear up through the low mist and plant a thought. He hoped the two men would crash. Ric imagined them driving straight out of the gate and down the steep lane at speed, before hurtling on through rickety fencing and rolling over and over, down the long steep hillside and into the river far below, smashed and flat and dead.
‘You off too, are you Ric?’ Art asked.
Ric nodded and took his keys from his pocket. ‘Grace, Thank you so much for a lovely evening, and a wonderful breakfast. I need to get going if I’m to be back in time to take Primrose out. Not that she’ll be up to it.’
‘Thank you for coming, Ric. And for the lovely flowers, of course. I’ll see you later. Go carefully.’
Ric noticed that she didn’t mention the token.
He walked to the door, opened it, went outside, shut it and took off his helmet. Ric needed air, and releasing a long heavy breath, he shut his eyes. Love was a rapturous thing, it was everything, but sometimes it was hard work. It was hardest, in fact, when little demons refused to let him have his usual peaceful day of bright-eyed wonder, dreaming of beautiful Angels, of Grace, of sharing the very air she breathed; sensations of happiness that drifted and floated as softly and effortlessly as blossom petals on a spring breeze. He stood for several minutes, drawing steady breaths, removing from his mind, piece by piece, the image of a crashed car and replacing it with Grace’s waiting embrace.
‘Still here?’ asked Art, as he and Grace’s husband appeared from the house.
Ric opened his eyes and pushed on his helmet. ‘I needed some air. Must have had more to drink than I thought.’
‘Know that feeling only too well,’ said Art.
Ric did not catch the sorrow in his voice, hearing only carelessness. Once more the helmet proved a useful mask. He looked to Grace’s husband, car keys in hand. He could not have found them. This was a spare set. Grace’s husband unlocked his car.
Ric decided he might as well wait and watch them leave. He could do nothing now. He made a conscious decision not to remove the helmet again until they had gone. Today, it seemed, his face had a mind of its own. Around him, the day was bright, a little fresher than the one before, the clean smell of autumn mixed with grass clippings and bonfires. Odd leaves were falling from the ash trees, littering the limestone gravel.
‘Is there something you need, Ric?’ asked Grace, as she came out of the house, pulling a thick cardigan about her against the coolness. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Like I was just telling Art, I was feeling a bit odd. Thought I’d take a moment before heading off. Probably too much wine.’
‘Are you okay to ride your bike?’
Ric’s eyes shifted to Art, and he knew that Grace’s followed. Art did not seem to have heard. Instead he was climbing into the passenger seat. Grace’s husband started the engine.
‘I’m fine Grace,’ Ric reassured, ‘I only had a few glasses, now I think about it. Just tired, I suppose.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. But be careful. Dangerous things, motorbikes.’
‘I will,’ Ric slowly walked to his moped, parked alongside the house wall.
The car’s engine fired up.
Ric’s lungs stopped for a few seconds, refusing to refresh the sluggish blood crawling though his veins. At the same time the beat of his heart seemed to vanish. He sat on the bike, helmet in arms, feet flat to the ground, unable to move. The car disappeared, into the lane. There was nothing to be done now.
Chapter 15
ART
Art’s body felt as if it belonged to someone else. But as the car wound through the narrow lanes leading from the house, it then felt less like it belonged to someone else and more like his own, because it was filling with vomit.
‘Pull over a moment.’
Grace’s husband looked at him, and then back to the road. Soon the car came to a halt.
‘Two minutes,’ Art said, flinging open the door and just making the hedge. There he deposited everything he had eaten and drunk that morning, all bright red with tomato juice.
‘You alright?’
Art, sweaty again now, could not be bothered to answer his friend. Clearly, he was not. Bending over, with open hands propped on splayed knees, Art retched again. A little more breakfast came. He threw up until there was nothing left.
Righting himself, he looked over the hedge. The view across Bath was spectacular, ripples of roof and chimney like little grey waves amongst honey. He wiped his mouth on the back of his jacketed arm, before rubbing the arm against the hip of his jeans.
‘Done?’
‘Done.’ Art definitely felt a little better again, though his head was swimming horribly. He climbed back into the car, not caring whether Grace’s husband unwound the window for Art’s benefit, or his own. Fresh air was fresh air, whoever it was meant for.
‘Don’t chuck in here.’
‘I won’t,’ Art agreed.
The men drove on in silence. Relaxin
g into the rocking motion that had just caused him so much grief, Art could feel his eyes begin to close.
‘Glad to have you back, mate.’
‘Huh?’
‘Seriously. Glad to have you back. Last night you seemed like your old self again.’
Art weighed it up. It was true that he’d felt more like himself. But now, in the light of the morning, he felt a distinct low coming on. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, it was just the alcohol. He longed to be home, to be with his wife, safe in their warm and comfortable house. She had left him there alone, last night, and he wanted now to make sure she was okay; to check that he hadn’t taken a step too far, and pissed her off irrevocably. He couldn’t remember her leaving, and though Grace had given her word that she was perfectly happy, he needed to see her for himself.
‘You’re not alone, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Art.
There was a pause. ‘I’ve been a bit out of sorts, too.’
‘I heard. Sorry about that.’
‘Grace tell you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Someone did.’
‘I nearly fucked things up. I wanted you to know that. To know that you aren’t the only one.’
A small laugh escaped, ‘I know all about fucking up.’
The men returned to silence, until a question came to Art. ‘Where is this place?’
‘About thirty minutes away, maybe forty-five. South of the city.’
‘And you’re sure it’s worth going?’
‘Listen Art, if you really aren’t up to it then I can drop you off. I mean, I’d like you with me, but not if you feel it’s too much. You were pretty far-gone last night. I get that you might need to go home.’
Art shook his head, dismissing the offer. ‘Should have eaten more.’
‘Eating is cheating!’
‘Ted’s girlfriend was cracking, wasn’t she?’ said Art. Once he’d finished chuckling.