“If Willie Byers sells his place to the Traders, I’m sunk,” Murray said.
“Three things,” said Keiko, thinking that this was how her mother would say it. “I don’t think Mr. Byers is going to sell. From what Mrs. Aitken said to her son’s wife-”
“Who?” said Murray.
“Mrs. Aitken. She doesn’t live here any more and she’s married again. You’ll know her as Mrs. Mackie.” Murray stared at her and shook his head. “Her daughter-in-law works in the Spar?”
“Oh, right. Gordon Mackie’s mum, yeah,” said Murray, then blinked. “You really are getting pulled right in, aren’t you. You need to be careful, Keiko. Watch them. Please.”
“The Mackies?” Keiko said, then she shook her head. “Don’t distract me. I’m trying to help you. Mrs. Aitken told Gordon’s wife that Mr. Byers wouldn’t sell if he were offered a million pounds. Even if he closes the business, he’ll hold on to the site. Just to be difficult.”
“How does she know so much about it?” said Murray.
“Her new husband worked in the city council planning department before he retired, and he remembers Mr. Byers from another situation, which was never resolved. I think you’ll be all right.”
Murray shook his head. “Willie might have seen off a few planners, but he’s no match for Jimmy McKendrick,” he said. “What are the other two things?”
“What?” said Keiko, thinking about the planning department. She should have used it in one of the filler questions; people seemed to have very strong views about planning. “Oh, yes! Number two. You’re in business, right? Perhaps you’re eligible for grants or sponsorship, like Fancy.” Murray shook his head again and stared at the carpet. “Maybe the Traders’ Association could help…”
Murray sat back and stared straight up at the ceiling. “You really haven’t got a clue, have you?” he said.
“And the third idea is the best of all,” she said. “One too hot, one too cold, and one juuuust right!” Murray frowned at her. “You need premises,” she said. “You need an unused building, for a reasonable price?” She waited, then leapt to her feet and dragged him by both wrists out of the room and along the corridor to the kitchen, steering him through the darkness towards the window.
“What?” he said.
“Oh, you can’t be serious!” she cried out. “It’s really true we can’t see what’s right underneath our noses every day.” She pointed out at the yard. “That building must be almost the same size as the motorcycle half of your workshop, and Malcolm says it’s not used any more.” She nudged him. “You would have to join a public gym, but something tells me the owners would offer a good deal for you.” He said nothing and she turned towards him, squinting up into his face in the dark.
“Murray?” she said. And then she whispered it. “Murray?” She stepped back to the doorway and switched on the overhead light. For a split second the brightness dazzled her, the room whirled, and she couldn’t make sense of what she saw: the snarl of a dog, the gleam of blades, eyes flashing half-hidden in leaves. She blinked.
But there was nothing there. Nothing but the knives in the rack on the wall, the herbs in their pots on the sill, and Murray’s face, all reflected in the window.
“It’s not used any more, is it?” she asked.
Murray turned round so slowly that he looked like an automaton. “I’ll go and let you sleep it off,” he said, brushing past her. “I shouldn’t have come, only I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
twenty-one
The last walkies before bed were getting later and later; the poor old thing would need a puppy mat again if it got much worse. Shame a dog couldn’t be trained to a box of litter the same as a cat, really. Still, it was pleasant enough on a clear night, out under the stars, when the rest of the town was asleep and there was always the chance, the later it got and later still, that one of these nights whoever it was would be surprised in the act, caught red-handed. A quick glance into the crook of the rowan tree at the top of the drive on leaving and again on their return. Almost always there was nothing, but then one night there it would be again: a flash of white against the dark bark of the tree, the envelope for you and inside: try as hard as you like to cover your tracks. there’s no way back from what you did. i will tell them all.
And then the quick sprint down the back garden, hugging the side hedge, out of view, to where the burn passed along just behind the fence, and over it went. It hit the water with a sharp smack and floated away, spinning, as bright and white as the moon, until it was gone.
Monday, 11 November
At five a.m., with gritty eyes and a bitter taste in her mouth, Keiko blundered to the kitchen for a glass of water, gulping it straight down, tepid. She breathed in the warm, foul drain smell, then bent over the sink to let the water wash back up again, holding on to the taps, resting her forehead against the porcelain. Then she laid a cool pad of kitchen paper on the back of her neck while she rinsed the sink out and poured herself another glass to take back to bed and sip carefully, working up to swallowing two painkillers and two vitamins before lying down again.
The second time she opened her eyes, in the light of near dawn, a hot, sour feeling was pricking her high up in the stomach and her limbs were leaden. Perhaps if she just stayed there, lying still and cosy for a couple more hours? But she was not cosy, she was somehow hot and cold at the same time, her feet icy but her hair damp, so she threw back the bedclothes and fanned her nightie.
How much of that had happened? The line between the end of the day and the start of the short night was blurry. She wasn’t sure if she had really asked Craig about his cousin, whether Nicole had got fat before she vanished, like Tash, or wasted away, like Dina. She couldn’t remember his answer anyway; perhaps she’d been dreaming. The rabbit carcasses and the snarling dog face in the kitchen were dreams for sure. She hadn’t rolled and rolled naked on the living room floor with Malcolm, mashed against the hairy flab of his chest, while Fancy and Craig watched and laughed and Mrs. Poole jabbed her with her mop. But had she really thrown herself at Murray, and what had she said to make him slam out again? She swung her legs to the floor and stood, trailed into the living room, and lifted the phone.
“Fancy?” she croaked. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Jeezy-peeps,” Fancy cackled. “Maybe compared to you. Bloody Craig McKendrick and his bloody Pink Squirrels.”
“I’ve been sick,” said Keiko shuddering again at having to say the word. “And I’ve had the strangest… I really need to talk.”
“Get round here right now,” said Fancy, “and I’ll cure you.”
Keiko stood beside the bath and looked into it for a while, then tottered back to her bedroom and pulled jeans on over her nightie, tucking the bulk of it down into the waistband. She put underwear and socks into a bag and tossed her contact lenses and hairbrush in on top. Then she tied her hair back, shoved her feet into shoes, grabbed her coat, and let herself out.
Viola was eating breakfast in the upstairs kitchen, prim in her school uniform with her hair battened under grips and bands, ignoring Fancy slumped beside her in a dressing gown. Keiko sat carefully and, after one glance, looked away from Viola’s spoon dipping in and out of her bowl, racing against the spreading slick of chocolate melting into the milk. But when she got to scraping the spoon along the bottom, slurping over the last dribbles, Keiko couldn’t help a small moan escaping. Viola laid her spoon down very gently.
“I’ve got to go now,” she said. “Me and Katie are walking backwards this morning.”
“Oh yes,” said Keiko, not really listening. Downstairs the doorbell gave a long peal, another even longer, then after a pause and a scuffling sound, a third short chirp.