She threw down the napkins, opened her laptop, and when the browser started, she typed why does my kitchen drain smell?
She could dismiss all the answers saying it was dirty; she had poured a swimming pool’s worth of bleach down there. And it wasn’t tree roots outside because the bathroom drain was fine.
The cartoons on the plumbing DIY site made her shudder, little grey-green monsters hiding in the trap like trolls under a bridge.
“Bones or other solid objects may form a framework which collects debris,” she read. Murray had said bones crumble eventually, even if you clean them. Not fast enough, she thought, going to the kitchen drawer and taking out the flower-patterned wrench the Traders had put there for her.
She followed the instructions like the scholar she was, placing a bowl under the pipe joint and turning the water off just in case (of what, the website didn’t say), and truth be told she was pleased at how easy she found it and yet how competent it made her feel.
But when the U-shaped piece of pipe came free, as she unthreaded the coupling, she could not help starting back at the sudden rolling outward of that same foul familiar smell, stronger than ever. She let the pipe fall into the bowl and then stood up, lifting it into the light, giving a grunt of satisfaction as she peered in one end. There was something in there; something criss-crossing the space that should have been clear, something furred with old grease and shreds of vegetable peelings. She could even see a strand of tonight’s soup noodles caught on it and wound around.
She seized a chopstick from the pile of dirty dishes and poked it into the end of the pipe, waggling it around trying to dislodge the object. It didn’t budge, so she poked harder, felt something give way with a snap. It sounded like a bone, small and thin, and deep inside her a tiny shrill of fear began as she turned the pipe over and banged one end hard with the heel of her hand.
When the thing fell out, she let her breath go in a rush.
It was only a chicken bone. A broken wishbone, nothing more. But then, as she turned to rip off a piece of kitchen paper, she saw something glint and turned back, bending to look more closely. There was more than peelings and noodles caught in the vee of the bone. What had made it into a cat’s cradle was a chain, fine and gold-coloured, tangled there. She picked at a loose loop of it and slowly it came clear. It was a necklace of small gold links, and hanging from it was a pendant shaped like a letter N.
“Nicole,” she breathed. “Where are you?”
twenty-eight
Thursday, 21 November
Pamela Shand arrived on time, declined coffee, and got straight to work while Keiko pretended to be reading. Should she show Pamela the necklace, saying she had found it out on the street? But if she said that she’d have to take it to the police as lost property, and she already knew she didn’t want to give it away. It was in her pocket right now and she ran her fingers over it. I will find you, she promised.
What she should do, she knew, was show it to the Pooles since they owned the flat, but just thinking about that made her pulse thrum.
Then she tried to tell herself that Nicole might have visited and the necklace might have come undone while she was washing her hands. Except the clasp was closed, and visitors do not wash their hands in the kitchen.
Finally she told herself that N could stand for lots of things, but when she thought of all the women and girls she had met here-Grace, Fancy, Pet, Etta, Mabel, Sandra, Margaret, Janice, Viola, Yvonne-she didn’t believe it was true.
There was a polite cough. Pamela Shand was staring at her.
“If you’re finished we can take a few moments to discuss anything,” said Keiko. “But only if there’s time before the next person.”
“Why not come round tonight and have some supper with me?” said Pam. “You’ll be drained after a day of appointments, and I would like very much to talk to you.”
“Really?” said Keiko, looking up.
“I’ve been trying to get to you,” Pam said, “but you’re very well minded. I really wanted to say there’s no need for you to feel you should put up with it. Even though it must be awkward for you, living above the Pooles.”
“Awkward?” Keiko said. She was aware of her pulse again.
“Uncomfortable,” said Pam. “Oh, why am I mincing my words? It must be hell and it’s about to get worse.”
Keiko’s heart was banging now.
“Christmas is coming,” said Pam. “I can’t begin to tell you what’s coming at Christmas.” She leaned in closer across the table. “Imagine a turkey so fat it can barely stand, stuffed with minced pork and covered in bacon and butter, roasted for hours with the fat ladled up and over it again and again until it glistens, served up burnt skin and all, with thick gravy.”
Although it was only an hour since breakfast, Keiko’s stomach gave a slow, luxurious rumble that she tried to cover by rustling the pages of her book and clearing her throat.
“Ah yes,” Keiko said, slumping in disappointment. This woman had some kind of fixation. All this outrage and drama and she was only talking about food again! “Yes. Yes, certainly, that’s a lot more meat than a Japanese family would eat even when feasting.” She gave a shrug. “But feasting is supposed to be out of the ordinary. And when the everyday custom is to eat so very much, then to make a feast seem like a feast they must need to…” She trailed into silence.
Pamela had those plump but narrow hands with dimples at the base of each pointed little finger, and she gripped the edge of the table with them now as she leaned even closer.
“I admire your fortitude,” she said. “But that’s not all. I’d love to warn you about the local delicacy for New Year’s Day, but I can’t bring myself to describe it. All I will say is that the time is coming for its preparation, and if it gets too much for you-here above the Pooles’-you are welcome to come round at any time to visit me.”
“You are most kind,” said Keiko.
“Not at all. Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“Nothing you’re likely to serve,” said Keiko, hearing the rudeness too late as Pamela frowned.
“I am a great devotee of world cuisine,” said Pam evenly, and they left it there.
Mrs. McMaster laid down her pen after less than five minutes and Keiko could see that she had stopped halfway through a page.
“Fancy helped you with these, did she?” Keiko nodded. “I see.” She paused a moment and considered Keiko’s face closely. Then she shifted her gaze slightly off to the side and spoke again. “Of course Fancy was around the shop quite a lot when she was just a wee girl and… it’s a funny thing, you know, but a florist is right up there with a priest and a doctor for hearing things.”
“That is rather surprising,” said Keiko.
“Aye well, there it is,” Pet said. “Christenings, weddings, and funerals loosen the tongue. People will put it down to the drink, but drink it cannot be, for it’s just the same first thing in the morning across a florist’s bench. Things people would never breathe a word of face to face, eye to eye, you know? But there’s me not looking at them, busy with the flowers, and they’re watching my hands so they’re not looking at me, and they get to talking.”
Keiko waited.
Mrs. McMaster took off her spectacles and hooked them by one of their earpieces through a ringed brooch pinned to her bosom. “Some of your wee scenarios here are pretty close to home,” she said. “I’m surprised at Fancy.”
“I don’t think she meant to betray any confidences,” Keiko said. Mrs. McMaster only raised her eyebrows. “Really. She said she just let it all bubble up out of her subconscious. I thought she meant her imagination. If I’d known she meant subconscious memory…”