Tell-Tale Page 10

  They didn’t go to the pub in the end. Mick was pacing up and down the pavement when she arrived. In fact, she was a little early. But there he was, head down, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s keen, she thought.

  ‘Hey,’ she sang out. Nina had decided on a casual look, slightly bohemian. She thought Mick would like the flowing skirt and flower-print top. It didn’t suggest anything other than femininity. In fact, Nina wondered if she looked too childlike. Before she left, she wrapped a woollen shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Nina.’ Mick stamped out his cigarette. ‘You look pretty.’ He dotted a kiss on each of her cheeks. She inhaled the lingering smell of smoke. She liked it. ‘Let’s not go in there.’ He tipped his head to the door. ‘I hate pubs.’

  Nina laughed. ‘Then what shall we do?’

  Mick chewed his bottom lip. She didn’t think he’d shaved, but that was OK. Beneath his wild curly hair his face looked as if he had been concentrating all night long. He was both exhausted and vibrant, and exuded an energy that tingled Nina’s skin.

  ‘I know a place,’ he said. ‘But first we need supplies.’ A wicked grin led Nina to follow him across the road to a small supermarket. He took a basket and piled it with bread and cheese and olives and wine. At the counter he asked for more cigarettes and tipped the whole lot into a canvas bag he wore across his back. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, taking Nina’s hand and leading her to a bus stop. ‘I don’t have a car,’ he said, and the grin flashed across his face again.

  They headed out of Bristol and Mick announced they were going to the Downs. ‘It’s a favourite place of mine,’ Mick said. ‘The view across the gorge is to die for.’

  ‘I’ve never been,’ Nina replied. ‘I’m quite new to the city.’

  ‘You’re a northern lass,’ Mick said with a silly accent.

  Nina reddened and hesitated.

  ‘I . . . I went to school in the north,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re not from there originally?’ Mick leaned his head back and suddenly Nina was dazzled by the setting sun. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Yes. I am. Sort of.’

  Mick laughed. ‘Well, you either are or you aren’t. Where were you born?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nina answered. She’d used that before. It generally generated a laugh, from which she was able to change the subject. But Mick didn’t laugh. He frowned instead.

  ‘Were you adopted?’ His voice was low.

  Hesitantly, Nina nodded. ‘My mother died in childbirth and I never knew my father,’ she said. She left it at that, leaving Mick nodding slowly, thinking about what kind of childhood she would have had.

  ‘Here’s our stop.’ Mick picked up the bag and led Nina off the bus. It pulled away in a cloud of diesel fumes and they stood staring at acres of parkland.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Nina said. ‘I had no idea this was all here.’

  ‘Follow me and I’ll show you a view you won’t forget.’ Mick walked off briskly and Nina followed, wishing she’d worn something more substantial on her feet than sandals. But the grass was warm between her toes, and the late sun grazed her shoulders like an extra shawl. Up ahead, Mick turned and waited for a panting Nina to catch up. She was laughing, holding up the hem of her skirt as she forced her weary legs up the slope. They’d climbed a long way. ‘Take a look behind you,’ he said.

  Nina turned, feeling giddy after the exertion. The view was both unexpected and breathtaking. She squinted out over the gorge, the sides of which were laced together by a bridge that seemed to defy all physical laws. ‘It’s amazing. It’s crazy.’ She laughed.

  ‘It’s the Clifton suspension bridge,’ he said as if he were leading a field trip. ‘Designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, it was completed in eighteen sixty-four, five years after he died.’

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know this place existed.’ Nina shook her head, laughing at herself.

  ‘It’s amazing what can be right in front of your eyes. All you need to do is open them.’ Mick stood directly behind her, a warm breath away. Nina shuddered, not really understanding what he meant. But that was the thing with him. He said things that shocked her; took her by surprise with a glimpse into a future she’d never thought existed until she met him. How could such a short time of knowing someone feel like a lifetime?

  They were silent for several minutes, taking in the view. Nina thought this place was way better than going to the pub. The river below them wound through the gorge in muddy arcs, and she thought she could almost see the glaciers damming and jamming and eating away at the ancient limestone.

  ‘Hundreds of millions of years,’ she said pensively. ‘I read a book about it once.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mick moved closer still. His chin hovered above Nina’s right shoulder.

  ‘And we take it for granted. Building a bridge like that is nothing compared to the feat that nature pulled off by producing this gorge.’

  ‘Try telling that to Isambard and his gang.’ Mick briefly squeezed Nina’s arms and dropped down on to the scrubby grass. ‘Several men died during its construction. Time for some food, I think.’

  ‘You know a lot about the bridge.’ Nina joined him on the grass.

  ‘I didn’t bring glasses. You go first,’ he said, opening the wine with his penknife before handing the bottle to Nina. ‘I trained as an engineer. They teach you all this stuff. Plus I like trivia. Apparently a Victorian woman survived when she jumped off the bridge. It was her long skirt that saved her, would you believe.’

  Nina tentatively sipped the wine. ‘That’s incredible. I just assumed you trained as an artist.’

  Mick was shaking his head. Nina handed him back the bottle. ‘My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a civil engineer. He refused to support me otherwise.’ Mick took a long draw from the bottle and wiped his mouth. ‘To be honest, I was always a bit of a no-hoper, so the prospect of my parents paying my way for a few more years was a good one, even if it did mean studying something I hated.’

  Mick’s honesty and detail about his past stirred something within Nina. It was a cross between shame and envy, and a burgeoning desire to confide in someone. ‘Have you always painted?’ she asked.

  ‘Much to my father’s disgust. He said it was a career for dropouts.’ Mick slugged again. ‘And guess what? He was right.’ Laughing at himself, he peeled the wrapper off the cheese and broke the bread into pieces. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said and sank his teeth into a large crust, eyeing Nina as he pulled and stretched the bread from his mouth.

  ‘But your pictures are stunning. Do you sell many?’

  ‘Hardly ever. The term starving artist isn’t without reason. I do odd jobs on the side. Chopping wood, delivering newspapers. Working in bars. Anything to pay my way.’

  ‘I bet your father loves that, having supported you through your degree.’ Nina bit into her bread. She licked flakes of crust from her lips.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mick replied. ‘He’s dead.’ As quickly as that, the bond between the pair hardened. Mick didn’t know it, but Nina felt an empathy towards him that would carry them onward towards love, marriage, a family, a future. They sat on the patchy grass, necking wine from the bottle, breaking off hunks of bread and cheese, their knees touching accidentally, their fingers brushing as they passed the wine, their thoughts entwining as they learned more and more about each other – Mick freely recounting stories of his past, and Nina carefully arranging her history like eggs in a basket.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Mick smelled of paint and turpentine. He wiped his hands on an oily cloth. ‘Are you OK?’ He was back in from the studio.

  Nina’s hand bandaged the phone until her knuckles were painful white hillocks.

  Claire’s Bakery. It was meant to be a direct line, the eject button, a safety net. ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was taut piano wire.

  The grim truth was that it had been twenty years. People relocate, die, chang
e jobs, and the telephone numbering system had altered many times since she’d been given this contact all those years ago. Like a fool, she’d been carrying it around as if it were a safety harness, something she could always fall back on. If she changed handbags, then the notebook was moved into the new one. The outdated number itself had become irrelevant. She realised it was what it represented that gave comfort.

  ‘Who were you phoning?’ Mick filled the kettle. ‘I need coffee,’ he said. ‘It’s just not happening for me today. And I’m out of white paint. I have to go to the art supplies shop.’

  ‘No,’ Nina said. She didn’t want to be left alone.

  ‘But I’ve completely run out.’

  ‘Can’t you order it online?’ She noticed her hands tremble as she tucked her phone back in her bag.

  ‘It won’t arrive for a couple of days if I do that, and I need it to complete the piece I’m working on.’ Mick smiled and heaped coffee granules into mugs. ‘The work’s finally coming in, Nina. I can’t blow it.’ He was clearly pleased about the contract, but Nina could see it was taking its toll.

  ‘Please . . . please don’t go out. Or let’s all go. Josie can come and we can go out for lunch.’ She spread her fingers round Mick’s wrist. ‘Please.’

  ‘Nina, what’s got into you? I thought you had mountains of paperwork to get through today.’ Mick allowed his wife to steady herself on him. ‘Josie’ll want to see her friends later, not hang around with us.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ The colour drained from Nina’s face. She thought she might faint. ‘I just don’t want to be alone today.’

  Suddenly, Nina was back there, sitting on the grass with the evening sun blanketing their shoulders. The bridge cast a diagram-like shadow over the sludge of low tide in the crook of the gorge, and the warm cheese melted in their mouths. Josie wasn’t even a glimmer of a thought between them, and the most pressing issue in Nina’s mind was whether Mick would kiss her when they parted.

  It was all so simple, all so unexplored, and over the following weeks, Nina and Mick grew closer than she could ever have hoped. He was an intelligent, enigmatic, sometimes moody, brilliant artist, and she was a young, naive and slightly nervous make-up artist living above a fish and chip shop. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

  ‘I’ll be back before you know it. A couple more hours’ work and then how about we have a late lunch outside together. Bread, cheese, wine . . .’ Mick enveloped Nina and pulled her face to his chest. They both knew what he meant; how symbolic that simple feast was. ‘You make your phone call, while I duck out.’ Forgetting to make the coffee, he reached for his car keys. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’

  Nina grew worried. Mick often spent hours in the art supply shop without realising the time, chatting to the owner, browsing the brushes, running his finger over canvases, different paper grades, and trying out the various charcoal sticks that would end up snapped and stubby around his studio.

  ‘OK,’ Nina reluctantly agreed. She couldn’t press it further. She knew she was being ridiculous. ‘But please don’t be long.’ Nothing would happen while he was gone. She would lock the doors and figure out a way to make contact with the only man in the world who could offer advice. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  She watched Mick drive off. Within seconds, the door was locked and the windows double-checked. No one would be breaking in again today.

  CHAPTER 18

  The girl is naked. Moonlight swims over her young skin, giving the appearance of modesty yet not leaving an inch of her unseen. Flat stretches of muscle, gentle mounds, long youthful limbs, hair spidering down her back, I watch it all. She’s performing a dance, or so it seems, right there under the tree, shrouded by the branches. She looks as if she’ll never stop, as if she’ll just keep on dancing for him.

  I followed them. A sound woke me. It was late and as soon as I stirred – sitting bolt upright in bed – I sensed it was her coming to see me again, tiptoeing down the corridor, about to tap on my door, about to fall on to my quilt, about to cry, about to confess what was on her mind. Katy Fenwick had been to see me several more times since she’d interrupted my bath. As yet she’d not mentioned any names. She was a troubled girl, that was for sure, and it gave me something else to think about, something other than my own misery.

  ‘Stop.’ The hushed command from outside my door stopped Katy’s rap.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Katy’s voice rasped down the corridor. Someone had followed her.

  I got out of bed and pressed my ear to the door. Two voices, one male, one Katy’s. I froze. A breath the size of the one I wanted to release would reveal my presence the other side of the wood.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she said. Sobs welled in her throat.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, Katy,’ he said. ‘We need to talk about this.’

  A sob finally erupted – the pathetic choke of an animal caught in a trap, its captor leering above. Then more talk that I couldn’t hear, crying, muffled sounds, shuffling feet on the creaky boards, more whispers. It all grew distant as the pair retreated.

  I grabbed my robe, pushed my feet into slippers, and unlocked my door. It was three twenty-five in the morning. I’m thirsty; I couldn’t sleep; I heard voices . . . Excuses filled my mind in case I was caught.

  Was it the scent of passion that led me on? Was it footprints of lust or a trail of forbidden love that directed me to the basement? Open doors, lingering words, an illicit scent . . . I smelled the fresh night air, cleaned and ready for the onset of morning, as I slipped out of the cellar. The door leading outside had been carelessly left open, showing me where they’d gone. I pulled my gown further round my shoulders and ducked under the low gothic arch. I climbed the steps to ground level and caught a silver trail of the pair as they ducked into a nearby thicket.

  By the time I reached the edge of the evergreen spinney, by the time I’d drawn breath and steadied myself against a tree, by the time my eyes had widened enough to take in what was happening, I’d already seen Katy’s nakedness; had already spotted that the man with her – his dark eyes swollen and transfixed – was Adam Kingsley.

  Now, still watching, frozen, hoping someone will tell me the right thing to do, I stand here, paralysed. Katy winds herself through the undergrowth. Tears stream down her face as she performs her dance. ‘Is this what you want from me?’

  My mouth falls open and my heart bounds in a million crazy beats. This can’t be happening. I clap my hand over my mouth. Vomit or a yell, something is about to come out. I bend and duck away. It’s dark, the voice in my head tells me. It’s dark and a girl is naked and crying in the woods.

  ‘No, Katy. You don’t understand.’ Adam’s voice is unfamiliar, altered by the situation – that he is watching one of his young students perform an erotic dance for him in the moonlight. Slowly, Adam removes his arms from his jacket. I watch, breathless, my heart thumping its own rhythm behind my ribs, as he begins his strip.

  Katy holds out her hands to Adam; uses her youth to draw him towards her. It’s unclear who is seducing who. I lay my hands on the scabby bark of the bush. Crouching in the thicket, I watch through the network of thorns and twigs.

  ‘Oh, Adam,’ she sighs, and her tears subside. Everything about Katy is alluring and soft and the perfect feast for Adam, who doesn’t know what to do with himself. Katy’s legs are coyly crossed, her angular shoulders pressed back, and the moonlight is like brushstrokes of white across her skin.

  Adam is free of his jacket. I wait for him to unbutton his shirt, but he doesn’t. Instead, he approaches Katy with his jacket held before him as a bullfighter would spread his cape to the bull. ‘Katy,’ he murmurs. Adam is a hunter and Katy the fawn. Thorns scratch my ankles.

  ‘But Adam . . .’ she says. ‘Mr Kingsley. Mr Kingsley.’ She lets his name – the name of him as her teacher – roll off her tongue. She sidesteps the outstretched garment. She shakes her head and draws up to him from behind.

  Adam spins round. ‘I want yo
u to put—’

  If there was a way to escape, I would. One movement from me and there will be three players in this game. Katy brings her face close to her teacher’s. She presses her lips against his and delivers a kiss he will never forget.

  I bow my head into the leaves. I can’t watch. Following them was a mistake, but I wanted to make sure that Katy was safe. I had no idea it was Adam stalking her; no idea what his intentions were. No idea what I will do now, even though I should have learned that lesson long ago.

  ‘No!’ I look up just as Adam pulls away. ‘Katy, for heaven’s sake, will you put this around you and get back inside.’ He recovers from the momentary paralysis Katy inflicted on him. His body is his own again; he has escaped from the teenage web she spun around them.

  In an instant, he has the black jacket across Katy’s shoulders. Once covered, Adam hunts around for her garments. He retrieves a flimsy nightie from the floor of the spinney and holds it out to her.

  ‘It’s what you wanted, Mr Kingsley.’ Katy is a child again. Adam grips her shoulders, tiny in the width of his jacket. He shakes her gently.

  ‘No, Katy, it’s most certainly not what I wanted. All this nonsense has got to stop.’ Adam’s chest rises and falls. He’s sweating.

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ Katy says. Tributaries of mascara cut up her face. Her mouth hangs open. ‘Kiss me.’ She lunges at Adam. Her calf muscles stretch as she stands on tiptoe, desperately trying to deliver affection to her history teacher.

  Adam intercepts her. His palms flat against the hollow beneath her collarbones, he eases her gently away. ‘No, Katy,’ he says firmly. ‘No more. I am your teacher and I do not want to have a relationship with you.’ His voice slams off Katy and ricochets between the trees.

  ‘No!’ she cries hysterically. She’s laughing now, ripping the jacket from her shoulders.

  ‘Katy, you’ve been drinking. You need to calm down and come back inside.’ Adam picks up his jacket and attempts to harness the girl within it again.