JULES
I sat down on the bed, the photo frame in my hand. You and she smiled up at me, bringing bright hot tears to my eyes, and finally I cried for you as I should have done at your funeral. I thought of him that day, the way he’d looked at Lena—I’d misread that look completely. It wasn’t predatory, it was proprietary. He wasn’t looking at her as a girl to be seduced, to be possessed. She already belonged to him. So maybe he’d come for her, to take what was rightfully his?
He wasn’t hard to find. His father used to have a string of flashy car dealerships all over the northeast. Cannon Cars, the company was called. That didn’t exist any longer, it had gone bankrupt years ago, but there was a smaller, sadder, low-rent version in Gateshead. I found a badly designed website with a picture of him on its home page, the photo taken some time ago, by the look of it. Less paunchy then, still a hint of the handsome, cruel boy in his face.
I didn’t call the police, because I was sure they wouldn’t listen to me. I just picked up the car keys and left. I was feeling almost pleased with myself as I drove out of Beckford—I’d figured it out, I was taking control. And the farther I drove from the village, the stronger I felt, the fog of tiredness clearing, my limbs loosening. I felt hungry, savagely hungry, and I relished the sensation; I chewed the side of my cheek and tasted iron. Some old part of me, some furious, fearless relic, had surfaced; I imagined myself lashing out at him, clawing at him. I pictured myself an Amazon, ripping him limb from limb.
• • •
THE GARAGE WAS in a run-down part of town, under the railway arches. An ominous place. By the time I arrived, I was no longer brave. My hands shook whenever I reached to change gear or flick the indicator switch; the taste in my mouth was bile, not blood. I was trying to
focus on what I had to do—to find Lena, to make Lena safe—but all my energy was sapped by the effort it took to push back against memories I hadn’t let surface for over half a lifetime, memories that rose now like driftwood out of water.
I parked across the road from the garage. There was a man standing outside, smoking a cigarette—a younger man, not Cannon. I got out of the car and on trembling legs crossed the road to talk to him.
“I was hoping to speak to Robert Cannon?” I said.
“That your motor, is it?” he said, indicating the car behind me. “You can just bring it in . . .”
“No, it’s not about that. I need to speak to . . . Is he here?”
“It’s not about the motor? He’s in the office,” he said, jerking his head to indicate behind him. “You can go on in if you want.”
I peered into the cavernous dark space and my stomach contracted. “No,” I said as firmly as I could, “I’d prefer to speak to him out here.”
He sucked his teeth and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street. “Suit yourself,” he said, and strolled on inside.
I slipped my hand into my pocket and realized that my phone was in my handbag, which was still on the passenger seat. I turned to go back, knowing that if I did I wouldn’t return, that if I made it to the safety of the driver’s seat I would lose all courage completely, I would start the engine and drive away.
“Can I help you?” I froze. “Did you want something, pet?”
I turned around, and there he was, uglier even than he had looked on the day of the funeral. His face had become heavy and hangdog, his nose purpled, mapped with blue veins that spread to his cheeks like an estuary. His gait was familiar, listing side to side like a ship as he approached. He peered at me. “Do I know you?”
“You’re Robert Cannon?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Robbie.”
For a fraction of a second, I felt sorry for him. It was the way he said his name, still using the diminutive. Robbie is a child’s name, the name of a little boy who runs around the back garden and climbs trees. It’s not the name of some overweight loser, some bankrupt running a dodgy garage in a shitty part of town. He stepped towards me and I caught a whiff of him, body odour and booze, and any pity evaporated as my body remembered the feeling of his, crushing the breath out of me.
“Look, love, I’m very busy,” he said.
My hands clenched into fists. “Is she here?” I asked.
“Is who here?” He frowned, then rolled his eyes, reaching into his jeans pocket for his cigarettes. “Ah, fuck’s sake, you’re not a mate of Shelley’s, are you? Because, as I told her old man, I haven’t seen the slag in weeks, so if it’s about that, you can just do one, all right?”
“Lena Abbott,” I said, my voice little more than a hiss. “Is she here?”
He lit his cigarette. Behind his dull brown eyes, something sparked. “You’re looking for . . . who now? Nel Abbott’s girl? Who are you?” He looked around him. “Why d’you think Nel’s girl would be here?”
He wasn’t faking it. He was too stupid to fake it, I could see that. He didn’t know where Lena was. He didn’t know who she was. I turned to go. The longer I stayed, the more he’d wonder. The more I’d give away.
“Hang on,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, and I spun round, shoving him away from me.
“Easy!” he said, raising his hands, looking around as though for backup. “What’s going on here? Are you . . . ?” He squinted at me. “I saw you—you were at the funeral.” Finally it dawned on him. “Julia?” His face broke into a smile. “Julia! Bloody hell. I didn’t recognize you before . . .” He took me in, head to toe. “Julia. Why didn’t you say something?”
He offered me a cup of tea. I started laughing and I couldn’t stop, I laughed until tears streamed down my face while he stood there, half giggling along at first, until his uncertain mirth petered out and he stood, dull and uncomprehending, watching me.
“What’s going on?” he asked, irritated.