The Tintagel Secret Page 9

  As I try to fall asleep, I think of my own mother and how she flouted the story that had been laid out for her in favour of something that suited her better. She'd seen the madness early and escaped. I realised now that I'd escaped too, and, much as I wanted Andrew and my family back, and to not have my Top Secret, I wondered if I had the easier life, away from it all. I hadn't seen her since the day John threw her out and I wondered if she too was dead now. Maybe I could ask her about the precious cargo that she had passed unawares down to me. But I’ll never be able to find her. It’ll have to be Andrew.

  CHAPTER 10

  So here we are now, on the day of the meeting and I have to go into town and sign on and then to try to get Andrew to speak to me. The meeting isn't until half past twelve so I've got plenty of time. I leave Macy behind the shed and pull on an old raincoat to cover my grubby clothes. I haven't had chance to hose down last week's clothes yet because I've been so preoccupied. I'm usually walking my circuit, dragging everything around behind me, memories like streamers in the wind. Now they are wound back in, tight and hard, as I pull up my shell. I've been able to sense the hostility in the village since Julia's posters went up, more people pointing and whispering at me. Until then I was mostly invisible, just another bag lady, someone who we all know what to expect from. But now people think I'm a murderer.

  As turn the corner onto the High Street I see the police cars in the car park. Mia Connelly is standing beside her car talking on her phone, but when she spots me, she throws it through the open window and onto the car seat and runs across the car park.

  'Lizzie. Where have you been?'

  I open my mouth to speak and point up the hill, but she shakes her head.

  'No. I mean why weren't you here earlier? Didn't you hear the sirens in the night? I sent someone up to get you. They said they banged on the door but you didn't answer. Where have you been?'

  I don't miss a beat. I can't let her know I'm sleeping in the shed. I can't let anyone know.

  'I wear earplugs. Helps me sleep. So, I wouldn't have heard anything.'

  I look past her and two uniformed police officers appear in the car park. She shakes her head.

  'Another one. A woman. Found with a head injury in the cave. She was still alive when she was found, but she died early this morning in hospital. Come over here. To my car.'

  She guides me to the passenger side and I go to open the door.

  'No. No. Just look inside. On the seat.'

  I stare through the window. Wrapped in a plastic bag, lying on the front seat, is a familiar sight. The A4 photocopy. Kill You Next Time. I draw in breath sharply as I see the bloodstains and the finger marks.

  'She was holding it when we found her. I the mouth of the big cave. We think she was walking on the beach then someone attacked her and dragged her into the cave...'

  It's too much for me and I lean over Mia's car and vomit. The blood and the sand, the slippery stones and the cave, it's too familiar. I retch heavily.

  'Sorry, sorry. That's terrible. I'm never good with blood.'

  Mia stares at me.

  'Look at the note, Lizzie. Look a bit closer.'

  I peer into the car, my eyes fuzzy with sickness. There's some handwritten words just like the rest of the notes, and I squint my eyes to read it.

  'You'll never find me. I'm who you least expect me to be. But I'm staying until I get what I want. I'll do whatever I have to get what's mine.'

  I gaze at Mia now. Get what's mine. Like the notes that were sent to me. Just like them. I could think of at least five people who know about the Mum's gold, and how many people had they told? I look around the Sword in the Stone car park and it's lined with holiday makers, all of them blending into the scenery. It could be anyone, couldn't it? Even one of the shopkeepers. It could be Julia. Mia is on to what could easily be her second packet of cigarettes of the day, and she sighs.

  'So, what do they want. Lizzie? Any ideas?'

  'How should I know?'

  She comes a little bit closer.

  'You've slipped up a bit. I would never have dreamt of thinking you knew something about this until you said that to Julia Scholes. About Susan Blake resembling you, and that Julia could have done it. People only say something like that when they have already thought about it. So why did you think Susan Blake was killed instead of you?'

  I swallow hard.

  'I just thought Julia would have liked it to be me. That's all.'

  She nods and pulls on her cigarette.

  'Yeah. I can see that. But why was Susan killed up there where you spend so much time? And Jenny at the waterfall. And, according to people we have interviewed this morning, the only person who spends a significant amount of time at that cave mouth is you. Each time we have interviewed people that have told us that their first thought was that it was you who was dead. But it might be next time, eh? Kill You Next Time. What does that mean Lizzie? And what does this person want?'

  She's getting closer to the truth and I'm scared now.

  'I don't know. They thought because I get the blame for everything. They're having a meeting about me this afternoon, trying to get rid of me.'

  Mia stamps out the cigarette and tilts her head to one side.

  'OK. Have it your way. I'm trying to help you, not persecute you. If someone is trying to kill you, I can put you somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't find you until all this is over. But please think about those women and their families, and whoever will be the next victim. I hope to God it isn’t you Lizzie. Please be careful. Like the notes say, they won't stop until they get what they want. And I don't know what that is. If you do, Lizzie, please tell me and I'll get it for them and you'll be safe.'

  I nod.

  ‘And what about you?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Any luck yet? You know? I can get you some herbs, can’t do you any harm. Might help, might not. Why won’t you let me help you, Mia?’

  She looks out over the bay.

  ‘Sometimes it’s not meant to be, is it? We’ve been trying for so long and just when I thought my job would be getting easier this happens. Thanks, anyway, but no thanks. It’s really nice of you, but maybe it’s not meant to be.’

  I nod and smile.

  ‘That’s as maybe. But you sometimes have to make your own luck in this life. Think about that, Mia.’

  She touches the bracelet as I walk away. The silver notch is past the ovulation mark and I know that the rest of this month she’ll have her mind on something other than murder. I walk away past the staring tourists, past the shopkeepers and the women gripping their children's hands. I think how selfish I am, how I could tell Mia where the object is right now and the killing would stop then, wouldn't it? Everyone would have what they wanted. But then I'd be in a safe place all right. No one would understand. No one would care, because no one ever did.

  I wait for the bus. When I get on I sit at the front in my usual seat. I need routine today, and I always sit on the single seat so that no one will ever feel obliged to sit next to me. I've been referred to many times as 'the nutter on the bus' and I know that the more contact I have with people, the more they draw my mental health into question. I've thought a lot about how to combat this, and my response is to do exactly what they expect. Sure enough, three stops along three teenage boys get on and sit behind me. I hear then sniggering and then one of them taps me on the shoulder.

  'Ere, grandma. You stink. Don't you know how to use soap?'

  It's a gigantic role reversal, young boys asking a grown woman if she has had a wash. The irony isn't lost on me and I laugh loudly. They have a point; although I did have a wash this morning, I haven't had a hot bath or shower for years. My skinny-dipping with Jerusalem is the nearest I've been to a bath recently, and that was last summer. My first line of defence is to start humming so they think I can't hear them. I hum All Things Bright and Beautiful loudly but they don't give up.

  'Oi.
Missus. We're talking to you.'

  I see the bus driver catch my eye in the rear-view mirror, a token of the silent body language people with a little bit of respect for others, even me, will sometimes direct at me. Usually, they won't speak up until whatever critique is being levelled at me until it's critical – otherwise they will be seen to support the bag lady. But I know they are there, and that's the important thing. Another of the boys pulls my headscarf down and my hair springs out. They laugh and I carry on humming. One of them spits at the back of my head, and I feel the heaviness of the globule in my hair. My humming turns to low singing.

  'She's a loony. Listen to her. She's off her head.'

  The biggest of the three goes to pick up one of my bags.

  'Let's see what rubbish she's got in here.'

  I feel the bus slow down and the driver looks tense, but there's no need. Quick as a flash I grab the bag from him. I growl quietly at him; it's only what is expected of me. No amount of asking him nicely will help my case. Other people on the bus are looking now and I let go of him slowly, looking into his eyes. It's happened before; sometimes they look terrified, but sometimes they have revenge in their gaze, telling me they'll get me later. For whatever they feel I'm guilty of, which, in reality, is nothing. This young man looks terrified, and he and his friends move to the back of the bus and sit quietly for the rest of the journey.

  So, to keep myself contained, I put an extra barrier of sound between me and other people. Anything that spills through it is an expression of the eccentricity that I am forced to live through; normal conversation seems to be impossible now, except for my time with Jer. Even the job centre, where I am heading for as I get off the bus in Padstow, is problematic. I wait at the desk for my appointment, where we will say the same things to each other in the same order as we have for the past years.

  Jason, the boy who first interviewed me, is a grown man and manager now. He passes me and smiles.

  'Mornin' Mrs Nelson. Any luck?' I shake my head. 'OK. Julie will be along in a moment to see you.'

  Julie is, as promised, along in a moment, and she beckons me to sit opposite her.

  'Hello, Mrs Nelson. Have you had any luck finding work?'

  I shake my head and she ticks some boxes. She stares at me for a long time, as if she's waiting for me to say something else.

  'I would still like to find a job.'

  My voice is thin and weak, but she smiles.

  'Fine. At least I know you can understand what I'm saying to you now. Sign here and we'll see you next week.'

  She gets up and leaves me sitting at the desk. I look around at all the other people in here, some of them look as dejected as me. I see a woman sitting by the window and recognise the bag lady code; crumpled stocking, bagging around the ankles, unbrushed hair, grubby clothes, minimum of three carrier bags – though she has about five. She's leaning her head against the window and starting into space. Her breath is causing condensation that turns to water and runs down her cheeks like tears. I want to go over and tell her I understand, that she isn't alone. I don't. I simply wonder what satellite village here territory is in and what brought her here. I walk past here and she idly glances in my direction. Our eyes meet for a second but hers are dead and cold. I guess she's been doing this a lot longer than I have.

  When I leave the Job Centre the clock in Boot's window tells me it's eleven o'clock. I won't be able to wait for Andrew to have his lunch today as I'll have to get the bus at twelve to make sure I get back for the start. I'll have to go into the reception of his office and ask to see him. He won't like it, but I'll insist. Something inside me screams that it's a bad idea, that it will lead to trouble. Even so, I move along and sit on the steps of a building opposite his office.

  Some people say that you can become desensitised to a situation, and the unusual becomes the usual. I'm quite used to sitting here and staring at the office front, the windows blinking in the refracted light. I know which office is Andrew's and that he's been made a partner in the company now. His name is on the brass plaque outside and Stan would have been very proud of him. He doesn't look like Stan at all, he's more like my family, except for the dark poker straight hair. But he dresses exactly like Stan. So, this is my relationship with my son now, the only one I am allowed in this crazy world. I sit and watch him move past the window in his office. I see him leave for his lunch, sometimes I walk behind him. Once he even brushed past me as I stood outside the sandwich shop. It's not enough for me, but it's all I can have. In a strange kind of way, I'm grateful for it. Otherwise, I would probably never see him again, because he would never come to find me.

  I finish staring and I'm just about to leave when he comes out of the front door. He stands on the pavement, shading his eyes from the sun, looking up the street, and he waves. He's put some weight on, and he's smiling. He's eating and he's happy. I watch him for a second and he waves again. I look up the High Street, past the woman with the toddler and the pram and towards the smartly dressed business people. But he's crouching now and holding his arms out. The toddler, a boy with fair hair, is running towards him and I'm close enough to hear him shout.

  'Daddy!'

  'Come on Tommy. Big boy.'

  I look at the woman, Andrew's wife, and the pram. Pink blankets. A small baby. I'm frozen with grief. There are my grandchildren. I'm missing my own life.

  In a moment they've walked away, into the bustling crowd, Andrew carrying Tommy on his shoulders. I can still see his fair head bobbing in the crowd and I race after them, pushing people put of the way. My head is reeling with this new information, that Andrew has had two children and he hasn't even bothered to tell me. It's so cruel. I finally lose sight of them and lean back on the stone plinth that houses the fountain and start to cry softly. People are looking at me but I'm used to it, so I just carry on, as if the world were empty around me. I can taste my tears and, for the first time since I became a bag lady, I wonder if there's another way, some way I can get things back on an even keel with Andrew and get to see those children.

  Surely his wife must have asked about his family? His mother? Hadn't she asked him about any family diseases, childhood illnesses? It must have cropped up. Then I remembered an afternoon in the lounge when teenage Andrew had told his girlfriend I was the cleaner. And that he had told everyone else that I was dead. No doubt that's what he would have told his wife. And what he would tell his children.

  My knees are weak and I feel drained now. I walk the short distance to the bus, hanging onto my four carrier bags full of nothing but carrier bags. All of a sudden it all seems pointless, carrying around my life in a shopping trolley, my war with Julia, my daily route. I can't stop whoever wants to kill me over some scrap metal, and none of it makes any sense. It's empty and flat, compared with a moment with that little boy. And this makes me feel even more guilty, putting my own feelings in front of the injustice that’s all around me. I sit in the bus station closer now to the public, as people clamber for seats to wait for the buses. Two women start a conversation about me, but I focus on the small gap of blue sky between the darkened glass and the concrete roof of the terminus.

  The bus arrives and I get on. No humming or singing this time, I'm oblivious to the jibes of the other passengers as I take my single seat at the front. I carefully watch the edges of the clouds as the bus winds up the narrow A roads towards Tintagel, off the main roads and down by Trebarwyth Strand. Boys and girls with surfboards get off here, enjoying the spring surf and holidaying away from their lives. I glance at the sea and think about Jerusalem. I wished that he was here now, so I could at least find some comfort. He'd sit and be with me while the searing pain subsided, asking for no explanation, and expecting nothing in return. But he isn't here and I'm alone. My whole body feels numb with shock and as I wait for everyone to get off, and for the driver to finish his cigarette, I watch a flock of starlings make their patterns in the sky. Swirling round and swooping behind the cliffs, following nature's path for them. />
  Is this how it's supposed to be? I wonder for a moment if it's predestined, if our lives are, after all, mapped out. Even after my family experience of crumbling dysfunction, I was still convinced that I could make my own life work, that although I'm a little different, someone would come along to compliment me. I even believed that my own child would care about me. Wasn't that how it was supposed to happen? That I would be surrounded by grandchildren and doted upon in my old age?

  A shiver runs through my soul as the driver returns and the bus sets off causing a breeze. Somewhere inside I know that I need to do something about this situation, get some help, find someone who can explain to me just what the big deal is about a small lump of twisted gold. But I seem to be out of options. I can't approach Andrew or John and my father, if he's still alive, is mad. I'm not even sure if I will be able to stay in the village after today. There thought of the meeting sears through me and anxiety sets in.

  On a good day, with Jerusalem cooking seafood on a fire on the beach and Macy by my side, one hand on the headland soil, I would know that all was well and be able to face what lies ahead. But today is different. I'm already wounded and leading myself into a situation where I know I'll be further damaged by whatever the people of the village have to say about me. Even though it's not usual to see people cry out loud on a single decker bus, I begin to sob and wail for the women who have died and for my little grandchildren. Because, after all, I'm a bag lady and this is part of my language, the extreme bursts of happiness of grief. In the moment I realise my family will inevitably become involved in family and I let out a scream. Andrew, his wife and children. He already hates me. What would this do to us? The driver looks alarmed at the noise until he sees my dirty clothes and my carrier bags and nods his expectations away as the bus approaches the village.