The Sleeping and the Dead

Then she turned and ran. They must have heard her footsteps on the shingle but she didn’t care. She hoped Michael did hear, that the encounter would be spoiled for him. It serves him right, she thought. Over and over again, spiteful and childish, a schoolyard chant. She stumbled back towards the music, not because she could face going back to the party, but because it was the only way home. A figure was standing outside the building. He leaned against the wall rolling what she realized later was probably a joint. It was Chris. There was an outside light fixed to the bar and she was caught in the glare of it. He saw her tears. He gave a mocking smile and beckoned her towards him. She turned away and hurried down the lane. She didn’t try to get a lift. By then it was pitch black and she had more sense. And she didn’t want anyone to see her crying.

She was home earlier than her mother had expected. Audrey was still watching television, though she’d moved from the sofa to her usual upright chair and there was a plate with some crumbs on the coffee table. The earlier panic was forgotten. She was touchingly pleased to see Hannah, who sat on the floor beside her to watch the end of the programme. She found herself making allowances for her mother’s behaviour now, as she would with someone who was very old or very sick. Audrey seemed not to notice that Hannah was upset until they went upstairs together, then she asked suddenly, ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

‘Of course.’ Audrey would be the last person she’d talk to about her troubles. What could parents know?

‘You should leave this place,’ Audrey said sharply. ‘As soon as your exams are over. I stayed far too long.’

‘Oh yes,’ Hannah said. ‘I will.’ She spoke as if it had been her plan all along but it had never crossed her mind before that evening.

‘Good.’ She shut the bedroom door firmly behind her, but Hannah still heard her repeat the word to herself. ‘Good.’

The next morning Michael phoned. It was Sunday and her mother was still in bed. Hannah hadn’t been able to sleep. She knew it would be him before she picked up the receiver but she couldn’t let it go unanswered.

‘Hannah, I have to see you.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t understand. I’m scared.’ He did sound terrified, as if he’d just woken from a nightmare. But she told herself he was a good actor. ‘No one else will believe me.’

She didn’t say anything.

‘There are things you should know. We should talk.’

‘Talk to Jenny.’ She knew it was petty but she couldn’t help it.

‘This isn’t anything to do with Jenny.’

‘And it isn’t anything to do with me.’

If Chris hadn’t seen her running away from the beach she’d probably have agreed to meet Michael. She wanted to see him. But Chris had seen her and she could tell from the way he’d grinned that he knew about Michael and Jenny. He’d have told Sally. Hannah was proud. She couldn’t bear to be seen scuttling back to Michael after she’d been so publicly betrayed. She wanted to help him but knew it was impossible.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as firmly as her mother had said the word ‘good’ the night before.

She was replacing the receiver when she heard him say goodbye.

That was the story she told Arthur as they sat on the terrace waiting for Porteous to arrive at The Old Rectory. It was quiet. The newly-weds and their friends hadn’t yet arrived. It was the story they agreed she would have to tell the detectives.

Porteous was late and when he did arrive he was looking crumpled and breathless. She was thrown because he was on his own. She felt she should ask after Stout. It was as if a husband had turned up at a dinner party without his wife.

‘Oh,’ Porteous said. ‘We’re very busy…’ She had the impression that he’d been rushing around all day.

‘You don’t mind if my friend joins us. He’s responsible for most of the information.’

‘No,’ Porteous said. ‘Of course.’ Though he seemed surprised. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t the sort to have friends.

They sat in the lounge where he had interviewed her on the evening of the school reunion.

‘I remembered something. Michael once mentioned the cemetery on the coast…’

Porteous’s head shot up. He’d been taking notes. It seemed an overreaction.

‘Which cemetery, Mrs Morton?’ The voice as bland and polite as always.

‘Near the lighthouse. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it certainly.’

‘I looked at the graves, narrowed down the possibilities. I think I’ve found Michael’s mother. She was called Maria Randle. If we’re right, Michael’s first name was Theo.’

Arthur took him through the dates and the family history. Eagerly. A magician pulling each new bit of information from his hat. ‘Theo’s father, Crispin, remarried his secretary Stella. They had a daughter. She died in a fire in the family home. Since then there’s been no mention of the boy.’

Porteous wrote meticulous notes, but Arthur seemed upset by his lack of reaction. He must have been expecting gratitude, to be welcomed with open arms into the investigation.