The last questions and answers spoken before they had stumbled towards their respective beds, while Hen found towels and toothbrush for him, her efficiency never quite deserting her, haunted him too. Do you suppose anyone loved Marianne Shearer? she asked. Do you suppose he loved her? I hope he did. Can you die of not being loved, or want to die because you aren’t? No, he had said. I don’t think anyone loved her, or not in a way I understand. She took what she could. And, Hen, why did neither you nor Angel ever mention you were adopted children?
She was handing him the towel. Angel never mentioned it after getting into trouble for shouting about it in school the way she did. Besides, it would have made her look even more like a natural victim, somehow. Nobody else’s business. As for me, it was never relevant. I thought I was lucky to be chosen, never curious because my own mother was dead, my father told me.
He was beginning to read when the officer came to fetch him. She found a studious young man, not looking like a lawyer, nodding to himself, beginning to understand.
Ann, the work-experience girl, came back on the Saturday morning because she was bored. It seemed better to be out of the house and Henrietta Joyce had said come back sometime over the weekend, so she was taking her at her word. Eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning seemed a reasonable time. The street was only half busy; the specialist shops mostly closed, still recovering from Christmas holidays and the dearth of trade in January. Ann did not notice this; she was thinking of the sad fact that her mother did not understand her and never, ever would in a month of Sundays, and if anyone had a chance of understanding the mess of her life, it was Henrietta Joyce. Hen Joyce actually talked to her. Hen was OK, and Ann did not think she would mind being messed about. Hen wouldn’t point out that her hair was dyed all wrong and her skirt didn’t suit her plump legs, like Mum did.
It turned out she was right. She rang the bell, spoke into the intercom and was told to come upstairs, there was plenty to do. Weekends were not sacred in this kind of business and the company would be good. While she waited on the doorstep, she saw a Mercedes cruising down the street. A silver machine, erratically but slowly driven, as if the person behind the wheel did not know where he was going, or if the two of them were having a row. Her parents drove around like that sometimes.
‘I was just making tea,’ Hen said. Today she was wearing a scruffy boiler suit. ‘Milk no sugar, wasn’t it?’
As if there had been no intervening days, she sat down and felt at home in the dressing-up-box room. It was nice here. There was a radio burbling music on the big table, not Ann’s kind of music, but OK-ish, not classical at least, something which made her want to tap her feet without much effort while letting the rest of her stay still, and oh, heavens above, Hen actually asking her opinion, showing her something hanging off the dummy.
‘What do you think of this bodice thing? Is it worth doing, do you think? I wanted something that could look good with jeans, something you could button or leave undone. Something that could be worn by all ages, that someone like you could wear, or someone as old as me.’
‘Cool,’ Ann said. ‘Really cool, but where’s the other half?’
But then Hen was no longer listening, just like any other adult. Her head was cocked to one side and she was listening for something else entirely, such as the sounds of her own house or whatever else was going on in her weird head. Then Ann watched her put a finger over her own lips, miming shhh, rather than saying it, moving closer to the door she had left open behind her, closing it and listening harder. A voice shouted a cheerful greeting up the stairs, comfortably far away. Two sets of footsteps.
Hide, Hen mouthed, then whispered, ‘Hide. Hide now, and stay where you are until I say come out, OK? Just do it. Here. Just hide.’
She pushed back the rack of evening gowns and garments that hung to the floor. There was space behind, aired clothes need space around themselves, don’t squash them up. A stuffy space, all the same, warm and dark and rustling with noises as she pushed her way through, so it made Ann want to giggle as she was shoved in there, saying, What? like it was a scene from a play, or something. Get right back and stay there, OK. OK, OK, OK, Hen was sounding like her mother and she was being ordered about again, but it was more than that. It was Hen’s face that told her it wasn’t a game. So she curled herself up into the smallest foetus shape she could make of herself, backed against a warm wall, seeing nothing but the light of the dressing-up room where it penetrated for a few inches between the gaps in the garments, which did not quite sweep the floor. She held on to the skirt of something to lower herself down, let go quickly. It was some kind of taffeta and it made a noise. She heard Hen go back and sit at the table. Then the men came in.
Ann could see one set of polished shoes. An attractive voice, greeting cheerfully.
‘Hello, Hen. No, don’t phone out, please. Be polite, for God’s sake. Meet my friend, Frank. Be nice to him, he’s not too well at the moment.’
‘Hello, Frank. What was it you wanted to buy? Either of you? Why don’t you just get out of here?’
Frank’s voice, slurred and dreary. His shoes taking the place of the other shoes.
‘Where’s the lumpy little girl, then, the one at the door? I fancied her. You’re not that bitch are you, naaa, you can’t be, what are we doing here, Rick? I dunno.’
The sound of someone sitting down heavily, moving the wooden chair so it scraped on the floor, dumping a great weight inside itself.
‘I didn’t think you’d have the nerve, Rick,’ Hen was saying quietly. ‘Fancy you coming back, after last time.’
‘Couldn’t have done it alone, Hen, not after that. But I’ve got a friend, see? Makes all the difference. Adds weight, if you see what I mean. So where’s the lumpy girl, then? Frank likes them young.’
‘You mean the one who delivers the paper and goes away? You’re out of luck, Rick Boyd. So’s your friend. Get out.’
‘Are you my fucking niece?’ That other, druggy voice.
‘We’re all related to apes, aren’t we?’
Then they hit her. They stood round her and hit her. Ann could see the movement of their feet. Or maybe one was hitting, soft, breathy blows, and one was watching, she couldn’t tell. Enough to stay hidden back among the clothes and listen. Easy does it, Frank, easy up, Frank, she only scratched you, she’s got things to tell us, like where’s the stuff?
She’s not the one, Frank, lay off, sit down, you’ve got to drive. I WANT TO KNOW WHERE MARIANNE PUT HER STUFF. Can you hear me? WHERE IS IT?
Frank sat back in the same chair. He was the one with the dirty boots, not the polished shoes.
‘She’s not?’
‘Of course she fucking isn’t. But she knows who is. Get a grip, Frank, just relax.’
Turning back, talking softly, Where’s the stuff? Where did you put it? What did Marianne send to you?
Her voice, too calm, almost inaudible.
‘I don’t know. She didn’t send it to me. She sent her clothes to Angel.’