‘She could have, though.’
‘It, um… sounds like you’ve been having an interesting night.’
‘Educational. I tell you, Lol, if I was ever contemplating an exit, it’s the last place I’d go for help.’
‘That’s the idea, isn’t it?’
‘Ha ha. No, listen, there’s this guy who comes on like, are you cool enough for it? Like, do you have what it takes to be a statistic? You can imagine people who are really, really depressed, and this creep’s sneering at them, like it’s a challenge – are you hard enough to top yourself?’
‘Could be reverse psychology.’
‘Not that subtle. It’s telling them that if they can’t find the balls to do it, they really will have failed. You know?’
‘Out of interest, which Belladonna songs?’
‘Well, she – this is probably some kind of sick joke – but she’s supposed to have done a cover version of something. “Gloomy Sunday”?’
Lol said, with no hesitation, ‘The Hungarian Suicide Song.’
‘Shit, Lol…’
‘It’s fairly well known. Billie Holliday did a version.’
‘And survived?’
‘For a while. She didn’t have a very nice life.’
‘Did you know that Belladonna had recorded it?’
‘No, I didn’t. Doesn’t surprise me, though.’
‘See, there’s supposed to be an original version from 1933 that if you hear it…’
‘I’ve heard that, too. Not the song. I’ve heard what it’s supposed to do. The music business is full of ghost stories.’
‘They only had the Belladonna version on the Departure Lounge recommended listening list. Along with a Leonard Cohen song he apparently doesn’t play any more.’
‘And Nick Drake’s “Fruit Tree”? That’s usually among the top ten suicide songs.’
‘I didn’t see that. Lol, the Hungarian guy who composed it and Belladonna’s ex-lover, Eric…’
‘Bryers.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I know people who I think did.’
‘They both committed suicide by, like, throwing themselves off buildings. Did you know that?’
‘It’s a popular method, Jane.’
‘Especially in Ludlow, apparently,’ Jane said.
‘Jane, let’s not… Like I say, Belladonna might not even know they’re using her songs.’
‘Nah, I think she’s there. I can feel her lurking like an evil presence. And Jemmie Pegler was definitely into those sites.’
‘Let’s not get carried away, Jane, OK?’
‘Hey, when did that ever happen?’
Lol was silent. She could picture his expression.
‘You had any more anonymous letters, Lol? You would tell me?’
‘You’d be the first to know.’
‘I bet.’ Jane leaned into the computer screen. ‘Hey, something’s come up. I’ll have to go.’
‘Jane, you didn’t listen to—’
She cut the line. This could be significant. But how would she handle it if Belladonna herself had left a message for Sadgirl? Well, it was possible.
But it was Karone the Boatman who’d come back, and he was not sympathetic.
Sadgirl, u r in the wrong room, babe. Nobody here wants to know about ya problems. Come back when ya ready to DO THE THING.
The heartless bastard! You’d lost your baby, got dumped by your guy, and this scumbag…
Jane started to laugh. Oh God, she must really be overtired. She finished the fizzy water, thinking how it would be best for Sadgirl to react now. She knew how she wanted to react, but that wouldn’t achieve anything outside of personal satisfaction.
She switched off the desk lamp, sat back in the chair and closed her eyes to think this out.
Standing in the wreckage of Robbie Walsh’s torn-off life, Merrily lit a cigarette and smoked half of it and then threw it down on the concrete and stamped on it. When she put a hand to her face, it sent up a hot wire of pain. Afterwards, her fingers were slicked with blood and water and mucus.
‘Should mabbe see a doctor.’ Holding his head at an angle, Mumford bent and picked up a cardboard box. Books were scattered all around, oil soaking into the pages, the turquoise baseball cap crushed flat. ‘Shouldn’t’ve let you come, Mrs Watkins. Should’ve realized.’
‘What about you, for God’s sake?’ Merrily could see the flush on his neck, a glaze of blood where the chain had bitten.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh sure – that’s why your voice is like a penny whistle someone’s trodden on.’
She tried for a laugh, but she was still too shaken, the scene replaying itself from when she’d thrown herself at the fat kid, trying to get a grip on his gelled hair – at the same time aware of the kid in the yellow fleece pulling the computer, by its cord, towards the edge of the bench. She remembered seeing Mumford turning into the chain, his hand crabbed across the face of the fat boy, thrusting him away. Merrily feeling grateful that he’d found the strength… until, at the same time as the computer hit the concrete, the boy’s elbow had pistoned back into her face.
Sitting on the floor, semi-stunned, she’d heard one of the younger kids crying out, ‘Car coming!’ and been aware of Jason Mebus lurching away, eyes flashing hate at Mumford, blood from his mouth forming twin channels either side of the stud in his chin.
In the next memory-frame, there was just her and Mumford amid the wreckage.
He stood over the computer for a moment before lifting it back on the bench where it sat lopsided, looking like a badly fractured skull.
‘Andy, we have to tell the police.’
He laughed.
‘Andy, come on… Blood on the wall? You half-garrotted? God knows what I look like. We’re supposed to just walk away?’
Mumford sighed. ‘Mrs Watkins, you know how these things work. They appear in court in their school uniforms, hair all neatly brushed. Look real scared and helpless. One’s got a missing front tooth. They got Mr Ryan Nye representing them, on legal aid, making references to my mental state following the death of my nephew – who these boys will deny they ever met – and then my mother. I need to paint you a picture?’
‘Suppose I phone Bliss at home?’
His expression was enough to shut her up. He put out a hand and tipped the computer lightly. Something inside it collapsed.
‘Got what they wanted, then.’
She remembered Jason Mebus, on his way out, putting in two vicious, hacking kicks, splintering the back of the computer.
‘Probably won’t fetch much at the car boot sale now, Andy.’
‘No.’
‘What are you going to tell your sister?’
Mumford bent down, picked up Robbie’s baseball cap. ‘Not a thing.’
‘Sorry?’ Merrily had found a tissue in her coat pocket; she brought it cautiously to her face, winced, looked up at him through one eye. ‘Is there something here I’m not understanding?’
‘I was thinking at first it was the boy told the others we were yere,’ Mumford said. ‘But then I’m thinking, wouldn’t Ange stay with us? Wouldn’t you stay with somebody wanted to mess with your dead boy’s stuff? Make sure they didn’t find anything you didn’t want found?’
‘What are you saying?’ She had a full view of his throat now, red and purple and swollen and lacerated. At least his wife was a nurse.
‘Funny Ange en’t come back, ennit?’ he said. ‘Funny we en’t seen nothing at all of her feller, Mathiesson.’
‘You think they put those kids…?’
‘Could be they all had reasons for making sure we never got to see what was on that computer. The kids too.’ Mumford’s eyes were pale and hard. ‘Tells us why Robbie was afraid to come back from his gran’s, mabbe?’