‘Blah blah unprecedented, blah blah sympathies to family, blah blah cooperating with the police to the fullest extent, blah blah reassure our customers. There’s a press release.’
Jeremy from the Express hands it to her. There’s not much. Park open again asap, Innfinnityland closed, probably to be demolished. Heartfelt sympathy. She takes a picture with her phone. She’ll read it off the jpeg later.
‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought Dave Park was here for the Trib.’
‘He is. He’s Mr Hard News. I’ve got the colour feature. Town in torment. Lock up your daughters. Price of beer. You know.’
‘Ah, the Sunday stuffies,’ says a hack from the Mirror. ‘Nothing new to say, just more of it.’
‘Still,’ says the snapper, ‘nice work if you can get it.’
‘Someone’s got to use the five-syllable words,’ she says. ‘To give the rest of you something to sneer at. So what do we know? Anything new on the vic?’
She quails faintly inside as she says it. The vic – a life reduced to flippancy.
‘Nothing new. The mum and dad are doing an appeal this arvo in the town hall.’
‘Is that where everybody else is?’
The man from the Mirror tuts. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not till four. They’re all in the White Horse, up on Dock Street.’
‘News-gathering,’ says the photographer, and winks.
Chapter Nine
Amber’s in the kitchen, on the phone in pursuit of a computer for Benedick, when someone starts pressing the doorbell. Urgently and insistently, over and over, a couple of seconds between each peal. Whoever it is, they want in, now.
‘I wonder who that is?’ she says, cutting the call.
Vic looks up from the Sun. ‘Well, I’ll guess it’s either a waif or a stray. Stray, probably, by the sound of the ring. Waifs don’t ring that hard.’
‘Ha,’ she says, and runs for the door.
A figure stands with its back to her, the hood of an Adidas top pulled up over its head, gym bag over its shoulder, scanning the cars and concrete bollards of Tennyson Way as though expecting someone to appear.
‘Can I help you?’ Amber asks. The figure turns. It’s Jackie Jacobs, looking just awful. Below the top she wears what look like pyjama bottoms and a pair of the shuffle-along flip-flops Romina used to wear. Her face, devoid of make-up, is lined and grey, with deep vertical runnels on her upper lip.
‘I didn’t know where else to come,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Amber. ‘Come in.’
She stands back to let Jackie pass, and follows her indoors. Vic sees her from his seat at the kitchen table and shoots to his feet. ‘What’s up, Jacks?’
Jackie pushes her hood back. Her hair is greasy, unbrushed. Amber finds it hard to believe that this is the same exuberant creature she shared the beach with yesterday. ‘He’s just standing outside my flat and he won’t go away,’ she says, and bursts into tears.
Amber doesn’t need to ask who she’s talking about. ‘Oh my God,’ she says again.
‘He’s just… there. All the time. He just sits outside the flat. Or he’s… you know. Like yesterday. Down at the beach, or down at the supermarket, or wherever I am. I feel like I’m going mad.’
‘You’re not.’ Amber takes the bag, drops it on the stairs. It’s clear they’ve got a house-guest. Amber Gordon’s Home for Fallen Women, Vic calls it. When he’s feeling nice. Sometimes, depending on the guest, he calls it the Whitmouth Dog Sanctuary. ‘I can understand why you feel that way, but you’re not. You haven’t spoken to him, have you?’
‘No,’ says Vic. ‘You’re supposed to ignore them.’
‘I’ve tried,’ says Jackie. ‘But what am I supposed to do? If someone’s there every day, when you go to the shops, waiting outside work, ringing on the doorbell, leaving messages, leaving… daisies on your doorstep… you try ignoring it.’
‘Oh God, Jackie. You always make a joke of things. I didn’t realise it was this serious.’
They follow Vic back into the kitchen. He goes to fill the kettle. The Whitmouth solution to all troubles, a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. And God knows, for most troubles it works a treat.
‘I know. Yes,’ says Jackie. ‘I guess maybe I didn’t either. I thought he’d get the message or something. Get bored. But since you… The body. That poor girl. One minute she’s alive and the next some bloke’s just… Maybe it’s freaked me out more than I thought it had. But it’s worse now. I can’t… I really can’t be there any more, Amber. He just stands there and stands there, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference what I do. I’ve no idea when he sleeps, ’cause it feels like he’s there twenty-four/seven.’
‘It’s OK,’ says Amber. ‘You can stay here. As long as you like. Till we work out what to do.’
She glances up at Vic. He’s standing by the sink, his face inexpressive. If he has any feelings on the subject, he’s not sharing.
Jackie goes pink about the nose and takes a pack of blue Camels from the pocket of her jacket. Searches around for a lighter. Vic clears his throat.
‘I’m sorry, Jackie,’ he says, ‘d’you mind taking it out to the garden?’
She looks surprised, as though no one has ever suggested such a thing before, but picks up the pack and starts to get up from the table.
‘I’ll get you an ashtray,’ says Vic.
She looks unexpectedly grateful. ‘Thanks,’ she says.
Amber follows her out on to the patio, Mary-Kate and Ashley tip-tapping quietly at their heels. She’s proud of her little patch of ground. The salty estuarine soil makes it fairly useless for growing things, but she’s filled it with pots and baskets of busy Lizzies and geraniums and verbena, and the little garden is bright and welcoming. The chairs are tipped up against rain, their cushions in the shed. She pulls them out, brushes water off their coated-wire seats. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘What? Oh, no. Don’t be stupid. It’s your house.’
Vic appears with the ashtray, puts it on the table, smiles and retreats indoors.
Jackie lights up. Amber can see the nicotine bliss cross her face, remembers it well. She gave up for Vic, but she still misses it, every day. ‘God, you have an ashtray. Most people don’t do that, and then they give your stubs looks, like they’re nuclear waste or something. Even when they’re in the bin with the potato peelings.’
‘Yeah, we’d never do that,’ says Amber.
‘No,’ says Jackie, ‘Vic’s got the manners of a priest.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ says Amber, but quietly she thinks, yes, that’s how the world would sum up our relationship, probably: polite. Vic has great manners. It was like getting into a big warm bath, meeting Vic: having doors held open and appreciation shown, knowing that a dish eaten from would quickly be cleared and cleaned. After all those years, she’d been quite afraid of men, of their drives and stubbornness; thought them bullies, only interested in personal gratification.
And then there was Vic. Hands always clean despite the running repairs that form a large part of his duties on the Funnland rides. A please and a thank-you and a protective arm ushering her through the crowds. She remembers noticing him, the way he’d give a helping hand to customers as they tottered on and off the rides; how he’d always have a smile and a laugh for anyone who wanted one; how he could appease the most swaggering yob in search of aggro. Whitmouth relationships aren’t long relationships, on the whole, but it’s six years they’ve been together now, and if politeness is the price you pay for longevity, then thank God for good manners. All those years, when she longed to fetch up in a place of calm – she still finds it difficult to believe it’s happened.