The Facts of Life and Death (26 page)

Spade took a deep sniff before handing it to a desperate Calvin.

‘Cinnamon and myrrh,’ he breathed.

‘Think you’ve got enough?’ said King, peering into the box.

Mark Spade looked at her seriously and said, ‘You can never have too much soap.’

They left the bedsit without the nose ring, but each clutching a gift of soap that had been pressed into their hands by Mark Spade, despite their protestations.

‘For Frannie,’ he kept saying. ‘For Frannie.’

Cinnamon and myrrh filled the Volvo as Kirsty King drove back to Bideford. Even so, Calvin couldn’t wait to get home, strip off, and scrub himself in a hot shower until the soap was a mere nub of scented heaven.

In a rare show of sympathy, DCI King had let him keep the fiver, but it was nowhere near enough.

RUBY COULDN
’
T STOP
thinking about the gun. She wanted so badly to tell somebody about it that she thought she might burst.

From the window she saw Adam and Chris disappearing up the Clovelly pathway. Quickly she struggled into her coat and boots, but by the time she had puffed and slithered up to the clearing on the cliff, they were nowhere to be seen.

Maggie was on the swing – hung over the fraying rope like a dishcloth, with her knees dragging in the mud.

‘Have you seen Adam?’

‘They went over the stile,’ croaked Maggie.

Ruby was almost relieved. Now she couldn’t tell Adam about the gun. And telling would have been
wrong
, because it was a big secret.

So big that Daddy had kept it from
her.

Ruby didn’t even want to admit to herself how much that hurt. They were supposed to keep secrets from
Mummy
– not from each other.

It made her feel …

It made her feel …

Not
angry
, but…

Something.

Out of habit, she bent and picked up a stick from the forest floor. It fitted well in her hand, but she stared at the damp, gnarled wood with sudden disdain. Only a stupid little kid would think a stick was a gun. Now she’d seen the real thing she could never go back.

Something inside Ruby missed the stick, even as she hurled it into the forest.

She flopped disconsolately on to the bench. The wooden slats were damp and had little aqua flowers of lichen growing all over them. She picked at them intently, peeling them away from their home and flicking them towards the swing.

Finding stuff out wasn’t all good.

The gun was good, but it had ruined the sticks for her. Having secrets was good, but keeping them was
hard.
And growing up was good, but, at the same time, she didn’t want to lose that warm, safe, little-girl feeling of being carried in her Daddy’s arms.

She had been so impatient for everything to change, and now that it had, she had the strangest sense of wanting to reach out and slow it all down – maybe stop it altogether – just for a little while, while she decided what she thought about it all.

She sighed deeply and blew out her cheeks and stared at the dank forest.

‘Hey,’ she said suddenly, ‘where’s Em?’

‘Over there,’ said Maggie vaguely towards the sea.

Ruby wandered across the clearing, brushed aside the overhanging branches, and there she saw Em, sitting on the edge of the cliff, high above the beach, her bare legs and pink glittery wellington boots dangling in space, and the hem of her dress hitched up so high that Ruby could see the blue elastic of the Pampers she still wore. Em sang tunelessly under her breath, kicking her legs in time to an imagined beat.

She didn’t see Ruby.

Quietly, Ruby stretched out her arm, the way Daddy had on the beach – catching Em in the sights created by her thumbnail and finger. She imagined the butt of the gun snug in her palm, her finger curled around the cool trigger, and the glimmering curve of the bullets winking at her from the fat, grooved barrel.

Real enough to give you a good scare. And real enough to give you bad thoughts.

She thought of the jolt of the shot, the high-pitched scream on the way down, of Em hitting the big black pebbles a hundred feet below.

One of the toddler’s boots had worked its way down her chubby little leg, and she leaned forward to stop it falling off.

‘Ruby?’ Maggie called from the swing.

Ruby opened her mouth to answer . . . then closed it.

And just watched.

Em teetered – trying to grasp the top edge of the plastic boot. She gripped it briefly, then her fingers slid off, and her whole body wavered back and forth with the recoil before steadying.

Ruby breathed again.

But Em leaned forward once more . . . seemingly oblivious to the drop, grunting with the effort of bending so far to reach something that had now slipped even further down her leg, a bubble of snot starting to blow in and out of her rosy nose, while with her other hand she tried to keep her tangled blonde hair out of her eyes.

Ruby suppressed a small pang of guilt. Em wasn’t
her
sister. She didn’t
love
Em. Em was a pain who slowed them all down, with her short legs and her socks always wrinkling into her rubber boots, and the foul stench that often wafted from her over-padded rear end. Whatever happened, it wasn’t Ruby’s fault. No one would blame her. She’d have something exciting to write in her diary and everyone would want to be her friend.

Nothing
could beat a dead child.

Em grunted in frustration, and kicked her legs – and the boot flew off. She lunged to try to catch it, her centre of gravity tipping suddenly too far—

Ruby grabbed the hood of Em’s coat and yanked her back from the edge, dragging her away, across the mud and stones, her heart thudding with how close it had come – how close she had
let
it come…

Her adrenalin raced. ‘NO!’ she shouted in Em’s face and shook her too hard. ‘NO!’

Em’s face screwed up and she started to roar with fright.

Ruby didn’t care.
She
was the one who should be roaring with fright. It served Em right if she had got a shock. It was better than falling off a cliff, wasn’t it? Let her cry. Ruby almost slapped her too, just for being so stupid.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Maggie, running from the clearing.

‘Em nearly fell off the cliff,’ said Ruby. ‘I saved her just in time.’

Maggie stared at her and then at Em. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘thanks.’ Then she grabbed Em roughly by the hand and shook her too, prompting new screams.

‘I told you not to go close to the edge! Where’s your other boot?’

‘It fell over the cliff,’ said Ruby.

Maggie rolled her eyes – just the way Ruby had seen Maggie’s mother do.

‘Come on, you,’ she said, and started back down the path, pulling the bawling Em behind her with her one wrinkled sock already clotted with mud and trailing out behind her.

When they had gone, Ruby edged to the drop on her knees so she could look over. Far below on the beach, a tiny pink L was Em’s boot.

Empty of a child.

Ruby stayed there for ages, just looking at it.

She couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

MISS SHARPE SMILED
at Mr and Mrs Trick. It was what she liked to call her Meet the Parents Smile: head tilted, eyebrows a little concerned, teeth not showing. It was a smile that said,
Your child is special and unique and wonderful. BUT…

Mrs Sharpe sincerely wished she had time to invite parents along just to tell them that their children were well-behaved and handed their homework in on time; it would have been a refreshing change. Still, it was good that both Ruby’s parents had come. It was so nice when the fathers engaged.

While she’d waited, Miss Sharpe had played her personal guessing game. She had met Mr Trick already, of course. He was wiry and brown, with dark sideburns. Sideburns that were just that little bit too long, perhaps? Verging on the Elvis impersonator. Miss Sharpe liked a good Elvis, but Elvis was The King and Mr Trick was plainly not – although when they arrived he
was
dressed in black boots, black jeans and black shirt – a dusty Comeback Special.

Mr Trick looked nothing like Ruby, so Miss Sharpe had imagined that Mrs Trick would be a stout and freckled redhead to make up for it. But when Alison Trick walked in, Miss Sharpe gave herself one mark out of ten – and felt
that
was being generous. She had never been a beauty herself, but had always appreciated beauty in others, and Ruby Trick’s mother had been beautiful.

Apart from the tired smudges around her eyes, she still was.

Mrs Trick’s skin was flawless – that clear, pale complexion that is only achieved through good genes moisturized by rain. Her bobbed hair was the colour of ripe wheat, while her eyes were icy blue, and fringed with long, coppery lashes.

She was so far out of Mr Trick’s league that Miss Sharpe wondered how he’d got so lucky. Even
she
felt a little flustered by it.

‘Now I see where Ruby gets her lovely red hair,’ she gushed, but Mrs Trick didn’t smile. She only brushed her own hair around one ear in a nervous tic and said, ‘It runs in my family.’

Mrs Trick couldn’t take a compliment. She sounded dismissive – almost defensive – and Miss Sharpe decided to move swiftly on.

‘Have a seat,’ she said. They all sat on the children’s chairs because parents were
equals
, and they quickly got on to first-name terms because this wasn’t the 1950s.

Alison and John.

‘Thanks so much for coming,’ Miss Sharpe kicked off. ‘Ruby’s a wonderful little girl.’

Silence.

That was unusual. That was the point where the parents always said,
Thank you!
Or
Yes, we think she’s a genius.
Or
We’re glad to hear you say so, because at home she’s a little shit.

Something.

But Ruby Trick’s parents said nothing. They just continued to look at Miss Sharpe with mild concern. They seemed to have no interest in the
wonderful.
Only in the
BUT
…

So Miss Sharpe stopped the flannel and got to the point.

‘But the reason I’ve asked you here is because I’m just a little bit concerned about her, too. Lately she’s been quite tired at school.’

Miss Sharpe noticed that Alison glanced at her husband, but he didn’t return the look.

‘She seems fine at home.’

‘She’s not complained of feeling unwell?’

Alison smiled faintly. ‘Only every day. She tries it on, you know? All kids do, don’t they?’

‘Of course,’ said Miss Sharpe. She smiled and hesitated before continuing. ‘There’s something else I’m a bit concerned about.’ She took Ruby’s diary off the table. ‘Sometimes she uses inappropriate language.’

‘Like swearing?’ said Alison.

‘No. Well, yes, but attitudes too,’ said Miss Sharpe, suddenly wishing that John Trick hadn’t been engaged enough to come along. ‘She’s started using derogatory words like “slag” and “bitch”, and even more inappropriate things …’

‘Really?’ Alison Trick looked genuinely surprised.

‘Not a lot, but it seems to be getting worse.’

‘Can I see?’

Feeling herself starting to redden, Miss Sharpe fumbled the book around so that Alison could read it, which she did – out loud.

‘Daddy loves Mummy, even though she is a whore.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

So uncomfortable.

So silent.

Alison Trick handed the book back without a word, but there were two new small rosy patches on her pale cheeks. Like a doll. She didn’t look at her husband.

‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ said Miss Sharpe.

Alison just shook her head, so Miss Sharpe went on, ‘Please don’t worry unduly. Children make up all sorts of rubbish in their diaries. I’d have to be in cloud cuckoo land to believe half this stuff! I mean, I’ve got children in my class who would be in the circus – or in prison – if you believed everything they wrote!’

Miss Sharpe knew she was talking too much, but that was only because they weren’t talking at all. She wasn’t used to people who didn’t know how to hold up their end of the conversational bargain, and now she couldn’t stop babbling.

‘Obviously I don’t want the children to feel inhibited while writing their diaries, but this is a little unusual.’

Alison gave a small, brief smile. ‘My mother used to say, “A bit of inhibition goes a long way.” ’

Miss Sharpe blushed. Alison Trick was right. She should have been more strict about the diaries. More of a grown-up.

‘Can I see that?’ John held out his hand for the diary.

Trick flicked blindly through the little blue book on his lap, while his brain churned. Random words skittered accusingly along the blue lines. Bitches and skanks and slags . . . his own words and thoughts bounced back to him now off the pages of a child’s diary.

Only slags paint their nails.

If she was hitching she was just asking for it.

Whore.

Adam.

He stopped and read that.

Adam brought me a donkey from Clovelly. Its the best present I ever got.