The Hunger Trace (4 page)

‘Give her another drink,’ David shouted. People laughed, but not Maggie. She kept him under surveillance for the rest of the night, and – sure enough – she found him with Grace later, sitting outside by the river, his hand on her back. He tried to tip some liquid into her mouth, with limited success.

‘Excuse me. What’s going on?’ Maggie said.

‘Well, I think it’s bedtime for this one.’

‘Right. And you know Grace, do you?’

‘No, we’ve just met,’ David said, ‘Charming girl. Bit vomity.’ He turned and saw Maggie’s disapproval. ‘Listen, you needn’t think I’m going to have my way with her. I’m a sexual submissive. She’s useless to me in this state. She couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo.’

Maggie squinted, unsure. A taxi pulled up, casting a little light onto the street, and his eyes. ‘How do you know where she lives?’ Maggie said.

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell the cabbie to take her around the block a few times and dump her in the river.’

Maggie laughed, in spite of herself.

‘Are you going to give me a hand, or just stand there and accuse me of molestation?’ David said.

Maggie took the ankles, and David held Grace under the armpits. They hoisted her towards the car. He looked at Maggie, and smiled. ‘Their eyes met across a crowded body,’ he said.

‘You’re relentless,’ she said.

She put it down to the force of an unusual day – the romance of the new stags, the river outside – but each time she thought of him that month she reeled. People would later refer to the age gap, but Maggie’s first impression of David was of someone with a child’s view of the world. That freedom and fascination.

She couldn’t stop thinking back to his big right hand beneath Grace’s armpit as they carried her to the taxi, his thick fingers reaching all the way over her shoulder. Maggie had felt that same hand clasp the back of her head later that night, the latent force of it. The sensation had been dizzying.

The shock, when she found him in the viewing hide three weeks later, was coupled with the realisation that he must have been watching her for some time from behind the one-way glass. While the blood thumped in her head, he was garrulous and silly, asking loudly about mating rituals in front of a prim old couple in cagouls. The woman sighed and tutted. David took a bag of humbugs from his coat. ‘Do you want a sweetie?’ he said to the woman in the cagoul. Maggie laughed before she could stop herself.

She had spent her twenties in confusing relationships with evasive indie guys who were so closed they wouldn’t even say what they wanted to drink, so it was a huge relief to be with this man who insisted on speaking his mind, telling her his plans. Once Maggie had accepted her attraction to him, there were no barriers. He knew what he wanted from the start. Maggie, it appeared, knew what she wanted ten minutes after she got it.

‘Where are you even—? Where do you
live
?’ she said, in the dark, sweet-smelling alley by the covered market in Greenwich.

His eyes became serious for once. ‘I live in a castle,’ he said.

The day after he died the family solicitor had visited, and she had ushered him upstairs, out of Christopher’s way. ‘He’s left it to you,’ the solicitor said. For a moment she did not know what he meant. She thought it was another of those vague commiserative phrases. ‘Left what?’ she said. The solicitor turned to the window, looked out at the park.

Maggie surveyed that same ground from the high berth of the diving platform now. She counted the beating human hearts around her. The park staff would go home in another hour, leaving Christopher, who was skulking around out of sight in his makeshift den by the brook, and Louisa. Maggie had spoken to the villagers about Louisa. They called her Crow Jane, after Tim Nettles heard those words blaring out of the tape deck of her van. It was a shame she was so hostile, they said, because she’d probably scrub up nice if she lost the attitude, stripped off that birdshit-covered coat, spent half a day at ‘Hair Force One’ and took a leaf from her own falconry book on weight-management. In whispered asides, they said they had never understood why David kept her hanging around. But Maggie knew.

She looked over to the cottage. A light came on. Louisa held parts of David within her: stories, reflections, physical gestures that she had picked up over the long years of friendship. That was precious.

Two people in a three-mile radius. It was a start.

Maggie climbed back down to the ground and began to make her way to the house. She came to the wire fence of the ibex enclosure. She noted the wisps of hair and the familiar sharp scent by the wooden posts. She already knew that the ibex had escaped from the opposite end of the park, because the wires there had been cut, but something caught her eye. She crouched down by one of the posts. The top of it was broken and spattered with blood, most of which had soaked into the grain. There were still some dark traces of it on the grass below. Maggie ran her fingers over the blood on the wire. The park felt impossibly big to her at that moment, and she did not know how to defend it.

*    *    *

Louisa had always felt her nightmares to be droll and transparent. Of course, there were dreams of Anna Cliff – the hermit – and her children. Those would haunt her forever. She dreamed of walking through the fields with David, the quality of the light on that day in February 1975. Otherwise, her dreams consisted of giving birth to avian spinal cords with teeth, or finding five-foot hawks, their feathers tacky with blood, behind hedgerows. She did not need a mystic to decode those crude images. After the break-in she began to dream of the ibex kid she had saved. Sometimes she lay on the bank with him, sometimes he was steel-clad and in her bed. In all of the dreams she felt the constant repetition of his heartbeat. In the encyclopaedia she read that the ibex was once coveted for its healing properties. People drank its urine, and kept the bezoar stones from its intestines as a charm against cancer. But the heartbeat did not soothe her – it was more like a one-inch punch.

One night, several weeks after the releases, the beat was strong enough to wake her. She went downstairs to find an envelope which had dropped between her boots by the door. It contained a cheque for a thousand pounds (twice as much as she would need to fix the van), and a postcard:
Mrs Muster as Hebe.
The painting featured a strong Renaissance woman, staring out. For a moment Louisa did not notice the eagle feeding from the plate in the woman’s hand. She turned the card over:

Louisa sat down on the corduroy button-backed sofa and picked up her guitar, but she did not play, just looked at the flakes of finger-skin caught on the strings. She thought of the figure she had seen on the grounds that night. Even if she had wanted to tell Maggie, how could she explain her excellent vantage point?

She, too, had read the newspaper stories about the break-in. Maggie had responded to the scaremongering with an interview in the
Derbyshire Herald
, in which she spoke of the ignorance of the animal liberationists she assumed to be responsible.
‘Many of the animals “set free” were in fact infants, or ill
.
They will not survive in the wild without their parents. One of the foxes released was blind. That’s animal cruelty.’

Clever girl, Louisa thought. She wondered what Maggie had done to get such coverage when the ‘Lions on the Loose’ angle pulled in the punters. The photograph was of an ocelot cradled in arms to show that it was not much bigger than a domestic cat. The arms wore a ribbed thermal undergarment, tight to the skin with a row of tiny buttons up through the cuff, and a coat over the top with a zip pocket in the sleeve. The arms were Maggie’s and Louisa knew it; she was all straps and zips and buttons, that one.

These were the forms in which Louisa felt most comfortable dealing with people: cropped photos and handwriting, on newspaper and card.

Maggie stepped into the entrance hall of the house after her early morning rounds and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Powdery rays fell from the skylight onto the faded staircase runner, but for a few moments, all she could see was her breath.

They had once lived on the ground floor, but Christopher insisted that they move upstairs after David died. Maggie had told Christopher of his father’s death in David’s office, downstairs, and she recalled that she had been unable to cry. Christopher had curled into a huge ball on the floor, as still and silent as the stuffed foxes and hares that surrounded him.

She climbed the stairs. The second floor, where they now lived, was dusty and sparsely furnished. Planks of wood rested on garden rocks to serve as shelves, and smoky marks stained the walls above the defunct storage heaters. That morning, Maggie found the cold air heavy with the cedarwood and citrus of David’s aftershave. She had to steady herself. In the bathroom she found Chris Isaak blaring from the radio, and the bath rimmed with the rusty splinters of Christopher’s beard. A small pool of the aftershave dripped from the edge of the sink onto the bare floorboards.

As she walked through the hall, she could hear Christopher in the living room, and could tell from his tone that he was talking to the Samaritans. ‘Anyway, I can hear my arch-nemesis approaching, so I have to go. What? No, no, I’m no longer suicidal. Erm. Okay, bye.’ He laughed, and Maggie could discern, beneath his gravelly mirth, her late husband’s laugh.

She gave him time to organise a video as an alibi, waiting until the rasp of motor racing came from the TV before entering the room.

‘Morning, Christopher,’ she said.

‘Is it?’ he said.

She looked at her watch. ‘Well, yes.’

He was bulky, his large head lit by the dual burners of bright blue tinted contact lenses. His affected coolness was borrowed from 1950s Hollywood: he sat with one arm across the back of the sofa, and he often said, ‘Howdy.’ This morning the fingers of his right hand were speckled with the phosphorescent orange dust from a bag of Monster Munch. His limp lower lip was, as usual, split down the middle by a shining line of blood, which stained his front teeth and his dental brace. She crouched down by him, so their eyes were level.

‘I don’t suppose anybody has called about the missing animals?’ she asked.

‘How should I know? Anyway, you should hire security guards. I need to be in a secure environment in order to, erm, erm, flourish.’

Maggie smiled. It was a direct quote from his educational support document.

Christopher’s face brightened spontaneously. ‘Erm. I had the best breakfast in Christendom today. Guess what I had,’ he said.

‘Monster Munch?’

‘That was for afters.’

‘Then I can’t guess. Weetos?’

‘Nope. Whiskey and erm, cheesecake.’

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Maggie said.

‘Erm. I like cheesecake.’

‘You’re wearing your dad’s aftershave,’ she said.

‘Yes. And?
What if
?’

‘It’s nice. As long as you’ve not been drinking it.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

He had not washed his hair in the bath, and it rose in stiff golden clumps now. Maggie put her hand into one of the clumps, straightening out a few knots. Christopher looked at the television, but did not resist her touch.

‘You know, I had a word with the history guy at the college,’ Maggie said.

‘Who you’re in league with.’

‘I’m not in league with him. I’m not in league with anyone. Anyway, he says you can do a personal project without doing the rest of the qualification. It means you can write about Robin Hood, get all Sherwood on their asses.’

He fell silent, and she knew she had achieved a small victory. ‘Enrolment is Thursday,’ she said.

He stood up quickly, and left her looking at the impression of his knees in his jeans. ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

‘Pub,’ he said.

‘But they won’t serve you.’

‘They did last time. I look old enough. Why won’t they?’

She rose to her feet slowly and looked up at him. He exhaled with a loud whistle through his nose.

‘Because it’s eight-thirty in the morning,’ she said.

‘Whose side are you on?’

She sighed on hearing this stock phrase of his. It was sometimes possible to turn his extraordinary sense of cliché to her advantage, but with that smell in the room she did not feel like it. She felt, in fact, as sick as a parrot.

Christopher left, and sorrow gripped hard. The smell bloomed again, and she thought of the aftershave staining the wood of the bathroom floor. She found some newspaper to absorb it.