The Perfect Girl Page 12

  “But why?”

  “They picked her off, treated her a bit differently, probably offered her extra food or an easier time of it. Whatever it was, she’s their slave now. She’s more like one of them than one of us.”

  “It’s true,” said Fizz. “She’s been brainwashed.”

  Sapphire shook her head. “There’s no such thing.”

  “You’ll see for yourself. Just remember she can’t be trusted.”

  “She’s my sister!”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean as much as it used to,” said Ingrid. “We’re your family now.”

  Fizz rolled her eyes. “Could you be any cornier?”

  “I thought it was more creepy,” Harmony said.

  “But I don’t understand; why did you do it, Sapphire?” Ingrid asked. “Why did you choose to become a May Queen, knowing what had happened to Claire?”

  “But that’s just it!” Sapphire said. “I didn’t know what had happened to Claire. Not really. I was told that Peter Helston had confessed. But he never stood trial and part of me continued to wonder if the killer was still out there. I suppose, deep down, I just knew.”

  By taking the May Queen’s throne, she had hoped to lure the May Queen Killer. But she had never expected her sister to show up in his place. She remembered running through the crowds after Claire, desperate, frantic to catch her. All she could think of was that they were going to be together again. And they could have been. Why had she done this to her? How could she?

  Ingrid started to sing again, her beautiful voice lifting them all up out of the cellar. Sapphire lay back and listened. It seemed so unfair. She couldn’t believe she was so close to Claire and yet locked away, on the other side of a cellar door. It was the worst possible kind of torture. She thought she had hit rock bottom when she was told Claire was dead, but this was far worse. She needed to know what was going on and she needed to know soon or she would go mad, she really would.

  The lift started to rumble again. The May Queens looked at each other.

  “She’s coming back to talk to me,” Sapphire said.

  “It might not be Claire,” Ingrid warned. “You must be careful, Sapphire.”

  “I just want to see for myself that she’s still alive!”

  “She is. We’ve all seen her.”

  “Then why has she done this to me? How could she do this to her own sister?”

  “Come away from the door,” Ingrid begged.

  But Sapphire could not hold herself back. “Claire!” she cried, as the door swung open. She looked at the mournful creature who had Claire’s eyes and nose, but not her confidence or her smile.

  Claire looked at her strangely, as though they had never met before. “Bring me the old tray,” she said, “and I’ll give you a new one.”

  Sapphire did as she was told, but when she handed Claire the tray, she deliberately brushed her hand with her own. Claire’s fingers were freezing cold and she had gnarly nails that needed attention. Still, it was definitely her. And Sapphire craved her closeness more than ever.

  “You’re looking at me as if you don’t know me,” she said. “It’s me, Gertrude.”

  Claire looked at her without emotion. She held out a tray with a cup of tea on it, but Sapphire refused to take it.

  “What are we doing here? Why can’t we go home?”

  Claire pulled away from her, but Sapphire refused to let go.

  “Don’t leave me here,” she begged. “Let me come with you!”

  “That’s not possible,” said Claire, her voice sounding robotic.

  “Who are you?” Sapphire asked. The sister she remembered could be self-centred at times, but this new Claire lacked all emotion. “What have they done to you?” she asked, more softly.

  “I have to go now.” Claire started back up the steps. Sapphire clung to her legs, but she lacked the energy to hold her back.

  “Wait, please don’t go yet! Please – I just want to talk to you!”

  Claire did not stop. Whatever they had done to her, it had worked.

  “Claire!”

  The door thundered closed and she heard it lock. She picked up the tray her sister had left and hurled it as hard as she could. Its contents smashed against the door before clattering noisily down the steps.

  Jock replayed the documentary for what seemed like the millionth time. It was hard to imagine that the shy, dowdy Gertrude was actually his Sapphire. Yet there was a certain something, a likeness in her manner, that told him he was right. She didn’t even look the same – her hair, her clothes, her weight, even the way she held herself. If this really was Sapphire then it wasn’t just her name she had changed since Claire had gone missing. But he still needed proof. He had already checked for birth certificates and found there were no Sapphire Butterworths recorded in the UK around the time she was born, but she could have been born abroad. He had found the records for a Gertrude Scutter, however, born in Cardiff in 1980. That would make her a few years older than she had led him to believe, but as Gertrude was not a popular name for his generation, there was a strong likelihood that this was her.

  The librarian tutted as his mobile phone vibrated loudly in his pocket. He stepped outside to take the phone call.

  “Jock, it’s Robbie.”

  “I know. Your name comes up on the display.”

  “Listen, I went down to the archives and there was no record of anyone changing their name to Sapphire Butterworth.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “It was just a theory.”

  “Well, the librarian fellow there said people don’t usually bother.”

  “Don’t bother?”

  “With making it official. Apparently, you don’t have to. You just decide to change your name and that’s it done. I might change mine to Big Hairy–”

  “OK, Robbie. I’m hanging up now. Thanks for your help.”

  Great! If there were no official documents, how was he supposed to get proof?

  His phone beeped again and he smiled as he read Dylan’s text:

  ‘Beer and music in the park. NO TIME TO WASTE!’

  It wasn’t a hard decision. He had been in the library all afternoon. A cold beer would go down very nicely.

  He had not ventured into Fleckford Park before, despite its central location. The grass was freshly mown and fragrant, the sun having dried off yesterday’s rain, and there was a brass band belting out Beatles hits to a small, appreciative audience. He found Dylan snuggled under a blanket, a straw hat on his head and a pair of dark glasses hiding his drunkenness from the respectable people all around.

  Jock nudged him with his foot. “What happened to you?”

  “There were giving away free beer!” he lamented. “It was outrageous. In broad daylight. And none of these good people seemed interested, so I felt obliged to help.”

  “Wait, who’s giving away beer? I can’t see anyone.”

  “That’s because I took it all,” Dylan said. “No one else would touch it. They all wanted cider. So it was all on me.”

  “You drank it all?”

  “I did what I could. The rest is in my rucksack.”

  Jock unzipped Dylan’s bag and pulled out a Bishops Finger. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he told Dylan, “so you won’t end up drinking anymore.”

  “You’re a good man, Jock.”

  “I know I am.”

  He let Dylan sleep it off while he drank his beer and listened to the music. It was growing dark by the time the band stopped playing and the older folks packed up their picnic baskets and folding chairs and carried them back to their cars.

  He prodded Dylan. “Come on, wake up. People are tripping over you.”

  Dylan opened his eyes. “Are we at Glastonbury?”

  “No, we’re in the park. Come on, show’s over. Time to go.”

  He hauled Dylan to his feet and pulled one arm over his shoulder.

  “Damn, you’re heavy!” he complained
. “Come on; you’ve got to walk. I can’t lift you.”

  But Dylan just lolled against him. “My legs are on backwards,” he slurred, too drunk to help.

  “Need a hand?” asked Simon, appearing at his side.

  “Yes please,” Jock said. Given his current predicament, he didn’t have much choice. There was no way he could get Dylan home by himself.

  “Drunk as a skunk, isn’t he?” commented Verity, walking along beside them. She was much steadier than Dylan, despite her walking stick.

  Jock was getting a bit sick of it. Dylan was always bloody drunk. Why couldn’t he just enjoy a pint like everyone else? Why did he always have to go overboard?

  Fiona Hinklebury stood on the doorstep. Her shoes were polished to a shine and matched her handbag: a sensible, navy blue affair, large enough to house all the various leaflets she liked to produce.

  “Hello,” she said with her fixed smile. “Can I come in?”

  Gertrude fought back a fountain of anger and took her by the arm. “Please step this way. My mother is just in the living room. Perhaps you’d like to discuss her job opportunities with her?”

  She led Fiona through to the living room.

  “Hello, Mrs Scutter. How are …?” she froze, her position mimicking Gertrude’s mother’s. “Maureen? Are you …?”

  “No, she’s not dead,” Gertrude said impatiently. “She’s catatonic. But why don’t you go ahead and ask her a few questions? I’m sure she’ll be excited to hear about her job prospects.”

  Somehow she could hear Claire’s voice inside her, telling her what to say. Claire would really shove it in her face.

  “Well, Gertrude, I really don’t think it’s appropriate for me to–”

  “No, it isn’t, is it? Just like it wasn’t appropriate the last time,” Gertrude snapped.

  As Fiona backed towards the door, she bumped into the piano, sending sheet music flying all over the room.

  “Oh my goodness!”

  She bent down to gather it all up, grasping at the papers as they blew about in the wind.

  “Don’t worry; Mum’ll pick them up,” Gertrude goaded her. She knew she was being a bitch. She just couldn’t help herself. Years of rage bubbled to the surface.

  Fiona gave up trying to pick up the papers. She looked close to tears. “I can see you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I’ll let myself out.”

  “You do that,” she called after her. “I’ll get Mum to give you a call in the week.”

  She watched from the window as Fiona climbed back into her sensible Vauxhall Astra and drove off, almost hitting the neighbour’s wall. Then she slumped down beside her mother, who stared, unseeing, at the Coronation Street omnibus.

  “So, what did I miss?” she asked.

  Her mother heard every word she said; she was sure of it. Her face remained indifferent but Gertrude knew she was listening. Her mother was still in there somewhere. She was just temporarily missing, like lost baggage.

  Her mother’s GP, Doctor Benson, called round later that day.

  “And how are you today, Maureen?” she asked, addressing her mother directly. Gertrude waited to see if her mother would answer but, of course, she didn’t.

  “When’s she going to snap out of it?” she asked.

  The doctor shook her head. “I really don’t know what to tell you. It could be days, weeks or even months. Schizophrenia is a serious brain disorder, Gertrude.”

  She nodded impatiently. “Yes, I know. She’s had it for years. But she’s never been like this before. It’s like she’s just … frozen.”

  “I think the time has come to consider putting your mother into residential care,” Doctor Benson said. “A bed has just become available in a local unit. Now, I know this must be very hard for you, Gertrude, but I don’t think it’s possible for you to look after her on your own at the moment, especially in light of the trauma you’ve just suffered.”

  The doctor looked at her as if she expected her to argue, but instead Gertrude felt a life force rising within her. Was it possible? After all these years, was she finally being released? She wanted to jump out of her chair and dance around the room, but instead she said, “Do you think it’s for the best?”

  Doctor Benson looked at her kindly. “I know you’ve been caring for your mother for a long time, but you have to consider yourself as well as her. I think it might be time.”

  Gertrude couldn’t remember the last time she had considered herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been allowed to consider herself. She wondered if, as the doctor had suggested, she would feel a pang of regret. But in truth she could barely even look at her mother anymore, at what she had become.

  17

  “Has there been any progress?”

  “I’m afraid not, Gertrude.”

  “I see.”

  She dug her nails into the ample flesh of her thigh and hated herself for her own selfish thoughts. A good daughter would be upset that her mother wasn’t improving, but she was not a good daughter. Not anymore. Because if her mother got better, then she would feel compelled to fly home to be with her. As it was … She put down the phone and poured herself a large glass of Corsican wine, which she carried out onto the balcony. The midday sun bronzed her shoulders as she watched people splash about in the pool below.

  She leaned back in her deck chair and her eyes were just beginning to close when she heard a knock at the door. She jumped up to answer it, expecting room service, but instead she found herself looking at the friendly faces of the girls staying in the room opposite.

  “Hi, Gertrude. Do you want to come into town with us later? We’re going to the Luna club.”

  “Er, tonight?” She was about to make an excuse, then she stopped herself. Why the hell not? She was a free agent now. It wasn’t like she had anyone else to worry about. And that was how she spent much of her holiday; she danced all night and slept in as late as she wanted. After a few weeks, she got herself a part-time job, waitressing at a pavement cafe where most of the clientele were English. The cafe owner, Sondra, rented her a room that was considerably cheaper than the hotel she had been staying in. Her schoolgirl French, although stilted to begin with, grew increasingly fluent and she was surprised how much she enjoyed herself, despite the pressing weight of her grief. The sun radiated warmth through her body and cleared up her blotchy skin. She took risks with her appearance, trying out a little make-up and dying her hair platinum blonde. Her appetite naturally reduced and she began to feel that she was finally her own person, quite separate from her crazy mother and her tragic sister. After everything she had been through, things were finally starting to look up.

  Someone was vacuuming the stairs as Jock left the Dragon the next morning. Neil must have finally hired a cleaner. About time, too. He bet those carpets hadn’t seen a Hoover in years. They still stank of tobacco, despite almost a decade’s smoking ban.

  “Morning,” said Angie, as he walked into the tea shop. “What can I get you?”

  “I was meant to be on my way to the library,” he confessed. “But my stomach had other ideas.”

  “What do you think your stomach would like?” she asked.

  “Crumpets,” he said. “Bring me all the crumpets.”

  “Very well, but we may need to reinforce the table.” Her eyes twinkled. “No Battenberg this morning?”

  He smiled. “Maybe later, for dessert.”

  “And your usual pot of Yorkshire?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He ate his crumpets while he worked. He barely even noticed them as his fingers flew over the keys. He always seemed to write his novels in fast bursts and this one was no exception.

  Just as he was wiping the crumbs from his mouth, Simon stormed in. Perhaps ‘stormed’ was too strong a word, given that he held the door open for another customer, but he had a face like thunder all the same.

  “I thought you were working this morning?” Angie murmured, greeting him at the door.

&nbs
p; “There were TV cameras outside the college,” he said. “The head didn’t want the students being harassed so she told me to take some holiday.”

  His eyes glistened slightly and for a moment, Jock wondered if he was going to cry. He turned quickly back to his computer, not wanting to get involved.

  “Oh, poor love,” he heard Angie say. “Take a seat, pet, and I’ll bring you some camomile tea.”

  “And a wholemeal muffin, if you don’t mind,” Simon managed, weakly, as he slumped down at the empty table next to Jock’s. He glanced up just in time to see her kiss the shiny spot on top of his head.

  “How am I supposed to take time off?” he asked. “I really don’t know how you do it, Jock. I can’t imagine sitting around here all day.”

  Jock set his jaw. He was about to reply that he actually worked very hard when he realised Simon was ribbing him. He had forgotten about his strange sense of humour. So subtle, you almost missed it.

  “Now here’s someone who could run a masterclass in pissing time away,” Jock said, as Dylan walked in. “Alright?” he greeted him. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I just came over here to fart.”

  “Lovely.”

  He watched as Dylan pulled the lining out of one pocket and then the other. “You wouldn’t lend me a tenner, would you?” he asked. “I’m a bit short this week.”

  “I wouldn’t lend him money,” Simon said in an undertone.

  Jock opened his wallet and peeled off a ten pound note.

  “Thanks, Jock; you’re a lifesaver!”

  “Well, you know what they say about a fool and his money,” Simon said, as Dylan headed to the counter. “Don’t expect to get that back any time soon.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Jock said, trying not to mind. After all, what was a measly tenner between friends?

  “So what’s this book of yours about, anyway?” Simon asked, as he turned back to his laptop.

  “Oh, it’s a murder mystery. They all are actually. I’ve decided to travel around the country and set a book at each place I stay.”