Linda Pallister had returned to Leeds and was set to appear before a tribunal and be made to answer for her actions. (‘Ah, the whirligig of time,’ Julia said.) She had helped a four-year-old witness to disappear. Put him in a care home in Roundhay run by nuns, changed his name. And never mentioned his sister to anyone. Told the nuns he was a liar, lied all the time, about having a sister, about his dad killing his mum. When Michael was eighteen he was handed his birth certificate and found out his name, but Linda Pallister never came forward and told him the truth about his mother, or his sister. ‘She was coerced,’ Michael Braithwaite said, ‘her own kid threatened.’
‘Not an excuse,’ the two Jacksons said in unison. Brian Jackson, Michael Braithwaite and Jackson were eating lunch in the bistro in 42 The Calls. Jackson, still shaken by the scene on Leeds station, drank a double malt instead of lunch.
Michael Braithwaite’s memories faded until the slate was wiped clean, but he realized there was an emptiness that would destroy him eventually. ‘Therapy in rehab,’ he shrugged. ‘My name is Michael Braithwaite and I’m an alcoholic, all that stuff.’ Guiltily, Jackson put his whisky down. ‘Decided to go looking,’ Michael Braithwaite said.
‘And found me,’ Brian Jackson said, beaming. ‘Twenty years in the Met behind me. Give me a task and I’m like a dog with a bone.’ Jackson had begun to think of Brian Jackson as his doppelgänger – God knows why – but now he could see that really he was his polar opposite. ‘Made an appointment with Linda Pallister, tracked her down,’ Brian Jackson said. ‘Dog, bone, et cetera. She spilled the beans, most of them anyway, seemed keen to get it off her chest. Changed her mind, took fright, of course.’
Brian Jackson’s phone rang – the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth, Da-da-da-daa. Sounded naff on a phone. He didn’t answer it. ‘In constant demand,’ he said to Jackson.
Linda Pallister had not been squirrelled away by Brian Jackson. She had, despite her daughter Chloe’s protestations, simply run away. ‘Bolted,’ Brian Jackson said, ‘to avoid facing the music.’ She had caught an easyJet flight to Malaga and hidden herself away like a desperado in a cheap apartment block on the Costa del Sol.
‘It’s all quite banal really, isn’t it?’ Julia said. ‘People frightened of losing their jobs, their reputations, their marriages. You feel that tragedy should be more operatic somehow.’
Jackson’s knee-jerk reaction was to disagree with her but when he thought about it he suspected Julia might be right. His own sister, as beautiful as she was, more beautiful than was possible in his memory, wanted nothing more than the most ordinary of lives and what she got was the most ordinary of murders. A random act of violence. A girl who opened the wrong box. As far as her killer was concerned, Niamh could probably have been anyone – the girl before her, the girl after her. Better to go up in flames at the stake, or jump from a mountain ledge, be torn apart by wolves, rather than have your fate placed in the hands of some wanker waiting at a bus stop.
‘The Ambassador loves having his tummy tickled,’ Julia said.
Jackson was definitely going to give the dog a different name. He wondered what Louise, back in Edinburgh, had called the puppy he had given her. She probably hadn’t even kept it.
‘Where are you going now?’ Julia asked him when he said goodbye to her at security in Manchester airport.
‘Journey’s end,’ he said.
‘In lovers meeting?’
‘I doubt it.’
He was still looking for a new home, he had to lay his head down somewhere every night. He supposed he was still looking for his thieving wife as well, but his enthusiasm for the hunt had cooled. He suspected he might have done with travelling for now. He held Nathan, the boy, in his arms, and kissed him goodbye. And there it was.
To his surprise, to his alarm – the fierce churning of the heart, the unbreakable, sacrificial bond. Love. He knew who he was, he was this boy’s father.
It just went to show, you never knew what you were going to feel until you felt it. It was terrifying, although Julia would have said ‘wonderful’, being the full half of the glass.
‘Stop putting words in my mouth,’ Julia said.
In the security control room at the Merrion Centre, Grant had his feet up, reading the paper instead of watching the screens. Leslie could see the headline in the paper, ‘Leeds prostitute murders – man held for questioning’ and then something about ‘a new Ripper’.
‘It never stops,’ Leslie said.
‘Slappers, what do you expect?’ Grant said, reaching for a packet of Monster Munch.
‘I expect people to behave better.’
‘You’ll be waiting a long time. What’ve you got there?’ Grant asked.
‘A purse.’ Someone had handed it in, found it in the car park. The purse was bulky, stuffed with all kinds of things, credit cards, store cards, little cards with dental and hair appointments, some of them well out of date. Notes of the ‘Remember to’ variety that the owner must have written to herself. Miss Matilda Squires. Leslie remembered her, how upset she’d been. She found a note tucked into the back of the purse with a name and address on it. ‘My address,’ it said helpfully, just in case someone wanted to steal her identity or turn up on her doorstep and rob her at knifepoint. ‘Matilda Squires,’ Leslie said. ‘Isn’t that the name of the actress who fell under the train?’
‘Dunno,’ Grant said. He turned the page and gawped openly at the good-as-naked Page 3 girl on offer. Leslie missed Tracy. She didn’t allow sleazy newspapers and snack food. Leslie wondered why she had never come back from holiday.
‘Maybe she’s dead,’ Grant said, quite animated by the idea. She wasn’t dead. She had sent Leslie a postcard, a picture of the London Eye, and on the back Tracy had written, ‘Won’t be coming back, it was nice knowing you, have a good life, best wishes,Tracy.’ She didn’t tell Grant. The message wasn’t for him.
Leslie was decamping as well. She hadn’t told anyone but her flight to Canada left in a couple of days. She had taken her cue from Tracy, she was simply going to disappear. She’d get a job for the summer, go to the lake with her parents and her brother and her dog and then after that she’d get started on her good life. Leave this place far behind.
The best room in the house. The ‘Sleeping Beauty suite’. It was meant for a bigger family, of course, but big and best was what Tracy wanted for the kid. She had been lucky to get the suite, only managed it because the hotel had a last-minute cancellation. Tracy’s old friends, the world and his wife, or in this case Europe and his Frau, all seemed to be taking their holidays in Disneyland Paris at the same time.
She had expected there would be only parents with children in the park but there were all sorts of permutations – groups of young guys, gangs of giggling girls, old couples and honeymooners. Tracy couldn’t imagine why you would want to spend a romantic break in the centre of the dark beating heart of capitalism.
There was even the occasional lone male. ‘Beware,’ Tracy murmured to the kid.
It was surprising how easy it was to step out of one life and into another. They had spent a couple of weeks lost in London, where no one knew who you were or cared. They’d tested out their new identities on doctors and dentists and opticians. Kid had had her ears syringed, eyes tested, wore specs now. Added to her allure. Tracy, or rather Imogen Brown, had opened a new bank account and Harry Reynolds had transferred funds into it, all nicely laundered with a credible history. She was surprised, she hadn’t actually expected him to come through with the money, thought he would simply sell her house on and pocket the profit.
When they passed through passport control at St Pancras Tracy had expected there to be questions, expected to be scrutinized suspiciously. Expected an expressionless official to take them to one side and say, ‘Would you just come this way, madam?’ but they boarded the Eurostar train with ease and in no time at all they were in the Magic Kingdom.
The kid had her priorities. In the hotel shop Tracy bought her a new
fairy outfit – Tinker Bell’s green attire. The matching wand had a butterfly hovering on the top. Half the kids in the hotel were dressed up, dozens of fairies and Peter Pans, the occasional pirate. You couldn’t walk along a hotel corridor without bumping into an adult re-enactor pretending to be Goofy or Mary Poppins. It was surreal and vaguely alarming. The kid accepted it as normal.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,’ Tracy said when they returned to the hotel suite, ‘who’s the fairest fairy of them all?’
‘Me,’ Courtney said when she saw her reflection. Little hands making stars, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’.
‘You look lovely,’ Tracy said.
‘I do,’ Courtney agreed.
They walked down Main Street towards the hallowed walls of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Le Château de la Belle au Bois Dormant. ‘That’s French,’ Tracy said to Courtney. Everything was in French, because unlike other countries the French refused to compromise on that. What were those planning meetings like? All those Disney executives, the Mouse’s men, sitting down to coffee and croissants around a table with French officials insisting that there would be no translation (Non) and the Americans trying to imagineer that.
Tracy wondered if Disneyland Paris was technically American soil and if she could throw herself on the mercy of Mickey and ask for asylum. They could move to the States, somewhere quiet, away from the public eye, Oregon, New Mexico, a small town in the Midwest, somewhere no one would look for them.
All the bright shiny places. Long way from the starlight and the firelight. Long, long way. They queued. And then they queued again. And then after they had queued they queued some more. They queued to see Sleeping Beauty’s castle, they queued to see Snow White’s cottage, both, frankly, rather disappointing. They queued to fly with Peter Pan into Neverland, which they both liked. They queued to ride around in the Mad Hatter’s teacups and on Dumbo’s back. They queued for the Voyages of Pinocchio which was rubbish and for Pirates of the Caribbean which was good and, they both agreed, just a little bit scary. They stood for an eternity corralled between railings in a queue that was like a fat snake, waiting to be loaded on to boats on a shallow artificial waterway before being carried away on the current, borne helplessly into the terrifying animatronic vision of ‘It’s A Small World’. When they finally escaped back into the big world they spent another lifetime in the pythonesque grip of a queue in order to ride on the Disneyland Railroad.
Kid was a heroic queuer.
They stood on Main Street and watched the parade go by and ate ice cream. By the end of the day Courtney had that stunned look again, the one abused kids wore. Tracy expected that if she looked in a mirror she would see the same look on her face as well. The music from ‘It’s A Small World’ was lodged in Tracy’s brain. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get rid of it.
‘And we can do it all again tomorrow,’ she said, as they staggered into the hotel through the back entrance.
This was what you did if you had a terminal illness, wasn’t it? You packed the days, took the helicopter flight over the Victoria Falls, the boat down the Nile, the train to Venice, the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building, You went on safari in Africa and played the slots in Vegas because you were suddenly greedy for the world you were about to lose. Or you just rode round in giant teacups taking endless photos of a kid giving you the thumbs-up. Wondering how long it could last.
When they returned to their Sleeping Beauty suite an envelope with the Disneyland logo and Mme Imogen Brown written on it had been pushed under the door. Tracy thought it would be information about activities in the park but inside the envelope was another one, one word, ‘Tracy’, handwritten on it. She’d been found. Her hand trembled as she opened the envelope. Another envelope. This was ridiculous. Again, her name written on it, a hand she recognized as Barry’s. It was like Chinese whispers, was she just going to keep on opening envelopes that grew smaller and smaller until what, a final message? Gotcha! or The treasure here is you? When she turned over the third envelope she found a message written on the flap. A message from Harry Reynolds. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised he’d been able to find her.
Tracy – Barry asked me to send you this. I owe him a couple of favours. Don’t know if you heard but Barry’s dead. Killed his daughter and then topped himself. Left a fucking mess behind. Len Lomax went under a train and Ray Strickland’s being done for a prozzie murder decades ago. Thought you’d like to know – yours, Harry.
Turn your back for a minute and the world shifted on its axis. There was a PS from Harry – Took the money you owed round to the Pole like you asked me.
She put a cartoon on the TV for the kid and read Barry’s letter, finally found out the truth about Michael Braithwaite. He had a sister. Tracy’s heart dropped ten floors. First thing the kiddy had said to her. Where’s my sister?
‘What was your favourite thing?’ Tracy asked Courtney as they queued to go into the restaurant.
‘My dress,’ she said without hesitation.
The waiter led them to a table by the window where they had an excellent view of Sleeping Beauty’s illuminated castle. They toasted each other with wine and Coca-Cola. Tracy drank a modest half bottle of red although she could have drunk a vineyard. She thought of the kid, sitting next to her while they flew to Neverland. The feeling of cherishing someone small and helpless. Made her think of Michael Braithwaite, all those years when nobody cared what happened to him. A Lost Boy. She was grateful to Barry for providing her with the happy ending. Poor old Barry, never got to have his retirement do after all. She raised a silent toast to him.
Mickey did the rounds of the tables. As did Goofy and Pluto. The kid liked Pluto best. Thumbs-up all round. Tracy took photo after photo. Terminal illness.
After dinner Courtney got dressed in her new Minnie pyjamas, bought in the hotel shop, and they ordered hot chocolate on room service, watched a DVD in bed. Disney obviously.
Kid had her chattels laid out on the bed:
the tarnished silver thimble
the Chinese coin with a hole in the middle
the purse with a smiling monkey’s face on it
the snow globe containing a crude plastic model of the Houses of Parliament
the shell like a cream horn
the shell shaped like a coolie hat
the pine cone
Dorothy Waterhouse’s sapphire engagement ring
the filigree leaf from the wood
the links from a cheap gold chain
the light-up Virgin Mary from the Saab
the silver star from the old wand
Another couple of years of this and they would need a truck to carry the kid’s cargo around. Another couple of years. Tracy couldn’t imagine she would be able to hang on to that future because although this was the beginning of something it felt like the end. Always had. Always would.
From now on Tracy would forever be looking over her shoulder, waiting for the knock on the door. Cameras had tracked them everywhere, if somebody was looking for them they would find them. Harry Reynolds had. And if the bad didn’t get them then the good ones probably would.
When she bought the kid she made a covenant with the devil. She could have someone to love but it would cost her everything. She thought of the Little Mermaid, every step torture, a pain like the piercing of sharp swords. Just to be human, to love.
Kid dipped her wand in Tracy’s direction. Granting a wish or casting a spell, hard to tell which. Courtney had knitted herself into Tracy’s soul. What would happen if she was ripped away?
This was love. It didn’t come free, you paid in pain. Your own. But then nobody ever said love was easy. Well, they did, but they were idiots.
Her phone rang. New phone, new name, new number. No one had the number. Perhaps it was her service provider with a courtesy call. Perhaps it was another mysterious caller, or even the same one. Or something more sinister. She switched the phone off, watched the DVD instead. Tinker Bell was looking for lost tr
easure. Wasn’t everyone?
1975: 22 March
When he woke he immediately reached beneath the pillow for his favourite car, a blue-and-white panda police car. With the car clutched in one hand he climbed out of the bed he shared with his sister. They slept top-to-tail, squeezed in. ‘Like sardines,’ his mother said. His sister wasn’t in the bed. He thought she must have gone through to their mother’s bed some time in the night.
He was a monkey, his mother said. Full of beans. Sometimes his mother laughed and squeezed him and said he was tiny. He was four. Other times, when she was cross, she said, For fuck’s sake you’re a big boy now, Michael, why don’t you behave like one? Sometimes she danced around the kitchen with him, he stood on the tops of her feet and she whirled him round and round, laughing and laughing, until he shouted at her to stop. Other times she told him to get out of her sight and stay out of it. He never knew how it was going to be.
He was hungry and went into the kitchen to get some cornflakes. There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen and he carried his bowl carefully through to the living room. He ate his cornflakes before he went to look for his mother. She was lying on the bedroom floor. He tried to wake her up. He switched the kettle on and made her a cup of tea the way he had watched her do. He spilled a lot of it and forgot to put milk and sugar in it. She said she had to start the day with a cup of tea and a fag. He went and looked for her fags. Put the cup of tea and the cigarettes next to her head but she still didn’t wake up. Tried to put a cigarette in her mouth.
‘Mummy?’ he said and shook her. When she wouldn’t wake up he lay down beside her and tried to cuddle her (Who’s my lovely boy, give us a cuddle then). After a while he got bored, scrambled up off the floor and went looking for his other cars.