Ann Cleeves: Killjoy

Gus produced in Prue, as always, mixed feelings. She knew he was an arrogant bastard, but she enjoyed her work in the Arts Centre. She had been there for three years and still thought she was fortunate to have the job, that Gus Lynch had in some way been kind to employ her. She had applied for the job at the Grace Darling with enthusiasm but with little hope of success. She had little enough experience-a year in rep between university and getting herself pregnant. She had had no real work since then. First there had been Anna to look after, and just as the child grew more independent her elderly parents had begun to make different and more cruel demands. Even now, three years later, she felt a remnant of gratitude to Lynch for not choosing one of the eager and attractive young actresses she had met at the interview. She was still uncertain why he had gone for her.

Prue watched John Powell put his arm round her daughter. She knew it was acting. John was Sam Smollett, the highwayman, hero of the piece. But still she felt a twinge of possessiveness. Something about the guarded tension of Anna’s face made her anxious, reminded her of the turbulence of her own teenage years. She fancies him, she thought suddenly. She’s excited by the physical contact. Then, almost immediately: I hope nothing comes of it. Not with John. He’s too reckless. He’s more Gabby’s type. Then: What has it got to do with me anyway? I always promised myself I’d never interfere.

Thought of Gabby produced her to more irritation. Where was the girl? She could be unreliable at home but usually took the Youth Theatre seriously. She had never been this late before. For the first time she began to worry, influenced despite herself by the lurid news reports. Perhaps Ellen knows something, she thought without much hope. I’ll speak to her after the rehearsal. Then she felt resentful. She had responsibility enough without having to take on someone else’s child. She forced herself to concentrate on the teenagers in the body of the hall.

Ellen Paston was Gabby’s aunt, her dead father’s sister. She had worked part-time in the cafeteria in the Grace Darling Centre since it had opened, had worked there in fact before that, cleaning for the old lady who had owned the big house. On November 30th Ellen Paston began her shift at six o’clock. She got a bus from the Starling Farm to the end of Anchor Street and walked the rest of the way, staring in at the shop windows. Most of the shops were shut but the windows were bright with gaudy Christmas decorations. Outside the pub a thin-faced man sold flimsy sheets of wrapping paper twisted into tubes. He smoked roll-up cigarettes and his eyes were alert, all the time, for the police. Ellen was heavy, big boned, and walked with a slow, lumbering gait. She took in all the details of her surroundings.

By seven o’clock Ellen Paston was pouring coffee for the Hallowgate Writer’s Circle. They met in the cafeteria then moved on to the small lecture room to share news of rejection slips and to massage bruised egos. The membership was composed mostly of middle-class women who drove in from the more affluent suburbs. Ellen Paston listened to their conversation without apparent interest. Despite her size she managed to be unobtrusive and though they met her each week the Writers’ Circle hardly noticed she was there. The women’s competitive boasting about their grandchildren’s achievements left Ellen cold, but she listened just the same. You never knew when you could pick up something worthwhile. She was single, always had been, and realized that being single put you at risk. There was a danger that you would miss out on what was due to you. Ellen knew instinctively that information gave you power and she was determined always to know what was happening in Hallowgate.

It had been inevitable that John Powell would be chosen to play Sam Smollett, the hero of The Adventures of Abigail Keene. He had been given a leading role in every production since he was fourteen. Even then, sullen and covered with spots, brought by his father who thought it would be good for him, Gus had recognized something special about him, something moody and reckless. He saw that John would not be afraid of taking risks. The character of Sam Smollett suited him down to the ground.

Tonight John’s performance was not up to its usual standard. It lacked the pace and swagger needed for the part. His mind was not on the role. Gus blamed Gabby’s absence for the lack of energy, but John knew that his inability to concentrate was at fault. He was ashamed of some of the trivia which distracted him. The lousy mark he’d got for the last history essay, for example. He couldn’t hide it from his father any longer. The old man was already asking about it-not angrily but with that hateful, compassionate interest that made John want to hit him.

‘How did you get on with that project you were researching?’ his father had asked the night before. ‘Cromwell, wasn’t it?’ He had come in from a late shift and looked tired, but still made the effort to take an interest in his only son’s work. When he was eleven John’s form teacher had said he was Oxbridge material and Mr Powell had never forgotten that.

‘I don’t know,’ John had muttered. ‘Haven’t had it back yet.’

And Powell had shaken his head in disappointment. ‘I suppose they’re overworked,’ he had said, ‘but all the same…’ He wondered if they should have sent John to private school after all. Jackie had been all for it, had offered to go out to work to pay the fees, but Evan hadn’t been keen on that. In his work he saw too many kids allowed to roam the streets without proper supervision. That wasn’t going to happen to his son.

John stood, waiting for the crowd to move back to their places so they could rehearse the movement again. It was the climax of the play, a piece of comic melodrama. He appeared, disguised as the hangman, and at the last moment pulled Abigail to safety through the crowd. Usually, he enjoyed the scene but today he was preoccupied, wondering why his father bugged him so much. He wasn’t unreasonable, not compared with some other kids’ dads, but he left John always with a sense of vague and uneasy aggression.

And there was the same unease whenever he thought about Gabby…

Anna Bennett touched his shoulder to move him back to their starting place, and he jumped with a start. He was getting nervy. That wouldn’t do. In his game he needed to keep his nerve. He breathed deeply into the pit of his stomach as he did in the relaxation exercises Prue set them before they started rehearsing.

‘Are you all right?’ Anna whispered. ‘ Is anything wrong?’

‘No,’ he said, smiling, super cool. ‘It’s just a drag, isn’t it, Gabby not being here?’

She turned away and he saw with irritation that he must have offended her. He should be more careful, keep his feelings under control. It wasn’t her fault. He saw himself as a modern Sam Smollett, gallant and daring, a gentleman of the road. He flashed her a smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that. You know what it’s like when you get used to working with someone. It’s bound to make a difference. Let me buy you a Coke later, to show there are no hard feelings.’

Gus Lynch looked at his watch and saw gratefully that it was a quarter to nine. He felt like giving the whole thing up now.

‘We’ll go through it just one more time,’ he called, unenthusiastically. ‘Try to be aware of each other. We need a co-ordinated movement. It’s not a rugby serum. God knows how we’ll be ready for performance. And what happened to you, John? Let’s have a bit more dash and pace.’

‘Sorry, Gus!’ John shouted. ‘I’m feeling a bit off tonight.’

Gus Lynch shrugged and gave the cue to start them off. He watched the dispirited, disorganized performance with annoyance. This play was important to him. For God’s sake he needed a bit of media attention. Especially now. He wouldn’t allow the bloody kids to let him down. If John Powell didn’t pull his finger out he’d be replaced with someone more committed.