Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

Of course, she fancied him like crazy. In the beginning she had thought him cocky, still did if it came to that, but that was part of the fascination. And perhaps he’d seen her resistance as a challenge, because he’d made an effort to win her over. No one else had bothered to do that. She wasn’t seen as much of a catch – skinny with no figure to speak of, black oily hair and the hint even then of dark down on her upper lip. He said she looked Mediterranean. Perhaps he had heard about her father and felt sorry for her, though if his friendship was prompted by pity he hid it well. She could usually pick up a reaction like that. It turned her spiky and moody. Perhaps their unusual homes in this conventional town of happy families gave them something in common. She thought he was happy in her company and for a while that was enough.

After Hannah’s first visit to his home the relationship continued to revolve around the books they were reading, the essays they had to prepare. When school finished for the day they went to the library together. Not to the school library where the few recommended books of criticism were fought over but to the dark building in the town centre, a Victorian heap, with enormous polished tables and rows of reference books smelling of damp. Hannah never wanted to go home immediately to face her mother. The Brices placed no restrictions on Michael’s movements. That always surprised Hannah. She would have expected such elderly people to share her mother’s anxieties. He would have stayed with her all evening if she’d wanted. As a friend, of course. Not a lover. But she had her pride and sent him home at five o’clock in time for the tea Sylvie would have prepared. She knew that the pretty girls with the short skirts who lusted after him never felt jealous of the time they spent together. They didn’t consider Hannah as any sort of competition.

By the night of the bonfire he’d been at the school for nearly a year, but he’d never had a proper girlfriend. Some of them saw it as a challenge. He tantalized them with the possibility, snogging them at parties, but nothing came of it. He was indiscriminate in his physical contact in a way which was unusual at the time. He liked to put his arm round people, boys and girls. He often hugged Sylvie, making her blush with pleasure. He had never touched Hannah though, not even a hand on the shoulder, not even brushing against her by mistake. She longed for it.

She didn’t make straight for Michael when she reached the shore. The booze had made her up for the games other people played. Let him come to her if he wanted to. That night there was a huge orange moon which lit the scene, so she would be able to see Michael even if he moved away from the fire.

She latched on to a tall lad from the upper sixth, who was a figure of fun, because his picture was once in the paper when he got a Queen’s Scout award. Someone had torn it out and stuck it on the noticeboard at school. He had stood in the photo in the ridiculous uniform, blushing in a way which made his acne stand out. Since then he’d got rid of the acne, but the reputation of being what they now called a geek had stuck with him. He did science and maths, and was considered brilliant at both, which didn’t help. He came along to parties like this, but always ended up on his own.

‘Isn’t this brilliant, Paul? I mean this enormous sky. The landscape seems so huge, doesn’t it, tonight. It seems foreign. Like we’re in a country with wider spaces.’

She leaned against him, knowing as she did it that it wasn’t fair. It was the sort of trick that had been played on her. Tentatively he slid his arm around her shoulder. She felt his breath on her neck. On the other side of the fire Michael was watching. She saw him get up. He walked over the pebbles towards the caravan site and the road into town. Hannah waited for a second, then pulled away from Paul Lord and ran after him. She caught up with him by the jetty where the water-sport freaks launched their dinghies and canoes. She took him by the elbow and swung him round to face her, exhilarated by the first touch and her daring. She felt muscle and bone under the denim shirt.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’ He paused. ‘To Steve and Sylvie’s.’ As if the two were not the same thing.

‘Where is home, Michael, really?’ She hadn’t had the nerve to ask him about his personal life before. After the incident in his bedroom, she’d been scared of frightening him off. ‘What is going on here?’

He shrugged and walked off like a sulky child, not bothering to turn on the charm. She realized he resented the attention she’d given to the other boy, even though it was Paul Lord, who was a figure of fun, almost a charity case. He wanted her to himself. She was flattered but felt a sense of injustice. It was all right for him to flirt and kiss and touch, but she had to be there for him whenever he wanted the company. On other occasions she would have been apologetic, grateful that he needed her. Tonight, because of the vodka, she had more confidence.

‘Suit yourself,’ she shouted and started back towards the party.

‘No.’ He called after her and she heard something like panic in his voice. She hesitated, determined not to give in too easily, then continued walking. The tactics paid off because he scrambled over the pebbles towards her. He put his arms around her and clung on to her as if she were the most important person in the world. Triumphant, she stroked his white hair and told him everything would be alright.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ He took her agreement for granted. He knew she wouldn’t let him go again. He took her hand and led her along the edge of the lake. Sheep-cropped grass fell away into sand so it was almost like being on a beach at the seaside. But there were no waves. The water was glassily still. If the others saw them she presumed they’d think she was just another of his party conquests.

‘Poor Hannah,’ they’d say. ‘She’s been hanging round him for months and now he’s taking pity on her.’

At that point the road skirted the edge of the lake. There was the flash of headlights. For a moment she thought it might be the police, that there’d been a complaint about the fire, or even something more serious. She wondered sometimes what Sally was getting into. There’d already been rumours about Chris and drugs. But it was a blue 1100. It stopped and the driver got out, leaving the engine running. He was a small middle-aged man, rather nondescript. Hannah thought it must be a parent, come to collect errant offspring. He peered over towards the fire trying to make out individuals, trying, it seemed, to pluck up the courage to go over. He couldn’t see Michael and Hannah. They were in the shadow. But they could see him quite clearly, caught in the headlights. She turned to Michael to make a comment about the man, to ask him to guess which of their friends he belonged too, but saw at once he already recognized him.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you do know him?’

‘Perhaps.’

The man gave up his search, got into the car and backed it erratically up the lane.

Michael put his arm around Hannah and they walked on.

‘Why don’t you ever talk to me?’ she said.

‘I do.’

‘Not about the important stuff.’ Or the not so important. Like a bloke in a Morris 1100 looking for his kids. ‘Is it just that you like the mystery?’

‘No. You don’t understand.’

‘Whatever it is I won’t be shocked. You must have heard about my dad. So you know about my shady past.’

‘That was him. Not you.’

‘What do you think I’ll do? Shop you? Dump you?’

He didn’t answer at once. ‘I’m frightened,’ he said. ‘Not just for me. For you.’ She thought that was the old Michael again. The attention seeker. The boy who made up stories in his head and almost believed them himself. She didn’t care.