Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘I’m so sorry. You mustn’t mind me. I only want you to be happy.’

Hannah couldn’t leave her like that, though more than anything she wanted to ignore the tears, step over the body and force her way out of the door. She took Audrey’s arm and coaxed her to her feet, settled her on the sofa and made her tea. She switched on the television. Immediately Audrey became absorbed in one of her favourite programmes.

‘I’ll go now, Mum, shall I?’

Audrey turned, waved briefly and returned her attention to the set.

They’d hired a minibus to take party-goers to the lake. Courtesy again of some anxious parents. A disabled lad had gone missing a couple of years before and for a while there’d been a fuss about youngsters out on their own. Hannah was too late to catch it. She began to walk, sticking out her thumb for a lift every time a car went past. She’d never hitched on her own before but now she was too desperate to think of all the adult warnings. It was still light and the road was busier than she’d expected – mostly families on their way back to the site. They didn’t seem to see her. Each time a car sailed past she stared after it with loathing. Her sandals were new and a strip of leather cut into her toes.

Then, when she was thinking she’d have to walk the whole way, someone stopped. A young bloke in a rusting estate car. He was chatty and in the few minutes it took to drive the rest of the way she found out he was visiting his girlfriend. She worked on reception in the site office and had been given a free caravan for the season. He was obviously smitten.

She heard the music as soon as she got out of the car.

‘Some party, that,’ he said, before driving off through the maze of caravans to find his love.

The party wasn’t in the bar, but in a room next to it, which sometimes held bingo for the older visitors and talent competitions for the kids. In natural light it would be gloomy, but Chris had rigged up some coloured spots and someone had decorated it with balloons and streamers. It was full. The dancers jostled for space. The first person she saw was Mr Spence, who was dancing with the fifth former who’d played Hecate. Some of the cast had dressed up in their costumes and hers was black, floaty and long. Ribbons of frayed black cloth trailed from her cuffs. Mr Spence danced with his eyes half shut, his body twisting and swaying to the music. Hannah saw at once that Michael wasn’t there.

She didn’t ask any of her friends if Michael had been with them on the minibus. The music was so loud that her ears were already singing and the room was full of people she didn’t know well. Boyfriends and girlfriends and stray hangers-on had gatecrashed. Sally was there, though her only contribution to the play had been to hand out programmes at one of the performances. She was beside Chris, dancing on her own. She already seemed drunk. Hannah didn’t want to ask her about Michael. Chris would have made some sarcastic comment. He always did.

She went outside, walked down towards the lake where the noise of the music wasn’t quite so loud. She told herself that Michael might have gone for a walk on the shore, that he might be waiting for her there. The sky was a crazy mix of colours. Violet streaked in the west with gold and grey. Soon it would be completely dark but now it was light enough for birds still to be singing and she could make out the paler strip of sand and the reflection of the last light on the water.

They were lying on the spiky grass between the road and the lake. Jenny Graves, otherwise known as Lady Macbeth, was sprawled naked on the grass with Michael Grey, otherwise known as Theo Randle. The picture had the quality of a photographic negative. The background was grey, their bodies milky. Michael’s hair was startling white, her black braid lost in the shadow. It wasn’t a shock. She’d looked out for Jenny in the dancing crowd too and registered that she wasn’t there. Hadn’t even expected her to be. Throughout the rehearsals she’d watched Michael and Jenny, his charm, her flirting. But Hannah hadn’t felt able to demand an explanation, because then he’d have told her, not using the exact words of course, that he wanted her as a friend and an audience, not a lover. That is was Jenny Graves he’d write his poems for. Hannah stood for a moment staring, fascinated despite herself by the entwined limbs, the panting, the moans, thinking in a dispassionate way – So that’s what happens, that’s what it’s all about.

Then she turned and ran. They must have heard her footsteps on the shingle but she didn’t care. She hoped Michael did hear, that the encounter would be spoiled for him. It serves him right, she thought. Over and over again, spiteful and childish, a schoolyard chant. She stumbled back towards the music, not because she could face going back to the party, but because it was the only way home. A figure was standing outside the building. He leaned against the wall rolling what she realized later was probably a joint. It was Chris. There was an outside light fixed to the bar and she was caught in the glare of it. He saw her tears. He gave a mocking smile and beckoned her towards him. She turned away and hurried down the lane. She didn’t try to get a lift. By then it was pitch black and she had more sense. And she didn’t want anyone to see her crying.

She was home earlier than her mother had expected. Audrey was still watching television, though she’d moved from the sofa to her usual upright chair and there was a plate with some crumbs on the coffee table. The earlier panic was forgotten. She was touchingly pleased to see Hannah, who sat on the floor beside her to watch the end of the programme. She found herself making allowances for her mother’s behaviour now, as she would with someone who was very old or very sick. Audrey seemed not to notice that Hannah was upset until they went upstairs together, then she asked suddenly, ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

‘Of course.’ Audrey would be the last person she’d talk to about her troubles. What could parents know?

‘You should leave this place,’ Audrey said sharply. ‘As soon as your exams are over. I stayed far too long.’

‘Oh yes,’ Hannah said. ‘I will.’ She spoke as if it had been her plan all along but it had never crossed her mind before that evening.

‘Good.’ She shut the bedroom door firmly behind her, but Hannah still heard her repeat the word to herself. ‘Good.’

The next morning Michael phoned. It was Sunday and her mother was still in bed. Hannah hadn’t been able to sleep. She knew it would be him before she picked up the receiver but she couldn’t let it go unanswered.

‘Hannah, I have to see you.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t understand. I’m scared.’ He did sound terrified, as if he’d just woken from a nightmare. But she told herself he was a good actor. ‘No one else will believe me.’

She didn’t say anything.

‘There are things you should know. We should talk.’

‘Talk to Jenny.’ She knew it was petty but she couldn’t help it.

‘This isn’t anything to do with Jenny.’

‘And it isn’t anything to do with me.’

If Chris hadn’t seen her running away from the beach she’d probably have agreed to meet Michael. She wanted to see him. But Chris had seen her and she could tell from the way he’d grinned that he knew about Michael and Jenny. He’d have told Sally. Hannah was proud. She couldn’t bear to be seen scuttling back to Michael after she’d been so publicly betrayed. She wanted to help him but knew it was impossible.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as firmly as her mother had said the word ‘good’ the night before.

She was replacing the receiver when she heard him say goodbye.

That was the story she told Arthur as they sat on the terrace waiting for Porteous to arrive at The Old Rectory. It was quiet. The newly-weds and their friends hadn’t yet arrived. It was the story they agreed she would have to tell the detectives.