Mo Hayder - Poppet

‘I know. Make the voddy a double.’

AJ gets the drinks. When he sets them on the table he finds he can’t keep up the humour.

‘What is it?’ Melanie says. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t tell me nothing. It’s a lie. And I’m your boss.’

AJ’s trapped. He can’t say what he’s really thinking – it would be the cider talking – so he says the first thing that pops into his head that sounds vaguely funny. ‘Oh, you know. Just I found my first grey pube today. Forty-three and already I’ve got grey pubes.’

Melanie begins to open her mouth – all ready to answer that comment – then she realizes what he’s said and her mouth freezes as if her jaw has seized up. Her eyes open a little wider. AJ’s heart sinks. It was meant to be funny but he got it so, so wrong. The first rule of basic human psychology: never assume intimacy and ease too early on. He wants to defend himself, but of course it’s too late. Not only could this cost him any chance he might have had with her, she could accuse him of sexual harassment – he could get fired – he could be blacklisted.

But Melanie grins.

‘What?’

‘That,’ she says, ‘is the best answer I’ve ever heard.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. Is it true? Because I’ve had two since I was thirty-six. They glint at me in the bathroom mirror every time I have a shower. Sometimes I think they’re mocking me.’

Usually AJ can come back with something, but now he hasn’t a clue. For four years he’s thought Melanie was off limits – that she was too serious and strait-laced ever to be interested in him. But, in the last twenty-four hours, he’s learned she’s completely different outside the unit – a natural, lovely human being with problems like the rest of the world. She’s struggling with her job, she likes a drink, she’s been having an affair with someone she shouldn’t, and she’s got two grey pubic hairs. Which glint when she gets out of the shower.

He wishes she hadn’t said anything about the pubes and getting out of the shower. Too much – too much. He does that thing old-fashioned guys do when they’re nervous. He slides a finger into his collar and moves it side to side as if he’s struggling with his Adam’s apple.

‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘you’re lying. I can tell from looking at you it’s not true.’

‘Well, OK. It’s not true.’

‘Good.’

‘Actually, I noticed them two weeks ago.’

She shakes her head and smiles. ‘I mean you’re not worried about pubic hairs. It’s more than that.’

He feels defeated. And tired. He blinks. ‘OK, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m just thinking about what happened – remember our misunderstanding at that party?’

‘I do. And I don’t think it was a misunderstanding.’

He lowers his chin. ‘I didn’t misunderstand you?’

‘No. I flirted with you. I was single – I’d just got divorced. I was on the lookout.’

‘And,’ he says slowly, putting the pieces together, ‘by the time I came back and asked you, you were—?’

‘With Jonathan.’

‘With Jonathan,’ he echoes, thinking, What a twat, what a lame wanker he’s been. He puts his head in his hands and groans. ‘I can’t believe it. You mean, all this time – all this time, you and I could have been … ?’

She smiles a little shyly, holding his eyes. And then she gets half to her feet, puts her hands on the table, leans across and kisses him full on the mouth.

FLEA’S FACE IS drained and white – as if all the moonlight is bouncing off it. Her eyes are locked on Caffery’s.

‘ You what? ’ she murmurs. ‘ What did you say? Say it again.’

He stands in the hollow night and repeats it – almost guiltily. ‘I know what happened to Misty. I know what happened and where. It was here. On this stretch of road.’

Flea stares at him, incredulous. He imagines he can see a little buzz of light zipping round behind her eyes – the evidence of her brain working, formulating an answer. But she ducks the question – lowers her face, shrugs and says offhandedly, ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously – I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, you’re more insane than I ever suspected – and that’s saying something.’

She begins to gather up her rucksack. She hikes it on to her shoulder and turns away, in the direction of the car.

‘Frankly, Jack, I can hear the sounds of someone losing the plot, and I don’t have to hang around to … Hey!’ She stops. He’s grabbed the dangling strap of the rucksack. ‘Let go!’ She struggles with him, leaning back and pulling on the bag. He holds on tight. ‘What’re you doing – let it go .’

He answers her pull – using two hands. She’s strong – surprisingly strong – it takes all his effort to keep the bag level. ‘Stop this,’ he says. ‘Stop this and sit down. I know what’s going on – now keep still and listen to me. I know what he did.’

‘What who did? WHO WHO WHO? And WHAT WHAT WHAT? WHO did WHAT? See?’ She yanks the bag. ‘You can’t even answer. You can’t even answer me when I—’

‘Thom,’ he yells. ‘Thom, your fucking brother.’

The breath goes out of her. She stops shouting, stops pulling, and stands there – glaring at him, head jutting forward, sinews on her neck standing up.

‘I know what happened. The whole thing. Get used to it.’

A long moment passes. Somewhere, on a distant, invisible jet stream in the west, a plane changes course. Whines high and thin and lonely. Flea’s eyes glisten. And then, just when he thinks she’s going to spit at him, she releases the bag and sinks to the ground. Bone-weary – she drops her head between her knees, clasps her hands around the back of her neck.

He stands a pace away, breathing hard. More than three years ago Flea Marley lost her parents in a horrific diving accident. Since then other things have gone wrong in her life – badly wrong, she hasn’t had it easy. Because of that he’s protected her role in Misty’s disappearance. But enough time has elapsed. Now it’s time for Flea to return the favour and help him. When he imagined this encounter he’d half imagined she’d be so grateful to him that she’d cry, throw her arms around his neck or something. He certainly didn’t anticipate this. But then, when someone’s kept something like this inside for so long it’s crazy to expect it to be a painless operation.

He calms himself, pushes the hair off his forehead. He takes five paces, stops in the centre of the road and twists round.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m going to give you a demonstration. A lesson. About hit and runs.’

She lifts her face, bewildered. Her eyes focus hazily on him.

‘A car comes from this direction.’ He points off to the east, away into the distance. ‘It’s a silver Ford Focus and it’s going fast. Too fast. The driver – Thom – is drunk. He thinks it’s an open road, a straight road. At the same time a woman is coming down from that field over there. She’s drunk too – and high on heroin she’s smuggled into the clinic. She’s disorientated. She gets to the road, and either she doesn’t realize it’s a road and walks into it without looking, or she knows it’s a road and she steps out deliberately, trying to flag down the car. Wanting a lift maybe. Either way, Thom doesn’t notice her until he gets here.’

Caffery digs a finger down to indicate the place he stands.

‘He slams on the brakes, but he’s going so fast that he doesn’t stop until he reaches …’ Caffery takes fifteen strides along the road, then stops and opens his hands ‘… here. Too late. Misty goes up over the roof and ends up – well, right about where you’re sitting.’ He pauses. There’s a long silence, interrupted by an owl screeching somewhere above the hamlet. He clears his throat, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Thom doesn’t report it. Somehow he gets the body away from here. And you, Flea, you , in your infinite wisdom, you protect your brother. You cover the whole thing up for him.’