Mo Hayder - Hanging Hill

‘I think she wasn’t interested in him, but he loved her. So did Nial, I imagine. But…’ she said, lowering her voice a little ‘… I think the thing with Peter was what really finished Millie’s friendship with her.’

Sally shot her a look. ‘ Millie ’s friendship?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘Know what ?’

‘Look at them out there, Sally. Really look at them.’

Sally did. Millie had separated from the group and was under a tree about ten yards away, sitting on the swing, one toe on the grass, twisting round and round, making her shadow twirl on the ground. Now, as she watched, Millie raised sullen eyes to the others. Sally followed the direction of her gaze and saw Peter, crouched next to the van, examining something in the tyre. She looked back at Millie and saw the expression on her face. It hit her like a train. That was what Isabelle meant. Millie was in love. In love with Peter. Good-looking, brazen, self-assured Peter, who was completely wrapped up in himself, and completely oblivious to Millie.

‘Is that…’ She paused, feeling stupid again. ‘Is that why Millie stopped seeing Lorne? Because he was in love with her?’

‘Did you really not know?’

‘Uh,’ she said dumbly. She rubbed her arms. ‘Yes. I mean, I suppose.’

The two women were silent for a while, watching the kids. Something sad and lonely and familiar was thumping in Sally’s stomach. The sick knockings of being the loser – the way Millie must feel about Peter. It had been the same for her at boarding-school, where she’d learned early to exist at the bottom of the winning pile. While Zoë, of course, at the other school, knew what it was like at the top.

‘Oh, Isabelle,’ she murmured sadly. ‘They’re growing up. It’s happened right under our noses.’

Sally had put the dinner in the oven and was making chocolate fudge for Isabelle to take home, cutting it into squares and putting it on greaseproof paper. Isabelle was outside but now she came in through the back door, huffing and puffing and kicking at the grass clippings that clung to her bare feet. Sally smiled at her, but Isabelle put a finger to her mouth and shook her head seriously.

‘What?’

She turned to reveal Nial and Millie standing behind her in the doorway, sheepish expressions on their faces. Sally set down the knife, wiped her apron and made herself smile at them. She was thinking of the conversation earlier – Isabelle insisting the teenagers were keeping a secret. ‘Millie?’ she said warily. ‘What is it?’

‘Look, Sally.’ Isabelle closed the door behind the teenagers and crossed to the table, holding Sally’s eyes seriously. ‘There’s a problem.’

‘Is it Lorne?’

‘No. Thank God, no.’ She raised her eyebrows at her son in the doorway. ‘Nial? Come on – explain.’

Nial came forward and sat down, casting a tentative glance at Sally. Millie followed hurriedly, pulling up a chair next to him – sitting with her shoulder touching his, her hands between her knees, her eyes lowered. She might be in love with Peter, but Isabelle was right: when it came to knights in shining armour Nial was always there, hoping all the girls would want to hide behind him. Of course, he’d puff himself up to make himself look as big as he could and they’d walk straight past him, their arms open to drape around Peter’s neck.

‘What happened,’ Isabelle said, ‘is they got their Glastonbury tickets a couple of months ago. You knew that, didn’t you? With Peter’s big brother?’

‘Of course. That’s what you’re painting the vans up for, isn’t it? Why? What’s the problem?’

Isabelle dug her finger into the wood grain of the table. Gave Millie an embarrassed sideways glance. ‘Millie hasn’t paid for her ticket.’

‘Her ticket ?’ Sally turned her eyes to Millie. ‘What ticket ? Millie, we talked about this. You were never going to have a ticket – you weren’t going with them.’

‘Mum, please. Don’t go off on one.’ She looked as if she might cry. ‘Peter paid for them online. Now I’ve got to give him my share of the money.’

‘But…’ Sally sat down, shaking her head. ‘Sweetheart, I’ve told you over and over again, I just can’t afford for you to go to Glastonbury. We talked about this.’

‘Everyone else’s parents are paying.’

‘Yes, but everyone else’s parents…’ She stopped herself. She’d almost said: ‘Everyone else’s parents know what they’re doing.’

Isabelle put her hand on Sally’s arm. ‘Nial and I want to pay for it. That’s why we’re here. Seriously – I’m happy. If you’re happy for her to go, then I’m happy to pay.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t. You’ve already helped me out more than I deserve.’

‘But think of everything you’ve done for me over the years. You’ve helped me – given me so much. I’ve lost count of the number of presents you’ve given me, all the paintings you’ve done for us. You must let me help you out.’

Sally gave a long sigh. She bit her lip and looked out of the window. The second time in less than twenty-four hours that she’d sat here and insisted she could do this alone. She turned back to where Isabelle and Nial were watching her with expectant faces. ‘I can’t take your money,’ she said. ‘Thank you for offering, but I really can’t. Millie will have to find a way of earning it. Or she’ll have to send the ticket back.’

‘ Mum! I can’t believe you sometimes.’

Millie pushed her chair back and ran out of the cottage, slamming the door. Isabelle and Nial sat in silence, eyes lowered.

‘Sally,’ Isabelle said eventually. ‘Are you sure we can’t help?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve got to find my own way through it.’

She got up and carried the glasses to the sink, turning her back to them. Her shoulders were sagging with tiredness. God, she thought bitterly, I’m even starting to bore myself saying it.

One of the cats that crowded around Zoë’s back door had injured its foot. She noticed it as she stood there late that night after work, sipping a long-overdue Jerry’s rum mixed with ginger, watching them all swarming around her, eager for the food she put out every night. The little one hung back from the group, peering nervously at her. It looked skinny, as if it hadn’t been eating.

She drained the Jerry’s, went back inside for more cat biscuits and coaxed it out of the shadows. She managed to catch it and take it inside to examine under the light. It had a rubber band looped around its back legs. No wonder it couldn’t walk. The band had rubbed, but it hadn’t yet broken the skin. She cut it carefully, and peeled it away. Then she put her hands under the cat’s front legs and held it up in front of her to check it everywhere else. It gazed back at her, its legs dangling idiotically.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said, and put it on the floor. She found a litter tray and some cat litter in the back of the shed and put it with a bowl of food and some water on the floor in the downstairs loo. Then she carried the cat over and placed it next to the food. ‘One night only, just until you’re better. Don’t even think about getting used to it – this is not a hotel.’

The cat ate hungrily. Zoë straightened to leave and, as she did, caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. She stopped and stared at herself. Red shaggy hair. High cheekbones and sun-damaged skin. She looked half wild. Eighteen years ago in the clubs she had worn her hair cut short and white-blonde. Only one person had known her real name – the manager of the club, who was long gone, overseas somewhere. No one would recognize DI Benedict as the girl on that stage all those years ago. She was the master of disguise. She could hide anything she chose to.