Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

Olivia gave her a stern look and went to answer the door. She couldn’t understand why Charlie wasn’t happier about Simon’s relentless pursuit of her, why he had suddenly become the person she least wanted to see. Charlie was unwilling to demean herself by explaining. She knew she’d go to pieces as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. Whatever he said would be wrong. If his attempts to make her feel better were subtle and indirect, Charlie would put it down to embarrassment, which would add to her shame. If he was explicit, she would have to have a conversation with him—the man who’d been rejecting her love ever since they’d met—about Graham Angilley, the serial rapist she’d fallen for on the rebound . . . No, there was only so much degradation a person could take.

Charlie heard the front door close. Olivia reappeared in the lounge. ‘It’s not Simon. Ah!’ She pointed an accusing finger at Charlie. ‘You’re disappointed, and don’t deny it. It’s Naomi Jenkins.’

‘No. Tell her no.’

‘She’s got something for you.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘I’ve told her you need five minutes to get ready. So why don’t you go and throw on some clothes, make yourself presentable? Otherwise I’ll just let her in and she can see you in your tea-stained dressing gown and shapeless pyjamas.’

‘If you do that, I’ll . . .’

‘What? What will you do?’ Olivia’s nostrils flared. ‘Simon I’d have sent away, but not her.’ She nodded in the direction of the hall. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself for a minute and think about what she’s been through. Think about what she went through only a few days ago, right here in this house, never mind the rest of it. Tied up, again. Nearly raped, again.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Charlie quickly. She didn’t want to think about what Proust and Simon had found in her kitchen: Graham’s detached left eye, sliced neatly in two, staring up at them from a pool of blood.

‘I think I do,’ Olivia disagreed. ‘Because you seem to think you’re the only one who’s ever had anything bad happen to her.’

‘I don’t think that!’ said Charlie angrily.

‘Do you think it’s easy for me, knowing I can’t ever have children?’

Charlie tutted quietly, turning away. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Any man I meet, any man I start a relationship with that’s even vaguely serious, I’ve got to break the bad news—imagine dropping that bombshell on a first date. You have no idea how many blokes I never see again, after I tell them. It really hurts, but I keep the pain to myself because I’m a stoic, and I believe in stiff upper lips . . .’

‘A stoic? You?’ Charlie laughed.

‘I am,’ Olivia insisted. ‘About serious things, I am. Just because I moan when my local deli runs out of venison and chilli pâté, that means nothing!’ She sighed. ‘You’re lucky, Char. Simon knows about you and Graham . . .’

‘Shut up!’

‘. . . and he knows it wasn’t your fault. No one blames you.’

‘All right, I’ll see Naomi.’ Anything to stop Olivia talking about Simon and Graham. Charlie stood up, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table, which was already full of butts. They shifted and rearranged themselves—a writhing heap of fat, orangey-brown maggots—as a new one pressed down on the pile. How disgusting, thought Charlie, perversely pleased by the sight.

Upstairs, she washed, brushed her hair and teeth, and put on the first clothes she saw when she opened her wardrobe: jeans with frayed ends and a lilac-and-turquoise rugby shirt with a white collar. When she came back downstairs, the front door was open, and Naomi Jenkins and Olivia were both outside. Naomi looked more relaxed than Charlie had ever seen her, but older as well. There were lines on her face that weren’t there two weeks ago.

Charlie struggled to smile, and Naomi did her best to respond. This was what Charlie had wanted to avoid: the twisted, awkward greeting, acknowledging shared experience and pain that could never be forgotten.

‘Look,’ said Olivia. She appeared to be pointing at the front wall of the house, beneath the lounge window.

Charlie pushed her feet into a pair of trainers that she’d discarded days ago by the bottom of the stairs, and went outside. Propped against the front wall was a sundial, a flat rectangle of grey stone, about four feet by three, and two inches deep. The gnomon was a solid iron triangle with a round lump, the shape of a large ball bearing, halfway along its top edge. The motto was in Latin, spelled out in gold letters: Docet umbra. At the very top of the dial, in the centre, was the bottom half of a sun. Its downward-slanting rays were the lines that represented the hours and half-hours: the time lines. Another line—a horizontal curve, the shape of a tilted smile—cut across these and ran all the way along the dial, from its left edge to its right.

‘I said I’d make one for your boss,’ said Naomi. ‘Here it is. You can have it, there’s no charge.’

Charlie was shaking her head. ‘I won’t be back at work for a while.’ If ever. ‘Take it into the police station, ask for Inspector Proust . . .’

‘No. I’ve brought it here because I wanted to give it to you. It’s important to me.’ Naomi was trying to catch Charlie’s eye.

‘Thank you,’ said Olivia pointedly. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

Charlie was convinced her sister was behaving well with the sole aim of making her seem even more ungracious by comparison. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.

There was a heavy pause. Then Naomi said, ‘Simon Waterhouse told me you had no idea about Graham. When you got involved with him.’

‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘You shouldn’t punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. I did for years, and it got me nowhere.’

‘Goodbye, Naomi.’ Charlie turned to go back inside. If Olivia wanted to, she could bring the bloody sundial in. Charlie didn’t care. Proust had probably forgotten by now that he’d ever wanted one.

‘Wait. How’s Robert?’

‘The same,’ said Olivia, after Charlie failed to answer. ‘They keep trying to bring him round, but nothing so far. He’s still having epileptic fits, but not as often.’

‘If he does regain consciousness, he’ll be facing a long list of charges,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s clear from what we found at Silver Brae Chalets that he was very much involved in the stag-night business. He did a lot of the driving and took half the profits.’ Olivia would have told Naomi all this if Charlie hadn’t got her version in first. Olivia was the one who had spoken to Simon; Charlie had heard it all second-hand. She didn’t want Naomi to know the extent to which she’d relinquished her grip on her life. ‘Robert likes impersonal, bland places, doesn’t he? Service stations, the Traveltel, hospital? Just as well. Prison makes your average service station seem like the Ritz.’

‘He deserves whatever he gets,’ said Naomi, turning to Olivia when Charlie refused to look at her. ‘So does Graham. And his wife.’

‘They’ve both been refused bail—’ said Olivia.

‘All right, for fuck’s sake, that’ll do!’ Charlie cut her sister off.

‘Simon Waterhouse also said that Juliet hasn’t spoken for several days,’ said Naomi.

Charlie looked up this time. Nodded. She didn’t like to think of Juliet Haworth sitting silently in a cell. Charlie would have felt better if Juliet were still making demands, taunting everybody she came into contact with. Juliet would also be going to prison for a long time, perhaps as long as Graham Angilley. It didn’t seem right.

‘What haven’t you told me?’ Charlie asked Naomi. ‘Juliet tried to kill Robert because she found out he’d colluded with her rapist—I know that much. What I still don’t know is, why did Robert deliberately befriend the women Graham had attacked?’ She felt herself getting sucked back in, and resented it. Naomi Jenkins had been playing games with her from the start, and Charlie wasn’t prepared to lose any more games.