I Found You Read online

  He smiles. ‘The fair?’

  ‘Yes, on the beach, beneath the high street! So, what happened when you went down there?’

  ‘I threw up,’ he says.

  ‘What, literally?’

  ‘Yes. Just out of the blue. And then after that I couldn’t move. It was like Wednesday again. I sat down and looked out to sea and my mind just went kind of opaque and people came and people went but I was just zoned out. And then, just now, when it got dark, I remembered something else. I remembered …’ His hands were shaking. ‘I remembered a man, jumping into the sea, here. It was definitely here. And it was dark and I could see the moonlight on the water and the man kept swimming and swimming and I needed to follow him but I couldn’t because … I don’t really know why …’ He massages his right wrist with his left hand. ‘I just couldn’t.’

  He looks up at Alice and blinks and she thinks of that young man she’d seen a few years ago walking out into the sea. ‘I saw that, too,’ she said. ‘Three years ago. I saw a man walk into the sea. He took his clothes off and folded them up in a neat pile and then just walked until his head went under. I wonder if …’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. This man was clothed. He was wearing jeans. And a shirt. And he had … he had something with him. Something big, in his arms. And he didn’t walk in. He jumped. Like he was trying to get away from someone.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘but it felt like it might have been me.’

  Twelve

  1993

  Mark’s aunt’s house was, by any measure, the grandest privately owned house that Gray had ever set foot in. It was decorated in a style that his mum referred to as ‘chichi’, which seemed to consist of lots of gilt-framed mirrors and towering vases of stargazer lilies. A trio of terriers of some description greeted them at the door, followed by Mark in a white shirt with upturned collar and neat blue jeans. As they filed through the enormous front door, he greeted them all effusively like friends of old and led them, barefoot, across a circular hallway and into a palm-filled conservatory, which he referred to as ‘the orangery’, where a very attractive middle-aged woman with severely coiffed blonde hair sat behind a low table laden with cake and teacups.

  She rose to her feet and smiled and said, ‘Hello! You came! I wasn’t sure if Mark had made you all up or not! Honestly. Funny boy. Came back two hours ago with a bag full of flour and eggs and said we had to make cakes because we had guests coming!’

  She had a soft, well-spoken accent, like her nephew, but there was, Gray couldn’t help but notice, a slight ring of hysteria about her manner. He wondered if it was part of her normal persona or a response to having a strange, somewhat sunburned family suddenly appear in her immaculate house.

  ‘But anyway,’ she continued, cementing Gray’s impression, ‘you’re here and you’re welcome. And please, please sit down.’

  She smoothed the seat of her pleated skirt and sat back down. ‘My name’s Kitty, by the way.’ She shook their hands and they introduced themselves and Gray noticed her gaze linger a little longer on Kirsty than on the others. She sliced a Victoria sandwich with tremulous, manicured fingers and asked about Rabbit Cottage and their plans for the rest of their stay, and Gray fidgeted in his rattan chair and stared through the windows at the immaculate gardens beyond and wondered why they were here.

  ‘Mark is a very good boy,’ Kitty was saying. ‘Woe is me, I had no children of my own’ – she pressed her hand to her porcelain collarbone – ‘so I used to borrow Mark and his sister all the time. They feel like my own children and Mark certainly knows how to look after me.’ She patted his hand and he smiled indulgently at her and then the first of a few awkward silences fell across the group.

  ‘Well,’ said Tony, breaking it. ‘I must say, this house is every bit as stunning inside as it is from the outside.’

  ‘Thank you, Tony,’ she said. ‘The venue for many, many happy times over the years.’ She looked sad, no doubt thinking of her recently deceased husband.

  ‘How long have you owned it?’ asked Pam.

  ‘Oh’ – her fingers felt their way to her golden necklace – ‘twenty years or so now, I suppose. We bought it from a romantic novelist. In fact, if you pop into the library on your way out, you’ll see we kept a shelf just for her books. As a kind of memorial. Not that I’ve read any of them. Not really my kind of thing. Bodice-rippers, I believe they’re called.’ She looked vaguely appalled by the concept. ‘So, Graham.’

  ‘Gray,’ he said, ‘everyone calls me Gray.’

  ‘Except me,’ said Pam.

  ‘Gray. How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘So you’re still at school?’

  ‘Sixth-form college.’

  ‘And you, Kirsty?’

  ‘I’m fifteen.’

  Kitty arched a fine eyebrow. ‘Young,’ she said absently.

  Kirsty nodded and blushed.

  ‘What about you, Mark?’ asked Tony. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I’m at college. Business studies.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Pam. ‘What do you hope to be?’

  ‘A millionaire.’

  He said this with an entirely straight face and it was all Gray could do not to spit out a mouthful of tea.

  ‘Well,’ said Pam.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Tony. ‘Nothing like ambition.’

  Kitty’s mouth set into a straight line, giving away nothing.

  ‘Oh!’ said Pam, turning in her chair to peer through the windows of the orangery. ‘A peacock!’

  And sure enough, there, on the lawn, fluttering its iridescent fan of feathers like a showgirl, stood a peacock.

  ‘Well, that just puts the cap on it,’ chuckled Tony. ‘Peacocks!’

  ‘I know,’ said Kitty tiredly. ‘It’s a cliché, I suppose. But the novelist had a pair and I got used to having them around. So when they died I got a new pair. They’re surprisingly good company. I have other animals,’ she said. ‘A donkey. A Shetland pony. It just seems pointless having all this space and not putting something in it.’

  Kitty noticed Kirsty’s face light up at the mention of donkeys and ponies and said, ‘Mark, why don’t you take the kids down to the animals?’

  ‘Er, no thanks,’ said Gray, appalled at being referred to as a ‘kid’.

  Mark glanced at his sister. ‘Kirsty?’

  She nodded and got to her feet, her fists curled into her sleeves, looking every bit a ‘kid’. And as Gray watched Mark lead his sister from the room, watched them vanish through the door, heard their voices trailing into inaudible echoes and then disappear altogether, he felt a violent ache of anxiety. He looked from his mother to his father and back again but they were both preoccupied by the effort of making a half-decent conversation with a woman with whom they had nothing in common.

  What was it, he wondered, about that guy? What was it that kept setting all his alarm bells jangling? It was all in the detail, he decided. The bare feet, the carefully combed and set hair, the unlikely bond with the glacially grieving aunt, the precocious talk of being a millionaire. Not to mention the blatant staring on the beach and the inexplicable invitation to tea. None of it gelled. None of it consolidated itself into a type of person that Gray could recognise. And Gray knew some strange people. Croydon was full of them.

  He glanced at his parents again and then through the window across the lawn where he saw the receding figures of his sister and Mark, strolling companionably, Mark laughing, his sister turning to smile at him. Then they were gone but the peacock still stood, holding his ground, shimmering his tail feathers, staring, Gray felt, straight into his soul.

  Thirteen

  The beers go quickly. Alice had a thirst and so, it appears, did Frank. She gets two more and when they are gone and there are no more beers left in the fridge, she crouches to her knees and pulls a bottle of Scotch
from the bottom of the dresser. It’s pushing midnight and normally Alice would be watching the clock, imagining her precious seven hours being whittled away. But tonight she has no interest in the time. Time is irrelevant.

  She stretches to her feet and reaches up for tumblers.

  ‘Mum?’

  She turns at the sound of Jasmine’s voice.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting drinks,’ she replies.

  ‘For him?’

  ‘For Frank. And me.’

  Jasmine arches her left eyebrow. ‘His name’s not even Frank.’

  ‘No,’ she says patiently, ‘but it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Why is he even here? I thought he’d gone.’

  ‘Yes, well, so did I. But he came back.’

  Jasmine nods, and then bites her cheek before saying, ‘Let’s hope no one finds out.’

  Alice looks at her questioningly.

  ‘Kai and Romaine. And Derry. You should probably tell them not to tell anyone about him. In case, you know …’

  Alice nods briskly. She doesn’t want to have this conversation now. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘it’s late. You need to get some sleep.’

  ‘No school tomorrow,’ she says, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Yes. But still. It’s late.’ Alice clutches the tumblers between her fingers, holding the bottle of Scotch in her other hand. She wants her daughter to go now. ‘Go on then,’ she says, mock sternly. ‘Off you go.’

  Jasmine stares at her strangely for a long moment, as though she has something important to tell her, as though her young mind is whirring with unfathomable thoughts. But then, finally, she shakes her head and sighs and says, ‘Night, Mum. Be careful.’

  The words still echo in Alice’s head as she carries the Scotch and glasses through to the living room. Be careful. She’s not sure she wants to be.

  Hero has crawled on to Frank’s lap during her absence and he looks slightly overwhelmed by the sensation of six stone of solid Staffy.

  ‘Do you like dogs?’ she asks.

  He smiles. ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too flattered. Hero likes everyone. She’s a total attention-junkie. He’s the one you want to work on.’ She gestures at Griff sitting guarded and watchful, chocolate-drop eyes going from Alice to Frank and back again as though he knows he’s being talked about. ‘He’s very fussy. Do you want me to get her off your lap?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s quite nice. She’s … reassuringly substantial.’

  She pours them both a heavy measure of Scotch and passes one to Frank. ‘Cheers,’ she says, raising her tumbler. ‘To remembering.’

  Frank clinks his glass against hers and he smiles. ‘And to you,’ he says. ‘For being so generous.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I don’t know about generous. Stupid more like.’

  ‘Maybe both,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll go with that. Story of my life. Generous and stupid.’

  ‘So.’ Frank takes a mouthful of his drink and grim­aces. ‘What is the story of your life, exactly? Since we can’t talk about the story of mine.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she says, ‘you’ll wish you hadn’t asked.’

  ‘No,’ he says simply, ‘go on. Tell me about the maps.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looks into her drink. ‘The maps.’ She looks up again. ‘That’s my job. My business. My art.’ She laughs wryly.

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Where did you get the inspiration?’

  ‘You know, it all started with one of those huge road maps for cars, you know. My dad had one. A map of the whole of the United Kingdom. Gigantic thing. I used to leaf through it on long journeys, look at all the places I’d never been. I loved the textural contrasts, you know, between, say, the centre of London and the Highlands of Scotland. London was black with road markings. Scotland was white. Then Dad gave me his old car when I was eighteen and when I sold it a few years later I found the old road map in the glove compartment. Brought it in, found myself leafing through it again. Stuck at home with a baby, bored out of my mind. Decided to make something out of it. That, in fact.’ She gestures at a likeness of a very young Jasmine on the wall opposite.

  ‘That’s made out of maps?’

  She nods.

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘It looks like a drawing. It’s amazing!’

  ‘Why, thank you. So, after that I bought up old map books whenever I could. I mean, you should see my room upstairs: I’m virtually hoarding them. And when I moved up here from London, I needed an income, so I started taking commissions. And then I opened a little online shop on the side for personalised birthday cards and stuff. And now I’m a professional full-time cutter-outer and sticker-oner of tiny bits of maps into flower shapes.’ She looks at him. ‘Told you my life was weird,’ she said.

  ‘Well, speaking as someone with no life whatsoever, I’d say that sounds pretty great.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s good. It’s weird, but it’s good. And means I can work round the kids, which is brilliant.’

  ‘Not to mention this lot.’ He indicates the dogs. ‘And them.’ He gestures at the iPad with its sinisterly glowing vignette of an empty room. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate.’

  ‘Yes. I do. But no more than a million other women. Women are amazing, you know.’ She smiles and he smiles back.

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Since I can’t actually remember any women.’

  ‘Well, you know me, and take it from me, I am completely amazing.’

  He doesn’t laugh but he does smile. ‘OK. You are Woman A and from now on will be the benchmark for every other woman I meet.’

  ‘Oh Christ, I’ve become your mother!’

  This time he laughs and as he rocks back his leg presses briefly against Alice’s leg and she feels it open up inside her, the big gaping hole of loneliness and neediness she’s been trying to ignore for six years. Outside the low-slung window a lightbulb on the string is fizzing and flickering. Finally it extinguishes completely and the room is suddenly a degree darker. She hears the floorboards creak overhead as a child makes its way to the bathroom. And then something remarkable happens. Griff, who has been watching their conversation from the other side of the room, suddenly unfolds his elegant legs and wanders towards them. Alice expects that he is coming for some fuss from her but instead the dog stops at Frank and rests his chin on Frank’s knee.

  ‘Oh,’ says Frank, cupping his hand over the dog’s skull. He looks up at Alice and smiles.

  Alice looks from her dog to Frank and then back at her dog. Her stomach eddies. Griff, unlike Sadie and Hero, is her dog. She chose him from a rescue centre when he was a year old. He’s been with her since her London days, since before she had Romaine. He is the kindest, nicest dog in the world. But he is not a friendly dog. He keeps his distance from people. But here he is, offering himself up to a stranger, echoing, in some poetic way, Alice’s own subliminal desires.

  ‘You must be a good guy,’ she says. ‘Dogs always know.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I reckon.’ And then she feels something softening deep inside her, something that had once been tender and, over time, without her even noticing, became hard. She puts her hand over Frank’s hand where it rests on Griff’s tightly domed head. Frank brings his other hand to cover hers. And there it is. An exquisite moment of suspended existence beyond which lies the potential for everything. Remember, they might say in years to come, that night. When we first touched?

  But for now there is the clank of the plumbing upstairs as a child flushes the toilet. Then there is the sound of footsteps coming down the wooden stairs. And there is Romaine in glorious disarray, eyes puffed with sleep, pulling at the sides of her off-white nightdress and saying, ‘Mummy. I keep waking up.’

  Alice takes her hand from beneath his and sighs and says to him, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  But he’s already shifting i
n his seat, trying to dislodge Hero from his lap, putting down his tumbler of Scotch and saying, ‘You know, I’m shattered, actually. Is it OK …?’

  ‘Stay as long as you like,’ she says. ‘Any friend of Griff’s is a friend of mine.’

  She takes Romaine’s outstretched hand and walks her up the stairs. ‘I’ll leave the back door unlocked,’ she calls down to him. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Fourteen

  1993

  That night they went out for dinner. The impromptu tea at Kitty’s mansion had slightly upended their day and there’d been no time to go shopping for food so Kirsty had said, ‘Why don’t we eat by the beach tonight? It’ll be really nice.’

  It was a lovely evening, cool but golden with a brilliant blue sky, so Tony suggested the smart seafood restaurant at the other end of town with the covered terrace overlooking the beach. ‘No starters though,’ he pre-instructed.

  Gray appraised Kirsty over the top of his menu. She looked different.

  ‘What?’ she said, spotting his gaze on her.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Scampi,’ she said, closing her menu.

  Mascara. That’s what it was. She was wearing mascara.

  ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Minute steak,’ he said.

  She mock yawned. Gray always ordered steak.

  ‘What did you talk about?’ he asked. ‘You and the weirdo?’

  ‘Oh, Graham,’ his mum interjected. ‘That’s not nice.’

  ‘Well,’ he countered, ‘he’s not exactly normal is he?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Tony, ‘but then, who is? Really? It’s something you realise the older you get. Everyone’s a bit strange.’

  ‘Yes, but not everyone takes your fifteen-year-old daughter off to the bottom of the garden to look at “donkeys”.’

  ‘There was a donkey!’ Kirsty cried.

  Gray sighed.

  ‘It was called Nancy. It was beautiful. And he’s not weird. He’s just … posh.’

  ‘He’s posh and weird. I mean, who invites a group of total strangers round for tea?’

  ‘He’s bored,’ said Kirsty. ‘He told me. He offered to come here to keep his aunt company because he thought some of his friends from the old days might be here and they’re not and now he’s stuck here with no one to hang out with.’