Mindsight

CHRIS CURRAN

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Chris Curran 2015

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover illustration © Jem Butcher

Cover images © ShutterStock

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780008132729

Version 2016-03-23

For Paul, with much love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Read on extract from Her Turn to Cry

Acknowledgements:

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The road twisted ahead, a blur of heat shimmering above it. I looked away, my eyes dazzled by the fields flashing past: bright green, pale green, dark green, brown, brown, acid yellow, and green again.

Alice changed gear into what must have been fifth, and I gripped the edge of my seat. ‘OK, Clare? Won’t be long now.’ She reached across to flip open the glove compartment. ‘There’s some water in there.’

It was fizzy and tasted harsh, drying my mouth even more. I closed my eyes. And here it was again: that other road. A dark road, flickering with shadows of trees and cloud. Then the stab of light and the chaos of jolting, screeching, and skidding. Oh, God.

I jerked upright and saw we were approaching the turn off for Wadhurst. Something pulled hard on my insides and my foot pressed an imaginary brake. ‘Alice, do you think …’ My voice cracked.

She looked over at me and slowed the car, then pulled into a lay-by. Her blue eyes were clouded. ‘We can’t, Clare. I haven’t told him it’s today. And you said yourself it was better to wait. Get settled first.’

I nodded: she was right. She squeezed my hand, giving me a wobbly smile. ‘OK?’ I managed another nod, and Alice drove on, as I looked back down the road and that tug came again, so strong this time it felt like pain.

Another swig from the bottle; the gassy stuff stinging my throat. Alice twisted a dial and a draught of cold air blew into my face and around my ankles. ‘Any better?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, can we stop again?’

She pulled into a pub car park and I got out, tugging at the jeans and shirt that clung too tight. Alice walked round to open the boot.

‘Look, why don’t you put on something cooler?’

All I wanted now was to get back to the safety of the car, away from the wide sky and the fields, but I pulled out the holdall and followed her. The toilets were just inside the main door, and Alice led me into the Ladies, leaning on a sink and talking to my reflection, her own distorted by the mirror.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She rubbed my back. ‘I’ll get us some lunch. You should eat something.’

The place was cool and clean, a bowl of potpourri between the two sinks, but as I rifled through my clothes I could smell the stench of prison on them: strong enough to overwhelm the faint scent of lavender. My face in the mirror was bleached stone beneath the dark curls, and the fluorescent light revealed lines around my eyes that I’d never noticed before. Thirty-three wasn’t that old, was it? I pinched my cheeks, running my fingers through my hair.

Locked in a cubicle, I stripped off. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and I rested my head on the metal door. Then put on a thin blouse and cotton trousers.

I felt better for the change, but as I stood in front of the sinks again, staring at my white face, I couldn’t imagine how I would get through the door. Come on; come on, just do it. A woman and child burst in, the little girl holding the door for me, and I found myself in the bar.

I stood, with the conspicuous holdall on the floor beside me, scanning the room. The worn floorboards stretched away to open French windows, a babble of voices echoing all around.

I couldn’t see Alice.

‘Don’t look so worried, darling. If you can’t find your friend, you can sit with me.’

I recognised that look. You get it even in prison. The one that imagines fucking you, making you squirm. I wanted to tell him what I was – to take that smirk off his face – but instead I clenched my teeth and headed for the French windows.

She was sitting by a stream, her blue dress hanging over the edge of her chair, pale legs stretched out before her, strappy sandals on her feet. I forced a smile as I sat and she motioned to the drinks.

‘I got you still water.’ She raised her own glass, full of white bubbles. ‘Ordered us some sandwiches too.’

I took a sip, grateful for an excuse not to speak or to look at the girl who approached with two plates.

‘Tuna, or cheese and tomato?’

Alice smiled at her, then back at me. ‘We’ll share shall we, Clare?’

For all the world as if we were friends out for a jaunt in the country. Two men glanced over at us as they brought their pints to the next table: the younger giving Alice’s long legs an appreciative look up and down. She tucked them under her chair and his glance flickered to me, before returning to his drink.

We were nothing like sisters, of course, and I wondered if we even passed for friends.

Alice’s blue dress was crisp and her blonde hair dropped like pale water to her shoulders. Looking at her, I couldn’t help pulling at my creased trousers and moving my feet behind my holdall to hide my trainers.

She pushed some keys across the table at me. ‘I hope the flat’s OK. It was three months’ rent in advance, so no need to worry about that for a bit.’

We ate for a while in silence, but I didn’t have much appetite, and Alice soon stopped eating too. She looked into her glass, twisting it so the bubbles swirled and sparkled.

‘I’ve mentioned you to a friend who owns a florist’s shop near the flat. She might have some work for you, if you’re interested. Just don’t rush it.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Don’t worry; it’s no one you know. Stella’s the sister of an old boyfriend.’ She laughed. ‘I realised I didn’t like him much, but Stella and I hit it off and we’ve stayed in touch.’

‘What did you tell her … about me I mean?’

‘The truth – more or less.’

She would have done it perfectly. Even as a little girl, five years my junior, I remembered her watching my tantrums with puzzled eyes.

‘Your little sister’s nothing like you,’ people would say and, depending on my mood, I might laugh and say it was just as well. In my darker moments, I would shout, ‘She’s not my real sister, that’s why. I’m adopted. I’m not even English.’ I told people my mother was a Romanian princess, knowing she must really have been a peasant who couldn’t, or didn’t want to, support a child.

‘Oh look, aren’t they lovely,’ Alice said, as a flotilla of grey cygnets appeared around the bend in the stream and she began tearing pieces of crust from her sandwich and tossing them into the water. Soon the cygnets were jostling and squabbling for the bread, as the parent swans glided in, their wings arched behind them. ‘That’s a threat you know. They’re warning us not to hurt their babies.’ She cast a few more crumbs at the birds, as the parents’ tiny black eyes watched.

I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder. ‘Shall we go?’ I wanted the journey over. I needed to be alone.

As we got closer to the sea, small grey clouds drifted across the sun, reminding me of the little cygnet siblings. Poor Alice, she had stuck by me through it all, and yet, I had never said more than the odd, gruff, thank you.

‘You’re still my sister, and I know how sorry you are for what happened,’ was all she said, when I asked her why she was so good to me in spite of everything.

By the time we got to Hastings, and turned onto the seafront road, the sky had changed from blue to white, the water grey and almost still. There was some kind of hold up and the traffic stretched ahead, unmoving. The layer of cloud covering the sun had trapped the heat and stifled the breeze so it was hotter than ever. Alice tapped her nails on the steering wheel and opened the window to peer ahead.

‘Oh God, what now?’ She put both hands behind her neck, lifting the shimmer of hair away from her skin. ‘At this rate it’ll be rush hour before I get back on the A21.’

I wanted to shout that I couldn’t stand sitting in this sweatbox any longer, that I needed to be alone and quiet, but, instead, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

A scream jolted me from my trance, and I stared up at the huge sky filled with a mass of whirling white. But it was just a flock of seagulls, their shrieks echoing against the thick roof of cloud as they fought over scraps of fish.

We’d reached the Old Town, huddled between two hills, and the gulls were circling over the boats drawn up on the shingle and the tall, black net huts where the fishermen stored their gear. Alice pulled into one of the narrow streets; the car slowed, this time, by holidaymakers sucking ices and eating chips from paper parcels.

‘It’s just up here, round the back of the church,’ she said.

As the road became steeper, and the jumble of small, crooked houses and shops gave way to larger, Victorian villas, the tourists disappeared. Apart from the gulls, we could have been in any suburban street. Alice pulled into a parking bay, touching my arm as I undid my seatbelt. ‘Careful, this is a rat run. They drive up and down here like maniacs.’

I got out slowly, my feet uncertain on the steep road. ‘It’s just here.’ She pulled open a gate and shepherded me into the overgrown garden of a large house. Four bells flanked the blue door. ‘Go on, your flat’s number one. You’ve got half the ground floor.’

I fumbled at the lock until she took the key and slotted it in. The tiled hallway was cool; the doors to the two downstairs flats facing each other and between them a wide staircase leading to what Alice said were two more flats. My door was on the right, and Alice ushered me in and moved straight on to a swift guided tour.

In the bright living room, she said, ‘There’s only a small TV, but you won’t mind that.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘What?’

‘It’s just that, TV becomes so important when you’re inside. But you’re right; the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the box.’ Even as I said it I wondered how true that was.

The sofa and two mismatched armchairs looked clean and comfortable but, seeing me look at them, Alice said, ‘They’re a bit shabby, but you can always brighten them up with cushions.’

She was trying so hard and part of me wanted to hug her and tell her how grateful I was. Another part longed for her to shut up and go away.

As I followed her into the kitchen, I saw the coffee maker next to the kettle. Alice must have noticed my stillness. She gripped my forearm. ‘Oh, no, did I do wrong bringing it here? I thought you’d want it. I know how you love your strong coffee.’

It was from my old house. Alice had cleared the place when I asked her to sell it. I ran my fingers over the glass and touched the new packet of coffee she’d put beside it. I couldn’t speak, but as I headed back to the living room I managed to smile.

She cleared her throat and walked over to a small table in the corner. ‘I sorted out the new laptop for you, like I said. Set it up with broadband, email, and everything.’ She picked up a little notebook. ‘I’ve written all the details, your email address, passwords, and so on, in there so you should be ready to go.’

‘Thank you. You didn’t need to do all that,’ I said.

She was smiling and holding up a white envelope. ‘And there’s this too.’ I recognised the writing at once. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘it won’t bite.’

The card had an old- fashioned photo on the front. Three little girls on a beach in white dresses and sun hats. The two bigger children had long dark curls and the smallest was an angelic blonde. Inside: Welcome home, dearest Clare, with all our love from Emily and Matt. (Hope to see you soon!) XXXX

As I closed the card I couldn’t stop a sob bubbling up. Alice came behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. ‘Oh, Clare.’ Her voice wobbled with tears, too. ‘They’re just like us.’ That was how we had always been: Alice, and me, and our cousin Emily, who was like another sister.

I hadn’t seen Emily, or her husband Matt, for more than three years.

Alice sighed and walked over to stand by the four large sash windows. ‘I’m sorry the place smells musty.’ She fiddled with the old-fashioned locks and managed to push up one of the sashes, catching her finger and letting out a muttered curse. ‘It’s a shame it’s so cloudy: there’s normally a wonderful sea view from this room.’

I peered out over the misted rooftops to the whiteness beyond – a couple of dark fishing boats, nosing close to shore, the only things to distinguish sea from sky. Alice perched on the arm of the sofa, sucking her torn finger.

‘What do you think? Is it all right?’

I nodded, without turning, and she was suddenly behind me, so close the warmth coming from her brought a prickle of sweat to my spine. I inched away, but she put her hands on my elbows, giving them a gentle shake.

‘You don’t like it do you? And you’ll be all alone here. I should have insisted you come to us, taken you straight home.’

The quiver in her voice brought a spurt of anger. It was too late to start on that again. In the old days I would have flared up at her, but not now.

‘I’m fine, and the flat’s lovely. Thanks for sorting it out.’

‘I got some shopping for you – just the basics – but don’t offer me coffee because …’ glancing at her watch, ‘I need to get off. Shall I ring you later?’

‘Better leave it till tomorrow. I’m so tired I think I need to settle in then get to bed.’

She gestured to the telephone. ‘I’ve put my mobile number, as well as the one for home, into your phone memory, so you don’t need to call the house until you’re ready.’ After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled me to her and whispered, ‘It’ll be all right.’ But I couldn’t speak and my arms hung heavy at my sides.

She stopped at the door and I forced a smile. ‘Go on. I’m OK.’

The kitchen overlooked the front garden and I watched her go. She turned at the gate to wave, and I raised my hand, longing to call her back and ask her to take me home with her.

When I heard the car start up and drive away, I pulled down the kitchen blind, went back into the living room and shut the window to let silence fill the place. Then I sat on the sofa, leaning back and closing my eyes. Deep breaths, one step at a time.

In the bedroom, I unpacked the holdall, my clothes lost in the big wardrobe. My one precious possession – the photograph in its cheap plastic frame – I put on the bedside table, my fingers lingering for a moment over each glassy face.

Alice had made the bed, and I pulled off my clothes and crawled into the soft darkness, lying hunched with the effort of clamping my mind shut. I knew I deserved to feel the pain the oh-so-familiar thoughts and images would bring, but, for now, I would allow myself a few, blessed, moments of peace.

I woke to darkness, knowing I’d slept for hours. I didn’t need a clock to tell me it was 3 a.m.: the time I’d woken every night for the past five years. Oddly enough, there was no confusion about where I was. The softness and the stretch of the bed around me, the silence and the feeling of space told me everything. I thought of my friend, Ruby, and longed to feel her warm, brown skin against mine; to tell her how frightened I was. But Ruby was still in prison, and I knew she’d only repeat the last thing she said to me: ‘This is the first day of the rest of your life, girl. So, get out there and live it.’

The floorboards were cold under my feet as I fumbled for socks and a sweatshirt. I knew, if I turned on the lamp, I’d never be able to cross the huge space to the door, but there was enough grey light to lead me to the living room windows. As I looked out, I felt a shock of disorientation; it seemed the stars were below, and the dark sea above. Then I realised that, of course, there were no stars. The shining pinpoints were lights from the houses in the town below; the darkness, above and beyond, was the sky merging with the water. I recalled the milky emptiness I’d seen from the same window earlier and the phrase that had come to mind then – the end of the world. This was how ancient mapmakers thought of the Earth: a slab of land bustling with life, a strip of sea and then – nothing – just emptiness.

I leaned my forehead against the window and closed my eyes. If I could stay perfectly still, block out my thoughts again, I might be able to sleep when I got back to bed. But the chill glass, dripping condensation on my skin, brought me fully alert. I was shivering, rocking back and forth, and chanting the familiar, meaningless charm, ‘Oh God, oh God, help me.’ It brought no more comfort than my own clutching arms, or my head beating against the cold glass.

The darkness in my head flickered with images of flames, my ears echoed with screams, and I longed for Ruby to hold me and help me cry away the agony. ‘That’s it, baby,’ she would say, ‘you’ll feel better soon.’ And a storm of tears would exhaust me so much that I no longer felt anything. But now, alone, I couldn’t cry, and I knew that all the tears and the therapy had just been another way to keep up the barricades.

I sometimes went to church services in the early days in prison, and the chaplain talked once about what he called the dark night of the soul. It seemed a good way to describe how I felt. But, later, I read another phrase that fitted better – the torments of the damned.

For I was certainly damned for what I’d done.

Chapter Two

The phone jolted me from sleep and I sat up, hugging my arms tight around my knees.

‘Hello Clare, it’s me. Are you there?’

I grabbed the handset. ‘Alice, your name didn’t register.’

‘I’m ringing from the surgery. I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check you were all right.’

‘I’m fine. What time is it?’

‘Half past eight. Try to get out for a bit today, won’t you. A walk will do you good.’

‘I should go and see your friend in the flower shop.’

‘Don’t rush it. I told Stella not to expect you immediately. Why not start by meeting your neighbours. The ones I talked to seemed lovely.’

In the end, I couldn’t get myself through the door. Still wearing the musty T-shirt I’d slept in, I switched on the TV and curled on the sofa in front of it, dozing and waking, dozing and waking. According to the weather forecast, it was the hottest heatwave since 1976, and when I opened the windows, all that came in was steaming air and the screeches of the gulls. I made tea and toast I didn’t finish, wanting only to sleep again.

Around four o’clock, I found myself staring at the phone. I picked it up, put it down, then tried again. At the third or fourth attempt I began to dial the number, but halfway through, I clicked to disconnect and threw the handset onto the other end of the sofa, as far from me as it would go. Then I dragged myself back to bed, pressing my face into the pillow. You coward, you fucking coward.

I didn’t leave the flat for three days. When I wasn’t huddled on the sofa or in bed, I was in the bathroom, standing under the shower, letting the water soak into me, through me, washing out the filth of five years.

Alice rang every morning, and on the second day I lied that I was going for a walk later on. Each afternoon, around four, I would sit and stare at the phone, my hands clammy, mouth dry. Once or twice I started to dial. Once, I even let it ring for half a second before clicking to disconnect, my whole body shaking.

On the fourth morning I made myself get up early, glad to see that, at last, the sun had disappeared and a light curtain of rain made the outdoors more kindly, easier to hide in. I knew I had to get out and I needed to find something decent to wear to visit the florist’s. I’d been watching and listening for my neighbours; the flat across the hall from mine seemed to be occupied by a young woman with a small child. My kitchen overlooked the front garden and I saw them, through a gap in the blinds, leaving about 8.30 every morning, and coming back around half past five.

Today the woman looked back, fair hair flopping over her face, and I jumped away from the window. It was minutes before I caught my breath, but the silence and the empty front garden reassured me they were safely out of the way.

Alice had said one upstairs flat was empty, but I heard enough from directly above to guess someone was living there: someone who liked jazz and was often walking around in the early hours, but sometimes clumped down the stairs in the morning too.