‘Language, Cher,’ says Vesta automatically, without the help of her brain.
Collette’s mouth falls open.
‘You’re fifteen?’
‘Are you thick, as well?’
Collette’s head is full of bees. She can barely hear her neighbours over the sound of buzzing. I have to get out of here, she thinks. There’s going to be police swarming all over the place, and once there’s been police, sure as night follows day there’s going to be press, especially with the way he’s died. It’s the sort of story the papers eat for breakfast. If the police don’t put two and two together, it’s only a matter of days before Tony does. Just one careless moment, a photographer waiting outside when I come out to put the bins out, and I’m toast. But what do I do? What do I do about Janine? I can’t leave London now. I can’t leave her. She’s dying. I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life…
‘But…’ she says, the protest only very loosely applied to Cher. The girl takes it as a reaction to her revelation, and glares at her. Of course she’s fifteen, thinks Collette. An attitude like that, she couldn’t be anything else. Why on earth didn’t I see it?
‘Ever been in a care home?’ asks Cher.
‘I… well, yes, as it goes.’
‘Well, then,’ Cher begins, then looks annoyed, as though Collette has stolen her thunder. She hobbles away and fishes a pack of Marlboro from the back of her leggings. Stands in the garden door and lights one with the little Bic tucked beneath the cellophane. ‘And the first person who tells me I’m too young to smoke gets this in their eye,’ she says. Her hand is trembling.
‘Roy Preece,’ says Thomas, gazing down at the Landlord. ‘What d’you suppose he was doing?’
‘He wanted me out,’ says Vesta. ‘He’s been trying to get me out for years.’
‘Well, it looks to me as if he was doing something with your boiler,’ says Thomas.
‘At two in the morning?’
‘I didn’t say he was doing anything good, did I?’
‘He thought I was wasn’t here,’ says Vesta. ‘That’s it! I told him I was going to stay in a hotel because of the drains. This afternoon. He must’ve thought I wasn’t going to be here. Like with the burglary. And that time when my garden got vandalised. He knew I was away, every time.’
Hossein frowns and walks away into the bathroom. They stand in silence and listen to him moving things around, the clang of metal on enamel as he shifts the boiler cover.
‘I can’t be here,’ says Collette. ‘If there’s going to be police. I’ll have to go, tonight. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Vesta, but I have to get out of here. I’d help, you know I’d help, but…’
‘I know. I understand.’ Despite her dirty face, the old dressing gown and the tangled hair, Vesta, with her noble bone structure, looks suddenly dignified in the wreck of her kitchen. She stands up straight and pulls her collar tight, stares off into the distance. Resigned, thinks Collette. She looks resigned. Like she’s given up already. ‘It’s my mess to sort out. It’s wrong to drag any of you into it.’
‘We’re in it already,’ says Thomas. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she says, and stops to bite back a surge of tears. ‘Yes, I know that, and I’m sorry.’
Thomas sighs, and comes over to stand by her. He rubs her arm, awkwardly. He doesn’t look as if the gesture comes naturally to him. He looks, thinks Collette, like someone who’s acting out sympathy based on things they’ve seen on telly. I hope he doesn’t hug her. She might scream. ‘Poor Vesta,’ he says. ‘This wasn’t your fault, you know.’
‘I thought he was a burglar,’ Vesta says, again. The phrase is coming automatically now, as though she’s rehearsing her statement.
‘Does he have any family?’ Thomas asks, gently.
She shakes her head. ‘No. Three sisters, there were, and they managed to produce one child between them. I suppose it explains a lot, really, if you think about it. Why he was like he was. Terribly spoilt, when he was a child. Always stuffing his face with chocolate. God knows how much pocket money he got; he always had a comic or a gadget or some trendy toy when you saw him. But his mum wouldn’t let him play with the other kids. She thought they were dirty so I don’t think he had any friends. He’d come here after school and hit a ball round the garden with his cricket bat, all by himself. Always smashing my herbaceous border. His aunties lived here, back then, in the upstairs. Never saw them have a visitor, either, apart from Roy and his mother. It’s not normal, is it?’