Carla was the key, Kim maintained, the inside-outsider.
So I came. I waited. I made connections with the other witnesses. Lara left; thered always been well fault-lines. I drank heavily for a few weeks. Just the atmosphere of this place the house. This awful feeling of the simplicity, the roaring quiet, the certainty. An unbearable itchiness. In my head. In my soul. As if the place, the sea, the furniture, the entire house were all slowly rejecting me. Developing a gradual intolerance. I know it sounds
Or was that just ?
Then the phone call the garbled message. Kimberly Couzens was dead. Dead! Something to do with a botched tooth extraction. Kimberly Couzens was dead.
I left the cottage in my suit and dress shoes. I was empty, flat (remember?) and I was paradoxically Day-Glo; blank and cynical, yet strobing with emotion. Urgh! I was neither. I was both. I was confused. I was walking away from my feelings and I was running straight into them. It wasnt I wasnt I I dunno.
I staggered down on to the beach. I just put one foot in front of the other. I tried not to think. I tried desperately to process the news. I could, but I couldnt.
Of course we had never been formally divorced, Kim and I. It was one of the many things Lara couldnt forgive me for. Yes, I petitioned for divorce: 23rd December 1972. She was still in Ireland. In hospital. The date is singed into my brain with a cattle iron the day of the Managua earthquake. Even my hurt, my outrage at Kims devastating betrayal couldnt be allowed to take centre stage, couldnt bask, bleeding, in the limelight. Nope. God went and killed 2,000 people, in one stroke, and I by necessity was left feeling petty and pitiful.
It was tough. I was wounded (I was wounded! What a joke!). But her burns were so bad that I couldnt follow through with it. We were a team. Above and beyond everything else, Kim and I were a team. I was the ears, she was the eyes. Funny to think of it that way now. The ears stopped working a long time ago. They waxed up. They froze. They ceased functioning. Why? I have so many reasons, each one so tiny and humble and insignificant; each one merely an ant or a black, darting termite but collected together? An infestation. A great hill. An immovable mountain.
And the eyes? After the accident, they thought they could save at least one of them on the right-hand side. It was her camera eye, her all-seeing eye. She had such high hopes for it. She was such a fighter. But full vision never returned. And she was melted, poor Kim, like a candle.
We moved her into a granny flat in Toronto. Her mother, Trudy (the actual granny), lived upstairs. And everything cost. From that moment onward, everything was calibrated rage, hurt, resignation, paranoia, claustrophobia, frustration, resentment through a shiny curtain of dollars and cents. I opened my import/export business in Monterrey, Mexico. We struggled along, me here, her there. How else to manage it?
Did I forgive her? No. Did I stop loving her? No. Could I let go? No. And Bran Cleary? My dear friend Bran (whose injuries had totalled a slightly sprained wrist, some bruising and a broken nose because ever the gentleman he had opened the car door for her for my wife!). Did I forgive him? No. Did I stop loving him? No. Could I let go? Yes. Yes. Yes.
I let go. I moved on. I never wanted to feel that way again. People have often asked me my professional opinion (although what profession I belong to now I struggle to decipher laughing stock? Entrepreneur? Crook? Social worker?). Did Bran deserve what happened to him? Was it all just bad luck? A conspiracy? Was it revenge? Murder? Something beyond that the (God forbid!) supernatural?
No more questions! I just didnt want to speculate. I didnt want to engage. I didnt want to let it all in again. And yet here I was, immersed in the whole mess right up to my chin, resenting every moment, hating every moment. Wishing I was dead. Why did she ask me? Why did I agree to it? And now Kim. Poor Kim. Brave Kim. Un-Kim.
Call that call that fair?!
5
Miss Carla Hahn
The eternally fragrant, sweet-natured and well-meaning Alys Jane Drury is absolutely appalled by what I have done (how might I have imagined it could be otherwise?).
Whatever possessed you, Carla? she demands. Hes such a nice man! So very interesting. Debonair. Handsome. All those lovely curls! And so incredibly polite. I just dont understand how
She is silent for a moment. I hold my breath and press the receiver even tighter into my ear.
Its so out of character! she finally declares. Did Shimmy put you up to it?
No, I insist (perhaps a split-second too quickly), it was all my idea. I mean Shimmy wasnt happy after the incident with Rolfie, obviously
But you said Mr Huff had already apologized for that.
Yes. He had. Well, in a manner of speaking. The letter was very arrogant. And a complete tissue of lies about the exact circumstances of
To protect everyones feelings, perhaps? she interrupts.
I ignore this. He actually went so far in the letter as to admit to not even liking cats.
I dont like cats, Alys snorts. Well, not especially, she qualifies.
But thats because you love birds, Alys! I insist.
Franklin Mr Huff likes birds, she counters. He made a huge fuss of the parrot when he visited. Teobaldo even allowed him to stroke his chest. And Teobaldo hates people. He wont even let me do that. We spent ages talking about the birds of Me-hico. He collects feathers exotic feathers. For the shrunken heads. But he never kills anything. Hes very strong on conservation. Very respectful of the environment which I thought was just lovely.
Shrunken ? I echo weakly, half-remembering something along the same lines that Mrs Barrow had said.
Didnt he tell you? He has a business which manufactures shrunken heads. The kind you get in Peru. He makes them in Me-hico and exports them. Theyre incredibly beautiful. He showed me a sales pamphlet. I mean disgusting but beautiful. Hand-stitched. Extraordinary. Some sell for thousands of dollars. People collect them. He makes them with carved animal bones and skins. He has a small team of ex-gangsters and addicts in Monterrey working for him. The whole enterprise is run like a kind of social programme
I think it would be fair to say that Mrs Alys Jane Drury (widow) has been thoroughly won over by Mr Frankin D. Huff (con-artist). The woman is besotted.
Rather odd, dont you think, I muse, that Mr Huff should come here with the express intention of finding out things about you, and then should end up talking endlessly all about himself? I pause, meaningfully. Did it ever dawn on you that maybe ?
It might all be just a ruse? Alys promptly fills in for me, sharp as a tack. A technique? To beguile me? Uh, yes. It did occur to me, as a matter of fact.
Rather odd, dont you think, I muse, that Mr Huff should come here with the express intention of finding out things about you, and then should end up talking endlessly all about himself? I pause, meaningfully. Did it ever dawn on you that maybe ?
It might all be just a ruse? Alys promptly fills in for me, sharp as a tack. A technique? To beguile me? Uh, yes. It did occur to me, as a matter of fact.
Oh, I say, deflated, well, good.
It may interest you to know that several times in the course of our labyrinthine discussions he actually encouraged me to hold things back. Hed say, Lets not trespass any further into that, Alys. I can see how youre struggling. Save it. Preserve it. Some things need to remain truly inviolate
Are you serious?!
After even only the briefest of acquaintances with Mr Huff, I find it difficult to imagine him readily employing the phrase truly inviolate.
Absolutely, Alys insists.
And then what? I ask.
How dyou mean?
Well did you change the subject?
Uh Alys ponders this for a moment. Sometimes. Yes.
I roll my eyes and start to walk over towards the window, but am prevented from doing so by the tangled phone cord. I grimace and start the laborious task of unwinding it.
Well, for what its worth, he was still incredibly rude about Rogues weight, I mutter (smarting at the mere memory), unforgivably rude.
Rogue is horrendously overweight, Carla, Alys sighs, Rolfie too, for that matter. Your father systematically overfeeds them. Its awful strange cruel. Youre always moaning on about it yourself
She has me there, admittedly.
In Shimmys defence, she blithely continues, its probably the expression of some profound, deep-seated emotional conflict or trauma, possibly relating to the persecution of the Jews.
He is fat, I murmur, slightly shame-faced now, but to be so so forthright about it, and so mean, so horribly judgemental
Mr Huff has been resident in Pett Level for almost six weeks now, Alys interrupts, and in that entire time has hardly breathed so much as a word to you, Carla. Perhaps you might be feeling a little I dont know sidelined? Ignored? Piqued?
Thats ridiculous! I exclaim, horrified. I never had any intention of speaking to the man! Ive been actively avoiding him. Why else did I hire Mrs Barrow to clean the cottage? To act as a go-between? I was actually glad he didnt approach me relieved.
Sorry Alys interjects, theres interference on the line.
I said I was glad he didnt approach me, I repeat, louder, briefly desisting from my frenzied untangling.
Right. Okay. So thats why you approached him this afternoon she wryly observes.
I didnt! I squeak. Hes staying in the cottage, my cottage, and by all accounts hes gradually dismantling it, piece by piece. His wife ran over Mames cat, for heavens sake! What other option did I have? He lied about his true identity on the lease. They signed in under Ashe
Yes, yes. And of course you just naturally presumed ? I can hear the infuriating smile in Alyss voice, and behind it (like the alternating layers of blue-grey wash in the lowering sky of a fine watercolour painting) a parrot muttering, Baldo! Baldo! Baldo! Baldo! culminating with a deafening, WAH!
Presumed what? I demand, wincing (although I know exactly what shes about to say).
That he wanted to talk to you. That hes obsessed by you stalking you. That you would naturally be the crucial witness. The main focus. The hidden key to it all! Youve been actively looking forward to rejecting his advances, but he hasnt actually made any. Hes been the perfect gentleman! Face it, Carla, youre more obsessed than he is!
I didnt presume anything I grumble, wounded. Once again as a distraction I start untangling the line. Although it was perfectly reasonable to assume that after hed approached pretty much everyone even remotely connected to the Cleary visit I mean he tracked down the milkman, Alys! Old Billy Peck who was always deaf as a post. He tracked him down. And the woman who ran the mobile library I dont even remember her name!
Meredith Brown. So perhaps he got what he needed from other sources? Alys suggests brightly.
Yes. Yes. Maybe he did. I sullenly play along.
I mean its not anything too in-depth that hes after, just a series of captions for this little book of photographs. By Kimberly Couzens. That Canadian woman. The photographer. You know the one who was with Mr Cleary when
Well hopefully hes satisfied with what hes got, I concur, moving a couple of feet closer to the window (as a consequence of my untangling), and now hell clear off and leave us all in peace.
Hopefully, she echoes (perhaps not entirely convinced).
Is it raining in Hove? I wonder.
It was earlier. Fairlight?
Tipping it down.
I gaze out at the rain.
Are you thinking of heading back? Alys wonders, after a brief silence.
Sorry?
To the cottage. To sort it all out.
No! I snort, then, Yes. I am, actually. But hell probably be home again by now.
You should go anyway, and if he is there, apologize. Make it heartfelt. It was an awful thing to do, Carla. Hell think youre completely unbalanced!
I grimace.
And after I told him at such unbearable length about what a dear little lamb you are! she murmurs, softening.
I promptly baaaa (its automatic, semi-ironic, perfectly sincere). I have always always been Alyss dear, little lamb.
Exactly! She chuckles. But dont just hang around in Fairlight pointlessly over-analysing everything like you normally do. Each second counts. Your honour is at stake here and that of the entire community, by default, she adds.
Great. No pressure then. I solemnly inspect the rivulets of water trickling drably incessantly, wetly down the windowpane. Of course she is right. Alys invariably is. I will go. I was angry. I was wrong. I have behaved like a maniac. I am at a moral disadvantage. It simply wont do.
I draw a deep breath and steel myself, preparing to say my goodbyes, but am momentarily distracted by an unexpected rumble very low, like a long, metal snake of conjoined supermarket trolleys being pushed, some distance away, across a wide expanse of tarmac. Oh God, I recognize that sound! My skin instantly starts to prickle its automatic response (Quick! Run, Carla, run!). Seconds later (and I havent even shifted by so much as a centimetre) pouf! my garden shed evaporates.