Page 50 of A Face in the Crowd
‘What?’
‘Someone needs to tip off Alex and Ben’s mum. I know you’ve got issues with Melanie, so I can call if you want, or—’
‘I’ll do it.’
I’m not completely sure why I say it. I glance across to the kitchen counter, on which her jacket is still resting. I suppose I was going to have to confront Melanie sooner or later.
‘Are you sure?’ Annie asks.
I don’t need to think about the answer. ‘Yes.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I sit with Billy on the floor and he chomps down his food with no hesitation. He rubs his head against my hand and then puts it back down, closing his eyes for another sleep. It’s a wrench to leave him but I figure I can get out and back in two hours at the absolute most. He’s probably going to rest for most of that time anyway. The vet said he’d need to sleep it off.
Melanie lives in the same house she always has. It’s on the furthest side of town from me, tucked on the back end of a post-war housing estate. These are the types of properties built when people knew what they were doing – with large back gardens, patches of green at the front and so much space there could be two or three new-builds rammed into the same area.
The first thing I notice about Melanie’s house as I approach is that the curtains are closed upstairs and down. There are no lights in the hallway and no sign that anybody is in. There’s no doorbell and a sign that tells doorstop sellers not to bother. The facia boards are brown with muck and the outside of the house is coated with a dusty murk, making it look as if it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.
I knock on the glass of the front door and wait. After thirty seconds, I try again, a little harder this time. I give it another minute and am about to turn to go when a shape appears in the distance through the rippled glass. It’s a stand-off as I watch the silhouette slowly make its way towards the door. It’s probably a good two minutes since I knocked the door that a timid-sounding ‘hello’ comes from the other side.
‘It’s Lucy,’ I say.
At first, nothing happens; then there’s the sound of five or six bolts unlocking before the door is wrenched inwards. Melanie stands there in tracksuit bottoms and a pyjama vest. She’s either not been up long or has been in her nightwear all day. Her overriding feature remains, however – the malice in her stare. Her eyes boggle as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Hell has frozen over.
‘What do you want?’ she says, sternly.
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
Melanie has turned into a statue. She’s rigid until she bangs the front door open wider into the wall.
I was half expecting her to tell me to do one, but it’s as much as an invite as I’m going to get.
There’s always an awkward moment in entering someone else’s house. They hold open the door, which means the person going in has to gamble at where to go. I bustle along the hallway into a kitchen I’ve not seen in seven or eight years. The blinds are down, leaving the room shrouded in a gloomy murk. There is mould in the corners of the ceiling and spider’s webs in the window frame. The fridge is humming like a jumbo jet coming into land and there’s a large tear across the centre of the linoleum flooring.
Melanie stands blocking the kitchen door. ‘What do you want?’
I figure there’s no point in niceties, so get right to it: ‘There’s a woman named Gloria who’s going around talking to relatives of people from the crash. It’s something to do with a TV documentary, but she’s asking about money. I—’
‘I don’t want anyone’s money.’
‘Me either. I’m here to let you know, in case nobody else has mentioned it. Someone said Gloria has been offered money by a production company and that she’s trying to keep as much of it for herself as she can.’
Melanie clucks her tongue and then half turns back towards the hallway. ‘Is that it? I guess you can get off then. You’ve already killed my son.’
I should let it go. I’vebeenletting it go for years. It takes some twisting of the truth for her to believe I killed both her sons but I’ve ignored it because I can’t imagine how much she must be hurting from losing both her sons at the same time. Perhaps it’s the time I’ve had with Billy, but something inside of me tugs. My skin tingles and it’s like I’m about to erupt. I unzip my bag and pull out the red coat, holding it up triumphantly.
‘I knew it!’ Melanie shouts, reaching for it.
I pull the jacket away. ‘Youknew it?’ I shout back.
‘You nicked it, didn’t you?’
She makes another grab for it, but I pull it away once more; like a low-rent matador on a Channel 5 gameshow.
‘What is your problem?’ Melanie says.
‘Myproblem? What was this doing in my building?’
