Let Me Lie(49)

Suicide? Think again.

‘Okay?’

Billy nods tightly.

I lock the car and take his arm. He relaxes a little, and we walk towards the headland. Focus on the good times, I think.

‘Remember that time you and Dad dressed as the Krankies for the summer party?’

Billy laughs. ‘We argued over who got to be Wee Jimmy. And I won, because I was the short arse, only then—’

‘Then the two of you got pissed and fought about it all over again.’ We burst out laughing at the memory of Wee Jimmy and Dad rolling around the showroom floor. Dad and Uncle Billy fought in the way only brothers fight: fast and furious, and over as soon as it began.

We fall into a companionable silence as we walk, interspersed with occasional snorts of laughter as Billy recalls the night of the Krankies all over again. He squeezes my arm.

‘Thank you for making me come. It was about time I faced up to it.’

We’re standing on the cliff top now, safely back from the edge. Neither of us have proper coats on and the rain is coming from all directions, soaking through my running jacket. Out at sea a small boat with red sails cuts through grey choppy water. I think of Mum, standing where we are now. Was she scared? Or was she here with someone she trusted? Someone she thought was a friend. A lover, even – although the thought sickens me. Is it possible my mother had been having an affair?

‘Do you think she knew?’

Billy doesn’t say anything.

‘When she came up here. Do you think she knew she was going to die?’

‘Anna, don’t.’ Billy starts walking back towards the car park.

I run to catch up. ‘Don’t you want to know what really happened?’

‘No. Give me the keys – I’ll drive back.’ The rain has pasted Billy’s hair to his head. He holds out his hands, but I stand still, defiant, the keys between us.

‘Don’t you see: if Mum and Dad were killed, it changes everything. It means they didn’t leave us; they didn’t give up on life. The police will look for their murderer. They’ll find answers for us, Billy!’

We stare at each other, and then to my horror I see Billy is crying. His mouth works without words, like the TV on mute, and then he turns up the sound and I wish with all my being I’d driven towards Hastings instead.

‘I don’t want answers, Annie. I don’t want to think about how they died. I want to think about the way they lived. I want to remember the good times and the funny times, and the nights in the pub.’ His voice gets gradually louder until he’s shouting at me, the wind whipping the words straight at me. The tears have stopped, but I’ve never seen Billy like this before. I’ve never seen him out of control. His fists are tightly balled and he shifts from one foot to another like he’s spoiling for a fight.

‘Mum was murdered! Surely you want to know who did it?’

‘It won’t change anything. It won’t bring her back.’

‘But we’ll have justice. Someone will pay for what they did.’

Billy turns and walks away. I run after him, pulling him back by the shoulder. ‘I just want answers, Uncle Billy. I loved her so much.’

He stops walking, but he won’t look at me, and in his face is a mixture of grief and anger and something else, something confusing. Understanding comes a split second before he speaks, so quietly the wind almost takes it away without me hearing it. Almost, but not quite.

‘So did I.’

We sit in the car park, watching the rain on the windscreen. Every now and then a strong gust of wind rocks the car, and I’m glad we came down from the cliffs when we did.

‘I remember the first time I saw her,’ Billy says, and it should feel awkward but it doesn’t because he’s not really here. He’s not sitting in a Porsche Boxster at Beachy Head with his niece. He’s somewhere else entirely. Remembering. ‘Tom and I were living in London. Tom had done some big deal at work and we’d gone to Amnesia to celebrate. VIP passes, the lot. It was a big night. Tom drank champagne all night; spent the whole time on the sofa with a string of girls. I think he thought he was Peter Stringfellow.’ Billy gives me a sidelong glance. He flushes, and I worry he’s going to clam up, but he keeps talking.

‘It was 1989. Your mum was there with a friend. They didn’t give a second glance to the VIP area – they were on the dance floor all night. She was stunning, your mum. Every now and then some guy would come up to them and make a move, but they weren’t interested. Girls’ night out, Caroline said later.’

‘You spoke to her?’

‘Not then. But I gave her my number. I’d been plucking up the courage all night, then suddenly it was last orders and everyone was leaving, and I thought I’d missed my chance.’

I’ve almost forgotten that he’s talking about my mother. I’m captivated by the expression on Billy’s face; I’ve never seen him like this before.

‘Then there she was. In the queue for the cloakroom. And I thought: if I don’t do it now … So, I did. I asked if she would take my number. Give me a call. Only I didn’t have a pen, and she laughed and said was I the sort of bloke who would forget his wallet, too, and her friend found an eye-liner pencil and I wrote my number on Caroline’s arm.’

I can see it so clearly. Mum in her eighties finery – big hair and neon leggings – Uncle Billy gauche and sweating with nerves. Mum would have been twenty-one, which would have made Billy twenty-eight, Dad three years older.