Mr. Flood's Last Resort(83)

Sam squints back at me through cigarette smoke. “People keep newspaper cuttings all the time; it means nothing.”

“In this case, it means something.”

“This is madness.”

“You have a sister.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“You have a sister. I asked you before. I said, ‘If she disappeared, like Maggie Dunne, would you just let it go?’?”

“Nice one.” St. George nods under his visor.

Sam’s voice is low and full of contained anger. “None of this is any of your business.”

“You’re lucky: you know where your sister is.”

He screws out his cigarette in the planter. “I thought you had more sense. I can see why Renata does it, all that time on his hands.”

The saints tut. St. Dymphna mutters an expletive under her breath.

I watch Sam walk off across the car park. If I had a brick in my hand I’d be taking aim.

*

HE OPENS the car door from the inside. I get in, putting my handbag on my lap primly. All the saints slide into the back seat. As we pull out of the service station I see a brand-new black BMW parked by the petrol pumps. The man in the driver’s seat ducks. Sam looks straight ahead and dawdles towards the exit.

*

I HAVE to make a decision. I am in a car with a man who isn’t who he says he is and we are being followed. And he not only knows we are being followed, he’s encouraging it.

I look down. My phone is hopping in my bag, vibrating through the canvas: Renata.

The saints nudge one another and St. Valentine leans forwards. “The next service station is just up ahead. Get him to pull in there.”

“Can we stop again, please, Sam? That coffee’s gone right through me.” I sneak a look at his face. He is beyond irritation.

*

I SIT on the toilet for the longest time studying my phone. It’s entirely out of charge.

I flush the cistern for something to do, until St. Dymphna pushes her head through the cubicle and tells me its high bloody time I came out.

As I line up for the hand dryers with a dead phone, my itinerary, and a gaggle of ladies on a trip to Weymouth, a plan starts to take shape in my mind.

St. Dymphna is leaning on the sanitary-towel dispenser with her lamp in her hand and her robes arranged nicely. She flashes me an encouraging smile. She looks very sweet when she smiles non-sarcastically; she even has dimples. She could be the face of sainthood.

“Remember how convincing you were when you delivered that box of cat litter to Mrs. Cabello?” she says. “She believed you and she’s a savvy old high-class hooker. You can do this, Maud.”

I frown at St. Dymphna and she nods at me. For once I know she’s right.

I take a deep breath and feel the tears collect in my lying eyes.

*

THE WOMAN in charge is called Wendy; I can tell this from her name badge. I know she is in charge because she is the one holding a clipboard. She’s a little out of place in her anorak and walking sandals in a sea of appliquéd nylon and cork wedges. Wendy tells me that she’s a retired teacher who misses the headache of escorting ill-behaved miscreants on trips to heritage sites. The Dorking Nifty Fifties Latin Formation Team fills this gap in her life; she doesn’t dance but a trip away with them is a workout by itself.

This weekend there is a semifinal in Weymouth, a trip on a steam train, and a cream tea at Corfe Castle to contend with. All this and being in charge of two hobby kleptomaniacs, three habitual brawlers, and a committed sex addict who’s been plaguing the coach driver to distraction. Wendy shakes her head as an argument breaks out in front of the mirrors as thirty women simultaneously attempt to apply lipstick.

I take the opportunity to relay my tragic story and throw myself on Wendy’s mercy. She eyes me with alarm over her clipboard as I begin to cry, her long graying hair giving her the appearance of a concerned spaniel.

St. Dymphna gives me the thumbs-up.

“I’m sure it contravenes all manner of health and safety rules,” says Wendy, “but we do have extra places on the coach due to an outbreak of shingles.”

I grin like a lunatic.

“You’ll have to join the troupe as a temporary member. I have a form.” She rummages in her rucksack. “But what about your car, dear, can you just leave it here?”

“I think the main thing is to get to the home in time to say goodbye to my aunt.” I dab at my eyes with the tissue Wendy gives me. “Of all the times my distributor could fail—”

“I quite understand. I once had a very temperamental car, a fractious Hillman Imp.”

She glances across at the mirrors; the fight seems to be escalating. One of the Nifty Fifties has taken off her shoe and another is putting down her handbag and rolling up the sleeves of her batwing jumper.

A weary frown crosses Wendy’s brow. “If you’ll excuse me.”

*

WE EMERGE like the close-knit group we are; I am already linking arms with a woman with hard-boiled blue eyes, short red hair, and gums like a carthorse. She introduces herself as Fun Julie, shows me a half bottle of vodka in her handbag, and threatens to share it with me on the coach. I am careful to steer Fun Julie towards the middle of the group as we stampede, roaring and singing, across the car park. I see Virtual Sam waiting outside the entrance. He is speaking on his phone and kicking a post. He glances over his shoulder in the direction of the noise, then looks away, frowning.