The Truth About Celia Frost Page 9

  He thought quickly. “Please, Mike, could you keep looking? I’m actually meant to be on leave but the boss has insisted I come in to sort this out. I can’t go home until I do.”

  “You shouldn’t be coming in on your day off,” said Mike sympathetically.

  “You know how it is with our job, Mike. We’re slaves to it, aren’t we? Always giving 110 per cent and even then they want more.”

  “You’re telling me. Hold on for a minute while I keep looking.”

  “Thanks, you’re a real pal,” replied a relieved Frankie.

  The news came a couple of minutes later. “Sorry, Paul, but they aren’t on our system. She’s not come to us to be housed and it looks like she’s not claiming housing benefit either.”

  Frankie couldn’t disguise his disappointment. “Where else could I look?”

  “They could be anywhere in the city, and then there are all the suburbs and outlying towns. They’ve all got tons of low rent, low quality private housing. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Thanks anyway, Mike,” Frankie sighed.

  He was just contemplating going to find a bakery to cheer himself up, when his phone rang and his day got even worse.

  “She’s not on an admission list for any school in the area. Now leave me alone,” Julian said, switching his phone off before Frankie could even get a word out.

  Frankie couldn’t believe it; he’d been relying on at least one lead. He walked over to the tourist enquiry desk.

  “How many people live in this city?” he asked the smiling woman behind the counter.

  “Just over a million, sir.”

  Frankie stood, silently brooding.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” prompted the woman, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

  “Only if you can find a needle in a haystack,” he grunted.

  “Maybe we should just forget it. I can’t get the hang of it,” a frustrated Celia said, attempting to climb out of the lake.

  “No you don’t,” replied Sol from the slabs. “Stay in there. You’re no mermaid, but you just need to keep practising. Go back and try again.”

  “It’s all right for you, sitting there like Robinson Crusoe, with your fire and your sausages.”

  “Yeah well, maybe if I see you putting some effort into your swimming, I’ll cook you one,” he said, teasingly lifting the spitting sausage from the frying pan and taking a big bite.

  Celia reluctantly waded back out into the water, making sure her feet could feel the solid ground.

  “Okay. Now remember, I want to see clean strokes and strong kicks,” he ordered, demonstrating with his arms from the comfort of the slab.

  Celia launched herself forward and started kicking frantically, while trying to scoop the water with her hands. Sol couldn’t stop himself laughing as she immediately headed under the water like a submarine, only to emerge seconds later, spluttering, with a curtain of hair plastered over her face.

  “Stop laughing at me,” she said, peeling her T-shirt away from her skin. She was glad that she’d invested in the baggiest, darkest T-shirt she could find. “If I’m so bad then it’s your fault. You should be in here with me, not shouting orders from there,” she said.

  “Okay then,” he replied, slipping into the lake. “If you get on your front, I’ll sort your arms and legs out.”

  Celia felt Sol’s hand on her stomach, supporting her prostrate body. She fixed her eyes straight ahead, far too conscious of his touch.

  “It’s all right if I hold you up, isn’t it?” he asked, feeling her body tense.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Right then. Now kick your legs. No...don’t bend them right up. Keep them straighter, closer together.” He pressed gently down on her legs with his free hand, trying to keep them under control.

  “Now do your arms like this,” he said, guiding her limb with his hand. “Don’t take them too far out of the water. It should be a smooth action – pull the water back with your hands like this.” He put his hand over hers and dragged it through the water.

  Her eyes strayed. She couldn’t help looking at him. She wasn’t used to being close to anyone and now here she was, half naked and practically entwined with a boy in a lake. It was all too overwhelming; Celia stopped kicking and put her feet on the ground.

  “What’s up?” Sol said, surprised. “Was I holding you too tightly? Sorry, I just didn’t want you to sink.”

  “No, no, it’s fine, honest. I was getting tired,” she lied, flustered.

  “No worries. We can get out and cook the rest of those sausages.” He smiled reassuringly.

  Celia’s mobile rang out from her bag on the slabs.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Sol said.

  “No, don’t bother,” she said. “It’ll only be my mum.”

  “Celia, why don’t you just answer your phone? Do you think I’m stupid? I know you’re ignoring my calls. Be a good girl, phone me. I’m just in the precinct, on my way home. Let me know when you’ll be home – please, Celia!”

  Suddenly, Janice heard a noise. Looking down the precinct, she could see a group of young lads sprinting towards her. Seconds later, another gang appeared, flying after them, a large, shabby Rottweiler pounding by their side. The smattering of shoppers in the precinct deftly moved aside to avoid being knocked out of the way. Janice quickly followed suit. The first gang rocketed past her; fear and exhilaration oozing out of them – and then, closing in, their pursuers came roaring past, their faces twisted with vicious intent.

  The gangs vanished from view as quickly as they’d appeared and people in the precinct wordlessly resumed their business. Janice groaned as she went and sat down on a nearby bench. She felt so weary, so completely knackered. But it wasn’t just because of this estate, overrun by gangs. It wasn’t even because she’d hardly eaten recently, or because she’d just finished another long shift at the stinking chicken factory; Janice could cope with all of that. But what she couldn’t cope with was Celia running around God knew where, with God knew who. Not letting her know if she was okay. Coming home late, barely speaking, full of secrets; her eyes brimming with contempt every time Janice asked her a question. Janice was aware that she was pushing Celia further and further away as her anxiety became uncontainable. But she couldn’t help it. The more powerless she felt to keep Celia under control, the more desperate she was becoming. She could feel her body and mind being eaten away by the stress. She didn’t know how long she could go on like this.

  “Steady as you go, mate. See you tonight when you’ve sobered up.” A booming voice shook Janice from her morbid musings. She looked across the precinct to see a mountain of a young man gently guiding a customer out of the Bluebell Inn. He gradually unhanded the intoxicated old gent, who wobbled away like a baby taking its first steps.

  “Thanks, Abs. You’re a good lad,” the drunk called back with a wave and a lopsided smile.

  Abs saw Janice watching the scene. “Another satisfied customer,” he laughed, walking back into the pub.

  Yeah, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, Janice thought jealously. And then it dawned on her. That could be me. Not sloshed or anything. I could just have the one. Something to take the edge off. What harm can it do?

  Janice marched into the dingy pub before she changed her mind. She ordered a gin at the bar, sat down and braced herself. She’d gone through a phase of cider drinking when she was a teenager – she’d found it deadened the loneliness for a while – but no alcohol had passed her lips since Celia was a baby. With Celia, she’d always felt that she couldn’t afford to relax, but now, with the state she was in, she couldn’t afford not to.

  She took a sip of the clear liquid. Her face screwed up as she spluttered out a dragon-breath gasp.

  I’ve just wasted my money on something that did nothing but burn my throat and tasted like firewater, she thought bitterly. But she persevered and after a few more sips she started to notic
e subtle changes. Her shoulders had dropped from around her ears, the knots in her back seemed to be loosening, and the constant gnawing in her head began to dull. Janice relaxed into the beer-stained chair and nodded to herself approvingly.

  Well, once you get used to the vile taste I can see why it’s so popular. I suppose if it feels like this after one, it must only get better after two.

  She was right; the second gin slid down without a fight and the gnawing disappeared. She was seeing everything with new, bright, optimistic eyes.

  Abs came to wipe her table. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said.

  “No. First time. I’m not a drinker.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Abs replied with a conspiratorial wink.

  Janice burst out laughing as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She couldn’t stop herself and the unfamiliar sound of her own laughter delighted her. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that everything was out of her control. So what? Everything was going to be okay. Janice hadn’t felt this relaxed in years and all it had taken was a couple of glasses of this innocuous-looking drink.

  She suddenly felt a bit queasy. Her empty stomach was protesting at her liquid lunch. Janice knew it was time to leave.

  Blinking in the bright sunlight, she left the pub and popped into the minimart next door. She picked up a loaf and a can of beans, smiling bounteously at the other customers, who gave her a wide berth. On her way to the checkout she passed the heaving shelves of the Bargain Booze aisle, noting the bottle of “Supersaver Gin” that cost barely more than her drinks in the pub.

  “What a temptation for the weak,” she tutted, walking on defiantly.

  Celia breezed into the flat, late again. She’d done the same for the past three weeks, ever since she’d met Sol, and she didn’t care. She wanted Janice to suffer. She was humming something that had lodged itself in her head: one of the R & B tunes on Sol’s iPod – catchy but nowhere near as good as her stuff.

  I must introduce that boy to some decent music, she thought.

  Janice rushed in from the balcony, a cigarette in hand. Her eyes flitted over Celia’s body, searching for any cuts or bruises.

  “Don’t inspect me every time I walk through the door,” Celia snapped.

  “I’m not, love, honest. I was just thinking how well you look.”

  This wasn’t a complete lie. Over the last few weeks, Janice had noticed a transformation in Celia. She still possessed her inevitable gawkiness, courtesy of her long, gangly limbs, but instead of walking around with her head bowed and shoulders bent, she now held herself up to her full, impressive height. The sparkle of her pale blue eyes was visible now they were no longer clouded by anxiety. Her skin had erupted in freckles from the exposure to the sun, giving it a warm, healthy sheen. Everything about her seemed stronger, more confident, as if at last she was free from fear and comfortable in her skin. Janice noted all of this and felt her stomach knot.

  “I got us fish and chips,” Janice said with a desperate cheeriness. “I waited so we could have it together. I’ll heat it up. I didn’t think you’d be back so late.”

  “I keep telling you not to wait for me. I can sort myself out,” Celia said flinging her bag down and heading for the bathroom.

  “Will you be long?” Janice asked, biting her lip.

  “I’m having a shower. Do I have to ask your permission?” Celia shut the door on her.

  Janice waited until the shower had been running for a few minutes before picking up Celia’s bag and rifling through it. She pulled out suncream, an empty Coke can, a purse, keys, and the new mobile that Celia refused to answer whenever Janice rang. Janice tried the phone and groaned with disappointment. Celia had locked it, her texts and address book safe from intruders’ eyes. Next, Janice pulled out a damp towel. Wrapped inside it were wet shorts and a T-shirt.

  What’s going on? She couldn’t have been swimming. She can’t swim and there isn’t even a pool around here.

  Janice felt at the bottom of the bag and pulled out a hardback notebook.

  “Bingo,” she whispered triumphantly. She’d been regularly searching Celia’s bedroom for a diary and now she thought she held it in her hands. She opened it hurriedly, hearing the squeak of the shower control being turned and the water stopping. But inside, instead of all of Celia’s exploits and innermost thoughts, she found delicate sketches of dozens of birds, with sightings dated next to them and details of nests and hatched eggs. Janice was confused; some of the dates went back over two years.

  These couldn’t have been drawn by Celia.

  She flicked through the book and there, on the last pages, two portraits stared back at her. The first was unmistakably of Celia. But it wasn’t the face that she allowed Janice to see. These days, when Janice looked at Celia, all she saw was disdain and contempt. But this portrait captured a luminous quality in her; carefree and happy, so happy. Janice had almost forgotten what an incredible mile-wide smile Celia possessed. The second portrait wasn’t as skilful as the first, but it drew the observer in with the boy’s cheeky grin and mischievous eyes.

  Janice was so engrossed in these pictures that she didn’t hear the bathroom door open.

  “What are you doing with my stuff?” roared Celia, charging towards her in a dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head.

  Janice immediately went on the attack. “Who’s this boy?” she demanded, holding the notebook aloft as Celia tried to grab it.

  “No one. None of your business,” she hissed.

  “What’s all this about? Why have you got wet clothes in here? Where do you go?”

  Celia ignored her questions and, snatching the book and her phone, she stormed into her bedroom, shouting through the door, “I’m not telling you anything and if you ever go through my stuff again you’ll never see me again. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t do this, Celia,” Janice pleaded, “you’re torturing me. Staying out all day, coming in late. I can’t stand not knowing where you go, if you’re safe. It’s cruel of you!”

  There was a stony silence from the other side of the door and Janice knew it was going to be a long, tense night. She made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard, breaking the seal on the bottle of gin by unscrewing the top. She’d decided to buy it for emergencies only; for those times when she desperately needed to stay calm and relax. Now, definitely felt like one of those times.

  Celia sat crossed-legged on her bed with her phone. She was seething as she deleted the messages between her and Sol and then began to delete the photos that captured their days at the flooded quarry. It pained her to do it, but she would rather die than have Janice find them.

  Celia had spent all those years trapped in the gloomy bubble Janice had made for her, gripped by fear, feeling like a freak, but now she had so many great things to tell: like how, for the first time in her life, she couldn’t wait for each new day to begin; like how it felt to have a friend, the most amazing friend, a big, soft kid who made her laugh, who taught her how to climb trees and build campfires, who timed her as she threw herself around their woodland assault course, every day getting faster and faster. A friend who spent hours trying to teach her how to swim and who, every evening, took her back to the estate, pedalling like a maniac, as she clung onto the back of his bike with white-knuckled hands and a racing heart. Just thinking about him made her forget how life was before. But she knew that she could never tell Janice any of this. Sol and the flooded quarry were hers, all hers, and Janice must never be allowed to ruin them with her madness and paranoia.

  Janice paced the floor of their tatty living room. What if he’s her boyfriend? she fretted. She can’t, she wouldn’t. She leaned without thinking on the hot radiator and cursed as it branded a red welt onto her hand. This bloody place, she grumbled. Maybe it’s time to move on. Get her away from whatever she’s up to. Yes, I shouldn’t push it though. I’ll bide my time, plan a proper move.

  Janice waited half an hour before gingerly knockin
g on Celia’s door.

  “Come on, love. You must be starving. Your dinner’s here,” she said coaxingly, peering around the door.

  Celia’s stomach rumbled as the smell of fish and chips wafted in. “You haven’t even apologized,” she grunted.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry. I shouldn’t have gone through your things. I won’t do it again. I know you’re a good girl. I know that you won’t be up to anything stupid. Now come out and eat. You can have it in front of the telly; there’s a new makeover show on.”

  Janice sat next to her on the sofa and tucked into the food. The atmosphere between them was beginning to thaw. Celia found it too exhausting to stay angry in this oppressive heat.

  “This is nice isn’t it?” Janice said, patting her on the knee. “You and me watching the telly together – ‘chilling out’.”

  Celia rolled her eyes.

  Half an hour later, the woman on the makeover programme had been reduced to tears by the ridiculing presenters and then sliced open by a smarmy surgeon, who sucked bits out of her before stuffing other bits into her and botoxing her face into an expressionless mask. The finale was unveiling her new look to her husband, who was suitably stunned and declared that she looked nothing like the woman he married and he was delighted. As the programme finished, Janice hoisted herself up from the saggy sofa.

  “Can I get you anything while I’m up?” she asked.

  “No thanks,” Celia muttered.

  Janice went into the kitchen. Celia switched channels to the news.

  “Results published today of preliminary clinical trials on cancer patients point to a potential breakthrough in the fight against the disease. Many in the medical profession are hoping that we could be on the brink of a cure. A British scientist, fifty-four-year-old Professor Melanie Hudson, has devoted years into engineering a so-called ‘smart virus’ that, when injected into cancer sufferers, will selectively attack cancerous cells, destroying them, while leaving healthy cells untouched. The virus, which has been named The Saviour Virus, has been shown to successfully eliminate cancerous cells in many forms of cancer. The report shows that most patients involved in the trial have, so far, remained cancer free. Earlier today our reporter, Nick Devaney, spoke to Professor Hudson at her London home.”