Wednesday 18th October
Becca moved across the floor testing out the stability of her knee. She was pleased to note it felt solid beneath her. Her right leg was always going to feel different to the left, tighter and less flexible, but there were no outward signs of weakness. She no longer limped, or favoured one side. To anyone watching, she looked balanced. But she wasn’t exactly pushing the boundaries. She was choreographing a simple routine, using basic steps that didn’t require much exertion. Still, she had to start somewhere.
The lights in the dance studio flickered. She stopped dancing, waiting to see if the power would shut off. They’d had two power cuts already today. The beautiful autumnal weather had finally broken, replaced by the tail end of storm Ophelia sweeping across the country. Rain pelted against the roof. The wind made eerie noises.
The lights flickered again, accompanied by a buzzing sound.
She didn’t want to deal with a power cut. Not on her own. She’d stayed behind after tap class to work on the routine for the showcase. Announcing to her tappers that she wanted them to perform in front of a paying audience had been met with a mixture of responses. Wanda and Miriam had loved the idea of showing off their talents. Cassie and Mi-Sun, not so much.
Nick had been the surprise package, encouraging his wife and assuring her she ‘was good enough’. And he was right. Cassie had made the most improvement. Her only issue was a lack of confidence. Nick’s pep talk had persuaded the whole group to learn the routine with the option of pulling out if they weren’t happy. It was a risky strategy, but Becca hoped to win them over with a fun routine they’d enjoy performing.
Getting the routine to work was the challenge. She had two tall dancers, two short ones and Mi-Sun bridging the gap. Her instinct was to place Cassie and Nick centre-stage. But when she’d lined them up during class, poor Miriam and Wanda had looked like a couple of bookends shoved at either end of the line.
The studio lights dipped again. Loud whirring and buzzing followed.
Becca checked her phone was still in her pocket. She might need it later.
Leon and Eddie had finished for the night. Tom was in court today, and Jodi had a shift at the restaurant. Vivienne and Petrit refused to work extra hours these days, so it was left to her to lock up.
A deep rumble rattled above drowning out One Republic’s Counting Stars. She’d decided to build on the short routine her tappers had already learnt for the promo video. With less than six weeks to the festival, she figured she needed to keep things simple.
Another clap of thunder boomed above. The noise of drumming rain increased.
And then the lights went out.
Damn it! She crossed her fingers, hoping the electricity would spring back to life. When it didn’t, she dug out her phone and switched on the torch function. She opened Eddie’s text and read his instructions for dealing with a power cut. The prospect of heading down to the deserted basement of an old stately home in complete darkness, with a storm raging outside, didn’t fill her with joy. It terrified her. She felt like one of those victims in a teen horror movie who entered the monster-filled cellar armed only with a torch and dressed in a see-through nightie. It didn’t take a genius to work out they were about to be bumped off. Especially when the spooky music built to a crescendo, announcing the arrival of an axe-wielding maniac.
A bang made her jump.
She needed to stop thinking about monsters in the cellar and find the fuse board.
She untied her loose-knit tunic from around her waist and pulled it over her head. The torchlight made her cream top look yellow, which reminded her of her mum’s hair. What had her mum been thinking? Becca almost hadn’t recognised her. It was yet another indicator that all was not well in Ruby Roberts’ world, and that was something that could no longer be ignored.
But that was a problem for another day.
She changed out of her tap shoes, slipped on her gold trainers and left the dance studio. Gingerly, she made her way through reception and under the archway leading to the grand staircase. The playhouse was eerie enough fully lit. In darkness, it was positively daunting. Her phone didn’t provide much light. Numerous pairs of disapproving eyes lining the walls watched her as she felt around for the concealed panel in the wall.
The temperature dropped as she stepped into the stairwell. The stone wall was cold to the touch. Narrow steps spiralled downwards. The chill increased the lower she descended. When she reached the bottom, she was distracted by a light moving around. Had Eddie left a torch for her? How was it moving? Oh, God, someone was down here…
And then something touched her leg.
She screamed, recoiling from whatever had touched her.
Torchlight spun around and landed on her. ‘Why did you scream?’
It was Tom-the-Tyrant. She might have guessed. What had she said about monsters in the cellar? Although this one was unlikely to attack her with an axe…at least she hoped not.
‘Something brushed my leg,’ she said, glancing down at the culprit, a roll of hessian matting.
Tom moved towards her. Even in the dim lighting she could see he was wearing a suit. Didn’t the man ever relax?
‘I assumed you’d met Harold,’ he said, ducking under a beam.
‘Who’s Harold?’
He aimed his torchlight over her shoulder.
If she’d screamed when the matting touched her leg, it was nothing compared to the noise she made when she turned and saw part of a skeleton embedded in the wall.
She jumped backwards. ‘Buggering hell! Who…who is that?’
‘Don’t know, only know him as Harold.’ The scarily nonchalant way in which he responded to the question was unnerving, as though he were merely introducing her to a living relative.
‘Have you reported it?’
A beat passed before he looked at her. ‘Who to?’
‘I don’t know, the police… Crimewatch, or something.’
And then he did something that scared her a lot more than finding a monster in the cellar. He smiled. The tension he normally carried in his face disappeared. His expression morphed from mildly amused to releasing a pair of killer dimples. It had been a while since she’d seen that smile. Twelve years, to be precise.
His grin didn’t relent. ‘Harold’s at least three hundred years old. I don’t think they’d be interested.’
‘How…how did he get there? In the wall… Do you know?’
Tom reached out and ran his hand over the exposed skull. His long elegant fingers were something else she’d forgotten about. ‘We don’t know for certain. Burying people in walls was a common enough punishment, even for the Wentworths. But it was most likely one of the workmen involved in the renovation of the place. Although how he managed to cement himself into the partition, we have no idea.’
A clap of thunder made her jump.
Tom seemed to find her nervous state amusing. ‘Why are you here so late?’
She edged away from the skeleton. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t normal to have a corpse residing in the wall of your home. ‘I’ve been working on the tap routine for the showcase.’
‘Which hasn’t been agreed yet.’
‘The good news is that my tappers have agreed to take part.’
‘Nothing has been agreed—’
‘That just leaves my ballet class. But I’m confident they’ll want to perform.’
‘Are you listening to me?’ He shone the torch at her. ‘I said, nothing has been agreed. You shouldn’t be talking to your students about this.’ His smile had vanished. He was back to being grumpy. Good. It was safer that way.
‘The festival’s in six weeks’ time,’ she said, shielding her eyes from the light. ‘We can’t afford to wait.’
‘We can’t afford the expenditure.’
God, he was infuriating. She shone her phone into his eyes. See how he liked it. ‘Have you looked at Jodi’s proposal?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you agree it’s modest, it’s thorough, and strikes the right balance between being prudent and putting on a decent event?’
‘That’s not the issue.’
‘Of course it is.’ She moved away from his torchlight, trying to avoid touching anything. It wasn’t easy; there was stuff everywhere. ‘We need to raise community awareness and give people a reason to visit the Starlight Playhouse. The way I see it, we either spend a lot of time and energy trying to publicise the playhouse over a long period, which may not result in an increase in users and risks losing the council funding…or we take a punt and throw everything at one big event.’
The ceiling creaked as the wind shook the rafters. Not a good development.
‘It might not work, but at least then we’ll know. The success of the showcase will give us a measure of what works and what doesn’t in terms of fundraising.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a risk.’
‘Yeah, but the odds are stacked in our favour. Think about it. There are posters everywhere. The arts festival is being advertised on local radio, in the newspapers, even on the side of buses. Social media posts are already trending. Most of the work’s being done for us. We’d be crazy not to take part. It makes good business sense.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m not comfortable putting the playhouse at risk without consulting my mother. I tried contacting her at the rehab centre to discuss it, but the manager refused to put my call through.’ He sounded miserable.
Becca tried to imagine how she’d feel if it was her mum in rehab. Pretty terrible. But that’s why they needed to do this. Carolyn wasn’t able to turn things around herself, either physically or emotionally; they had to take action on her behalf. ‘If Carolyn was here now, what do you think she’d say?’
‘I have no idea. And that’s the problem.’ Frustrated, he stepped back, tripped over a travel case and disappeared. There was a thud, followed by a series of expletives. His torch bounced off something and it was suddenly very dark.
A beat passed. ‘Tom, are you okay? Are you hurt?’
‘I’m fine.’ He didn’t sound fine.
Where was he? She aimed her feeble light in his direction, but couldn’t see him. She climbed over the travel cases, careful not to drop her phone. She found him lying on his back, wedged between two large trunks. ‘What are you doing down there?’
He glared up at her. ‘Funny.’
It was. Since the moment he’d arrived in Brighton, he’d been assertive, controlled and a pain in the arse. Her initial dislike might have softened, but that didn’t mean seeing him in a compromising position wasn’t hugely enjoyable. ‘Are you trapped?’
He shielded his eyes from the glare of her phone. ‘No need to sound so happy about it.’
She stifled a laugh. ‘Just to clarify – you can’t move or get up? And you need me to assist you. Is that right?’
He sighed. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re about to leave me here?’
‘As if I’d do something so cruel. I have every intention of helping you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘As soon as you agree to the showcase.’
He stilled. ‘You’re blackmailing me?’
‘God, yes.’ She was enjoying watching him on the back foot for once.
He tried rolling onto his front and failed. He tried again, conceded defeat and swore…and swore again.
She watched him struggle, amused by his efforts. ‘Anytime you need a hand, just say the word. I’m right here waiting.’
He surprised her by laughing. ‘I’d forgotten how manipulative you could be.’
‘I prefer to call it persuasive.’
‘Either way, you had a habit of leading me astray.’
His comment stung. There’d been no accusation in his voice. He was teasing her, she knew that. But her mind had inevitably jumped back to the painful conclusion of their relationship.
She batted the sadness away, remembering the other version of Tom who used to meet her after school and walk her to dance class, wait outside for her to finish, and then walk her home afterwards.
‘I don’t recall you putting up much resistance.’ She kept her tone light. Now wasn’t the time or place to start rehashing mistakes of the past. They had enough angst to deal with without fighting over events from twelve years earlier.
He pushed against the trunk pinning him to the floor. It didn’t budge. ‘Are you going to help me up?’
‘Are you going to approve the showcase?’
He growled. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘I approve expenditure for the showcase.’
‘Good. I also need you to stop giving Jodi a hard time. Give her a break, will you?’
He didn’t immediately answer.
Becca adjusted the angle of the light. He was frowning. His hair was a mess and he was grinding his jaw. ‘Come on, Tom. She’s working her socks off. You have to see how much she’s changed?’
He sighed. ‘Okay, from now on I’ll do my best to trust her.’
‘Said with such sincerity.’
‘Don’t push it. I’ve agreed, haven’t I? Now, will you please help me up?’ He elbowed the side of the trunk. ‘Ouch.’
She wasn’t done. ‘One last request.’
He swore again. ‘These are not requests. They’re demands being agreed to under duress.’
‘And being recorded.’
That shut him up. Ha! Not so clever now, was he.
‘Not a smart move, Becca.’
‘I think it’s very smart.’ She failed to hide the gloat in her voice. ‘I’m not having you retract your consent at a later date.’
‘I meant using your torchlight and video function at the same time. How much battery life do you have left?’
Oh. He had a point. She needed to hurry up. ‘My last request is that we agree to stop battling over every decision and work together with Jodi to run the playhouse in your mother’s absence. We might not always agree, but we need to stop butting heads. Whether you want to admit it or not, you need us.’
She could tell he was fighting the urge to tell her where to stick it. Tough. He didn’t think twice about taking advantage of a situation, why should she?
She tried again. ‘Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
Could he sound any sulkier?
‘Thank you.’ She was glad…relieved too. He was starting to wheeze and she hadn’t wanted to leave him lying there any longer.
She tried moving one of the trunks, but it was too heavy. She shoved the other one, but that wouldn’t shift either. A plan was needed.
‘Careful with your knee,’ he said.
Like she needed reminding.
‘Make yourself useful and hold the torch,’ she said, handing him her phone. She climbed over the trunk and moved the smaller cases out of the way. ‘How did you know about my knee?’
He aimed the light in her direction. ‘My mother told me. How did you injure it?’
She picked up a case. ‘I tripped over a goat.’
His sudden laughter caught her off-guard. ‘Is that a dance move or a euphemism?’
‘Neither.’ She shoved the cases onto a shelf. ‘I was working at London Zoo. One of my tasks was to clean out the goats’ enclosure. When a little blighter started peeing on my boot I jumped backwards, not realising another goat was behind me and I fell over him.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘It was.’ She’d made enough space to access the back of the trunks. ‘I needed surgery to reattach my patellar tendon and spent eight weeks on crutches, followed by eight weeks of intensive therapy.’ She sat down, shying away from the cobwebs catching in her ponytail. ‘I’ve only recently started dancing again.’
‘Why were you working at London Zoo?’
She tucked her feet under the shelving and pushed against the wall. ‘Let’s just say, my career never quite hit the dizzying heights I’d hoped for.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But there’s still time, you’re only twenty-eight.’
She pushed hard, using her quads. ‘Unfortunately not, it’s game over. Professionally, anyway.’ The trunk shifted a fraction.
‘I thought recovery from tendon surgery was achievable these days?’
‘It is, but I ruptured my Achilles a few years back, so I was already compromised.’ She pushed again. The trunk shifted a bit further.
‘Another goat?’
She laughed. ‘Nope, dancing this time. I landed badly. I thought I’d been shot, it made such a bang.’ She adjusted her position and pushed again. The trunk moved another few inches. ‘It took me two years to recover and I only regained around eighty per cent of my ability. So when the second injury occurred eighteen months later, the surgeon warned me my career was probably over.’ The trunk finally shifted.
‘I’m sorry, Becca. I didn’t realise.’
‘Such is life. Some dreams we have to let go of.’ She got up, brushing dirt and cobwebs from her clothes. It hurt a lot more than she was letting on. They’d agreed a fragile truce. She wasn’t about to divulge all her weaknesses. He had enough power as it was. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What’s it like being a barrister?’
He squeezed himself out from between the trunks. ‘It has its moments. It’s not how I imagined it would be.’ Even lit by the feeble torchlight, she could see he was filthy. His suit jacket was covered in dust and there was a tear in his trousers. He ran his hand through his hair, creating another flashback from their youth.
She pictured them sitting in his bedroom, legs entwined, holding hands and watching his mum’s old portable TV. ‘Do you remember we used to watch Kavanagh QC?’ she said, resisting the urge to brush cobwebs from his jacket. Touching him wouldn’t be a good idea. ‘You wanted to be like John Thaw. The gruff barrister who always won his cases.’
Tom climbed over the trunks, using her shoulder to lean on. So much for not touching. ‘Yeah, but that’s only because he was never expected to defend an idiot who’d beaten his former business partner around the head with a child’s scooter.’
His disgruntled expression made her laugh. ‘Are you serious? That was your case today?’
‘It was.’ He shone the light against the wall. ‘Now, where’s the fuse board?’
‘In the cupboard on the left-hand wall.’ She squinted, trying to find it in the darkness. ‘Eddie left me instructions.’ She eased her way over to the wall. It was cold and sticky. Not the most pleasant of tasks. ‘Was the man found guilty?’
‘Yes.’ Tom’s hand brushed hers as they searched for the cupboard. ‘Here it is.’
The cupboard housed an array of jumbled cables. ‘There should be a master switch next to the fuse box.’ She took the phone from him. ‘You flick the switch and I’ll hold the light. I don’t want to get electrocuted.’
He gave her a loaded look. ‘But you don’t mind if I do?’
‘It’s your house.’
‘Fair enough.’
Ignoring his almost-smile, she aimed the light in the cupboard. Her phone started to dim. ‘How do you defend someone you know is guilty?’
He lifted the cables and looked underneath. ‘It’s not my job to decide if someone’s guilty or innocent. I only do what the client tells me to. And if they tell me they didn’t mean to knock someone out with a plastic scooter and they were trying to disperse a swarm of attacking bees, then that’s the defence I present to the jury. Even if it’s a load of crap.’
‘Over there.’ She spotted the fuse box. ‘The switch should be next to it.’ She pointed to the lever. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, eh?’
‘Exactly. And if my client tells me they’re not guilty, I have to take them at their word. Even if the evidence against them is strong and things will be far worse for them if the case goes to trial. What I think is irrelevant. It’s up to others to decide about guilt or innocence.’ He pulled the lever. There was a delay before faint light filtered through from the stairwell. ‘Bingo.’
She turned away. She didn’t want him to see the tears threatening to escape.
It was those ‘others’ who’d decided her guilt back in 2006.
And what hurt the most…was that he’d believed them.