at the top of the list. The Nielsons were third generation agnostics. A critic had once said their father spent his whole life looking for God, but Anne could not see that. She knew she would go for the simplest, most secular ceremony available. She was tempted to collapse, and play on Mark’s British protectiveness to have him take care of the arrangements. He would know what to do, and be supremely efficient at it, sparing her as much of the strain as possible. But she could not do that. Anne Nielson did not use men as crutches. These were the ’90s. Besides, Mark would use it as a way of getting closer to her, and he was too close already. This was family.
Judi’s lighter had cracked, and the inside of her bag smelled flammable. There was not much to pick through, but she sorted all the items out and laid them on the table. Some plain rings; a skull earring; a studded leather armlet; a plastic bottle of codeine; a package of paper tissues; three shades of lipstick, scarlet, crimson and black; American Express and Visa cards; fifty pounds in fives; a purseful of loose change; a cardboard tube with a rocketship in it that contained two ‘Invader’ brand prophylactics, ‘Launched by Automach Peterborough’; an imitation leather-bound diary/address book; and a man’s wallet.
Anne played with the wallet. It was stuffed with photographs and newspaper clippings. There was an old snapshot of the sisters, as children, with a pony, somewhere in New England; Anne was standing, smiling, holding the bridle while Judi, little more than a baby, perched fat and fed-up on the saddle, dress ridden up over her thighs. A photo booth strip of a young man Anne did not recognize. Judi grown up, with two other girls, caught in a flashbulb glare, trying to look deliriously abandoned in a nightclub. The last shot made Anne shiver.
The cuttings were an odd selection: a piece from
The Guardian
about father’s stroke, a favourable review of one of Cam’s concerts at the Pompidou Centre, a
Radio Times
listing for a late night screening of
On the Graveyard Shift at Sam’s Bar-B-Q and Grill
, and samples of Anne’s work from various papers and magazines. There was also an ancient anonymous letter Anne remembered arriving at the house and upsetting Dad. It called him a fink for informing on fellow travellers in ’57. It had disappeared, and only now she realized Judi must have sent it herself, and that Dad must have known: over the years, there had been a steady trickle of abuse, but this one had really nettled their father. The only thing there that was about Judi was a report on a coroner’s hearing she had given evidence at. Anne had not heard of the dead man, a stabbing victim, and could not work out what his connection with Judi had been.
‘Checking the loot, eh, love?’ said the comedian, laughing. ‘Funny how the muggers get younger and prettier every day, innit?’
Anne looked up at the man. His chins were shaking, and he had a beerfoam moustache.
‘Fuck off,’ she said, her eyes fixed. His grin froze, and fell apart. He turned back to the barmaid, and made a remark Anne did not catch, laughing again.
Anne looked again at the items on the table, and tried in her mind to connect them with Judi.
As soon as Judi had arrived in London, she had telephoned her sister, but only to cadge some money. That had been two years ago. The sisters had not met since. Like Anne, Judi had right of residence thanks to their English mother. Two years was time enough to make a whole life. She picked up the armlet. The leather was cracked, and a few of the studs were missing, leaving tiny wounds. Not for the first time, Anne wondered how exactly her sister had lived.
And what was she looking for anyway? Keepsakes? Messages from the grave? Clues?
She had saved the book until last. It was such an obvious source of information. Under today’s date was neatly printed ‘N. Club D.E. 1.00’. N? A name? One o’clock? Morning or afternoon? Club
Judi’s lighter had cracked, and the inside of her bag smelled flammable. There was not much to pick through, but she sorted all the items out and laid them on the table. Some plain rings; a skull earring; a studded leather armlet; a plastic bottle of codeine; a package of paper tissues; three shades of lipstick, scarlet, crimson and black; American Express and Visa cards; fifty pounds in fives; a purseful of loose change; a cardboard tube with a rocketship in it that contained two ‘Invader’ brand prophylactics, ‘Launched by Automach Peterborough’; an imitation leather-bound diary/address book; and a man’s wallet.
Anne played with the wallet. It was stuffed with photographs and newspaper clippings. There was an old snapshot of the sisters, as children, with a pony, somewhere in New England; Anne was standing, smiling, holding the bridle while Judi, little more than a baby, perched fat and fed-up on the saddle, dress ridden up over her thighs. A photo booth strip of a young man Anne did not recognize. Judi grown up, with two other girls, caught in a flashbulb glare, trying to look deliriously abandoned in a nightclub. The last shot made Anne shiver.
The cuttings were an odd selection: a piece from
The Guardian
about father’s stroke, a favourable review of one of Cam’s concerts at the Pompidou Centre, a
Radio Times
listing for a late night screening of
On the Graveyard Shift at Sam’s Bar-B-Q and Grill
, and samples of Anne’s work from various papers and magazines. There was also an ancient anonymous letter Anne remembered arriving at the house and upsetting Dad. It called him a fink for informing on fellow travellers in ’57. It had disappeared, and only now she realized Judi must have sent it herself, and that Dad must have known: over the years, there had been a steady trickle of abuse, but this one had really nettled their father. The only thing there that was about Judi was a report on a coroner’s hearing she had given evidence at. Anne had not heard of the dead man, a stabbing victim, and could not work out what his connection with Judi had been.
‘Checking the loot, eh, love?’ said the comedian, laughing. ‘Funny how the muggers get younger and prettier every day, innit?’
Anne looked up at the man. His chins were shaking, and he had a beerfoam moustache.
‘Fuck off,’ she said, her eyes fixed. His grin froze, and fell apart. He turned back to the barmaid, and made a remark Anne did not catch, laughing again.
Anne looked again at the items on the table, and tried in her mind to connect them with Judi.
As soon as Judi had arrived in London, she had telephoned her sister, but only to cadge some money. That had been two years ago. The sisters had not met since. Like Anne, Judi had right of residence thanks to their English mother. Two years was time enough to make a whole life. She picked up the armlet. The leather was cracked, and a few of the studs were missing, leaving tiny wounds. Not for the first time, Anne wondered how exactly her sister had lived.
And what was she looking for anyway? Keepsakes? Messages from the grave? Clues?
She had saved the book until last. It was such an obvious source of information. Under today’s date was neatly printed ‘N. Club D.E. 1.00’. N? A name? One o’clock? Morning or afternoon? Club
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