The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

a few seconds she said, ‘Sorry. When I asked if I could maybe buy another of her pictures, a different one, she said no.’

‘When was this?’ asked Charlie.

‘June last year. She attacked me, physically. I stormed out of the gallery and never went back. Then I changed jobs and-’

‘Hang on. You’ve seen Mary since, right? You’ve been to her house. Have you asked her again who Abberton is?’ What was the connection between the name Abberton and the eight other names Aidan had given Ruth? Nine people known to Aidan and Mary?

‘No.’ Ruth was trembling.

‘Why not? You’re on better terms now, presumably. She told me she was trying to persuade you to model for her.’

‘It’s none of my business. If you call a painting after a person and then depict them only as an outline, what does that mean?’ Charlie had the impression Ruth had asked herself this question many times. ‘Surely it has to mean there’s something painful or problematic associated with them in your mind, something you’d rather not remember.’

‘I didn’t see any outlines of people when I was looking at her pictures this morning,’ Charlie told her. ‘I saw people with faces and features.’

‘You mean up on the wall? The ones of the family?’

‘Mary’s family?’

‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘A family who used to live on her estate, I think.’

Charlie wondered why Mary had chosen to paint them so many times. She’d mentioned a compulsion to paint people she cared about. Like offering yourself an emotional breakdown.

‘They’re brilliant, aren’t they?’ said Ruth. ‘Did you see the one of the boy writing in pen on the wall?’

‘No. Where was that one?’

Ruth frowned as if she was trying to remember. ‘In one of the downstairs rooms.’

Charlie had only seen the kitchen and the hall before going upstairs. ‘What was he writing? On the wall?’

‘ “Joy Division”. I don’t know what it means.’

‘ “Love Will Tear Us Apart”,’ said Charlie automatically.

‘What?’ Ruth sounded startled. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘It’s the title of Joy Division’s most famous song. Don’t ask me to sing it to you.’

Ruth said nothing. There was a trapped look on her face.

‘Joy Division are a band,’ Charlie told her, trying not to sound scornful. ‘You haven’t heard of them?’

‘I didn’t listen to pop music as a teenager. My school friends all watched Top of the Pops, but it was banned in our house, effectively.’

‘What do you mean “effectively”?’

Ruth sighed. ‘My parents never actually told me I couldn’t do anything. Their particular brand of mind-control was far too subtle for that. Somehow I just knew I had to pretend not to want to do the things they’d disapprove of.’ She looked up at Charlie. ‘Were your parents strict?’

‘I thought so at the time. They tried to stop me from pursuing my hobbies: smoking fags, getting hammered, taking boys I hardly knew up to my bedroom.’

Charlie didn’t want to talk about her teenage years, but there was an avid look in Ruth’s eyes. ‘Fights aplenty. My sister was the good one-didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t screw around. Never challenged the regime, thereby making it look fair, and shafting me in the process. Her greatest triumph was to defy medical science and single- handedly defeat ovarian cancer. I can’t even give up smoking.’

Ruth was nodding. Keep your fucking mouth shut, Charlie ordered herself. She felt an urgent need to take back some of the poison she’d released. ‘It’s horrible having to admit your parents were probably right,’ she said. ‘Without Mum and Dad’s interventions, I’d have been mainlining cheap cider and hosting orgies every night of the week, especially school nights.’

‘There were no rows in my house,’ said Ruth. ‘There was only ever one opinion. I never heard my mother and father disagree about anything.’

‘Well…’ Charlie cast about for something to say, feeling uncomfortable, wondering how they’d ended up here. She and Ruth weren’t friends, swapping confidences. What would Ruth expect in exchange for her unhappy childhood stories? No, that was the wrong way to look at it. What might Ruth offer in return, if Charlie showed herself willing to act as a sounding board? There were still a lot of questions she wanted to ask; it would help if Ruth was favourably disposed. ‘Whenever I catch a bit of those Supernanny-style programmes, that’s what they seem to advise,’ she said. ‘Parents need to back each other up, not undermine one another.’

‘That’s so wrong,’ Ruth said vehemently. ‘If a child never sees its parents disagree, how’s it supposed to learn that it’s okay to have your own mind? I grew up thinking that if I ever said, “I disagree with you”, the sky would fall down. My parents only ever read the Bible or biographies-ideally of Christian martyrs-so I had to pretend I did too. I hid my real books where they’d never find them. I used to be sick with envy when I heard my friends scream at their parents that they hated them, when I heard their mums and dads scream back, “As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll live by my rules.” At least my friends could be honest about what they wanted to do.’

Christians, thought Charlie: pure evil. The Romans had the right idea throwing them to the lions. What a pity she’d omitted that line from her engagement party speech. She’d barely skimmed the surface of controversial; Simon had massively overreacted.

‘I lied to you on Friday because I needed to,’ said Ruth. She picked up her tea and took a sip. ‘I don’t disapprove of lying. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it if there’s an unreasonable constraint in your life stopping you being the person you want to be.’

‘How’s your relationship with your parents now?’ Charlie asked.

‘I don’t see them, not any more. We haven’t spoken since I left Lincoln. After years of being too scared to do it, I finally broke their heart. No,’ she corrected herself, ‘that’s not what I did. I put myself out of harm’s way, that’s all. It’s up to them if they choose to allow their heart to break.’

Charlie noted the singular, used twice in rapid succession: heart, not hearts.

Ruth said, ‘Some people choose never to see themselves in the mirrors you hold up for them. That’s their choice. I assume it’s what my parents have chosen. I’ve got a PO box address-it was in the letter I sent them when I moved to Spilling. They’ve never used it.’

‘They live in Lincoln?’ Charlie asked. No wonder Ruth had got the hell out.

‘Nearby. Gainsborough.’

‘You gave up a lot when you moved. I Googled Green Haven Gardens this afternoon. Sounds like you had a thriving business. ’

Ruth’s body jerked, as if she’d been shot. Charlie wasn’t surprised. She knew all about feeling invaded, finding out that someone was more interested in you than they ought to be. Interested enough to carry your story in their coat pocket. She pushed the thought away. ‘Organic and chemical-free before it was fashionable,’ she said. ‘And you won three BALI awards.’

‘I won the main BALI award three years running,’ Ruth corrected her, her eyes full of suspicion.

‘I was only skim-reading,’ said Charlie. ‘I had two seconds between meetings. I might have missed some of the finer points.’

‘Why are you interested in Green Haven? That part of my life’s over.’

‘Why did you give it up?’

‘I didn’t want to do it any more.’

Charlie nodded. It was an answer and, at the same time, no answer. She hoped Ruth wasn’t regretting how much of herself she’d already given away.

‘Let me show you the tape,’ said Ruth, standing up. Charlie didn’t know what she meant at first. Then she remembered: the man in the red bobble hat. She rolled her eyes behind Ruth’s back, lacking the heart to point out that her watching footage of a man walking past a house and looking at it would achieve nothing. She followed Ruth out into the hall and saw what she’d missed on the way in. Above the front door with its unusual leaf-patterned glass panel was a shelf with a TV on it, a video player, and a row of cassettes numbered one to thirty-one. One for