The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

of his skull. All three lanes of traffic are stationary. We’re in the middle one. Ahead, a few people have climbed out of their cars and are stretching, or leaning in through open windows to talk to other drivers. I wonder how long we’ve been here, how long I was asleep. It’s getting dark outside.

‘You want Spilling, don’t you?’

‘I was going to get the train,’ I tell him. ‘I thought you were taking me to a station.’

‘I was told to take you all the way, miss.’

‘No.’ I push away the desire to drift back into sleep’s comforting oblivion. ‘I haven’t got enough money for…’

‘You won’t be needing any,’ he says, twisting the mirror so that we can see one another. His eyes are grey, with pouches of skin above and below them, and heavy white eyebrows that sprout forward instead of lying flat against his skin. ‘It’s on the account. All I’ll need from you’s a signature when we get there. If we get there,’ he adds cheerfully.

‘The account?’

‘Villiers.’

‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I tell him.

‘No misunderstanding, miss. I was told to take you to Spilling. Looks like we might be in for a long haul, though. There’s been an accident two junctions ahead and they’ve closed traffic down to one lane. Are you thirsty? There’s some water in the freezer-bag back there. I’d have told you before, but you were out for the count.’

To my right, in the footwell, there’s a squat blue case. I undo my seat belt, lean down and unzip it. There are eight unopened bottles of mineral water in its chilled interior.

‘Help yourself,’ says the driver. ‘They’re for you, not for me.’

I’m confused. How can they be for me? Why would I need eight bottles of water? ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, uncomfortable with him watching me. ‘Really, I’d prefer it if you dropped me at a station.’ There’s a leather pocket attached to the back of his seat, with the top of a glossy, red-covered magazine sticking out of it: The Insider.

‘New to Villiers, are you? You look too young to have a daughter there. Job interview, was it?’

‘I was visiting someone.’

‘First time? That explains why you’re not used to the Rolls-Royce treatment. If you were a parent or a teacher, or even one of the girls, you’d expect nothing less. Between me, you and Barney McGrew, it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t take too much for granted once in a while. Not a Villiers girl yourself, are you?’

‘No.’

‘I can tell you’re not. Villiers is our main account-we’re the only firm they use, and that’s why: for the service we provide. Would you like the radio on now that you’re awake? Sorry if it disturbed you before. I was keeping it on to hear the traffic bulletins. ’

‘I don’t mind.’ Talking is using up energy I can’t spare. I need to think about what I’ll say to Saul. Having refused to face him in person for so long, I have no right to turn up without warning and fire questions at him. Knowing he’ll be delighted to see me, that he’ll answer them willingly, only makes it harder.

I thought Saul had shown me all the art he owned. Why didn’t he show me Aidan’s picture? Before the day Mary attacked me at the gallery, we used to have dinner together from time to time, either at Saul’s house, with his family, or at mine, where it would be only me and him; I felt bad about that, but Blantyre Lodge is too small for a proper dinner party. The main point of those evenings was to show each other new paintings we’d bought. We joked about our ‘collections’. Saul used to say, ‘You and I are the taste-makers of the future, Ruth. Once all the pickled baby skeletons and diamond-studded skulls and unmade beds have been seen for the shams they are, you and I will be there to lead the way. True art will once again reign supreme.’

Does Saul know where Aidan is? Does he know why Aidan called one of his paintings The Murder of Mary Trelease?

‘Radio Two all right for you, miss?’ asks the driver. ‘Or would you prefer a ditty or two? I’ve got some CDs.’

The word ‘ditty’ makes me think of It’s a long way to Tipperary and Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag-songs I was forced to learn at school and hated. ‘The radio’s okay,’ I tell him.

‘There’s a copy of the school magazine in the pocket behind me,’ he says. ‘Latest issue. You’re welcome to have a decco if you get bored. Get a glimpse of how the other half lives.’

One half dies. The other half lives.

I pull The Insider out of the leather pouch and start to flick through the pages. There are photographs of schoolgirls in yellow blouses and maroon blazers, standing in lines, smiling. Each picture represents an achievement-money raised for charity, a victory in an independent schools’ public-speaking competition. On the next page there are more pictures of Villiers girls, this time in yellow tracksuits and swimwear, holding up trophies. I see Claire Draisey, the woman I met last night, also in a yellow tracksuit, and find out from reading the caption that as well as being Director of Boarding, she coaches the netball and synchronised swimming teams.

On the opposite page there’s a picture of a modern-looking building, a white-walled hexagon with large windows on every side. I’m about to pass over it when the name ‘Cecily Wyers’ catches my attention. The building has been named after her. I read the paragraph beneath the photo. It quotes Martha Wyers’ mother, an old Villiers girl, as saying she’s always been passionate about the arts, which is why she and her husband donated most of the money that turned the school’s dream of its own dedicated theatre and drama studio space into a reality. I stare at these five lines of text long after I’ve finished reading them, as if they might tell me something about Martha that I don’t already know.

Odd that Cecily didn’t think to name the building after Martha instead of herself.

I’m about to close the magazine and put it back in the pocket behind the driver’s seat when my eye is drawn to another name, at the bottom of the last page. No. It can’t be. I look at it, half expecting it to disappear, but it doesn’t. Goundry. The name is there, but the context makes no sense. A prickly sensation starts to creep along my arms, up my back and neck and behind my knees, as if I’ve got pins and needles in my skin.

I re-read the paragraph. Goundry’s not a common name. If it were Wilson or Smith, I wouldn’t have noticed. I drop the magazine, open my bag and pull out the sales list Mary gave me. There’s the name again: Mrs C. A. Goundry. An address in Wiltshire. My heart judders an irregular, drawn-out beat as something else leaps out at me from the page. I didn’t read the addresses before; I was too stunned by the nine names being there, looking so innocent and not at all mysterious-the people who bought paintings from Aidan’s 2000 exhibition.

The address given for Ruth Margerison, who bought a painting called Who’s the Fairest? , is Garstead Cottage, The Avenue, Wrecclesham. Mary’s cottage. I stare at the handwritten list. I know that writing, the curly ‘M’ of Margerison…

Disorientated and panicky, I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me?’

The driver turns off the radio. ‘Yes, miss?’

‘There’s something here about a talent contest. In the magazine. ’

‘That’s right. They have it every year, first Saturday after Valentine’s Day. There’s a lot of pressure on Villiers to go co-ed, but the head and the board are determined not to. All the statistics show that it’s easier to educate girls when there are no boys around, but try telling the girls that. And some of the parents-a lot of them take the attitude, if their daughter wants boys, they expect boys to be provided, like good school lunches and private bedrooms in the dorms.’ He laughs. ‘I reckon I get to hear more of their complaints than the head does. Not a lot I can do to help them-I’m only a cabbie. Most of them assume they can buy anything, and normally they can, but the board have dug their heels in over the single sex issue. They know who’d get an earful the minute the results took a dive.’

I want to scream at him to get to the point.

‘Valentine’s Day tends to bring the bad feeling to the fore, as you can imagine,’ he says, scratching the back of his neck. ‘The contest’s a bit of fun, designed to make the girls forget about the cards that never arrive because hardly any boys know they exist, tucked away in the middle of the countryside. It’s a shame, really. But they all love the contest-it’s the only one where the boarding houses go up against each other, you see. Usually the competitions are against other schools and the girls have to present a united front. They have that drummed into them from their