Any One of Us, page 8
It was quiet in the café. Two heavyset men wearing high-vis jackets were sitting in the window seat – builders enjoying their heart-attack breakfast. But beyond them, she spotted an elderly man at the back, a mobility scooter parked at the side of his table.
Breathing gently as her heart rate dropped, Ruby stared at the man and realised she was right. She did recognise him. It was Mr Phillips. He had less hair, seemed shaky and sagged. Smaller, thinner. But, yeah, it was definitely him. He was dressed in a brown jacket and beige trousers, sporting that uniquely timeless fashion elderly men so often adopt. Ruby had never even seen clothes like that for sale. Where do these pensioners buy them? And, crucially, why?
Even there, sitting alone, Mr Phillips had a scornful, bitter frown. His teeth together, his lips peeled back as though everything about this wretched world disgusted him.
Ruby crossed the road and went inside, a dangling bell above the doorway announcing her arrival. She strode across the spongey linoleum floor, past the counter, and approached his table. Even though she was standing at his side, quite clearly about to speak, Mr Phillips just sat there. Like a statue, staring across the café towards the window, through the white-net curtain border – looking out at the rough sea, the rolling waves.
Ruby leant down slightly, trying to catch his eye. It was hard to tell if he had even noticed her.
“Why are you standing so close to my table?” he said, his gaze still tracked on the horizon.
Then, turning on an exact horizontal axis, his old, blood-shot eyes landed at her waist, then tilted with frankly psychopathic precision up to her face.
“Mr Phillips, my name is Ruby Shaw. Do you mind if I sit?”
“You can do whatever you want.” Back to the window.
She lowered into the chair, sitting slightly side on to show that she was just passing, not here to stay. Now she was directly opposite, he had no choice but to look at her.
“But I’d rather you didn’t,” Mr Phillips added.
Ruby smiled and sighed. “I’m already down . . .”
“Yes.”
A waitress arrived and picked up his plate, which was smeared with baked bean sauce and the crispy fried edges of eggs, which he’d left in perfect, hollowed circles.
“How was the food, Dave?” the young waitress asked, balling up a napkin, sweeping spent sachets of black pepper off the table.
Dave. Ruby knew that was his name, but he was still Mr Phillips to her.
“As good as you’d expect for four pounds,” he said.
“Well, I’ll extend that to the chef. We’ll have more sausages tomorrow, OK? Sorry about that.” She spoke a little louder than normal, then smiled at Ruby. “Can I get you anything?”
“More tea,” Mr Phillips said, sliding his empty mug towards her without looking.
Sympathetic, Ruby tilted her head, and the waitress nodded with wide eyes. You don’t know the half of it. A tricky customer indeed.
“I’m fine,” she said, adding, “Thank you,” in a deliberate voice.
When the waitress left, Ruby picked up the laminated menu. It felt slightly greasy. Photos of food, faded colours and dated prices. “You eat here a lot?” she asked.
“It’s not any of your business.”
Ruby laughed. “Sorry, I . . .” She put the menu down, slid it aside. “You’ve probably heard about the deaths?”
“Hmm, yes, I did catch wind of something.”
“You may recall that, back in the day, all three were in your tutor group.”
“OK.”
The espresso machine roared behind the counter, steam billowing up. Then the thump, thump, thump of coffee grounds slammed into a bin. When it stopped, Ruby asked, “Do you know who they are?”
He shook his head. “People don’t speak to me much anymore. And I have no interest in the news.”
There was a pause. “Would you . . . like to know who they are?”
Mr Phillips sort of half shrugged, groaning. “Go on then.”
“Mary Talbot,” she said, but he clearly had no recollection of her. “Elizabeth Gregory.” Again, nothing. “And Scott Hopkins.”
And Mr Phillips laughed – a single, mocking, “ha” sound – dry gravel in his throat. This seemed like a rare and genuine spark of joy. Really warmed his heart. Then he hesitated, as though realising he was being inappropriate. But, instead, he hammered it home. Holding Ruby’s gaze, he nodded. “Good.” There were no doubts about his views.
“You didn’t like Scott?”
“Scott was . . .” He thought for a moment, tutted, apparently annoyed at having to put this into words. “Scott was a little shit. I taught for forty years and he was, by some margin, the single worst pupil I ever encountered. Maybe the worst person. Fuck him. And fuck you for pretending to care.”
Ruby laughed again. “Wow.” She wiped her eye. Mr Phillips had a certain charm. “It’s my job,” she said. “So, when did, um . . . when did you retire?”
“Again, this is none of your business. Look, are you going to arrest me?”
Although he still exuded power and dominance, disdain and repulsion, he was obviously frail. His hands thin, liver-spotted skin webbed over tendons and bones. In fact, Ruby was surprised to see he was still going. Probably months left. A year at a push. He seemed like he was ready. As Will observed, Mr Phillips caving someone’s head in would be entirely plausible if not for what the cruel erosion of time had done to his failing body.
“No,” Ruby said, “we’re just having a conversation.”
“Why are we having a conversation?”
“I’m helping the police investigate the murders. Speaking to anyone local, you know. Thought maybe you’d have some insight.”
Really, now she thought about it, Ruby was sitting here out of raw curiosity. It was fascinating to interact with Mr Phillips as an adult, on equal footing. Was he really that bitter old geography teacher? Or was there something human, something normal, something vaguely relatable hiding behind those spiteful eyes?
Ruby paused, thinking, remembering all those mean comments he’d made to students over the years. One moment shone out. They must have been in year 8, possibly year 9. Rachel Timpson was crying because someone – quite possibly Scott – had said she looked like she “belonged on a farm”.
Mr Phillips crouched at her desk and whispered, in a reassuring tone, “That is because you are overweight and, as such, resemble a pig.”
There were a hundred stories like that – outrageous to think he got away with it. This behaviour was unacceptable even then, though perhaps it had been par for course back when he was allowed to use a cane. Those “good old days” that he’d openly reminisce about, disappointed in the “silly PC laws” that meant he had to rely on words to hurt his students.
She and Eduardo had spent hours in the tent reminiscing about their respective school days on the night of that first text. Ruby did try to explain Mr Phillips. But Eduardo just laughed, assuming she was exaggerating. “Surely he can’t have been that bad?”
“Is that your plan?” he grumbled. “Walk around town asking random people questions?”
At this stage, pretty much. But she said, “It’s a complex investigation. You knew the victims; I wouldn’t call this encounter ‘random’.”
“I remember you.” He looked her up and down. “Straight As. Always handed your homework in on time.”
“Well, what can I say, students were scared of you.” She meant this as a compliment, but it didn’t land.
“It was pathetic, to be perfectly honest,” he said. “You had nothing better to do with your spare time? Bit of a try-hard.”
He was not the first person to say this. Young Ruby did try hard. She was a bizarre combination of insecure and analytical. She’d tried, tried very hard in fact, to figure it all out. In the early years of secondary school, Ruby remembered writing notes on how “popularity” worked. She did her best, excelled in every subject, academic and physical alike. She was polite, kind and, on the whole, honest. And yet, she found herself with relatively few friends and not even a glimmer of respect from her peers or, it seemed, some members of staff. Of all the insults levelled at her, “try-hard” was the one that stung the most.
And it confused her. How was trying hard a bad thing? Later she came to realise that the effort was not the issue. No. It was the perception of endeavour – appearing as though you are exerting effort to achieve your goals. This, and she appreciated the sentiment now, is a sign of weakness. Expertise is more impressive when it looks easy.
To further complicate the dynamic, the expertise cannot appear to be consciously made to look effortless. If you are acting as though you find it easier than you do, you risk appearing arrogant or, worse, looping right back up to the start and being considered a try-hard. A meta try-hard. Trying hard to appear as though you’re not trying hard. Thirteen-year-old Ruby wrote detailed, rambling notes to this effect. Diagrams. Theories.
But it wasn’t until she was well into adulthood that she finally understood the social hierarchy of a secondary school is not science but art.
So, she cleared her throat, and pretended his comment meant nothing. “Schoolwork is important,” she said.
“No it fucking isn’t.”
She smiled at him for a long time. Part of her respected this – Mr Phillips was, if nothing else, consistently unpleasant. But, as fun as this had been, Ruby realised it was probably not destined to be fruitful. She sighed, preparing to leave.
“To be clear,” Mr Phillips said, holding up a hand to keep her in place, “this is not why I hate him, but were you aware that Scott Hopkins was a friend of Dorothy?”
Ruby settled back into her plastic chair. “What do you mean?”
An exhausted grunt. “You know what I mean.”
“That he was gay?”
“Yep.” Mr Phillips nodded. “Got no problem with it, long as they steer clear of me.”
“What, uh, what makes you think that?”
“My son is also gay. He’s married. To a large man.” He shook his head, swallowed. “It might surprise you, but I’m OK about that.”
“Sounds like it.”
“They talk to each other, the homosexual community. There were rumours. Apparently, Scott was deeper in that closet than any man alive. Chains. Whips. Riding gloves. The dark side.”
Ruby frowned. This seemed unlikely. Although she was mindful not to be swayed by stereotypes, Scott really didn’t fit the image. Then again, now she gave it some thought, she couldn’t picture him with a woman either. But the reality was, “He had a girlfriend.”
“I just said that he was in the closet,” Mr Phillips snapped, slapping the table, clinking the cutlery. “Why don’t you listen?”
The waitress made eye contact and Ruby showed her a hand – it’s all good. A bottle of ketchup had fallen over. Ruby carefully put it upright again as she considered her next question. Had to be straightforward.
“Let’s say that’s true,” she said. “Why are you mentioning it?”
“His family – his brother, his dad.” He licked his lips, flexed them into a sort of twitchy kissing shape. Sniffed. “Chavs.”
“They’re not really, Mr Phillips, they—”
“Whatever they fucking are.” He waved his hand, as if he was batting away a fly. “Live in trailers, I don’t know the word. Trash. Poor people.”
“Scott lived up at the old farmhouse in Brettwood.” Ruby pointed vaguely in the direction of the village.
“Either way. Low income. Working class. Rough folk, you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Old-fashioned values, not as tolerant and liberal-minded as you and I.”
Ruby covered her laugh with a cough. “Sure. So . . . ?”
“So, they’re not the kind of chaps who would take news like that lightly.”
“You’re suggesting someone found out that he was gay and then murdered him?”
“Are you deaf, girl?”
“I just want to be sure what you’re saying here.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
Ruby turned in her seat, scratched her neck, elbow on the table. “What about the other two then? Mary and Elizabeth.”
Mr Phillips shrugged again – not like he didn’t know, more like he didn’t care. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re clearly a bright spark.”
Absurdly, this compliment felt good. Ruby hid it well, but praise from a man like this was surely rare.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m joking,” he added. “You haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re doing and it is glaringly obvious. It’s pouring out of you.” He gestured to her chest. She looked down at herself. “The way you move, your body language. It’s all considered. Overthinking.”
“All right, well, thank you for your time.” She stood up. “If you have any—”
“You strike me as a deeply insecure person who spends more energy worrying about the thoughts of other people than your own.”
She just stood there and waited. “You finished?”
Mr Phillips turned his head and looked up at her. “Life will hurt a lot less if you’ll just . . . be yourself.”
Ruby had wondered if now, retired and waiting for death, he was better or worse than he used to be. But now she could see that Mr Phillips, like so many other things in this strange little town, was exactly the same. He was a bully.
She took a long, decisive breath. “Dave,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, “from the bottom of my heart, fuck you.”
And, for the second time, she saw warmth in his eyes. As though he craved it, as though abuse was his life force. This had been the trick all along. Just give it back to him.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, yes. That’s much better.” He patted her fingers, squeezed them like a long-lost member of his family. “Good luck with the case, Miss Shaw.”
Chapter Six
Back at Will’s place, Ruby was standing in the spare room staring at that school year photograph yet again. It was busy now, scribbles and notes – arching lines darting from face to face. Friends, lovers, life, death. One hundred and sixty people, connected by the random whims of age and geography.
She remembered the day the photo was taken – that smile she’d practised the night before. Her well-rehearsed posture – the angle of her shoulders, the height of her chin, the crease of her anxious little eyes. And she cringed at the memory, at that awkward girl she used to be. Maybe Mr Phillips had a point.
As a teenager, Ruby used to spend hours alone in her bedroom, in front of the mirror, adjusting herself. She even took hundreds of photos on her old Polaroid camera, posing in various positions. Profile. Front on. Smiling. Waving. Formal. Casual. This was years before the word “selfie” entered the dictionary – Ruby was well ahead of her time. She thought about sad things, happy things, anything that might seep through and expose itself in her body language. And then she would analyse each posture and consciously adopt the best. The sweet spot between attractive, confident and, ironically, natural. Are all teenagers like this? They can’t be, right? Or maybe it’s worse nowadays? Now these contrived images are broadcast to your peers. You don’t need to speculate, acceptance is quantifiable. Is there more self-doubt or less, she wondered, now that the data is right there in your hand?
Mr Phillips was just trying to get under her skin. And, despite her best efforts to focus on work, she kept repeating what he said in her mind. Calculated. Deeply insecure. Was it slipping? Could people tell how unsure she felt? How any glimmer of confidence was an act?
Deeply insecure. Did she spend more time worrying about the thoughts of other people than her own? No. She genuinely did not care what he thought of her. But, still, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then she realised that it wasn’t the insult that had got in. It was the fact he said she looked like she was deeply insecure. Being deeply insecure is fine. Being weak is fine. Being scared is fine. But appearing so? That was absolutely unacceptable.
It was late now and she was getting tired, her temper shortening as distraction nipped at the heels of attention. She sat down at the desk, twirled her pen, bounced her knee. And, with the muscle memory of a well-conditioned lab chimp reaching for a sweet treat, Ruby thoughtlessly picked up her phone.
She landed on Facebook. Scrolling through social media elicited two distinct and dissonant responses. On one hand, Ruby looked at any given post and thought, quite aggressively, Oh, who cares?
But, all the while, she would keep reading, watching, scrolling. Hours could pass, torn between two incompatible states of mind, suspended in a strange superposition of apathy and fascination. Scrolling and scrolling. Pulling that slot-machine lever just one more time in case a blip of serotonin might roll up between the cherries and diamonds and bells. Ding, ding, ding. The finely catered content sweeping up and up long into countless glowing nights but still, as every gambler knows in their heart, the house always wins.
Like a slave. She tensed her jaw. A slave to this stupid—
Ruby was momentarily tempted to throw her phone but instead went to Eduardo in her messages. She opened his profile picture. Tilted her head, smiled. They’d been texting every day since her arrival and had even reached the dizzy heights of three kisses in a few. She thought about calling him. It’d be nice to talk to someone far away about something else entirely. But this was just more procrastination. She locked her phone, dropped it on the desk, closed her eyes.
Wait. No. She picked it up again. There was a reason she’d opened Facebook. She went back to the app and tapped through to the Missbrook Heights Class of ’99 School Reunion group. There were a lot of photographs already, but she found a new gallery posted at the top.
Held at the school, in the sports hall, the event was a sit-down dinner affair – reminiscent of the year 11 leavers’ do twenty years prior. Swiping through the pictures, she saw round tables of six and a dancefloor at the back of the hall, complete with a small stage for a DJ. Above this, a banner read, “The Class of ’99”. It actually had more of an office Christmas party vibe and Ruby was sure there had been scandalous encounters that night, though these had been entirely eclipsed by Mary’s subsequent death. In the age-old game of gossip, violence beats adultery every single time.
