Chapter Twelve
Wed 14th November, 3pm. The Glyn Care Home
“Where’s Bill?” I look around the games lounge when I arrive. They’re all there. Deniro reading a newspaper. Gethin laughing at something with Shirley. Various others. No Bill.
“Bill?” Deniro looks around.
“He’s gone to find Philomena.” Gethin checks his wristwatch. “But they’ve been gone a long time.”
Suddenly everyone falls silent and there are worried glances.
“What?” I ask
“Philomena needed something fetching from a high shelf in her room,” Gethin finally says. “She couldn’t reach, so Raff went with her. Half an hour ago. Bill went to look for her quarter of an hour later but he too has vanished. That’s three people if you count Raff.”
“No.” Deniro frowns. “I saw Raff walk down to the kitchen earlier. He was looking a bit strange.”
“Strange, how?” Shirley looks up from her book.
“Dodgy.” Deniro mimes furtive glances from the side to side, slightly ducking his head.
“We should look for her. Would you help, my dear?” Gethin presses the lever and his electric wheelchair turns around. “I need you to hold doors open for me.”
I slip off my coat because as usual the place is stifling hot, and follow him.
We go up in the lift to the first floor where there are bedroom doors with numbers. When we get to number 17, he stops. “That’s her.” He points.
I knock but there’s no answer. “Hello? Philomena? Bill?”
Still no answer.
Behind us, the lift doors open again as Shirley, Vanessa and Deniro have followed us. All with worried expressions.
“You’d better go in,” Gethin tells me. “I can’t, it’s a woman’s room.”
I want to say Gethin doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to have scruples about entering a woman’s room, but in spite of myself I too am starting to worry. I turn the handle, knocking at the same time. “Philomena, are you here? Do you mind if—oh?”
The short scream escapes from my throat before I’ve even understood the scene in front of me.
The room is in disarray, clothes and books knocked off tables and shelves and strewn all over the floor. Philomena herself lies diagonally across her bed, a towel is stuffed in her mouth. Her skin is so pale it’s almost blue. There’s a red slash across her throat, and blood stains her neck and the front of her dress.
Before I can scream again, someone behinds me snorts, and I wheel around,, but it’s only Deniro. He coughs into his hand and doesn’t meet my eyes.
“He’s killed her!” Shirley wails, wringing her hands and staring with wide eyes.
I haven’t seen such bad acting since primary school nativity plays.
When I turn back to the bedroom, Philomena’s corpse is shaking with suppressed laughter.
My heart slows down from a fast panic. “Oh, you horrible people, that’s…that’s…” I can’t say what I really want because it would be rude to swear at elderly people. But in my mind there is a string of #$ it screws up the entire production and upsets the crew. You’d have to do something very, very bad to get fired. Usually it’s more subtle. If you’re a bad apple, word gets around, and people stop working with you. But, and that’s what makes me suspicious, when the job offers dry up, actors tend to work in a related field. They try to stay close in case things improve. If he’s a handyman, he could easily work as a grip, assistant stage manager, set builder; there are hundreds of such jobs on film sets and backstage in theatres. Why is he so far away in a care home?
What most outsiders don’t realise about our business is how very gossipy and very incestuous it is. Everyone talks, nothing stays secret. So, if Raff is reduced to working here, he must have blackened his name so badly that he has to get well away from anyone who knows him.
“You’re very thoughtful?” Bill asks me when I’ve been quiet for so long.
“Just wondering how Raff, who doesn’t know me, agreed to play this prank on me. I mean how irresponsible? What if I had a heart condition?”
“Oh, Raff thought it was just us play-acting. He never knew the truth.” Bill assures me.
“What was the truth?” asks a deep quiet, slightly amused voice from the door.
Raff, in a grey hoodie and jeans comes in with a small pot of cream and a wad of cotton wool.
While everyone fills him in on the prank, he pulls a chair to sit opposite Philomena and gently cleans off the fake blood from her neck and the death make-up from her face.
I try not to watch and stay next to Grandad at the far side of the circle. But it’s impossible to ignore someone so big and hairy. He works quickly but with gentle fingers. And yes, there is no doubt about it. Philomena enjoys the process far too much. In fact, when he’s done and gives her a wet wipe to clean the cream off her neck, she tries to delay him.
“We didn’t tell you Leonie was very suspicious. “Philomena giggles. “She thought you were a baddy.”.”
This stings me into defending myself a little too quickly and without really checking my words before they are out. “I never said I suspected him of murder.”
Raff swings round to look at me, a slight lift to one eyebrow. I can well believe he used to be an actor; that eyebrow speaks volumes. It’s asking a question but also making it clear he’s not very concerned. His eyes though are very steady on me, reading my expression.
Heat floods my face.
“Oh, look now you’ve embarrassed her.” Gethin nudges me with his elbow. “She’s lovely, really, even if she thought you were a scallywag.”
My face burns. It doesn’t help that Raff is still watching me. For some reason I can’t look away. His grey-green eyes hold mine for what feels like ages. Then, abruptly as if he’s seen enough, he gets up. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly and leaves.
Sorry ? What’s he sorry about? That he made me suspicious? That I misjudged him? That he really was a bad apple?
If possible, his words are even harder to understand than the eyebrow.
All this leaves me feeling worse than ever. Grandad pats my hand gently. “Don’t worry. Raff’s alright.”
I wish people would stop saying Raff’s alright . How is he alright?
It’s still a quarter to four, not time for the daily tea trolley, but I can’t wait. Inside me, a need to find Raff gets hold of me and drives me out of my chair. “Here are the bickies,” I say laying the box of assorted petit fours on the low table. I mumble something about being expected back at Kendric House before hurrying out of the lounge.
Which way did he go?
He’s not in the hallway or the other room full of residents. I walk all the way to the front door but he’s not there.
I can’t find him.
Not that afternoon or the next day. Or the day after.