Scarface bellows behind me, his voice rough with fury. ‘Stop that fucking bitch!’
I hear the injunction, register the meaning, the implication of the entreaty almost too late and look up to see a man in a raincoat standing directly in my path, ten or fifteen metres away. For a fraction of a second the connection between my powers of observation and my brain breaks down. I clock the height, the shape of the man, the way he is standing with his chin jutting forwards, his collar lifted, yet I am unable to connect together the pieces, to recognise my fiancé, until Angus opens his arms and calls my name.
‘Claire!’
I am not aware of making the decision – of processing thoughts – at least with my head. My body, my instinct, does it for me, before I am even conscious of trying to decipher the complicated expression burning in Angus’s eyes.
I pivot on my heels and race away from him, darting around a couple of old conifer trees towards the back of the hotel where the cars are parked in the yard. I can hear him yelling after me, shouting to come back, but already he seems far away, his voice drowned by the rush of the November rain and wind.
When I reach the pedestrian gate I glance, briefly, over my shoulder. There is no sign of Scarface, or Angus either. Yet still I keep running, following the tarmacked path on sodden feet, dodging the dog turds and mushed piles of cardboard packaging. I don’t stop until I reach a main thoroughfare where traffic is cruising up and down, spraying pedestrians with the water glazing the road.
I jog over to a bus shelter and tuck myself against the inside frame. Leaning forward, I press my palms on my thighs and gulp the damp London air that tastes almost fresh after the rancid atmosphere of The Grange. My chest is raw and aching. Too many days sitting at a desk – I’m obviously not as fit as I thought. Angus’s face floats in front of my eyes, unreadable, inscrutable. Even though I am hot and sweating, I shiver at the memory, and as I tremble a little piece of memory shakes into place. Perhaps, I had already made the connection, somewhere in the deeper levels of my conscience, when I swerved around Angus and those deceptive, welcoming, outstretched arms.
I know now why the woman in the room was familiar. I remember where we have seen each other before. She was the Indian woman with the too-bright, over-eager smile. The one who lied to the Immigration Tribunal about her job and salary, whose deceit was unpicked by the judge scrolling so carefully, so smugly, through her WhatsApp messages. I picture the mask of hopelessness on her face, the panic when I suggested calling the police. I don’t think she was all dressed up in her baby-doll nightdress for the money. I’m guessing she was there because she had no choice. Because somebody has convinced her if she doesn’t play ball, she and her family will be in very deep shit indeed.
Mucus, the gummy embodiment of disgust, swells in my throat and I spit onto the asphalt. If my stomach was not empty I could vomit properly, try to purge myself of the contamination.
I notice that I’m being watched. Out of the corner of my eye I see a middle-aged woman rooted wisely at the opposite end of the shelter from me. Tired and bedraggled and weighed down with two Iceland carrier bags she nevertheless appears mesmerised by my appearance on the scene. I assume she is examining with disapproval the yellow lump of gob I regurgitated a moment ago. Then I understand she is actually fixing on the place where my shoes would be if I happened to be wearing them.
I track her gaze. A pinkish puddle is forming around my left heel where the blood from a scrape is being diluted by my sodden tights. Otherwise my feet are black, the tideline of dirt rising above my ankle. They are also very wet, very sore and beginning to feel very cold.
The woman shifts her interest to my face then quickly drags her attention away. Nobody in London puts a difficult question to a stranger. They might get an answer that requires them to do something to help.
‘I dropped my shoes,’ I volunteer, which is true, but hardly a comprehensive explanation.
‘Oh.’ Since I have spoken, the Iceland woman is obliged to notice me again. Her gaze flicks momentarily, unwittingly, to my feet once more before she quickly immerses herself in the timetable attached to the back wall.
A minute or two later a bus arrives. I get on without bothering to check the destination. Any port in a storm. The Iceland woman appears about to follow me aboard but changes her mind – another ten-minute wait at a freezing shelter is obviously preferable to travelling alongside a shoeless madwoman. The driver huffs impatiently while I dig my Oyster card out of my handbag, however at least he doesn’t look at me, let alone my feet. He stares vacantly at his windscreen wipers, which are trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to keep the rain at bay.
I move towards an empty seat, ducking the gaze of other passengers. Not that avoidance is difficult, since they are all immersed in their phones or some other solitary world. I hear the engine engage into gear, the tick of the indicator, the steady beat sounding like the second hand of a clock, a countdown. As the bus pulls out into the traffic, I see a man emerge from the footpath. Ignoring the rain he begins to walk one way before changing his mind and heading towards the shelter. He looks towards the bus as it passes him, his focus vague, preoccupied, then all at once bitingly sharp.
Fleetingly, Angus and I lock eyes through the moving window. I see a stranger. I wonder if he sees a stranger too.
Sinking onto the grubby cushion I rest my head against the glass. My skull is thumping, my body losing adrenaline like blood pumping from an artery and filling instead with a smouldering kind of exhaustion. I close my eyes, but although I can block out the filthy night outside I can’t prevent the final pieces of the puzzle assembling inside my head. However many times I prize the pieces apart and attempt to fashion a different picture, the end result is always the same.
After a while I draw my phone out of my pocket. Out of curiosity more than anything else. There are three missed calls from Angus and an urgent flurry of texts, the general gist of which professes bewilderment and concern at my actions.
While I am staring at his messages my ringtone jumps to life.
Mark.
I hesitate, and then answer.
‘Where are you? Are you in the hotel?’
‘No. I’m on a bus.’ I squint outside but there is nothing except traffic and rain, no way to distinguish my precise location.
‘Did you tell Angus you were going to The Grange?’
I don’t reply. The answer to the question is no, but either Angus found out or he happened to be there. It probably makes no difference one way or the other.
‘Look, I think I saw him in the car park. And if he finds you there… if he thinks you know what goes on there…’ Mark’s voice dies away as he seems at a loss for what to say. All I can hear is the sound of his footsteps, fast on the road.
‘What?’ I prompt.
‘I’m warning you, Claire. Don’t go home.’
He hangs up before I have a chance to respond. That’s my lot. I suppose I ought to be touched at his concern.
I put my phone back in my bag. I have no intention of going home. However, I probably ought to find out where the hell I am going.
I make my way down the gangway to the driver. I get as far as, ‘Excuse me, where…’ before he points with a scowl of satisfaction at a small square notice pinned on the Perspex divider.
Don’t speak to the driver when the bus is in motion.
Obviously formulating a sentence and navigating the London traffic is a form of multitasking frowned upon by Transport for London.
‘Uxbridge,’ says a voice behind me. ‘It’s number 207 and it’s going to Uxbridge.’
I turn around. The words belong to a bearded man whose trousers and long beige tunic are plainly visible under his open coat.
‘Thanks,’ I say. Sitting down I Google the route of the number 207 and am rewarded with the first piece of luck I’ve received in quite a while – it goes straight through Hanwell. I am just returning my phone to my bag when I feel a tap on my arm. The bearded man is h
olding out something small and dazzlingly white.
‘Take this,’ he says, handing me a handkerchief. He nods at the blood smears on the floor of the bus. ‘For your foot.’
* * *
About an hour later we reach Hanwell Broadway. As soon as I see the Asian supermarket, the bustle of business behind the plate-glass windows, I stop the bus and a minute later I’m standing outside the entrance to Agatha’s flat. Although the deluge has reduced to a drizzle the pavement is awash with puddles. My feet are newly soaked and the cold has slunk up my calves and thighs, inhabiting the whole of my body. When I press the intercom buzzer I find my right hand is shaking so violently I have to steady my wrist with my other hand.
‘Claire?’ Agatha sounds incredulous, as well she might. ‘Of course you can come in.’
The door buzzes open and I meet her halfway up the steep staircase, as she is hurrying down. At the sight of me, her eyes become wide as a rabbit’s. ‘Oh my God, Claire. What’s going on? What on earth happened to you?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I say.
Agatha nods once, a single deliberate movement. Questions are bursting from the pores of her skin, I can practically see them written in cartoon-like bubbles around her head. However she manages not to ask any more until I’m sitting on her sofa with a cushion embroidered with a country cottage behind my back and my feet immersed inside a washing-up bowl of hot water and bath gel.
Handing me a small glass of something tawny, she hovers expectantly.
‘Sit down,’ I say.
She plops onto the sofa beside me.
‘So’ – I take a swig of the drink, and taste brandy that is surprisingly smooth – ‘I know why Nigel had a list of names and addresses in his desk at work.’
Agatha’s cheeks pale in shock. I suspect that despite all those eager, hushed conversations in the kitchen at work, given a choice right now, she would actually rather not know and keep the mystique intact.
‘He’s been selling them.’
‘Selling them? Who to? Who on earth would want to buy them?’
I have another gulp of brandy. Feel the burn of the alcohol in my gullet. I remember the arak. Mark. Standing in the godforsaken spot by the river. Wanting to climb into his coat, inside his skin.
I glance at Agatha who is waiting, open-mouthed. ‘Well, eventually to some kind of syndicate.’
‘But why…?’
‘So they can blackmail the women.’ I drain my glass and then say, rather quickly, ‘I think that syndicate includes and might even be run by my fiancé.’
Agatha blinks. ‘Angus?’
‘Yeah, Angus.’ I am slightly surprised she remembers his name.
Agatha stares at me. She is sitting so still I can see her ribcage rising and falling with each breath. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nigel has been passing the names and addresses of people who lose their case in the tribunal to someone called Mark – I imagine he’s being doing it for a while. Mark then tries to sell fake jobs and paperwork to the really desperate ones, so that they can make another application to stay in the UK. But it gets worse. Afterwards the names and addresses get sold on to Angus and his syndicate.’
Agatha’s eyes remain puzzled.
‘You see,’ I say, ‘people, particularly women, who have incriminated themselves, lied to the government and the courts by using false documents, can be blackmailed to do pretty much anything.’ I think of my encounter in room 7. ‘No doubt with the threat of the police and deportation. And Angus’s hotels are the perfect cover for running all kinds of disgusting exploitation and blackmail operations.’
Agatha doesn’t respond but her irises gradually clear and a moment or two later her voice coasts from above my head.
‘Claire?’ She is standing over me with the brandy bottle and sloshes another generous measure into my glass.
‘I imagine,’ I say slowly, ‘that the real reason Angus wanted to go out with me, to marry me, was my job in the immigration service. He obviously knew Mark long before we bought the house, and when Nigel introduced us at the conference Angus probably decided it would be useful for him to have another inside contact. Someone who might provide Mark with more information for his grubby little business and so provide extra fodder for his own. I expect he was aware about Mark and me all along. God’ – the brandy acidifies in my mouth – ‘maybe it was Angus’s idea? He probably didn’t care whether Mark and I slept together – just so long as I would produce the goods if Nigel didn’t.’ I put my glass down carefully next to the washing-up bowl. Slosh the water around a bit and gaze at its oily, opaque surface.
‘I don’t think so.’
I look up.
‘That can’t be right, Claire.’ To my surprise, Agatha is shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I don’t know who Mark is,’ Agatha gives me a quick, almost disapproving glance, ‘but Angus is always so attentive. The way he always looks at you, like you’re the only person in the room. Although he might get jealous I’m sure he loves you and that he would hate to think of you with somebody…’ She stops abruptly as her face floods crimson.
For a second, neither of us speak. Agatha switches her focus to a point beyond my left shoulder, blinking rapidly.
‘Agatha’ – I am talking slowly, reluctant to voice the obvious – ‘You haven’t met Angus. You’ve never seen us together.’
There’s no reply.
‘Have you seen us together?’
She glances at me. Looks away again. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Agatha swallows, and all at once I anticipate exactly what she’s going to say. ‘I’ve got some photographs – just a few.’
‘Of me and Angus?’
She nods unhappily. ‘I saw you one Saturday, just by chance near Oxford Circus. You didn’t spot me because you were too busy chatting. Angus put his arm around you. I snapped a couple of photos without even thinking. And then another time you told me you were going to a hotel the next morning before work, to discuss your wedding. I… I was in the area quite early myself,’ the crimson shade of her complexion deepens, ‘and as I watched you go in I took another picture.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly. I don’t know whether to feel angry or not. The water in the washing-up bowl has cooled, my feet are beginning to chill all over again. I take them out and tuck them under me on the sofa. If I had a blanket I would wrap that round me too, nice and tight. Anything to create an illusion of security. ‘Have you still got the photos? Can I see them?’
Agatha fetches her mobile and without a word taps in her code. When she passes me the phone, her demeanour is like a criminal handing in a weapon to the police. I sift through the images until I find the ones of Angus and me. A few unguarded instances caught and kept indefinitely. Agatha is right. We appear more together than I would ever have expected; we look like a regular couple. Real affection is splattered all over Angus’s face. But what is a camera? An objective, insightful observer able to reveal the truth, or the easy fool of a skin-deep sham?
Preoccupied, I scroll through the gallery. Soon I reach the pictures of Nigel, the same ones I saw on Agatha’s computer. I stop at the photograph of Nigel sitting outside a pub with Viktoria. Now I consider it closely I see that Viktoria doesn’t appear too happy, and expanding the image actually reveals a chilled expression, a frozen combination of fear and horror. I wonder if she has just been warned about the true price she will have to pay for her nice fake visa as a skilled migrant.
‘I’ve stopped taking pictures now.’
I raise my head.
Agatha is watching me. Her left hand is resting on her forehead and she is peering between her fingers as if she can barely look. ‘I don’t know why I did it. I suppose it made me feel closer to people I like…’
I nod. I guess we all want the same thing, to be close to the people we like; the trouble is sometimes we all want to be close to the same person.
I lift the screen nearer to my
face. Examine the enlarged image. I have the strong impression it has more to tell me than I’m seeing right now. There is something about the photograph that unsettles me, even if I haven’t understood the full import of it yet.
A ringtone interrupts my concentration. The trill from my bag is loud and urgent and when I fish out my phone I see that Angus is once again trying to get in contact with me. The call ends before I can decide whether to answer it or not. In the silent wake of the sound waves I think about Agatha’s photos, the ones of me and Angus – the warmth in his eyes, his arm around my shoulder – and I wonder if, perhaps, the time has come to find out who Angus really is.
‘I need to borrow some shoes,’ I say to Agatha.
‘What?’
Uncurling myself from the sofa, I pass her the phone. ‘I have to go home.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Five years earlier
It is Saturday again, a whole week later.
I don’t remember much about how I got home from McDonalds. I must have walked, maybe even run some of the way. I have a vague memory of Daniel following, calling my name, and me, out of breath, crying, stumbling, and a stranger catching my arm, female, concerned: ‘Is everything all right? Can I help?’ I recall reaching my halls, my room, and the tiny, temporary sense of release, of sanctuary, when I climbed into bed and dragged the duvet over my head, longing to hide, wanting to disappear, needing oblivion.
For the rest of the day and most of the next I either drank or slept, steadily working through my remaining supply of room-temperature party wine. At some point I became aware of banging on my locked door, of Daniel pleading through the thin wood veneer. The sound of his voice made me want to scream – craving him and hating him at the same time for what he’d done to me, to us, felt like being strapped onto one of those medieval racks, a slow, inexorable ripping apart of my soul. In a strange way the agony seemed both inevitable and unreal, as if some part of me had always been expecting this nightmare, and yet as if I must – eventually – wake up. I guzzled wine until I was sick, to the point where I couldn’t tell whether the words spinning in my head actually were from Daniel or the product of my frenzied imagination.
The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 26