by Penny Kline
The same thought had been on Erin’s mind, but only when she woke in the night. In her more rational moments, she was certain one of the protesters must have unscrewed the scaffolding and it had slipped out of his hand. Almost certain.
Chapter 9
The place would do for a student but it was a long time since Stella had seen such a shithole. Fitted carpet so mucky she wanted to rip it up and chuck it out with the rubbish. When she arrived, the flat had smelled of some disgusting air freshener and, in spite of the weather, she had been obliged to open every window. Thin curtains covered them with a hideous geometric pattern in black and red, and, on the wall, a faded reproduction of Van Gogh’s Yellow Chair, an insult to the original. Maybe you could buy a job lot, like a yard of books, all classics of course, although the books in this place were probably the landlady’s rejects: A Murder has been Announced, Over My Dead Body, Final Curtain. So she had a taste for crime. That figured.
Cracked lino in the bathroom, plus a dripping tap and a window that let in a howling draught. Contacting the landlady was a waste of time. Once landlords got their hands on the cash they couldn’t give a fuck what state the property was in.
With a small degree of effort, she could have found somewhere better. What was it that had made her settle for a damp, dingy basement, approached by dangerous iron steps that would have needed sanding down and repainting a decade ago? She liked the place, relished it, because it was all she deserved, a self-imposed prison, a punishment cell.
The rest of the house was deserted. But not for much longer. In a week or two the students would be back and there would be loud music, shouting, people returning at all hours, vomit on the doorstep. Not that she had ever been a student, but everyone knew they were over privileged, irresponsible, and short on consideration for people who worked for a living.
Yesterday she had felt like shit and realised she must have picked up a bug, the gastric kind that tears at your guts and leaves you weak and depressed. All day she had lain on the lumpy mattress, crawling to the bathroom and back with her head splitting, not sure if she was boiling hot or freezing cold.
Today she had dragged herself out of bed, made some toast and a mug of weak tea, and by lunchtime was virtually restored to normal, and determined not to waste a minute more. She needed to catch up with her clients, but this evening would do, forwarding packages with advice on publicity and marketing. The business was thriving – she might have to hire another assistant when she returned to London – but just now she had something more important to attend to, something she had put off for far too long. Was it a mistake? Would she return home, full of regret, feeling worse than before? Too late to have such misgivings. When in doubt, don’t dither, act!
Back in London, she had checked the phone book but without success. He must be ex-directory. The university website had his name, but obviously not his home address. If she could wangle her way into the building she was sure she could find it. The best way would be to say she hoped to talk to the students about job prospects. These days, the phrase “job prospects” was like gold dust. They would ask for her credentials, but her business card should do the trick. Then what? His address was unlikely to be stuck on a noticeboard and if she made inquiries it would arouse suspicion. Unless she asked the right questions.
In spite of the cloud cover, or perhaps because of it, the temperature had risen and it was unnaturally warm for January. Snatching her raincoat from the hook, she slammed the door behind her, ran up the steps, being careful not to catch her heels in the wrought iron holes, and set off, feeling a fair bit better than she had expected.
Beyond the swing doors, she could see a porter in uniform, standing by a turnstile. Now what? No use pretending she had an appointment. Either the porter would want to see something in writing or he would phone through to check she was expected. A student was approaching the building, carrying so many books he was almost bound to drop them. Stella lifted off the top three and he mumbled his thanks.
‘I expect you know most of the people who work here.’
The student, a skinny guy, with a baseball cap, asked who she wanted, and when she mentioned a name it worked like magic. ‘I don’t think he’s in today.’
‘Oh, you know him, do you? No, he’s working at home, asked me to go round there but I’ve mislaid the address.’
‘Right.’ It was clear he had no knowledge of a home address, or if he did he had no intention of divulging it. ‘The office might be able to help.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ But trying the “lost address” stunt with the office would cut no ice.
Returning to her car, she crunched up a couple of mints; they did nothing to satisfy her craving for nicotine, and closed her eyes, testing to make sure her headache had not returned. What next? Department websites were useless. Nothing personal on them, just lists of academics, boasting about how many papers they had written, and how many conferences they had attended. Think. Use your brain. But the bug had left her feeling befuddled.
Maybe a walk would do the trick, but first she had to find somewhere to leave the car. The meter had run out, so had her change, and she was obliged to drive round until she spotted a multi-storey. The soulless building depressed her even more. Sharp turns. Concrete pillars. Badly parked four-wheel drives that stuck out from their narrow spaces. The lift smelled of piss so she decided on the stairs, even though she was on the fifth floor, and when she finally emerged into the fresh air, she realised she had left her bed too soon and was still running a temperature.
Gazing all about her to try to get her bearings, she decided to walk to the main university building. She had seen it online, a grand-looking place with a great hall, where the students, dressed in black gowns, and with boards on their heads, were handed their degree certificates. She passed a seat, next to a sycamore tree, and sat down for a few minutes, staring up at the horizon that marked the edge of the city. What was the matter with her? There must be a better way to find his address. He was still working in Bristol – her online investigations had established that much – but he could be living anywhere, close to the university or several miles away.
Two of the seat’s slats were missing and on one of the remaining ones someone had scored Chaz fucks Sara. Chaz! Stella pictured a spotty kid with about as much finesse as a rutting stag. On a seat nearby, a girl with long, straggly hair was giving a bottle to an infant, dressed in jeans and baseball boots. Poor kid, saddled with a baby that would turn into a demanding toddler and, later, a gawky teenager that would give her cheek, not gratitude. I never asked to be born. A middle-aged woman, with the uniform of a well-known store under her coat, hurried past. Her feet, in their black high-heeled boots, were enormous, and she had an arse to match.
Pull yourself together. Concentrate. Don’t waste your energy on harmless strangers. Leaving the uncomfortable bench, she strolled on, past a Thai takeaway, a kebab house, and a shop selling sexy underwear. All her life, she had tried to put head before heart, so why was she here now? Because she had to know. Because it was becoming an obsession. And when she discovered the truth . . . ? But it was far too soon to think about that.
Ten minutes later, she reached the building she had been looking for. Heavy doors that had been fixed open and, since groups of people were going in and coming out, it seemed there was no restriction on entering the place. No porters in sight so she walked straight through and stood for a moment in the stone-tiled foyer. Where to start? Who to ask? Her whole body felt hot and shaky, a leftover from the bug or the result of her increasing frustration? Rubbing her forehead, she scanned the walls, stopping abruptly when a poster, propped up on an easel, caught her eye.
The speaker whose lecture it advertised was an American biologist, a television personality, popular among people with a smattering of scientific knowledge, who liked to scatter “clever” books on their coffee tables. At any other time, Stella would have curled her lip, but surely it was just the kind of event he would attend. An open lecture
it said, in two days’ time. Only an off-chance but the best one yet and, abandoning all rational thought, she stood with her eyes firmly focussed on the poster, and with all her might willed him to be there.
Chapter 10
The illustrations were progressing, but far too slowly. For a short time, it took Erin’s mind off Ollie and the baby, then she lost concentration and pushed aside whatever she was working on.
Since it was obvious why Ollie had disappeared, she was surprised the police had made inquiries, and even more surprised when she received a phone call to tell her they had checked with his mother in Norfolk, but she claimed not to have seen her son for over a year. They would keep her informed, they said, and Erin wondered if they shared her suspicions about the accident, but had no evidence, no witnesses. Or had they been merely going through the motions? People were allowed to go missing, but the particular circumstances of Ollie’s disappearance had obliged them to make a few token inquiries – for the sake of his unborn baby.
Her life was divided between the illustrations, her visits to the hospital and Maeve’s lessons. Somehow, Maeve’s presence, and the questions she asked, was helping to keep her anxiety under control. It’s going to be all right, Erin, I know it is, and I’ve got magic powers. I think I might have because I wished for some new jeans and Mum bought me some, except they’re pink and I don’t like pink.
The baby had reached twenty-five weeks gestation and, according to the book Erin had bought, it would be at its most active when its mother was trying to sleep. The irony of this was hard to bear. Two weeks since the accident and Ollie’s disappearance. Where was he? Ever since she found the roll of notes in Claudia’s desk, it had been on her mind that the police might have some other motive for wanting to trace him. Supposing he and Claudia had been involved in something illegal. Did Ava know about it? Or Jennie? If they did, it could account for the way they both avoided her eyes.
Her phone beeped. A text from a friend in London. How’s things? Miss you xxx. Lindsey, someone she had seen most weeks – they had both enjoyed ice-skating – even though Declan had objected. Erin missed her too. Would they keep in touch? For a time, then less and less. When she moved into Claudia’s house it was not just Declan she had left behind. When she felt up to it, she would spend a day or two in London, seeing her friends, but not yet. It would mean long explanations, followed by warm expressions of sympathy, that ought to be a comfort, but just now would be something else to deal with. Was she a coward, shutting herself away? No, that was unfair. She had Maeve, and Jon when he could spare the time, and Jennie and Ava, although why did she feel they were not being honest with her?
Her thoughts returned to Ollie. By now, he would know he had lost the right to decide what happened to the baby, and he would also know her decision, in consultation with the doctors, would be to try and save it. For a while, she had visited the unit every day but after a time it felt pointless. No, not pointless, masochistic, sitting by Claudia’s bed, pretending she knew her older sister was keeping watch over her. Should a problem arise with the baby someone would let her know, but so far everything appeared to be going according to plan. She worried constantly, but there was nothing she could do, except wait.
Earlier in the day, she had attempted to tidy up Claudia’s front garden, cutting back a sprawling shrub and picking up rubbish that had blown in from the pavement. Gardening was supposed to be therapeutic and, if it was her garden, and she was going to be there in the summer, she might have felt quite enthusiastic. Was the pile in the corner a compost heap or just a collection of weeds and leaves? She gave it a kick and something small and grey scuttled away, just as an elderly man she knew by sight, passed the house and slowed down.
‘Good morning.’ He had given her a questioning look. She suspected he had heard rumours and hoped she would supply him with some interesting information. He looked harmless enough, just bored and lonely. Dressed in a gabardine raincoat, and wearing driving gloves, there was one like him in most streets, someone with nothing better to do than check up on his neighbours.
‘Colder today.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the adjoining house. ‘Gone abroad.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Risky, leaving your house unoccupied. People notice.’
‘Yes, I expect they do.’
‘Know them, do you?’
‘No.’ And before he could say any more, Erin had picked up Claudia’s rusty secateurs and returned to the house.
Sometimes she wished she was back in London. Bristol’s appeal had been because Claudia lived there. Not that the two of them had been close, but Erin had hoped for ready-made friends, Claudia’s friends. A vain hope, as it had turned out. She thought about Lindsey, who had lived nearby, closer to Wimbledon Common, and was always glad to see her, and her other friend, Sonya, who worked in a bar but wanted to be an actress. What were they doing now? They knew nothing about Claudia’s accident and probably thought Erin was enjoying her new life, glad to be free of Declan. If Lindsey had lived closer, she might confided in her. Not Sonya, the slightest thing made her burst into tears, and she never listened, not like Lindsey did. Perhaps she would phone Lindsey, but not today, not yet.
She had never felt so alone.
Jon was with her when she received the news. He had turned up to apologise, he said, for the way he had rushed off after he collected Maeve. ‘A visiting academic. It was a question of getting her home then returning to the department in time for the weekly seminar.’
Erin kept her eyes focussed on the chipmunk’s bushy tail. ‘There’s no need to explain.’
He ran a hand through the thick, wavy hair that made him look even taller. ‘I could tell you needed to talk.’
‘I talked to Jennie. And Ava.’
‘Ava at Ava’s Place?’
‘She and Claudia were friends.’ He had made the café sound like a den of thieves. ‘She described her and Ollie as a golden couple.’
Jon ignored this, picking up a pot of pens and pencils. ‘I wanted to talk about Maeve but it’s not a good time, you’re busy.’
‘No more than usual.’ She returned to her painting. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last time but it was Maeve who brought up the subject of abortion and I don’t like fobbing children off with rubbish answers.’
She expected him to say, no, of course not, but he had no interest in her conversation with his daughter. ‘When she was born . . . they were worried. They did tests. The doctors did tests and she was transferred to special care.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘Her breathing. We thought it was her breathing. No, not just her breathing. They take measurements. There’s a normal range. They weren’t sure, said it was too soon, but I knew something was wrong.’
Erin waited for the explanation that never materialised.
‘I had a job that was only going to last for a few months so when I was offered a permanent post down here, I jumped at it. It meant Maeve would have some stability, a settled home. She’s doing well, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, I would. There doesn’t seem much wrong with her to me.’
‘Apart from the allergies.’
‘Really? Not cats? If she’s allergic to animal hair you should have—’
‘Blueberries and plums. They bring her out in a rash. Diana’s quite careful with her diet. Too careful I sometimes think, but she’s fanatical about healthy food.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No.’ His eyes met hers and she noticed, for the first time, that his were grey, not blue like Maeve’s, and he had a tiny mole over his left eyebrow. ‘When Maeve started school we were afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep up, but it’s only Maths that’s a problem.’
‘Plenty of people have trouble with Maths. No, all right, not you. How’s your research going? Has someone taken over whatever Ollie was working on? What will happen if he doesn’t get in touch with you? Did he have a grant? I’ve no idea how higher degrees are funded
these days.’
Ignoring her questions, he continued on the healthy food theme. ‘Diana works on Saturday afternoons, at a health food shop. She believes in herbal remedies.’
‘Unless it’s something serious. Some of them seem to help if you’re getting a cold. Ginger tea. I don’t like it much but—’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Go on then. Something about Maeve?’
‘Another time. You’re working.’ His hand was on the half open door. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’
For what? For interrupting her work or for starting to tell her something then changing his mind? Was he really worried about Maeve? Being a little clumsy was not that important, and plenty of people were hopeless at catching a ball. Part of her wanted to reassure him, but another part wanted to goad, make him lost his temper. Anything would be better than the blanket of dejection that seemed to have descended on him, and the trouble with blankets of dejection, they tend to envelop everything around them.
‘Did Ava say anything?’ He had moved back into the room.
‘What about? Oh, she said the student – ex-student – called Hoshi helped to decorate this place. The loft had already been converted but when Claudia agreed to let me come and stay for a while—’
‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of what Ava says. She tends to dramatize, thinks up something that will make a good story, and embellishes it.’
‘No wonder she and Claudia got on so well.’ He was leaning over her shoulder and she could feel his breath on her neck, his close proximity was making her hand shake so that she had to make the chipmunk’s eye a fraction larger than she had intended.