The Wife Who Ran Away
Page 23
He moans suddenly and a bubble of blood and mucus comes out of his nose. He’s alive. Thank Christ.
I want to leave him to die alone in the dark, but I can’t. That would make me no better than him. I dig in my pockets looking for my phone and then remember I’ve left it charging at home. Adrenalin pumps through me as I bend down and search Dessler’s jacket. He’s breathing – harsh, ragged breaths – but he’s still unconscious. I wipe the snot from my own face and flip open his phone, struggling to see the numbers through my tears.
‘Ambulance,’ I say when the line connects. ‘Someone’s been mugged.’
I give them the address and then toss the phone in front of Dessler’s face. My knuckles are swollen and covered in blood: Dessler’s and my own. I must’ve cut them on his teeth.
I’ve no money on me. The only thing in the pocket of my jacket is my frigging library card. Without stopping to think, I search Dessler again, empty his wallet – two hundred in cash – and then toss that near his head too. He owes me.
I zip up my fleece, shove my bloody hands in the pockets and walk away as fast as I dare, trying not to draw attention to myself. I can be at the station in forty minutes. In London in less than two hours.
In the distance, sirens scream.
I yank my hood over my head and hide my face as I slink out of Waterloo station, trying to avoid the CCTV. Won’t take a genius to figure out where I’ve gone, but no point making it easier than I have to. I reckon I’ve got at least a couple hours’ head start till Dessler comes round and the cops start looking for me. If he comes round.
A bloke handing out leaflets comes over as I pause, trying to decide which way to go. ‘You OK, kid?’
I dig my hands deeper in my pockets and nod briefly.
‘You sure?’ He sounds concerned. ‘It’s pretty late. You need to call someone?’
‘I’m fine,’ I snap.
I cross the road and start walking blindly in the direction of the London Eye, praying to God he doesn’t follow. I’ve no real idea where I am. I’ve only been to London a few times, on school trips and that. I’ll find a park bench somewhere and grab a couple of hours’ sleep till it gets light. After that, I’ll figure something out.
First off, I need to put as much distance between myself and the station as I can, in case they’re already looking for me. I head east, crossing the river, keeping to the shadows, where possible. I read that Britain’s got the most CCTV cameras of any nation on earth. Big Brother is always watching you.
A drunk lurches out of a doorway as I pass, stinking of piss and booze, slurring abuse. I push him off me, wondering what he did to fuck up.
After a while, I lose track of time. Some dude in a flash Porsche slows to a crawl beside me and offers me fifty quid to ‘show him the way’ to some hotel. I give him the finger and tell him to fuck off. Something in my expression must convince him I’m not to be messed with tonight, because he doesn’t hang around to argue.
It starts to rain: a warm, heavy drizzle. My fleece jacket is soon wet through, but I don’t care. I keep walking, water dripping from my face and down my neck. I don’t care where I’m going, or what happens to me. I should be scared, but I’m not. My life is over. How much worse can it get?
Eventually, when I’m too tired to walk any further, I find a shop doorway and hunch myself into it, hands hooked round my knees, trying to keep out of the rain. But I haven’t even had time to get settled before a skinny white guy with dreads to his waist starts yelling at me to get out of his crib.
‘Fuckin’ asshole!’ he yells as I stagger to my feet and back away. He doesn’t have a single tooth left in his head.
As it gets later, most of the shop doorways I pass have occupants. I turn off the main street, hoping to find somewhere off the beaten track that isn’t already taken. Ten minutes later, I spot a yellow skip half covered by a tarp outside one of those fancy houses with white columns and black railings. I peer into it: it’s still pretty much empty. I clamber over the side, squirming my way through a bunch of broken kitchen cupboards to the back, where it’s still dry. Someone’s left an old painter’s cloth at the bottom. I ball myself in the cloth and close my eyes. Within seconds, I’m asleep.
The sound of workmen yelling and whistling wakes me. I open my eyes and sit up, stiff and sore. Bright sunshine streams in at the far end of the skip. I struggle free of the painter’s cloth and quietly clamber over a couple of cupboards, keeping out of sight beneath the tarp. After a bit, the voices move away: morning tea-break, at a guess.
I wait a few more moments and then stick my head over the side of the skip. Some old lady walking her dog looks freaked, but there’s no one else around, so I swing myself out of the skip and brush myself down. My clothes are still damp from last night’s rain and I’m covered in builder’s dust, but the worst part is my hands. In the cold light of day, they’re black and blue with bruises, the knuckles scabbed and raw.
I’m starving. I spot a greasy spoon a bit further down the street.
‘I’d like to see the other guy,’ the man behind the counter jokes when I hand over a fiver for a cup of tea and a bacon sarnie.
I yank the sleeves of my fleece down over my knuckles.
‘You all right, son?’ the bloke asks.
Last thing I need is him calling the cops on me. I pull off a smile. ‘Got bladdered last night. Mate’s birthday.’
‘Been there,’ he laughs. ‘Go on, son. Sit down. I’ll bring you something to calm your stomach.’
I slide into a booth near the door, ready to bolt if I have to. The café fills with blokes coming in for breakfast, and I relax, blending into the crowd. After a bit, the guy behind the counter slaps a thick plate of fried eggs and sausages and bacon and crusty white bread in front of me.
‘Slap your gums round that,’ he grins.
I tear into the food. I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and I’m still hungry when I finish.
I haven’t figured out what to do by the time I leave the café. Last night I had some vague plan to go and find Kate, but I haven’t got my passport or enough money for the Eurostar. I spend the day walking round London, half out of it, and end up somewhere in the West End. When it gets dark again, I find a doorway early and growl menacingly whenever anyone comes near me. It’s not as comfortable as the skip, though, and there are a lot more freaks around here. Some bloke shoots up right in front of me, jabbing a filthy needle into his arm. Two days ago I’d have been frightened out of my skull, but now I don’t give a shit.
At dawn, I start walking again. I end up by the river and follow it, since I haven’t got a better idea. All those fancy office blocks and flash apartments with their million-quid views. I bet they haven’t got a clue what it’s really like down here.
Sometime late in the afternoon, I find a bench overlooking the river and curl up on it, cold and hungry but too fried to do anything about it. I’m starting to get why people on the street drink and do drugs. Anything so you don’t have to be.
I’m woken by a bloke shaking my shoulder. I’m about to swing a punch when I spot the dog-collar.
‘It’s OK,’ he says calmly. ‘You don’t have to run. I just want to help.’
He sits down next to me on the bench. It’s already dark again. How many nights have I been out here? I’m losing track.
‘I’m Father Bernard,’ he says, holding out his hand. He drops it when I don’t take it, but his smile doesn’t falter. ‘You look like you could use a friend.’
I shrug.
‘I run a shelter not far from here. No names, no pack-drill. You can have something hot to eat and a bed for the night. How does that sound?’
I look up warily. ‘What about the cops?’
‘What brought you to this place in your life is nothing to do with me. As long as you don’t cause any trouble while you’re under my roof, we’ll get along fine.’
‘Where’s this shelter, then?’
‘Not far. Just over the river, in
Putney.’
I shrug again and he takes it for a yes.
‘Grand.’ He struggles to his feet. ‘I’m afraid I’m not as young as I was. I’ve a car parked just down the street. Would that be all right with you, Ben?’
‘My name’s not Ben.’
He smiles again. ‘I know that. But I’ve got to call you something, haven’t I? I’m guessing you’ll not be wanting to give me your real name. And I’ve always liked Ben.’
He seems like he’s on the level, but even if he drives me straight to the nearest cop-shop, I no longer care, so I follow him to his car.
‘Seat belt,’ he says as I get in.
That’s what Kate always used to say. Seems like a hundred years ago.
The priest or vicar or whatever he is pulls the car out into the road and turns on the radio. I tilt my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve felt warm and dry and safe in days. He’s got the car heater on and I half expect my damp fleece to start steaming. The thought of drying out is such a relief.
I must have dozed off, because at first I barely notice it. A warmth on my thigh. Like water, lapping against my groin, a little higher each time. I drift into consciousness, suddenly aware of the pressure of my stiffening cock against my jeans and his hand rubbing against me.
In an instant, I snap wide awake and slap his hand away. ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Ben, now – I think maybe there’s been a misunderstanding . . .’
‘Stop the fucking car!’
‘We’re on a bridge—’
‘I said, stop the fucking car!’
He pulls into the kerb. I’m already unbuckling my seat belt and scrabbling for the door handle. The dude grabs hold of my sleeve and for a moment we grapple, then I burst out of the car and start running.
He crawls along beside me, leaning out of his window. ‘Ben, now, we can talk about this. Sure and get back in the car.’
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
He stops and opens the door. I look around wildly, but there’s no one around. Suddenly, I’m too tired to run. I swing one leg over the side of the bridge. There’s no walkway or barrier; it’s easy to do.
‘Ben . . .’
‘My name’s not Ben!’
I can’t see the water in the inky blackness below me. For a second, I hesitate. I’m so sorry, Agness.
I don’t jump.
I just let go.
Kate
I sit on the very edge of Guy’s bed, both hands clapped over my mouth, trying not to giggle. It’s the shock, of course. The same thing happened when my father died.
Death is always a shock, even when it’s expected. Far more so when it strikes out of a clear, cloudless sky. It’s a cliché, of course, but it’s the finality that hits home. The conversations you didn’t have, the questions you didn’t ask; all the times you could have, should have, said I love you.
I want to cry. It would be so much easier if I could just cry.
I turn as the bedroom door opens. Ned hovers awkwardly on the threshold, his face white and drawn. ‘The undertaker’s downstairs. Would you like me to . . .’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll come down.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he says. ‘I can deal with this.’
‘We’ll do it together,’ I say.
He nods sadly and shuts the door softly behind him. He’s been wonderful during the past three days; so steadfast and constant. I don’t know how I’d have got through this without him.
I lever myself up from the bed, feeling about a hundred and two. Guy has no mirror in his bedroom, so I peer at my reflection in the blank computer screen on his desk. Eleanor’s face looks back at me. Funny how I never saw the resemblance before.
I have a sudden memory of watching through the crack of her bedroom door as my mother put on her make-up. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. I wasn’t supposed to see her while she was dressing, but thinking about it now, I’m sure she knew I was there. For a moment, it was like the door had been opened to a hidden world full of feminine secrets. I watched in fascination as she patted foundation around her eyes with the tips of her elegant fingers and stretched her lips wide to apply her lipstick. She sprayed her scent into the air and then walked through it, so the effect would be subtle. She was like a celestial being, a goddess to me. She must know everything, I remember thinking. She was younger than I am now.
I pull out my hairband, scrape my fingers through my hair, then refasten the bobble tighter than before.
Three months ago, I ran away from my family because they were more than I could cope with. It serves me right if I lose them now.
The undertaker nods respectfully as I come into the sitting room. He looks too ordinary to be an undertaker, despite the black suit and grave expression. I don’t know what I was expecting; a cadaverous Dickensian mourner in a top hat, perhaps.
He extends a surprisingly warm hand. ‘Mrs Forrest, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Ned and I sit awkwardly together on the sofa, careful not to touch. The undertaker settles himself in an armchair opposite us and discreetly slides a brochure across the coffee table. ‘I’ll leave this with you so you can make your selection in your own time,’ he says.
‘Our selection?’
‘Coffins,’ Ned says.
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’
I pick up the brochure. Eleanor dealt with all of this when my father died. By the time I heard the news and came home, it had all been decided. Mahogany and solid silver handles. The most expensive in the range: It’s what he would have wanted.
Ned has found a green company proud of their sustainable credentials. The coffins all look so pretty, like over-large picnic baskets. Willow, bamboo, banana leaf, water hyacinth, cane, loom, sea grass, all interwoven with fresh flowers and garlands. Very Celtic, I think, reminded of Keir. We’ll need a druid, not a priest. On the next few pages, cardboard and recycled paper board, papier mâché, felt shrouds, Egyptian gold-leaf pods. The few wooden coffins in the back of the brochure have Forest Stewardship Council certification.
‘Guy would approve of this,’ I say brightly. ‘He’s very concerned about the environment. He spent last summer working on a school conservation project, did my husband tell you that? He had us recycling long before the council introduced all those coloured boxes—’
‘Kate,’ Ned says softly.
My eyes are dry and wide. ‘I wish he was here,’ I say.
At Ned’s suggestion, Keir came with us to the police mortuary in South London three days ago. ‘He flew all this way to help you,’ Ned said wearily. ‘Maybe this is how he needs to do it.’
We tried yet again to reach Liesl, but the hotel in Vietnam said she’d gone ‘up jungle’ and wouldn’t be back for ten days. I envied her her blissful ignorance.
Agness we left with Eleanor. ‘We’re following up a lead,’ Ned told them, not wanting to have to break the news just yet.
An unmarked police car collected us from the house. Keir elected to sit up front with the police driver, while Ned and I sat in the back, an ocean of leather between us, and stared out of opposite windows. None of us attempted false reassurances because we all knew they were pointless. Guy hadn’t dropped his library card or had his fleece stolen. Another little boy hadn’t cycled into a barbed-wire fence and scarred the back of his knee. It wasn’t a mistake.
The mortuary was an anonymous-looking grey council building; it could just as well have been a school or the local dole office. I walked into it flanked on one side by my lover and on the other by my husband, and the whole situation was so alien and surreal it didn’t seem strange at all.
Inside, it wasn’t slick and grittily glamorous, the way it is on television. The hallway was being painted; we had to turn sideways to get past stepladders and drop-cloths. Two decorators bobbed their ears in time to whatever music filled their ears from the ubiquitous white
earbuds. A couple of secretaries gossiped in the doorway of an office; I heard snatches of chat about summer holidays and drinks on Friday night as we passed. All in a day’s work.
Our police driver led us through a maze of corridors which grew progressively more institutional and grey. Twice he had to stop and ask for directions: ‘I don’t do this very often,’ he offered in apology.
‘Nor do we,’ Ned said.
Finally, the corridor dead-ended in a high counter. No one stood in attendance, though in the far corner of the space behind it, a secretary was finishing up her lunch as we arrived, something with mayo and avocado to judge from the smears on the greaseproof paper in front of her. Pret A Manger, at a guess. She smiled politely but didn’t get up.
On the top of the counter was an old-fashioned bell. The police driver hit it hesitantly, then a second time with more confidence. ‘We made good time up here,’ he said conversationally while we waited. ‘The A3 can be a bastard sometimes.’
‘It’s a Saturday,’ Ned offered.
‘Good point.’
Keir squeezed my shoulder. I closed my eyes and leant against him. Sandalwood. From the guest bathroom. Agness bought it for me last year for my birthday.
If Ned noticed, he said nothing.
Finally, a short man with a thick grey Hitler moustache appeared. He handed our escort a clipboard to which a ballpoint pen was attached with a piece of yellow twine. The police driver scribbled a few words in the required spaces and returned it.
‘If you’d like to follow me,’ the moustache said.
I groped for Keir’s hand. Together with Ned and our driver, we followed the moustache down yet another series of corridors and into a small, empty room. Grey floors, grey walls. There was a second door on the far side of the room; on the wall to our left was a large window curtained from the other side.
The second door opened and the moustache conferred with an unseen colleague for a few moments, then turned and handed Ned a plastic bag. ‘Is this your son’s jacket?’
‘Can I open the bag?’
‘Of course.’