‘Nan …’
She didn’t answer.
‘Nan.’ Nothing moved except for the rhythmic lifting and collapsing of the bedclothes over her chest. ‘I only wanted to talk to her.’
It didn’t seem fair. Miss Nest had been the one person who’d believed in him in the days before his nan even knew who he was. His slag of a mother couldn’t be bothered with him and his dad just clouted him whenever he was out of prison, and all the boys at school had picked on him because he was small and pretty. But his teacher had listened to him and liked him, encouraged him to work and taught him how to protect himself from the bullies. And then she’d gone and given evidence against his grandad.
Like Gal and his grandad, he’d hated her for grassing them up, but he’d hated her much more for running away and leaving him to the useless teachers he’d had after her. They’d all known who he was and what his family was, and they’d treated him as though he was like the rest, good for nothing, which was why his nan had eventually sent him to her sister in the fucking country. Older now, and a lot more sensible, Mikey could put the blame squarely on his grandad, but at the time it had felt as though everything was Miss Nest’s fault. If she’d kept her mouth shut, they’d all have been OK. And she’d have stayed at the school and seen him through to the kind of life he’d deserved all along.
He hadn’t believed it when he’d seen her in the street, only minutes from the estate one Sunday when he’d been coming back from an all-night cabbing shift. He’d known her at once, in spite of her short dyed hair and spectacles, and he’d been amazed at the excitement he felt. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her that he was going to be someone after all, to hear her talk to him again like she used to do. There’d been a small boy with her, and Mikey had followed them back to Hoxton.
He looked down at his nan’s unresponsive face. Her wild grey hair offended him, just like it would’ve offended her. He smoothed it back around her head. She didn’t wake. Another tear crawled down his skin.
‘That’s better, Nan,’ he said, wiping it off. ‘It was the way Miss Nest tossed her head back that I recognised first. But I watched her for a while to make sure. And when I was sure, I went to say hi. But she wouldn’t talk to me. She pretended she didn’t know who I was, and every time she’d push past me without saying anything. That was at first. Later, when I phoned up to explain I only wanted to talk, she swore at me. D’you know, she once told me to fuck off?’
The tears were falling faster now. He borrowed the corner of the bedsheet to wipe his face.
He wanted to tell his nan how it happened. She’d have understood, he knew that. He hadn’t told her before because it wouldn’t have been fair. She had enough on her plate what with Gal and everything without having to worry about her beloved Mikey maybe being arrested. But now she was dying it was different.
He’d gone round the back of Miss Nest’s new garden flat because he knew that door would be easier than the front and he’d broken in, all quiet like because he knew now she’d never let him in herself. He’d soon realised she must be in her lounge because of the music. He’d taken off his shoes by the back door so as not to bring in any dirt and bent down to lay them quietly on the mat.
She was lying on the floor in the lounge, on her back with her hands under her head and all the music pouring over her. Mikey watched for a while, liking the look on her face. He liked seeing all the books she’d always had in her old place, too, and the Mexican guitar hanging on the wall with its bright strap.
‘Hello, Miss,’ he said at last and saw her face gathering up into a knot of hate.
She was on her feet quicker than anyone her age should’ve been able to move, and he could see she was going for the panic button. It looked huge and red as he judged the distance between it and her hand. He had to stop her pressing it, so that he’d have time to make her understand that he only wanted to talk. He grabbed for her dress and missed it, but he got her scarf, both ends of it to hold her back from the panic button. She was shouting by then, so he wound it tighter and tighter round her neck until she was quiet and still. He hadn’t meant her to die. He’d only wanted to talk.
The CD stopped eventually and the flat was very quiet. Then the cat came in and started crying. And cars passed and a noisy empty lorry, banging as it bounced over a bump in the road. He had to get some more noise going in here before one of the neighbours suspected something. He was still wearing the surgical gloves he’d used when he was breaking in so he just picked up another CD, the nearest one, and put it on while he thought about what to do next.
The idea came as he stood there, looking at her swollen face and trying not to move in case he left any evidence on the carpet or on her body. He’d seen the films and he knew how they could work out who’d been at a scene of crime just from fibres. So he’d backed away, as careful as the howling cat, and shut the back door.
It hadn’t been hard to fake enough mini-cab jobs to cover the time it took to get back to Southwark – everyone was always faking dockets and accounts anyway for the tax and all that – and get his uncle’s trousers from their hiding place. He’d kept them in their brown paper till he was back at Jeannie’s place. Then he’d put them on, still wearing his gloves, and picked up her chair and smashed at her body till the chair broke and then smashed again with just the legs, making sure that the blood spurted all over the trousers and that he wiped both legs of the trousers against the body.
‘And it didn’t hurt her, Nan,’ he said, the tears trickling back down his face. ‘She couldn’t feel it, so it didn’t matter. It was the only way.’
The door opened and a young nurse looked in, and smiled.
‘Don’t worry so much,’ she said, handing him a bunch of Kleenex from the box on his nan’s table. ‘It looks much worse than it is.’
‘What?’
‘She’ll be fine in a few days. The doctors have given her some very strong painkillers because it was such a bad beating. At her age they don’t want her suffering. But she’ll be up and about again in no time. You’ll see.’
‘But her kidney. There’s all that blood in her urine.’ He pointed down at the bag, swinging gently from the metal frame of the bed.
‘I know. And that’s what was worrying them most. But they think it’ll be all right. She won’t need the catheter once she’s up and about again.’ The nurse smiled. ‘She’s tough, your grandmother. We’ll be putting her back in the main ward later on today. And any minute now she’ll wake up and eat her dinner. You’ll see. She’s got a good appetite, hasn’t she?’
Mikey looked back at his nan in horror and saw her eyelids twitch and the eyeballs beneath them move wildly from side to side. He didn’t think they did that when you were unconscious.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered to the nurse, not looking away from his nan’s face.
‘That’s OK. I’ll look in again in about half an hour. She’ll be ready for her dinner by then.’
He waited until the nurse was well out of sight, then he said strongly, ‘Nan! Nan, I know you can hear me.’
‘You’re a good boy, Mikey, to come and see me like this,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know you was here.’
‘Oh, yes you did. And you heard it all, didn’t you?’
‘Heard what?’ she said, licking her lips and trying to look puzzled. But he’d seen her with the police. He knew she could turn it on whenever she wanted. He’d seen the future now and he couldn’t go back, even if he could’ve trusted her. That would’ve been way too dangerous. He smiled and said he’d better rearrange her pillows. She didn’t look comfortable at all.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, her eyes getting bigger and her breaths shorter. ‘I’m fine. Mikey, leave me be. The nurses can do anything that needs doing. Don’t you fret about me.’
‘I’m not fretting, Nan. It’ll be easy, you’ll see,’ he said. He didn’t have a choice, not now. He moved round the bed so he had his back to the glass bit in the door, pulled out two pillows from behind h
er messy grey head. Her shaking hand was reaching out, just like Jeannie Nest’s, towards the bell. He pulled it clear and laid her arm neatly down by her side before he pressed the pillows over her face.
She started to thrash about, making far too much noise. He leaned harder. The plastic tube from her arm slapped his hand and he nearly hit her. Then something else touched him and he heard a voice say, ‘Now, now. Let her go, son.’
Someone pulled him off and took the pillows from his nan’s face. It wasn’t papery now; it was bright red and she was coughing and gasping.
‘You little shit.’ She spat out the words between heaving coughs. ‘You’re worse than all the others.’
‘Michael Handsome,’ said a man’s voice behind him, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of …’
He didn’t hear the rest, staring at his nan’s face. Now she hated him, too. There were tears streaming down his face. It wasn’t fair.
Epilogue
Trish breathed carefully and settled her gown more elegantly across her shoulders, thin as a coathanger now because she hadn’t been eating much the past few days. George was getting worried again, but he knew how she hated him pushing food at her just before a case, so he’d let her alone.
‘I’m ready.’
‘Fine. And it’s agreed, is it, that I’ll deal with all the financial cross-examination, and you’ll tackle the personal stuff?’
‘You’re not really asking me, Antony, are you?’
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘But an order always seems so much more civilised when it’s phrased as a question. Feeling all right, Trish?’
‘Never better. I slept fantastically well last night.’ She saw the derisive glint in his eye that said ‘liar’. ‘Ah, good, there’s Nick. D’you want to go and say hello?’
‘No, Trish, you’ll do it much better. Think of him as one of your damaged children and be nice to him.’
‘Yes, maestro,’ she said drily and enjoyed his laugh. Maybe this would be all right. She moved across the lobby towards Nick Gurles, who was standing beside Peter Loyle, looking like a model of calm confidence. ‘Nick! Good to see you.’
‘Trish, you’re looking gorgeous.’ He bent and kissed her cheek, whispering, ‘What happens if I throw up in court?’
‘Try very hard not to,’ she said seriously. ‘It’ll be fine, Nick. Really. Antony knows what he’s doing. None better.’ She nodded to Peter Loyle, whom she hadn’t yet forgiven for keeping the memo from her in the first place, and went back to find Antony exchanging witticisms about skiing with the plaintiffs’ silk, Henry Falkowski.
The doors to the court opened and an usher stood there.
‘We’re off,’ Antony said. They walked side by side into court, not equals – they would probably never be that – but on the same side and with the same intentions at last.
Nick wasn’t sick and there was very little for Trish to do. Once the judge rose for the day, Antony led his small team back to chambers for a combination of post mortem and planning. When they’d settled everything, and Peter Loyle had left with the client, Antony invited Trish to have a drink with him.
‘On any other night, I’d love it,’ she said, ‘but my brother’s moving in this evening, so I have to get back.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother. What does he do?’
‘He’s going to be eight the day after tomorrow. He’s a new acquisition.’
‘The number of stories you keep behind that white face of yours would rival Scheherezade’s. I look forward to hearing this one in due course. Anyway, I’m glad my hunch about you and your capacities was right. See you tomorrow.’
Trish rushed back across the bridge, determined to check everything one last time before David arrived. His bedroom was all ready, with the books whose titles Lakeshaw had given her from a quick study of the scene-of-crime photographs, and a few others, some that she’d loved as a child and some that thoughtful friends who were also parents had advised her to get for him. There was apple juice in the fridge and biscuits and all the things she thought he might like.
‘Nervous?’ George said.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Terrified,’ he said, but he laughed and seemed infinitely more confident than she was. But then there was nothing new in that.
‘George, you won’t let David make any difference to us, will you?’
‘Not to the core of us, Trish. But you know as well as I do that his presence in our lives will change things.’
The phone rang before she could say anything. It was Caro, returning Trish’s call. Trish explained what she and George had decided to do about David, adding at the end, ‘So Caro, we were wondering whether you and Jess would be his godmothers.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a huge honour. Hang on and I’ll have a quick word with Jess.’
Trish turned to report to George, who was pretending to read the paper. He folded up the sports section and sat waiting.
‘She’d love it, Trish. We’ve both got goddaughters, but no godsons. This will be a treat as well as an honour. She’s longing to meet him, and I’d love to see him again. He’s a sweet child. And he’s come through so much.’
‘Great,’ Trish said, encouraged. ‘We’ll fix a time for you to meet, once he and George have got to know each other a bit better.’
‘Where are you all going to live?’
Trish didn’t flinch, although it was still a difficult subject. ‘We’re going to start off here, with George keeping Fulham, then, once we’ve seen how things are going and David’s had a chance to settle, we’ll look for somewhere for the three of us.’
She felt George’s hands on her waist and leaned back a little. His lips brushed her bare neck, just below the hairline.
‘Caro, I’ve got to go now. They’ll be here any minute, and there are things to do.’ George’s hands tightened around her waist.
‘Before you go, Trish, what about your father?’
‘It’s going to be a long time before he’s forgiven any of us. He even seems bitterly angry with David, just for existing. That’s probably only guilt coming out as rage, but David’s too young to understand it, so I’m keeping them separate for the moment.’
‘I’m sorry for my part in it all. You know that, don’t you, Trish?’
‘Of course. Otherwise, I’d never have wanted you as David’s godmother. And it wasn’t you, after all, who arrested Paddy. That was sodding Lakeshaw.’
‘If it’s any consolation, Trish, he hasn’t done himself any favours either. Rather too many influential people have heard about the cock-up he made over the interviews with DC Waylant. But I don’t suppose even Lakeshaw would’ve arrested your father if it hadn’t been for the CCTV films of him driving that night.’
‘I know,’ Trish said. ‘Paddy played his own part in what happened to him. He knows that, too. We’ll get it all sorted in the end. Bella will help. She’s so saintly that she’s forgiven him his nocturnal wanderings – did I tell you he’d been off bonking someone else? – and she doesn’t seem to mind the idea of David, so she may be able to effect a rapprochement. I hope so.’
George’s hands were moving now and his lips setting up a trail of tingling around the back of Trish’s neck and shoulders.
‘Caro, I really have to go. Give my love to Jess.’ George turned her round as she clicked off the phone and dropped it on the sofa.
‘We haven’t much time,’ Trish said.
‘We’ll always have time,’ George said, stroking the tops of her thighs again. ‘You shouldn’t worry so much, Trish. All will be well. You’ll see.’
Also by Natasha Cooper
Rotten Apples
The Drowning Pool
Sour Grapes
Creeping Ivy
Fault Lines
Prey to All
OUT OF THE DARK. Copyright © 2002 by Daphne Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief qu
otations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A Viacom Company
eISBN 9781466808379
First eBook Edition : January 2012
Out of the Dark Page 29