by Simon Brooke
“Charlieee. Look…look,” she runs her hands through her hair, thinking. “You can tell the police after you’ve spoken to him. After all, you don’t even know if he really is where Anastasia says he is until you’ve seen for yourself.” She does have a point. She realises that she’s making progress here. “If it is him, if he is there, we’ll go outside and call the police immediately, okay? And, I promise, I won’t speak to anyone else about it.”
“All right.” It does make sense, I suppose. “You’d better not write anything, though.”
She looks at me for a moment. “I won’t write anything until I’ve spoken to you about it.”
“Until I’ve approved it.”
“Approved it? Oh, honestly—”
“Or I don’t tell you the address.”
She looks at me hard. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. We’ll work on the piece together.”
Nora goes back to her office after another severe warning from me. We’ve arranged to meet back here at seven to await Anastasia’s call. Even then, I decide, peering out of the window at the traffic and people below, I don’t have to tell Nora where Piers is. I could just ring Slapton straight away and hand the whole thing over to him.
I sit down at my desk and spread my hands out before me. What would Lauren do in this situation? If you think you know the answer, ring this number, calls cost fifty pence per minute, and don’t forget to get permission from whoever pays the bill. Hey, I think I do know the answer.
But I’m not Lauren, though, am I? So am I Nora? Or is it Noor? The light of his life. Oh, God, that poor man.
I shuffle some more bits of paper around. No sign of Scarlett or Zac. I realise I’m missing them so I go out and do some window shopping. A couple of people in the street take a second look at me and the people in the sandwich shop exchange very unsubtle glances as I order a turkey salad sandwich to take away.
It’s funny, so many people at my agency, I mean my old agency, want to be celebs. I remember a guy called Dave, a complete jerk, had five pages of editorial in The Times magazine, beautiful stuff—winter coats shot in Scotland, I think—but he spent almost the whole day it appeared standing by the bar in a café in the King’s Road, looking around, waiting for people to recognise him.
He was there at 10 A.M. when Lauren and I were having a quick coffee before we tackled the shops, and he was still there at gone four o’clock in the afternoon when we went past on a bus on our way home. Like anyone was going to recognise his face from the magazine.
“People just look at the clothes, go ‘Blimey! I wouldn’t pay that,’ and turn the page,” said Lauren in a rare moment of cynicism.
I watch telly in the office a bit. The same quiz show that Zac was watching the other day. I can do the abuse—“you pea brain,” “you dingbat”—but I can’t always get the answers right like he can, so I turn over and watch a woman telling another woman how much she hated her former, fat self. I flick over again and another woman is telling yet another chat show hostess about how dieting took over her life and how she is now, finally, happy with who she is—a size twenty. The hostess, a stick-thin blonde, smiles sweetly and invites the audience to give the fat woman a round of applause.
The door buzzer goes. The police? Reporters? Creditors? Not again. I look at my watch; it’s a quarter to seven already. I let Nora in. She rushes upstairs, throws her arms around me and gives me a passionate, slurping kiss, pulling me towards her. Then she pushes me away.
“Has she rung yet?”
“No, it’s only quarter to seven.”
“Good, good,” says Nora, taking off her coat. She sits down on Scarlett’s desk, still breathing heavily from the running up stairs and the kissing and leans back. “Isn’t this exciting? Got anything to drink?”
“No and no,” I tell her.
“Oh, Charlie, don’t be boring.” She comes over to where I’m sitting behind my desk with a sultry sashay.
“I’m not, I’m just…a bit anxious, that’s all.”
“So am I. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“I just hope we’re doing the right thing.”
“I’m sure we are,” she says, too quickly to sound convincing.
I sigh deeply and start an aimless tour of the office.
“What have you been doing today?”
“Erm, just pissing about here really. You?”
“Oh, I’ve had one of those days. A lot of firefighting, you know, crisis management, trying to sort things out for people,” she says, shaking her head.
“What? Where they’ve cocked things up?”
“No, where I’ve cocked things up,” she says blandly.
“That figures.”
Just then my mobile rings.
“Oh, my God. That’ll be her,” says Nora, leaping up off the desk and rooting around in her bag. “Quick, take this. You stick it on to the back of the phone and it records what she says. Oh, fuck, where’s the tape? I’m crap at technical things. Hang on, here it is.”
I wave Nora and her recording gear away as I answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Charlie? It’s Anastasia.”
“Hi, thanks for ringing back.”
“No, probs, I said I would. Right, I’ve got this address…” I scatter papers around my desk as I find a pen and something to write on, then I swap hands to stop Nora trying to listen in, but she goes round to the other side of me.
“Sorry, Anastasia, go on.”
“Right, I’ve never heard of it, I never go there myself, always get a mate to do it, or a bike from one of Dad’s companies; it’s the absolute back of bloody beyond. You’ll need passports and injections to go there.”
I laugh encouragingly.
“Oh, get on with it,” whispers Nora from beside me.
“It’s number seventy-nine Fairisle Road, London SE twenty-seven. Where the hell’s SE twenty-seven? Never been very good on my SEs.”
I repeat the address to make sure I’ve got it. “That’s great, I really appreciate it.”
“So, you’re going to go down there?”
“Well, we’ll go and have a look.”
Nora is already feverishly consulting a street map.
“Be careful, Charlie.”
“Of course, don’t worry. I’ll let you know how I get on. Thanks again, Anastasia. Bye.”
“Bye. Oh, and, Charlie, try and get me some stuff while you’re there will you, I’m running dangerously low.”
I laugh. “Will do.”
I finish the call and look round at Nora.
“Found it,” she says triumphantly. “It’s near…near…absolutely fucking nowhere. Don’t worry, though, I’ve got a car.”
“A car? That’ll be useful.”
“Right. You can map-read, I’ll drive.” She is already half out of the door.
I’m wondering again whether I should just ring the police and give them the address. It would make life easier. But I can’t bear to speak to Slapton again, let alone help the bastard in his stupid enquiries, so I pick up my stuff and follow Nora out. We’ll talk to Piers and then perhaps ring the police and tell them his whereabouts. It’s already getting dark and and a large spot of rain lands on my face as I step outside.
She is illegally parked—horribly, outrageously, illegally parked so that a couple of passersby stop in disbelief to look at the little blue Renault sitting next to, almost on, the zebra crossing, but of course she has managed to avoid getting a ticket.
She lets me in just as the rain really gets going. We set off down Charing Cross Road ready to cross the river. She is silent and intent. We haven’t been going long before I realise that she isn’t going to pay much attention to traffic regulations and other drivers.
“Fucking hell, Nora,” I say, leaning back in my seat as we seem to be driving straight towards a bus. Traffic lights are a minor hindrance and she seems to pass most as if they were at green. She also seems to think that she has right of way, whatever the road ma
rkings and the position of other vehicles might suggest. But her erratic performance is clearly not just a result of her excitement and determination to get to Fairisle Road as soon as possible. As we hurtle over a miniroundabout, causing a couple of other cars to screech to a halt on my side, I find myself saying what has been dawning on me since our last near miss but two.
“Nora, you can’t drive, can you?”
She laughs uncomfortably. “Derr! Huh! What do you think I’m doing now?”
“No, I mean you don’t have a licence. You haven’t passed a test, have you?”
“Oh, honestly.”
By sheer fluke we seem to be heading down the road without any obvious crises for a moment but I don’t let it go. “Nora, whose car is this?”
“A friend from work. She does know.”
“That you’ve got it, yes, but she doesn’t know that you haven’t got a licence.”
“Oh, Charlie, for goodness’ sake. Who knows whether I’ve got a goddamn licence or not?”
“Well, everybody else near us on the road, I’d say. Look, just stop the car and we’ll get a taxi or something.”
Face set in grim determination, she carries on.
“Nora, I said stop the car. You can park in one of these side streets and we’ll get a taxi.”
“We’re nearly there now, aren’t we?”
“No.” We are actually but I can’t stand this. We must have used up our luck by now.
“It’s at the end of this street, isn’t it?”
Outside it is dark and wet. I look in vain for cabs but there are none.
“Okay, but let’s take it slowly from now on.”
“Of course,” she says, putting her foot down.
We find Fairisle Road soon afterwards and decide to leave the car at the beginning of it, just off the main road. I do the parking since even Nora admits she’s not too hot on that.
Fairisle Road is a Victorian terrace in which most houses are shabby but still inhabited. There are five that are seriously dilapidated and number seventy-nine is in the middle of them. There is no sign of life from it whatsoever. My first thought is that Anastasia must have made a mistake. Surely even a squat must have something to show that it’s inhabited. I walk up to the gate and open it. The downstairs windows have been boarded up with corrugated iron and there is a pile of litter, Big Mac containers and rubbish around the front door.
“This place looks deserted,” I say to Nora, willing this to be the case.
“What a perfect place to hide, then,” she says brightly, a drop of rain hanging off her nose. “Go and try the door.”
I look at her for a moment, wondering whether there is still time to call the police and get out of here.
“Go on.”
I walk up to the door and knock gently, hoping that if there is anyone inside they won’t hear me.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, pulling me out of the way. She boots the door as hard as she can, staggering backwards with the impact.
“Nora!”
“Well, what are you? The Avon Lady?”
Unfortunately the door, obviously rotten and with a rusted old lock, has given a bit. There really is no excuse for not trying again.
“Psst,” hisses Nora.
I look round and see a couple walk by, giving us a surreptitious glance as they pass. After a few moments I give it another assault. I have to admit to a touch of macho self-satisfaction as it opens properly with a shove from my shoulder.
“I hope whoever’s in here is deaf,” I whisper to her.
We both peer in. I shudder involuntarily at the thought of rats. The place smells of rotting wood, damp and urine. I nearly gag. “We can’t possibly go in without a…torch,” I say, as Nora produces one from her bag. Oh, shit.
“Luckily someone’s come prepared,” she says.
In the light of the torch the place itself doesn’t look too bad. It’s very grimy, with wallpaper and even bits of plaster hanging off the walls in the hallway, but the floorboards look sound. Nora steps inside and I follow her.
“Close the door,” she whispers.
Reluctantly I push it closed behind us. We move further in, and on the right is a doorway to the living room. I’m so close to Nora that I’m almost pressing up against her. She flashes the torch around. The room is empty except for a deckchair and some old lager cans dotted around a filthy rug. The hearth shows signs of a small, incompetently constructed fire.
We move on along the corridor. In front of us are the stairs and behind them the way to the kitchen. We choose the kitchen route, a tense, shambling, two-person conga. I’m beginning to think about a big drink after we get out of this. If we get out of this. There are more old lager cans and wine and whisky bottles in the kitchen plus some cardboard boxes. Oh, shit, obviously full of giant rats. They say you’re never more than ten feet away from a rat in London; we’re probably inches away from them. Don’t they go for your jugular? Or your genitals? Or is that wild dogs?
“Go back,” hisses Nora.
“Why?” I gasp.
“Because there’s nothing here.”
“Oh.” I turn to head backwards and it’s then that we hear a creak from above us.
I turn to look at Nora and she holds the torch up to her scared face. Suddenly all the comparisons with the Blair Witch Project which I’ve been suppressing come flooding into my mind, and I’m ready to just sprint out of there—what the hell.
“Did you hear that?” says the mask of terror in front of me.
“Yes, it came from upstairs,” I say, taking the torch from her and holding it in such a way as to give her a more gentle, flattering light. Which is, of course, for my benefit, not hers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Even she seems to be contemplating a fast exit for a moment.
“There must be someone up there.”
“Exactly! So let’s get out of here.”
She takes the torch off me and moves back towards the hallway. I’m breathing more steadily already at the thought of escape but she stops at the foot of the stairs.
“Come on,” I tell her.
“Just a quick look upstairs.”
“No, for fuck’s sake. I told you, this isn’t Scooby Doo. Let’s just go…Nora?” The step creaks and by the light of the torch I can see her beginning to walk up. “Come back.”
But she ignores me and carries on up. Helplessly, I follow her. There is another creak from the second floor. We get halfway and she turns round for a moment, but it’s obviously just to check that I’m still here behind her. Finally we are on the landing. The street lights throw a gentle yellowy light into the front bedroom. It is empty apart from the obligatory cardboard boxes. The torch is shaking in Nora’s hand, I notice.
Although there is no actual noise, somehow we both sense it at the same time: there is someone in the room next to us. The door is closed, and there is total blackness at this end of the hallway. Again Nora turns to look at me, her face a mixture of fear and curiosity in the harsh torchlight.
This is the moment. I’m a big bloke, I’ve got the element of surprise. Don’t think about it, just do it. I turn the handle and throw the door open as fast and as hard as I can.
Initially it moves smoothly and easily but a split second later it comes into contact with someone or something. From behind me I hear Nora scream and she drops the torch, a flash of light revealing a shadowy figure in the room. Already reeling from the impact of the door, it has no chance of seeing off a badly aimed but forceful blow from my right fist. It feels like I’ve hit someone’s head or cheekbone.
“Awwwfff!” There is a crack as a head hits the crumbling plaster of the wall. I stagger back for a moment but realise that it isn’t my head so I take a deep breath and look round for Nora. She is nowhere to be seen in the inky blackness of the hallway.
“Nora?” I’m still whispering.
“Yes?” she gasps.
My heart and lungs are both hammering away so hard that I can ha
rdly get the words out. “I think I hit someone.”
“Sounded like it.”
We both stand in silence. I’m almost bracing myself for my assailant to come back at me but there is nothing except the sound of the traffic outside and the distant thump of a reggae beat from across the road. The pain from my hand begins to kick in, a dull, throbbing ache. I hope I haven’t broken something.
“Where’s the torch?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, I think it’s broken.”
“Oh fuck, it’d better not be,” I say, stepping back very slowly and bumping into her. We both crouch down and begin to feel around on the damp, rough floorboards for it.
“Got it,” she says. A second later the light begins to flash around crazily as she shakes it back into life.
“Give it here,” I hiss. I take it and shine it into the bedroom.
There is a figure on the floor, lying motionless. I think I’m going to be sick for a moment, then I’m conscious of Nora looking round from behind me.
“Who is it? Is he all right?” I can hear her words and I want to go and find out but somehow my body won’t move.
After what seems like hours but can only be a few moments, she pushes past me and walks gingerly into the room, looking behind the door. I’ve at least managed to shine the torch in there. She looks around for a moment and then crouches down by the body.
“Oh, my God! It is Piers,” she says in a strange, husky voice. I see her touch his face and then reach down towards his wrist. She holds it for a moment and looks back at me.
“Well?” I hear myself whisper.
“He’s dead.”
Chapter
24
What made you think I was dead?” asks Piers brightly.
“You had no pulse,” snaps Nora as if he’s not playing fair by still being alive.
“Well, obviously he had a bloody pulse,” I tell her.
“Oh, very clever, Dr. Doug Ross. Next time you knock someone out cold you can check they’re still alive.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
“Actually,” says Piers. “You might be right. I play a lot of squash and I’m pretty fit so I’ve probably got a very slow pulse, that’s all.”