by Roberta Kray
He promptly raised his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘I should just keep my mouth shut, right?’
‘You said it.’
Miller turned and resumed his pacing, walking from one side of the room to the other. A couple of minutes passed.
‘For God’s sake,’ Jo said. ‘Will you stop doing that? It’s driving me mad.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘So do it standing still. Or sitting down.’
Miller drew to a halt facing the print on the wall. Forced into immobility, he stood staring at it with his head to one side. ‘Where is this? Somewhere in Asia?’
‘Burma,’ she said. As she looked at the picture, her voice softened. ‘Peter travelled a lot when he was younger. He loved the place, despite all its troubles. It was special to him. He used to go there with his father before they …’ She stopped, aware that her tongue was running away with her. The Strong family history, fascinating as it was, didn’t need broadcasting.
‘Of course,’ Miller said.
Jo frowned at him. ‘What do you mean, of course?’
‘Rubies and jade,’ he said. ‘Burma’s famous for them. What jeweller wouldn’t love a country like that?’
‘That wasn’t why—’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, forget it.’ It was pointless trying to explain anything to a man as cynical as Miller.
As if he couldn’t help himself, he started pacing again.
Jo continued to stare at the picture. A memory was beginning to stir. It was to do with a night when Peter had got drunk. That had been unusual; he had enjoyed the occasional pint, a few glasses of wine, but had never drunk to excess. But then this hadn’t been just any night. It had been Ruby’s birthday and they had spent the evening in Canonbury along with Tony and Carla. Over dinner, a comment had been made about Burma and everyone had instantly shut up. She could still hear the brittle silence, still feel the wave of unease that had swept around the table. When they had got home, Peter had been sullen and quiet. He had opened a bottle of brandy and carried on drinking.
Jo shifted on the sofa. She half closed her eyes. It had been about three in the morning when she’d been woken by the sound of shattering glass. Peter had picked up the bottle and hurled it against the wall. At least she had thought it had been aimed at the wall. That it had smashed against the picture was just a mistake – or was it?
Miller, having reached the window for the fifth time, pulled back a corner of the curtain and looked out across the Green.
‘So what’s the deal with you and Susan?’ Jo said. She wanted to fill the silence, to stop her thoughts from dwelling on that night.
Miller dropped the curtain. ‘No big deal,’ he said. ‘We met a few years back. We got on. We stopped getting on. End of story. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘And?’
‘That’s not enough?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It isn’t. You wouldn’t be here if that was all it was. And you wouldn’t be so determined to find her.’
Miller looked almost embarrassed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We were together for almost a year. I thought there might be something … something more … but there wasn’t. Happy now?’
‘Something?’ she repeated. Sensing a chink in his armour, she continued to probe. ‘Are you trying to say love?’
Miller gave a mock shudder. ‘Do you mind? Anyway, I was wrong, way off the mark. She didn’t … let’s just say I got it wrong.’
Jo might have left it if she hadn’t so distinctly recalled the first time they’d met and the way he had looked across the bar and mocked her. She could recall exactly what he’d said and repeated it almost verbatim: ‘Well, we’ve all been there at one time or another.’
It took him a moment to get the reference and then he laughed. ‘I guess I had that coming.’
Jo smiled too before quickly clamping her lips together. She didn’t want that kind of connection with him. She didn’t want any connection at all. ‘So can we make a decision about tomorrow?’
‘Do we have to?’
‘I can do it,’ Jo insisted. ‘Let me go and see Pat. Let me give it a try.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
As Jo approached the Mansfield Estate, her steps began to falter. Perhaps Miller had been right; this wasn’t such a great idea. She shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up. High above her loomed the peaks of the three crumbling towers. Each of the buildings, identical in design and ugliness, presented the same bleak exterior with endless rows of windows, flaking paintwork and rusting balconies. The overall impression was of grey. Even the graffiti was depressingly uniform, the dull monotonous tags appearing over and over again.
What was more disturbing, however, was the pervading sense of menace. It was like a pall that hung over the place, a heavy and intimidating cloud. Despite the warmth of the morning, Jo shivered. Suddenly she felt vulnerable. It was not smart, she thought, to stand around gawping. But then it was hardly smart to be here at all. There was still time to change her mind, to scuttle back to where the car was parked, but her pride wouldn’t permit it.
Jo quickly walked on. She turned right and headed along the path towards Carlton House. She was twenty feet from the door when a couple of lads, both with their hoods pulled partly over their faces, emerged from the building and leaned against the wall. They were sharing a joint, passing it from one to the other, and she could feel their eyes on her.
She felt her stomach flutter but it was too late to turn back. She had read somewhere that if you acted like a victim, you were more likely to become one. The trick was to behave confidently, to walk with your head held high and your shoulders back. But that was easier said than done when your imagination was working overtime.
Preparing herself for the worst, her body stiffened as she grew closer. She was ten feet away, then six and then two. The boys were still watching her. She drew adjacent, deliberately avoiding any eye contact, and was almost at the door when one of them called out ‘Morning, love.’
Jo flinched. Should she simply ignore him or would that make matters worse? With only a moment to decide, she turned and smiled. ‘Hi.’
‘You looking for someone?’
She couldn’t see what business it was of his but then again she had no desire to provoke him either. ‘Just visiting a friend.’
‘You from the Social?’
‘No,’ she said.
The boy cocked his head to one side and stared at her. He was a lanky kid, about fifteen or sixteen, with small brown eyes and a cold sore on his lower lip. ‘What floor you after?’
Again she was tempted to ask what concern it was of his but again she refrained. The sooner this was over with, the better. ‘The twelfth.’
As if he had asked a series of particularly complex questions and was still processing her answers, the boy frowned. There was a short delay before he nodded. ‘Don’t use the first lift on your left. It’s shit.’
Jo smiled at him. ‘Thanks.’ She heard a snigger as she walked through the door but couldn’t say from which of the boys it had come.
The foyer, cool and characterless, was strewn with litter. It was empty but this made her feel more nervous, rather than less. She had a quick look round. Originally there had been patterned tiles on the walls, as if the architect had made one late effort to redeem himself, but the few that had survived were chipped and covered in graffiti. The pungent stench of urine, faintly overlain with the smell of dope, rose up to invade her nostrils.
There were four lifts, three of them with their doors open. As she had been advised, Jo ignored the first on the left and examined the other two. They were equally vile inside, both old and filthy, containing not just tin cans and fag ends but pools of suspicious-looking liquid too. She noticed a stone stairwell and considered walking instead. But twelve floors? She wasn’t sure if she would make it … or whether she’d be able to talk if she did.
Before she could change her mind, Jo chose the lift without the used condom nestled in the corner,
stepped inside and smartly pressed the button. It was only as the doors were closing that she wondered if the boy had deliberately misled her. Had that been why one of them had laughed? Perhaps, just for fun, they had removed an out-of-order sign.
It was too late to do anything about it now. There was a short pause before the lift gave a judder and began its lumbering ascent. She watched the light make slow progress from one number to the next. She held her breath, partly through fear that she would be trapped inside but mainly because of the smell. In the close confines of the metal box, the stink of urine was nauseating.
Jo tried to concentrate on something else. The first thought that came into her head was what the boy had said. Did she really look like a social worker? She glanced down at her clothes – jeans and a light cotton sweater – and made a mental note to review her wardrobe.
After what felt like an eternity, the twelfth floor was finally conquered. She gave a sigh of relief and waited for the doors to open … but they didn’t. ‘Come on!’ she urged impatiently. Her voice grew more pleading. ‘Please.’ She jabbed at a button on the panel but still nothing happened. A few more seconds passed. Her legs began to tremble. Just as panic was starting to set in, visions of being suspended here for hours or of the lift suddenly plummeting to earth, the doors gave a soft weary creak and reluctantly drew apart.
Jo jumped out, her heart thumping. She stumbled to the landing, gripped the top of the concrete wall and gulped in the fresh air. For a while she stood there, giving her legs time to recover. Beneath her lay an amazing view over the borough of Kellston and beyond. It was a view she might have appreciated if she hadn’t felt so sick.
It was a few minutes before she had recovered enough to start looking for Pat Clark’s flat. First she backtracked to the lifts and checked out the numbers painted on the wall. These places were like rabbit warrens; if you set off in the wrong direction, you could be wandering for ever.
Jo had walked the length of a landing, made a right-angle turn and walked halfway along another before she finally reached number eighty-eight. Here she stopped and took a few deep breaths. Was she prepared? About as much as she’d ever be. Before pressing on the bell, she quickly ran through the story she’d prepared with Miller. She stood back and waited. There was no response. She tried it again, this time leaning in closer. Was the bell working? Jo raised her hand and rapped twice.
This time she heard a definite movement from inside. There was the sound of a bolt being released, of a key being turned. A tall, thin woman pulled open the door. She was somewhere in her fifties although it was hard to tell exactly where. Her eyes were like Susan’s, a pretty shade of hazel, but her skin was dull and tired. There was a fading bruise on her left cheek and her hair, a drab shade of blonde, had an inch of dark brown showing through at the roots.
Jo put on her best smile. ‘Hi.’
‘Oh,’ the woman responded, her face instantly dropping as if she’d been expecting someone else.
‘It’s Mrs Clark, isn’t it? It’s nice to see you again.’
Pat Clark gave a half nod.
‘We’ve met before,’ Jo said, ‘but it was a long time ago. Helen? Helen Seymour? I’m a friend of Susan’s. We used to work together.’ She paused as if waiting for a sign of recognition.
Pat smiled tentatively back. Like most people she was unwilling to admit to not recognising someone she ought to but this was allied with a caution probably endemic to the more law-abiding residents of the Mansfield Estate. ‘Susan doesn’t live here.’
‘I know,’ Jo said. ‘I was just hoping you might have a number for her or an address. We kind of lost touch and … It’s my fault. I’ve been away for a while, working up north. I just got back and tried to ring but her line’s been disconnected.’
Pat’s small pink tongue crept out to lick her lips. As if still struggling to place her, she narrowed her eyes. ‘Helen?’
‘That’s right,’ Jo said. ‘And I was really looking forward to seeing her again. I’m only here for a few days. I was hoping we could go out, catch up on all the news.’
Jo waited as Pat Clark thought about it. Had she been a beauty once like Susan? It was hard to tell. She was wearing a pair of fawn trousers and a cream short-sleeved blouse. There was a distinctive whiff of alcohol although it was still early, only ten-fifteen.
‘The thing is,’ Pat said eventually, ‘Susan usually rings me. She’s always so busy, you know, with work and everything.’
‘Of course,’ Jo said, as if this arrangement was perfectly natural. She wondered what imaginary career Susan had invented for her mother. ‘Well, maybe I could just pop round and put a note through the door. Do you have an address?’
‘I’m not sure if … I don’t think …’ Pat hesitated, her hands fluttering to her chest.
Jo wasn’t sure if she didn’t have an address or simply wasn’t willing to reveal it. Either way, this wasn’t going well. Was she really going to return with nothing? Miller would not be pleased. She made a final attempt to salvage something from the visit.
‘Okay, how about if I leave you my number and then if Susan calls you can pass it on to her? Would that be all right?’
Pat seemed to relax a little, her hands returning to her sides. ‘I suppose.’
‘That’s great,’ Jo said. ‘Thanks. Only I’d really love to see her again. It’s such a shame when you lose touch, isn’t it?’
‘Hold on a moment.’ Pat went inside, carefully closing the door behind her.
A minute passed. Jo presumed she’d gone for paper and a pen but maybe she had read it all wrong. Perhaps Mrs Clark had smelled a rat and decided to withdraw. She stood on the landing, shifting uneasily from one foot to another whilst examining the peeling paint on the door. She wasn’t having much luck with doors today. A few more minutes went by. Jo was beginning to lose hope when Pat suddenly appeared again.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t find it. I knew I’d put it somewhere safe but …’ She held out a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. ‘I’m only supposed to use it for emergencies but, seeing as it’s you, I’m sure she won’t mind.’
Jo’s face lit up. ‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. I’m sure she won’t mind at all.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Unwilling to risk the lift again, Jo took the longer route back to terra firma. She trotted briskly down the winding stone steps, only slowing as she reached the lower floors and her breath began to run out. Her fingers curled around the piece of paper in her pocket. She was pleased with herself. It might not be as useful as an address but at least she was not going back empty-handed.
Her heart was pumping by the time she reached the ground. She could feel the pinkness in her face and a prickling of sweat on her temples. She would have liked to stop, to rest for a while, but the foyer was not a pleasant place to linger. She hurried through the door, eager to escape.
Outside, there was no sign of the two boys. Since her ascent into the heavens, the estate had grown busier and now a steady flow of residents, many of them women laden with supermarket bags, criss-crossed the intersecting paths. Feeling less threatened, Jo slowed down. She made her way to the main thoroughfare and out through the gates.
The sun was shining brightly and the sky was blue and cloudless. She gulped in the fresh air as she walked. It was only when she reached the car that she realised she wasn’t intending to go straight home. Why should she? It was a beautiful day and the thought of being in the flat, the flat so thoroughly occupied by Miller, filled her with a sense of dread. She needed to be outside, to be alone for a while. She needed time to think.
Jo got in the car, took the piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on her knee. She rooted in her bag until she found the card Miller had given her at the hotel. He answered on the second ring.
‘I’ve got a number,’ she said. ‘No address, I’m afraid. You want to write it down?’
‘That’s great. Well done.’
‘There’s no saying she’ll pick u
p.’
‘Maybe not,’ Miller said. ‘But she will check her messages. Hold on, I’ll grab a pen.’ There was a short pause before he came back on the line again. ‘Okay.’
Jo read the number out to him and then repeated it.
‘Got it,’ he said.
‘Right, I’ll see you in an hour or so.’
She heard the wariness in his voice. ‘You’re not coming straight back?’
‘No. Is that a problem?’
‘Depends what you’re doing,’ he said only half-jokingly. ‘Should I be expecting a knock on the door any time soon?’
‘If I was going to call the cops, I’d have done it by now. You should learn to be more trusting.’ Then, because she felt faintly guilty about adding to his already overburdened stress levels, she added: ‘Look, I’m just going to take a walk, that’s all.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I’ll see you later.’
Jo hung up and threw her phone on to the passenger seat. She leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. Where to? She felt suddenly light, free, as if she’d received a temporary pass from jail. If she wanted, she could just drive and drive … and never come back. Of course this wasn’t true – there was work, responsibilities, Gabe Miller – but the idea was enough to lift her spirits.
Jo set off with no clear destination in mind. She wound through the backstreets for a while and had an idea about going to Victoria Park. She could have that walk, even buy a magazine and lie on the grass. For a while, if she was lucky, she could forget about everything.
As she approached the junction of Cambridge Heath Road and Roman Road, she glanced to her right and saw Bethnal Green tube station. She could never pass the building without a small shudder. It was here, in 1943, that over 170 people had died trying to reach shelter from the German bombs. She thought of the panic as they surged down the dark wet steps, of that dreadful moment when the woman carrying a small child slipped and fell … and then the horror as the others tumbled over her. Those behind, not knowing what was happening, had continued to relentlessly push their way forward.