‘She’s going to the park. I’m meant to be there too.’ Simon pulled on his half-finger as if it might magic him away.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Try again. It begins with a “T”. Where do prostitutes go?’ His tone could be mistaken for kind, but Simon, used to his dad talking to his mum, knew better. ‘We understand why you knew all about the tower.’
‘And we know what you did there!’ Simon heard himself retort. The sound of the river rushing through the reeds hurt his ears.
‘Stop it!’ Nicky was looking at the Captain.
She didn’t know what the Captain meant. Simon moved even closer to her, thinking to suggest they left. Before he could speak, he felt a thump on the back and was pushed to the ground. He was on his hands and knees, flailing at the reeds for purchase. The reeds cracked and snapped like gunshots.
The Captain had Simon by the collar of his mac and was dragging him over the earth. He shoved him through the gap in the reeds. Below was the river, fast flowing, grey and green. Simon heard the fabric of his mac tear; it was giving under his weight. Then everything went quiet and he clearly comprehended – a thought devoid of emotion – that he was going to die.
Flecks of foam were spinning on the water. He saw his own face, white and impassive, before it vanished in cloud of scum. Heat ripped across his scalp as the Captain yanked his head back by the hair.
‘Leave him.’
Simon fell on to the ground and, gathering himself, looked across the clearing.
A boy stood in a ragged shape of light inside the ring of white stones. ‘You are trespassing,’ he said to the Captain.
For a split second Simon thought he was dreaming. So entrenched were his fantasies about his friendship with Justin that he had eliminated the two years in which he had not seen him. He discounted the numerous times he had called at the big house with the owl knocker and got no answer. In his mind the friendship had begun in the Pullman carriage of a train. He and Justin were like Guy and Charles in Strangers on a Train, his mother’s favourite story. Justin was his friend.
‘This is my land.’ The Captain didn’t sound very sure. ‘We’ve occupied it.’
‘You are trespassing.’ Justin had grown taller since Simon had last seen him. He was taller than the Captain. He wore a black coat which reached to his ankles, the sleeves folded back. His hair was longer, long like a girl’s.
‘I knew you’d be here!’ Simon exclaimed. ‘This is who I meant!’ he shouted to the Captain and gave an involuntary tug on his bad finger.
Justin didn’t reply or look at him.
‘Do you know him?’ the Captain said to Simon.
‘Yes.’ Simon adjusted his belt and smoothed down his hair. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘You are trespassing.’ Justin addressed the Captain as if he hadn’t noticed Simon or heard him.
‘So you’re friends with “Mummy’s Boy”?’ The Captain clearly hoped he had pounced on a weak link.
‘I don’t know him,’ Justin replied calmly.
Above their heads a seagull screeched, long and drawn-out like a baby’s cry.
‘Justin, it’s me, Simon, from that school with the garden. We made the tunnel there, remember? We, we had lunch in the Pullman carriage, steak and chips with ketchup.’ Simon dashed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. ‘Now I’m in a unit. You can be in it too. You can be captain – it will be brilliant!’
‘He doesn’t know you.’ The Captain edged closer to the boy in the coat as if by diminishing the spatial distance between them he might forge an alliance.
‘You are all trespassing!’ Justin didn’t raise his voice. ‘The tide is turning. If you don’t go now, you will be cut off from the mainland and drown.’
‘You’re lying,’ the Captain said. But Simon saw that he believed Justin.
All the children heard a steady trickling and, through the reeds, Simon watched the river rise.
‘Quick march!’ the Captain shouted, and pushing Simon ahead of him, directed him back along the path. Away from Justin.
Simon looked out across the river. Properly dark now, he could just tell that the tide was coming in as Justin had said it would. The river lapped at the bottom of the slipway; the island was cut off. Justin could still be out there.
Simon had given the Captain the slip in the cemetery and had doubled back. He was by the railings on Chiswick Mall. The eyot was a dark crouching hulk, the trees and the land one black mass merging with the night sky.
‘Justin,’ he yelled across the water.
He flung off his mac and hung it on the railings; then he struggled down the ramp and set off across the vanishing causeway of silted gravel to the eyot.
‘Justin!’ His cry, hollow like a seagull’s and lost in gathering wind, went nowhere.
Simon was up to his knees in freezing water. From deep in the river, invisible hands tugged at his legs, trying to drag him off the causeway. There was no causeway: the finger of land was submerged.
The bells of St Nicholas’ church struck five. When the wind blew from the east, the chimes could be heard in Corney Road. Simon’s mother was assuring her husband she had been out for a walk by herself around the lake in Chiswick House grounds with their daughter.
‘Why the fuck does she keep saying “mat”?’ Simon’s father demanded, infuriated by the little girl’s insistently repeated sound.
His wife suddenly understood what the toddler was trying to say. Panicked, she explained how she was leaving the upstairs curtains open for Simon, who was still out with his nice friends, to see the sitting-room lights. But her frequently snatched glances out of the bay window were not for her son.
31
Friday, 25 October 2013
Jack watched Tallulah Frost’s house. He preferred to visit Hosts at night, but he was on another day shift and later was meeting Stella. She had been busy with Dale yesterday. Stella and Suzie had invited him for a late afternoon tea to Richmond Park, but he had said he was busy sorting out his new home, although the flat in the tower, being small, needed little sorting. Jack was in no hurry to meet the Brand-new Brother.
He had cased her house with his binoculars from the north window of the tower and confirmed the topography on Street View. He had logged ‘alerts’: a repair to asphalt on the camber, cracks in the pavement – stepping on cracks was very bad luck.
That morning Jack had chased up William Frost for his sister-in-law’s address. Frost was still keen they go in as cleaners. Although he privately agreed, something in the man’s tone had made Jack uneasy. He had refrained from telling Frost that his method of entering people’s houses required no disguise.
Leaning on the trunk of a plane tree in the sunlit street, rolling a cigarette, Jack told himself he was reconnoitring for his stakeout with Stella.
Clicking the cursor on Street View, he had swooped and darted around the street with the aerodynamic ease of a bird noting all points of vulnerability, street lamps, sightlines from upstairs windows, frequency of vehicles and pedestrians. There were points of advantage too: trees, parked cars and a wall all offered hiding places from which he could observe unobserved. Jack had established dimension and distance between kerbs, gates and trees. Like any good intruder, he had identified the means of egress. On Google Street View’s fabulous new feature – a timeline bar – he compared the image of the road in 2008 to 2012 when the last shots were taken. In four years the front door had changed from racing green to royal blue. Not keen on green, Jack approved. The bush in the front area had grown; straggling branches poked through the railings, obscuring the downstairs window. A point of advantage – he would not be seen.
The door was opening. Jack sidled back behind the trunk, snapping his newly made cigarette into his case along with the rest. Mrs Frost might only be putting something in the bin. People popped out of their houses with rubbish, leaving their doors open, allowing Jack to slip inside. In Perrers Road the bins were in view of the street, and in broad daylight, it wouldn’t work.
&nbs
p; A woman shrouded in a quilted jacket, hood up, was wrestling with an umbrella. It wasn’t raining, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. She pointed it directly at Jack’s tree, opened it and, ducking beneath, stooped to the doormat. Jack nearly shouted with triumph – it could not be. She was leaving a key beneath it. He had been tempted to follow her, but she stopped by a car parked ten or so metres up the street and unlocked it. He moved around the trunk as her car, a blue Renault Clio, swept past him.
Jack nonchanlantly strolled across the road, noting a Neighbourhood Watch sign fixed to the telegraph pole. He opened the gate without hesitation, intending that a neighbour would assume him a friend, and with a carefree spin on his heel confirmed that no one was on the street. He latched the gate after himself – a watching neighbour would disregard a man who took trouble. Jack pressed the bell.
Thirty more seconds went by. Jack noted that weeds thrusting up through the brick path in 2008 and in 2012 had gone. Somewhere a car door slammed. A blackbird chirruped. A dog gave an urgent bark, answered by another further away. Reminded of Stanley, Jack felt a twinge of guilt; Stella wouldn’t approve of what he was doing.
Thirty seconds, then he rang the bell again. After another thirty seconds, he lifted the mat and retrieved the key. This wasn’t breaking and entering, he imagined telling Stella, this was visiting.
He opened the door and replaced the key under the mat. Without looking behind him for fear of rousing suspicion, he stepped inside.
Had Jack looked at the plane tree where he had been standing moments earlier, he would have seen he was wrong in thinking that no one was watching him. Nor did he see a figure stroll across the street, with the same nonchalance as he had exhibited moments earlier and, lifting up the door mat, take the key from underneath it.
32
Friday, 25 October 2013
‘Have a scone, Stell. See how an Aussie does them!’
Stella had agreed to morning coffee round at her mum’s. Dale slid a plate heaped with bite-size scones dotted with plump sultanas across the coffee table to her. Stella wasn’t hungry, but refusal wasn’t an option. She smelled the warm aroma of cheese.
Dale settled beside her on the sofa and popped a scone in his mouth. He was wearing a chef’s outfit: white shirt, chequered trousers. He had been happy to wear Clean Slate clothes when he cleaned yesterday. She hoped he wasn’t going to get her cooking and expect her to dress up.
‘Not as good as our mum’s, you’re thinking!’ He was calling Suzie ‘Mum’. His adoptive mum was dead. Dale had said he was sure that from above she approved.
Stella didn’t say that Suzie hadn’t baked after she left Terry. She moved the plate away from the edge of the table in case the dog was tempted to take one. With an explosion of crumbs, she tasted butter, fruit and cheese. It was, she had to admit, delicious. She took another and was contemplating a third when Suzie breezed in carrying a tray with three mugs of tea. Stella noticed how well her mother looked. Even without the expected suntan, Suzie glowed with health. She had put her hair up in a bun, which gave her an air of authority. Sydney – or maybe Dale – had transformed her.
‘Dale wants to open another restaurant. We’ve got a proposal.’ Suzie clapped her hands upwards as if releasing doves. Stella couldn’t help glancing at the ceiling.
‘No, he has not!’ Dale shook his head, a hand in front of his mouth to catch crumbs. ‘This is Mum’s idea. Sure, expansion is on the cards, but not until I’ve accumulated capital. I will not borrow.’
‘I’m not suggesting borrowing, or not like that,’ Suzie continued undaunted. ‘Not from a bank. Stell, if you sell Terry’s house, you could invest in Dale’s restaurant business.’ Her hand hovered over the plate, then quickly, as if stealing, she took a scone from the furthest side and appeared to swallow it without chewing.
‘What did I say this morning? Stella’s known me for five minutes. Days ago she didn’t know she had a brother. It’s “no go”, OK? I’m good as things are.’ Dale reached for another scone.
Stella felt the usual mix of annoyance and respect for Suzie. She never let the grass grow under her feet. Although once unwilling to venture further west than Richmond Park or, until relatively recently, from her armchair, her mum dreamt up expansion plans for Clean Slate and a job for herself and her dreams came true. Not this dream. Dale Heffernan was right, she hardly knew him. Besides, she rarely ate out, knew nothing about the catering industry or his cooking. A few scones wouldn’t have her putting the house on the market. Jack thought she was holding on to it for her dad, which was obviously nonsense since he was dead. She wasn’t ready to sell the house. It needed cleaning.
‘Show Stella your book.’ Suzie lit upon another scone and tossed it into her mouth like a seal receiving a fish. ‘You have a magic touch, Dale-kins,’ she mumbled into her hand, hunching her shoulders in delight. Stella had only ever seen Suzie like this with Jack.
Dale-kins.
‘What book?’ Stella managed to ask. Recipes, she supposed. Suzie must know she wouldn’t be interested. Stella didn’t cook, she microwaved a variety of ready meals, among which shepherd’s pies predominated. She took another scone. Stanley was dozing, his chin on her boot. She kept still so as not to disturb him.
‘Stella’s a busy woman.’ Dale flapped a hand and flashed Stella what she had come to think of as one of his smiles.
‘No, I’d like to see it.’ Stella inhaled a cloud of crumbs and coughed. She slurped some tea and washed them down. The tea was hot. She had expected it to be tepid. Few people made it as she liked it. One of these was Jack. Again she found herself musing on how odd this was when he only drank hot milk.
‘Consider it, Stella, it’s a sound investment,’ Suzie hissed in a stage whisper when Dale was out of the room. He was sleeping in Stella’s bedroom. She had peeped in on her way down the passage. Apart from a sleek black suitcase, tucked under the desk, it looked no different. ‘Keep it in the family!’
‘Enough.’ Dale was back, a fancy-looking photograph album under his arm. Patterned with silver and gold flowers, it put Stella in mind of a memorial book. A black ribbon tied in a bow reinforced this impression. ‘The restaurant business is volatile, customers are fickle, food prices erratic. Barry left last month to work for a vineyard out in W. A. I put my sous-chef out front and a customer complained he had the eyes of a serial killer! Lost a lot of covers! I took out a loan so I could come back with Mum. If you get a kick out of pumping ten-dollar bills down a plughole, I’m your man!’
Suzie pulled faces at Stanley, still dozing at Stella’s feet, implying this was nonsense. Stella steeled herself; her mother on a mission was unstoppable.
‘Hey, if Clean Slate was up the road, I’d hire you! We need excellent cleaners, and you treat hygiene as top priority. Now that is a sound investment!’ Dale pushed the empty scone plate aside and laid the album down. It took up most of the table. Stella’s mind raced with excuses to get out of ploughing through Dale Heffernan’s family snaps.
Stella stared at a logo on the inside cover. ‘That’s the same as—’
‘Isn’t it remarkable!’ Suzie clapped her hands again, sending a spray of crumbs over the carpet Jack had cleaned. Stanley pounced on them and moments later they were gone. One good thing about a dog, Stella had noticed.
‘Sixty-Four’ was the street number of Dale’s first restaurant in Sydney and was apparently the year he was born. Set within an oval, the logo was made up of a six and a four back to front – like on a police car, Stella thought vaguely. Stella wasn’t great on design, what had got her attention was the colours. The light blue six was Pantone 277 and the four was a vivid green – Jack used to hate it – Pantone 375. Dale’s logo exactly matched the colours of Clean Slate’s branding.
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Dale murmured.
For a fleeting moment Stella wondered if it wasn’t weird and he had deliberately chosen them. But then he said he had only just found out who his biological parents were. The logo was ove
r thirty years old.
She was relieved that Dale didn’t fawn over each picture. Not of his family – it was a compendium of reviews and photos of his cafés and restaurants, from the catering service he had operated out of a clapped-out combi in the 1980s to ‘64’, now a restaurant frequented by celebrities and the wealthy in Rose Bay. Ignoring Suzie’s cries to linger, Dale whizzed past five-star reviews, profiles cut from newspapers and glossy magazines, and the sumptuous illustrations of ‘sensational’ dishes. Stella found she was interested and wished he would slow down, but she was due at Lulu Carr’s in half an hour.
‘So, that’s my “brilliant career”!’ Dale shut the book and returned to his corner of the sofa. Suzie put out a fluttering hand and brushed his arm.
‘It’s great.’ Dale had kept a record of every year of his business. It hadn’t occurred to Stella to chart Clean Slate’s history. There had been reviews in trade magazines, a few awards along the way; she cleaned for celebrities, but wouldn’t dream of naming them. Stella hadn’t considered her working life as a career – brilliant or otherwise – it was just a job.
Dale and Suzie went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. Listening to her mum’s laughter, Stella was sure that Jack suspected that Dale had come to London with the intention of worming his way into Suzie’s affections and claiming his share of the inheritance. Jack would never have actually come out and said this, but it wasn’t like him to turn down tea with her mum in Richmond Park. If this was Dale’s plan, he was on the way: Suzie was hooked. Yet he had been quick to slough off Suzie’s idea. Jack must be wrong. The man had asked sensible questions about Clean Slate, he was a sharp businessman. He didn’t want shareholders; like Stella he kept control of the reins. But what if it was an act? More than once Stella had paid the price for being fooled. Perhaps the album had been cobbled together for Suzie’s benefit – a soft sell. If it was, she had bought it.
Stella glanced at the kitchen hatch. Unusually it was closed. Dale must have shut it – Suzie liked it open. She pulled the album towards her. On the first page was an article from a newspaper called the Sydney Morning Herald about Dale opening a café on 8 August 1988 in a suburb of Sydney called Redfern. He had chosen that day, he was quoted, ‘…because the date, 8888, is auspicious. I hope it will bring me good luck.’ Just like Jack.
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