I eat on. Chewing on my toast. I don’t completely disagree. Because I don’t completely disagree. I would think the same if I were him.
‘But, Lily, I think there is one thing we could do, which might really help. Other people aren’t our enemies. Of course, you know this.’
‘Hmm. Yes, Dad. I do know that.’
‘They can help us get things clear. Cross-referencing. That sort of thing. You understand?’
‘Yes, Dad. I understand.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, and I really won’t push it, not if you’ll feel ashamed, but if you don’t mind, I think we should talk to a few of them. The people. From your story.’
He looks at me in the eye. Then continues: ‘The lady that thinks you’re a doctor. The boys with the contraption too.’
‘The “Hoverboard”. It’s an electronic gliding device.’
‘Yes, even them. Chris and Nathan. If we can find them. Your neighbour.’
‘Lowell.’
‘Yes, him. And I think that, after that, things should become just a bit clearer. One way or the other. We’ll see what they say. So. What do you think?’
I think I want to say no. I want to disobey my daddy. It could be mortifying. Poking around with that lot, Dad in tow. Them thinking I’m even more mental than before. Asking them if what I know happened with them actually happened. Getting it all down for third-party analysis. An independent adjudicator. My dad.
They’ll all just stare at me, with their prying eyes. It won’t make me feel any better. We won’t find out any more. About Jean. Or me. So I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to. I want to ask him not to make me. To beg on my knees. To plead with him not to make me do it. But I feel I have to do as he says. Because Dad’s come all the way from France. And I feel like owe it to him now.
Dad knows best. I’m going to have to get used to trusting other people, at least for a while. More than myself.
Part Nine:
The Tick Hunter
28 September. 12 p.m. The Bad Kids.
A dreadlocked older man plays an acoustic guitar at the local fair. A pretty, brown-skinned girl sings, her voice so clear and smooth. There is the smell of barbecue in the air. A modern dance group are scheduled to do a performance later. This is how Hackney borders has a good time. We are searching for familiar faces.
I’ve left Terrence at home. I feel bad keeping him inside so much recently but it’ll be fine once it all blows over. I’ll be a proper good mummy. But I don’t want people to notice he’s Jean’s dog. People might get funny. I don’t know.
At least you know Terrence is real. You have the ocular proof.
You know that Jean died, was probably killed. You believe that, I think.
You don’t know that I’m a suspect. I couldn’t quite tell you that.
But you would know I didn’t do it. At least, I think you would know that. I think that’s what you’d assume.
It’s strange out here. Everyone looks so happy. Wired. I’m not sure what they’re so happy about. I guess everyone loves a get-together. I didn’t think we had this much community spirit around here.
Don’t read into this that I’m being snide. I’m not being snide, it’s just that everything seems alien at the moment. I haven’t been outside for a while. There’s a dizzying amount of people. Children run around on reins near my feet, their parents follow not long after. Others drink cans of cider on the margins, near the water.
But it’s safe and sweet. It feels like a community. I think about the family Aiden and I planned to have. I get lost in that thought for a while. I look at children in pink sunglasses and maritime T-Shirts as they pass by.
I see the ‘Hoverboard’ from a mile off. The bad boys, in the distance. I don’t want to tell you this is where we should start. Because it might not be the friendliest place to begin. But I want to get them over with.
I tug on your arm and point. We amble over through the crowds. Past kids with faces painted like tigers. Past tofu stands and book clubs looking for new members.
They’re kicking a log. Far too old to still be amused by causing minor mischief to nature. Burning ants with magnifying glasses. Stamping on rats, killing pigeons.
But then, they’re probably into harder stuff than that too. Stuff I haven’t seen yet. I tread carefully with them. They aren’t the sort of kids to be messed with. Last time they saw me it didn’t end so well.
‘Hey. Hello? Excuse me?’ I say, to the gang of them. I try to seem small, insignificant, to cut a different figure than I did at the café. They probably wouldn’t get nasty here. But who knows?
‘Hey. Look, I wanted to say sorry.’
I don’t want to say that actually. But it’ll break the ice.
‘Sorry, what, love?’ one says. Head freshly shaved into an undercut.
‘I saw you in the café. I wanted to apologise for my outburst. That’s all.’
‘Sorry. Don’t know what you’re talking about. But whatevers.’
They’re on their best behaviour. I could push them a bit. Get a rise out of them. Get a bit of the old them back. But I don’t. I play nice.
‘It’s all right. Come on. I just wanted to say, whatever you lot threw at my window, I’ve disposed of it. Of them. Let’s leave it now. I’m sorry. Have a good day.’
One of them laughs. It’s not rude though. They seem changed. They smile at each other. Playing innocent. This must be how they stay out of trouble. Out of prison or worse. They play it as sweet as punch. I could take a few lessons from them in my attitude to authority figures.
‘Sorry, love. You’re thinking of someone else, I reckon. But have a nice day. You enjoy yourself. All the best.’
I turn to Dad. He knows I can’t have imagined that. Surely. The birds against the window might seem a push. But I remember cleaning them off my windows. I did all that. I remember that now. I can almost taste the blood in my mouth from the smell of them.
I turn back to them. I don’t want any trouble.
I probably shouldn’t even be out here. But then I’m not sure how to behave these days. I’ve never been the suspect in a murder trial before.
I stare at them. They smile back. One of them goes to light a cigarette. The other gestures that there are kids around so it’s best not to. Tells him to put his fag back in his packet. The other agrees, affably. They turn and smile at me again.
‘See you about, love. All the best.’
There’s not the faintest touch of malice about them. I hear their words and could read passive aggression into them in another mouth, but he isn’t offering that. He’s playing it straight down the line.
I smile back. They win. ‘Yep. Sorry. Must be someone else. Have a nice day,’ I say.
I get a look from you. Don’t say it.
‘They seem like nice boys.’ You say it.
‘Don’t start.’
‘What?’
We wander towards the estate. I’ve got some more people to see.
‘Of course, they didn’t want to let on, did they? Dad? They’re criminals. They attacked me. They don’t want anyone to know the sort of things that they get up. Do they? Dad?’
‘Of course, love. I understand. Just keep calm. We’ll talk about it after.’
I’m losing your faith already. But I want to see Chris. He trusts me. He knows I’m not imagining it.
28 September. 12.45 p.m. Nathan.
We’re standing outside. The place is grubby but doesn’t seem as scary as it once was. You grew up on an estate and have seen far worse than this before. In the fifties. You wait, patiently, like dads do.
Dads are used to waiting. In cars to pick up their children. For their bosses to get back to them about reports they’ve written. By the phone for telephone calls in the olden days. They’re professional waiters, they’re used to it. Waiting gets easier as you get older. The theory of relativity in a nutshell.
I’m calling Chris on the mobile. But it’s ringing out.
You sur
vey it all. It doesn’t look so scary to you. Not anything like I described. But then it’s daylight. It looks deserted and harmless. No mysteries here. But then you haven’t seen inside. I’d invite you in myself but I don’t think it’s a trip you’d appreciate. It wasn’t the smoothest of rides the first time. Plus, the grate I pulled off its hinges isn’t loose any more. It’s been put firmly back on. Just as it was before. By who I don’t know.
It rings out. The answerphone picks up but it’s not Jean’s voice any more. They’ve changed it to that generic recorded voice that blithely reads the phone number out. Things are being placed back to how they were. Stones turned over are being kicked back to where they were before I found them. Things are conspiring to make me look unreliable. But it’s not me that’s being unreliable. It’s them.
No answer again. I call again.
‘Come on, Lil, doesn’t look like there’s anyone in there.’
‘There is. I promise you. Some of the kids have broken back in there. They’re leaving it right up to the wire. Staying till the bulldozers come. There’s signs up about when it’s going to be knocked down. So they know exactly how long they’ve got. They’ve got their own little community in there.’
‘I read that part, Lil. I know what you said. Let’s just leave it for a while and come back later, shall we? They could be out.’
‘No, they’re in there.’
I stand back and look up at their windows. I put my hands either side of my mouth. I use my makeshift megaphone.
‘Oi! Come out. Chris! Boys! It’s me. Come on!’
‘Lil. Let’s try later, shall we? I’m not saying they’re not there.’
You put your hand on my shoulder securely and try to lead me off. I break free.
‘Boys! It’s me. Caroo! Caroo!’ I shout. Pishing.
‘Come on, Lil,’ you say, chasing me around a bit.
For a moment it’s like when I was six and you were in your forties. Chasing me around the garden. Playing funny games. The two of us.
I shout again. ‘Caroo! Caroo!’ I shout.
Then I see something. In the window, one of the metal grates opens on a hinge and closes again in a second. It glints in the light. Its rusty green momentarily sparkles against the sun’s rays.
‘Dad! Did you see it. Something’s up there. Did you see?’
‘No, I didn’t see anything. Come on you.’
‘No, I saw it. I saw it move. They’re up there. I saw them.’
But you don’t believe me. It’s so frustrating. I can’t talk you round. If you were here the first time you would have seen everything, but you weren’t. If you were just looking up at the right time then you would’ve seen that, just then, but you weren’t. But I did. I saw it.
‘Oh, come on!’ I shout again. But there’s nothing doing.
Chris isn’t showing his face but I know he’s up there. He’s gone quiet on me too. Making me look bad. Showing me up in front of my dad. I hear the noise of a football being bounced behind me. It’s Nathan, the baby. The ball is almost as big as him. I suppose he’s just about old enough to go out and play on his own. Here he is, I’ve got him.
‘Nathan.’ He doesn’t turn. I thought he’d turn. Instinctively if nothing else. Even if he was trying to keep his head down. These kids learn early to play it cool, it seems. These kids are natural actors.
He bounces his ball and walks on. Away from the building. The place where I know he lives. He’s a savvy, clever thing. But he’s not going to outsmart me that easily. His little arms pumping away, as he throws the orange football down and kicks it along.
‘Come on, Nathan, it’s me, remember,’ I say, running up to him.
He stares at me. No recognition flickering across his face. He rubs his head. Not scared. Confused by the strange lady.
‘What? Nah. I don’t know you,’ he says.
Then he’s off, away from the building, he’ll loop round and stay away long enough. Until we’re gone and he can make sure you aren’t from the council.
He needs to make sure he doesn’t give it away. For his brother. And the rest of them in there. Or they’ll be out on their arse or moved on to who knows where. He’s been taught well. I try to follow, but he runs off, kicking the ball. Me, a crazy lady, again.
‘Nathan. Oh. Oh, come on!’ I say. My fingers lace around the top of my head, pulling gently at my hair in frustration.
I give up. I turn and smile ruefully to you. ‘Dad. I promise. I’m not mad. I promise you.’
‘Come on. Let’s go back home for a while.’
I turn back to the building.
Quiet, undisturbed.
As if there’s nothing to see inside but old bricks ready to be knocked down.
28 September. 1.10 p.m. Sandra.
We pass the Z Café, then the shop, in silence.
I’m in partial shock. I can’t believe what’s happening. Then a face I don’t want to see. It’s like she waits for me around here. She can’t help my cause, surely.
‘Hello, Doctor. Is this your boyfriend?’ she says.
‘Ha, no. This is… a colleague,’ I say.
I don’t feel like telling her you’re my dad. I don’t know why. I don’t want her knowing anything personal about me.
I wish she wasn’t my only friend. This isn’t the kind of company I need. She’ll only make me look bad. You are silent. You know all about the doctor thing, but you were never good at make-believe. You pretend to be interested in something on your shoe and then stare over at the fair on the other side of the lake until this goes away. I hope it goes away soon too.
‘Ah, anyway, Doctor, lovely day. See you soon,’ she says, brightly.
I stop her. Maybe she’s not so bad. Maybe she can give me something. The smallest glimmer of credibility.
‘Hang on just a moment. Do you remember that night I gave you something for your rash? Do you remember that night?’
‘I think you took a look at me. Yes. You did. But you didn’t give me anything, Doctor,’ she says, falteringly.
‘No, I did, Sandra, didn’t I? I couldn’t give you any pills. But I did give you a cream.’
She stares at you. I just want one thing to go right. One thing to be exactly as I said it. She smiles at you. Swallows. Then at me.
‘No, that would be malpractice, Doctor, I’d think. Giving me medicine without a prescription. Out of hours. And you wouldn’t do anything like that. You told me to go back to bed and it’d be better in the morning.’
‘I came to your flat. I spoke to you in there.’
‘No, no. You didn’t. That wouldn’t be proper. And you are always such a good doctor, Doctor.’
She smiles at you. As if she’s giving me the perfect recommendation. She must think you’re my superior or something. I close my eyes. You place your hand flat between my shoulder blades. A gentle ‘calm down’.
I want to grab her and shout. I want to lift her up by the lapels and say, ‘Come on, woman! Just be normal for a second! Tell it like it was. Exactly like it was, with nothing added or taken away.’ But I doubt that’d make things any better.
Dad, you were proving a real turn-off when it came to calling a spade a spade. People mistrusted you. Then mistrusted me. I’m not blaming you. But this was all built on words from behind doors. Secrets in hallways and nods in the street.
What did you expect? That it would all be easy? That they’d all just come out in overwhelming support of me? No. It was never going to work like that.
‘Look, Sandra. I don’t want to put you on the spot. But I was just telling my dad about the student’s boyfriend.’
More silence. She shuffles from side to side.
‘You remember. You’d seen the missing girl going out with a man from the apartments from time to time. Isn’t that right?’
She looks at me, wide-eyed and desperate. At you, then at me, pleadingly. Not sure what the right answer is.
‘Did I say that?’ she says.
‘Yes, you did.’<
br />
I’m showing the strain now. Flushed. I’m trying not to lose control. But it’s hard. So hard when everyone around you is making you look bad and not playing fair.
‘Oh, well, I say a lot of things, Doctor. You don’t want to pay any attention to me. I really should be seeing a doctor regularly. You understand? On account of my funny ideas. Don’t listen to me. No. Don’t listen to me.’
She disappears around a corner. I am usurped as the strangest person in our latest encounter. Sandra walks along, talking to herself, looking like one of those people. I hope that’s not what I look like to anyone, I think, despite myself. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. You squeeze my hand. There’s a man waving at me. Coming from the other side of the lake. A tall thin man. Older. I’m fearful now. Afraid of what might happen next.
28 September. 1.40 p.m. Thompson.
‘There she is! The love of my life,’ he shouts.
I wonder if he’s on something. Jesus Christ, I’ve been hanging with a motley crew. He’s as long and frayed as a piece of string. A can of Strongbow in his hand. He’s the life of the party. He’s coming towards me. Like an old friend, apparently.
I wonder what you thought at that moment, Dad. This was not my rebound. No matter how far things go. No matter how low I stoop. It’d never get that bad.
‘Lucy, innit?’ he says, standing far too close to me.
‘Lily.’
‘Lucy, that’s right. Is this your old dad?’
You smile. So do I, at least he acknowledges me. At least he knows who I am. And doesn’t think you’re my fancy man. He slaps you on the back a bit too hard.
‘Coming over? Want a whizz on the bouncy castle? A go on it, I mean, not an actual widdle,’ he garbles.
It’s a flurry of consonants; I’m not absolutely sure what he’s on about. He sways a touch like a sail in the wind.
‘No, we had a good look. Very nice. Everyone’s over there.’
‘Yep. Everyone’s there. I usually keep myself to myself as you know, Becky, but I’m over there. Havin’ a laugh. Get some courage down me and I’m anybody’s.’
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