by Clare Carson
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Nothing?’
She gulped the last of the wine. ‘No.’
He drained the last of his coffee. ‘Do you want me to walk you home?’
‘No.’ He had curtailed their meeting too quickly; he’d got what he wanted and now he was keen to scarper. ‘Thanks for offering, though.’
*
SHE AMBLED HOMEWARDS along the river. A jogger brushed past her, a woman in tight trackie bottoms that clung to her thighs, headphones clamped to ears, Walkman attached to her belt. What was with all the joggers around here? There weren’t any joggers in Vauxhall when she first lived here in 1985 and suddenly they were everywhere. Yuppies, that’s what they were. Up ahead, the moon hemmed the far corner of the Cold Store, the rotting warehouse by Vauxhall Bridge once used for storing meat and now frequented by gay men searching for late-night thrills. The darkened lift shaft was a regular death trap. Why were people so dumb? Was it because they enjoyed the danger, or because they didn’t see it until it was too late?
She strode under the railway bridge, reached the square, heard Becky replacing the phone receiver as she shouldered the front door.
‘You’ve just missed Tom.’
‘I’ve just left him.’
‘I know. He told me. He called from a phone box.’
Perhaps he’d called to see if she got home safely. ‘What did he want?’
‘He said he needed to check something; the only Castle Street he could find was in Catford, not Lewisham, and was it the right one?’
Typical. Tom the hard-nosed hack had gone straight to his A to Z and checked the address she’d given him. Well, he could work it out for himself. She called it Lewisham. Perhaps it was Catford. They merged into one another on the ground and in her memory, those grotty south London neighbourhoods. The moonlight spilled through the kitchen window, solidified on the hall floor, cast her shadow on to the front door. Funny how one piece of information – Pierce’s revelations about the Czech arms dealer – made other fragments of her past seem clearer. Anna had been convinced at the time that the woman they trailed across Lewisham had been one of her father’s contacts. She had doubted Anna at the time, but now it seemed quite likely she was right. What was it with these spies? Did they really think if they said nothing to their families, dumped them in the suburbs while they gallivanted around playing their games of subterfuge, their children wouldn’t be able to work out what they were doing?
CHAPTER 8
London, July 1976
HELEN AND JESS and their mates were under the apple tree, wasps buzzing, kneeling around a body, flat on the ground with a jumper over its upturned face. Helen had moved on from the tarot and was doing levitation. Chanting. Welcome to the House of Levitation. This girl looks ill. This girl is ill. This girl looks dead. This girl is dead. Liz had been indignant when the mother of one of Helen’s friends had complained that her daughter was having nightmares and suggested she should clamp down on Helen’s occult tendencies. Occult tendencies, Liz had repeated later. Hadn’t the woman read Macbeth? Marlowe’s Faustus? Didn’t she know that some of the finest plays in the English language were full of death and ghosts and witches? If Shakespeare had occult tendencies, she was fucked if she was going to stop her daughters having them too. Sam and Anna had been allowed to join in with the ritual, but after the third round Sam was getting bored.
She nudged Anna. ‘Let’s go for a bike ride.’
Anna said, ‘It’s too hot for cycling. Why don’t we do something else?’
‘OK. What?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sam had an idea. ‘My gran gave me a book token for my birthday. We could get the bus to Lewisham, there’s a bookshop near the shopping centre. You could buy a book too if you want, I’ve got enough.’
‘OK.’
Helen shouted after them as they tip-toed away. ‘Where are you two going?’
‘Lewisham.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Before tea.’
In the absence of a functioning adult, Helen generally took command. Jim had gone out, god only knew where. Liz was at some literary conference with Roger. Valerie wasn’t functioning. She was in her room. Anna went upstairs to say goodbye. She returned looking anxious and was quiet on the walk to the bus stop. Perhaps it was the heat; the dustiness of the streets made you want to keep your mouth shut.
They sat at the front of the top deck, Anna still subdued.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m worried about my mum.’
‘Is she sick?’
‘Maybe it’s because she’s pregnant. Women feel sick when they’re pregnant, don’t they?’
‘I think so, yes.’
The dead man’s fingers of the silver birches scratched the windows as they drove along the common. Anna glanced over her shoulder, Sam did too. There weren’t many people on the bus: four boys about their age giggling over some porn mag, a couple of suedeheads in Sta-Prest trousers sucking the straws of their McDonald’s thick shakes. A McDonald’s had just opened in Bromley. Sam had never been; Helen and Jess said the French fries were weird – not like proper chips. Anna pressed close to her.
‘I think I know where my dad is staying.’
‘Do you?’
‘I think he has another house. Just before we left our home, I spotted a gas bill on the table. There was a name on it I didn’t recognize.’
‘What name?’
‘Davenport.’
‘So?’
‘It might have been a false name my dad uses. Spies do that kind of thing.’
Anna seemed to know a lot about spies. More than she did.
‘The gas bill might have been for a house he uses when he is working – it’s called a safehouse, I think. He snatched the bill away when he saw me looking at it. I remembered the address, though. It’s in Lewisham. Do you want to see if we can find it?’
Sam fiddled with her lip.
‘I want to give him the tiles. I want him to have the magic protection of the Fisher King’s treasures.’ She glanced out the window. ‘I want to tell him Mum’s not well.’
Maybe it would cheer Anna up to have a look for the house, even if Pierce wasn’t there. ‘What is the address?’
‘Backhouse Road.’
‘Oh, I know that road. My friend Bridget lives there. She used to be in my class but they moved, and she had to change school. It’s not far from the bookshop. We could go and look if you want.’
Goose bumps prickled Sam’s arms; the excitement of being part of Anna’s plot. The danger of heading into forbidden territory.
*
THERE WAS A derelict break between two lines of terraces. Second World War bomb hole Sam reckoned, the gap filled with sun-burned lilac and the castoffs of the intervening years; rusty twin-tub washing machine, portable record player in a cracked mint-green case, deflated orange space hopper. Davenport’s house – Pierce’s safehouse if Anna was correct – was the first of the second stretch, joined on the far side to another house and on the nearside to an overgrown garden that would have looked as if it were part of the bomb hole if it wasn’t for the garden fence. The rambling garden was the only interesting thing about what would otherwise have been a regular suburban house; the long grass, already turning to straw, a great place for a den. They strolled past. Netted windows, grey door, a rubbish bin standing beside the bay window with its lid off, emptied by the binmen and not used since. She wondered whether the bin lid was a sign – spy code for nobody at home.
‘It looks deserted,’ Anna said.
Sam nodded, relieved that they had managed to do what Anna wanted without anything terrible happening.
‘That’s Bridget’s house.’ She pointed across the road, another row of identikit Victorian terraces, eager to distract Anna from the safehouse now.
‘I’m desperate for a toilet,’ Anna said. ‘Can we go and see her?’
They crossed the street, rang the bell. T
he door was answered by Bridget’s mum; she was small and bustling and Sam immediately regretted calling. Bridget had gone swimming with a mate, she would be back any minute, so why didn’t they come in and wait? Hard to say no without sounding rude. They ended up sitting in the front room, feeling awkward, with a glass of lemonade and some Custard Creams, while Bridget’s mum clanked pots in the kitchen. Sam was edging to get to the bookshop, but Anna seemed quite happy to perch on the uncomfortable sofa. Sam finished her lemonade. ‘Maybe we should go.’
Anna shook her head. ‘Let’s stay a little longer.’
‘Why?’
Anna nodded at the window. Sam clocked – Pierce’s safehouse was in full view. Anna had been watching it surreptitiously while she drank. Sam wiped the back of her neck, sweaty even out of the sun. Anna’s quiet intensity was unnerving. She had some concealed agenda, Sam was sure. She was out of her depth. She had thought she was moving of her own volition, but now she was aware that Anna had manoeuvred her here, nudged her in this direction. Sam squirmed on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position.
Bridget’s mum shouted through from the kitchen, ‘Anybody want another drink?’
Sam said no before Anna had time to say yes. Anna scowled. Bridget’s mum stuck her head around the door. ‘I don’t know where Bridget has got to, she should be home by now.’
‘We’d better go anyway,’ Sam said. ‘I want to get to the bookshop before it closes.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve waited for nothing.’
Anna said, ‘The lemonade and biscuits were very nice. Thank you.’ Bridget’s mum beamed. Anna always managed to say the right thing at the right moment. Sam couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she repeated Anna’s thank you and grinned inanely as they made their way along the hall.
Bridget’s mum opened the door. ‘I’ll tell Bridget you called.’
Sam felt Anna nudging her in the ribs, misunderstood the message.
‘OK. Thanks for having us.’
‘Any time.’ Bridget’s mum wasn’t looking at Sam. She wasn’t even looking at Anna. Her eyes were focused over Sam’s right shoulder. Sam glanced too, took in a woman with long peroxide hair strolling slowly past Pierce’s house across the road. She kept glancing around, conscious of their gaze perhaps. Bridget’s mum whispered, ‘That’s the third time I’ve seen her here today. I wonder what she’s doing.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘This street isn’t what it was. There are loads of funny people moving in. I’ve seen all sorts of men hanging around.’
Anna asked, ‘What sort of men?’
‘Swarthy.’ She peered down the road. ‘I hope Bridget’s back soon. You be careful now. Don’t go talking to any strangers.’
She retreated, closed the door firmly, left them standing. The blonde woman had passed the house and was heading to the far end of the road.
‘Let’s follow her,’ Anna said.
‘Why?’
Anna gave her a furious glare. ‘Because I want to. I’m sure she’s got something to do with my dad. She might know where he is staying.’ She jumped down the steps, through the front gate, along the pavement. Sam fumed. She didn’t want to be left standing on her own in the middle of Lewisham. She ran after Anna.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a spy,’ Anna said. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s fun. We can trail her.’
They crossed the road, kept their distance. Sam reckoned she was quite young. Or at least not as old as Jim or Pierce. She reminded Sam of a rich friend’s French au pair she had once met. Young, pretty, cool in her tight faded jeans and stripy tee shirt. The woman glanced around as she walked.
‘She thinks somebody is following her,’ Sam said.
She must have clocked them over her shoulder but their presence didn’t seem to bother her. Maybe she was worried about somebody else. She turned left at the main road. They turned too and saw her standing at a bus stop.
‘Let’s get on the same bus as her,’ Anna said.
‘Don’t you think that will make her suspicious?’
‘No. We’re just two schoolgirls.’
‘We could end up anywhere.’
‘We can always get off if we think we’re going too far.’
A double-decker trundled past them, destination Catford. The woman edged to the kerb. Anna started running.
‘What about my book token?’
The bus juddered into the stop ahead. The woman stepped up to the back platform. Anna shouted to the bus conductor. He folded his arms in mock impatience.
‘Hurry up. I haven’t got all day.’
The conductor pinged the bell as they jumped on board. The woman edged on to a seat downstairs near the back exit. They shuffled past her, squished on to the next bench along. Close enough to hear her asking for a ticket to Ladywell. Sam heaved a sigh of relief; she wasn’t going far at all – a couple of stops.
‘Any more fares?’ The conductor loomed. ‘Where to?’
‘Ladywell,’ Sam said.
She paid for both of them. He twiddled the dials on the ticket machine dangling around his neck, whirred the handle, handed the paper strip to Sam. Anna was staring out the window.
‘What’s wrong with your mate then? Got the hump, has she?’
Anna didn’t react. Sam shrugged.
‘School holidays. Too bloody long if you ask me. Any more fares please.’
The bus dawdled along the main road, chugged into a stop, dawdled away, lethargic in the heat. Another stop. Sam glanced behind; the blonde woman was edging down the aisle. She nudged Anna, but she was already standing. They made it to the back and jumped to the pavement as the bus pulled out. The woman turned. This close, Sam could see her scarlet lipstick and sad dark eyes. She looked away and carried on walking. They lingered by the stop, pretending to examine the timetable.
‘I think she’s Czech,’ Anna said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Her face. I was looking at her reflection in the bus window.’
Anna knew all the spies’ tricks.
‘She took a book out of her bag. I’m sure the writing on the cover was in Czech.’
‘Czech? How did you work that out?’
She doubted Anna could even see the writing on the woman’s book, let alone recognize that it was Czech.
‘It was the same alphabet as the wrappers on the chocolates my dad brought back from Prague.’ She said it huffily, irritated by Sam’s challenge to her authority. ‘I’m going to follow her. Are you coming with me or not?’
‘OK.’
Sam couldn’t resist the game. Anna had played along with the Iceni and the Fisher King’s treasures after all, so maybe it wasn’t fair to question Anna’s story. The blonde woman took a left and they scampered after her, found themselves in a treeless street of vast bedsit converted mansions; basements with barred windows, cars parked bumper to bumper, someone playing ‘Love Hangover’ at top whack. The woman opened a gate ten or so houses ahead of them, skipped up the steps, paused, looked around while searching for a key, didn’t seem to notice them, unlocked the door and disappeared. They followed, strolled past the house. Anna wanted to go and examine the name tags on the column of labelled bells by the door. Sam begged her to leave it, she’d had enough; the grimy heat was getting to her. Anna reluctantly agreed. They turned back the way they had come, the bonnets of the cars shimmering, ants swarming from the cracks in the paving stones. Anna elbowed her ribs.
‘Postman.’
He was advancing down the road, mail bag slung across his chest, pausing to check envelopes before pushing through front gates. Sam could almost hear Anna’s brain whirring as he passed. She was such a schemer.
‘Hang on. I’ve got to do something.’
She turned, sauntered after the postman. Sam opened her mouth, closed it, followed Anna. The postman had reached the steps of the house the woman had entered. He rummaged through his bag, pulled out a pile of mail, trudged up the front steps,
rang on a door bell, leaned back. A sash window opened on the first floor, a face topped with an Afro leaned out.
‘Parcel,’ the postie shouted. ‘I need a signature.’
‘I’m coming down.’
Anna had reached the house and was bounding up the steps, made the top as the door swung open. Sam stood at the bottom, bewildered. The postman was handing over the parcel. Sam could hear Anna breathlessly explaining that she had to run up to give something to her aunt. She slipped inside. Sam fidgeted. The door closed. The postman descended, gave her a half smile as he strode away. Sam couldn’t quite believe Anna’s audacity; she got away with everything. There was something about her appearance, her perfectly pitched confidence. Sam was worried, though; she had no idea what Anna was doing. The sash window scraped shut. The man collecting the parcel had returned to his flat. Where was Anna? Sam’s scalp was prickling. She was beginning to feel faint, standing on the baking street. She was considering the possibility of ringing on door bells when the front door sprung open and Anna bounded down the steps. She grabbed Sam’s arm, propelled her back to the main road with a triumphant gleam on her face.
‘What were you doing in there?’
‘Looking.’
‘For what?’
‘Anything.’
‘And did you find anything?’
Anna stuck her hand in the back pocket of her shorts, produced a white envelope, waved it in the air. ‘I went up the stairs to the second floor, waited until that man had gone back to his flat, then went back to the hall. There were loads of letters on the shelf above the radiator.’
‘You went through other people’s post?’
She nodded, still grinning, pleased with herself. ‘I found one with a Czech stamp on it. It’s addressed to somebody called Karina Hersche. She must be the woman we followed.’
‘You took the letter.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not addressed to you. You can’t do that.’
Sam wanted to cry. She didn’t know who or what was upsetting her – Anna, Pierce. Or maybe even Jim, for a reason she couldn’t put her finger on.
‘I wanted to see her name and address.’