Lasting Damage

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘It’s not even ten o’clock,’ said the old man, making Simon feel like a fussy over-protective parent. ‘I sleep between four and nine. And I write between eleven and a quarter to four, so as long as we’ll be finished by eleven . . . ?’ He glanced towards the digital clock on the windowsill, then raised his eyebrows at Simon, who nodded. ‘Good. So – a number?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  The professor laughed. ‘Page eleven it is. And now . . . a number between one and thirty-four, please.’

  ‘Twenty-two.’ Charlie’s birthday.

  ‘Excellent. And finally, a number between one and . . . thirty-four.’

  ‘Twelve.’ Simon’s birthday. He didn’t see how his choices could reveal anything about him that he wouldn’t want a stranger to know.

  ‘Ah. Sorry.’ The professor frowned. ‘You can’t have the twelfth word on the twenty-second line, I’m afraid. It’s “Trotsky”. Proper nouns are not eligible.’

  ‘I’ll go for eleven again,’ said Simon, too curious to be impatient. What was the point of this game?

  ‘You’ve chosen the word “life”.’ Lambert-Wall smiled. ‘A very impressive result – the best in a long while.’ He slapped the book shut, placed it on the beige carpet by his feet. Simon thought about Selina Gane’s beige carpet next door, with the Christmas tree stain in one corner. Had the developers fitted all the houses with the same carpet when they’d built them? From the outside, they had a generic look: one design, multiplied by thirty-odd. Simon found himself staring at the three magazine towers in front of him. Imagined moving them to reveal three round scarlet stains, each the shape of a human head. He told himself to get a grip.

  Basil Lambert-Wall had hauled himself out of his chair and was hobbling, without the help of his stick, towards a free-standing desk in front of the window that had many paperweights on it but no loose paper. When he arrived at his destination, he picked up a lidless pen and wrote something in a notebook that lay open. His back to Simon, he said, ‘You’re a man of discernment and a force for good in the world. And you had a question you wanted to ask me. Please go ahead.’

  Simon was confused. Had the professor struggled over to his desk in order to record the outcome of his peculiar test? Simon would have liked to study the contents of the notebook in detail. As always when someone paid him a compliment, he was tempted to argue. ‘Life’ had been his second choice. He’d picked ‘Trotsky’ first time round – an enthusiastic mass murderer. What did that say about him? On what grounds were proper nouns disqualified?

  ‘The day you had your new burglar alarm fitted – Tuesday 29 June.’

  ‘How do you know that was the date?’ the professor asked.

  ‘You told me, last time we spoke. Safesound Alarms confirmed it.’

  ‘You checked up on me?’

  ‘I check everything,’ Simon told him. ‘Always.’

  ‘If I told you a precise date, that means I must have looked it up in my diary.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Then there was no need to check.’ Lambert-Wall lowered himself into his chair, then rose again to adjust his dressing gown.

  Simon waited until he was settled. ‘Never mind the date. I want you to think back to that day. You had your new alarm fitted. Was there anything else going on that you remember, anything that happened at roughly the same time?’

  ‘Yes.’ The old man blinked several times in quick succession. It was disconcerting to watch – as if someone was messing around with his eyelid controls. ‘I read an exceptional book – People of the Lie by M Scott Peck. It offers the best definition of human evil that I’ve ever come across.’

  Simon pictured a two-word text, the two words being ‘Giles’ and ‘Proust’. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I ate something called a “tian” for my lunch. I had and still have no idea what a tian is, but it tasted delicious. It was cylindrical. I liked the look of it in the shop, so I thought I’d give it a try. Oh, I went to the shop, of course – the supermarket.’

  ‘On the day your burglar alarm was fitted?’

  Lambert-Wall nodded. ‘My daughter took me, in the morning, to Waitrose. She takes me every Tuesday morning. She’d like me to shop online, but I resist.’

  Simon nodded. This was getting him nowhere. ‘So you read People of the Lie, had lunch, went shopping . . .’

  ‘Yes, though not in that order. I napped in the afternoon, as I always do – one o’clock to four o’clock. Oh, and one of my neighbours was rude to me, which spoilt what would otherwise have been a rather pleasant day.’

  ‘Which neighbour?’

  The professor pointed towards the window. ‘One of the men who lives in the house opposite,’ he said. ‘He’s usually the soul of politeness, which was why I was surprised. He and his wife had bought new curtains, and they were carrying them into the house. She’d had to lower the back seats of her car to fit them all in. I wandered over to have a chat, intending to make a remark on the subject of the coincidence – new curtains, new burglar alarm. Not terribly compelling, I grant you, but no doubt it would have led on to matters of greater interest. His reaction was entirely uncalled for.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He shouted at me. “Not now! Can’t you see we’re busy?” Then he said to his wife, “Get rid of him, will you?” and went into the house carrying an armful of curtains. Most unattractive they were too, from what I could see through the plastic wrapping.’

  Simon’s skin had started to prickle. This had to be it: a normally polite man, suddenly rude and offensive. Kit Bowskill? Except that it didn’t make sense. Assuming it existed, Bowskill’s illicit connection was with 11 Bentley Grove. That was the address his wife had found in his SatNav, the house she’d been looking at on Roundthehouses when she’d seen the dead body. Number 11 Bentley Grove was next door to Basil Lambert-Wall’s house, not opposite.

  ‘His wife was terribly apologetic,’ the old man went on. ‘She must have said sorry twenty times. “Ignore him,” she said. “It’s not you, it’s the two hours we’ve just spent at the curtain warehouse. Never again!” You’d think after spending all that time that they’d put the new curtains up, but they still haven’t.’

  Simon produced a photograph from his pocket, the same one he’d shown Lambert-Wall last time, of Kit Bowskill. ‘Is this face familiar?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said the professor.

  ‘The neighbour who was rude to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the house directly opposite?’ Simon walked over to the window and pointed, to avoid ambiguity.

  ‘That’s right. You seem surprised.’

  Kit Bowskill lived in Little Holling, Silsford. Kit Bowskill was Professor Sir Basil Lambert-Wall’s neighbour, in Cambridge. How could both those statements be true?

  ‘So . . . the man in the picture, he isn’t the one from Safesound, who fitted your alarm?’

  Lambert-Wall did his multiple blinking trick again. ‘Why would the chap from across the road install my burglar alarm?’

  Simon didn’t have the heart to remind him of what he’d said last time they spoke. ‘You described him as “one of the men who lives in the house opposite”. Is there another?’

  ‘Yes. Night Man.’

  Simon tried not to show his surprise. Evidently he failed, because the professor laughed. ‘I should explain: the man who was rude to me is Day Man. Those aren’t their real names – I forgot those long ago, I’m afraid, if I ever knew them.’

  ‘Tell me about Day Man and Night Man,’ said Simon as neutrally as possible.

  ‘Night Man is married to Night Woman and they have two children – a boy and a girl – but I never see any of them during the day, only in the evening. And Day Man is married to Day Woman. Well, I say “married to” – who knows what that means in this day and age? Perhaps they aren’t married, but they’re certainly a couple.’

  ‘So all six of them live in the house – Night Man, Night Wo
man and their two children, and Day Man and Day Woman?’

  ‘I don’t know how they manage it,’ said the professor. ‘These houses aren’t as big as they look from the outside – there’s barely enough room in this one for me and my extended family.’

  Another surprise. ‘You have family living here with you?’

  Lambert-Wall smiled, gestured around the room. ‘I was referring to my books,’ he said.

  Simon asked his next question without knowing what he meant by it. ‘Have you ever seen Mr and Mrs Night and Mr and Mrs Day together?’ He couldn’t think at the same time as talking to the old man, not properly. He had to hope his instincts were pushing him in the right direction.

  ‘Now that you come to mention it, no, I haven’t. Night Man and Night Woman are there in the evenings, as I said . . .’

  ‘What about weekends?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Weekends I spend at my daughter’s house in Horseheath. She returns me at ten o’clock on Sunday evening, which allows enough time for me to unpack and be at my writing desk by eleven.’

  They were back to the number eleven.

  ‘Anything else spring to mind?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes. All homes with a population of more than one have their hierarchies, and the house opposite is no exception. I’d hazard a guess that it belongs to Night Man and Night Woman. They and their children take precedence.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Simon didn’t know anyone who bought curtains for a house owned by someone else.

  ‘Their parking arrangements.’ The professor smiled. ‘Night Man and Night Woman park their cars in their garage. Day Man and Day Woman park on the street. They can’t park on the drive – that would block the entrance to the garage. If Night Man and Night Woman came back during the day, they wouldn’t be able to get their cars in. At all times, day or night, their parking rights are protected. Doesn’t that suggest to you that they’re the residents who take priority, and therefore probably the owners?’

  ‘Either that, or . . .’ Simon stopped. Would it be unprofessional to say more? He could see no reason why, tonight, he shouldn’t do exactly as he pleased. This wasn’t work; officially he was still on his honeymoon. ‘Or Day Man and Day Woman aren’t supposed to be there,’ he said.

  ‘What are you implying?’ The professor leaned forward. For a second, Simon feared he’d leaned too far and was about to topple out of his chair.

  ‘What if the Night family have no idea they’re sharing their house with Mr and Mrs Day?’ Mr and Mrs Day. Kit Bowskill and . . . who?

  ‘Imposters, you mean? Intruders?’ Lambert-Wall considered this in silence for a few seconds. ‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Day Man has a key to the house. Day Woman too. I’ve seen them letting themselves in, together and separately.’

  Simon nodded. He thought about the sort of person who might have a key to a house, and about Lorraine Turner, an estate agent he’d never met. Sam hadn’t met her either, though he’d spoken to her on the phone.

  ‘Ah.’ The professor held aloft the index finger of his right hand. ‘I’ve remembered a name. Isn’t it peculiar that one minute you’re completely unaware of something, and the next it’s as if a screen has been drawn back and there it is: information that must have been there all along?’

  ‘A name?’ Simon prompted.

  ‘Yes. Day Woman is called Catriona. Though she told me nobody calls her that, which is rather a shame. The abbreviation of Christian names is a form of vandalism, don’t you think?’

  Simon knew, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, what was coming. He also knew someone whose name was Catriona.

  ‘Everyone she knows calls her Connie,’ said the old man.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday 24 July 2010

  Selina Gane is standing outside her front door when I pull up in my car. A set of keys dangles from her right hand. In her black trousers and blue linen shirt, she could be an estate agent, ready for her meeting with a prospective buyer.

  Isn’t that what I am?

  Her blonde hair is tied back from her face, which is serious. I wonder if she wears the same expression when she has to give bad news to patients. Or maybe she’s not that sort of doctor; maybe she spends her days in a lab examining tissue samples, never coming into contact with their owners.

  From her posture, I can see that she’s tense. She’s not looking forward to this.

  Of course she isn’t looking forward to it. Why would she be?

  I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and get out of the car, remind myself that there’s no reason to be nervous. I’ve already told her everything, in my letter. Today it’s her turn to tell me what she knows. I can’t believe she knows nothing at all. 11 Bentley Grove is her home.

  Except that’s not how it feels, as I walk up the lavender-bordered path towards her. Her isolated body language suggests she’s found herself standing here, outside a house that has nothing to do with her, and she’s not sure why. ‘I didn’t want to go inside alone,’ she says, and I hear how much she wishes 11 Bentley Grove didn’t belong to her.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ I say.

  She unlocks the front door. Eyes down, she indicates that I should go first. She would rather stay outside in the sun and fresh air, delay the moment of entry for as long as she can. That’s when I know for sure: she’s going to accept my offer.

  She wants nothing to do with 11 Bentley Grove, and it’s a violent want, not a mild preference. As we walk in together, she must feel as if she’s breaking into a cordoned-off part of her past.

  I’m stepping into my future, with no idea what it might contain.

  I expected a bad atmosphere, but there’s nothing. The inside of 11 Bentley Grove is light and airy. Harmless. But then it isn’t houses that do harm, it’s the people who live in them. I look around, aware of Selina Gane’s presence behind me. I smell lavender. She hasn’t closed the front door. I expect she will leave it open for as long as we’re inside, not wanting to be shut in here.

  Without waiting to be asked, I move in the direction of the lounge. I can’t remember ever looking at the floorplan on Roundthehouses, but I must have, because I can see it in my mind, and I know where everything is. I know that the room where the dead woman lay is through this door to my right.

  I don’t need to go in. One glance tells me there’s no blood, no body.

  Were you really expecting it to be there? Waiting for you?

  I see an expanse of unspoilt beige carpet, the edge of the coffee table, the one with the flowers trapped under its glass. The fireplace, the map above it . . . I knew all these things were real, but it’s still strange to see them in front of me: like falling into a dream.

  ‘I don’t know your husband,’ Selina Gane says. ‘I’ve never known him, and I’m not having an affair with him.’

  My letter can’t have made much sense to her, then.

  The stairs. I should have looked at the stairs first, and it worries me that I didn’t. My mind is not working as it should; I’m too overwhelmed by being here. For six months I have thought about this house almost constantly. I have spent whole days standing outside it. Now that both its owner and the police have abandoned it, I’ve set myself the task of unearthing its hidden story.

  No one cares about 11 Bentley Grove as much as I do. Is that why I feel as if it’s already mine?

  Selina Gane fills the silence by saying, ‘I’m a doctor. I spend most of my waking hours trying to save lives. I’ve never killed anyone, and if I was going to, I wouldn’t do it in my living room.’

  I nod.

  ‘Did your husband really have this address programmed into his SatNav as his home address?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I run my hand along the banister. The top of the newel post is dark wood – a curved-edged cube of varnished brown.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ I say. I need to ask you about the death button. ‘
In the picture of . . .’

  Start again.

  ‘Something about this staircase is different.’ That’s better – keep it vague. Don’t tell her; let her tell you. ‘It hasn’t always looked like this, has it?’ I pat the flat top of the wooden cube.

  She looks confused. ‘Yes. It’s always looked exactly like that. What do you mean?’

  ‘At one time it had a decorative bit on top that was white. Sort of round, like . . . like a thick disc. Attached to the top here, but not as wide.’ I pat the flat surface again.

  ‘No.’ She’s shaking her head.

  Yes. I saw it.

  I try again. ‘Like a big button. In the middle, here. White, or cream, maybe.’

  ‘A button?’ I watch as she makes a connection. She knows what I’m talking about. For a fraction of a second, when she opens her mouth, I imagine she will smile and say, ‘Welcome to the Death Button Centre’. My heart stumbles, its rhythm changing with every beat – drawing out, then slamming in. I might run, if I knew who or what I was running from. What I told Alice once to make her feel sorry for me is true now, even if it wasn’t then: I envy all those who know what threatens them, and can name it even if they can’t escape it. Fear with nothing concrete to attach itself to is a hundred times worse than fear with a solid cause.

  ‘Why are you asking about my staircase?’ The flare of hostility in Selina Gane’s voice is unmistakeable. It reminds me that she isn’t obliged to tell me anything, and has every reason not to trust me.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained,’ I say. ‘The last thing either of us needs is more unanswered questions.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that,’ she says.

  ‘I saw it in the photograph, the same one that had the dead woman in it. On the virtual tour, when the lounge started to rotate . . .’

  ‘Rotate?’

  ‘The pictures on the virtual tour aren’t stills,’ I tell her. ‘For each room, someone must have done a 360-degree turn with a camera in their hand, filming.’

  Whoever filmed the lounge must have stood on the edge of the blood, just past where it stopped. He or she must have walked around it, holding the camera, careful not to tread in the wet redness . . .