by Adam Hamdy
‘So we’ll be making a briefing pack available on the project file server, and there will be a kick-off meeting next week,’ Bickmore concluded. ‘Exciting times, people.’
A couple of Climbers broke into seemingly spontaneous applause. The Climbers were a particular genus of Good Capitalist; people who were willing to kiss as much arse, stab as much back, and climb as much greasy pole as was needed to Succeed. Only, you never did Succeed, you were always shown another branch higher up the tree, and so the Climbers kept climbing, always reaching for something tantalisingly beyond their grasp. Bickmore ignored the embarrassing attempt to curry favour and made a swift exit. Connie didn’t hang around either; she slipped out of the twenty-fifth-floor conference room and made her way towards the elevators. She nodded at a couple of people she recognised and waited for one of the eight sets of doors to open. Even though she’d spent almost six years working at Suncert’s headquarters, she never ceased to be amazed by the splendour of the building. A curvaceous crescent of glass and metal that cut forty-five floors into the London sky, it was a towering monument to the ingenuity of mankind.
A set of doors pinged open to reveal a familiar face; Karen, her earnest young assistant.
‘Connie, I’m so glad you’re out,’ Karen said. ‘There’s a guy looking for you. He says it’s urgent.’
‘Who is it?’ Connie asked.
‘He wouldn’t give his name,’ Karen replied. ‘But he said you love Justin Timberlake.’
Connie felt a sudden pang of panicked realisation. The man was John Wallace. But why was he here? And why wasn’t he using his real name?
‘He’s with security,’ Karen advised. ‘They say he’s a mess.’
Butterflies started swirling around Connie’s stomach, as she went to find the man she once loved.
Wallace studied the security guard opposite him. They were seated across a table in a small basement meeting room that adjoined the building’s security centre. The guard’s colleagues had called him Dwayne, and, as the team junior, he’d been given the dull task of babysitting Wallace. The stark contrast between Dwayne’s sharply pressed uniform and Wallace’s filthy blue pyjamas reinforced the impression that they were from different worlds. Wallace was relieved that his wild dishevelment had led the guards to categorise him as ‘harmless crazy’ rather than ‘dangerous crazy’, which meant they would give him the opportunity to prove his story. He had already been warned that the police would be called if his claimed association with Constance Jones turned out to be a lie. As a ‘harmless crazy’ Wallace didn’t merit Dwayne’s full attention, and the young security guard’s head hung down over his mobile phone as his fingers danced furiously across the screen. He was lost in some sort of game. Wallace watched the fingers flicker, desperate for anything that would distract his mind from the gnawing pain.
After twenty minutes of sitting in silence, the door opened and Wallace saw the beautiful face that haunted his memories. Connie still looked great and was wearing a retro emerald-green lace dress. Her long, pale legs ended with a pair of green heels. Wallace was surprised by her hair. Instead of the cropped bob, Connie had let her deep red hair grow out, and it cascaded around her shoulders.
‘John?’ Connie’s tone betrayed her dismay. ‘What the . . .’
‘Do you know him?’ Dwayne asked as he swiftly pocketed his phone.
‘Yes,’ Connie replied. ‘Give us a minute, please.’
Wallace longed to embrace Connie, to fold his arms around her and feel her soft alabaster skin against his, but her expression broadcast her puzzled hostility, so he simply sat and watched her as the security guard left the room.
‘I haven’t confessed my Timberlake love to many people,’ she observed when they were alone.
‘I couldn’t risk using my name,’ he said with an edge of paranoia.
‘Why? What’s happened to you?’ Connie asked.
Wallace had already decided that simple honesty was the best policy. ‘Someone tried to kill me,’ he said.
Connie smiled. ‘What?’
‘I’m serious,’ Wallace declared. He noted Connie’s expression shift as she picked up on his sincerity.
‘A few weeks ago, someone broke into my flat and tried to hang me,’ he continued, his voice cracking slightly as he gave voice to the horror. ‘The beam – you know, the big one in the living room – it collapsed. I jumped out of the window.’
He was gratified to see Connie’s eyes widen. ‘You jumped out of the window?’
Wallace nodded. ‘The doctors thought I’d tried to kill myself.’
‘What about the police?’ Connie interrupted.
‘Same. They couldn’t find any evidence of an intruder. I was committed to the Maybury Hospital for psychiatric treatment, which is where I was until I escaped last night.’
‘Escaped?’
‘The officer leading the investigation told the hospital who I was. I don’t know how the killer found me, but he tried to finish the job. I fought him off and stole a car. Now I’m here.’
‘You escaped?’ she repeated.
Wallace nodded. ‘I need a place to stay. Somewhere safe,’ he said earnestly. ‘I need help.’
Conflicting emotions swept across Connie’s face. ‘John, I don’t know—’ she began.
‘I came here because I trust you,’ Wallace interrupted.
‘Don’t you have friends? Someone you work with?’ Connie asked.
‘I can’t trust anyone else.’
‘I’ve put the past behind me. I don’t know if I could handle going back,’ she told him.
‘It’s not going back,’ Wallace protested. ‘I just need somewhere to stay. For a few days.’
Connie wavered and Wallace could sense her inner turmoil as the latent feelings she had for him fought with the instinctive desire to protect herself.
‘I can’t trust anyone else,’ he repeated emphatically.
‘I’ll help you get on your feet,’ Connie said finally. ‘That’s it. I can’t go back, John. I can’t go there again.’
He nodded gratefully.
‘I’m still in the same place. My keys are upstairs. I’ll get them. And you’ll need money for a cab,’ she said.
Wallace nodded again, trying to stem the swell of relief that threatened to overwhelm him.
‘And clothes. I’ll grab some when I finish work. Get yourself cleaned up,’ Connie advised. ‘I’ll be home around seven.’ She opened the door and found Dwayne leaning against the opposite wall, phone in hand. ‘Could you escort this gentleman to the service entrance?’ Connie asked him. ‘I’ll meet you there in five minutes.’
‘Thank you, Connie,’ Wallace said quietly.
Connie gave her troubled, filthy, wounded ex-boyfriend an uncomfortable glance. ‘It’s nothing,’ she answered. ‘You’d do the same for me.’
And with that, she was gone, her heels tapping as they kissed the hard floor of the corridor beyond.
‘Come on, mate,’ Dwayne said in a vaguely patronising tone that he probably reserved for drunks.
Wallace hauled himself to his feet and slowly followed Dwayne out.
9
Dwayne led Wallace to the service entrance, which opened on to a narrow alleyway that ran between a cluster of high glass buildings. The alley was a popular route to and from Leadenhall Market, so if Connie had been hoping to spare Wallace embarrassment, she’d failed. Dwayne took the opportunity to snatch a crafty smoke and leaned against the looming Suncert Building while he dragged on his cigarette. Barefoot, bearded and bloody, Wallace was aware he cut a grim figure, but he was in too much pain to care about the bemused looks he was getting from passers-by.
‘D’you say something, mate?’ Dwayne asked, and Wallace suddenly became aware that he was groaning. The pain emanating from his collarbone was relentless.
‘Nothing,’ Wallace grimaced.
A couple of minutes later, Connie found them.
‘I’ll take it from here,’ she told Dwayne firmly.
He pressed the stubby remains of his cigarette against the ashtray and went inside.
Connie handed Wallace a set of keys and a thin sheaf of money.
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ she said as their hands touched.
‘It’s enough,’ he replied. ‘Thanks.’ He longed to pull Connie close to him, but she stepped away.
‘I have to get back,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the building.
‘I know,’ Wallace said. ‘Thanks.’
Connie smiled uncomfortably as she walked away and Wallace watched her pull the service door shut, before he started down the alley. Pain, he thought, got to do something about the pain.
Wallace hailed a black cab on Leadenhall Street and was surprised when it stopped. Uber must really be hitting their business, he thought as he climbed into the cabin.
‘What is it? Stag night?’ the driver asked jovially.
‘Something like that,’ Wallace replied. ‘Stoke Newington, please. And I need to make a stop on the way.’
‘No problem,’ the driver replied, as the taxi pulled into the steady stream of traffic.
Wallace had the man stop halfway up the Kingsland Road and offered him ten pounds to run into a small family pharmacy and pick up some strong painkillers. After a few minutes the driver returned with two boxes: Paramol and Co-codamol. As he handed over the boxes, he registered the full extent of Wallace’s dishevelment for the first time.
‘You’re not a fucking junkie, are you?’ he asked, as Wallace tore into the Paramol.
‘No,’ Wallace replied in strained tones. ‘Terrible hangover. Stag night, remember?’
The driver responded with a look of profound scepticism, but said nothing more as he hurried round the cab and planted himself in the front seat. Moments later they were on the move again, and, as they slowly drove north, Wallace surreptitiously necked two Co-codamol.
By the time they reached Stoke Newington, he could feel the deliciously pleasant haze of the drugs beginning to blunt the sharp pain. He asked the driver to stop at the western end of Cazenove Road. Paranoia trumped exhaustion and pain; he didn’t want the man knowing Connie’s address. The taxi pulled to a halt opposite the Turkish supermarket that stood near the intersection with Kingsland Road and Wallace climbed out and paid the driver his fare and a decent tip.
‘Thanks, mate,’ the driver said before swinging the cab round in a tight U-turn and heading back towards the City.
Wallace started walking east, his bare feet moving carefully to avoid treading on anything sharp. Nothing about Stoke Newington had changed in the two years since his last visit. The litter-strewn pavements, graffiti-scrawled walls, hustlers, loafers and crazies manning the streets were all still there. It was one of the few places in London where a bloodied, barefoot man in pyjamas could pass without comment. The painkillers were really kicking in, perhaps enhanced by a combination of fresh air, exertion and fatigue. Wallace felt immune to the cares of the world, as though he was cossetted by the purest warm happiness. The colours on a painted graffiti mural truly popped, the images so alive that they were almost shimmering. Patterned light danced, its motion dictated by the leaves on the high sycamore trees that loomed over him like giant puppet masters. The light took on a magical quality, almost sparkling as it cavorted through the trees. Wallace longed for his camera. Light like this was too beautiful to go unrecorded. He made his way along Cazenove Road, past the mosque and the synagogue, and finally reached number 91, a once-grand corner house that had been carved up and converted into half a dozen tiny flats. He walked up the cracked path through the overgrown garden, and used Connie’s keys to let himself in the front door. Past the hallway with its yellowing, woodchip wallpaper and stained, thin brown carpet, he hurried up two flights of stairs and opened the door to Connie’s top-floor flat.
The first thing he did was pour himself a large glass of orange juice, before following it with a glass of water in an effort to quench his thirst. Then he made use of the toilet in the tiny bathroom. As he washed his hands, reflected in the bathroom mirror, he finally saw the mess that had greeted Connie. His hair was terribly matted, his scraggly beard caked with blood. His eyes were so sunken that they looked like they had been ratcheted to the back of his skull. He had lost a lot of weight, and his cheekbones, which had once been strong and defined, now protruded painfully. He needed to clean himself up. He stripped off the filthy blue pyjamas and examined himself. His left collarbone was covered by a kaleidoscopic inkblot of green, blue and purple haemorrhaging flesh. Wallace harboured the vain hope that the garish intensity of the colours was a trippy side effect of the painkillers. The rainbow over his collar made the dull brown of his old bullet wound look positively monochrome. The rest of his body was marred by fresh bruises, cuts and grazes. Halfway up his pronounced ribcage was a tight, raw scar, which, to Wallace’s relief, had not reopened. Apart from his collarbone, all the other injuries sustained in his escape seemed superficial.
Wallace washed twice under the shower, shocked by the foul colour of the effluence the first time round. Then he stood there for ten minutes, enjoying the gentle patter of warm water against his skin. After his shower, he found a pair of scissors and trimmed his beard before using one of Connie’s razors to shave. Designed for delicate legs, the ladies’ razor struggled through rough stubble and scored a handful of nicks, which didn’t bother Wallace. He was simply pleased to see a far more familiar reflection looking back at him. He found his old, oversized bathrobe in the linen closet and put it on as he exited the bathroom.
He wandered into the living room and found that nothing much had changed. Everything in the apartment was pretty but well worn; Connie had a preference for vintage. Old things were properly made, Wallace remembered her saying, it added to their beauty. Her fondness for vintage was probably a consequence of her childhood. Wallace had only met her parents, Peter and Sandra, once, but that was enough to know that they were anachronisms. He paused by a photograph of them that stood halfway up a set of shelves. Now in their seventies, Peter and Sandra smiled up at the camera as they sat by their swimming pool in Perth. They’d had Connie in their early forties, when many other parents were on the verge of becoming grandparents, and, as a result, Connie had been brought up in an old-fashioned world of Agas, classical music and floral patterns.
On the next shelf, he found a photograph of himself and Connie. It had been taken the night they’d first met, three and a half years ago. Sue Furnival, a make-up artist he’d bumped into on set a few times, had cajoled him into coming to a barbecue. At first Wallace had thought Sue had romantic intentions of her own, but when she introduced him to her darling old school friend Connie, he realised that she wanted to play matchmaker. Now he studied Connie’s face in the photo and recalled the honest vulnerability that he found so attractive. As she smiled at the camera, her eyes made a poor attempt to conceal her genuine joy at having met someone so perfect for her. Wallace’s own expression was that of a man menaced by demons.
He wondered why Connie would choose to fill the room with memories and torment herself with the past. He knew better than most where such torment led. He walked over to the battered brown Chesterfield sofa and sat down. Everything was tatty, nothing matched, but somehow Connie made it all work and had turned her flat into a warm, inviting home. The living room had four large sash windows that overlooked Cazenove Road. The mature trees cut out the worst of the surroundings, and when Wallace lay down, resting his head on the cracked arm of the sofa, all he could see were the tops of the trees and the crisp blue autumn sky. He could have been anywhere in the world. Whatever came next, he was simply glad to be alive. He lay watching the tops of the trees brush the sky until warm waves of relaxation swept him off to sleep.
For the first time in weeks, Wallace slept without dreaming. He experienced a moment of panic when he felt someone shake him and sat up suddenly, adrenalin coursing through his veins.
‘Sorry,’ Connie said, looking down at him. ‘I didn’t m
ean to startle you.’
As he rubbed his eyes, Connie crossed the room, switched on a small china lamp and pulled the curtains to shut out the greying sky.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘OK,’ Wallace lied. His shoulder was screaming for more pills.
‘I got you some clothes.’ She gestured to a collection of branded bags on the other side of the room. ‘I bought your old sizes, but you look like you’ve lost weight.’
‘Thanks.’
The ensuing uncomfortable silence seemed endless, but Wallace was being assailed by an intense pain that crowded out rational thought, and didn’t want to open his mouth for fear he would cry out.
‘Listen, make yourself at home,’ Connie said at last. ‘I’m going to get changed.’
She turned and left the room, and Wallace waited a moment before following her out. He found the boxes of painkillers in the tiny galley kitchen and necked two Co-codamols and a Paramol. The stabbing pain screamed for more, but he knew it was dangerous enough to mix medication; he couldn’t risk an overdose. He replaced the boxes on the counter beside the fridge and returned to the living room. Desperate for something to take his mind off the pain until the pills kicked in, he rifled through the shopping bags. Three pairs of jeans, four T-shirts, a sweatshirt, two pullovers, a pair of Adidas, and a couple of packs of socks and underwear. Wallace grimaced as he got dressed; pants, jeans and a T-shirt – he could not face the pain involved in pulling on a pair of socks.