by A J Waines
‘Don’t laugh, but I’ve discovered a penchant for extreme sports,’ he said, ‘despite the gammy leg.’ He shifted his left knee a couple of inches with his hands as if it wasn’t part of him. ‘I did a tandem skydive last month and have started kayaking. I’ve completed the flat river courses so I’m moving up to white water runs.’ He piled slices of ginger onto his raw salmon roll and smothered it with wasabi sauce. ‘Then there’s scuba diving. Always wanted to try that.’
I glanced down at my two fully-functioning legs and felt a pang of guilt for not making the most of them.
‘You’re braver than me,’ I said. ‘I’ve done some extreme ironing and vacuuming in the past week – that’s about it.’
He wiped his hands on his napkin inhaling deeply. ‘I fancied you way back when, you know?’ he said, not looking at me. ‘From the first time I saw you peering at a noticeboard outside the lecture theatre. You looked so earnest and forthright.’ The alcohol had made him brave. He looked up briefly. ‘And too good for me.’
I swallowed hard. ‘You never said...’ It was a stupid thing to say. Of course, he’d never said – I’d been far too aloof and unapproachable.
‘I never saw the right signs from you,’ he said. ‘You always smiled after I’d said hello, never before.’
‘Did I?’ I didn’t know what else to say.
He looked hurt for an instant, then clapped his hands together.
‘So, what are your hopes for the future?’
My eyes sprang wide open. ‘Hell, that’s a big question.’ I took a glug of wine. ‘I hardly ever plan beyond next week, to be honest. That’s probably why I never get any holidays booked. I have a friend who actually sits down with her partner on the first of January every year and plots out all their breaks for the next twelve months. Easter, summer, bank holidays; the lot.’
‘That’s a bit OTT,’ he said.
‘It does the trick, though. My highlight of last year was winning the British Psychological Society Practitioner of the Year Award.’
‘Wow...’
‘Only in the London area,’ I conceded. ‘I see myself at the annual dinner, wading through hordes of people clapping, then shaking hands with the chairman – and it makes me glow all over.’ I felt ashamed all of a sudden, admitting to such brazen egotism.
‘That’s brilliant – why so glum?’
‘I should have other memories, better memories; of people, you know – getting married, buying a house, having a baby – personal things. My achievements are all about work – they feel so narrow, so detached.’ I felt a prickle behind my eyes.
‘Your time will come. If you want it, that is?’
I didn’t know how to answer him and put my energy into chasing my last prawn around the dish with a chopstick. I told him how I loved food, but hated cooking and he said that one of the upsides of working normal office hours was having time at weekends to bake his own bread.
‘Not cheating with a machine – all kneaded by hand,’ he boasted.
‘I’m impressed.’
‘You must come over sometime and I’ll put on a decent spread for you.’
‘Now there’s an offer.’
‘Sorry – that sounded a bit crude.’ He sniggered. ‘I don’t want to hear any dreadful puns about bloomers or warm buns.’
I nudged his arm, ‘Oh, not even one or two…’
The Chablis was slipping down a treat and flirting was effortless. We shared a string of rude and terrible puns, howling at how lame they were. Eventually we paid the bill and by the time I got out onto the street, I was most definitely on the wrong side of tipsy.
‘I’ve got to go back to the boat,’ I said suddenly serious, stifling a hiccup.
‘You coping?’
‘It’s hard to make Aiden out.’
As we began walking towards the Tube, I linked my arm through his instinctively. ‘It’s amazing how much we, as humans, rely on language. We’re so used to paying attention to the words people use, how they say things. The way silences become meaningful, because of what comes either side of them.’
He turned to me and pressed my hands together between his. ‘I’m sorry I got you into this.’
‘No, I’m glad. I love a challenge and I’m living on a luxury boat instead of working at the hospital – it’s almost like being in Greece.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Seriously though, it’s put us two back in touch with each other.’
He smiled. ‘Why don’t you book a holiday, so that once this is all over with, you can get away?’
‘It’s a good idea, but getting this bizarre situation resolved feels a long way off. When Kora’s killer is arrested and in jail. When Aiden is speaking again and back at college as the shining star.’ I squeezed his hands and let them go. ‘It doesn’t feel like any day soon,’ I said wistfully.
We parted at the underground; he was going south; me, east.
I woke shortly after I settled down to sleep that night, still unaccustomed to the movements of the boat. The waterfall at the nearby tower block had gushed on for a while, then stopped. In its place the wash slapped the sides, so we were constantly dipping and bobbing with the gentle motion of the water. I closed my eyes and was startled by the sudden rumble of a nearby train that, coming out of the stillness, sounded like it was heading straight for us. The trains too stopped eventually.
I realised then how exposed I felt in this floating home. How safe were we with a maniac on the loose? He must have seen the name of Aiden’s boat. The vessel itself no matter how luxurious, still felt flimsy and insubstantial. I’d always hated camping for the same reason. I preferred the solidity of four brick walls with foundations reaching down into the earth; rooting me, protecting me. I didn’t like the idea of potentially floating away like Ophelia in that famous painting by Millais.
Chapter 16
Sunday, July 8 - Day Three
At first light the boat was juddering. I wasn’t sure if I was in the middle of a dream, then I felt the pull of the hull and heard the diesel engine chugging like a little tractor. We were on the move.
I quickly got dressed and stepped out to find Aiden at the stern leaning on the tiller. His face told me this wasn’t simply a tour for my benefit; he was purposeful and grim. We were leaving the basin and heading along Regent’s Canal towards central London. I didn’t know where our destination was, but I knew it would be important.
The sun broke through the tall buildings that lined the canal at regular intervals, throwing long shadows across the ripples and I watched the spume of wash froth up behind us as our boat cut through the water. It was early and there was no one else around. Up close, the colours were sharp, but ahead of us they were draped in mist. Even at walking pace, our passage created a refreshing breeze, strong enough to take the hair out of my eyes.
Aiden stared into the distance and I wondered what he was thinking, what he was looking at, what his mind was tugging against. During the night, I’d heard him call out in his sleep, but I hadn’t been able to make out what he’d said.
He was an expert at operating the locks on his own, using the windlass to wind up the paddles to open and close the gates. I thought again about the gushing way his friends had spoken about him. It was strange to learn about someone through the eyes of other people. Patching together his personality from the information his mates, surroundings and limited body language gave away about him. He was like a shadow on the wall.
Once I’d been below for breakfast I gave him a hand at the next lock. As I counted the gates, I realised where we were heading. Towards the spot where the attack took place.
Two hours later, as we drew closer to Camden Lock, I took more notice of the geography of the area. This was where Kora had come, pedalling like fury on her bike. When we got through the lock, with help from some Sunday morning revellers already worse for wear, there was a stretch of towpath with lights attached to the buildings. Had no one here seen anything that could be useful to the police? On the far side of the water wer
e balcony apartments, but there was no path that side; if you dropped something from your window, it would be gone forever.
The first bridge we went under was Oval Road. It opened out into a little basin with canoes stacked against the far wall and a pontoon. Then came three bridges in a row ending with Gloucester Avenue. There were locked gates beside the path before the bridges, unused and overgrown with sprawling weeds. Then came Ridgeway Bridge. After this were the first boats: the visitors’ moorings. The houses opposite looked upmarket, possibly Georgian. This was the last bridge Kora rode under before the wire cruelly sent her to the ground.
Another boat came past us and I called out to a tanned man wearing a string vest and shorts.
‘Is the canal open for boats at night, do you know?’
‘Open twenty-four hours a day at the moment,’ he replied with a wave.
Aiden skilfully brought us into the bank and I knew from the photos that this was where it had happened. I stayed still for a while waiting to see what Aiden did next, our boat groaning and creaking against the ropes as other boats came past, disturbing the water. He didn’t move.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
He clenched his fists, staring at the grass verge.
‘Are you looking for something?’
No response. Aiden sat down on an upturned bucket on the bow, his chin in his cupped hands. Was he trying to remember? Was he getting a feel for the area again?
I mulled over the logistics of the killer coming from a boat. Either from the open water or already tied up here, in the visitors’ moorings. I’d need to ask the police how far they’d looked into that.
Eventually I stepped onto the towpath, trying not to look at the trailing brown stain on the tarmac to my right. I walked over to the fresh carnations in crisp plastic wrappers, strapped with sticky tape to the arm of the iron staircase. Dandelions and daisies were embedded in the overgrown grass at the base. On the other side of the wire fence was the car park.
Aiden stayed on the boat and began making a little square window with his fingers and looking through it. Every so often, he stopped and pressed his palm to his forehead. His chest was heaving and from the colour of his face, I thought he might be about to vomit. Nevertheless, I was amazed he’d been able to get this far; he’d returned, voluntarily, to the scene of the most harrowing event of his life.
He parted his lips and half-opened his mouth and I braced myself for a distressed cry, but he’d lost the rest of the process and no sound came out at all. His eyes darted about as if desperate to find something that was missing. I didn’t know what to do. I was waiting for any signs I could take as instructions, but none came.
Eventually he flung up his arms in despair. He’d had enough. He went back inside the boat and I followed him. I found him hunched by the window, covering his face with his hands. I expected him to get up and take the boat straight back to Limehouse, but we stayed where we were.
Half an hour later, Aiden began his first drawing.
Chapter 17
I found myself moving in slow motion, quietly washing the breakfast dishes, checking what food we had left in the fridge, keeping my distance and trying to act normal so as not to distract him. All the while Aiden had his head down, his hair falling over the sketch pad. My chest was exploding with anticipation. When he’d finished, he left the open page on the table and slipped past me, to his cabin.
I drifted over to where he’d left it and spun it round with my finger.
Within two minutes I was on my way to the police station. Dr Herts said he could offer me twenty minutes out of his demanding schedule.
I asked Aiden’s permission to take the drawing before I left and told him I wouldn’t be long. It was hard leaving him. I knew he wanted nothing more than to be on his way back to Limehouse.
‘It looks like a piece of rock,’ said Dr Herts. He seemed to have a permanent bubble of spittle attached to his bottom lip. ‘No, wait, it’s a volcano. No, hold on, a shoe?’ He flipped the page upside down, side to side. ‘What do you make of it?’ he asked, pushing the drawing towards me.
‘I’m not sure…’
‘It looks like a Rorschach inkblot. Make of it what you will, but it doesn’t look like definitive evidence to me.’ I’d been hoping the psychiatrist might have seen something I couldn’t. ‘I think you’d better come back when you’ve got something more recognisable.’
With that, I was dismissed.
I was about to leave when I had a text from DI Karen Foxton. She’d heard I was at the station and asked if I had time to watch some video clips of Aiden they’d managed to get hold of.
Karen showed me into a tiny room with only a desk and a television. Before she left me to it, she warned there wasn’t much to see. Part of me was relieved; I didn’t like the idea of leaving Aiden too long.
‘Some of the footage is from camcorder videos we’ve had copied onto a DVD.’ She gave me the remote. ‘The rest is from mobile phones, handed over by Aiden’s friends.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up; his appearances are short and sweet. And for some reason, there’s no soundtrack on the first bit and the rest is too muffled to hear properly.’
She slid the disc into the machine.
I folded my arms, already disappointed. It looked like I was still going to be deprived of Aiden’s voice.
Karen unnerved me for some reason. ‘Anything is better than nothing,’ I found myself saying, superficially. I felt clumsy and inept in her company.
I thanked her and she left me alone. Any footage that showed Aiden in action before his trauma could be useful for my therapy with him. I wanted to see the Aiden everyone else knew; the person he really was.
The first clip showed a sedate gathering of people inside a poorly lit hall, but as DI Foxton warned, there was no sound. Students were getting up one after the other to walk to the front. An awards ceremony. Faces were hard to distinguish in the gloomy shadows, but they were each handed a certificate and shook a dignitary’s hand before returning to their seats. I found myself yawning as the trail of students continued as if on a loop. Then there was a hiatus and a large trophy was lifted onto the table on the stage. The camera made a wobbly attempt to zoom in.
Then everything changed. Aiden sprang up the steps at the side. Light from the windows suddenly splashed over him as if it had been planned that way. The audience stood up, hands clapping wildly, mouths open in cheers. Even without sound, the energy in the hall grew to a frenzy; the pictures seemed sharper, the colours brighter. Aiden gave a flourishing bow as he accepted the prize. He placed it at his feet and said a few words, animated and smiley. Flash bulbs went off as photographers huddled beneath him. He looked genuinely overwhelmed. Several times he stopped talking and held up his hand, waiting for laughter or cheers to die down. Then he scooped up the trophy and disappeared behind a curtain. A crowd of photographers and members of the audience flocked after him before the film abruptly cut off.
I waited for the next clip. It appeared to be at a party, but it wasn’t on Aiden’s boat; the pictures showed a hallway, living room and kitchen inside a small house, people milling around. Everyone looked close to Aiden’s age. The camera panned round and settled on him as he stood leaning against a fireplace with four girls and three blokes each clamouring to reach him. A girl on a sofa leapt up and thrust another girl aside so she could be by his side. A young guy offered him a can of beer, but he declined. The girls were preoccupied with flirting, finding excuses to touch his back, his hair – in fact, the guys looked like they were doing the same.
More people piled into the room and Aiden turned a fraction to face them. Someone must have invited him to say a few words, because all eyes shot in his direction, but all I could hear was a cacophony of chit-chat. He dropped his head, reluctant to speak at first, then three of the group stood up and began a slow hand-clap. The whole room was on its feet, applauding. He shook his head then began to speak, grinning, looking playful and unpretentious, but the sound stut
tered and broke up all together. I couldn’t hear a word. Aiden bit his lip, seemingly embarrassed by all the attention. Someone slapped him on the shoulders, one of the girls slipped her arm around his neck.
It was hard to see him like this, when in real life I’d only known him lacklustre and defeated. I felt uneasy. It seemed sneaky watching him, spying on him, without his knowledge. Like I was a peeping Tom while he was undressing.
Another girl came up to him and gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. He backed up, overawed by the attention. And that was it – the screen went blank.
As I ejected the disc, a raw sadness got the better of me, as though I’d just watched a heart-breaking movie. Aiden had been a different person then. The one I knew was like an anonymous imposter filling out his clothes. Not only had his voice been stolen, but his entire personality too.
On the way through the reception area, I bumped into Jeremy Fenway. He’d just ended a conversation with the DCI.
‘I heard Aiden’s made a sketch,’ he said excitedly. ‘Where is it? Have we got something?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. I showed him.
‘Dear me...’ The same flummoxed look I’d seen on Dr Herts’ face anaesthetised Jeremy’s. ‘Well, at least he’s drawing.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, knowing there were only four days left to hand over something useful, before whatever evidence Aiden produced was no longer considered reliable. ‘By the way,’ I added, ‘something Aiden showed me implied his mother could be mentally ill, possibly in long-term care somewhere.’ He looked bemused, not sure what I was getting at. ‘Only, I gather they’re close and having her with him might help. We need all the optimum conditions for Aiden that we can get.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do,’ said Jeremy.