I couldn’t work out why Barry would be killed. Could he have done something to the man staying with Mrs Cunningham? He was annoying, but not to the point of murder. Then again, I wouldn’t miss Barry one bit.
When it got to late morning, I waited on the quay for Dad’s boat to come in, just as I had done when I was too young to go with him. He saw me in the distance and held his hand up. I waved. He was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear what it was until he got closer.
‘Go get some overalls on, you can help us unload!’
‘No thanks!’
‘Oh, you’re in your good London clothes, are you?’
‘That’s right!’
He said something to the other two men on the boat and they laughed. I watched them bring the boat right up and tip the fish into plastic boxes ready on the quay. I smoked while I watched them work. Occasionally my dad looked around to see if I was still there, gave a dramatic shake of the head and a big grin.
When he’d finished he stripped off his overalls, and came over. Gulls screamed in the air around our heads.
‘No more fish for me,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, you don’t know what you’re missing. It was a beautiful morning out there on the water. I suppose you’re only just up?’
‘With the racket those gulls make?’
He laughed. ‘Fancy a pint before we go back?’
I followed him up Eastgate Street. He ordered two pints of bitter, and we sat down next to the window.
‘When are you off, lad?’
‘Tomorrow morning, I think.’ Even as I said it, I wasn’t sure that was true. I was feeling anxious about going back. I didn’t want to tell him about Barry, though. He’d only worry. ‘I have to sort out somewhere new to live.’
‘A flying visit.’
I lit a cigarette.
‘Give me one, Teddy, and don’t tell your mother.’
I gave him the last one and put the empty cigarette packet in my pocket.
‘How are you finding that there London?’
‘I like it. I like working in an office.’ I wasn’t sure how much to say. The longer I spent away from Moscow, the more unlikely everything seemed. ‘I might see if I can train as a journalist, get a better job.’
‘You always did like to be indoors. I never understood it.’
‘We can’t all be out on the sea. There’d be no fish left.’
‘There’s not many left as it is.’ His head sank.
I’d started him off again.
He took a deep breath and put a brave face on. ‘But we’ll be off to the other side of the world, and your mother says I have to retire, sign up for my pension and get a bus pass.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that. Think of all the things you can do with your time.’
He looked at me and I knew, there was nothing he liked better than going out on the boats.
‘You’ll have to get yourself a little rod and stool,’ I said, ‘go up the estuary and catch some different fish. Or get a pair of binoculars and look for sea monsters from the quay.’
‘Maybe. Maybe.’ He finished his pint. ‘Another? Seeing as you’re off again.’
‘Go on, then,’ I said, and downed the rest of my pint. It would be so easy to stay. The house would be empty while they were away, and maybe there was more work in Harwich now. It was easy being here in lots of ways. Easier than anything in London. Then I heard him talking about me to Eric behind the bar and I realised that, for the first time ever, he was proud of me. I hadn’t crawled back when things got hard, I hadn’t messed it up. I was doing all right and he could see that. I had to go back and prove it was true.
It was Tuesday night that it all hit me. I sat on my small bed with the orange light seeping through the curtains and realised, Barry’s death wasn’t a coincidence. What had happened to him had to be connected to what I’d agreed in that small house surrounded by birds outside Moscow, even if I couldn’t understand how. If I did this, if I worked with the Russians, I’d belong to them. There would never be any getting away from it.
I slid onto the floor and wrapped my blankets around me. I lit a cigarette. What happened if I pretended none of it had happened? They already had me. I had smuggled a ring and I had left the festival to spend time with a KGB Colonel. I groaned as I realised that Alan’s illness might also be my fault. Not directly, but still. And if I stayed here, then what? Signing on, maybe night school. Would that ever be enough to leave again?
I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. If I didn’t go back, my parents, who had looked at me with such pride, would never feel that way again. If I went back they could go off to Australia and be proud of me, their son who had made it in London. I couldn’t tell them that I had failed. I couldn’t tell them I messed up and the Russians paid off my debt. I’d taken the money. Worse, I’d given it to my parents and made them complicit.
I would live with my decisions. I had to.
I slipped back into the routine of home, and Mum had been so pleased to have me there while Dad was working that it was easy to put it off going back. It was Wednesday evening by the time I got the empty cigarette packet out of my pocket.
The phone box still smelt like a toilet, but some of the graffiti was new. My first attempt at dialling was a wrong number. On the second attempt I got through.
‘Hello. I was given this number by a friend who said you might have a spare room to let.’
The voice was high and clipped. ‘Yes, I do. Would you like to come and see it tomorrow, around noon?’
She gave me the address and I wrote it inside the cigarette packet, next to the number. Montague Street. The closest tube was Russell Square, but there wasn’t much in it with Holborn, she said. I counted my money in my head. After train fares, I had five pounds left over from Moscow, and now I also had the five pounds that Mum had given me. I hoped that I wouldn’t need more than a week’s money. I should have asked, but if I had to wait until I got paid on Friday, I’d work something out.
I walked back down the small streets I knew so well and realised that, in Moscow, this was the last day of the festival. I had been due on the aeroplane tonight, and back at work tomorrow morning. The thought of work made me anxious even though I had my review all typed out. I didn’t know for sure who had won what, for a start. Then there was the idea that Christopher, somehow, could tell Mr Benstrup that I had left early. I did regret not asking Alan what magazine he worked for, so I could get a message to him and check he was all right. On the other hand, I didn’t want to have to lie to Alan, and it would only make me think of Ursula.
I would have to ring the office first thing and let them know I was looking for somewhere to live. Hopefully they would have heard about the murder and not ask too many questions. And living in central London would be fun, whether I got on the course or not. I wouldn’t see Julia again, but she’d never even notice I was gone.
The sun was setting, the gulls were crying, my mother was cooking, my dad would be dozing in the armchair, and I had somewhere else to live. Everything was how it should be for the first time since I’d left school.
All was right with the world, and it couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a strange feeling.
LONDON
CHAPTER 39
Changing onto the Central Line at Liverpool Street, I was still thinking about the odd tone to Suzanne’s voice when I phoned to tell her I’d be in the next day. I was soon distracted by the striking difference between people in London and Moscow. Had London become angrier while I was away? Men scowled at each other and teenagers smoked with quiet fury on the platform seats.
I sat very still on the tube, suitcase on my lap, worried about infuriating someone by accident, and was pleased to get off at Holborn. I hesitated in the entrance, studying the map on the wall to work out which of the two exits was mine. I checked again. Yes, Montague Street ran right down the side of the British Museum.
I headed out onto Southampton Row. People walked fast, e
ven though it was well after nine, and I saw no children at all until I turned left and passed Bloomsbury Square Garden. Smartly dressed women in black walked prams along the paths. Were they nannies? This was a very different kind of London. Right onto Montague Street. I found number 49 and knocked.
A short woman with cropped grey hair opened the door with some force.
‘Mr Walker?’ I recognised her voice from the phone call.
‘Hello, yes.’
She stood aside, and gestured for me to walk past her.
‘I am Mrs Constance Macfarlane, widow. If you would like to go straight up the stairs. Third floor.’
I walked ahead of her. The stair carpets were a dark grey, but worn to cream threads in the middle of the tread. The brown walls were barely lit by the small lightbulbs hanging in the stairwell, and there were so many doors leading off the landings, that I felt disorientated by the time I reached the top floor.
She busied herself with a keyring and opened a door. Again, brown was dominant. Brown coverlet on the single bed, dark brown wardrobe and desk, an even darker brown wallpaper, but relieved by a high ceiling and cast-iron fireplace, both painted white. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains open which introduced a little light.
‘I have space for five guests on each of the top three floors. The ground floor contains my private rooms, but also contains the breakfast room. Breakfast is included every morning between seven and eight thirty.’
She opened a door and what I had thought was a cupboard was a small bathroom.
‘Everyone has their own facilities.’ She closed the door. ‘My guests come here for privacy. It’s very important to them. We will not see much of each other, Mr Walker. You can leave the rent in a box by the front door every Friday. The British Museum is opposite the front of the house.’ She beckoned me to the window. ‘These are private gardens.’
I looked out over an oblong of trees and grass.
‘Does it suit?’
‘Very much. I do need to ask how much you might need for a deposit.’
‘All my guests are personal recommendations. That won’t be necessary.’
‘Do you know—’
‘As I said, privacy is very, very important.’
I nodded. ‘Which day could I move in?’
She looked at my suitcase which I was still lugging about everywhere. ‘You look as if you’ve come prepared.’
‘There was an incident at my previous lodgings. A man was killed and the police asked me to stay away for a couple of days. I am hoping that I can get back in today. I’m paid up until tomorrow.’
‘Do you have the £6 you need for next week, should you move in here?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then, as it’s Friday tomorrow, I think you should settle in now, Mr Walker. Pay your rent every Friday and we won’t have any issues. I would ask, though, that you don’t offer the police your new address. If you could give the address of a friend, that would be preferable. Only if they ask, of course.’ She smiled. ‘Taxes. You know how it is.’
‘All right. Thank you.’
‘I’ll leave you to get settled in.’ She left the keys on the bedside table and pointed at a low cupboard under the window. ‘You’ll find a kettle and other items in there. No milk, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you are used to black tea by now.’ She pointed at the desk. ‘There is a letter for you that you might find interesting.’
She left, closing the door behind her.
I put my suitcase down and sat on the bed. There was something about her that reminded me of Eva.
Then again, central London. I bounced a little on the bed. New mattress. Free breakfast every day. I would have to pay to get to work, but no longer had to save for anything. This would work.
I opened the letter on the desk. It was a typed list of which films had won which awards. Eva had been spot on.
After an hour or two of just enjoying a choice of places to put my things, I thought I’d better show my face at the office. I also needed to find out which train I needed to take to be at work on time, now I was a commuter.
I found a train timetable at Charing Cross and studied it on my way to Plumstead. This was going to work. The clouds were thickening but the rain held off until I got in the office.
Suzanne looked surprised. ‘I thought you weren’t coming in today.’
‘I think I found somewhere else to live.’
‘I’ll need your new address.’
‘I’ll give it to you when it’s all sorted. I’m just staying with a friend in the meantime. But I have been working.’ I handed her my typed festival review. There was a huge burst of coughing from Mr Benstrup’s office. I looked at Suzanne and she shook her head.
‘Doesn’t sound good, does it? So, how was Moscow?’
‘Great. Very interesting. I’ll take this to him.’ I waved the review, knocked and opened his door.
‘Ted!’ He was wheezing as he tried to stand, and failed. ‘I thought you weren’t coming in. Bad business about your friend, but a good job you weren’t there, hey? Could have been you in that body bag.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t come in, but it will take me time to settle somewhere else. I did type up the review for you on a friend’s typewriter.’
‘That’s very good of you, Ted.’
‘And I have a list of all the winners, for your records.’
‘And how did you find Moscow?’
‘I loved Moscow. It was full of new experiences.’
He winked. ‘Didn’t come back with a wife, did you?’
‘No wife, no.’
‘Listen Ted, you take the rest of the day off. Suzanne has a couple of films I’d like you to go and see next week and we can have a proper chat about Moscow tomorrow. And I need to talk to you about wages too.’ He saw my face. ‘Nothing bad! Suzanne will have a surprise in your wage packet tomorrow, but you get off now. Have a drink!’
‘All right. Thank you, Mr Benstrup.’
I went back to Suzanne’s desk. ‘Why is he so happy?’
‘The magazine has received some new orders, really big ones. I believe he was thinking it would have to close, and now it’s all come good. You get an extra £2 a week.’ She smiled, but her eyes were confused.
‘That’s good. I wonder why now.’
‘Yes. I wondered that too.’
She looked towards Mr Benstrup’s office, and then pulled me onto the landing, closing the door behind her.
‘Listen Ted, I heard his wife telling him to give you the sack. He’s resisting, but I’d look for another job, if I were you.’
I could feel my heart beating. Could it have been because I didn’t go to that meeting, and I didn’t bring anything back for her? I didn’t want Suzanne to know and be disappointed in me.
‘Mrs Benstrup? Why would she say that?’
‘I don’t know. I just thought you should know.’
‘Thanks, Suzanne. I think you should remember this name, just in case. Nadia Osipova. It might come up.’
She nodded and went back into the office.
I walked down the stairs and thought about the mysterious Joseph North. I could have asked Suzanne why she never told me. It certainly explained why she was angry with me when I didn’t come back on time from Bucharest. I didn’t hold it against her. I wasn’t sure I would have done anything different if I had known. I needed the job, and they had needed me. But no longer. Nadenka, Nadia, didn’t want me around here. I wondered what else Suzanne had overheard.
I could sense her watching me as I left the building, and when I looked back up through the rain I could see her face at the window. I waved and she waved back.
When I arrived back at Montague Street, the rain had soaked through everything, from my shirt to my shoes. I opened the door to see Mrs Macfarlane waiting for me. Had she changed her mind? I stood on the mat and dripped.
She said, ‘I wondered if you would like a look at the garden, Mr Walker?’
I lo
oked down at my clothes.
‘You are already wet, after all. Take that umbrella.’
I took the umbrella and followed her through the back of the house. ‘Breakfasts are in there.’
She pointed to a large dining room, set for a meal at multiple small tables. Two steps down and we were in the kitchen full of gleaming pots. Out the back door, down three more steps and she waited inside the door.
‘At the bottom of our garden you’ll find a small gate in the fence. Have a little walk around the communal private gardens, just to get your bearings.’
I thought about refusing, but didn’t. I found the gate and stepped through. It was open with a few shrubs and lots of puddles on the sun-baked lawn. I took a few steps forward, the rain hammering on the umbrella above me. A man with a trilby pulled low appeared from behind one of the bushes and I jumped.
‘Mr Walker?’
‘Yes?’
He handed me a plastic bag and pointed at a window in a house opposite Mrs Macfarlane’s.
‘First floor, twelve windows from the right,’ he said. ‘Between 7pm and 8pm. Should you see a light on with the curtains open, maybe you would be so good as to have a little walk in this garden, Mr Walker.’
I tried not to smile. It was like a bad film. The rain was running off his brim so I could hardly see his face, let alone his expression.
‘Who will I be meeting?’
He shook his head. ‘No questions. I believe there is one more thing you need to do.’
There was. As I thought about it, he walked away.
At the door I shook the umbrella out, and went back inside. Mrs Macfarlane had gone. I put the umbrella back in the coat stand, and went to my room. The bag was thoroughly taped up, and I had to tear the plastic and stretch the tape to get the envelope out. Inside were certificates: O Level, A Level and Degree Level. Only a 2:2 in English Literature. I was strangely disappointed in myself for this, but fair enough. Two names and addresses for my references. Right at the bottom, there was a German-English dictionary.
The Starlings of Bucharest Page 24